With designers like Iman Ahmed, HSY and Sania Maskatiya all showing, it was standing-room only at the venue. Many of the crowd of fashion insiders and socialites ended up sharing seats, with the chivalrous Zaheer Abbas giving his seat to Iman Ahmed after her show and sitting on the floor himself. So much for designer egos!

It was an evening that lived up to its billing.

Iman Ahmed may not be a designer who makes her clothing easily available, but in fashion terms she reaches heights that few other designers can reach. Her “Sartorial Philology and the New Nomad collection” was breathtaking.

The best fashion shows have a narrative — the clothes, styling, music and progression of the outfits blend seamlessly into a whole that portrays the designer’s artistic vision.

It’s hard not to gush about Iman Ahmed’s show last night because it was exactly what a fashion show should be.

Starting with a series of outfits in white and gradually adding tribal colours, Iman used fringing, embroidery and a range of fabrics to great effect. From the inspired detailing to the juxtaposition of texture and silhouette, this was a class act. The tribal white-dotted makeup and beaten silver accessories added further depth to Iman’s stunning layered ensembles.

Levi’s uninspired showing of their new 501 jeans and other stock provided the audience with a pause to process the previous collection. It’s difficult to make a interesting fashion week presentation out of high street wear and something that Levis struggles with.

They used better music than they did at their autumn show but the styling was still painfully lacking. They did manage to make everyone sit up and take notice at the end of their show though — Wasim Akram walked the ramp as their showstopper amid cheers from the admiring audience.

Somal Halepoto was next, with collection that looked distinctly amateur. She seemed to be aiming for a bright kitschy collection but ended up looking merely tacky. The shiny, synthetic-looking fabrics and gaudy embroidery were particularly woeful. Somal’s digital neon animal prints and some of the harem pants were funky but the rest of the collection had little to recommended it.

YBQ’s LalShah collection, meanwhile, was in a different league. An ode to 3 Sufi Sindhi saints, the collection was as much about the artistic impression it made on the ramp as it was about the clothes. The distinctly theatrical presentation relied on the slow beat of sufi music and plentiful accessories for much of its impact.

YBQ sent his models down the ramp in huge pagris, holding flags on poles and garlanded with prayer beads. He used only three colours - red depicting rage, white for peace and black for mourning. Most of the outfits were draped red jersey tunics or gowns with white lowers, braided belts and black turbans.

Rubya Chaudry wore a black gown with red roses but otherwise the outfits were all about subtle plays with drapery and cut. From jodhpur style chooridarsto asymmetrical draping, the outfits had interesting touches but needed all that heavy styling to make an impact. HSY was YBQ’s showstopper and added glamour to the theatrical presentation that he had choreographed.

Wardha Saleem was first up after the break and her Lotus Song collection showed how this talented young designer has been upping her game over recent years.

She used digital flamingo prints, 3D embroidery, gota embroidery and lasercutting in a pretty formal fusion collection. The detailing on the collection was simply stunning. Wardha used gota in delicate patterns that gave her outfits shimmer and paired this with three dimensional embroidery. The outfits featured flowers, fish, elephants and birds picked out in silk thread and beads.

She showed a variety of shift dresses, jackets, saris, capes and draped dresses. The styling was also great fun – the models wore shoes featuring spikes and 3D flowers while the multi-talented Tapu Javeri provided some gorgeous jewellery and music for the show. While there was nothing groundbreaking about her silhouettes, this was a beautiful collection that showed skill and artistry.

Sania Maskatiya, who presented her luxury pret on Day 1, now showed her lawn collection for AlKaram. As far as designer lawn goes, this is something of a dream collaboration.

Textile and print are Sania’s forte and she uses print extensively in her luxury pret. In this collection for Al-Karam she has taken print elements from her pret collections throughout the year including the Sakura, Lokum and Khutoot collections.

The prints are different from those used in her Luxe pret but are based on the same principals. She’s even used the paint splash embroidery from this season’s Khayaat collection in one of the outfits. Designer lawn should be affordable way to wear a designer’s aesthetic and this Sania Maskatiya Al Karam collaboration certainly is.

As for the show itself, showing lawn is always tricky on the ramp. Sania pulled it off with an upbeat presentation using fast music and trendy cuts, throwing a few conventional shalwar kameez in the mix. She fashioned the lawn into jackets, kaftans and draped tunic, using the sort of cuts that are a hallmark of her pret. It’s not how most people wear lawn but it was a great way to show off the prints on the ramp.

Naushaba Brohi’s Inaaya burst onto the fashion scene last year with a spectacular collection. Following up on a dramatic debut is difficult but Naushaba proved that she is not a one hit wonder with this collection. Inaaya’s SS15 collection continued with the theme of using traditional Sindhi crafts in contemporary wear. Naushaba used both touches of Rilli and some stunning mirror work in her collection.

What makes Inaaya noteworthy is the way that she takes unsung traditional crafts that we’ve seen badly used and gives them a high fashion twist. Standout pieces included a bolero with unusual mirror work and a rilli sari that glittered with tiny flashes of mirrors.

Although the collection included many beautiful outfits, there was a lack of focus. The simple tunic with a rilli dupatta didn’t work with knotted purple evening wear jacket. The inability to make a definitive statement let down an otherwise accomplished collection.

Naushaba added a characteristic touch at the end of her show. She’s committed to social responsibility and supports local craftswomen with her brand. Accordingly, Inaaya’s showstopper was Mashal Chaudri of the Reading Room Project along with Naushaba’s daughter Inaaya. She held up a plaque saying “I teach therefore I can” while Inaaya wore a T-Shirt with the slogan “super role model”.

HSY brought the evening to a close with a high-speed presentation of his Hi-Octance menswear collection. The unusual choreography featured the models zipping along the catwalk, pausing briefly on their second round. The energetic presentation complemented a collection of sharp suits and jackets, leavened with quirky polka dot shirts and bold stripy ties.

There was the requisite shirtless model in distressed jeans and an ice-blue jacket but also some appealing suiting fabrics. HSY used only Pakistani fabrics and included solid colours as well as self-checked and striped suits. This was wearable, classy menswear presented creatively.

Day 3 was undoubtedly the best day of TFPW so far. Iman Ahmed undoubted takes the laurels but she was ably supported by HSY, Wardha Saleem, Inaaya, Sania Maskatiya and YBQ.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

perchance an epic was necessary, to consolidate the scattered thinking, and indeed, once a certain life, and was lived with a cherishing heart, the heart broke, and life turned from adventures to a more studious approach, and in here, a comfort was found, never before imagined explorations - of course sometime a tourist in the arts does come, but such tourists quickly fade, and the pursuit becomes more enshrined - to levitated towards epics is perhaps the sole reason for the cherished memory of some - and how quickly all can revolve around a searched for theme, after many incorporations were minded - as one to have travelled the Mediterranean, another to have been eaten by the great mandarin silkworm of the library of Kangxi - heading along the silk route with spices - indeed the great mandarin silkworm of the library of emperor Kangxi; as i too needed a bearing - to inspect the trickster of lore and the godly blacksmith of the north.

by instruction - an accumulation of the the zephyrs
into a vector, headed north,
toward the gluttonous murk of ice, jesting
with aches to the bulging and mesmerised crescendo
of adrift stars captured in the tilting away -
to think of an epic, to keep out-of-time of
spontaneity and thistle like swiftness in the last
days of summer, that Mercury brings the new
tides of the tetravivaldis -
   brought by the λoγος of a γoλας -
for reasons that satisfy the suntan copper of
the ***** - the λoγος of a γoλας - yet not toward
Monte Carlo or any hideout of money well invested
and greedily spent for a charm -
no, north bids me welcome from afar -
this norðri fløkja, this    ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ -
by my estimate, i could not take the nonsense
of numerology of a certain specialisation,
i took what was necessary, i pillaged the temple
of Solomon, perhaps that the dome of the rock
might stand - with its glistening dome and
its sapphire mosaics - i don't belong among
palm trees and date trees - hence i turned to
deciphering and subsequently encrypting -
as i have already with *ᚱᚨᛒᛖ:
the journey of an Æsir through a birch forest
on a horse.
                    with this method in mind:
(a) ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       (b) ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ:

(a)
the need to acquire possessions accumulating
into an estate, is a journey encountered
day by day, although a journey on ice

(b)
cattle only thrive near water,
auruchs did not, and hence illuminated
their way to extinction,
         by way of the Æsirs' harvest
(to eat up diversity of life, and create
a godless world of man).

my escape route came from ᚠ - mirroring שִׂ
although the former standing, the latter sitting
down, although the former fathomable
to my pleasure, the latter unfathomable
to ascribe numbers to letters for patterns -
i seek no patterns, hence my sight turned to
the northern sights, and meanings amplified.
                
the greeks were intended to explore abstracts,
having stated a triangle
they invented the ² symbol and what not,
it was because
they didn't bother extracting a phonetic unit
from something definite,
they classified such endeavours barbarian,
what reasonable greek of 13% reason and
87% reality would extract alpha from
the sound you made when
saying ansur (ᚨᚾᛋᚢᚱ) - i.e. attention -
i.e. deriving a definite sound differentiation
for alphabetical rubrics from a definite thing
(in whatever classification that might be)?
the greeks used the alphabetical rubric of
crafting a definite sound from an indefinite thing,
so they said: acronym, aardvark, assumption,
                       α                 α      α     α,
then they said α² - there are no antonyms -
but indeed there were, hence the Trojan nation
settling in the boot, that's Italy,
the Romans escalated the greek theory
beyond taking out a definite sound distinguished
from other distinguishable sounds,
abstracting what the alphabetic sound assured
a list under alpha: assumption, advantage,
acorn, etc. -
the latins were the first atomist after the greeks,
the greeks believed in atoms, but had no
microscopes to prove atoms existed,
such scientific faith found no parallel;
the latins ensured this was true,
ending with castrato sing-along -
the latins furthered abstracting sounds from
definite orientation which the greeks did
working from ice into iota,
the latins just sang i, i, i -
of course chiral behaviourism of such dissection
emerged - hatch a plan, plan a chisel -
it's very piquant i mind to let you know -
the greeks abstracted nouns in order to create
the alphabet, the barbarians still used
proper nouns to speak proper, the greeks
thus created synonyms and antonyms to add
to the spice of life - after all,
not deriving definite alphas from
cursors that acknowledged points of origins
created diacritical stressing like comma and
semis of colon and macron, not deriving them
from definite things, shunning a helpful
vocabulary bank to an unhelpful vocabulary
banked: synonyms and antonyms the Gemini's
birth of rhetoric;
but the latins were rejected with their atomic theory
of pronunciation, since they became laden
with diacritics - punctuation marks of a different sort,
you can measure a man sprint one hundred metres,
but is that also measuring a man to say
mān or män or mán? i know that the slavic ó = u
given the scalpel opening the ensō to craft a parabola -
but it's not necessarily an accent debate
but a punctuation debate... the emergence of
the diacritic symbols above the letters is due
partly to their joy of the popes listening to
castrato operas and the fact that the romans
went too far... hence the chiral nature of certain
symbols when dittoing - the barbarians used
definite things to assert definite sounds -
the greeks used indefinite things to assert definite
sounds - mind you, if the romans became too
abstract with their little units that became engraved
with punctual accenting, then the greek letters
became laden with scientific constants as necessarily
fathered, unchanging in the pursuit of Heraclitus' flux -
for example... Pythagoras and the hypotenuse:
                            σ / κ² = α² + β² -
           or?
                             c² (ć) = a² (ą) + b² / š (bubble beep
                                                           bop barman backup hop
                                                           of shackled kakah
                                                           or systematic oscillation
                                                           for bzz via burp);
πρ² is still more stable
                                 than what the latin alphabet allows -
hence why greek phonetic encoding was used in
science, and latin phonetic encoding was used in music,
can't be one or the other - added to the fact that
latin encoding had too many spare holes with
the evolution of numbers, and greek didn't have them,
hence β-reduction in lambda calculus and F-dur and A#

the one variant of the grapheme (æ) they didn't include
among expressions: graphite and grapheme
was the variant - gravitating to an entombing
of the excess aesthetic - geresh stress -
somehow the twins match-up to a single womb:
àé vs. áè: V vs. Λ - Copernicus wrote over all
of this with the flat earth uselessness
in terms of navigation - flat earth is useless...
huh? flat earth is the only system that gave
Columbus the chance to explore the new world -
no flat earth no Columbus -
that satellite named Luna was no tool
in navigating across the Atlantic - believe me
i'm sure -
                  or that grapheme (æ) varied like statistics
or like the characters in the book of genesis
that famous adam und eve (kim and kanye):
chances came, chances went:
it was still a draw on the tongue tied decipher:
àè and áé proved another notation for plurality
was necessary, not at the beginning of the word,
but after, hence the possessive article 's,
we could have parallelism, there was a crux,
how once the chiselling of letters came about,
more economic to chisel in a V than a U,
both the same, much easier though...
almost barbaric i might say...
sigma (Σ) enigma rune e (ᛖ) - this compass
is a ******* berserker, god knows if it's
mount Everest or the Bermuda Δ

but one thing is for certain, never you mind how
a language is taught unless you mind it,
not that conversational athenian is really what
i'm aiming at - but a lesson is a lesson nonetheless,
out of interest something new,
richard von Coudenhove-Kalergi,
and what preceded him, namely pan-slavism,
just when the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
did a little Judaic trick of its own,
although snorkelling in the waters of not writing
history for less a time than israel -
you can't beat ~2000 under water - although
you could if your little tribe had an einstein
among them, or proust or spinoza, then
you could effectively become a whale, popping
an individual out from the rubble to say a polite
'hello' and 'when will the dessert be served?'
but indeed, learning a language on your own,
how to learn from scratch, the greek orthography,
and why omicron and not omega,
the give-away? sigma - purely aesthetic reason,
                             νoμισματων

                             nomismaton

omicron                                                 omega

                 you write omicron at the front
                 and omega at the back
                 pivot letter? two: σ     μ &
                 νoμι-                                -ατων
                      ­                     |
                 anything here  
                 will use o            and anything
                                              here uses ω

alike to sigma:
                          χωρας (choras, i.e. country)

sigma (ς) not sigma (σ), i.e. digitalising languages
without a clear connectivity of letters,
block-a-brick-block-a-brick-digit-digit-digit
you learn that handwriting is gone,
two options, your own aesthetic reasons now,
remember, some paired for the ease of handwritten
flow - digitalised language changes the aesthetics,
you make your own rules (considering exceptions
of oh mega mega, ergo revision -

                                       χoρας,

but still the sigma rule, others esp. o mega
you stamp on them like βλαττια, i.e. cockroaches -
κατσαρίδα                 not         κατςαρίδα

all perfectly clear when you explore plato's
dialogue from the book Θηαετητυς (as you might
have noticed, the epsilon-eta project is still
in the storage room of my imagination) -
but indeed in the dialogue, between socrates
and the "hero" of the book theaetetus -
a sample, without an essay on the theory
of knowledge -
socrates: ...'tell me theaetesus, what is Σ O?'
theaetetus: yes, my reply would be that it is
                    Σ and O.
socrates: so there's your account of the syllable,
                isn't it?
theaetetus: yes.
socrates: all right, then: tell me also what your
                  account of Σ is.
                                                             ­   (etc.
or as some might say, a shrug of the shoulders,
a hmmpf huff puff of hot air, impractical interests
and concerns - well, better the impractical
problems than practical problems, less feet
shuffling and nail-biting moments with your
tail between your legs and an army of
intellectuals working out what went wrong
and how history will solve everything by
the practical problems repeating themselves) -
you know that inane reaction - others would just say
Humphrey Bogart and nonetheless get on with it.

some would claim i was begot a second time,
not in the sixth month period of the aqua-flesh,
how did i actually related to the life aquatic,
for nine months i was taught to hold my breath,
however did this happen?
a miracle of birth? ah indeed the miracle of
a crutch for a woman - spinal deformities -
9 months, sort to speak, in water or some other
fluid - merman - a beastly innovation -
next you'll be telling me beyond this life
we turn into centaurs, given the Koran's promise -
you'd need the appetite of a breeding horse
to satiate the 72 - or thereabouts - martyr or
no martyr - 72? that's pushing it -
or as they say among children - a chance playground
without swings or sandpits, but very careless
gravitational pulling toward a certain direction;
nonetheless, they might have that i did indeed
settle of a sáttmáli                  ᛋᚨᛏᛏᛗᚨᛚᛁ
                  við         ­                  Vᛁᛞ
                  tann                         ᛏᚨᚾᚾ
                  djevul                      ᛞᛃᛖVᚢᛚ -
the hands you see, fidgety -
     hond handa grammur burtur    úr   steðgur
     ᚻᛟᚾᛞ  ᚻᚨᚾᛞᚨ  ᚷᚱᚨᛗᛗᚢᚱ   ᛒᚢᚱᛏᚢᚱ  ᚢᚱ   ᛋᛏᛖᛞᚷᚢᚱ
         the hands give an ardent pursuit
                                                 away from rest -
well not that my poems will ever reach
the islands in question - and indeed an
uneducated guess propels me - what does it matter,
λαλος babbler meant anything, indeed λαλος,
language as my own, is a language that i can
understand - and should anyone omit
disparities - a welcome revision would never tease
nor burn my eyes - but the phonetic omission
peeved me off: woad in water, ventricles in a
variety of entanglements - it's just not there -
and indeed, orthographically, if there are no more
optometric involvements of omicron's twin -
then the stance is with you to use whichever pleases,
i can't tell the difference, unless i was a pedantic
student, aged 70, with a granddaughter i wanted
to be wed teasing a millimetre's worth of
phonetic differentiation between the two -
POTATO PA'H'TAYTOE TOMATO TA'H'MAYTOE -
linguistically one's american and the other
is british, which looks like greek and latin
upside-down and in a mirror: pəˈteɪtəʊ, təˈmɑːtəʊ;
or as the spaghetti gobblers would put it:
the tetragrammaton is working on their
texan drawl (dwah! ripples in china) -
or the high-society new england ******* *******
coo with a cuckoo's load of clocks -
before being sent off to england for a respectable
education, something en route Sylvia Plath -
but not to ol' wee scoot land - ah nay - well
perhaps for a year and then talk of north european
barbarism of a deep friend pizza and mars bar.

and when descartes finished with christina
queen of sweden, she became an animate portrait
of feminine attempts at philosophising,
she was basically ostracised from society,
well, not society per se, she didn't become a stray
dog, but she forgot certain functions of
the upper tier - lazily modern man decides
to hide phenomena from understanding
individual instances, with the kantian guise
of a noumenon, hence cutting his efforts short -
indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by society - only after descartes finished educating her;
and indeed to most people a little bit of sloth
equates to an amputation of some sort -
yet only with the x-files' season 2 episode 2
i've learned of the effects of prolonged alcohol
"misuse", that little boxing match in my liver?
it's not a pain as such, it's actually a hardening
of soft tissue - with prolonged alcohol exposure
soft tissue organs harden, notably the liver -
and it's not a pain, it's a hardening.
but indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by her tier of socialites - i'm glad diogenes
didn't get to her, but then again a bit of cloth
goes a long way this far north -
yet unlike the encounter with napoleon by hegel
diogenes' encounter with alexander lasted longer -
which tells you the old method does no service
to a little bit of material accumulation -
but perhaps the acumen was briefer when you were
ably living in a barrel - and to think, as only
that being the sole expression, not so much
a body without organs as stated in the thesis
of anti-oedipus by deleuze and guattari -
a consideration for a body without limbs - prior
to a footprint an imprint on the mind -
carelessly now, a diarrhoea of narration -
how rare to find it - perhaps this idea of epic
poetry is a default of writing per se -
with this my whatever numbered entry i seize
to find escape in it - a lack of ambition -
a loss of spontaneity that's a demanded mechanisation -
by volume, by inaneness - to reach a single
technique accumulative zenith, and then back
into the ploughing, rustic scenery and the
never-bored animals - i rather forget such escapades -
and there i was dreaming of a grand
runic exploration - some imitable game -
some scenic routes - yet again -

Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)
The Al shabab on 22 day of September 2013   attacked Kenya again. It has attacked and lynched siege on the Nairobi’s biggest mall known as the West Gate. This is one of the severest after other similar attack in 1998.The people who are averagely assumed to be killed are  one hundred.Al shabab is a regional east African arm of Arabo-islamic global terrorist group known as the Algaeda.But something notable about all the terrorist groups in the world, inclusive of Alshabab, is that they all have an Arabic, communist and Islamic bias with overt expression of anti-American movements.
The Lynching of the Mall in Nairobi has affected all the Kenyan communities. Asian and African, Europeans and Americans. However the survivors of the West Gate mall attack has narrated out that the attackers were discriminately asking for ones religion before they shoot. Thus Muslims were not shot but non Muslims were shot and then held hostage. The military sources on the site shared out that the terrorists were foreigners but they perfectly worked through their plan through co-operation of locals and citizens of a victim countries; Kenya and America.
Immediately after this terror attack in Nairobi, a group of social researchers in Kenya carried out an electronic survey on the social media to find out why the Alshabab has easily recruited the followers and why an African youth can easily accept recruitment in to the membership of terror groups like Boko haram, Al shabab, and Al gaeda.The responses gathered from diverse digital socialites  skews into one  modal direction which  shows that America alone with its ostentatious international relations  will not win the war on global terrorism.
The motivation for easy recruitment into membership of the terror groups was established by the social media survey as diverse factors but most august among them are ; extreme conditions of poverty among the youths in contrast to the rich and wealthy elderly echelons of the most African societies. Also, sharp contrast in the economic conditions between America and Africa where American societies wallow in extreme riches whereas the African societies contemporaneously are stark deep in idyllic poverty perpetually wallowing in the mire of need and economic challenges. Some respondents cited the crooked way through which the state of Israel was formed as well as the atrocious nature of American foreign policy towards the Arab world through which there was perpetration of killing of Muamar Al Gadaffi and regular Military bombardment of Arab countries like Syria and Afghanistan.
Also the current American presidency and the preceding one of George Bush provoke distasteful responses on the social media. Especially in relation to the Prison maintained at quatanamo bay which basically was established as a basic torture facility used by the American government to torture terrorist suscepects from North Africa, Arab emirates and Europe. But the prison at Quatanamo bay is composed of a large number of North African as detainees. A respondent on the social media quoted Pravda, the Russian Newspaper in English version which had a revelation about the Quatanamo prison. The Pravda projected number of North Africans in the Quatamo prison to be currently standing at one hundred and thirty seven. The Newsweek also concurs with this position by narrating in its july 2013 edition that, there are very many prisoners of North African descend in quatanamo prison who began a hunger strike sometimes ago but they are forcefully fed through a tube.

The facebooking ,tweetering and charting thematically show one modal position that American discriminatory foreign policy towards Israel and Persia, American extreme capital amid critical world poverty, poverty in Africa especially among the youth, presence of weapons of mass destruction in Israel to which America is oblivious or nonchalant  ,Russian technological casuistry and Chinese economic dominance combine into a blend of extensive anti-American feelings that  make the world youths not reliable when it comes to the moral duty of desisting from joining the terrorist groups. American hard politics and hard diplomacy will make America not to win war on global terrorism.

Why so little introspection?
Why the superficiality?
Why the incessant conspicuity,
Obsessing over ‘their’ perception,
Not even based in reality,
Living so image driven
With worries 'bout reputation?
Why no motivation then?
Because no one knows your efforts given?
Perhaps there's too much value on what other people think of us
And too little upon ourselves,
Our story that no one tells
And the truths we don’t discuss.

The Tragic True LOVE Story of Blanche Monnier

Just for falling in LOVE
With a commoner
Blanche Monnier was kept in attic
For 25 years
Blanche's True LOVE survived

The year was 1876

In midst of the Third Republic period in France
When the historical power struggle of royalist ******* and republican radicals were discussed in bourgeois socialites
That's the time when
In a small place called Poitiers
Four hours away from Paris
There lived:
Madam Louise Monnier
Wealthy and prominent
Member of CLASS society
Known in Parisian high society
For their charitable works
Who had received many community awards too

With her son
Marcel Monnier
A brilliant student
And a prominent lawyer
Well respected in Paris

And her daughter
Blanche
(Marcel's sister)
Twenty Five years old
Beautiful beyond words
Intelligent
Very gentle and good natured
A young socialite in rich circles

Lived happily in their
Monnier Estate

It was during this time
Blanche fell in LOVE with a suitor
Let us call him
James
Who lived in her neighborhood
Sadly he was not young
Nor was he from rich aristocrat family
He was elderly man,
Basically a commoner
And an unsuccessful penniless lawyer

Madam Louise Monnier - disapproved
Of such alliances for her daughter Blanche and
Insisted Blanche to marry a more suitable man
Of her own age, class and status

But in passion of her LOVE -
Blanche profusely disagreed
And Madame Monnier got angry
They quarreled and argued
One day Madame Monnier locked Blanche
In a dungeon attic ordering
"Until you would agree - you are imprisoned"

Years passed
But Blanche was stubborn
So much in deep LOVE with James
She did not relent to her Mother's wishes

So the story goes....
Nine years passed

On this side James - Blanche's suitor
The beau too died in 1885

It is said that
Blanche's brother Marcel apposed his mother
To at least set Blanche FREE now
But Madam Louise Monnier had absolute
Stronghold and control over the family
Thus Marcel aboded to his mother's decree
And Blanche was kept locked still after

In the eyes of society
Beautiful young Blanche had simply disappeared
Without a clue

Madame Monnier and Marcel mourned
In front of everyone
Stating Blanche ran away
And continued to live their lives
As normal as those rich aristocrat families live

No one gave much thought to this
Everyone went about their life
As if nothing had happened

With time - they say
Blanche was forgotten
From everyone's memory

For over 25 years,
Blanche remained in a attic dungeon
Tied to her bed
Waiting for her LOVE
To LOVE, to be LOVED by JAMES
But her mother Madam Louise,
And her brother Marcel
With their two servants
No one helped her to be FREE

Blanched was chained in a dark attic room
She was accompanied by rats and lice
Day after day
Living in dirt and darkness
Alone, isolated, in solitude
Blanche became insane
Drown in her own tears and
In company of
Rats, bugs and pests...
And rotten odor

Rumors say that it was one of the female servants
Who slipped the secret of
Monnier Estate's beautiful daughter Blanche
To her boyfriend
Who immediately wrote a letter to
The Attorney General

In 1901,
Attorney General of Paris
Received an anonymous note
Handwritten and unsigned

The content were disturbing
And The Attorney General
Sent his police team to investigate
The Police arrived to search Monnier Estate

At first,
Police couldn't find anything unusual
Until they came across strange odor
Coming from upper floors

When the Police went upstairs
Madam Louise Monnier sat
On the ground floor living hall
Calmly reading a book

When the Police approached
The attic room
From where the odor was coming
They saw that the room was padlocked

Realizing something amiss
Police smashed the lock and
Broke open the room

The horrors lay within

A pitch dark room
With only one window
Shut closed with black curtains

The stench of room was so over whelming
That immediately the window was broke open

With the light coming in
The police realized that the bad odor
Was because of rotting food
That littered all over the floor

And in a corner - there was a bed
Where an emaciated women was chained

She was our Blanche Monnier
Fifty years old now
Tied to the bed
It was over two decades
She had not even seen the sun
And she had lived
In her own excrements

That beauty of youth
That youthful LOVELY being
A divine, kind, pure hearted girl
Did not even resembled like a human

She was naked
Chained like animals to the bed
Lying on a straw mattress

She was completely
Frightened and delirious

She weighed just 50 pounds (22 kilograms)

Police covered Blanche in a white sheet
And took her to the hospital
Madam Louise Monnier - and Marcel were arrested
For this atrocious inhumane crime
Of imprisoning and treating Blanche
So badly
For what? -
for a natural act of LOVING

"We can not even comprehend
What a LOVER goes through
When subjected to such punishments"

Blanche was horrendously malnourished
In hospital she was lucid to be rescued and freed
She exclaimed...
"How lovely it is to breathe the fresh air"

When she was informed about James
She could not even remember
The reason for her current state -
Was "LOVE"
Her eyes were hollow, her face was blank

There was public out-cry all over France
It was loud and clear
Public out-raged was brimming
They wanted the mother and brother punished

And Madam Louise Monnier -
Who was seventy years old then
suffering from heart disease
Could not take the shock
Of such societal backlash
For the horrible crime she committed

It is accounted that
Madam Louise Monnier
Died in police custody
15 days after Blanche's rescue
Police say -
Probably of a heart attack

Brother Marcel was imprisoned for 15 months
He confessed of
Not being directly part of the crime
But just acting under pressure of his mother

The whole blame was put on Madam Louise Monnier
Brother Marcel was considered only an accomplice
And thus when Marcel pleaded innocent and sought pardon
He was acquitted and set FREE
Such were the laws of those days

Our LOVER - Blanche Monnier
Had suffered greatly
The mental trauma
Of LOVE longing had
Lasting psychological damage

There after
Blanche lived in a French Sanitarium
Till she died in 1913
Twelve year after she was liberated

People say - that at times
The nursing staff used to hear Blanche
Sing the songs of LOVE

And they used to see Blanche
Talking LOVINGLY with a non-existing person
Most probably that person was "James"
The man she LOVED more than her life

Thus is remembered
The story of Blanche's LOVE

She suffered but never relented
To her mother's wishes
"To forget her LOVER James"

It was impossible to survive for 25 years
Without proper food, light, sun, or any human company
In that tiny dark dungeon attic
But Blanche did miraculously survive
With the hope that one day
She will be FREE
She will meet James
And she will LOVE James
And she will say to James
"My Jamie, see I did truly LOVE YOU"

That's the power of TRUE LOVE

rarely do i have a title before a poem,
but sometimes it feels like i've abstained
from ******* for a month and i write one down;
i'm surprised i didn't take the bait,
i was a blind man that was give sight years later,
every gold-digger's wet-dream some might add,
but what post-Marxism has revealed is that
that bourgeoisie like to belittle those of menial-task
labour rather than the upper-tier socialites,
it's just that they don't possess insignia of power,
they exercise their power on the lowest kind,
men who'd gladly spend a hot summer's day toiling
the fields in full happiness of physical splendour
than spend it pampered in a Versailles parlour kin -
they think books are their macaroons...
i should have not minded my self-worth so much
and settled for the prize of easy-living,
it was more like a self-obsession but made kinder
with the word solipsism... whatever it was,
i spent a month in St. Petersburg like Al Paccino in
Alaska insomniac witnessing the white nights...
i could write a honorary poem with rhyme and
perfect punctuation... but life isn't like that...
it was a night to remember, a great **** on a bed
with a tortoise green headboard and a line of mirrors
where the concept of ******* was made clear:
Narcissus watching himself ******* with nymph
after nymph until Echo's turn came; it was no longer about
the face or beauty, but the insect-like banality,
Narcissus inventing fiction, ******* in-front of a mirror,
discharged and opened a Pandora's box for himself,
pronoun usage... strange how all monotheists contest
the existence of one among no other, like polytheists
contests the existence of one among many... like now...
if they be gods, their names do not necessarily denote
a chance encounter and formal airs or grievances mastered
for a brief conversation; very much resides in their poetic
investment being banked, that Narcissus, less noun
and more imagery is best understood -
for i claim that poetic techniques are equally needed in
the lessons of grammar: such that metaphor,
onomatopoeia, imagery, pun are equal with noun, verb,
adjective... etc.

rude words? crude words? well, i guess
you're fine with the carnage of images,
you abstract someone in alternative versions
of dimension and say a £-D person doesn't matter...
when did Luis XIV ever bow before a *******?
so she calls you up, this rich, pampered,
self-righteous Cinderella hopeful from
St. Petersburg with a flat about 10 minutes
shy from the the Hermitage...
she's walking on glass, i can hear her from
a mile away like a shark sniffing a droplet
of blood from a mile, the salt, the salt
agitates it's senses, god be merciful,
but god wasn't with missing eyelids on
aquatic creatures and serpents, i'm guessing
the Darwin in me swoons to say:
eyelids breed dreams, mammalian blood,
no eyelids, no dreams,
amazing how a rainbow can penetrate a
cave of darkness, don't give me the meaning
of dreams, Freud, give me how it happens,
your why is perfect for the rich,
a second coming of communism -
those neo-**** punks don't know what
they're defending, they think is glam-rock
style obituaries, it's degenerate culture
right on the pitch of saying... it's a fork.
no, i don't have any respect...
why did you leave Edinburgh, she asked.
i don't know, he replied.
now comes the abstracting of rigid
fiction systems due to the psychology of
being attracted to ancient pronouns,
after all psychology was always attracted to
ancient pronoun uses,
we have the scholarly etymology from ego
as the up-keeping of Greek -
fair enough, keep the alphabet, but forget about
the ideas behind it... but wait, you kept both!
and the urban etymology from self
as the insertion of slang & slur and what
other nonsense you'd come up with for applause...
so she calls you up after you asked her:
those anti-contraceptive pills working?
yes.
you asked me to not use a ******.
yes.
can we keep it casual?
yes.
am i looking at torture instruments in a museum?
yes.
**** me, i better get drunk every night and hope
for an early death... 'cos that's what i'm doing right now!
i don't want to live more than i had wished to live...
every ******* time i open *harold norse'
autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel i'm nagging,
i read the **** thing, too much premature **** in it -
or.. swearing... a healthy approach to a vault of vocabulary -
it's not a version of bankruptcy, it's just economics babe,
say it blunt, use a sharp knife... better that than
saying it sharp, and having to use a blunt knife,
believe me, you'll be taking oaths on a guillotine by then...
but you'll find it easier buying a harold norse memoir
than one book of his poetry...
it's antiques we're dealing with, this ain't
alan ginsberg's howl, it's the fringe, a scotland of
the roman empire, antiques!
i do wish i never said: get an abortion...
but the dialectical dichotomy in me that some would
say less eloquently as being schizophrenia now wishes
i didn't... but... what's that argument for feminism?
i forget taking contraceptive pills he ***** me on my period
or he ***** me on my period and i get impregnated,
so this is some miraculous ****-up situation by chance?
she said the exact words: i think i'm pregnant.
the Cartesian in me says: i think... so i'm guessing
she doubts she is.
better still... i don't know!
so she is, she isn't... my truthful reply would be...
i, don't, have, any, money... she's the one with
a spare apartment roughly 10 minutes from the *******
Hermitage and i'm stuck in limbo to her game plan of
having parents and never growing up...
well of course poetry doesn't sell, we don't have
patronages from popes, and if only english teachers
and aristocrats write in this medium...
then you're all about to pack your bags for
Disneyland...
still the first page from that autobiography ****** me off,
i don't know why, there's so much pompous pie
in it... given social stratification the outcasts feel
empowerment by rebelling against social norms and
expectations, while the social in-casts have to feel
shame... and this is an existential shame, a sense of
purpose without a sense of continuum -
that's what's bothering me, it's that shady grey area
of ratios 2 : 1 in China, 2 : 3.4 in England or...
1 : 2 (single mother, two children)... if i really did a runner
would i write for zilch? if i did a runner i'd run blind
completely, i wouldn't expose myself to some minor
event in my life... i'll repeat...
approximately 10 minutes... from the Hermitage...
i can see the Shard of London as a toothpick from where
i'm sitting on the odd day in the park...
my position isn't exactly one of power, but more of gob.

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A child without water,
a rich man drinks his coffee.

A father unable to provide,
a rich kid gets a new car.

A mother lies awake, body ravaged by AIDS,
while the Hollywood hills expose their costly ills.

The dream of equality is nowhere to be found
while the lives of the many are repressed and pushed down.

Executives and suits lived gluttonous youths
while a father works to death to fill his children’s mouths.

There is a solution to this problem of society,
one which the telethon celebs won’t give up quietly.

It doesn’t involve guilt-trips on TV.
It doesn’t need attention constantly.

Socialites shouldn’t seek their own satisfaction
if the only result is our continued inaction.

What is really necessary, what really needs doing,
is to get out there and get ourselves moving.

It’s the work of us commoners
that will fill up the bellies.

It’s the donation of the middle class
that will educate young ladies.

The revolution of giving needs to be started
or else who will care when our own lives grow stunted?

The world all together relies on us all
to give out our hand and make our brothers stand tall.

It’s these simple acts which will strengthen the pillars
of mutual respect for our society’s sisters.

So don’t wait any longer for a celeb to rise up.
It’s these people below them who’ll fill up the cup.

No debutante or heir can fill every belly
by thinking of their pride and unearned glory.

Never before has it felt so right
to be the common man, helping a peer in his plight.

there is so much about life he does not understand powers influences insights secrets repetitions patterns relationships mysteries so many things to learn remember so many things to forget every morning he wakes with hope faith no matter how challenging threatening or bleak the odds he feels confident in the possibilities optimistic in his abilities desires believing in his quest for love success happiness yet every night alone in his empty room he comes undone again

Dad’s dying generates beginning of Odysseus’s awakening from his long deep stupor Dad was so heavy-handed intimidating his reign of terror is done next several years blow by like chilling numb wind off lake michigan dreams seem more real than existence Odysseus continues painting writing bartending drives Farina to beach daily it takes a while for him to realize he is freed of shackles Dad’s tyranny and it is all right to answer to himself alone in june 1994 news reports genocide of 800,000 people murdered in rwanda in july Odysseus feels trapped in identity he can no longer endure after struggling for years to achieve stature as accomplished painter he realizes he is nobody perhaps simply troubled artsy son of well-to-do Chicago socialites Jenny and late Max Schwartzpilgrim his discontent goes beyond family he feels shame disappointment with himself desperately needs to make changes to his life knows he cannot do it in chicago weary of all the sins damage he has made suffered in that city he wants to find somewhere less corrupt stressful more down-to-earth knows all to well how to get in trouble wants to find someplace where there is no trouble somewhere quiet dull preferably beautiful Odysseus liquates ashes to ashes clears altar of every dust flake sells paintings art supplies books music cassettes clothes vintage collection other possessions at sidewalk sale makes out with nearly $6000 whatever he does not sell he gives or throws away he is used to giving or throwing himself away he is 44 Mom protests but her disapproval packs no punch without Dad he says his goodbyes to family friends packs up toyota and with Farina steers away from chicago he leaves behind many destructive friends acquaintances people who will never dig their way out of wrecks they are buried in leaves behind history of minor misdeeds abuses disappointments scenes happenings he feels shame regret about he leaves behind practice of familiar patterns certainties faces names who recognize his talent problematic self never again will he benefit from questionable reputation nor will phone ring many times daily and never again will there always be someone to meet up with or gathering to go to he leaves behind support system of loving family friends fans whom he will miss greatly he lets go the character he was to become someone different hopefully better they drive on aimless odyssey without thinking searching with no place in mind listens for scenery to call to him inwardly the journey is the meaning he drives up streets down alleys through 4 corner towns bypassing most cities whenever he sights a lake he pulls over treats Farina to a swim sometimes swimming together they sleep in tent or stay at inexpensive motels that allow dogs while driving he often feels overwhelmed by diverse raw beauty of American landscapes lush forests spectacular mountain ranges sweeping valleys winding 2 lane highways along coastlines he points out sights to Farina but ultimately he wishes for another pair of human eyes beside him

We rise and stand to the praises of hypocrisy

We sit and listen to the opening speeches

The narrow minded preaches 

We rise and stand again fumbling for the right dog eared page of the bible 
Looking for the hymns we hum in disjointed rhythms

Feel the spirit 

Feel the passion

Fill the collection plate

We have to build a church for all the Buddhist heathens that haven't heard the Gospel

We sit and listen again
Hanging our heads and closing our eyes in prayer

I only pray I don't fall asleep this time

The preacher

The reverend

The pastor

The pope

The Speaker of God's Word

The man annointed to deliver the path to God and Jesus but only if you seek salvation thru his sermons

The only thing I can do is watch the seconds ticking away on the wall clock
We've been here for twenty minutes and I wonder if it's impolite to stand up and walk out

But I'm kept in my seat as a sign of loyal friendship to friends that dig this kind of entertainment 

Conversion is on the mind
Saved is a word repeated and replicated until all meaning is ****** from it
Feeding grounds for the imaginary hole that only Christ can fill

Another glance at the clock reveals that God is real and he has chosen to slow the seconds down to a slow trickle

Acrimoniously I keep my mouth shut tightly 
Resisting the urge to laugh at a photoshopped picture of a prim and proper white woman teaching a school of Africans about God and how he provides for all

I imagine the children praying
For food to feed them and all they know
For the wars that have torn apart their families to end
For the death of diseases we found the cures for long ago

But they don't have the money for such nonsense like that 

so please fill the collection plate
We need to build a church in Fiji

I hear its a real nice place for a vacation

(The purpose of this parsimonious pursuit of perplexed passion and phony persecutions progressed prophetically by pontificated prayer and perseverance promises pompous pension plans for prolific preachers and prostitutes preparing for purgatory.)

This church is built for social and business networking
High class socialites and low end born withouts trying to buy their way into heaven thru redemption and baptism

The doors open finally and the choir of angels sing their praises as if God has tired of this gathering just as quickly as myself

Shaking sweaty hands and spreading our words of false sincerities 
We walk out feeling more like heathens and atheists than we did when we entered

Next Sunday I think I'll just stay home like usual.

I sought satisfaction in stupid sheepishly and shallow strides.
Scared subconsciously, I swallow and sustain substance for pseudo self esteem strengthening.
I seemed of in service to slumber and stinging sadness, shots sank like ships, submerging into the sea of my swarthy stomach in seconds.
I somewhat sympathies as a sailor, sweating, struggling and swimming in slipping sobriety saturated in my sulking style.
Scanning swarms of serial swindlers, striking sculptures stances of self-doubt.
I stammer in a storm of slurs, ******* down my safety, stopping myself at the stoop of the saloon I see a seductive silhouette staging the space.
She stroke my sight, standing sanguine in scarlet, soul sold in high heels.
The smoothest sculptures in seven square miles were subjugated into scree and I was ****** in submission.
Stubborn staggering suitors, stand shaking silently as she is stopped by sharks stalking and snarling sycophantics.
So straightforward in suggesting their secret starvation to strip sensations, seem by seem, like a sub-par **** cinema scene.
They step and speak short.
She smokes off, stranding the scree in smoldering slaughter.
Its sad this soul-less sanctuary soaking up sorrows.
So self inflicting, and so satisfyingly side splitting.
She sported her spurned, scorned off into sadistic solitude and stained sticky stigma, sobbing to sleep.
So spent from simple stocked, stored and supported senescence of ceremonial subjection of ****** status.
I savior my sincerity, and stretched out of this strange stadium of stooges.
So long scarlet sanguine I sang softly, as she stole my sight suspiciously in sync with hers.
Sacrificial seconds split from smearing stolidity to sharing a smile.
That's simple satisfaction, so I seen scripted in sitcoms and shows.
Supporting sapiens in stasis to see sappy stunners on screen, to stare snoopy, as stabs and slashes strike socially into socialites of so called sanity and sovereignty.
To sweetly pay salvage as slaves of soppy studio slander.
Such is this sorry Saturday night, I am solidified in sedation.

swimming in currents,
water dark as our Shadows,
there’s a war going on outside,
and inside we all have our own battles,

don’t know who to trust,
just need someone I can trust,
lost at sea it seems life’s but a dream,
and I’m sailing through on my lifeboat,

I hope,
this lifeboat can find a lifeguard,
because I feel like a criminal that’s escaped prison,
and now I’m living larger than life at large,

like I’m not hiding,
but people don’t see me,
even when I’m out here shining,
or occasionally when I’m on the TV,

see she,

is my Lifeguard,
guarding me to her life,
she protects me from my Darkness,
with the Love of her Light,

swimming fearlessly through the Seven Seas,
by my side she rides relentlessly,
she’s my Lifeguard she’s my Lighthouse,
upon my rock she shines luminescently,

she shows trust in our Divine Nature,
she is what’s better when we’re together,
she is the grass that’s greener the weather that’s clearer,
and every moment together with her feels like forever,

even though we both know nothing lasts forever,

everyone goes eventually,

evidentially,
she is certainly a site to behold,
how could someone be so modest,
and at the same time so bold,

to hold,
and to have,
to love,
and to laugh,

she loves me unconditionally,
never mad,
always happy,
forever sad,

rays of sunlight shine in like insight,
on me from her whenever I’m feeling down,
she shows up just in time to save my life,
grabbing my hand just as I’m about to drown,

more stamina than Pamela she’s an Angel a Savior,
she’s my own personal hero,
she is my Lifeguard,
always watching facing fear without fear so,
I offer her my everything,
indebted gratitude to her like a Samurai,
and yeah even though we’re both socialites,
we prefer when it’s just us as in her and I,

and I know this world is a dangerous place,
but as long as we have each other we will survive,
because she is my lifeguard my lifeboat my lightforce,
she is my lighthouse guiding me home with her loving light…

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆

The yonder above is forever bruised and opaque
Reigning over glum faces
Complexions washed with a bloodless shade of dispassion
Robotic, disengaged.

Material desires are quenched with vast shopping centres
Credit Cards hold on for dear live
As every last drop of sweet money is rinsed from that plastic rectangle.

Living beyond our means
Whilst simultaneously refusing to give up on Sky TV box sets and liquid lunches.

Hooked to our phones, but not for telephone communication
Rather, for self validation
Defined by the click of a heart or pathetic thumb.

The once friendly communities
With blood coursing through their veins
Are husks of their previous life form, gentrified beyond recognition.

Filtered faces with protruding spines and modified features
Infiltrate mass media
Corrupting the definitions of success and beauty.

Plastic personalities reign supreme
Vacuous minded socialites profess women’s empowerment begins with the flaunting of skin
Rather than the possession of a strong mind.

Many bury their heads in the sand
Residing in ignorance
As mass genocides and civil wars manifest every second.

Or worse, they read the TORYgraph and THE ****  
Believing immigrants spawn white genocide
And white conservatives suffer oppression.

Pffft!

I have deep contempt for those behind these ***** tabloids
Murdoch and his monsters
Orchestrating lies and bile
Destroying lives or scaremongering the impressionable
Committing the most savage, sycophantic crimes
In order to extract Monday’s headline.

I do not suffer fools
Especially those who make up the tapestry of dystopia
A failing age of doom.

(Start)
Divinity void at birth, grace gifted through a parents love, bestowed without warning, maintained without fuel. Security measures drawn, placed on potential porcelain tombs, and entrances unfit for entry. Soft spot guarded with a proficient level of tenacity, insuring life, and the maintenance of its quality.
(Stability)
Speech found, dolled out first in small dosages, replicating familiar terms. Footing discovered, despite quaking legs, still unsure of their design. In combination, a wonder tumbles forth, and empowers its creators with a sense of responsibility, and the need to secure a path in the world for their embodied prosperity.
(Dissolution)
Understanding drawn on a newly clarified society. Building and grasping onto fictions established to promote grounding and self-sufficiency. Day in, day out, the world expands, never contracts, overcomplicating itself among the generalities of everyday life, and everyday struggles. On the other side comes a curiosity in the form of confusion, demanding a translucent pictograph of intention and purpose.
(Reimagining)
Class starts with every other date, then expands until it consumes all but weekends, providing young, attentive eyes, with simplified understanding, all while slowly working to whittle away at the delightful fancy once taken up for the sake of fun. Aligned thought found in fellow participants working their way to the front of the feeding line, struggling to maintain the self as different views collide. A decade later, time to move on, and be separated from acquainted normality to draw from a new pen, and learn from a new set of rules.
(Disintegration)
Social circles established instantaneously, as a coping strategy for life in the wild. Evolutions of ideals and traits occur overnight, percolating to the surface before necessarily ready, as expansive thought draws away from fact, and onto experience, merging itself with a blue print stripped from an old socialites attic. Transgressions worth more than grades, as misconceived youths wander about for momentous occasions, misspelling and speaking in their retelling.
**(Re-entry)
Tempered blues played over megaphones in the high school gymnasium, as latent minded aristocrats, mocking and forging the appearance of Asperger’s, time out the cadence to meet without accord. Catatonic assembly line of carbon based replicas march in a circle, out of tune, winking at policeman, politicians…profits all the like. All this, while Aesop’s fables are shared to the collective of misty-eyed teens, in a speech of many words, but little point…Children, caged, redeemed, and finally reincarnated to match the product line being loaded into trucks, awaiting shelves; the new, meek breed of paper holders who once believed that education carried worth.

Getting to know meShare
Today at 1:23pm | Edit Note | Delete
I wasted years
discussing future employment;
taking the name of that college
and turning it in to a pretty university.
I got half way there...
Did three years of time
under the teachings
of socialites
and successful suits.

That was when
I realised that
the women, the music,
intoxication and the word
meant more to me,
and very little to them.
It seemed to me...
Be successfully dry
or struggle through
with fire.

So now,
I work my *** off
for a meagre wage,
I spend what I can
in the bars,
whilst those I used to know
take out their mortgage loans
and start planting the seeds
without considering
exactly what is left
-or not left-
for them to grow in.

Well, waking up
at noon
with a head on my chest,
a hangover that drags
me to the bathroom
then puts me back
where I started...
Knowing that nothing
takes preference over
personal enjoyment,
decency and honesty,
and knowing that all those struggles
reaffirmed this:

It's a bubble,
one that I know
is now
far too thick
to be burst.

watching a German substitute come on is a bit like watching the opening scenes of Gladiator... the German tribe north of the Rhine resounding to the decapitation of an envoy... painting in writing, ascribing the appropriate diacritical marks to the Venus bathing the alphabet the Anglos kept as source of their demise; naked unsupervised to stress certain sounds and thus unsupervised the slang emergence, and total ignorance of diacritical marks of football commentators, stemming from disengagement from dialectics as the supreme proof... from the film: 'tu bista ***! aß sēhta'h fuhta'h ūnna'h!' - das längezeichen, ein verlängerung (two definite articulations of the definite article, a quarter das, a quarter die) - the macron, an extension;
one H the vowel / breath catcher, former H the precursor of catching breath, the latter, a breath shortened, mildly operatic... from the cradle... to the grave... but watching a German match is like watching the battle speech in the opening scenes of Gladiator... a substitute comes on, the announcer says his first name, the horde bellow out: bastian... Schweinsteiger! macron v. umlaut, when did - also mean a horizontal colon above a letter? just now. i'm still surprised that the English are too proud of memories of the Empire to even allow the greeks to utilise diacritical marks, and leave themselves jaded with computer encryptions, ugly emoticons ( :) as a perfect e.g.) and acronyms... what a waste of when revelling in Ave Britannia, Empire of the Pond... ruler of mirror ripples rather than turbulent waves - but it's like that, whether in the Bundesliga or the UEFA championship... a substitute or a goal scorer... like a ******* german tribe antagonising the Roman expansion tactic, the bellowing grooming of a beast.

in terms of song subjects, i can't feel the vibe
of urban socialites and heavy affairs,
any more chromatics' songs akin to
the velvet underground and i'll just keep
staring at only having done marijuana,
whiskey, and the deadly Salvia Divinorum,
many a good Aztec died from this plant,
very few fared to become Proustian shamans
of changed perception - but seriously,
a second more with the haunting female voice
enticing me and i'm done.

but there are some extension i made from
having the oeuvre of Iron Maiden and Slayer,
post-2000 music to me is hardly represented:
the chromatics (**** for love),
the besnard lakes (until in excess, imperceptible ufo),
uncle acid & the deadbeats (blood lust) - i need
to get mind control for one song, under your spell,
naam (self-titled),
dead skeletons (black magik),
tame impala (lonerism),
wooden shjips (west),
moon duo (circles),
black ox orchestra (nisht azoy),
pop levi (medicine),
                                     allah las (self-titled)...
i mean, it's out there, the alternative, it's out there,
but people don't like sharing their personal tastes
for a public reason, but a personal reason,
as long as personal interests are necessary all
public coercion is lost in the art world for
a scrap heap... so true the myth and so also tiresome
the idea that art is best kept (at least the obscure type)
for a Don Giovanni adventure - i mean,
had i more money i'd invest in art more -
but the retaliation was inevitable,
the karaoke culture of philip k. ****'s prediction
of the *man in the high castle came true...
well, it wasn't a prediction but a fantasy...
karaoke culture took over, pop is karaoke, the few
brave souls are there, but the general public is starving,
1950s American cinema and 1970s American cinema,
music prowess in the 1960s -
well, if you steal from artists... why expect any art to
exist if that art isn't simply advertisement?
ever used the radio? i would have, kept my honour...
how many thieves prowl in western society
under the disguise of technological progress?
too many.

*if i were polish, i'd add the Czech utility, to change -sz- with š, and -cz- with a sharpened breve / upside-down circumflex above... and not learning the specific encoding of diacritical marks gave us the linguistic alphabet... -sz- with š as replacement, -cz- with č, to simply drop the z... this is painting, and the only painting you can have is with stresses on the sounds... so in example:
škoda że tak mało času
it's a shame that there's so little time.

The senses, being irrelevant
And often misleading,
Have led me to answering questions,
You've never bothered asking

When "when" is not a timeframe
So much, as it is a 
Time of day, be it
Morning over coffee,
Or a digital dessert, I can't be
Made to let go of the
Gasps I grab for, upon your entrance
Or exit, breath becomes trivial.

You steal jealousy from
My eyes, and quite a jealous
Man can I be. Those same portals
You fill up every day with
Smoke and sensationalism, through which
Stolen intentions, kept quiet,
Are made mutineers
Against their vigilant captains. 

The how came from surrender. 
Realizing you turn me against 
Myself. And as the world falls
Down around me I can't
Get that awful sound of my
Own hypocrisy, crashing down, out
From the canals they've found to call home. 

Below broken-hearted-bowls,
And lying over the phone, and a
Cancerous presence on the
Stage of Socialites, you still look
Perfect with a cigarette in your lips.

I've used "portals" before.
To mean eyes.
And cigarettes before.
To mean freedom. 
But you just smoke them... Don't you...?

There are those who marvel
At the size of her, before taking in
The expansive beauty the moon can speak. 
Some are willing to court her,
Others rip the hoop skirt off,
And **** her 'til she bleeds. 

Oddly, no one is ever jealous,
Of the time others spend with her. 
She's taken for granted, as
The passed-around property
Of the Uncultured Below. 
But that's not why I'm sorry...

Or don't you wonder...
Don't you ever wonder?
Who went wrong?
What's correctly missing?

It is in how I love,
The ways not withstanding,
And reason, remaining remiss,
That I ask you to forgive me. 
You are who you are
Because I love you. 
And I am who I am,
Because you are.

Yesterday
I had a birthday that was not
a birthday
went places i did not know
met people i did not know
walking walking waiting
more walking
to finally get in
to not be able to move, speak
playing tail but getting none
some fool who seems to be
having a better time then me
gets kicked out on his kicked ***
screaming obscenities from busted lips
smoked all my cigarettes
to filter to the end
to no end
but the day did not end
on the roof with roaches
then onto the street with socialites
then back on the roof
I guess i must be a lonely individual
or maybe there is something
missing
could be why no one is listening
they come stay here
but do not have the courtesy
to stay here
i do not feel im entitled to anything
i just like being informed
of when im to be ignored
or forgotten
maybe
i should have forgotten
my birthday

Tell me all about your silent questions,
The images of life you fail to lose.
Talk about the long and rambling lessons,
The heartless anguish placed in front of you.
I've been down to beggar's end within a
Minute of exertion; I've been
Stripped apart by vagabonds with
Gloves made out of gold. I have
Walked across the valley with a
Donkey on my back, and I can
Tell a thousand stories that should
Never have been told.

Images and photographs of madness,
Lines of black and white, depicting grey.
What your eyes have seen, no-one could fathom,
What you can recall, no-one could say. I have
Seen a row of palisades de-
Fending empty spaces; I have
Witnessed refugees campaign for
Rights they've always had. I have
Seen the towns of concrete turn in-
To a sea of snow, and I have
Seen into the blackened souls of
All the nation's glad.

Resonate with life's emphatic madness,
The tinkering of bells and measured weights.
The litany of lives you have encountered,
Obituary passages await.
I'll recite the speeches made from mounts of
Manufactured diamonds, I'll re-
Late the frenzied feeding of a
Thousand hungry birds. I can
Tell a story resolute and
Free from tailors' hands, but they run
Few and far between, and they have
Apathetic words.

What about the men who walked beside you,
The ones you passed on roads of blackened glass.
The faces you have coloured in your libraries,
The memories of people that don't last? I have
Met a thousand socialites with
Blood upon their dresses, I have
Knelt with sullen faces in the
Shadow of the flag. I have
Studied with a poet, but I
Never saw his face, and I have
Met a thousand children living
Out of plastic bags.

Tell me where your path leads from this moment;
The journey that awaits beyond my door.
Imagine all the roads you may encounter,
The choices you can make, or else ignore. I will
See the face of tyranny with
Holes within its pockets, I will
Cast my piece of gravel with the
Millions I can't see. I will
Watch as boundaries fall, and new ones
Spring up in their wake, and I will
Reminisce on times I never
Witnessed, when we're free.

I will
Stand without a hesitation,
Free from selfish doubts, and I will
Point my finger proudly at the
Ones we've singled out. I will
Ride the waves of emerald wastes, be-
Reft of shallow waters, and I
Challenge all who hear me to ex-
Plain what it's about.

Stunted sick socialites
That never touched the light lightness
Of a Spring supported day
With their jewels jumping from party to party
Filming themselves get drunk
*******
And eat chili frito's till dawn
All the while
Love quarrels over coedine tablets
On the lawn
Awake and listening to the sounds of the world
Which rests on no one's shoulders
Weight that is not rightfully
Theirs
Though they act like it
Obsess and take it
Fake it
All the while secretly breaking into pieces
Far away the singing gulls are full with a song
We can no longer here
And they will be back again
When we are all gone
So
So long
So long
Oh' so long

The premature blackout
Covers the affluent socialites
The abysmal hate and animosity within the commoners
The untouched young and their purity
Forevermore
But in darkness we're all equal, we're all equally blind
Money means nothing
Appearance is invalid
The words you speak are what make you precious
And it wasn't until the now this truth came to surface

The ones behind the guns hide behind a barrel loaded with flimsy intimidation
The ones standing on the edge of reason are just kids who never got enough attention
Tricked into living a life that leads them to a destination that was not meant to be their own destiny
And that living proof is about to die

Grief and shame come undone
You place the blame on the one who is the cause
You're ashamed but won't shed a tear
Because you live with the fear of letting things out
But now your filled with doubt
All because you bottle up everything

Breathe

It all looks like win or lose
Too many may look like too few
Some have mercy, some strike true
Some leave their enemies to stew
Paralyzed until their lives are through
Some just strive to make peace with themselves

Jaded outbursts are first to fall
And cause arrogant to sprawl
Across the globe, desecrate it all
Decorate it wall to wall
Demonstrate their gutless gall
To dehumanize the masses
And denounce the value of life and faith

You have a choice between eternal damnation
Or a consecrated salvation
But through spiritual education
You gain a certain inclination
To obtain information
And build your own road with out regard to heaven light or hell fire

Decide

Commercials fill your head with ****
Say they can sell you charm and wit
Hand you all your desired possessions
Stare at the screens you drool and sit
With your scratch and sniff ticket hoping to win
As experience and opportunity leave without saying goodbye

You calm your soul, it's immortal
There is no foe to great or tall
Your'e all you need you have it all
But then another soul causes you to fall
To your knees in worship and you crawl
This is love, the desire to put two and two together and somehow make one

But then you ask "who am I?
You glare at the ground and stare at the sky
You ask what, where, when, how and why
Sort the truth from the lies
And figure out it's not something that defines but something that you defy
Because it isn't what you do it's who you are that really matters

Relax

Look at those with narrow minds
Who obey all the misleading signs
Who blindly sign their names on the dotted line
Thinking they'll be safe and it will all be fine
If they just stay in line for a life time
And never question a single thing except why they never got where
they wanted to be

Some will stick up their nose
Toward anyone who does oppose
Their beliefs or doesn't wear designer clothes
Because to them they are those
Kind of people the Lord hasn't chose
But then they'll go to church on Sunday and pray for eternal life then go out and treat people like they're below them

Then there are people who have nothing
Stuffed with gin and ***** stuffing
Victims of others bluffing
Sit on the streets puffing and huffing
But I feel like they know something
What it means to have no where else to but up because they're already at rock bottom

Be

The new born babies have not a clue
The kids only know what they want to do
The teenagers hormones brew
The young adult's forget everything they thought they knew
And the old are in shock that they've made it through
Hopefully in the end we'll all get what we came for

People these days are afraid to be wrong
Scared to admit they're not that strong
Searching for a place to belong
Sing the song of contradiction
Because only a fool doesn't change their opinion when new information is given

My soul, my mind, my body and heart
Feel the evil finger pick apart
The lives of the faithful and their art
Tossing heat-seeking darts
At those begging for a fresh start
I cannot take it, no one dares ask to see both sides of the story

Imagine

Black hill bulging on the north head -
city streets burning bourbon glow along the surface.
Bringing a blistering wind from the southeast,
stinging thin skin and whistling between the leaves.
The stars ***** the papery grey cloud layer.
Company bursts the pockets of air:
supple bubbles,
broken under heavy water poured for drowning in,
from the glands of hedonists and socialites
all round, alright, aloud, alight, a hound,
a beast of the night,
sinking into the black thick tar,
slicked with scotch,
burning, hoarding the air
above him.

I sling on my pearls,
and my baby doll dress.

My hair is in curls,
and my room is left a mess.

I'm off to a party in underground London.

We dance in a basement,
our very own encasement,
the place where we can be.

We prance around the room,
screaming words that don't make sense,
but still do at our expense.

We are a movement,
a revolution,
and even an era,
of kids who don't fit in.

Yet, in our own way,
we are freaks of the night,
and socialites of the day.

It seems I vary
out of my territory
I change to be what gets me through

I am so polite
     when I brunch with socialites

Dress all cleanly, wash behind my ears
      going to job interviews

Act, is what I am, an
       especially Sunday

Most o' the times I am
        drinking stunk on Cuervo's

And skunk
        rockin' rollin'

Inhale.
This life of living to loving to longing for too long,
Before we know it winter draws and the song is sung,
But this moment, this is life,
Pain, joy, charity and sacrifice,
The bad molds us just as the good does,
This mortal clay through which our blood courses,
And the life it forces from parental sources,
Becomes ignored so easily,
That clocks tick tock moves silently, teasingly,
So that all too soon meaning is lost in stress,
The mess bore of intertwining consciousness,
It's important to pause,
To take a moment away from economic constructs and socialites laws,
To take one second, to breathe in and breathe out
And within a breaths brief eternity attempt to grasp what life's about.
Exhale.

The sky was lost in colors, everything was snowy white, sparkling with whitish clouds that were arranged on top of other pearly ones, which tended to break from the high stupor brought by the Cherubs and Seraphim to receive Vernarth and Alikantus. Arriving at the highest plain, Vernarth saw the Mashiaj who was waiting for him, he was wearing a white garment, and on his neck an ornament that the Hoplite Soldiers of Arbela had given them. When
Vernarth dismounted, and a Hoplomachus could be seen on his Lynothorax, which was the same medallion that warriors carried to face divine death in combat, donated by a Thraex, who had always accompanied him with the Kantabroi with the sulfur mists after dark. rusty battles, and that he wore a manica on his arm that seemed to point with the tip of his finger at chapter
XIX of the Apocalypse of Saint John the Apostle, on both legs an Ocrea labeling the chorus of hexameters that the Sybillas chanted to revive him. And his head rotated three hundred and sixty degrees carrying the Leonatus with another Helmet under his arms with oculars with grid and crest, on his right leg a Xiphos hung like a thelamo that hung from both angles of his legs to approach when carrying his horse thrown by his hands.

His belly heaved with anxiety, in his hands was a folder that Drestnia and Etrestles had written, which had condescended to him from the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, saying:

“All the cities of the world will be called Athens…, because from there you will arrive at Patmos where you are in all places. Everything is old because it soon gets dark, and the funeral address is the first death you had when you were an infant..., all the people who are with your majesty yearn for civility that you imply in the legacy of the deep Christmas in Patmos, with tablecloths, wines, rolls and thick Corinthian wines in their plausible Patmian creation,
leaving them in the corridor that reaches the end, where the alabaster replaces the burning manger..., as a story of two stories and battles, which are exalted narrating the wars after they are their dominated lands suspended in the waters of the Aegean, and tinged with an apparent unrealized pact. The whole the world will be called Patmos, where nothing and no one will defeat you
without first a dirge when the gargoyles of your veins sob, when their capitulation is filled with culture that swirls between the white tablecloths of Kissamos and Kimolos, behold where the Sarissas They will parade through the pantheon like thousands of solitary lances towards the perpetuity of the patrimony that doubles the clouds pregnant with liquid bronze, to be
scattered throughout Athens like marble shawl stoles carried by the Meltemi with the prudence of ennobling cousins shocks of the storms that augur your departure. Nothing of minimalism or arbitrariness that cannot be resolved in loopholes that are hidden among the requirements, in which all the threats have admonished the canopy fallen on your integrity, on the Cherubim who fights with his empty hands like a beautiful angel fallen at the dawn of Miletus, being already a state governed by the Hoplomachus with his dyed sword, where you can see what you can be more than a convention of gladiators, just like that and indeed disposed towards the courage of what the daring produces with the infamy of seeing you pray alone in his black stretch.

In everything you were left alone, favorable only to the disagreement of what you should be or do, then return what you can do, you are already a legionnaire who carries the world on his back struck down with his Corinthian Kantabroi. Why did you stain your tanned hands, why somehow did the Nikephoros bring victories that take time to come and go soon? Thirst for victories they bring vessels and flows incapable of satisfying you in the immensity of their anguish and everything is done just when what fits my thinking fills my belly, and what saturates the belly remains tied to the Rudder of your precocious olive trees, from so much that the drum sounds, it turns it into empires of stones that do not coin the subsidiary complaints of their warfare, if you dare to be hostiles who bring food for dinner and everything that spills the tediousness of piling leftovers where nothing else is huge what an insult to sigh.

Vernarth, the world of Messolonghi and its eternity comes to give you the admission of a Commander!, who negotiates with greatness and simplicity, just as you can understand each other from sixty-four springs that have closed the eyes of Pericles just like yours, where the laws will have to compensate and fill vessels that remain empty for this toast  "Stin iyia sas o Khaire" from
Elpenor to your house and health of a Nikephoros devotional or conquest to win over everything,... but stay drunk alive and be reborn in other taps condescending to mythological ups and downs, where the laws revive the second or third vigils of banquets that lead into the orbit of a Hoplite. Do I see you comfortable in the klismós that carry you to the Empyrium, where the scattered saliva mixed with wine is confused with models to take you to your new home? perhaps of particular or unequal equals or relative merits that will make it exist and will prevent the possibility of doing it again. In the eighth Messolonghi Cemetery a great riot has been made, she prescribes to pay you honors with Markos Botsaris at the head of which all the gold spilled on the table will be made with bows and arrows, shields, and spears to take them to Patmos and Athens by river sounds that sound from the Hékein or the formality of lavishing to do or utter, so that everything is in favor of desolate places that will not be felt by all of Greece when they understand that you carry all the cries of the Warriors who hide behind the moor so as not to see they sob, still feeling the drums of the compass of a victory where wine flows that are written in the stands of Epidaurus, signing the chaste peace with their Medical Wars. It seems good to you that the ghosts speak of democracies, and that they also govern them with the spill of satisfying public ovation that only does it with two or three flags, Oh Cóphade I dress in a foreign outfit that enlivens your lightness from head to toe, I want to see you come back to life on the plains without stopping riding with Alikantus, free from all stratagems and fantastic smells of lavender, and grasses toasted by the summer of the hall, oven of Athens. Do not be afraid, we have distances that
are difficult to overcome, it will be the expulsion of our hearts if we allow ourselves to be caught up in the irrigation of their vulgarities that always complain of open will, do not be afraid, Pericles entrusts your departure just like you at sixty-four, in such a Syntagma double of 32 who appreciates you right and left in our companies, with courage obsequiously in becoming where the wind rises in Abdera.

We can dare to say that we are a group of seven, in the association of 25 Syntagma men who will accompany us split... but not divided! That it is nothing more than death as a double life that is placed in front of you, that shows its opposite side of the Syntagma where victory and defeat offer omens of reviving in both fights, not all of us are saved by our annihilation, nor by their qualities of Picking ourselves up even among those defeated by invisible
conflagrations or just because of the excessive feeling that what ends or begins is not impregnated with beauty, we know that you will come at Solstices and Equinoxes are free of their austere plagues, and reborn from Aspasia or the social life of socialites that Your eyes are drawn from seeing so much beauty ignites in the theater that never ends, and for this, we know that we will measure what fits in your gallbladder, and the wine that we are ashamed to recognize in order to satisfy you, O Brother, receive from an entire nation and from the inhumed of Messolonghi how they will see you happy to come to visit us, whose boastfulness disappropriates panegyric Homer, with plausible lightning from all borders if it is that a Sycomo to makes your initial on its bark, granting a new star to Greece where you can observe that it bears fruit from where you cannot taste it, but you are going to affirm yourselves well from the trunk where you can write values that are similar by virtue of the Kashmar that points to the Aegean Sea.

An immortal never claims a sycamore, rather he claims it with probity that resembles the wealth of a story written by locals who know well that they are spring harvests. No one will be able to hold more praise than Drestnia, and I to receive you in our land clear of enemies and that they sit at our table for the mere fact of avenging challenges that speak of saving and retreating, of counterattacking with perseverance carrying in your hand what breaks the Light and becomes subject to you "The Xiphos Sword". At the end of the voices they are filled with hope and fortune of your sword that could stop time, and bring you made of meat in the herd of Mosul as a weak mischievous, for this reason, it is equivalent to our parents that they will enjoy our vows, such cenotaphs for the weak who have to live protected by vigorous walls that have to engrave in their narrow, empty, and perplexed urns Freedom from other unfortunates who did not enjoy it, who did not cower from dying on earth that does not recognize martyrs who are still destined to live glorious declining. How foolish it seems to you when the mouthful of bodies from the battlefield rise with the same to everyone's heaven, and from evils that become benevolent from so much miracle to live next to them, fearful right there before the city bailiff who does not dare to dare to bury you in their domains, to see you resurrected in the domains or district of the fearful ruler. Now take your halo, take it with your five senses, and make of it courageous thirds where your seal is declaring that no one will erase or forget it "

Faces in a row wait to begin the daily shunt.
Sat aboard we bow our heads to handheld binary,
ignoring the large TV on adjacent walls.
Their broadcast, another repeat of moving scenery.

We sit with thumb in repetition; we know yesterday's story.
But the curiosity of which we serve fails to resist;
the craving for a pictorial record of a faux friend’s breakfast.

Lonely subjects completely surrounded by people.
Yet we hide – validating ourselves as socialites by algorithms of technology.
We sit, hoping to avoid a mundane clone of yesterday,
but facilitate it with various levels of hope for a change of train and different journey.

We’d know the grass isn’t greener on the other train’s TV,
if we looked up to see it.
Appreciate today’s episode, supply a faint smile to another, chat without a digit,
we may yet remedy our hope.

Poets speak in spills of sarcasm and satire
Soul searing and smooth saying sentences salvaged from their sins
Stop starting signs and sigh soaked sincerities seep from their seething seams
Soap suds sit in their mouths while supplying
supplementary information seemingly from a somber soul
sought after by so few socialites
Poets speak solely from the soul, as no other place would suit their words a safer home

perhaps it's not so much: as one might be...
supposed to live up to the names one is baptised with...
in the catholic manor of bureucracy - bureaucracy -
phonetics! bew-rh'oh-cracy...
           beau-row-cracy...
               ***-for-tat... pedantic details only
less feeding feeling creature establish... most probably
men...
   there are two one is given at baptism...
                   i guess... that's in line with...
the catholic 'abracadarba' matching each host
to the tetragrammaton: two names at birth...
      a surname... that's three names...
       and a fourth name when one is to be confirmed...
i had all the chances to be confirmed...
open-end apostasy... i have no confirmation name...
but that would equal the quenching
of the tetragrammaton "farce": four names...
four names...
                 what was once a brave act of kneeling...
colin kaepernick kneeling at the anthem...
before the game...
                  derek chauvin is also kneeling...
crude comparison: what's impressed in my mind
is the act of kneeling...
          i once kneeled on a bee...
that i was hoping to mummify in some mud
as a child... the bee managed to sting me from
within the slush-puppy and i cried and i cried...
and... that was that...
               to be given names at birth...
the surname is non-essential: unless i be born
a windsor or a churchill...
                 or a Radziwiłł - h'american socialites:
ha ha: socialists... lite...
                       or a Wiśniowiecki: Yerema!
i once had a friend by the name of... al-ex-an-der...
and he did mention that as a name:
he'd borrow his name from a figure in history...
a one... macedonian: encrypted into greek...
and that inverted mongol empire...
that lasted just as long...
                     i never asked what his second name
was...
i sometimes used my baptism names
interchangeably...
and my choice of historical characters...
matthew the levi...
            conrad... well... i was always going
to have more fun with that...
either konrad of masovia
.........................................................­.................
                       or konrad wallenrod...
back in 2007 it was still an unpopular name...
a would be girlfriend... half persian
half scottish... laura... a date night:
me falling asleep when watching a roman
holiday... etc. etc.,
     i very much like to see ghosts of these memories
when i tow them to the depth of the sea
my mortal self and this the anchor that
will give me... the sinking sip... sipping snorkle...
i guess konrad is no common name these
days or a muhammad...
that... a joseph comes along and says:
call me that...
yes... this is very much... a vanity project...
because i don't like the sound of my own voice...
i can take a photograph of myself...
as long as... i see a labyrinth my ****** expression...
and i contort my face to: no known
recognition...
         too bad for the girls who have been
given names... as common as... peaches...
pearl... if only your surnames were...
    Waldorff-Preyß - a salad of little consequence:
to ever not mind... appetites hidden...
no... i couldn't do it...
   i have my mother to testify...
       all in order to... rear children...
  to have one's intellectual adventure stunted...
all for the rearing of children...
the anti-dodo-project gehenna of sharpening
the 7 tiers of silences and... patience...
i have no patience... i have a short-temper...
i'm sporadic... i'm not passionate like some
Iberian host... i'm spontaneous...
quick to respond... short on giving...
elaborate humour: wit...
                           i can... fathom a grandmother...
i can... fathom a mother:
       but the irrational "misunderstanding":
the head... dark fathoms of the most belittling
of places that thought enters...
the narrative is lost... because of... fudge-esque
packaging of a constipation of breath...
trial by errors: agitated soul...
          and this... failure to ignite...
a figment... the lost concern for imagination:
more... the myopia of pickling furniture...
a table of torso...
   a chair of an arm's worth...
                     all these rubrics settled with ghosts
and how... post-mortem telepathy works
to ***** grey-hounds of inquiry...
at these moments... i just want to scream...
i want to YARL... but... i know the limits...
of these walls having any understanding for such
words to be: let alone thought, then heard...
yet alone spoken to be later screeched out with
a gluttony of barritone!
    i'd need to feed the forest...
which would imply... walking a good mile...
to venture into the awe-seeing forest...
the owl the deer the fox the badger...
to scream without sense: but to reach...
an audible near echo conclusion without a cave!
to feed the woods!
not... some... near abandoned bedroom...
   and... if i can't entertain a conflict...
when talking about the three partions of
polish-lithuanian commonwealth...
     which part were we from...
the prussian... the russian or the habsburg...
and you're met with ridicule
and a cul de sac of conversation...
when ingiting it with...
                even the germans thought
the prussians were *******...
because of... vectors x, y and z...
                     well... because the prussians
were pagans...
- what?!
- yeah... the prussians were pagans...
isn't it strange how they would later
encompass the whole of the german people?
- the prussians were pagans?!
- yes... the prussians were pagans
and somewhat germanic... more lithuanian...

and all you'd get it a shock-awe look
of suspence... a gamer meets a girl who'd only
buy shoes...
she might be a mother...
a tedium a baron of shadows...
a venture tranquility...
                  the melodramatic cuff... cross:
burden... heel! an imaginarty dog
in reverse... the sanctity that could
never translate itself into either my son
or daughter...
and how... my future wife would only
be seen as a *****...
su-ka...
                        the tyranny of mothers:
even without... the absenteeism of fathers...
i imagine a world...
           which... by the end of it...
there's a valhalla...
             rather than a jannah...
    where you drink and you fight...
chimeras...
   and you are... indeed... served by...
the valkyrie...
   drinks... but ******* them...
would imply: getting **** from
that h. p. lovecraft pederast sulk /
ocotpus godhead...
                
would it matter that... i had... some chances...
but that the one chance i had...
it would be less of an emotional wheelchair
if i decided to... "inconvene" myself
with a ******* for a bride...

tsu-tsu: to have a heart with
the geometric study worth of thrown...
into a lake... ploop! mirror of echoes...
and a sinking into a depth:
and time... at what point...
can man face time as the horror of space?
at what point does space become less
awe riddled... at what point does
time prop its head up and sober
everyone peering into a postcard
from saturn with a sobering fearful-glee-of-fear?!

oh yes... that space and time are relative...
time: awed at... collectively...
nostalgia for ancient rome...
      space: awed at: collectively...
pictures of saturn...
  time... m'eh... claustrophobic...
individually... nostalgia for youth...
when in old age...
space: feared...
                     die cast...
         your next door neighbour...
muffled... irritating... living... drone...
next door... and you... have...
not a single artifact of shared experience...
beside: up & death!

sally challen is a name synonymous...
              with...
              and andrei chikatilo was also a father...
because there's a need to look for
aliens: not enough to peer at luxury
in a fly under a microscope?
grand newton ego! for all and every!
the common man!  

the prussians were the forever old germans?
those people romancing etymology:
and any ethnicity for a romace:
come the thirdf *****: with sveedish:
dished out loot corp..
that the prussians are to be "questioned"
with the pomeranians?
what gate of sea...
the baltic is the beggars' mediterranean...
nothing but Helvig & Helva and...
quanrantine hammock: lining...
herrings: eaten raw...
like bistro maidens of sushi:
baltic sushi: mango squash sort
of *******...
so... so... so happy...
for the british imp-yre have imploded...
postcards from everywhere...
race bating inter-racial:
hard-ons...

              it's best served:
mongol ***** a mongol:
a new mongol is born...
instead?
an "orc" zulu ***** a porcelain
parisian...
a quasi arab is spawned...
because... all hell would break loose
should ****** be deemed:
too light for the arab...
and too... towing the non-agreed
to suntan "mishap"...

****'s the conundrum...
warsaw! warsaw pact!
can anyone think of a better name
for a capital: name...
war-saw...
            and whenever i visit my
grandparents... ****...
i didn't "integrate": fully...
because i retained my...
         einheimischsprechen:
                     und: milz und knochen...
                                        X:
hen... 'ause... not:
         cheat-the-parrot-with-chuckles...
******* cockney chuckles bullet proof:
y'ah... change two tow a spare?
bindi a lingo loot off of a turban?
salvo! this 'un: makes it clarified:
a clarifying lawrence romance piece
of mecca...
very much akin to:
the minor croat project for yugoslavia...
the serbs...
and... those... janissaries...
the new brit the old ottoman...
    from the "old... very old"...
borrowed from... yugoslavia...
                  that france works...
that austria works...
that england: england was always
going to work... except in h'america...
and the battle for vienna... 1683...
oh... wait... why is it that
i don't want to...
that paris... circa 2004 is best
kept as a memory...
          
                                 i have a mother is still a parody...
here's to... grieving the subconscious
history project... paint of ed gain
onto the canvas of blanche...
h'america is better than cool: project:
you you too!

hybrid of congestion...
that old fabble of the islamabad of conquests...
beside the mongols...
the 4.5 crusade of the baltic states...
because barbarossa was being
pickled and the major volume of army
were... withering into a scoop
of... a waiting for: reinvigorated waking...

my history is no history is my history
is no history...
    lots to share: dog **** to boot too...
the arcade of: gesticulating...
being solved with a snippet of
the ******* sack: and a chance
to salvo in the vatican choir...
               a past...
   there's a past that also invites me to
cocktail the: presently at hand...
england... minus...
wales... scotland... irritating tip
of ireland: north-eastern collide...
the quill with a peacock strutting?

        this is "my".... "past"...
the journalistic event of now...
      the old lady is singing...
   it was never began... but... it's all over...
forever and: the now.

I'm 20 years old now
And I've seen technology advance and what happens when socialites go wild
and I've been mulling this over for awhile
I began to understand why the older generations hate us and always rely on poorly researched "Truths" to debate us.

It's because of how much the world has changed.

The world has changed and immeasurable number of ways since way back in the day
From the rise of the Internet from a finicky gimmick to a major uncut media outlet
And so quickly it seems as though some rewinding is needed to some, in a manner most drastic


However progress is needed even though it is a slow and painful process, whether it be in the church or out on the streets everyone's ideas deserve to be heard no matter how bizarre because that's how we remain so unique

I is spontaneous
I is me -
without the edits from society
I is what in my head, the real her
what's inside,
words without filters
Forgive me socialites
I have yet to let your opinion decipher
Who I am internally
expectations of before and after

...But

Me
me is egotistic
me is influenced
me is the girl that society ruined
Don't say this, never do that
unconsciously self- conscious  
under the influence
in tune
part of the group
in a section of the crowd
I shouldn't belong to.

I miss I
but me is the new me
I find that being alone is better
and I find solitude indulging

We run like telephone poles in the night
Darting through trees
Snaking through the sky

Reaching for the moon on our long wooden legs
Oh, how glorious we are with the moonlight glistening off of us

Beating with power
Pulsing with electricity
Arching through the air and lighting up the world around us.

Chasing an impossible dream to be fulfilled

To make that spark,
To rope in the magic suspended in the space around us.
And light the match.

That cultivates our spirit
Grounds our hopes
Cements them in the earth and
Buries them in the deep rich soil

Never to be questioned or second guessed

Oh how we grasp the air,
desperate to grab handfuls of somethings and turn them into everything
And change the world with the love and positivity we create.

How we long for the semblance of perfection amount the modern robots that surround us, rehearsing their phrases and learning the script of movie stars and socialites.
Rewriting their picturesque lives into our own realities.

And those people suspended higher then the rest of us-
constantly reminding us to jump higher,
Duck lower
Smile wider
Dip Deeper
Explore more
Love harder
Dance better
Filter everything
Raise heels
Tighten jeans
Laugh longer
Try harder

We take advantage of the miles of possibilities lining country roads and lighting up cities
Always expecting more of yourself and expecting less.

Struck down by the lighting rod of life
And burning from the inside out with unharvested potential.
Crumbling with the weight of our possibilities

And tumbling to the ground,
severed from our hopes and dreams.

Cutting off our influence
Shutting down the light in our world
And draining our surroundings of power.

Where we rot and wait for someone with a name tag and an antidote to prescribe us with a dose of energy.

Oh, how we chase our dreams into the ground

How we expect so much and accomplish so little.
How we fight for every breath to live out the ideal destiny dreamed up by society.

We run like telephone poles in the night.
Pulsing with energy and trying our best to light up the world.

*** is meant for marriage
yet many escape through vice with *******
a married man seeks more then the real thing by having a fling
there are lines being driven in the sand
hearts are purged in the under garb of vice
escapism through the portal of lust
paying no attention to in God we trust
like an old car they rust
being carried away by sin, self & Satan
shadows block the full view of there sight
they feel they could sin cause that's there right
like a caged rat hidden in a tiny hole
who could stop this madness

it's just a fantasy it's not the real thing
sometimes a fantasy is all you need
hearts are torn and some that bleed
people do as they so please
cause the girl is such a tease
knock you to you knees
as busy as a bee
a temptation that quickly comes and then it goes
just like ******* goes up your nose
a temporal high but the ramifications is devastating
now what are you waiting for
go do what you have to do
having bitten off far more then you could ever chew
yet this is nothing new its all been done before
remember ther famed Studio 64
the socialites would party like never before
many were kicking in back with a two bit *****
screaming for more

Stalking in the shadows.
Whispering false truths.
Flaunting their dignified beauty,
Socialites against a wallflower backdrop.
They scratch without leaving a mark,
And stab you in the back without breaking the skin.
Admired, but nobody really knows them
They’re heroic villains.
Humanoid looking, but they’re really ghosts.
Really, creatures of the dark and the bad can still shine in the light if they’re mean enough.

why do some people get away with things and others don't
people are people so why should it be you and I appear awfully

no one questions anymore no one has a voice
it's the blind leading the blind soon will fall into a ditch

all the hero's and legends I knew as a child turned into idols of clay
don't you believe in what t.v. or the radio says about you

many seek for solace amidst the inner plight of silence
death is there doormat they squeeze all the love out of you

some seek to drawn there sorrows in a bottle like no tomorrow
the impulse of a hug takes a back seat with cheap lust

why does one equate logic for fear ?
I sit again in the silence alone,

minds that plug for bitter destruction in their brain washed minds
how it rains on the just & unjust...

a tug at the heart will light the inner spark to what I've been waiting for....
man has constructed living pyramids to honor their dead,

the notion of no atheists in fox holes
I don't debate them anymore only choose to love them instead

the walking dead having viscous hanging fangs that bite...
dot the i's and cross the t's

we resign as living socialites in our miniature soldier war
a toast of friends only to discover there is no love in their hearts

there are heads in the street for a burning cause but for what ?
they all claim its a banner of love but its hate in disguise

a lover in life is not the sinner
weak willed tyrants feeling a funeral in their brain

Why is love cheap lust these days get back to the basics
we choose to hide behind the false garb of compromise

Can't we see through all those twisted Satanic lies ?