The God of War sat upon his throne
In a wing of the Olympus palace
Under the sun his bloodied-eyes shone
Setting atremble his servants, Discord and Malice.

The wars below, as he viewed
Were hard fought and stalemates, it seemed
He sighed and spat, quite bemused
Why could no winner be deemed?

His bed of flesh from enemies gone
He rested within its dermal folds
The howl of the dying, singing its song
As Apollo’s chariot grew far and cold.

The roaring clamor of vicious scandal
Woke him from a bloodlight dream
And he looked below at victim and vandal
Appalled at the disastrous scene.

And Now, with Eos rise to morn
As the dew mixed with blood and sweat
Discord arrived to comfort her lord
Her company he did not regret.

“You have seen my battles
Look now below and explain
Mankind has become brainless as cattle
Look how they are, vile and maimed,”

“Milord, I see,” she spoke with grace
And her eyes did glint with fire
“Perhaps if you showed another face
The battle would be what you desire.”

And though her words were softly spoken
The answer they did present
And Great God Mars felt, at once, heartbroken
A message had to be sent.

Mercury, the winged messenger
With winged sandals and helmet
Arrived to be the harbinger
And was told to fly beyond the sunset.

“Beyond the sun and stars
There is a palace where a woman sits
Tell her that our Lord, God Mars
Invites her here, if she permits.”

Discord and Malice saw him off
And sweet Hermes, how he did fly
For the sound of war was not far-off
And nightly he heard people die.

The palace beyond the heavenly sky
Was one of silky web and silver
And within its courtyards did lie
A splendid woman that made him quiver.

This woman was Lady Nike
The very Goddess of Victory
Sister to Strength, Force and Rivalry
Who had fought the Titans in day old Glory.

The fair-ankled Nike heard the message
And smiled a fair, rosey smile
“Tell your lord that if he has the courage
to come and woo me here in my exile.”

When Ares heard this, he maddened with rage
and tore through Olympus with sword
and threw rocks down on the world stage
and sent hiding the servants, Malice and Discord.

Soon after saw Mars chariot race
Flying twice the pace of the sun
passing Mycenae and Athens face
to where the wooing would be done.

Aphrodite flew at his side
“God of War you’ll need  Beauty to aid
in wooing the Victory that hides away.”
The God of War grew weary and sore
and by the time he arrived at Nike’s door
his mood had taken a turn for the worse
and he muttered colorful curse.

Lady Nike was patiently waiting
For Victory is always calm
Her soft white dress billowing, baiting
An almond blossom in her palm.

At first Ares was rough and coarse
And Aphrodite grew red in the face
Seizing the reins, she stole his horse
While Nike kept him engaged.

The Goddess of Victory never made answer
Her voice quietly humming to the bloom
And though Ares voice cut like a cleaver
She paid it no heed, fearing no doom.

Ares grew tired and finally rested
Beneath her feet as she sat on the wall
Victory obviously had him bested
This had been a fruitless call.

Finally, Nike climbed down to join him
Her dark hair loosed from its plates
And in the dawns coming, the darkness dimmed
And she motioned beyond her gates.

The battle below was louder still here
And Nike gave him a glance and frowned
“Every night I listen and shed my tears
for no victory can be achieved on this ground.”

At hearing her voice and seeing some hope
Ares let a rough smile play on his lips
Finally she was going to put things in scope
But rather, she moved and gave him a kiss.

“Lie with me and perhaps...”and silence then
Ares agreed and the two made a retreat
And there, in her palace, deep within
Blazed a terrible and passionate heat.

When Ares awoke in the middle of the next day
He found Nike gone from her home
Cold and angry he rose, intent to be on his way
but Goddess Aphrodite had left him stranded, alone.

But then he heard the softest sigh
the sound of a babies voice
and stealing to the sea, there Nike lie
holding the prize of his choice.

Within her arms was the smallest of creations
A child so pale, so weak it might barely survive
But there was Nike, crowning it with starry carnations
Sure, it seemed, that the babe would stay alive.

“This is my daughter and yours”
said Nike of this newborn miracle
And slowly stepped forward the God Mars
And took the child, his rough hands careful.

“Her name is Ireni, Goddess of Peace
she will bring calm to the wars below
and be the most coveted in all of Greece
hair dark eyes brilliant, skin as snow.”

Nike smiled her wise smile and stood
Holding Ireni as gentle and kind as the child
A silence spread under evenings hood
the ****** scene turned serene and mild.

And though Victory was not claimed
The battles ended for the stress and fear
And from nights cloak, Ireni’s tears rained
wiping the blood and sweat and violence clear.

And peace remained upon the land
Until the great War of Troy
When Aphrodite and Zeus would play their hand
With fair Helen their devious ploy....

Although flummoxed by the gabble of hibernaculum I seethe with the verdant quiddity that is a cross-pollination that spans the gamut of historical memory and owns the usucaption of infrastructure equipping our bootstrapped capacities of literacy tethered to the ecumenical capacity for proliferation through amplified discernment that percolates at decorative gallop into the stridor of unified apothegms that quantify the visibilia of the broadened universe into the nexility of formula bounded by the parameters that equip synergies of space-time to envelope its own reification and magnetize urbane freebooters of coalescence to grapple with the ineffable mathematics of absorbed losses in the human fraternity becoming overlooked because of the providence of shepherded acrimony to escape the oblivion of barely marginal exponential extinctions of impropriety into fast-paced panoramas of expedited dalliance with optimums constrained by the effluvia of hinderbaggle which exist only by domineering mercurial lability of manufacture enabled by the siphon of Promethean reason to catapult the slogmarch of advancement by punctuated achievements registered by canonical gravitas to revolutionize society in longevity and interplanetary awareness that places a 1000:1 premium on a 165 IQ in comparison to a 110 IQ. Although bewildered by the beaucoup of raxed originality the anoegenetic flux of slogan achieves but a petty solidarity in comparison to the galvanized bronteum of registered invention that provides decisively seminal locomotive prowess to the foisons of promulgated ingenuity propped up by the capacity for raltention that exceeds the inherent longevity of humans on Earth into the permanence of memory to achieve radical vanguard frontiers within diminishing frames of a once vapid time recorded only through the lens of finicky preoccupations of crude retention rather than the kinship of the perceptive unity of the authors who remarked on history to share the same vantage with the distant onlookers upon that very history with such a convergence of judgments the photons that trespassed on inquisitive eyes of inquierendo are the very same blueprint for the modern savory traipse with selfsame perceptions embedded in canonical history like the spool of an exact daydream unfurled before inoculated eyes differentiated by context but achieving the same visual footprint of historical lineament provided by the original exemplar. The luxury of our provisional prosperity is the unique ability to browse spontaneously a two-century travail of perceptible records embedded in the same perceptual rudiments captured by the original vetuda thereby enabling the specificity of prowess to vicariously encounter distant gulfs of time with the simultaneous realization of past becoming present tense because beyond the revisionism of the censors the human lineage originates in approximated design tethered to the aboriginal photographs and hallmark expenditures of celluloid digitized into annealed constellation to provide separate junctures in space time with the same indelible percept decontextualized but potent by showcase of the verdure of the generosity of shared perception rather than cleaved faint traces of divergent imagination conceiving junctures by distal lurches of insular harbors of private registries of tact and discretion without the shared raltention of the plevisable entities that populate the fragmented lineage of space-time to achieve full congruence in percept first and abstract eventually as neuroscience slogmarches with the nockerslug of invidious depredation of sanctanimity. Adrift in iconoduly sustained by lambent monasticism of abnegation we were lost widows of insular idiosyncrasies of similar concepts separated by the longevity of imagination redacted into communicable formula to ensure the divergence of impact of liturgies heterodyne by vast distances but linked to archaic designs that formed the paradigms which eventually merged with the wiseacres of Renaissance conserved in momentum over centuries into the information capital that forms the futtocks of the girdle of a womb matrix of society sustained by a newfangled uniformity of exposure that slowly churns the collectivism of memory and the syndication of the cartel into the ubiquity of prominent thorns of perception magnified by iconography of the megalography of historical permanence evasive of censors and embracing the entelechy of coherent perceptions siphoned by different engineers but arriving at precisely the same conceptual imprint thereby unifying the perceptual world with the usucaption of leveraged networking of browsers of antiquity. The finesse of leapfrogs of modern human impediment is to scour the reaches of the troves of the most vivid imagination and expedite the turnstiles of conserved rollercoasters of enthusiasm probed by the cadasters capable of castophrenia to syndicalize the autonomy of human perception sejungible from indelible vivid footprints of abstraction upon an interface of truly hard-won vehicles of transmissible abstraction to win the arduous relish of once a vacuum of infested instinct into an algorithm of an intelligent source that creates the precise conditions of parallax to seed through celestial hosts the flourishes of stereodimensional traces of permanent cadaster into something that elects beyond the ethereal snatches of oblivion the provisional apportionment of sentiment above continence to set ablaze the rarefaction of raltention and quantify the intelligible impact of one artifact of civilization over the constellated taxonomy of all apothegms within the divine grasp of a sublunary eternity revived and recycled into syndicated scrutiny that bows to a convergent entelechy of instantaneous improvisation of perdurable registry into indemnities that litigate the humorous quizzical trangams of vastly outmoded obsolescence borrowing from panspermatism of technocracy to the edgy appeal of scintillating horizons of peerless scope that approximate the ommateum of approximated omniety but never span far enough for the distant riometers to see for deputized galaxies to be evoked in concrete human-alien achievements sempervirent and virulent guardians of the toil of sensation to refract off of its overhang because of redundant upbringing to shelve the incendiary impediments of the chary into the corsairs of revelation beyond gamuts of lurch and bypassing elapsed regress to arrive at ceremonial progress to trespass upon many minds with a unified concrete hypostasized entelechy of a fielded incorporation of organic life into a manufactured cycle of the most prolonged and beatific longevity capable of digestion and implementation from the toolsheds of hubris accelerated by the vainglory of subsidized harmonies that break through the barriers of language to sprout convergence in direct opposition to entropy to achieve oculate ommateum.The opponents to the logical syndicalism of positivism emergent as the verdant drape of homogenized pasteurization of raw lavaderos that capsize swallock and devour consciousness with predatory mobilism is the tregounce of the ponderous imprints of recapitulated stupidity which is easy to quantify in terms of human rarity because the difference between a 130 IQ and a 155 IQ is a difference in ingenuity power than exceeds 25:1 or an even higher margin of liquidation of indebted concatenations forming the flombricks of capitalized language finessed into burgeoned growth to radically shift postulates into abstract precision that observes the flanges of the dominion of inculcation into the filibusters of gainsay that supersedes hearsay in an evolution of the dialectic to exert transformative esemplastic rejuvenation that transcends creed and ingeminates the festivity of spectacle with the alvantage of albenture to such an extent it predicates new modalities of persiflage grounded on the aggressive patented expansion of the noosphere to inherit the instincts of orthobiosis while simultaneously inheriting the flair of redoubled ingenuity swarming with the vespiaries of predatory discretion working to ***** out glaring beacons of sapience so that intellectual capital is a local rather than ubiquitous emergence because of the prizes of urbacity enhanced by systems of masonic creed that preserved foresight with varying degrees of exactitude knowledgeable about outcomes but incidental in creating those outcomes out of the alchemy of the convergent sphere of spacetime to curve to synclastic pancratic refinement realized in the taxation of the most domineering figures of canon to indoctrinate the inkburch of wernaggle while the panorama of peripheral obscurity adduced by the resourceful few provides the progeny for a seminal equation that encounters the quandaries of precise retention amplified by the synergies of language exponentially grown by the depth and breadth of lexicon siphoned through mechanisms of percolation seeded by the convergent progeny of hindsight meeting foresight to a truce in the elected interests of the filagersion of the spotlight highlighting a universe that only exists with self-aware reification rather than plodding animated instincts of a stagnant match with a slowpoke evolution that scrawls the gabble of the vacuums of faint oblivion knowing only pain, agony and brief felicity but never registered into ecosystems capable of enriching themselves with artifices of origination rather than vapid retrenchments of the stale vapor of the exigencies that plague the intellectually bereft with tertiary deskandent perfunctory desuetude outstripped by the parsecs of the 170 crowd who secretly orchestrates the think tanks that run the furtive cryptadia of regional governance with foisons of fruition realized as dividends of exponential bypasses of even a linear route of the streamline by warping time itself to a spontaneous entelechy that triangulates a warped trigonometry that fathoms what can only be mapped on an imaginary flickering plane of fluxed existence that achieves sub-Pythagorean travel by altering the vacillating distances predicated by the theory of relativity into shortened tracts of abbreviation separating the bridgewaters of locomotion from the vast lurking prowess of reconfigured geometries lurking beyond the shadowy grave of reconnaissance into the penumbra of conservatory refinement. The punctual symmetries of thermodynamic decay met with a conversant offset in reverse acceleration of thermolysis converge with the centripetal prism of annulment to make stalemates of atomic precision appear grandiose to the economic principle of leverage acquired by debt because the discounted cost of symmetrical approximations of sentiment, abstraction and the already syndicated unity of perception vastly scale the scope of the reach of the amenable universe to tractions bound more by eccentricity of parameterized volumes of competing hyperbolas of a warped unity of tugging forces spawned by the differential weights of a flummoxed calculus that provides obeisance in ecumenical uniformity that was absent by degrees through the tinkers of time to adjust the orbits of consideration by tilted warbles of the songbirds that swim in abysses reaching sizable celestial tutelage providing reprisal for quintessential crudity mapped into a syntax of evolved refinement amplified by conserved concatenation accelerated into mastery by the coalescence of new lexicon to probe conceptual space unchartered by the nexility of normal human conduct and therefore bound to a different pattern of evolution that is oleaginous to the engines of revved ostentation in intellectual prowess that is selfsame from the majesty of heaven because of preordained populace meeting transitory flickerstorms twinged with the irony of discursive disclaimer and discretion of disclosure of emissary vehicles that power synaptic vesicles to burst with signal strength harnessing the unity of conscientiousness into a coenesthesia that fathoms interdisciplinary bridges rarely exacted by the formulas of a more rudimentary mind demarcated in taxonomies of scope that are taxemes for unrealized entelechy bristling against the headwinds of doldrum rather than zephyrs of accelerated approximations of the enumeration of elaborate sveldtang into seminal traversals of the inhibitory grasp of narquiddity exceeded by the alacrity of provident discretion in apportioned judgment enough to parameterize vast distances with instantaneous wiseacres rather than rippled mirrors of faint simulations of simultagnosia bounded by the regional scope of subliminal etches of harnessed flombricks invisible to most aptitude measures of working memory but evocative of subroutines that flourish because of the cross-pollination of exasperated sapience clambering for a perpetuity of renewable raltentions conveyed widely and succinctly in indelible tacenda broached by the wisest sophrosyne inclinations to survive the onslaught of traditional nexilities that make obtuse minds hardened by slowpoke myelination and hidebound parameters of achieved convention recursive on reiteration but not expansive on the tracts of genius reserved for the asylum boundary between insanity of delusion and bountiful riches of harvested non-conventional imagination which sometimes pollutes the integral provenance of rapid conveyance. True transcendence is summarily defined as outpacing pace itself to visibly outfox the forsifamiliation of events perceived as distance sworn by the ability of the accelerated frontier to understand the vestiges of the outmoded to the extent redintegration can surpass with imagination beyond the tethers of quddity that narrowcast swallock but refine the space that distances itself from magnitude and achieves a limited vetuda that phenomenalizes the redacted plucky perjury of self-anonymity to identify a novel visibilia of characterized clarity only specialized to the extent the vast sphere of retention exerts a gravitas over footloose fragments of disunity to surpass the skeumorphs of the trailing bolides of distant comets to avoid by meteoric trajectory the lapse incumbent to E=MC^2 which guarantees implicitly in the barter of nebbich chalky rigmarole that the energy of refinement is an abstraction limited only by the coherence of marginal dumose decay to estrange inertia as plevisable from motion and thermolysis as sejungible in partition what cannot be summarily be filibustered by the succedaneum of shortchanged shorthand convenience of the credulity of those who perceive dynamism of delivery as an easily fudged quandary not restrained by the logarithmic slowdown of conservatory inseminations of panspermatism of invention. The riddle of the enigma of neuroscience that presides over classifiable qualia is that the outstretched rax of rectiserial reorganization must gradatim invoke spurious prestige to predicate the entrapment of narrative exponentially slower than the impregnated literacy of an integral harpsichord of mind to finesse the octaves so that sublime majesties become superlative ringleaders of seditious conventions embedded more by absorptive brocrawlers than expressive werniques. We must fashion an orthobiosis that is leniency embodied but plenitude outnumbered by the progeny of its sculpted riches for extravagant spools of tapestries of refinement to be the imprints of legacy compounded by the complexities of inheritance in lineaments situated in the context of overhanging specters and domineering prospects swimming by commonwealth acatelepsy in a maelstrom of revived gammerstang notions of impetuous apostasy benighted by the macroscian and macrobian spans of the captive capture of a Taylor Series of infinite expenditure assuming perpetuity that necessarily converges on organization because of conscientious reversals of entropy into ladders of betrayal against the hegemony of ******* over the synquests of hortoriginality that spurn the castigations inherited from its immodesty of permutation to fixate on global problems of intricacy ragged in salebrosity bereft of the marginal galvanization of hidden inquirendos into artifice contingent upon elapsed epiphenomena of compounded rigmarole resonant with a simplified system of hostage complicity to a least common denominator that belongs to suboptimal refrains issued by Procrustean forces against demassified parsecs of bounded limitations exceeding the volume of perceptible shadows recessive in the alleles of culture but eventually transmogrified into teetotaler totalitarian principles of grave gravities of tabanids to the aceldamas of territorial joust rather than annealed irony of the recidivism of the plucky thorns of percurrent but latent vehicles for oppression to swamp the lethargy of durative formation such that the hambourne atrocity of hambaskets of hinderbaggle grapple mostly with the adolescent excesses of milked pleonexia becoming the downfall of cagey imprisoned syntax bereft of capable constellation and thereby stranded in vagrant proclivities that net positive only in the rare grandeur of my formative axiom of the axiolative excesses of my recensed definition of transcendence. The vacant harbor of asylum of abiding auctions of flexible transistors of wealth is inherently a poolswap of attractive chocolate-box travestime of incurred wreffalaxity suborning the lewd machination of funneled flipcreeks to the commerstargall of incendiary glaciers basking in boardrooms of ataraxic placations of commiseration found in dynamos lamenting degraded embodiments of regaled regelation as seasonal flictions of submerged vanity vaporizing the wisps of whimsical bloated grievances of paltry imparlance to the defalcation of a filigree of mind only sustained by the steady churlishness of preserved relic hibernating in brocrawler pleonasm to grindole the welter of spates of vapid deceleration of successful vibrancy measured in the gamut of hues to exact a penultimate ruse before the finitude of the capstone of capers of fiat remission slick with glamborge of gallionic sciamachy prone to revelry in the cretaceous extinction of monochromatic mathematicization of gradgrind visagists toying with the treacle of blue-sky action billowed into toxic spurts of contrarian aggression of herculean appendages of hackumber providing the bronteum of recidivism to vanquish a righteous trajectory on a pause of Canada Dry conveniences sultry in daft hipsters of tilted stage grafting conclusion prior to rapport of introduced variables of poignant tethers of necessary succor for a desiccated bastion of hidden unspoken reach fizzling into trangams of obsolescence because of perennial inebriations that thwart strong character to scandalize a pinhoked vessel of conscientious objection to the radiology of centerpiece hapless forlorn arid squelches of the vibrant verdure of macrobian dumose shelter for reformatories that invent incidentally accidents otherwise precluded by the ommateum of wasted foresight guzzled on the premium of disaster for a showcase of verve going awry steamy with livid filagersion aimed with a reluctant enmity against the cagey headwinds of recalcitrance inveterate to the scruples of the otherwise unscrupulous who foist lewd licentious philandered paragons of philogeant mysticism to forefront cowcatchers that eliminate kumbaya rijuice of gridlock impressionism guarded by the sentinels of rambunctious destructive attempts to evict intellectual propriety from careens of subtlety barnstorming with polyacoustic nuances of differential gradients of vapid bastions of strident but backwards versamily froward and bountiful of Head Hunter specters rather than heaved recombinations of orthotropism wed with mangers of savory dilettantism of the lionized array of brooks branching into rivulets and the fluminous barnstorm of pelagic awareness interrupted by the finicky prevarications of piggybacked fair-weather allies who secretly fund the slander for the mainour of dirt fundamental to meteoric rises acclimated to dissipated moral vacuums of disbelief of evidentiary miracles among the jostle of scientific regency that slakes opprobrium to illiteracy while benefiting greatly from my perceived barathrum that is rather a crowning ravenous achievement of appetite above substance and distinction varied from prediction that my Titanic zalkengur spared from the unnecessary sacrilege of less accommodating curglaff to the metaphorical hypothermia of albatross in dramaturgy rather than a pause glowering with mastery against my jarred enemies preying on weakened reach due to preeminent dirges of inkburch and swallock to ravage my sanctity with a hyped stage without a starlet daydream fantasia spectacle that is calculated to upstage even in the coverthrow of intelligentsia against the plodding boweries of pestilential raving resentment absconding with elusive enmity rather than cherishing a true trident champion of the seized seas and the traindeque of emulated intellectual accordions of claptrap chockablock pedigree that outlast gallywow afflictions of rapacious venality tenacious to the detritus of constructive detriment building the ashes of effigy before I am dead and buried with the storge of perennial legacy rather than scandalous privation of the obolary tenets of desecration above reabsorption of mendicant bodges of the bodewash of freedom’s counterstrokes of maskirovka ineradicable and plenipotentiary wit deniable but legacy ineffable by degrees of exponential long-winded flambeaus of filagersion swiveling with recessive rubble in a crenellated fortress guarded with tripwire insubordination against cordslave dependencies liable to recurrent reproach rather than sustainable filigrees of electrified balkanization toxic to the aquifers of modernity streamlining Roman imperium. To this flajoust I owe eternal behest as the captaincy of time is not a perishable whangam of superstition an affront to a provident rejoinder of verifiable prestige because the curvature of time favors the ripple effect of magnetized reninjuble charms alerted to upward soaring skies of inevitable peerless dominion in the  perceived symphily of competing benevolence with a shared stake in Earthly pulchritude emanating a sworn allegiance to the best interests of philosophical enlightenment

i find it quite sad that the only thing stopping me from beng who i wish to be is a certain sequence of numbers.

numbers seem to have more power over people than any god or government-

this world was built-

and will burn-

because of numbers.

bank account statements cause stalemates between myself and my ambitions-

I am chained and restrained by my credit score, cruelly kept from exploring distant shores.

men slay their fellow man without a second thought

for a fat stack of cash and thoughts of what could be bought.

John Lennon imagined a world with nothing to **** or die for
no posessions too

but money is the cruel hand that tears that dream in two.

for as long as the concept of money
is the fire that drives men's hearts to beat

we will never truly see peace,
living at the mercy of the balance sheet.

I might miss the way your muscles flex under my touch, but I will always hold on to the bitterness you left on my tongue.
I recount all our memories to only remember the way I cherished your ferociousness.
My bones have become fragile, I need someone to pack me up and carry me slowly.
You never understood how you opened me up, I was always ready for you to pour yourself into me.
Instead you left a gnawing black hole between my shoulder blades.
Every puff of smoke is another sigh of despair leaving my body.
My chest shattered in your absence and I'm left searching for pieces of my heart in this mess.
Silence is solace, but all I want to do is scream till I can feel a burning in my lungs instead of the one in my chest.
Why did I let myself wade between thick marshes till your talons embedded themselves in my skin?
I wanted dark whispers and coquettish smirks, and all it got me was a mouthful I can't manage to chew.
My ego got the best of me once more, and I have lost all the pages imprinted with warnings I saved for a moment like this.
My mind sunk in defeat, while my body was left a shredded liability in your wake.
You used to ruffle me like a lazy breeze between my tresses, but now all you remind me of are stalemates I thought I had left behind.
I have lost my haven and you are the only comfort left to seek, a road I wished would have been left undiscovered.
I tried to rub off the scent of you from my body using an unfamiliar scent, but now I wreak of vengeance and it doesn't smell as sweet.
I am ashamed of all these tears, but the warmth keeps flowing between every crack.
You have unleashed a dam, and I'm left here stacking up pages of words dedicated to you in hope of stemming the flow.
I'm already counting down the days till I forget you, praying for the hours to go by faster.
Nevertheless I still foolishly wish for a last lifeline.
I want you to fight, fight for me and help mend the last stitches you left behind.

The tension
The tugging
I quarrel with
Myself again.

Perturbed neurotransmitters buzz about
My subarachnoid space,
Leaving a void where
My voice of reason once was.

What was once my cortex,
Is now a coliseum.
Gladiators donned in the Armor of God
Clash with abhorrent avatars of psychedelic malevolence.

This battle ending,
In the stalest of stalemates.
Leaving myself as the only casualty,
The lone survivor.

Parts of me, now gone forever more
I mourn the corporals of my conscience
By carrying on with my day,
As I drag my feet into the horizon.

buried alive; (in) sane; or harakiri?

a trifecta of horror
cuts through the lush foliage while i
writhe in a nest of
eldritch entrails

anxiety
rises up like an ophidian
coils shedding every quarter of a noon
ready to strike -
i lose movement
and falter through the streets
the meeting rooms,
and the endless conversations that end in stalemates;

my anxiety
an ouroboros of volcanic self-effacement
spills into posh mental facilities (lies)
and shoddy hospitals that turn the sick into the living dead

humiliation
burns bright red (magenta)
and brands my delicate skin with age-old glyphs
they mark the end of a civilization

the birth of a metropolis
with twin suns and dark monoliths
where the mob guillotines the visionaries
and the artist dies a dog's death.

I'm tired of sleepless nights and stalemates. I want to say goodnight this time, to be happy when I close my eyes. I don't want to wonder if we'll be okay when the sun rises and I don't want to cry when you feel like you're on the other side of the world and the sun is shining only for you a million miles away. I want to feel whole and I want to feel your hands in mine. I want too much and that has always been my downfall, but this time I just want the basic necessities of you and me.

I'm lost, in a labyrinth of twists and stalemates,
Adrift on a raft of sticks, spit, and namesakes,
Gripping the helm with white knuckles and splintered wrists,
Abandon ship from one blistered fingertip,

A treasure map scrawled to waylay my steps,
"Eighteen, get a degree, take 10 paces, left,"
Wait with bated breath, just for a vacated chest,
Wish the masters would stop clocks; playing chess.

The guy in these picture frames is roulette,
Dropped from black to red, two cents, bootleg,
Counterfeit, forgery, patented blown potential,
An outline traced with a broken pencil,

A crooked nib and a handful of ink stains,
Splotched paper with the brand of this kid's name,
Crinkled and torn up, soon to be ash in a bucket,
Tossed to the corner, overflowing the stack of a hundred.

****, no better hard-on apart from listening to some bruce springsteen and reading something from the book of malachi...

  my name will be great among the nations, from where the sun rises to where it sets: i.e. in english...

         good on y'ah pastor...

                 i admit, oh lord,
distinguishing between the righteous and
the religious folk...
hard to tell the tale of either,
most excruciating is when,
the two congregate...

     malachi (4:6)
he will turn the hearts of the parents to their children,
and the hearts of the children to their parents;
or else i will come and strike the land
   with total destruction.

you know my offering unto my father
this father's days?
the usual...
taking out the *******,
cooking some food,
          watering the flowers
in the garden...
  it wasn't a carboard cut-out
******* of the west...
oh, i'm well versed in bible jargon...

        i'm half a man? i'm not insulted...
because i didn't grow up to be a man
and have children?
  talk about a miracle being
a walking abortion!
      isn't kierkegaard or nietzsche
or kant the hälftemann?
"half" the man?
   so much for the "Übermensch",
more like: parodiemensch these days...
send the teens to the cinema
while the parents stay at home,
when, the inverse was corrected
and the parents went to the cinema
and when kid sitters were required...
like... shirley maclaine: hot as ****...
and the whole gig of trampolines...
or whatever you called them in the 1960s...
elevator operators... ****...
that's what you called them...

****... better start telling the pro-life
movement that,
whenever i ******* into a tissue
i get a sense of being the next
pol ***...
        i guess the ***** was always
dead in me,
   and "magically" became
                             alive in a woman...
well: here's to another genocide...
oh sure...
    having started aged 8,
     castration wouldn't be a problem...
the male sensation of an ******
isn't related to ******* anything as such...
you can experience an ******
as an 8 year old...
   but there's no ***** to be *******...
still...
        prostitutes are pro-life,
but they don't gamble / bribe the argument...
that was the worst time in my life...
   being bribed: the "oops" moment...
there was about as much "oops" in
that moment, as there was kama sutra
in oppenheimer's vedic citation.
or is that somehow related to shooting
out hollow eggs all the time,
              it was one thing to call
me irresponsible,
another: no legal contract,
                "man-up"...
                           ­ that's probably the only
reason i ever went to a *******...
had to check the ground...
  fiddle my way through
some sort of justification
    in order to not be shouted down
by some day-time agony aunt jerry
springer host on t.v.,
            and to be honest?
   once that brothel transaction went through?
and i saw with clear eyes,
what an authentic transaction looks like?
all that pandering, dates,
   clothes shopping...
           n'ah...
             give me a cube:
   i'll put it through the square hole...
give me an sphere,
              i'll put it through the circle hole.

my present for father's day?
my daddy-oh received a letter from
the p.m. of england,
mr. cameron, how he was the goodie-goodie
good-shoe tight left foot bloat
when paying taxes...
    paid them...
                  a regular at the tax olympics...
me? i don't pay taxes,
i don't earn enough...
i have a student loan...
almost halfway through,
once i reach 30+ years it will be written
off...
              i'd pay... if i landed
a chemistry job... since working in
a supermarket is all i'm ever going to get?
**** 'em...
              i'll wait... then i'll take the
dutch youth route of asking for
euthanasia... well... it's not like i will
jive to have a life worth of living
for... just... strangers...

see, i have found release...
   i'm so unterribly unjealous of my father...
he can have all the praises...
he's also an only-child,
abandoned by his mother and father,
raised by his grandparents...
   i'm half a man by not risking
to establish a family, a legacy,
by marrying?
you know... funny that...
i'd rather take my chances
with a grizzly bear than a woman...
at least me and a grizzly is
a 1-on-1 interaction...
no third party bullshitters in-between...
no bureaucratic stalemates,
no bureaucratic no-man's land...
no bureaucratic frustration...
                  me, grizzly:
either i skin the ******,
or? i get mauled... easy-peasy-japanese!
i like that absolute "conundrum"...

oh i still live with my parents...
england, housing shortage...
        this is probably the right time to "love"
your parents...
or at least mind them,
i don't mind them, i do most of the household
chores, then i drink at night...
they don't mind me drinking:
unless... unless i don't shower for more than
2 days... then i start to stink of a brewery...
well... either this or...
the forest floor, or homeless in loon'don...
not much choice... certainly no environment
for a girlfriend...
and, girlfriend, mind you...

    i like listening to all these vollmensch:
the full men...
   so wise, so wise,
with their wife and children,
always with the ideal prescription
for existence!
               taken risk, bounty,
result! boo y'ah!
              yes, when you already have
what you're prescribing others to take...
mind you...
again, to reiterate...
       kant was a bachelor...
                   i like that he completed his
adventure into "manhood" as less
an atheist: in need of people to be listened to
akin to chrissy hitchens...
   and more a solipsist...
              i guess i'm the child
of his thinking...
  so much for ******* i guess...
ugh... the anglophile world and its
fanaticism surrounding darwinism
and the big bang (bang, bang in a vacuum?)...
genes and i.q.,
what dry intellectual debates...
proper suited to a butcher's shop than
a cafe, and... god forbid a brothel!
give me a slab of raw beef meat
and an english tongue and i'll
cut you the same slab of something
worth satiating the hungry palette.

   h'america is still christ crazed,
sitting down congregation in easy armchairs...
armored to the **** with futility after futility
to mar the existence of the atom bomb:
more bullets, more guns, more money...
nuclear is the antithesis of warfare...
one drop, the end... who needs a war akin
to that?

                    i stopped looking toward h'america
a long time ago...
                   england is choking me as it is...
i'm looking toward germany come early 20th century
thought... ****... maybe i should be looking
toward to Moldova, anything but this,
any form of escapism will help...
   Greenland, the Faroe Islands...
          
i'll go as far as to say:
i'd quit drinking...
           if i was contracted a decent ****
from Tehran.

Limp cloth tries to dance our silhouette to life,
White, paper, teeth, famished for ideas of
you & I- in the same sentence.
The light’s glare, that I should look toward
is imprinted in my mind.  There’s a look of
yours I’ve familiarized myself with, it is all-knowing.
You lick your lips as a sign of defeat.
We’re both stalemates to time,
its’ unforgiving mark- bound to be alone.
Always afraid of change, taking place.
Is there redemption? Or are we fated to smother?
Is there a pardon? I’m left here.
Though, the seasons do change, leaves falling,
as our patience wears thin of each other.
Here I am, left to tend
to the non moving skeletons, we both surrendered.

Is there redemption or are we fated to smother?

Swamp county of Ire-land
where the nations crats have
their concealed burrow bureau's.

Obstinate's, recruited by the state
for the purpose of decelerating
the flow of harmony and happiness.

Cretinous creatures evolved from
the DNA of discarded neuronic
ambiguities.

Best avoided, contact can cause a
transmitted malaise, progressing
to stalemates of stagnation.

Ps.

This poem is for all those working at
Social Welfare Pensions, Free Travel
etc @IrishGovernmentofficessligo.

the twin towers of smoke and fire: it only made it necessary for me to bring a mirror by peering into the river... up north: around the vicinity of Upminster in the village of Wennington; south of the river a tower in Bexley: at Bexleyheath... very ******* Lord Ring'y if you ask me... the gateway was opened... two pillars either side of the Thames... these are my parts... well... Wenningston is by no means in my imagination: i used to cycle through it... Upminster, Rainham... Cold-Harbour... the Thameside Nature reverse... the A13 motorway... Rainham landfill site... these are my parts... climate sceptics: wait until it come knocking on your door... and the Thai-"least affected" by monsoon season... i tried being a climate sceptic... i truly tried: sure sure... no problem... this **** is just normal... but there's also a beauty about it all... twin ******* towers of smoke... either side of the Thames... not really far apart geographically on the longitude lines... that's the beauty of England: the Greenwich mean-time... you're either an equatorial (latitude) sort person... or you're a longitude sort of person... i'm of the later persuasion: in terms of being fascinated... mind you: all innovations happen with longitude in mind... latitude is merely the north standing on its head... nothing more... and certain aesthetics of life... like... the further north you go... chances of insomnia during summer? probably high... vampirism during winter? also probably high.... but that image... i can't erase from my head... towers of smoke... and fire down below... one at Wennington and the other at Bexleyheath... with the view of: yonder! the pearl of the world that's London...

I.

there's something about the first 40cl of whiskey
you drink, smoking cigarettes...
finally... the heat-wave is concluding...
   there is moisture in the air...
during the heat-wave i could swear that
there was salt in the air:
by way of osmosis: water in my body:
the body that is however much water was being
drained out... sweated out...
during heat-waves: i swear... there is salt in the air...
tiny particles of salt...
                             elevated to atoms...
NaCl just bouncing around with the gases...
salt-gas... because it's impossible to breathe...
it's impossible to move... it's impossible think...
and you're sweating all the time...
the sky isn't blue: it's a tinge of blue: it's almost white...
the air isn't dry: it's hot-salty...
             and now? ah... almost like an ******...
i get my breath and my soul and my cognitive functions
back... proper...
and there's nothing quiet like the equilibrium:
hell! even the wind returned...
a cool breeze... too: best associated with the night...

i even managed to summon a ghost...
my bedroom: locked... then i was looking up "X"...
and this household gust (przeciag)
pushed open my bedroom door...
             "ghost" or no ghost... if i were to live in
an atheistic-materialism i'd write zilch...
nothing could be interesting: interesting at least in the sense
of keeping a narrative...
i'll mention "X" somewhere else...
   i'd just be regurgitating facts: i'd be a walking
trivia show... an encyclopedia... a walking: one of
those omnibus showcases of museum's
stalemates with dust and hoarding...
        40cl is the starting point:
perched on my windowsill looking into the night:
thinking about what i already know what
what i'm going to write about:
this section is the part where i thought about
thinking about writing... this is the part where
i thought about not-thinking: ergo... writing...
it's a momentum build-up...

II.

i'll get to "X" in a bit...
             but i just realised something...
you can't be an artist and raise a family... impossible...
i wish i tried... i did have a chance, one, at least two...
but with women i was always elsewhere...
i'm still always elsewhere:
i can give one 1 hour every month...
properly... the heat would not have allowed me
to **** anyway... plus... there's a 2 month delay
in my shift-payment...
funny... everyone else that signed up with the company
was given a self-employed "contract":
i was given an employee contract...
they spared me all the minor details and...
lucky me: i know what being self-employed is like:
self-taxing... all those forms...
              so i'll wait for the cold to come
and my libido to come back...
   perhaps other mammals get ***** when it's warm...
as a man... i prefer the ideas of night
and cold to get groovy... because:
if i didn't have a television: i'd probably invest
in a fire place: and whisper into the river secrets
of the soul and wind...
  as it would tell me the secrets of the earth...
and then we'd parade shadows of the death around...
or... i would invest in an aquarium
and ask for Poseidon to appear...
   but i couldn't possibly raise a family...
even right now... what am i doing?
    oh... this is a gem... anti-thesis pop music...
folk music...
            this band Faun, the song? Aufbruch...
i was cleaning the house today as asked:
yeah... it was seriously *****... i mopped the floors
and was shocked...
took a break and listened to the labourers
fixing my neighbour's garden: she finally installed
fake grass and managed to relieve herself
of the jungle... she even gave me a bottle of Peroni
to celebrate her happiness blah blah...
but i was listening to the labourers...
conversation? not so much:
most of it was: x, y & z are going to be at the pub
after work... blah blah this... blah that...
i started honing my hearing to the music
they were listening to...
    
                    ahem... compared to Faun's Aufbruch?
electronic... the artists are tools...
producer music types and typos...
electric voices: not even Kraftwerk sort...
mein gott: dies ist überscheiße!

point being... it felt terribly sleeping with women...
not the *******... the sleeping part...
i was the guy who needed to fall asleep
while listening to music... she was the type of girl
who wanted to fall asleep in silence...
already mismatching...
    and then... ugh... the numb left leg and torso...
falling asleep hugging her... then...
not hugging her... she hugging your back...
sleeping with someone is worse than ******* them...
impossible politics...
at least with cats is like: you're making my
uncomfortable... fair enough... i'll ******* leave then:
great! thanks for coming round in the first place:
but also thanks for ******* off!

hung-up... only because of the ***...
then again: i'm more solitary than it could be led
to believe...
           dim-witted conversations about... what?
prior to sleep? we're going to be talking about...
Walter Sickert paintings of "X"'s music...
or are we going to be talking about... gas bills?!
then we have nothing to talk about...
i try to "think": she might have introduced to me
In Extremo after an **** of Rammstein...
but i moved on into more folk regions...
i spent 2 years with Heidegger...
i spent a year and some with Kant...
              if i had invested in a woman and had children
with her... would i have?
would i currently be listening to Faun's Aufbruch?
sure... the prospect of "dying alone" is oh: oh! oh!
so scary... we live alone most of the time...

and i have a ******* cycling partner?!
as much as i loved squash and as much as i loved
rock climbing... hell... what's the best sport to do solo?
cycling... no lions in my vicinity:
ergo? no need to run...
i can do that 1 hour a month i get paid
to prove to myself: ******* hasn't distracted:
being of the generation
that still had to pass the social-stigmas of buying
magazines from shops rather than getting it
free online... Belgium was best...
even the women selling them didn't mind: scrutinise
teenage boys buying them: truly liberal times...

nothing English; PURITANICAL... *******...
that's why i never explored the "fancy ****"...
of *******... i always steralise myself
by turning the sound: hell... the whole medium of video...
i go back to the images...
and... it's most dressed women exposing cleavage...
or some thing: i mean: ha ha!
it's not like they don't do that already...
i set my boundaries... people can ******* and do their
kinks: whatever...
i once a reached a point where...
i was actually jerking off to Bronzino's:
Venus, Cupid, Folly and Time...
            what idiotic theory that men have a gateway
mechanism whereby they have to increase
their digestive potentials for ****...
for me? a ******* was very much unlike
a pornographic, filmed... *******...
i felt... cut in half... it was ****...
                   it sound great... but it was ****...
why? because of the two girls i only wanted...
the other just jumped on the bandwagon of being rejected
the last time i saw her!
   she was so adamant... i was like: o.k. fair enough...
and throughout... the one i wanted was my perfect
sort of Pandora's Coy type... i liked her and she liked me...
that's what i wanted: you don't get intimacy in
a ******* *******...
there's always the unwelcome party...
duck-lips: bloated: quack quack...
demands: oh: you're going to **** me!
             am i? unlike in pornographic movies...
the changing of condoms between each take on oral ***...
it sort of breaks the momentum:
but... don't even resurrect Jack the Ripper...
modern prostitutes are... minded in healthcare...
in cleanliness...
             listen: if one can be a judge of character and have
unprotected ***? what does that tell you?

oh man... a ******* is ****...
i felt like... crucifixion is the zenith of suffering?
what about the death of the prophet Isaiah?
wasn't he sort of cut in half?!
      i felt cut in half... o.k. so one is performing oral
*** on you... the other is pressing her *******
in your face...
how many eyes are present?
      i was hoping for 4... instead i got... now... it's not 6...
it's five and a half... i'm split...
the idea of ******* two women at once
is a failure of envy...
      i didn't have the care for experiencing it...
i was forced by one ******* i denied twice...

that's the difference... it would have been different
if i wanted a *******...
of all the girlfriends i ever dated... did i break up
with them, or did they they break up with me?
HA HA... they broke up with me!
ergo? it's a completely different dynamic...
it would have been different if i asked for a *******...
but a complete jar-of-cookies if being asked
to have one... no wonder the one i denied
during ******* asked me sort of trying to boost
any egoism in me to begin with: you must feel like a king...
she still didn't get it...

she never figured out she was late to the party...
there was not even a lesbian-interlude of them
kissing during the whole *******...
she became an unwelcome "member" of the "party":
because the one i truly wanted knew:
she kept her mouth shut: i never understood talking
during ***... why bring god into the "onomatopoeia"
of *******?
i couldn't... two?! at the same time... split my body
in two... i'd require some hard-on pills...

i stopped smoking for three days expecting a better
performance from whittle 'ichard...
instead... i had to smoke a cigarette to get
a "better view"...
         but by then i was snuggling into the neck
and collar bone of the one i wanted... kissing her neck
and cheeks... while she was giving me a hand-job
and the unwanted one was a canvas of ugly duck-lips
and ****... which i utilised to add cushion...
come on... if she's a ******* and she doesn't know
how to deal with *******: it's a sheath!
it's a sheath! it's mine whenever i feel constipated:
it's yours when you pull it back...

i thought male genital mutilation was simple
for you ladies?

but me? listening to Faun's Aufbruch...
reading Ovid and Zhuangzi: simultaneously?
while also entertaining the status of fatherhood?
clearly? impossible...
come this very night... would i want to find myself
sleeping in the same bed as woman?
would i want to be asleep right now?
and be sober? i don't think so...
       family life would ruin me!

if i were married right now: i'd be a shell of a man...
yeah - and sure... good luck thinking like some
elder men think: i'll just live the given platitude of
life... i'll career it through...
then, when i retire... i'll pick up my youthful
concerns for art...
sure... that might happen... but it rarely does...
career-wise... that comes first...
not minding having any money? problem...
not minding having any social status? problem?
having a soul? PROBLEM!

i tend to sniff out old dogs that pretend
to be wolves and tell them...
sniff sniff... sniff sniff...
i smell a scent of leash...
i smell a scent of leather on you...
                  
i couldn't possibly raise a family...
i've dedicated my life to prostitutes and art...
and philosophy...
sure... i'll die along: my grandfather died along
too... and he raised some of us to conjure him
as a patriarch: but my grandmother treated it
as a joke of philately...
                          i still own the stamps...
a mostly Soviet stash...
                          
             hmm... i think i might be a millionaire...
but i like playing the pauper...
it's a great filter for... filtering the character of people
that come into my life...
i like playing the pauper...
                         you pretend you have nothing:
but you actually have...
well then... you judge people accordingly to
your experience...
so far? a load of ****** disgruntled folk...
i'll wait... last time i checked: waiting:
is space-expansion relative to "expected" time...
time: after all: is linear...
so waiting... is... counter-time-expected...
it's space-enacted: and space-enacted is expansionism...
                
III.

eh... she might have been a Russian girlfriend,
but even she didn't know anything
about Soviet music... it took me years laters
to find out what i really liked...

Ви́ктор Цой;
Viktor Tsoj - my new Nirvanna-esque mratyr
Moskvitch-2141 vs. Ikarus 250 on 15 August 19 at 12:28 p.m...

i might have dated a Russian girlfriend...
but... she didn't introduce me to
the band CINEMA..
**** me...
the Russian girls of Russian immigrants
in Canada knew of Дельфин (delphin):
dolphin... but i'm talking about something:
Soviet assured in preservation...
this is my take on what's to be preserved...

the current Anglo-culture ***** sax...
                   a Russian-existential sadness that
exuberates a presence that counters
any Scandinavian 19th century existentialism...
perhaps...
              she never introduced me to this band:
i had to find it myself...
    i always tend to find "things": by my own accord...
imagining children is a horror...
esp. if they ought to be my own...
                      i'm more comfortable dealing with the children
of others...
        i don't have friends for a reason:
they're a recurrent boredom: predictability...
   something worse than casting a shadow...

SPASAJA BYGONE!

Might make
A big move in my life soon
It’s something I’d tell you
If you were still there
At the other end,
Other side
Of this cell box
Sending signals
Replied
In our ongoing talks
Or just text,
Put it best
When it was a contest  
To see who was more loyal
To finding themself
This should spell it out,
I clearly lost
The heartfelt
And only regained it
When it was too late
Now just stalemates result
In this chess game with fate
And sometimes I still think
It was all in my head
That you didn’t exist
I was already dead
Or however explains
What this other autonomy
More or less said
Both to me,
And of me,
From your world to mine
So much more going on
In two lives intertwined