So what's it they have, what's it all about
Work for the bossman.
Use your brawn Earn your pittance,
Then eat, Pub, drink, **** and pay the bills
Go footie, shout and scream, at one with your tribe
then  go sit in front of the telly, play at family
Week is done
Till the morrow when you do it all again

How about a soap opera, you direct and act
Gotta a Royal down the road ripe for the taking
Lets go invade, see how the other halves lives
Come, lets all join and become Kingmakers
Under our ***** thumbs he goes, we pull the strings
Entertainment for the masses, beats our mundane cages

For once, we are the bosses and can pull the strings
Knowledge is Power and its all here in Mao's Red Book
Lies, fabrication, distortions and misinformation
Disinformation, half-truths, slander it ain't no matter
Everything he says will be taken down and used against him
This is control at our finger tips, this is power to play with
He's going through the Red mill, drilled and ground into dust

Look we've got him as the puppet, we destroy all his trappings
So gather round and join the fun, this is us like God
Lights, action, now you do this and this and watch us play him
what do you mean puppet ain't moving or re-acting
OK let's do this, you go there and you do this and do this now
Still no action, OK let's try this, if you go there and say ah
You drive here, you stand there, you watch here, you stand
Nothing still, OK you come here, you put this here
Still nothing, This puppet is NUMB, this puppetting is no fun

They had drawn up the master plan, written their ****** script
The puppet looked and laughed, what a bunch of prime morons
No substance, no value system, no morality or basic sense
Infantile, one track minded sociopaths full of flaws and manure
Go back to your drinking and ******* and your mundanity
The united pack of crooks, ****, racists and the vacuous coerced

Go look after the Leading Lady stuck with rehearsals and scripts
The imagined romantic interest paying debts for UK residency
Waiting for the Prince to come running and tomfoolery begins
The bit part actors are still playing, too stupid to realize
The control is on them, their time energy and effort all a sham
Our Directors are directing making it up as they go along
The supporting actress are still hopping and hoping
The new characters are still buying false scripts and playing
Playing with themselves as Puppet stands and watches it all

They wheel out their demented scribes and brain dead peoters
To write dirges, glooms, ******* and negativities galore
Casting their dark fantasies and the rancid spittles of their dregs
Muds from the festered pools of their putrid minds dresses up
Ready to visit nightmares of their making from their darknesses
Areas thankfully unknown to a mind and soul untainted, unsoiled
As is their bitter lives, valueless breeding and hate and prejudices One ignorance and neurotic existence, the depravities of depraves..

Poor, poor imbeciles, they really don't have much in their lives
Illusions and delusions by the bucket loads, anything would do
To remove them from their sad, miserable sorry realities
Hey its Clockwork orange, we are all stars in our *****
Diversions to their mundane, unrewarding and depressing realities
Their frustrations and powerlessness, their insignificance
At last a vent for their frustrated lives, miseries loves company
A release valve for pains of centuries being underdogs and serfs
A safe playground for psychos, control and pain in abundance
Let's call it Revolution and add Republic to make it more palatable

Down at the palace of Attrition, a blameless man sits and muses
Crazed dogs of war at the gates, salivating insanely, bloodthirsty
Watching Controllers tieing chains to masses and jerking them
Into frenzied hysteria, nothing beats permitted wickedness shared
Dropping poisons and acids into hungry jaws, patting heads
Shouting rallying calls, we got the Bastille of the blinds going on
Scientists please take notes, this is Herd mentality and Groupthink
This is how to manipulate the masses and incite Hate unawares
Majority wins here, this is Democracy, this is people power

Do, you are ******, don't, you are ******, Hate abides all.
Puppet sees injustices but better to play dumb and numb
They can't abide a black do well, hate spews from fear
Hate festered by the unique decency of a successful blackman
Who had all they wished for but could never have or be
Riddled with lust and envy they merely went on to steal his
But that wasn't enough, the bullies and cowards had to ruin.
Under the pretext of them and us, blue versus Red they lied
Rabid racists takes another black man down, green bottle falls

Man proposes, God disposes, UK, KKK now play god
Thy will will be done O'Lord, I am but your servant
It's rather flattering being The Real Deal in this production
Confirmation of differences betwixt Gifted and the Depraves
A Travesty full of sound, false images and fury by the loonies
A Red Racist Production by Idiots and psychos for fools and sociopaths.

Lights, camera, action
Yawn.......................

When I said was that those things didn't make you a sociopath and I knew that because I fall for sociopaths.

What I meant was that those things couldn't make you be that because I like you and I don't like unhealthy things anymore.

six deadbolts
and a loaded gun
tucked beneath your
pillow, what are you
waiting for love?
is it the rapists or
the sociopaths or
the criminally insane
come to shatter your
suburban dream?

they may come for you,
or maybe you are
one of them.

it doesn't really matter
anyways, you'll still
rise when you rise,
laugh when you can
and never, ever cry-
that would make you
human. you'll still
be seeking answers
if you're lucky and
pretending to know
what love is
in a dark, dark place.

everything will go to ****
on its own. be wary
not of the sociopaths
but the preachers
of god, of love, of war,

be wary of
your own mind.

We overestimate the probability of the improbable through eyes and ears that are susceptible to vivid imagery. Social media screams that 100 people died from poisoned cantaloupes instead of saying in less emotional terms 100 in 7,000,000,000 or .000000000001% of the population. Really It’s all about fear and manipulation. You viewed all the news interviews, watched YouTube videos and even read the compelling articles. Now you’re in the grocery store avoiding cantaloupes like the plague because you might be next! Conversely in positive outcomes this is the same rationalization that compels people to buy jack *** lottery tickets. Can you see how we extremely over weighting the probabilities of events based on the vividness and prevalence of the coverage? The news—the government---companies---all individuals have agendas but not everyone is looking out for your best interest. Many are “wolves in sheep’s clothing” that feed on these manipulations in regards to rare events with the sole purpose to covertly produce a particular behavior that prospers outcomes that are favorable to their own position.

Now her goes the paradox of overestimation and underestimation in regards to rare events. A strange thing happens when rare events are not being perceived vividly through our senses. They are simply ignored! We no longer over estimate probabilities but instead begin to under estimate probability! For example during Hurricane Katrina victims yielded to evacuate due to this under estimation. The probability of the rare event was neglected in part to lack of vividness. In hindsight they seemed foolish for not leaving but in actuality were quite human in their behavior that lacked the emotional experience towards the rare event (obviously the decision was intertwined with a myriad of other individual variables). In the aftermath the vividness of the Hurricane’s media coverage allows the opposite to occur once more---a heavy overestimation of a future storms probability. This produces disproportionate fears for many in regards to actual hurricane probabilities. Leaving the door open for exploitation.

What we see is a human nature that goes extremely over or under in estimations towards the outcomes of rare events compared to the events actual probabilities. The danger is that people know this!! They can pump your head with what they want you to overestimate and be silent on what they’d like you to neglect, all in the manipulation of their cause. The perceived good guy can easily be one in the same with the bad guy. The best sociopaths are quite charming. People can easily be manipulated with the news and Youtube videos for example. Often times the information provided has traces of truth that are used to spark emotions that lead an individual further away from actuality while simultaneously using them towards their own divisive agendas. They will stay silent to other matters---producing neglect till it’s time to play the good guy once the neglected issue (often created themselves) explodes. In the after math the information they provide makes you feel empowered but it's only manipulating you further into their own aspirations--they look like a hero for doing it --again they produce the overestimations of fear where they want while staying silent to what they wish for you to neglect. Whether it’s the government, a conspiracy theorist or a manipulating relationship partner be attuned to how we process information and the susceptibility to manipulation (overestiamation-underestimation). Although not every situation is a source of manipulation from others it would be unwise to neglect the fact that our own emotions can lead us to these same ignorances all by our selves. I give glory and honor to my Savior Jesus Christ for this knowledge in which Faith in Him alone helps me discern and weight the emotional information and there intentions

After taking a gulp of water, M. opens a new Word document, inhaling deeply. He begins to write a sort of Introduction or Author’s Note:

‘This is to be my first real poem. No *******, cheesy rhyming or painfully forced verbiage. I am now only a seeker of truth…’

M., having just crushed two Focalin pressed pills, rolls a five-dollar bill and proceeds to insufflate, pausing momentarily when the line is halfway finished; he exhales before immediately finishing it off. His sinus burns fiercely. There is something masochistic about his preferred method of ingestion w/r/t pills. And but with a sudden albeit expected (in fact, M. was utterly beholden to it) rush of vitality, M. spends the next ten minutes finishing his half-page poetic manifesto [sic] (which term he actually wrote as a heading. “Poetic Manifesto”, that is), before beginning what he considers to be the first stanza. He likes that the location of the beginning of his poem is ambiguous. And so he begins thusly, consciously avoiding conventional rhyme scheme, instead opting for what he considers to be abstract.

‘My first poem, ostensibly an attempt at catharsis, was in fact a failed expression of my latent desire to be accepted. For today it’s a poem and last week a novel; tomorrow I’ll ferociously ******* some fashionably obscure, formidably pretentious prose [sic]. Consuming all but absorbing nothing…’

If he is to discover vicious truths [sic] in his writing, he cannot hold anything back. He thinks of a double-entendre using the word ‘blunt’, but decides not to employ it. Perhaps yesterday. Suddenly, M. begins to ruminate on his poem from the day before, which had earned him the opposite of acclaim from his peers. He must simply do the opposite of what he had done before! When he resumes writing, M. eventually begins to subconsciously fall back into the 12-syllable AABB rhyme scheme of his yesterday’s poem.

‘…Perhaps the following phase will stick for more than a wretched week.
Why have I wasted words on wan, vapid, wheezing lines
Of sickeningly phony, sophomoric, pseudo-sentimental ****?
Surely you see the salient theme,
That from which I hide,
Refusing to acknowledge life’s flaccid, tan **** as it floats in front of me,
Beckoning me forth,
A one-eyed, furiously fetid viper...’

M. chortles at his alliterative stanza’s ending. ‘This is how I write,’ he mutters to himself, maintaining a straight face. He writes without pause for nearly an hour. He is pleased.

‘…A generalist—that’s what I tell myself I am,
Because simply knowing a few facts,
Even for forty or fifty fields,
Is surely worthy of that
Respect which is given to those men and women
Who earn it by grinding away
At that which determine the sycophant vermin
Is worthy of lifting a lash…’

Hours pass. The poem approaches two thousand words in length. After taking a truncated cigarette break (the break, not the cigarette, was truncated), M. continues where he left off.*

‘…Believe you not for a second the frost-bitten-phallus,
That Freudian façade [sic],
The false faces I display to fake friends
Whose frequent fornication
Fills my mind with fossilized fleas,
******-spiritual formication [sic]
For which there’s no vaccine…

…Once I’ve come down from the mountainous apogee atop which I sit,
Calmly surveying the ever-receding landscape through the lens of fleeting euphoria
Which, fading faster always, gives way to—no, I will not say it—I refuse to legitimate her lies.
As I descend with increasing speed,
specters of judgment torment me into insanity…
    
B  r  e
a   t  h
     e  ;

...this feeling I simply cannot bear—
their sirens threaten to burst my eardrums.
Although it’s undoubtedly pathetic,
I can no longer lie to myself;
I desire the approval
of those specters
who haunt
m-
e
...’

M. begins to hyperventilate, panicking at his embarrassment at publishing such a bad poem the day before. He grasps his heart, which is beating out of his chest. The fear of cardiac arrest simply increases his anxiety. Laying down on the ****-carpeted floor, M. attempts to meditate, imagining this to be how it might feel to do TM on *******. Minutes then an hour pass.
Suddenly, a much-welcomed epiphany presents itself to M.; as if it fluttered through his window and hovered, eerily still in the way that only hummingbirds can be, just in front of his face. So obvious does it seem (the epiphany) that he begins to laugh maniacally in the pitch of a female voice either pre-pubescent or near-dead; a kind of

YEE!    

YEE!      

YEE!    

HEEEE!

HE!

HEE!                      

HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

sound.
After minutes of uncontrollable mirth, M. holds his abdomen and makes the lugubrious [sic], delirious noises of tired suffering. After a few more YEE’s and HEEEE’s escape, he begins to regain control, trying not to focus on what he’d realized w/r/t futility as it relates to shame, but certainly ensuring that he won’t forget. M. sits in his chair with a old-man grunt, the sort of noise over which wives divorce their husbands.
He sips water.
M. opens a new document and begins to type:

For what do we write, we talentless wretches?
To publish some
gooey garbage
in hopes
that some fleet of demonic tween-age sociopaths
adopts our work as part of the canon of cuntiness?  

Not we, the veritable “un-poets”,
Our haphazardly-conceived writing stinks,
No, it reeks of fetid, smegmatic phalluses;
Of a ****** of maniacal madmen,
Blue-balled after an abysmal night/morning
Tossing crumpled ***** of money
At Patti’s plump-lipped, positively putrid-looking

&&&&               *****               &&&&

In an I-95 truck stop;
“Taste **** and *****
At Trucker Tom’s ***** Taphouse
                                        Where friends meet
                                            and literally throw money
                                              into syphilitic snatches.”

We write for the duty of identity,
We who might be found with a serious face on,
Writing rhyming, rhythmic,
quasi-**** lines of lead-heavy, snobbish lifeforce-larcen.
The sort of **** that keeps you from getting up in the morning.

But of course we are writers, as sure as the sea
Is blue, the day is long, who daresay that I am wrong?
And he who
doth [sic] dare,
I point to that long
******* I posted
ere the day began.
There lies his evidence though it belongs in the can.

Your psychopathic sleep hours tick by slowly,
dreamless time, unconscious to the world -

a temporary death each night. Do you know
how much you hurt me? I suppose you do.

I crumbled like the flaky leaves in autumn
underneath your feet, and fell for another boy

eventually. You moved away, and now sleep undisturbed
with another girl. She must sleep soundly too,

oblivious to your reputation, the way you once ate
fields of girls as though you were a swarm of summer locusts.

chaste pecks from the super-sonic youth
numb lips flutter to the hollowed cheeks of normality
no longer the hand-prints on the guide book to hostility
a pamphlet of rudimentary teachings;
the principles of tolerance and rebellion and acceptance of human beings
a concoction of suppressed psychotic behavior, quick wit, and center of satirical tease
constantly moving with heavy footsteps and heavier hearts
their minds and bodies plagued with actions from a deserted youth
soul lusting over the naivety of people before self-actualization; how crude
do they call it an existential crisis or the daily life of a agoraphobic nobody
shouts from the depths of caged fears that scrape the oblivious flesh in their brain; a bit gaudy
mother, sister, brother, father how your words crush the knots of comfort that line my internal organs
bleeding from the pores of my screams; streams of moon-beams shooting out my eyes; oh, not again!
stomping our metaphorically spiked toenails against the idealism of pop culture
oh, my, how adolescence is the worst kind of torture
cherry slushies lined with cigarettes to create a whirl-pool of nostalgia
recreational drugs and ironic situations to ease our instinctual sense of proverbial nausea
loud-mouthed demons spawned out of clothes-hangers and emotional turmoil
show up in our nightmares that we nick-name ‘a good place to contemplate suicide’
repeated imagery stacked like flap-jacks in the mouths of blissed-out sociopaths
too self-indulgent to include us in to their personal stories so we can observe, record, and assess
i don’t perceive doctors to be particularly and predominantly just and true
but i one time met a doctor who told me ‘being a teenager is perhaps the hardest thing you could ever do’

he wrote you poem after poem
with broken fingers

taught you how to shoot a gun
with the safety on

he

showed you how to love

without
a
heart.

my body is still warm in the
places where you pressed
  against me as you
****** out from my bones
any ounce of apathy
I might have had left
  and my guts flutter
violently like a moth trapped in a glass box
  and I can't wait
to never have to see you again
because I could love someone who is
seven times better than you
        but right now
    my waist can't stop remembering
    the places your fingers sometimes liked to rest

I suspended my disbelief for you
but you forgot me somewhere
   like a flea
   behind the cigarettes and ******
   behind the pretty girls who tease
   behind the marrow in your knees
but some mornings, you wake up panicked
swollen with the sweat of something you might have once dreamed

She leads with sexuality.
She says "**** me," instead of
hello.
If she says, "I love you already."
don't run away, don't
worry, it only means,
"How was your day?"

It means something
normal.

If she doesn't say it, still, she isn't
normal.

Her eyes begin every sentence with,
"Will you love me?
Will you **** me?
Will you promise to never
leave me?"

And when you say, "Bend over,"
It will mean, "Love you, too."

You used to think *** was love, but
now you know, *** isn't love.
*** is medicine for
sick people.

Your body, naked, shaking, is more of
a multivitamin for sociopaths,
than it is your body.

She leads with sexuality, but
how else should it be felt?
And no, your **** is not big enough
to fill the hole
in her heart.

You faint and fawn over pretty faces
A person who can buy you nice things
A sociopath with sic six pack abs
Who places passion over common sense
A perfect prince charming to make you swoon
Who will sweep you off your feet
Fly you to the moon and all those other
Outdated overrated simplistic *******
Fairytale dreams
And you wonder why the world *****

Why it’s getting worse
Because your desire is tied to your Gucci purse
Because if sociopaths are what you want
Then every other guy will strive to fit that bill
Will hollow himself out to live up to that deal
Cause you are the best reinforcement for bad behavior

A 2 year old boy was killed by an alligator
"I don't care he was white"
"The parents are neglectful"as these people mourn their baby that
they created, birthed and raised for just a short time.

The gorilla was shot simply to save a child
" justice for harambe" " they should of killed the kid"

50 people have been shot dead in a gay nightclub by a man who pledged to isis. "Islam is a religion of peace" "hug a Muslim" so the LBGT  community no longer matters? You'd rather defend a religion that isis branched  off  of?

A man gets arrested for ****** a girl and gets 3 months in prison which is completely unfair and he doesn't need to be in society. All you say is " it's white male privilege" do you people care about that traumatized girl? Who has the deal with this humiliation for the rest of her life.

Take time to realize the suffering and embarrassment the victims and the ones who personally know the victims are going through instead of defending perpetrators and bring outside stories into the case.

a boy said he liked me last night and that he's liked me more than any other girl
and this morning he said we need to take some time apart

what the ****

happened
between

POINT A
and
POINT B

?
------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-------------------

I think it might have something to do with the fact that apparently
when he cuddles up to me when I sleep
I alternate between saying:

"No"
             "Stop it"
and
                        "I don't want this."

(Jesus,
psyche could you be more
  revealing/embarrassing?)
He said he feels like he violates my sleeping self with his nearby presence.
-------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------------

Someone is arguing pointlessly with me about
whether
their ex is a sociopath
and then whether sociopaths feel remorse
and the whole point of sociopaths is that they don't feel remorse so
(and apparently that's a politically incorrect term anyway)

I don't get why that conversation matters to her. I feel like we've had it before.
She just wants to be contentious.
----------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------
-------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------------------
----------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------------------------------

And I just want to take a very expensive taxi to work.
And fill my Odwalla up with peach-flavored *****.
And drink the day away.

Because I don't
understand

"people"

right now, let alone my own wants.

the sun burns red in the west
The  lovers meet in secret
Following their hearts
in the cropping darkness

It is big and brave
For the passionate lover
He would hand it to her love tonight
Hoping that she would cherish it

Even  when he will be away
She gives him hers
Tells him "be strong and intact
Return safe my love
I will be waiting for you"

The heart,
That little body part
habouring all issues
Makes all decisions

The heart,
it strengthens the soldier
in the battle front
Singing to him songs of courage
Reminding him of his sweet love at home

Love from the heart is true  and  passionate
Its different from lust
and  is bound to last

The battle is love
Even though the war is different
He kills for love
she is the only thing in mind

She  gets broken a few times
taunted  by sociopaths
Telling her  'they will never come back"
She has waited for times and times

But the heart stands all the tests
Most of the times

The heart that
lordship of mind and body
Guides everyody

Decisions of the heart
You can trust

He thinks with the mind for tact
but nomatter what
He follows  his heart;
even though he is bruised and hurt

The mind fills him with doubt
but the heart tells him  to fight
Reminds him of heroes
and sweet love-making
Turns him to a matador

the eyes give him sight
but the heart fills him with insight
Hugging him tight
it neutralises his fright
He marches right

Into enemy territory
She is barely making through
They think she should remarry
News of fallen soldiers  devastates her heart

Man's strength is from within the heart
Courage is not from spears
Not arrows and swords...
That small body part!

Emperors and conquerors
Lovers and soldiers listen
Fathers and Mothers
They listen to the heart

He creates  devastation
Wrecking the enemy camp
As his battalion joins in
His heart moulding him
Into a hero

That small body part
Endures all in patience
As she waits
Saying its never late

...a  time of jubilation
Victory cries are heard
Those back are few
But they removed the enemy
By conviction of their hearts

He is a legend
The man after everyone's hearts
She is joyous
As she runs into his embrace

The heart
That small body part
Endured it all

A soldier's heart...

lessons of life's sanctity,
clarity of reason
and chastity
elude
the sociopath unglued;

clouded lens
filtering threads
of sense
common from extreme,
relishing shreds of conspiracies
unfounded...

tying the falling dow and twin-towers...
to  call of duty and

the man....

in the slick blue suit
with the funny last name
sticking it to us,
stripping us of our  inalienable rights,
god-given,
taking our bibles and guns away
to mombasa

spiraling memes of dysfunction
programmed to propagate fallacies
in minds unhinged

on the fringes of reality...

like paranoiacs
sipping green tea

or a.m. fanatics
fueling the frenzy

of sociopaths unglued,
licensed to spill
sacred blood
of the masses

at a crowded school
or movie theater
near you

now previewing:

~ mass homicide XII
&
~ teenage terrorist in black - the sequel

home-grown
&
fully-loaded...

~ P (Pablo)
(8/5/2013)

Crabalocker fishwife, pornographic priestess
Boy, you’ve been a naughty girl, you let your knickers down
                                                           ­                    John Lennon

A carnal muse and fallen sprite
I’ll paint for you, in flattering light.
My model’s sensuality
Shall trump all dull reality;
Inspired by Womankind’s raw truth,
Life-drawing class heats up, uncouth.
Still, I am sure some stiff-necked *****
Shall smear my heartfelt lay as lewd.

Edenic exile sought by men,
Receive this tribute from my pen
And keyboard, played inexpertly
By one who knows you rapturously
As a muse of Aztec/Latin race
Prodigious in your works and grace:

Born Ruth Ayon, in God-Knows-Where,
She overwhelms in underwear—
And shedding that, turns good men bad,
Makes angels fall and gods go mad.
Los Angeles (and that’s the joke)
Is where this cherub went for broke
Cashing in her soul for action,
Soreness, ***** and tumefaction.

Laurie Vargas, mouth full of ***,
Spread for us now your Aztec ***
Your sultry contours hypnotize;
The laughter in your ******* eyes
Brings music from Tenochtitlán
And opens windows to Aztlán
You smile, unlike those other *****
Who merely grimace. Gringa butts
Are less audacious than your own . . .
Their charms are better left unknown.
Your cheeks in tan proportion shine
Embodying some rare truth divine.
(Through Poetry, I’ll make them mine.)

I must speak forth of what I found—
Though standing on unholy ground,
Here I behold your lively art . . .
Your unpierced flesh has lanced my heart.
Whereas most stars are tattooed, jaded
Your bright aspect shines, unfaded.
Clad in campesina thread
While moaning on your torrid bed,
Adorned in homespun broidered blouse
In some vaquero‘s rancho-house
Or naked as Mexica dawn,
Bespattered like a dewdropped lawn,
Spurting with some panting plumber
In an endless *****-summer,
You glow, like honey dipped in light
And undulating Latin night.
Your burning bush, much-trafficked place,
Recalls the Red Sea’s parted space
No less than your beatific face.

An unrepentant Magdalene,
You plunge into each graphic scene.
Madonna of the varied act
You swell, engorge, dilate, contract
And play the part with crazy wit
Suckling madly at your own ***.
The way you can accommodate
What barely seems to satiate
With pure abandon, leaves us awed,
As mesmerized, your name we laud,
(With one hand—harder to applaud !)

Will you survive to have regrets
When raw desire no longer gets
Your body hot with inner flame?
When *** has ceased to call your name?
I wonder if you’ve found such paths
Of flesh and pimping sociopaths
A route to riches, gain, and pleasure
Or mere sacking of your treasure.
At the end of your sweaty day,
Is there more than a harlot’s pay?

I wish you well—and hope in time,
When life has left you less sublime,
You’ll find your way to God through Christ
And learn of what was sacrificed
To free you from your sordid fame
Where sinners hail your glorious shame.

eh... i felt benevolent today: i was making some beef doner kebabs with fresh yeast buns... egg + sprinkle of nigella & sesame seeds on top... an onion and parsley (sumac) salad... a hot sauce a garlic & dill and cucumber white sauce... blah blah... i was missing the red onions and parsley... so i walked for a minute to my local co-op... headphones in... so i wasn't going to say hello... to... what can be best described as a gentle soul... no... not a ******.. ******... a genuine gentle soul... a shy man... who... last time i heard: has five children... and there he is... day in... day out... standing outside the shop with the copy of the Big Issue (a charity magazine that supposedly helps the homeless)... some people buy him soft drinks... some people buy him snacks... eh... i felt benevolent today... plus i already touched his shoulder without saying hello... so i asked for £5 cashback and gave it to him... not that it made my feel any better than i was already feeling... there's that... 'god bless'...

there's that and there's this...
we live with these, "people": i don't even think they're people...
more like... itches... itchy things...
mosquitos... beside parasites...
sociopaths most certainly...
   schadenfreude gagging entries...
i can usually put a face to something...
when watching a movie i play this game
of remembering what was the last
movie i saw with the actor or actress...
i know there are monsters in society...
but i hardly thought about
these: "comedians" that can't tell a joke...
how would it stand in court:
conspiracy to inflict harm?
i still don't know how many days
i rode my bicycle without spotting that
something was wrong:
maybe yesterday... while hiding full
speed without holding the handlebars...
the front wheel started to "wobble":
i didn't think much of it...
but today i tested the front breaks...
nudge-nudge... the wheel was...
this close || to coming off...
   so i checked...
  ah... someone managed to... loosen
the bolts...
once upon a time you'd need
tools to tighten the nuts and bolts
of the wheel to the frame...
now... there's this small-handle that you turn
and turn and then lock into a desired
tightness that keeps the wheel to the frame...
what the ****?
i can't cycle to  supermarket... lock my bicycle
buy my wine and pepsi
and... what? bother myself by checking
if the bicycle is: "tight" on all the connected parts?!
i mean: it's not the first time someone tried
to take my life:
first time? the nurse in the hospital who
almost choked me to death because
i was born with a Chernobyl mark on my back...
so my heart inflated...
eh... the hernia didn't help either...
i survived that...
but my heart inflating didn't exactly give
me... a heart to love random strangers...
by now i'd take a knife in the back...
while i might turn around and grab my attacker
and hold him dear and whisper:
i love you into his ear... because as i once
said to a colt who screamed at me
outside a supermarket:
i have a death-wish...
   he gave me a fiver and asked me to buy
him some *****... he was accompanied
by a girl and a guy she was *******...
i bought him a litre of *****...
how mad he was...
he asked for 35cl... and he shouted and shouted
his uncle was going to put me straight:
i placed the litre of ***** on the ground
and told him: shout all you want:
i have a death-wish... you want a death-wish?
oddly enough he, the girl and the guy she was
******* ran away and didn't take
the freely standing bottle...
it's a bit different when you're buying
liquor for a group of colts...
you're the next best thing they have to an uncle...
who the hell walks up to a chained bicycle
and... loosens up the bolts on the front wheel...
oh... it wasn't the back wheel...
this "comedian" knew what he / she was
doing... i'd be thrown in a spectacular
fashion: forward... to the side...
what if i was travelling at high speed in between
traffic... the wheel would come off
and i'd be thrown under a car...
ha ha... fan-e... very ******* funny...
but someone else would be charged with manslaughter...
the police might find fingerprints
on the pieces of the bicycle...
******* Nimrods... ****** humour...
i'm shaking merely thinking i can't perform
telekinesis / telepathy with a desire to...
put him / her into an iron maiden...
to put his / her hand into a *** of boiling water...
cut it off and subsequently feed him / her
the poaching!
what if i were the cause of someone else's
manslaughter...
i can't just cycle to the supermarket and go about
my business... if i had a car i'd
be content with my "ceramics" being treated
with a key...
hell: key the frame of my bicycle... steal the wheel
while you're at it...
but... loosen the bolts so that i might...
my head's not big enough to entertain these thoughts...
perhaps i should have been born with
a sq. head...
for ****'s sake...    NIMORDS! INBREDS!
these aren't people...
if they were things akin to doors i'd love
to knock-knock on them:
no... personally? i just want to castrate them...
they'd be better off castrated...
the guillotine would be too good for them...
by a miracle i tightened that wheel back
to its proper repetition...
what next: he or she started to kick my mode of
transit? jealousy... i rather own a bicycle
than a car? is... that it?
half-wits... mother-*******-retards...
there's that common saying:
afraid to hurt strangers...
           now i'm charged with bile and if it's not bile
then it better be acid...
who does that? massive, *******: EPIC fail...
of seeing someone fall of a bicycle:
it's not a wheelchair... genius...
well... that's sorted: perhaps when i was younger
i might have listened to Bon Jovi love songs...
bed or roses...
now i look at everyone as suspect:
i'm not even paranoid: or will be...
   let's just pretend we're in this project: life
together... we're not...
     we're not going to be...
i don't care if the ******* Dalai Lama comes knocking...
same ****: different cover...
dieselbe scheiße: anders deckel...

if i'm going to be killed: i expect nothing less
than an assassination:
i'm not going to divulge into my death
as if it were an accident... ******* Nimrods...
tease me with death
and allocate however many chances
you get... in no quick succession that
you treated Rasputin with...
sorry if i can get a hard-on with a *******
while you're still idle-hands...
**** finger and tongue with your missus ****!

mateo: calm down: no... i will not calm down!
what if my wheel came off while
i was charging down the A12... and someone
might have been charged with manslaughter?
i'll calm down...
when i poach his or her hand
and later feed it back to them!
to hell with merely cutting it off...
i'd flay: i'd skin... i'd...
do more than my imagination right now allows...

oh i wasn't lucky: i'm just not married yet:
given death ms.,
   half a biscuit is basking in loneliness
in the sky: the constellations came...
i'm fully charged heaving a breath that
would burn a tortoise's shell...

keep imagining it:
this little ****** whether he or she...
i'd poach their hand and later
watch them eat it...
if they'd pass out:
i'd give them a shot of adrenaline mixed with
amphetamines:
just to keep them awake...
they have to be awake for coming
to the end of their... "joke":

mateo: relax... i'm relaxed... look at me...
taking  diarrhoea sort of whim
of what ought to be loath solving no. 12,479
of a su doku puzzle...

here's the original, wait... let me lookalike
to a sq.... spacing can be a *****...

0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0     ­ 0
0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0
0   ­   0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0
0      0   ­   0      0      0      0      0      0      0
0      0      0   ­   0      0      0      0      0      0
0      0      0      0   ­   0      0      0      0      0
0      0      0      0      0   ­   0      0      0      0
0      0      0      0      0      0   ­   0      0      0
0      0      0      0      0      0      0   ­   0      0

clearly that's proper spacing...
don't **** with me...
i'll be nice: until i start to imagine your hand
being poached and forcing you to eat it!

this is the original;

0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0    ­  0
4      0      0      6      0      0      5      0      0
0  ­    9      3      0      5      0      0      1      0
0      0  ­    0      0      0      0      0      0      0
3      0      0  ­    1      9      0      6      0      0
9      6      8      0  ­    7      0      0      4      0
6      5      0      9      0  ­    0      4      0      0
0      0      9      5      0      0  ­    3      0      0
1      0      2      8      6      0      0  ­    9      0

what am i... a makeshift carboot once a nerd
second time a: loved up...
hype? cant you write mathematics
with letters?
algebra: sure thing...
******* Nimrods... can't do a job proper..
half-breeds: inbreeding
cousin H'arab question marks...
0         0"people"... less than things...
at least i'd want to knock on a door...
these people i just want to mull with
a stampede... little gherkin **** offs...

how does that saying go:
i came cross a woman
and a tornado:
sure as **** the tornado didn't leave me questioning
my masculinity... or that i might be a walk abortion:
glad to know all the future mothers and their sons...
rather walk into a storm than love
a woman... at least: her mother...
can be less: teasing...
most obvious and...
n'ah... i'd prefer...
oh wait... she's not into blonde haired guys...
she's a blonde...
sure... i'm into Turkic raven haired types...
i'm into: Calypso mongrel
                mullattes...
good to know: she's not into me:
i'm not into her... shout and welcome
all those in-between copper-necking that's
to come: what do "we" call them?
when it's diluted?
aspiring Pakistani?
give it two generations...
give it enough dilution...
the supposed authority genes will fade...

a tale of two-number quests...
what's in brackets out to be either:
superscript or... "squared":
hello: the earth is "flat":
fastened to some spaghetti imitating shoelaces... no?

0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0
4 ­     0      0      6      0      0      5      0      0
0      9 ­     3      0      5      0      0      1      0
0      0      0 ­     0      0      0      0      0      0
3      0      0      1 ­     9      0      6      0      0
9      6      8      0      7 ­     0      0      4      0
6      5      0      9      0      0 ­     4      0      0
0      0      9      5      0      0      3 ­     0      0
1      0      2      8      6      0      0      9 ­     0

let me gives you a map of this flat flat world....
i couldn't find the proper, superscript...
hence some... "details" in brackets...
here's the map:

look at the brackets... wait: don't look
at them... (revised with superscript)

5¹³     8⁴⁰     6⁸       7³⁷     1⁵¹     9⁵⁰     2⁴²     3⁴⁷     4¹⁵
4⁰      2³⁹     1²³      6⁰      8⁴¹     3⁴⁹      5⁰      7⁴⁶­     9⁴⁸
7²⁵      9⁰      3⁰      4¹⁶      5⁰      2²⁶      8²⁴  ­    1⁰      6⁴
2²⁷     1²²     5²¹     3³³     4¹⁷      6¹¹     9⁴³      8⁴⁴     7⁴⁵
3⁰      7²⁸     4¹⁸      1⁰      9⁰      8¹⁹      6⁰      5²⁰      2²⁹
9⁰      6⁰­      8⁰       2³²      7⁰      5¹⁴     1³⁸      4⁰      3³⁴
6⁰      5⁰      7⁴       9⁰      3⁵³      1⁵²      4⁰      2³⁰      8³⁶
8³      4²      ­9⁰       5⁰      2³¹      7¹²      3⁰      6¹⁰      1³⁵
1⁰      3¹      ­2⁰       8⁰      6⁰       4³       7⁷       9⁰       5⁶

such the narrative...  i'll be relaxed:
poaching the hand of one of these and then feeding
it back to then: to hell with your Christianity and love...
your civilised state of
keeping a pacified argument...
no: you experience this sort of *******:
first... come back to me... and tell me: i hope:
otherwise!

I think the reason why we live is because of death. We fear death, we fear the unknown. One could even dare say the unknown is the future. It's the reason why we cling onto the past so much, we fear the unknown the most. I believe without a doubt that reincarnation happens and some could say that people's souls grow older and wiser. Yet why do people commit suicide? One could say that they are new souls, new creations of life. However as I think about it more and more, could it possibly be because the soul is starting to realize that life is too unpredictable and too unbearable? Maybe those who commit suicide are the souls who are actually a little mature. Maybe the reason why some people look forward to the future is because they are actually new souls. Then there is those who are wise beyond their years and still look forward to the future. Perhaps souls that grow too old become energy and become recreated into new souls to continue on. Perhaps the evil people with souls are being cleansed to create a new start. Perhaps that's the reason why sociopaths exist. Maybe they're just old souls who have seen many lives and are starting to lose the vitality it once had. Perhaps they are in the process of getting their souls cleansed from all they have done after they have been punished. The real reason why we would seek immortality is because we fear death. However I believe that even after we erase the fear of death, we will end up growing a new fear. Fear is inevitable. We will end up growing to fear love. Sounds funny, why would we fear love? If you're immortal, you will start to see the beauty of life and death. You will watch the people you grew up with, you laughed with, you work with, you care about, and you loved die. You will start pushing away all of them, everyone for fear of getting close. If you're immortal, that doesn't mean that you don't have a heart. Your fear of death is nothing like the fear of love. Unlike the fear of death, you will be alone if you fear love. The fear of death only makes bonds between those who also fear death. However to fear love will cause you to alienate yourself from the people around you. A soul cannot live on it's own. It will only disintegrate and get it's soul ripped inside and out. We must have death in order to live. Because life without death is miserable and lonely.

I’m a thief.

A criminal mastermind vying for all the affections of dead poets and living sociopaths

Watching flesh fall off of my fingertips and flutter to the floor.
Sewing on new skin like armor until a foreign face meets my eyes and smiles back

I’m in a perpetual state of identity crisis. I’m here and I’m there and I’ve be down while looking up and vice versa so many times
And so now my sense of direction has long rotted away and I’m left on my hands and knees sorting through the scattered remnants of me

And through it all, the rise and fall of an infinite wave whose name can be cleverly modeled on the back of a pill bottle, I still look down to the faded ink of a long-lost letter
It reads; “I swear I can be better”

And just when I look up to the moon for a cue on the tide’s change,
an anchor pulls me away and prepares my flooded lungs for another sorrow soaked day
So I guess I’ll stay

See, even now, schizophrenia might be preferable because at least then I could give the voices in my head a name and shed some of this blame on someone else

The only thing I really have left is my name

And even that is melting out through cracks in my closed fist because I held it too tightly against my burning heart 
Somewhere inside I always knew it belonged to someone else from the start

But I stole it.

(i) pre-scriptum: anchor posit

it would be all-too obvious that i'm going to begin with writing about nonsensical subjects... bowel movements... what's not to laugh about... a warm-up standing before a firing-squad metaphor... not my last words: how they don't tend to bury people with epitaph these days... in manus dei... which is hardly an epitaph... definition of epitaph: a transcendence of maxim... the... maxim... the sigma of all the incremental parts that once held the man as subject of life...

...i cycled into central London to do no more than:
**** myself off...
all those lives i'm not part of...
without a drop of bitterness:
i guess i can only be glad...
somewhere in South London past
Waterloo station nearing the Shard
i came across... a mythological blonde...
yoga-pants... *****-esque...
couldn't tell the traffic from a horserace...
she had that expression
on her face that read:
i've been to a few ******* parties...
all holes properly used...
come to think of it: i'm only
there to be ******: not there to do some
return policies...
so a timid deer...
point made when i noticed three-guys
ogling her up...
eyes turned to lap-dancing tongues...
point proven...
well... it's South London... even if's still
teasing the scent of the Thames...
it's a lot different over the river...
so i "debated" myself
on the point...
   CS4 is worse than CS3...
oh most assuredly...
CS4 is congested...
too many pit-stops...
i promised myself that i would never
again cycle into central London
via little Bangladesh that begins
in Ilford and ends at Aldgate...
that's CS4...
CS3 though? oh that's another barrel of
laughs... begins in Barking...
although it could begin in Rainham...
and ends at... don't know... to be honest...
i must have taken a CR13 from tower bridge
through to Waterloo station...
but... it's the proper underbelly of the city...
near the docks come Canary Wharf...
as i promised myself i would never
again cycle into a heavily urban scenario
being the tourist of faces and all manner
of the locals' mannerisms:
i said to myself... Essex county is open...
the trees the diluted traffic... all that fresh air...
but not exactly Belgium: flat...
such contemplations when you find
a pseudo-Nirvana of the third take of
emptying yourself into the throne-of-thrones
because... you put a quasi-hibernation
plug in your ******* for the day
and now the bowels strike back with
a build-up to a crescendo of: unplugging...
the usual suspect of bits & bobs...
  that allows you to suppose you've
been emptied but... ooh... oh...
the crescendo proper...
                      custard pie... of ****...
thank god for all the stealth work...
the pipes... the sewage treatment plants...

(ii) change of focus

i always had an invitation toward a monk's life...
ever since visiting Taizé...
the Teutonic Order had a brothel in their
monks' citadel at Marienburg...
a break from a 4 year dry run...
perhaps the end of a year of grief having
buried a friend of mine:
fishing, cycling / reading buddy...
someone to watch the Vierschanzentournee
come Christmas and New Year...
someone to listen to on a dementia loop
as if: no... the memory bank wasn't broken...
it was on a repeat that
asked the question:
is this a drowning man...
               clinging to a razor?
once old ages enter the fore...

it was all pristine in my head: i almost chuckled...
now coming to the canvas i can see it's going
to be a hard-won effort:
mini-digressions is my best attempt
to keep this afloat... even though it's sinking
like a hard-earned stone of mass...

sometimes drinking has a taste.... esp. in the variation
of kalimotxo... with a red Marlboro:
like it's the taste synonymous with a
first kiss... both of you are slobbering teenager
all to ready to precursor either *******
of glugging down oysters / eating fleshy
flowers... tongues to eager...
an ode to the mosquito legion owner/ vampire goat...

(iii) words come across as shortcomings
  
i don't have enough patronage money to begin
painting... a photograph will have to do...
i remember this room, this same brothel...
there were two mirrors on the wall...
i'll bring her a copy of my book of poetry
and i'll ask her if i can take a photograph
of her face... for the love of Rousseau's
heart for a god... beside the argument: i need to photograph
her in a variation of the antithesis of the self-portrait...
i'm already saving up for the hour...
perhaps she will say no...
but i don't want a ****...
nor a picture of my phallus in her mouth...
i need contortions using the two mirrors...
words have become the weapons of gods
and gagging orders of men...
Khadaj'ah...
              something has to arrive sooner:
i'm breathtakingly agonised by my own: coils...

cauliflower - ALUMINITE - alias
of brain tissue folds...
           Al₂(SO₄)(OH)₄ . 7H₂O...
well... if it isn't me looking at paintings...
or naked bodies of prostitutes...
it's me looking at minerals
and their chemical formulas...

all that's quartz SiO₂...
most notably the amethyst... iron stained quartz...
jasper... petrified wood quartz...
onyx quartz... agate...

or... VANADINITE
   Pb₅(VO₄)₃Cl....

now... if i were drinking a second bottle of wine
to calm the already frantic nerves
at the prospect of the next encounter
all school-boyish...
and owned a dog... he might bark at me...
a feline presence is more welcome:
joke of my curing insomnia and "insomnia"
with this here wine...
fern of a creature... always disappears
into the dream world...
who asks for a leash or a muzzle
or walkers in the presence of a cat:
a time least spent: certainly not wasted:
that cats decided to sleep more than
actually waste their time with being:
conscious...
not somehow a waste of time:
like the waste of time modern man has
become: seeking refuge in "reverse-psychology":
duped by the undercurrent of
the crucifix of the subconscious...

the holy Freudian trinity... the sacred secular
trinity of the: consciousness:
the son... subconscious: the holy spirit...
the collectively shackled premature
*******... pre-suppositional heap of dung...
the father: shackled... proper:
in the unconscious...
if asked: about time to raise the father:
to unearth him... "him": who is my father?
shy-titan... you already know the score...

it excites me more and more with the prospect
of writing these words
and coming back with a photograph of the
*******...
dizzying heights of the grave of gravity
in that's how my body: hollows out
futures... and tendencies of a list of todays...
if only i had enough and of having enough
i would become bored:
perhaps i could become an ageing lecher...
but since i'm gagging for the least:
of the last... i'll be keeping up the spirit of mute:
sometimes teasing onomatopoeias during
*******... i want to take a selfie of
her using at least two mirrors...

i want to take two photographs...
my mind is burning from the mere thought...
clear the fog...
thank god no genetic details of mine
will be passed on...
i couldn't shackle myself to the responsibility
of children...
call it immature:
a delinquency... i will call it what it has been
for almost... "forever"...
share my responsibility in the coming
onslaught...
           if i'm feeling it... what's to suppose there's
no build-up of a greater tide...

i've made satire of the "diet"...
fuckless for years...
but come the opportune moment when i wake
up and take to a feeding:
i find her...
       juiced up from the cradle of my
unsatisfied longing...
can a woman tell a man hasn't touched
his antonym in so long
as to also not have: some... pillow-talk ref.
to combat that carnal Kandinsky-build up moment?

wine! wine! more wine!
words are staggering when picture would
better suffice to encapsulate these sensations...
for those that have had enough:
retreat into kink... gimp suits and all that's latex...
for those that haven't had enough:
retreat into mirrors...
    revising slits of katakana-niqab rereading...
some depeche mode doesn't hinder...
and one: either...

        oh sure: reimagine...
it's a feverish writing of a man who desires all that
might invoke the zenith of a shared
patience with each other:
for the worth of an hour's worth...
after the hour's done...
there's no companionship...
there are no shared stories...
we return to the shadow: we return to the grave...
the foetus is cut from the womb
from the umbilical chord...
the hour's enough...

i return to my: steinherz...
she returns to her: dachboden-frivolfotze-eskapaden...
i'm glad other people can:
cut-the-mustard... and... reproduce...
if i don't die by my own hands
aiming at the pulse...
alone in a hospital ward eyeing up nurse
with one of these octopi purely pupil eyes
of rage... i never...
it will be a private affair:
no one will interrupt the world
of people having their conversations:
i'll keep in mind the congregation
of crows:
i'll keep the crow forever in my mind...

(iv) body needs to be under 5K

can you believe me that i acknowledge all that you have written with... how can i escape verbiage...  oh wait... i was hoping your wouldn't spiral out of control with a bunch of defence mechanisms: easily-offended etc. you are... a breath of fresh air... truly... comparison? even though you sent me your picture... it's in the back of my mind... i don't remember it: i'm still focused on the avatar you presented... and... oddly enough: you are starting to resemble Harley Quinn... sipping that espresso while reading a romance novel while the whole world around her: is ablaze... let's forget the the buzzwords i picked up... they're not important... they're not important if we have allowed ourselves to synchronise ourselves on other points of interest... i can be excused leaving some time between reply, though, no? you still are a pen-pal who's sharing her passion for teaching... it's never personal... it might become personal if i pressure you with imitating my punctuation, or, for that matter: some grammatical idiosyncrasy... the red roses: roses are red... n'ah... bad example... not off the top of my head (scalp included) to make a point... i agree... we're two people toying with imitation ping-pong... next subject matter... ah... oh... casual ***... paid for or... somehow... spontaneously... given?  i already have an answer in my head: from experience... i was reading the sunday times magazine last weekend... dating apps... i know they came about circa 2012... apparently there was this great revolution of people seeking & finding casual ***... i was still into my psychotic trip without the use of hallucinogenic juice... "fear of god"? ha ha... i've just heard that dating apps were a breakthrough in how people made themselves available... casual ***... me visiting a brothel probably itches the thought: where *** is so freely available... but there's someone out there... still willing to use cables... when everyone else is using wireless WIFI... notably for headphones... i still buy vinyl and CD to "translate" the music to MP3... you're asking what casual *** is: akin to? you want me to describe what it feels like? it probably feels like any form of intimacy that one subscribes to within the "confines" (parameters) of long-term relationship expectations... although more concentrated... esp. if you haven't had a chance to be intimate with someone... my last diet lasted for 4 years... extended by a year since i was grieving for my grandfather's death... i was grooming my pet cat and she... decided to agitate me... not cognitively: primordially: therefore sexually... i'm not into this whole trans-sexuality... but what i was agitated by was a trans-species probe... i had to find resolve and exercise against a canvas of a woman... "against": to match-up to... to compliment... i found that in order to have casual ***: one must be unusually restrained for the whole affair to become: passable: casual... you can't bring your firsty laundry... your most inhibited frailty to the fore... a most assured contraint is to never invoke words during *******... at best: vowels... with a pinch of consonant: i call it the vowel-catcher "principle": what could be shouted as A... becomes a softly oozed out Ah from mouth to mouth... you chose the subject matter: blah! politics... whatever faction we supposedly belong to: there's always that citizen of the world: the universal man nibble... isn't there? would you want me to tell you what you might be missing in the arena of casual ***? i couldn't tell you... since i haven't used any of the modern short-cuts of the hook-up culture "dating" bonanza... i'm an outdated model when it comes to ***... if it happens... casually... proper... once or twice... there was this... no... i won't go into the details... it was my birthday and i mixed her a decent cocktail and.... well... the pistons... the grease.. whatever metphor you like... then there was this Thai-surprise... she was supposedly a lesbian... later a bisexual... i took her home and played her some Kind of Blue... it's not like jazz is cheap... am i still... sounding a bit crass: "objectifying" as a way of making shortcuts? isn't it? *** without having children? it must be... esp. if you have long spells of not doing what most urban folk seem to be having all the time: unless they're merely boasting about having: smoke & mirrors... i'd allow my head to be chopped off and turn into an urban myth surrounding a cockroach if i could have more of it... the urban myth of the cockroach? apparently if you decapitate a cockroach... it keeps on living: a zombie torso... finally dying after two weeks from... hunger... since... the ****** obvious... it has no head to ingest food with! - how odd... i thought i had something original to write tonight... i started scribbling then lasted long enough to find myself writing too poorly, so i resorted to read my inbox messages... i am more willing to leave you with a reply than have to masquerade with some "originality"... you asked me: or at least insinuated about casual ***...what's your take on *******? i ask the question while listening to the cure: short term effect from the album: *******... i'll hardly make this a light-hearted question... i don't even think it might be categorized as a question: hasn't ******* / rather the spread of it... become ominous? i still remember the ****** of shame with colour in my cheeks when i would buy: a magazine short of sinister... a woman's naked body: if not celebrated.... sure... i'll be the one jerking off to a revision of the **** via cubism... the face will not be a sorting out process of a nightmare...  if ever i watch a pornographic movie: it will be done via turning the sound off... whatever a woman is concerned i like to see a potential: i don't like to see something to imitate... come to think of it: i don't think i've asked a question: if i wanted some clarity... i would be gagging for it... no wonder we moved away from politics and onto such "pressing" matters as to why: so many of us are not getting enough of "it"... no? whether we have children or we don't have children: i've seen it for my very own eyes: having children doesn't allow you to savour certain guarantees:  my maternal grandfather ought to have been surrounded by his loved ones... his grandson (moi) and his daughter... (my mother)... what came about? a "conspiracy" between his wife (my grandmother)... and his son (my uncle)... so he died... alone... in a hospice... last time i checked in never wanted to have *** beyond the gratifications bound to the "casual":... i want the puddle experience when other people might stress: there's the sea! there's the sea!
you probably acknowledged a truth that wasn't a question before someone who... wouldn't want you to find seeking said experience as something... necessarily... equally shared by one and all... it won't be... i've had my moments of raging against the night having spent a paid hour with nothing more than kisses... caresses and a limp phallus... come to think of it: i don't think *** is ever "casual":  it might be for sociopaths... sociopaths who "think" that stealing apples from a grocery stall is synonymous with buying them...  by casual i'm implying: it's better that there's a transactional transparency invoked: someone is getting more than the other... the party involved with thirst is thirsty... the party selling water: eh... a metaphorical muddle by now...  while you're wondering why casual *** is like... i'm wondering what... fatherhood is... it's a nice compliment of agitations... what wouldn't i do with fatherhood: well... what wouldn't i... keep 3am a time worth staying awake for... so that i might sccribble some words down...

(v) comment section

commented on Mr *******s Integrity

- it must be a fairies' tail...no? at least en engaged cat telling with waggling to joke at the dogs' investment in: the currency of leash / muzzle? good to know that you remember Mr. Schmidt... i'mm somehow sure he wouldn't be content with anyone else remembering him... lessons seem to have been learned... and all the best of him: kept, since you allowed him to be: so graced.

- One thing I’m sure of is only a twisted A-hole would make a comment like this but at least thanks for reading this and these were real people.

- i'm the twisted A-hole and you're the "dear Jesus"... crux-sucker? fair enough... love's a temple... however you want it: on your knees... hey! your take on the best dangling of doodling fancy. no problem... i'm no homophobe.

seems to me... people lack all the entertainmet
when it comes to nuancing language...
they can digest jokes...
they can doodle around with crosswords...
but... when it comes to...
hell: if they're not going to bother...
why the **** ought, i?!
too many movies: too many books unread...
a barrage of art has left everyone
yet to feed into the feels of:
the end of the 20th century: romance.

yeah we're getting drunk at four in the afternoon
we don't have anywhere to drive to.
we have no class
no responsibility
my city's filthy
I live in the art district
nobody else anywhere else in the world can say that
Richmond knows how to lay it down
how to make the children feel invincible
how to make the women feel like super models
and the men like long lost kings
don't like my poems?
that's fine
we flow to a different drum beat
yeah we are a bunch of
PBR swilling hipsters in our non corrective lenses
but we know how humanity dances back and forth
like the flickering of candle light
and I've never felt out of place here
only just as weird as everybody else
we are pathological liars and sociopaths
our apathy is only matched by our endless empathy
My Mum thinks I am a hell of a writer
endless support
but the anonymity never ends
a scroll from God to lead us to death
and the transvestites are polite enough
boy you smell ****\
they blurt out as I walk past in a cloud of old spice
the art school chicks make me feel validated
when I find myself sneaking out of their houses in the morning's yawn
come to Richmond if you want a good time
if you're fake you'll make it
but if you're bitter and jaded
you might pass out of interest
like cartoons to a 15 year old
I could talk **** on this city all night
but truth be told
I love what I hate
and truth withheld
don't tell my English friends
that my heart beats
solely for that
RVA-lution

We were both huddled together,
cuddled up on the love seat.
We were sharing some primary source of joy,
the title I can't recall now,
when she let out a frail sigh
and said
"you know, I don't really give a **** about being remembered,
I'd rather just be read now, at face value, and left at that."
Her admission was inspiring.



Faking headaches
and skipping class
to go back to my house,
everyone thought we were sociopaths but
we were just lonely.
To say she understood me
is an understatement.


After we put the book down
she insisted that a good kiss
should be vaccuous
and I said I didn't get it,
that's when she put her lips to mine
and enlightened me.

Like her bar of soap,
but dirtier,
I was bent on the curves of her body.