suicide,
not very scary, right?
s.u.i.c.i.d.e.
just a bunch of letters,
why are you scared of spitting them out?
are you cared itt will jinx you?
dont worry,
i am as jinxed as the terrifying word,
i will **** the life out of you,
leave you helpless, waiting for your time,
it feels like its never coming,
and you feel a deep longing to me,
sso you decide to step closer,
youre on the edge now,
you look down,
you see me at your feet,
you smile,
with tears falling towards me,
i smile back,
telling you to jump in my welcoming arms,
you listen,
then i turn my arms into claws,
my smile into sharp teeth,
i swallow you with ur terror,
and i deliver you my jinx,
hell.

Just friends.
I don't really grasp the understanding of how you can simply place a heart on a pedestal and never look at it again.
Never mind the dust it may collect or the possibility of malfunction from not being used in so long--that is not the point;
that heart belonged to someone--me.
I stood in front of you, bearing my all, and I told you that I would never walk away no matter what, as long as you carried me with you always.
I would never walk away unless you commanded me
I was your dog, begging for an ounce of love as if it were a shriveled, discarded chunk of pizza crust.  
Truth be told you thought that if you didn't feel the same that you had to pretend so that "I would stay"
"Maybe one day we can be together"
"You are sso special to me"
"I care for you so deeply"
"More than you'll ever know"
"I'm grateful that you are always here for me"
I was always here--until you lied.
Lying to me as you slowly put my heart on a shelf to decay
A heart so ***** and dusty,  who will ever love an unclean heart?  
I loved yours didn't I?
Only now I can't hold on to what was never there, and I have to walk away.
Leave you and your lies to brush up the mess you made,  while I take my heart off the rotting shelf it's sitting on,  get in my car, and drive to an empty restaurant miles away so that I can order a new dish I have never tried,  and start over

thatsh itlitt lepunk


           bitchshe

herfuk


                    inhair's

shortshaved


an

           dfu



    ckshe'


******>


                   'erhandssmall




fit so easily

inmy'andssmall that





fukkinbitsch

punkassshiiit.

If you would know greater love
Throw in great guilt to the fire
For it is in excess of passion that
Which is unlawful that it burns-
Great love is always excessive and
So must in excess be paid back
As has been said who will be the
More grateful he who has been
Forgiven much or he who has a
Little on his conscience?  So the
Rich man becomes the beggar;
The healthy become sick ;youth
Becomes age and life becomes
Death.  All for Love.   To whom
Much is given much will be
Expected but is this the end
Did Job sso end his life?  No
He was restored given back
All in greater abundance than
Before.  Love gives and love
Takes and love gives again
Even from death to life more
Abundant than before.  Gives
All back in excess forever more.
Sinner-lover passionate as life.
You are and always will be.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                        Our SSuper Dooper Ubergruppenpooper

In every generation there rises a toxic SSap
This one wears a SSoviet-red plastic cap
If you obey mindleSSly, SStand, and clap
You too can be hiSS little SStormy trooper

Obey!

Our SSuper Dooper Ubergruppenpooper

Make hiSS perSSonal SSluSSh fundSS great again
He’ll grab you by your wuSSy; ya like it, then?
Now go to jail for him if you’re real men
And SSurrender your SSoul; exiSSt in a SStupor

Obey!

Our SSuper Dooper Ubergruppenpooper

SSo throw away your life for that coSSmic blooper
Our SSuper Dooper Ubergruppenpooper

a demonic silence and calm preserves this place
i call home:
today i was recovering from working
at the AC/DC gig at Wembley: henchman man:
wager man... wagey...
such pivotal hierarchies in the high viz
community outside of the construction industry:
human chess
it would seem: is the end result
of this working dynamic...

                   i'd call it my dream period but it's
more or less my nostalgic impromptu
retrospection thinking of myself writing in my mid-20s
but i really can't see:
in the classical period music was innovative:
it inspired philosophers such as Nietzsche
but these days i can't say: much about music...
it became an art form relegated to the piles
of dung of Beelzebub's ****** archiving of important
matters:
a total messy ******* he is...

            coughed up whiskey into my nose
which was a sobering experience
like a Pakistani girl
telling out in full claustrophobic no personal
space antic of taking a lift
imploring me to stand in front of her
imploring me to smell my skin and my ***
and my love to block out
someone else's bad personal hygiene...
and then i said: well: like nicotine
like caffeine: a whiff of ammonia: a chemical salt
or acid
          someone's poor personal hygiene can
become a stimulant: especially if you add to that
the torrential rain:

but my dry period?
i was young and not boring enough:
so i'd pick up a book and take out a snippet
and work with that:
i suppose i could rehash that youthful distress
by picking up
Ulysses - i don't remember any of it:






                                                      / /

nothing: nothing comes to mind...
         so when music used to be innovative in the infancy
now hardly irrelevant
but AC/DC are not an innovative band
if say: Deep Purple and Led Zeppelin were...
or god forbid someone take up the Q of Pink "barber" Floyd
because that's not Nirvana relevant?

i guess music of the 20th century
might require someone listening to classical and reflecting:

weird antics for the closure of a day
and it's impeding reopening after a nap
circa 8pm through to 12am
in the day made perfect timing to
send off a Taylor Swift t-shirt:
medium... almost a large:
regardless: she wanted to have it scented with me
so i rubbed the early stink from lying
in bed first...
then walked around in it...
then took a shower:
didn't use deodorant (but squeezed some in
when i finished packing the package
to get the plastic smell out...
the air around the item)
i rubbed myself cleaner than mirror versus
the glass
in i guess: if i can remember:
was a honeycomb and macadamia nuts
soap...
          then i washed my hair with Argan oil
infusion...
and beard too: ah: maybe the shampoo was
the macadamia nuts infusion
and the soap was just the honeycomb infusion...

but no deodorant on the body:
just into the back...

friendship bands
and me playing with my mother's makeup drawer
while writing her a letter
some little nothing something perhaps sweet
and to think i'm suited to a Christian girl
and i'm supposedly this Catholic
which is supposedly a novelty in America
like J.F.K was a novel Catholic
in the land of Protests and hyper-inflated individualism
that's so fake it beggars-belief...

Soup, joint and sweet. Never know whose
thoughts you're chewing. Then who'd wash up
all the plates and forks? Might be all feeding on
tabloids that time. Teeth getting worse and worse.

J. J. Ulysses page 217 reprinted Penguin classic 2000

as i said: innovative: music once was
no longer so and
it's a shame that those who wrote music are
more alive than some people
who are alive and haven't been gifted with
much: but as in that Dead Can Dance song
about great men:
Solomon, Caesar, Socrates... and there is a third:
how fortunate the man with none...
how fortunate that no one should remember

but even then what's that to life: expected...
if anything: a kind surprise to an otherwise unwarranted
***** of the hope...
some higher demand the everyday expectation
to the materialistic grit (spoken like a true
teenager)...
but just so: my riches are in books and in music
records:
at least one painting of my own:
a sitter in Grey
by Candlelight...
a sword from the forest i called my Cossack
SHASHKA...
              
           just a breaking of a night within night
to tip over the scales of time from day x
to day y
                      by nocturnal musings:
    having signed the Last Will of my parents
i am now the inheritor de facto
of this house and garden:
it's almost comical when
Joe stood before me at cordon 6
wearing a Quadrant Supervisor bib and
almost gesticulating at:
well: why haven't you been promoted?
well: who gives a ****
it's a wash-a-hand-hand-washing-hand
not nepotism but quasi-nepotism
of the family breakdown and making new friends
in the playground
so children are growing up my lord
but the elementary
and the pedagogy remains the same:
perhaps if with children you can pretend
to be an adult with responsibilities
when when in psychiatry you pretend to be a god
because that's not me saying:
Prometheus my Guide:
but at least you have to pretend to be a god
since god is so abstract
and that's what people required other people to
become: in just the verb and noun orientation
of this delicate ballet...
not by any stretch of imagining grandiosity
not in any way profound
there's the nearing of the bad grammar god
and his fetish is pronouns
and being a Dyslexic his favorite demonic ****
is at the pulpit of a pseudo-Protestant
i.e. Protestantism against itself:
dying off without a Catholic antagonist since that
path deviated and found root
in the life now enjoyed by the Spanish, French,
Italians, Pollacks...

                         i could mention the Irish but is there
a point of mentioning the Irish as Catholics
and not simply as the Irish:
the sublime masochists... which the Pollacks can't be
but what's horrible about us is
a Catholic Work Ethos that we don't share
with anyone: beside the Irish: in that span of rubric:

Spanish
French
Italians
Porto-Geese (easier, i'm not going to spell it correctly)...

ah... jeez: what a Chopin's nocturnes sort of
night:
it's blessedly raining outside and it feels like
the proper July:
did i forget to mention that there's a lesson
in geography to be had, right about now?

it bothered me: the English mentality
concerning Eastern Europe:
Poland is Central Europe with Germany
you ******* PLEB...
deafness and more deafness: no intellectual music
no conversation:
just innocent bystanders: collateral ditto virus...
geography bothered me in the lexicon:
is that common speech of man? hmm:
gonna get myself a Jane Austen tattoo...
not on my skin: but on the silk
bothered by the wind
itching inside my mind like no other caged ego
to thought or being:
just ego-nothing
beside what is already available
with i-think and i'm-not: i-am...

                           familialism: something
borrowed from Anti-Oedipus: i don't understand
the French intellect so well:
please can i gravitate towards German High Intellect
with some dabbing in Scandinavian:
everyday-ism?

   the French have a freakish morbid intellect
bent on destruction and painting with language:
i don't want to paint when i write...
i want to abstract: find solutions:
complications:
impasses...
              facts: i don't want to find bad grammar
and a chemistry lab
of boorish wordings overtly hyphenated into
compounds like di-hydroxy-carbonate blah blah...

who is the real psychotic?
i have no knowledge of a Spanish intellect...
Italian maybe with Machiavelli but
that's irrelevant:
Giuseppe Belli:     (o.k. **** me, shoot me
my youth was greatly invoked to age beyond
my peers because of Dante: *******
and yeah yeah ******* twice
because i had Horace and Ovid in my life)

inzomma, da la predica de jjeri,
ggira che tt'ariggira, in concrusione
venissimo a ccapi cche sso mmisteri...

      just look how Latin devolved...
to sign language and spitting
and eyes darting and foundations
like Rome and the Italians is an observational
view point of a mountain range
some weirdly anthropological
no people discovered or conquered
so aboriginal blah
i mean: just looking at the language
that's Italian: that used to be Latin:
it's a bit like looking at the Polynesians
originally from Taiwan:
perhaps they didn't gain height
rowing all that time no sight of horses
but they bulked up
and i can see something Oriental about
them with the exception of their tailoring
to a darker color of skin: complexion...

bad Latin to come:

in brevi, et ex sermon nos accepit
summa summarum,
                          idiom: say how it is... to:
            obtusis-lingua-acuere:
blunt tongue sharpening...
               videtur: mysterium est mysterium...

perhaps that's the non-authoritative
variation on Latin:
certainly not Italian: or what happened
when Germanic blood of the Lombard
achieved the fold to the Razor and Papacy:
the Pope a Drowning Man...

that lesson in geography:
well... whenever listening to a meteorological
dial-up
with a person in the luminary of a quasi-fire
that's the t.v. screen:
believe me in 100 years what will
the t.v. beside a fireplace
a radio and then what will internet access be

i'm listening to my favorite nocturne:
i've currently digested:
47 minutes:

nocturne in B♭minor op 9 no 1
     "         "   " minor op 9 no 2
and the list goes on and on
but i'm too lazy to type each song out...
but it would look pretty:
i gather there's that aesthetic concern
and if i wanted to spend years
on art
i'd become a grave sculptor...
not some celebrated Rodin bound
to the museum:
CENTAUR and the Urmahlullu...

in some there's this tease toward anticipating
Wagner's Das Reihngold: the entry
of the gods into Valhalla:

         like we all know the play on Les Mars

♯C
#****

       ah! subliminal! HELMHOLTZ! HELMHOLTZ!
just like
Les Marseillas... apparently a right wing
revival, non?
but instead a Fringe Red seeking majority?
i did say: Serenity Red:
not simply - but the left was becoming
constipated communicative-ly: all lively...

number: first: 1812:
ah yes: Tchaikovsky and the Polish Plumbers
Orchestra...
some Dostojnie: Igrzyska:
  
               geography!
England is part of Scandinavia!
England: Scotland:
Ireland:
this is not Western Europe!
this is Scandinavian Territory!
if Poland is Eastern Europe:
collectively...
blah Ukraine blah Czechia
blah Lithuania and not Russia
blah Romania
and blah some more maybe even Greek
and Turkish:
forget Serbia Croat

but England is Scandinavia:
it's not WESTERN EUROPE:
what is western Europe but an Atlantis
figment of the imagination
if Germany is Central Europe
and Poland too
have to look at the planet from sunrise
have to rotate the planet into
vertigo mode horizontal....
not some meteorological Chinese script
the westerners read weather
at X Greenwich
and Y equator: Kenya:
Z? the winds and casual tornadoes?

  England is Scandinavia
in temperament and feels:
                   it's not Western Europe:
there never was: beside
as the bad apple export to America...
Scandi to the north
while the also northern bunch
finding recliners and cheaper weather:
the Goths via the Spaniards
and the Berbers
toward Argentina...

               then again to a waltz:
still a nocturne waltz...

                       but that piece with
the reverbretating insinuation of the piano
working as a bass guitar...
not the waltz no 7 in c (sharp) minor
op 64,2

                absolved from the hierarchy of cultures:
that Germany transliterated
away from a superiority complex
of ethnocentrism of white via white versus:
such heightened exploration dynamic:
peace to mind: a piece of:
the langui: a **** in boots and a freakish:
i don't event want to remember
dreams...

         if no longer ethnocentric then cocktails
in Berlin with a hyper-inflation
of race mixing like
it couldn't be a sand story:
this new Dune
not a desert
but a "jungle" of Concrete:
this Nedu:
        planet of sand without wind
this concrete grey
this fudge packing:
this also glass and mirror and mannequin...
this planet we live on
i give a name:

           Nedu.
        formerly called Earth:
              Nē̆dû has spoken and spoke at its
crux of nadir: thus.

I was seven going on to eight
aside from the occasional biscuit
taken from the cookie jar I knew nothing
about stealing

At my Convent school
all the Teachers were nuns
gleaming and whiter than white
told us a lot about Jesus and all he did
for all of us

One day before lunch break
Mother Superior who was the Headmistress
walked into our classroom with a young girl in tow
around her neck was hung a banner 'I am a Thief' it read

That young girl looked so ashamed
tears raining down her eyes, she shook & reddened
we were asked to boo her as Mother Superior called her bad
she had taken what did not belong to her and stealing is wrong
we booed as she was marched to all the other classes to be shamed

I knew from that moment
without a shadow of doubt I would never steal a thing
and will always stick to the straight and narrow and do right
looking back  it was a cruel and mean thing to do but what a lesson

I still see that poor crying child
still feel her shame & the boos & jeers of us others
worse was the public humiliation & playground taunts thereafter
that poor child never lived it down & a year after left the school

It traumatized her and me also I suppose
for I  make sure at all cost never to steal or take whats not mine
so imagine how I feel when thieves burgle me & then unashamedly
turn the tables round and try & make me the subject of humiliation

I have done nothing wrong so stand in truth
each and everyone in their camp is that poor fearful little girl
scared witless, desperate, ashamed, lonely, humiliated & disgraced
never to feel comfortable and accepted among-st peers again

I can see why these disgraced thieves and racist rogues
are sso desperately projecting all their fears and angst at me
angry, humiliated, in deep fear they need to blacken and destroy
these disgraced children with the banner round their necks
" I AM A THIEF" yes and they wear it in their minds for ever...........