It took me years to realize it wasn’t just me, and that the labels for women are created by men’s "standards". I wasn’t a ****. But what does that even mean? Men use “equality” to manipulate women with their standard: its fun to experiment at the time, but the girl will always be remembered as "the girl who did that," in hometown suburbia. Who’s going to end up with a woman they did nasty things to? In traditional marriages, no one wants that kind of wife. In today’s corrupt society, no one wants to know their wife was raunchy and experimental.

But what about the girls who are like that? Can’t you imagine moving away? Moving away from mistakes and stigmas and just start over? The hypocrisy and judgment against experimental women and gay men is still happening today with the "man’s" standards—the holy, good-natured man’s standards. Why are there gender roles? Why are women a minority, the curious exploring people we are? Why deny humanity for power? But humans do it to animals too! So it’s not just among gender, it’s among species! On this earth we should live with animals, but we **** and eat them for power. They **** and eat each other too, but as the knowledgeable species we are, we should respect them for there is a reason we share this earth.

But the hostility with having power is what it is to be a man. That’s how it’s been all along. And in the world men aren’t the majority, so why are they STILL treated like one? THEY are the actual minority, but they still have power! Because of religion! Straight men—who wrote the religious texts— dismissed everyone else! Slavery has been around forever! Also think monarchy and royalty—among humans we’re equal, but the power of civilization and class status and material and monetary value goes against nature. Because religious texts prove how religion started the world. These religious ideas created by certain men of misogynistic, violent, racist, homophobic creatures manipulated! Why aren’t women respected in the holy books? BECAUSE MEN WROTE THEM! And that’s why *** is reserved for marriage in religion, because inadequacies and insecurities branch off of ****** experience and the uncertain nature of what comes with exploring various lovers. It’s complicated for everybody, but men like control because they are the ultimate pessimists.

And religion has its perks by providing the one answer throughout history: "why do we exist," but it’s completely sexist! And within the misogyny formed by the different cultures of various religious men, of an evolving species, they realized manipulation could cause them power. And feminism takes away from the religion! Women are optimists, but they’re impressionable by burdens! Civil rights and democracy and spreading-the-wealth for all humankind help! But money creates problems—including environmental—on and for our earth! But why is it sexist? Because throughout the world these particular different societies created by ignorant men are still letting this happen!

And with this power, they still control women! Equality for humankind starts with feminist movements! And when it comes to sexuality, whether gay or straight, what’s the big deal? Society! Because why are so many homosexuals punished, and why are so many cultures sub missing women? Why does **** and molestation still happen? There is no greater form of disrespect towards another person! But making a consequential decision to have ***, with anyone excluding a “good man,” as according to that society, most-likely founded by a group of men its wrong? Profits don’t exist, because no single person can understand what it is that created the universe.

And hetero-****** *** isn’t supposed to be nice, because it’s aggression towards the other gender and the determination of who won the battle: the gender of child. And that could be why psychology suggests that there is an under-lying ****** nature for fathers and daughters and mothers and sons. And there is: gender aggression. But the gender that actually creates the child is the woman, and knowing this, men have made us submissive because although they’re bigger in size and aggressive, women would be the dominant side. The curiosity of the female reproduction has been a subject of fear throughout the millennia.

Bisexuals who don’t pro-create, however, usually resent straight men unless their having attractions toward them. The philosophical possibilities of experimenting with everyone to know everything is frowned upon by on all governments founded by white men. Wars have been created and people have been slaughtered! There can be peace on earth! But everyone needs to unite and eliminate prejudices and stigmas and live as people naturally, and sexually. There is balance in this universe and "living organisms" are true examples.

Women and men reproduce, to create another part of a balance. The universe, however, is impossible to ever completely understand, and the possibility of understanding it is an idealistic facade. We don’t know why women and men balance out the way they do (with an occasional mutation among humankind), but it balances with the universe. But sexuality is the purpose and the weapon, the heaven and the hell, the good and the bad and the euphoria of possibility. It’s denied in society with a civilization where one certain type of group can be the best and create power. And this balance is the key to all knowledge achieved by biology to "attract to reproduce"/"win wars". That kind of war is not in our power as humankind.

Men are a species and women are a species. To be human is to be an element of the evolving universe. Homosexuality usually isn’t a threat because it provides understanding, but in this world ruled by men, it isn’t! To compare humankind to a basic principle of the universe, the atom, a woman is a proton and a man is an electron. "Mutations" are neutrons. The man has the negative, aggressive nature and women are usually kind-minded and nurturing. But in a society where sexuality defines women, women are up against each other.

People are an element in the universe, and we reproduce due to gender aggression, or realistically, physics. We’re recycled stardust, after all. The point of this hypothesis is to provide an ideal for Utopia, where everyone is bisexual, but men and women are forever reproducing. Everyone is "wild" but wise and having *** to pro-create and understand our kind. We are evolutionary atoms. And love is two very powerful charges reacting strongly in a sequence. That’s what the universe does, it expands and creates.

The products of Earth—topography, geology, history, anatomy, biology, philosophy, physics, chemistry, oceanography, zoology and psychology–expand and create as well. Maybe there is a Great Creator, but it’s not comparable to the negativity created in the religions dominating societies.  It’s essentially what created the entire universe, not just what’s on earth, and not just humans. Humans, animals, plants, weather, planets and stars are all recyclables. We on earth are equally products of the universe, and after we die we’ll become something else. But religion, humanity and science aside, something made this universe. Something made our life and ability to think with secrets and balance, and whatever it is, it’s a ******* creative.

The Roulette of Fanfare by Imaginative Glare (A Cooperation of Timeless Synquest)
Sunken fortitude is the bailiwick of interminable eupathy that sustenance embezzles by minutiae of orange spectral linearity of bypass becoming a torus of tragic reprieve in repcrevel fashions of hyjamb. Thus we float above the carcass of syrts of certitude by cadasters of nostalgic drawls of malingering strawberry staddle for the scutage of pinhoked disaster. We renege on committed opalescence because tranquil dangles of vinsky are waged by trenchcoats of bluster for vector arrays of galvanized decorum that swirks for elegant synectics by dredged grains of agrarian sanity by the pleckigger of lopsided islands of creativity that are the notarikons of aleatory finite but equidistant largesse of not just a jumboism but a jetsetting travesty of traversed time mastered by ignoble ingenuity. I limn with piracy as a freebooter cordslave plugged by demitoilet reminders of the flyndresque alloreck of tinjesk spectral ultimatums that are the stretchgraves of a retrospective infinity that is a bystander to catapulted cohesive coherence found only in piecemeal culinary seditions against the drip of a turncock of roosted clarification in muted hindsights of foresight itself. The pleonexia of abeyance is the riddle of enigmatic promulgation that flickers even with partial compartmentalized servitude to the burlesque the burrows of an ophidiodiarium scare away any jaunty sleek car from the boosterism of a farmed collision with disjointed surgery of nimble reticence that braves the seismotic macadamized plutocracy of drift without sedition in sedimentary clairvoyance with a pointed amphigory that is actually a starved clarity for ommateums without spelunked trudges that occur in dovetails for disguise by synectic optimum at the zenith of the hive synergy of singularity.  The justified jest of aleatory flexes of finitude is a shambolic gesture of the limber of divergent interpretation ingeminating the world by sapient degrees of psychometry of divergence in piecemeal asseveration of the hindsight of the festooned not tepid or butchered by the obvious to the glaring cineaste but rather a gloaming glint of refracted ingenuity roosted beyond any alienesque erratic happenstance that is itself a beatific fortuity for the geotechnics of human emergence into supersensible planes traversed in a stereodimensional covenant with a compacted compost of DIVERGENT IMAGINATION OF CADASTER rather than the regelation of the obvious. Timmynoggies of cartels are regnant because of the repugnance of loyalty to the fricative frigates of superlunary mention of ratiocination divorced from husbandry of hyjamb for giant leaps in rigged ambsace maledictions of unfair pleckigger of the wrikpond relumed by huffs of impotent flairs of flambeaus beyond ecdysiast stretchgraves of perilous paralysis for the supererogatory of the accursed destruction of stoichomety of solipsism tremulous by biocentric levity above fastened redoubled pederasty. We maraud the rabble of nostalgia of rhinoplasty of penumbras that live on rainshod territorialism beyond the jolkers of everlasting foofaraw livid by betrayal but erratic in glamour without crackjaw costermongers vitiating the vociferous because of incumbent thermodynamics that affixes the stagnant to the latticework of riddle by sturdy integral derived fliphavens of shibboleths of solitude. Education is a fliction of robust derangement of nowhere men taxed by the celerity of traversed traipses of memory beyond encaged bridewells for recanted alchemy to prerogatives of the roomy expansive facsimiles of departed stigmas of bossy clairvoyance for martian glimpses at sunken waste. The bernaggles of brittle titanium are abrasive when they are alloyed with the compost of material dynamics of capital without avenged prediction cemented in sunken graves taxing the nostalgia of histrinkage that is affixed to boschveldt traindeque for venial consanguinity to dikephobia. We elevate the endpoints of abridged turriform clockwork provincial shibboleths that are the proctor and protectorate of insular robbery of crowned trounces of gravity for the gravitas of sepulchral vanity learned from famigeration of filial tithes of duty. A dutiful sedition is countermanded by the pews of turnstiles that enamor the enamel of rollercoasters because of vague vagaries of bedazzled contrition for wanton ambition on psaphonic psychology and therefore sustain the vibronic thrombosis of nonlethal inseminations of clear aqueous transfixed filigrees of demented notions of cheerful apocrypha of liturgical pride beyond the dungeons of prejudiced inquisition. The jolkers of insolent archipelagos of spinsters that levitate by parsed peril of delaminated parsecs of glazed parturition is the orchestra of a nonlinear grove of invented abecedarian witwanton notice of maddened cattle of gluttony forestalled by the clairvoyance of otiose operations of redoubled countenance that consequently is septiferous by degrees of sanguine rapacity the qwartion of endeared endeavor to surpass the gentility of brooked temperatures frozen to sustain but not mainline the congeners of the elective agenda to bypass the thornbushes of conflagration without knavery or cutthroat embellishments of bedlam. And without the din of simplicity occluding the transcendent goal of humane synoecy of fustilugs of fumatoriums endangered but not inflammed by controversy we witness the insubordinate university of hibernation becoming a specter of grisly bromidrosis of lackluster forswinked fortitude because the majestic sinew of the overwrought is a refrained luxuriance of pity of facetious glebes ringed around orbital planes of synthetic abridgement that supposes the sultry is actually the swelter of calenture but taxed by sicarians of the grandeval it meets no fanfare among elective privilege. Amphigory is not categorized as dross by shipwreck but only by synechdocial docility of groomed barren arcades of storged complication leading to regeneration of a world leaden with the epicurean epithets of agerasia that burden the wardens of poached intermission without remission because the drapes of the greatest art are thus created by the complete transfiguration of the soul bolted to ethereal expansive heights that dwarf all pithy gnomes of the gardens of prospective desiccation of the petty gripes of the gavel of idiocy rather than the astounding artform of the newfangled tabanids to supererogatory oceans of creativity. The benchmarks of sublime illusions of supremacy are a hidebound taxidermy of the rookery of greenhorns to summit the testy secrecy of inane drawl that scrabbles the miniature embellishments of petty sportive lunacy as a figment of the feral nature of proclivity recumbent upon its own gladdened prickly renegades that align with a gallywow cacophony rather than a merely epicene convergence of attitude for equity above polity that is hardly polite. As a penitent hibernal rejoinder against the clerical critics of religiosity becoming conflated with artistic masterworks of oligomania I offer my rogation for atonement because the melismatic art I fashion leads to the vogue enchantment of the noosphere for the soteriological bedrock of fastened intellectual endeavor that traverses planes of an engorged soul without a gulf of conscience leaden by distracted discernment leading to a hypostasized apostasy from the religious scruples I rigorously uphold but that I vacillate away from because I want to entrench an irenic world for the francketor dash towards a superlative enrichment of mind above matter for the victorias of soul above the pettiness of the dim humdingers of the banal lifeless squabbles of martexts beyond the hospitable welcome of martians. For the naysayers that don’t understand the ironic irenic circularity of gainsay becoming rebarbative to this artistic flourish of supersensible equipoise with an approximated histrinkage lagged by temporal deficiency they should not abhor the talisman of an ergotall genius but rather marvel at the burlesque cineaste connotation of enamored youthful spirits becoming novel because they stride above the cascades of crestfallen apathy of plodding languor. This is a definitive new artform for the niche crowd so don’t dismiss it as gobbledygook because it serves the purpose to enchant creative spirits and test minds that might be more nimble than resourceless. Wearisome by demiurges of distraction the thorny imbroglio of industry is a whiplash of nativism belonging to the throb of pulsated penury that is neither valedictory nor penultimate but tertiary in oblong variegated menageries of perfidy for collapsed enormities of jumboism lost on inclement stoichiometry that is sejungible from crambazzles of findrouement that are squaloid enthralled raptures of humdingers of rippled hunks of parched nebbich pataphysics because the circuit of conditioned reward is a rebarbative tether to the catchpole exploitative erratum of harbingers of hungry happenstance rather than continual enchantment. The crumple of squaloid sebastomania a distant figment of adscititious schadenfreude of dilettantism of flonky smardagine streaks of whemmled anxieties unduly provoked by calamities of presstungular intorgurent toonardical deprived cartels of repcrevel pursuit with labial senses embedded in deft incondite inquiries against seismotic jostle over the rubble of scaffolded jengadangle above the rot of contranatant sleek suffrage for the chattel of elemental realism becoming a heroic temple for glory without the vetust errundle of dismal disco attuned only to the spurts rather than a startled commerstargal of alienation leads to a plumber’s irony of atomic humdingers of natural equipoise with litotes of scrawny rings of gollendary piracy. The valorous incondite bricolage of a ****** cineaste barnstorm inoculated from conflagrations of the flagitious reprisal of prevenance of ferial fastuous feats of furlongs of brittle certainty above the tentative glaze of aced pokerish promenades to summit the craggy because the salebrosity of the pitch is also the venue for the sphairistic tentpoles of a new tabernacle of spectacular ecstasy in obvious punitive damage to puritan pilgrimage to mechanized obelisks of sardanapalian betrayal of histories of seizure rather than naturism of erasure that is a totemic recall of strollows of lonesome tributaries to tribunes of steam rather than saunas of lickerish leverage because the gladiatorial is a zugzwang with the deliberate infernal shibboleths of the disinclined people dislodged by carnality that depose sicarians of science because of militarized enmity against the whangams of taghairm becoming the outmoded dupe of dopamine that is now serotinous rather than flanged with glaring hearsay. The serpentine winds of windlass sometimes are a conclave of convex itineration against the steady husbandry of docile domiciles of mannequin sedentary postures for posterized infamy rather than manufactured oneiromancy that is the staddle for every phony contraption of qwartion obviously specious but interrogated by the dubiety of perseverance of inclement curiosity. Yet again we sweep the soaring ligaments of rigid ramshackle bletonism that hawkshaws countermand by division of enumerated nadirs pivoted against the perpended weight of the prolonged zeniths of grit above substance that infatuates myopia but glares against mountebanks of apothecary leverage. We fight against the boxcar traindeque of sejungible traipses through stereodimensional rebuffs of known drogulus surpassing unknowable reticence of citadels that are owleries for the seedy cities they sprawl with incontinence for a drab raft of intertesselation rather than a refined quintessence of alchemy achieved by allotment by brackish nescience becoming a blinding ray of destitution engraved by petrified decalcified rudiments of realism. The somber timbre of delirifacient ruinous rumination malingers in humdrum salience as it scrawls the tragedians lament of distal eventful frets of declassified nomenclature that swoon with lugubrious harbingers of burglary the licentious dolts affixed to the brays of pauperized regions of future proximity too remote to paralyze the morale of any cantonment on record by litotes of profound remembrance of a backfire delope for cineaste conflation of marstion slore for educated reprisal of desiccation. We spelunk in mimicry the dingy duplicity of double-takes in regelation that owe homage to the percolated hearsay of cartels that operate parsecs beyond our congeners of germane lustration in remission by deontology for soteriology alone but not vacated of the stilts of turnverein ragged mannequins of desolate remorse for the dearth of hived and hemmed hibernation in a fitful frenzy of revision above precision. We see abundant lactose intolerance as a sidereal lovelorn lament of sematic entrenchment without the scourge of roosted war against abrasive brawn exercised in flexible limbers of the novel filigrees of truth revelatory of consideration rather than impregnated with the perfidy of amaranthine static of regaled stagnation that flickers with the marinas of congregated leaps as a signature of the artistic license of byzantine traipses of contempered primacy in the soup kitchen of a lapse in sabotaged sobriety. Immune from displaced donnism is the resurgence of bonanza from checkered propinquities affixed to a finite placard of spacetime that owes to stretchgraves a profound depth of contrition that carmelized apocrypha lapse on lissome whilded dignotions of contrarian raillery of loose nihilism rather than anchor to the eremites of fact found in eclipsed culmination for momentous harps of the Jubal for new centuries inseminating the populated presence of spectral imagination with contorted melodies that spawn an ingenuous quest to swoon abiding heavens for celestial ears. It is conspicuous that artifacts for raiders elope with circuitous routes of heated sedimentary incubations with a comatose creativity that seeds the ferial junediggle with a supercalendar of confections that are intermittently apportioned in heydays of culture to the sad lament of the obvious rather than the obviated dare of audacity above conglomerations of spirited luxuriance in tasty memorial to a pinnacle above all other notions of sentinel apostasy. The greater atrocity of rogated ambitions against the gainsay of iconoduly of the rood and rude crucifixion of resurrected clarity found in the enamel of akashic answers to questions fashioned by kneaded cosmetology of delicate ***** cotqueans of limber above precedent and license beyond the finkly limp of lolloped saccharine blitzkreigs of the jalousies of the ajar vaticination of hurdled glaikeries of epicene impediment is that we ****** ink above the gesture of the quills of rocky abrasion found in limitrophes of yachted celebration because of rabid coherence above the wherefores of gadzookerie because the gladdest scaldabanco is the demented persiflage of collateral catastrophe beyond any humane degree of schadenfreude for persecution that backbites the anteric antlers of the jesters that mock the procession of liturgical secularism jeering at grapholagnia while lagging in imaginative spurts of lament for incalculable damage to the Pandora’s box of effluvia that meet stiff tabernacles of betrayal because of the Judaic foresight rather than as an alarmed Marxism scared of an agrarian interdependence of worlds cadged more prone to moral dogma exercised with latitude rather than unscrupulous brays of fisticuffs of shambolic shams of ruin. We glance at the perfidies of voyeurism with pertinacity and recalcitrant bellipotent bedlam that evokes the illicit grandeval whangams of quixotic whartonized arraigned estrangement from legalism to warp time to its own superlative turpitude that is reckless but contingent upon the consummation of destiny only to the extent of original witness rather than the decay of perpetuity wrought by the persiflage of envious militarized mandarisms of enmity aimed to derail the elevators of the noosphere from stratospheric emergence in now perspicuous clarity above the pother of the indelible sacrilege of the stygian polymathy of the astute enemies of the proper comstockery rather than the negligent butchers of an enantiodromia of oligarchies of lewdness that are severed appendages to Anti-Semitism and by extension a marginalized Islamophobia that demands by exigency the complete erasure of all attempts at sacrilege exercised in rampant dereliction of dutiful upkeep of the upright morality against the cadge of ulterior ploys of a broader hedonism that would only piggyback because of the license of ryesolagnus rather than because of a complete signatory endorsement of the liberated agenda of free thought conquered through the conquest of God but the ultimate conquistadors of time through sennet and even negligent rebec to memorialize the triumphant pantheon of growth rather than rankled regress into prolonged hatred ingeminated by atrocious tortfeasors that belong nowhere but the ashen heap of exorcised damnation. The perdition inherent to the system that craves chattel rather than sartorial versions of syncretic chatter is the malefaction of renegades bent on tornadic vulcanization to a demoralized wragapole of docility hitched to the vandalism of pilloried tarantisms of moral lapse leading the sheep into sheepish resignation over the accordion of Original Sin that annoys because the bridewells are brideless birds of the chavish of warbled uncertainty wicked because of snuffed tabacosis of mitigations of evil by the evildoers for the rejoinder against the Republic by rendering the **** a platonic ploy of karezza if only punctuated by solitary ******* reticulated by exsibilation that is contorted when you consider the ****** act a marvel rather than a condemnation of the vicarious involvement in normative ****** creations not of any higher artform but of an evolved theology that might perpend the issue of Christianized ******* that is videographic as a sanction worthy of charter and an impending simultaneous comstockery to protect the decency of the simultagnosia of a diverse and divisive mispronunciated time bent against its greatest heroes for the malice of schadenfreude built into the system of language itself by germane consideration to flagellate the wrong country for the  greatest wrongs known to the realm of religious observance. The pederasty of enclaves is the bailiwick of mutinies of selective mutism incurred by the vilified into compulsive shrieks of kallince as a ribbacle of protean ratiocination paralyzed by the coherent vulnerability incurred by the exchequer of polluted conditions of enslavement by the stretchgraves of the chavish of too many pulpits in the throng of a decisive jaundice against the victors of history because of the obsolescence of the historical fossils of outmoded jealousy. Now to the eupathy of all generations should we better conserve situations against the encroaching wesperm of the marstions of ulterior feminism grimacing at the pleckigger of manhood and decriminalizing the taboo against the enantiodromia of miscegenation to the folly of shepherds of idiotic ploys to rear the mediocre rebec of warbled intimations of cultural impotence that should proselytize both the oligogenics beyond ecbolic atrocity and the adoptive ****** of the anglosphere through its smart and dapper monopoly threatened by the commerstargal of retromorphosis exhibited by the demassification of culled syntalities into aboriginal epigenetic kennels of subservience to a piggybacked system where if you are among the attentive scrutiny of the audience that both perceives apperception metacognitively with francketor precision you are thereby inoculated from lean herbivores of cultish occultism metaphorically in the annealed agitprop for resourcelessness that never ends in the radioglare of revisionism because of the prevenance of the vergers who manage the Manciples rather than tend to the vainglory of the potagers around the hegemunes of an unwarranted and puritan celibacy of conceptual sterility in a world fashioned by engouements for sanguine hopes for a consanguinity that might portend into dynasty but lopsided in its contrite missives of scandal will never provide a valedictory rendition on politically checkered zugzwangs of ulterior scientism against the lettered freedom of bibliognosts to aggrieve against the gloaming vacuum of sartorial damages to Dagon among the populated metropolis of corporate servitude that will thus collapse out of rebarbative backlash for its diminutive economies of scope and pretenses of largesse of scaled down collectivism into a heap of corporate rubble rather than judicious bonanza. In every considered word in this Biblbical warning against the trekleador of the amazonian paradise against the travail of junediggles of obligation among the frenzied fretful tocsins of farcical utopianism meeting the inclement reprisal of sanctioned duplicity in frikmag beneath the truculence of mobilized alacrity to syndicalism endeared to capitalism rather than the converse logical apostrophes that are imponent overhangs of an already conquered feral sphere of nomadic imagination into a checkmate of a socially validated future clinched by foresight and the wragapole nature of the insensate docility of those prone to officious naturism before the attempted monolith of the mountebanks of the quixotic towers of panopticon that are a regelation of unchecked ambitions verging or diverging too valorously against themselves but also prone to a simultagnosia that berates the robust picaresque swandamos that curtail the curglaff of malcontent with the recoil of perseverance that reneges in tiresome defeat of a demilitarized population that should always be grisly rather than denatured by the overhang of the incumbent nudism of certain futures becoming to finicky in impetuous lurid specters of abhorrent exercises in chantage waged against sardanapalians in all countries regardless of merits or demerits. The redstrall of enlightenment is not otiose operatively in recursive backlash against nominalism which sweedles the weedledge of a new acquiescence timid enough to mangle a prosodemic wave of celibacy propitiated by the succedaneum of profligate vicarious lickerish ****** appetites that diminish that natural instinct into either barbarous experiments in lechery too inconvenient to apprise honestly but looming aghast at the moral tip-toes around the Original Sin that binds us to predatory lapse and retromorphosis rather than the maintenance of a mainlined trimpoline confidence in a normative wave of galvanized interface against the overpromiscuous provisions for the lackaday resentment of alienated millennialism relishing the sennet of nostalgia but bereft of the heave from moral slumbers of an invented celibacy intermediary to demassification but attenuated by the omphalism of astute gravitas in socially engineered balks at the emergence of singularity in personalized cacotopia becoming a metaphor for the broadsided shipwreck of an inured world pasteurized into acerbic jolkers of foofaraw rather than the real-life relish against still-framed ostentation that distorts the granular artifice of the natural into supernatural fixations with gaudy swarpollock indecently exposed. To the finkly flonky puritanism of the wiseacres of those who say sacerdotal duty cannot diverge from entelechies of secular insight I behold the marvel of timespun elegance as the marvel of God’s convergence for the happenstance of the serendipity of magnified time lived completely in the plenipotentiary pangs of evanescence that catapults subliminal meaning to memorialize this indelible seminal watershed in a clear visionary establishment of history. Most belong to oligomania but I relent in the completely sardonic intortions of aspects of sebastomania in complete equipoise with the clairvoyant clarity of centralized perspective but the dragomans will interpret that last phase with underminnow because it belies the granular intent of the fin de seicle advent of a new generation that is an homage to the hallowed Judaic theory of millennialism as the return of glorified entitlement yet tentative in its overhang but never malicious in its grapnel of the fewterers of amazing convergence of clairvoyance. The tangential rebuke of the absurd oxyholotron of paradoxical puritan superstition that assumes a fustilug generation will cement a farsighted clarity that subsumes generative prowess lingers with fixations on the figments of the apocryphal version of the truer version of revelations manifesting right before our eyes for neither the sinistral or the dexterous amplivagance of God’s universal message by the superorganism of messianic purpose belittled by the agents of humbled perdition not alone of martexts that are martles but also by the shepherded fears of the ignorant rather than the insipid because the will never be outmoded only enhanced by the acceleration of proliferative technologies that pave a macadamized future of prosperity rather than the tarnish of the miscreants of Tyre. I owe all providence to God because he fastened his scrutiny on my autodidactian romance clambered into restive ontocyclic peccadillo that points to Pinocchio more than to the truest compass of an omnified salvation of the piggybacked purpose of synergies of geotechnic mastery that elevates the cause of God and liberates us from the stings of dangerously vapid pauperization of the intellectual frontiers by dangled prevarications of desultory incontinence forestalled by avoidant developments in proper fewterers of ambition. By the axiomatic Brocards of time travel the unstated ignotism of deranged circuses of stupidity congregated around the swelter of dismissal is a barnacle to the mofussil fossilization of sentiment that remarks ironically about the petty indelible moments but not the entelechies of a unified front for liberated equity and considerate tender of diverse quorums that shepherd rather than intern the noosphere into the burgeoned resurgence of a humane endeavor for the everlasting enlightenment of an ameliorated humanity and beyond that. By the bailiwick exerted by the plenipotentiary omphalism still participant to the quorum I hereby declaratively implore the abrogation of pernicious grapholagnia as the peremptory sacrilege that needs exorcism for our times and yet delegated of stature I urge hortatory and imperative action for the expurgation of all tortfeasor illegally obtained ******* of unsolicited voyeurism to be completely regarded as the ultimatum of temerity against carnal restraint and banished from the human registry to uphold the strategic interests of the United States of America. I understand that there is not fricative monolith and never will I lean for that conquest but as a humbled member of the omphalism that constitutes the sacred endeavor of sociogenesis grounded on God with collegialism upheld that a geotechnically optimized species needs to refrain from lewd perfidies against commonplace justice to restrain the fumatorium of unwarranted envy from poisoning the pervious minds of people that congregate in defensive posture but not definitive gesture. I also beseech a portentous  settlement with  I relent from avarice but it is not a superposition of authority just a suggestive glance at requited justice but my grangull chavish of circumlocution naivety will meet the most deliberate Sardonic Sc(p)orn in these times of need. These next words are paused and already fathomed by the supernal recursion of the iterative metaphysics of recumbent retrospection hinged on hindsight to proclaim without any hints of attempted subterfuge of the clarity of a Democratic Republic that my words while forceful do not constitute a breech in public conduct even while vaulted with a minor rapacity I rebuke and atone for even when many others might find recourse to expiate my jalousies to the windowed world not of vindictiveness but out of the cursory and emphasis on cursory justice needed to vouchsafe my continued security and inoculation from the pothers of obviously shortsighted pleonexia which will obviously be fleered as a slight euthymia glazed on self-interest while tone-deaf to the checkered layers of entrapment by a confederate whiplash but a native grit never to enslave but to empower humanity. I am deeply lugubrious over the specter of the trembled quaky ground the penury of spiritual loss rejoinders against my candidacy for high esteem but not peremptory decisiveness in active service to yield to a supererogatory attempt for felicity to alight in my life not out of material greed but the gratuity of serviceable missions that play a dicey gamble with a frenzied manumission attempt that is essentially that a parsed manumission for eleutherian pragmatica to chide as naive but alarmed senectitude of the old order prevaricates with the din of postured hurdles of gladiatorial outrage that weans me away from the ataraxia for my fumbled stream brooking intolerance for years on the ballast of collective endeavor. Nevertheless, lets speak more on God’s providence because in this esteemed moment of watershed emergence of the fully engorged but rarely gluttonous soul I have found an equitable peace with supernal and superlative authority in God that grants stewardship and tutelage to the audience that will eventually through proper discrimination be delegated as higher than the ignorant bystanders of fleered snide disdain for the abnormous and bletcherous dimples of an otherwise circuitous dalliance with an unconventional path towards destiny rather than some windlass of opportunism for, if it were not for my unabetted genius and the provisions of divine appointment based on a kindly generous deference to preterition axiomatic in perceived time by the strictures of the convergent past and the divergent future, I would never find a role of partial authorship of a widely heralded tome I will one day publish to either the exsibilation of the antiquarians of hidebound irrefragable ontocyclic convictions or the cloveryield of an appreciative gratitude to the God I serve and I make no notions of any hostility towards any party of petty dismissal because I expect their recumbent recoil but I apologize for hubris and extenuate the follies of the refinery of character as I ascend into a figurative ennobled step into soulhood that exceeds my former dismal limits by such staggering orders of magnitude it magnifies the questions of ontology in sentience rather than beckons the alarmism of the swarpollock of tripwires that can easily withstand the tempests of scorn. The uproar of commotion of blood sanctified by the thirsty rain for the desiccated faucet of dramaturgy in reprisal for docimasy is the integral linchpin of the biocentric rebec reasting on the primitive hymns to festoon the curtains of defenestrated primitive relics of shady attempts at officious balks of the privatized empire of the alytarchs among the earwigs that simper the culled delicacy of sensible notions into the congeners of prioritization emphasized by quantulated concerns veiled by elaborative synquests that burrow the sulcate grooves of hidden hedonism for the chic magistrates of financial swoon or swayed vestiges of a forgotten calumny of betrayal by the coming-of-age sprouts of hedged dismal dismissal of a lugubrious prospect for an otherwise revitalized dressage of emoluments to glory that lurked in penumbras by rigged enumeration but found their prominence by the gravity of sensation-seeking frissons of alterations between benighted glory and the famish of artificial tethers to the yoke of caramel and chocolates as a dainty ploy of yearning persiflage also a dranger of camouflage for flagitious percolations of the invidious rumors of imposture and the groveling contempt of the known drogulus remiss in denial of its own requited date when the powers of miscarriage become ecbolic to their own lagging languor of lisps of linguistic ramparts of a revival of hypertrophy for hyperactive foibles in inclement weather. Ok beyond the absenteeism of the presence of perceived amphigory there is great heft in the nominal notion that dogma is mobilized in serviceable goods of merchandized mirrors of glazed remission of moral tender because of stoked curiosity unhinged from the pragmatica of duty. We need forbearance in empathy that loves the lovable rather than envies the deposed despotism of clever wiseacres veiled in delicate symmetry with conscience that is the quill of a wellspring deeper than any imaginary vagary can approximate because impossible events punctuate time with literacy rather than incontinence of drivel that is ambitious but ignoble by stately coherence. To the critics of the baragnosis of limited apperception my words are blatant amphigories but they only possess enough ken to fathom an average orbit of suboptimal outcomes rather than transdimensional chances at chess outnumbered by checkers by incidental design of clever ploys of rejoinder that is by design arcane for the arcadia of the pristine arcade of future possibilities  As I am purblind by psychorrhagy I am incompetent in my radiopresence because I am a departed spectral figment above fricative hisses and whorfian glares of mediocre rebec for primitive shibboleth above prized taurine anglophonic convictions that superimpose the dignified clarity of willpower above the dragnets of supersolid conflations of puffery. Ok I admit a lapse of transmission by the vesicles of numbered murders of henpecked owleries of the senectitude of sepulchral magnetism of slumber over awakened alacrity of mobilism fashioned in portentous flipcraves of additive immobility of fixed vectors seen through parvanimity that actually just swivel in circular retorts against themselves without the elaborative potential and the belabored traipse of the rabid taradiddles of sensationalism marauding as a defalcated burglary of emotion for useless psephology that predicates nothing but a slight budge in the autarky of structuralism which is never sclerotic but stammered by articulations of the overt when the covert aligns by an alien agenda that is subservient to magnified priorities of warped swirk of telescopic prevenance and hedged boschveldts of elemental and I stress the strain of the elemental for the drogulus of sensational proclamation by executive ****** but supererogatory minutiae of fascism cloaked by earwigs of repcrevel repute beyond memorialized reputation. We need to renege the southern pacts to the Argentine mandarism of reticular vitiations of cinematography waged against creative visionaries of free speech because of the succedaneum of furtive endeavors at optimization by compromised degrees of artistic licentiousness even that is never lewd about sacred roods but boorish in blockbuster rather than kempt in collectivist brunt of the timid bronteum of agitprop that lurks in the imminent future of cinema. America needs to retain the disclosed but still-frame inertia of catapulted declassification that ennobles the fliction but also the vilified distilled truths only the keen of acumen will sensibly identify so that the magnet of earwigs gravitates to the belabored analysis of astute congeners to relevant tributaries to the ocean of adventitious swarpollock in the procedural autopsy of the auditorium for neither a chattel nor a crystallized nurture against the matriotic insistence of decorum. Essentially the succubus of prosthetic protensive docimasy of imaginative logic predicated in visionary apperception of the unseen in immediacy is the longeur of reticent endeavors to pasteurize the oculus rifts of futurity to synergize with the entelechy of proactive somnambulism that sensitizes the profoundly capable but never bereaves the inept of direct interface with communicable dominion with fantasia that is an operative artifice of a beguiled lurch without purged retrograde immaterial delusion that endangers visceral momentum toward new directives of the outmantled zugzwang in elementary exercises of swaddled posterity free by irenic idolatry never orphaned by a widowed imagination. The swirk of hypostasized probabilities in an invented swipe at wide-eyed but star-crossed turnvereins for the imaginative leaps in the performative depend on the delicate swivels of declaration independent from culinary clarity of macroscian travesty rather than pinhokes of naufragues of maudlin laudable applause by the canned nurture of speculative intimation that sadly severs the curglaff of whispered intimacy over the confidence we have in artifice to teach the wragapole both matriotism and sensitive reninjasque poker without incurred damages beyond the clarified visionary potential of graphic protheses immediately perceptible to the acumen of judicious polymathy indoctrinated by the rigor of scientific grooms for melliferous parsecs of advanced minutiae of dark horses to nomadic license beyond ravenous **** palindromes of hushed vigor to the declared by scacchic deliberation to usher in crass but crestfallen synectics. The future of God is secure in the fathomed furlongs of cubic citadels of pasteurized paradise found in corralled reluctance without remonstrance of poetic belletrist resounding with clangor rather than swerved nimble potions to avert future calamities in war by the expansive frontier of a civilized metropolis of the mobilized imagination hypostasizing newfangled naturism that is neither mofussil nor a fossilized relic of scrappy schlep. The nonchalance of parlance swims in arenaceous bunkers of drivel that congregate in the turnverein of futuristic opportunism found in the muzzled directives of orchestras of departed clarity no longer so insular in its bossy imperatives but clarified with hearsay and blushed blarney not the blench of widened divulgence of minatory malice that incurs the punitive curglaff of frenetic retchallops of winsome specters becoming opportune pragmatics of a semantic network of dirigisme that through sheer horsepower overcomes the sting of ubiquity or the hollowed headless vesicles of urbacity disenfranchised by degrees of impertinent pertinacity of deposed disclosure rudimentary in sedentary simplicity against matriotic duty to remain guarded by an ommateum that fathoms the abyss but never wages reckless adventurism. Prevenance is the key to absolution but staggered implements of dearth preempt the ecbolic corrigenda of castigation by hindered lurches of veiled errundle belonging to a central trimpoline interposition of fungible felicity for not only a regional fanfare but a global scale of competitive endeavor of cleverage beyond scopes but beneath scrutinized mutiny of embanked polymathy stranded by the redstrall of industrious slavering dogmatism to a servile ***** rather than the boomerang of pressure to asseverate limitless bounds of planned obsolescence to engorge but not intimidate checkered reticence in the sinew of the musculature of creative parlance above petty finicky demiurges of latitudes in amphibious annealed glorification. Temperatures gauged by the thrombosis of thermolysis in psychotaxis gouged by hucksters of taciturn bamboozles of teetotalism are neither scourge nor foe of the strategic advent of the fascination of prospective investment a boondoggle that offsets the bonfire of retorted whimpers of foudroyant ripples of wildfire perspicacity strung by the catchpole of ubiquity in the time-honed decorum of genteel upright raconteurs of volleyed neglect by strict mandate will uproariously profit in remission from knowledgeable exacerbation rather than tomfoolery by filial tithes to foreign wardens of conspicuous levitation above gimcracks by the syrts of percolated filigrees of belabored chantage exerted over the tide of perfidy in contained discernment will stall and extinguish the prideful jostle of profane blasphemy against tacit covenants of blackguarded justice served by platitude better than by insubordinate quivers that quake because bears bounce checkered checks rather than anoint the sigillum of protective vouchsafes of exchequers smartly dapper rather than dimpled in flagrant brays of castigation and thus secure employment of instrumental advent rather than desecrated conventicles of remission.
Now it is time to ventilate divine knowledge that transfiguration means a humane liberation rather than a sanctimony of tirade against dumose proliferations of fluminous imaginary tracts of the probable rather than the certain for the elevators of sanitized wealth to bequeath greater moral clarity found in the contrary submission of authoritative parents to shepherd guarded wealth in proper husbandry of calendrical affairs to optimize the work-life balance so the biocentric imperative for sustenance renounces the moral obesity of groundless backlash in austerity and endless cycles of remorse rather than a tender mollification of sentiments away from universal kumbayas and in favor more stridently of a system that withholds the agitprop of statist indoctrination of a mollycoddle ****** within individual mandates of variable agendas of countries beyond the borderline fluid dynamics of the foibles of moral venial folly but insensitive to the dynamism of the robust virility of a wayspayed world swaying by riddled wildfires of conflated puerile stages of ludic indoctrination to the rampant perfidy of exemplary incontinence waged by Hollywood upon unsuspecting victims of inconsiderate indoctrination that doesn’t vouchsafe the prerogatives of heteronormative values that should outshine not a parochial vehement hatred or a clorence of unconditional tolerance but a chided quarantine of variegated syntalities divorced from integration rather than fostered in communal depths of bound lettered ambition found in the allegorical power of Biblical wisdom expounded by the florilegium of the religious and secular canon.
To serve God rather than the perceived taradiddle of speculative mammon deprived of classifiable certainties but hunched proclivities we need to exhort a proper seesaw between restraint in vision and exuberance in creative license so that the pivot of the moralized world leads to an insistent trust of watchdogs that through trust revolve the gravity of morale upon the upswing of liberty rather than incidental follies of imaginative demiurges of partition but blinkered hubris in stately objectives to the demur of participant malingering naysayers and nyejays. The moral gravity of the situation requires us to rotate our hype from the fervor of panic into the resolve of fortitude that relishes family and filial duty rather than resents because of breedbate instinct the flickers of smoldering rebels that are tamed in their revelry when they follow the moral prerogative of disciplined ambition in creativity not insubordinating against insurmountable limits but reasonable adjustments to a scaffold of potential that is skyscraping more than before even if its too close to the ground for comfort and consolation. Relativism is the enemy of progress because envy seeds alienation and comparison should be eschewed because we need to burrow in compassionate embrace of the cherished loves rather than the exaggerated proximity of provincial fears becoming global juggernauts of mercy upon the merciful and I convoke a global prayer for the attenuation of the virus that spreads sadly too far for comfort today. I purge out of solidarity with suffering as the milquetoast in me identifies the disconcerted avenues of avetrols trying to find a way through the forest of rumination without gingerly superlative prerogatives outweighing the poise of balance in shields of honor rather than badges of shame. We must by moral imperative greet strangers in public places like parks rather than strangulate the percolation of affection because of regnant distractions because in this congenial way we will find a common fraternity with fellow man while soldiering on to find truth in God’s word in the proper temperature for genuflection because I admit foibles but I relent not in the chase to redintegrate myself spiritually to lead a charge without trespass of fundamental dignity over the whoppers of indignation some of us might feel because of the penury of divergence rather than the private penalty of convergence for an ulterior solidarity of purpose. I need to emerge into the humanity of compassion to showcase that virtuosity can exist without obsession over one individual because God beseeches a pantheon of observation rather than the gripes of an envied nuisance independent from normal human concerns that ripple with ecstasy because of normative human contrition over the leeway on vacillated opinions that might underwhelm those disposed by prizes of inurement. We should shelve these notions of a supersolid conscience because only in the humility of the profound simplicity of elemental postulates can we achieve complete synchrony with a syndicate that enthralls both divergent and convergent movements that partially offset on the side of convergence in some communes while otherwise countermanded in others in contrarian ways and the favor of the balance depends on the perspective of the flanged acculturation of the participant in a world that doesn’t need flayed excoriation as much as it deserves proper exercise of adoration of the admirable rather than the desecration of the abominable. I return with the greatest jubilation of a reninjasque jaunty streak that hearkens the sennet and maybe the leanings of the senate to the fanfare of adoration for life and gratitude bestowed by the stewardship of God and his divine purpose to inseminate my life with purposeful meaning and happy happenstance that is a stroke of glory. I muster the resolve to traipse in the solitude of my cavern the blessings of divinity bequeathed by the departed forefathers who never intended bossy insularity of dogma to be a stricture of rigors of iconoduly but rather a consecrated wit with the persiflage of conversant tones of labile and lissome gallantry just waiting to alight upon the affectionate dance with dalliance of a philandered hope for a purified love hopefully never profaned by the pangs of scandal (note the sardonic pun) because rejoice is the gift of Heaven upon this culmination of purpose above the dross of shipwreck elevated in folly but stranded in the throes of rumination enough to hedge the boursocrats and try to inoculate the world from further panicky divisions of hypemongers of simpered precaution becoming a financial pandemic that deserves pause and poise but should not protrude above the glistening promise of the eternal wellspring of the vineyards of salvation blooming because enhanced sapience converted the flock of shepherds to tend to those sheepish in deficiency to wield a newer curiosity to replace a saddened lament not by acquiescent abandon but by the solidarity of interfaces of love replacing cast-iron idolatries I too am guilty of for the cordslave generation of itinerant distractions that wager on modicums rather than appraise bonanzas. Safety is predicated on the idea that resources should never be glazed but always apportioned with optimism because if you examine history irrational panics have always and always rebounded because of exigent actions taken by governments to restore confidence in liquidity rather than snide dismal dismissals of economic projections based on bounded rigged betrayals of primarily a global panic that a profoundly promethean intellectual verve could capitalize on its heyday to gouge people against the insensate balkanization of the future by an alienation of formidable scarecrow of invented fatalism imploding upon itself to obviate its own existence by the insistence on free thought to domineer and tower over the doldrums of a vacant man that is now occupied by the largesse of humane endeavor for a messianic voyage that consummates time itself its own captain and is partially centripetal around the juncture of All Saints Day 2008 because of its seminal significance in ushering in a new era of liberation. This justification is a gnomic axiomatic herculean ****** that catapulted generativity in creative endeavor to coalesce around an Army of Me not because of the futilitarianism embedded in its flagrant flagitious mockery of traipsed lyricism borrowed from Bjork but rather showcases the flavork of the flavenickers of ribald coarse revolution that is no longer balderdash to Bald Eagles but the prized retribution of the inviolable scruples demolished by deracinated moral relativism balking at raltention because of persnickety and tyrannical transparency that prepossesses over the lifeless livid Potemkin  Village  of Astroturf complaint malingering in pederasty over its own depraved sinuous course of diverted restraint cemented by the scythes of Village People politics benumbed over militarized betrayals that incur and invoke the diablerist prose of anonymuncle desperado mavericks that sizzle in hibernaculum to depose the autarky of seasoned growth rather than unseasonable diatribes of vitriol poisoning the posture of gentility by decree rather than by deeds of homogenized pasteurization against Lactose Intolerant Leftism and dogged doggerel of pasty subversive paranoiac hederaceous envy spawning a vituperative summation of a beatific felicity. We need to convene upon better tranceception in this axiomatic gratuity of God

“Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. I only just heard the sad, sad news of Robin Williams’s death. My wife sent me a message to tell me he had died, and, when I asked her what he died from, she told me something that nobody in the news seems to be talking about.
When people die from cancer, their cause of death can be various horrible things – seizure, stroke, pneumonia – and when someone dies after battling cancer, and people ask “How did they die?”, you never hear anyone say “pulmonary embolism”, the answer is always “cancer”. A Pulmonary Embolism can be the final cause of death with some cancers, but when a friend of mine died from cancer, he died from cancer. That was it. And when I asked my wife what Robin Williams died from, she, very wisely, replied “Depression”.
The word “suicide” gives many people the impression that “it was his own decision,” or “he chose to die, whereas most people with cancer fight to live.” And, because Depression is still such a misunderstood condition, you can hardly blame people for not really understanding. Just a quick search on Twitter will show how many people have little sympathy for those who commit suicide…

But, just as a Pulmonary Embolism is a fatal symptom of cancer, suicide is a fatal symptom of Depression. Depression is an illness, not a choice of lifestyle. You can’t just “cheer up” with depression, just as you can’t choose not to have cancer. When someone commits suicide as a result of Depression, they die from Depression – an illness that kills millions each year. It is hard to know exactly how many people actually die from Depression each year because the figures and statistics only seem to show how many people die from “suicide” each year (and you don’t necessarily have to suffer Depression to commit suicide, it’s usually just implied). But considering that one person commits suicide every 14 minutes in the US alone, we clearly need to do more to battle this illness, and the stigmas that continue to surround it. Perhaps Depression might lose some its “it was his own fault” stigma, if we start focussing on the illness, rather than the symptom. Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. He died from Depression*. It wasn’t his choice to suffer that.”

What does it mean to be a Chicano/Latino in the US?
What does it mean to be Black in the US?
What does it mean to be a minority in the States?
You know what that means...it means that we have a lot to prove  
As in the words of Booker T. Washington:

"When a white boy undertakes a task,
it is taken for granted that he will succeed.
On the other hand, people are usually surprised
If the [*****] boy does not fail. In a word, the [*****] youth
starts out with the presumption against him."

Now in a society where institutionalized racism,
Or racism without racists, prevails
We are disenfranchised from even being considered youth.
We are a bunch of wetbacks, idiots, *****...you name it,
Where failure is expected of us...

...but enough is enough, we should not abide to the stereotypes
And stigmas that society stamps on our foreheads.
As a matter of fact, I do not ever recall giving this white patriarchal society
My blessing to call me whatever the * it decides to call me.
We are here to take manners into our own hands, here to do whatever the heck our heart desires.
We are here to create the change that we wish to see in the world.
We are here to become the few & growing positive statistics that we fight for.
We are here to create voice and shed the light on those wins that we take to our hearts.

No one is here here to reflect the stereotype that this *** up society
Tries to slap us with on an everyday basis.
We are here to change perception of who we are and where we stand in society.
We are positive statistics...not a stereotype.

I want crazy, I want cranky
Let me be that old woman who gets mad easily
Let this misogynistic society grow so great it will never be over oh no
Crush me, objectify me
Romanticize the way I dehumanize myself
Discriminate me
I am the stigmas, don't free them from me
I will drink your *** and be happy
Break me, let me crumble
I am a lump of inedible meat
Make a bet on my rushing blood
Don't lose, don't lose oh you will win for sure
Just say it and ***** on my mouth
Don't let me have worth without you
I am lesser than a slave, don't let me stare at your eyes
Play with my broken bones, cut my veins as you please
Make me beg, step on me
I am watermarked and it says your name
And yes this heart beats for you to stop
It can start again if you say so
You are the God, just do everything you want, just do everything you want
I can't not take it
I am inanimate
I am inanimate
I am inanimate

these thoughts...
they are my own,
walled within the deepest recesses
of my
cerebral labyrinth.

sprouting out of vine covered walls,
are multicoloured blooms
brandishing thorned stems
and
thirsty stigmas,
dripping with
absinthe.

mind full of poison in
permissible amounts...
i am caught in a
web of restless stupor,
anguish...
and regression...

these thoughts...
rationed out sparingly,
for they're not for unready ears
blooms of thought meticulously
triaged before
necessary expulsion.

hairline cracks between
insanity
and peace...
i tread precariously
the fine,
meandering line.

still clutching my flowers
in a tight obstinate grasp...
not letting go
for these tainted blossoms
are
undoubtedly
mine.

Upper East Side
The Hamptons
Aspen, Colorado
The plastic people
Follow each other
Moving in herds
Like cattle to the
Slaughter

Drifting
Floating
Shifting focus
From one charity event
To another
Whatever’s trendy
Whatever’s fashionable
Whatever’s happ’ning
Whatever’s the need
Tainted new artists
Society’s rejects
The film-maker who fits in with
The flavor of the month
The disease or the cause
That captures the moment
Stigmas overlooked
Deformities relieved
By one hyper exertion
By one pseudo good deed

Changing bedrooms
Changing partners
New alliances
Noblesse oblige

Mrs. Astor’s
Four hundred
Reinvented forever
Reinvented with fervor
On the edge
Of hypocrisy
Keeping up with the Jones’s
Maintaining the houses
Paris, Rome, Cote du Jura
Malibu, Palm Beach
Couture fashion
Madison, Rodeo
Worth avenues united
Avenues of the liege

Location, location, location
The right address unspoken
Dinner in the right places
Sporting events to be seen
Three martini luncheons
Halcion evenings
Business is business
Where money’s retrieved

Look to plastic people
For fashionable guidance
No matter the moment
No matter the need
Remember to catch them
While jetting to Santa Barbara
Saint Maarten, San Troupe
San Marco, warp speed
They live in their milieu
Can’t function outside it
Can’t follow a shadow
That others believe

It’s easy to find them
They leave behind footprints
But barely a mem’ry
Or singular creed
Other than finding
The latest in fashion
The latest persona
Or new plastic breed

Then :

Stigmas shredding this rough frame
Strips of blood
boiling, wanting to explode
I feel their anger
I hear their shrieks, their war cries
I don't listen.
These monsters and me
are at war.
                                                            ­                                                  Now :
                                                               ­    Soft pink caressing this canvas
                                                          ­                                          Calm rivers
                                                                ­             nurturing, bring it to life
                                                            ­                                I feel their peace
                                                           ­  I hear their hummings, their odes
                                                            ­                               I sing with them 
                                                           ­                 my stretch marks and me
                                                                ­                                           are one.

Here’s to us
to the next generation
Here’s to us
to the first generation with shorter life expectancies than our parents
to the next generation to create the most lethal weapon
Here’s to us
to another generation that is perpetuating stigmas around *** and ****** preferences
to the next generation to create cancer causing chemicals
Here’s to us
to another generation keeping racism and sexism alive
And here’s to us
to the next generation to **** up the next generation!

Yeah, here’s to us and all the distress
we cause
Yeah, and here’s to us and all the mess
we cause

No!
Here’s to us
to the next generation
Here’s to us
to the generation craving to live deeply and fully
to the next generation that will fight for our rights as blacks and whites
Here’s to us
to the generation that understands that sexuality is fluid
to the next generation to walk for; work for cures
Here’s to us
to another generation of protests agains lies and fights won with mighty pens
And here’s to us
to the next generation to create the next generation.

As a young girl,I was taught that I shouldn't hate boys,I shouldn't fight back to them regardless of what they did to me because it wasn't ladylike,they probably only did it because they liked me and boys will be boys,right? I tried to remind myself that when in fourth grade,I went home with cuts and bruises because a boy was ****** that I did better than him on our English test and he wanted to get even with me.I didn't fight back because as my teacher had always said,"that's just how it is,honey,boys will be boys".It was one of the two things that she had said to me that never left my mind,along with the reminder of how a real boy and a real girl can be distinguished from the "others".
I was twelve when I was molested repeatedly but I didn't do or say a thing except try to get out of this *****,wretched skin because it was probably my own fault, I shouldn't have such precocious ******* at an early age.
Ha!What was I thinking?Going through puberty like that,looking all sexualized when I know that grown men cannot control their urges.
Stupid little girl, how could she forget that boys will be boys?
I was thirteen, when I was told about the "proper" way to dress and act because I might provoke the boys and they could be ruined for life.
I was fourteen when I was first told what my hips,my thighs,my legs,my bottoms and my chest should be like,in the way that most boys like.
Because the only way I'll ever validate my existence is when a boy takes me as his and to do that I should be what most boys like:
not too tall,not too short,not too skinny but also not fat,witty,funny and smart but I also need to know when to shut the hell up.
And I can't change that because it's the unspoken rule in our world,and no,I can't try to convince the boys either (my ability to know when to shut up is put to use here,because it doesn't matter if you're the oppressed, you need to shut the hell up and grovel before the patriarchy just like everyone else) because that's just the way they are and boys will be boys.
I was fifteen when I witnessed the torture that some of my guy friends experienced because they acted like "girls",as if my gender is an insult, as if being a girl automatically makes you weak and helpless.(Since when did being supposedly invincible and not crying made a boy a real man?I don't think that's what real masculinity is about.Does being a real man or woman come with corresponding terms and conditions?)
It was only a few months ago when a ****** walked free despite destroying the life of a college girl.He did not get convicted because she was reportedly drunk and he was a boy and boys will be boys. (So, who will take the blame?the alcohol or the girl?were they the ones who forced themselves on someone against that someone's will?)
This case took me back to a decade ago when one of my best friends was sexually abused by an older man but nobody helped him, they told him to just toughen up, **** isn't real for him because he was a boy and boys will be boys.
And I wonder,when will these monsters finally be convicted for their crimes?
When will the guilty boys be held accountable for their actions?
When will the pain of other boys finally be considered valid,when will being of the *** that they are stop making them "not really victims"?
When will one's gender stop being an excuse or in some cases—serve as a derogatory name?
When will the screams,cries and pleas of women abused and victimized everywhere be loud enough for you?
Loud enough so that you might actually feel their agony creep in your bones,consume your whole being that all you'd want to do is crawl out of your skin,loud enough so that you might actually begin to understand how it feels like to be us,objectified and dehumanized,loud enough so that you might actually hear the pleas of boys and other men everywhere,asking to be freed from gender roles that limits their ability to exist beyond labels or to feel pain.
I wonder just when will you stop using my gender as an insult,just when will you stop telling the world how a real man or woman should be?
Please do tell because the little faith in humanity that still resides in us is slowly fading.
From where I see it,I feel as if there's no hope.
There will be no hope as long you all remain slaves to bigotry and the patriarchy.
I guess,there's no hope for your mothers,daughters,even other boys and young girls like me as of this time.
And maybe,when another rabid man decides that he wants as his meal for the day,like I am meat,like I am something to be consumed and spent,I would just have to accept my fate.
Maybe,as my lifeless and ravished body lies motionless in an alley somewhere, you would be shaking your head, condemning the girl who was stupid enough to walk alone at night,unaccompanied,the girl who was "asking for it" because she wore "revealing"clothes,the girl who probably got what was coming for her because she didn't know when to shut her mouth,the girl who thought she could exist the way she wanted when she knew full well that there are rules,stigmas and that boys will be boys.
-W.L.A.C

It would start like a bubble
in my seven-year old chest,
An ever-expanding ball of
doom, substituting my breath

I was a child, yet I knew death,
I would try inhale- silence
I would hope it would fix itself
but, when I'd try exhale- silence

There was ugly music though,
It rose as I forced my ribs to expand,
Jarring, polyphonic, cacophony,
Of airways brutally locked and jammed.

When a child learns to measure April
nights, with the hours spent in the pain
Of coughing through close-to-nil breaths,
And breathing through coughing again,

One wonders at the extent of the inhumanity
Of those, who are quick to discreetly say,
"Hush, do not speak of this illness to anyone,
It's no illness at all, in the first place!"

"And, here, take these magic pills and potions,
They're slow but will take away all her agony,
No no, don't listen to those white-coated liars,
You don't need puffs of drugs into her body!"

So I ate all those pills and
Drank all those potions,
And I stayed up those nights,
Waiting for their promised actions,

And I went to school the next day,
Groggy, breathless and sleepy-eyed,
Because not-being-seen with an inhaler was
More vital than the breaths of a seven-year old child.

Halloween is the one day a year all the people with stigmas against Cosplay drop it and Cosplay also.


Funny how stigmas are dropped if there happens to be an established cultural holiday.
Can you say "subconscious cultural double standards"?

we have been stripped from this
from this discerment between
what is
        intimate and private and public
        and a spectacle
        of its own

social stigmas and rules and plots
should they be followed, or
        understood
        ?

all should be seen but
none should be witnessed
by the
        distant ever-present all-encompassing
        eyes
        of the people

These lines on my crevice create chances
Massif trials I must triumph through
Alligning to parallel stigmas creating balance
I must find the power that denotes truth

I tussled my way in thrusting bricks of trust
Between the seams of pride
Throwing away fragments that denies
Death is so near but I feel so alive

Whatever it takes I will pull through
Miracles & Luck I've always believed
Fighting every enmity that ruptures me
Denying that I'm dying is my bulletproof

I dare to dream
I dare to believe
Igniting the fire in my heart
Flames of courage within me
I will fly like a lark
Burning through the dark

So take my hand and you will see
Just how simple it is
*If you just do it
If you just believe

At the going down of the sun
will the world be less complete,
the cinched robe of night less intolerable,
as she ebbs away on cosmic string,
emulating a massless, dazed neutrino
blinking in and out of existence,
unobserved and uneffected,
liquored and unloved?

In the wake of a June flowering,
when foxglove lures the honeybee
in six day flash, bud to corolla,
blossom to blossom, parade of stigmas,
digitalis stamen braved, anther at his back,
the bee comes gathering where none else dare.

flesh concious since
my mom caught me and my cousin Anne naked in that old beat up rusty hulk of a truck right next to the outhouse
playing show me yours
at five years old and scolded us like satan's spawn
several psyches through my tale
I decided to live with it
got naked one day
ran through the ******* middle of town
plucking flowers from gardens and graves
had several pinned in my hair by
the time the constables caught me trying to
steal a shrubbery from the
garden center at Wal-Mart

(history)

Quell the bard was silken-clad and ever young.
her flute connected earth and sky,
tamed lightning in the higher notes..
her ancient horse would winnie to her song
of endless breath she blew her story even into stone.
having borne the stigmas of a *****
her martial prowess struck,
trampled disrespect to cacophonic dust
while over hills and vales he carried her--
a love-sick equine heart at peace at last upon the road
between her thighs, commanded loyalty of beasts and men.
none claimed her for their own,
though some risked instant death to try

..stirge beaks tap on bones and rock
to seek corrupted blood of elven kings,
who having reigned and fallen
to a royal troglodyte of dragon times,
paint each eon with ambivalence...
i conjure what my heritage beholds
--reclusive double-tongue to hoard all words,
reinvent religions for a lark

what legend am i privy to the making of
that hasn't had its underwires stripped,
hung about a square in lewd display of Fact
to purge a sense of mystery awry?

i am alone within my fantasy.
its symbols still mythologize my i.
i will not bare it here, or anywhere--
concealment is its freedom, and its boon--
in which a frame of tenuous material appears

where antidote addictions cycle musically,
the timeline's summoning
a game of recompense, compensating wanderlust
won by whim and licorice for thought;
it finds familiarity untamed--
adolescent anchorage aweigh--
adventures into wildernesses lost




.

i'm walking down the street
bare feet, without a care
**** uber, metro, I hate public transportation,
i'm dirtying up this sidewalk, for a few years already
i'm writing down a will, in my mind, close to my eyelids,
because i'm on the wrong side of my mind
i feel sick, tasting the bitterness of humanity
when I wipe mankind on the side of the pavement,
at the very deep, there's masculinity mixed with *****,
i'm walking down a bridge full of empty shells
i pass hordes of girls who are smiling insincerely
and again, i feel a boost in my veins
and again, i'm louder than mirrors
and as in the mirrors, voidness space,
and it is me, who takes the best from it
i absorb this poisoned air.
In the ears of mine, i can hear electro heat,
i feel like one man one Jean-Michel Jarre,
rain is pouring through me, sticks to me like fog,
i wrap myself in the warmth of two MDMA's,
someone glances surreptitiously and steals my soul,
you have a backpack full of cash, i have a suitcase full of emotions,
i'm going on a journey through the cursed city
like a hermaphrodite with a broken rod,
streets, like stigmas, cry with hollow screams,
in front of clubs content abortions on the sidewalk,
let's leave this lie, like the walking dead
assertiveness and pride to the gutter washed away.
And again, this booster is kindling my veins
i'm dirtier than a new jerusalem
and similar to it, i'm sticking to everything
and so I'm taking the most out of my heart
and I absorb this poisoned air once again.
and so the booster flows through the aorta
it is flooding my tarred heart,
destination reached.
and my wallet is shimmering with bitter crystal
nothing will change the course of this chemistry,
betrayed. betrayed by their own bodies
vidi, no vici, veni on its own,
and i'm catching a laugh, standing still in the subway
i am still absorbing poisoned air.
hatred.
jealousy.
i've seen enough.
today, in my city, sun rises in the morning.
you will remember this day forever or forget it for eternity.

I waited for an elevator
It was an exceptionally long pause,
And there was a group of three arguing
Over the meaning of a clause.

I knew the answer to their query,
But questioned if I should reply.
Social stigmas can be strange
So I decided to be shy.

They searched their minds,
They racked their brains,
And I just stood there -
The answer boiling on my tongue.

My elevator arrived just then,
And I reluctantly stepped inside.
The doors closed slowly, slowly,
And I heard their voices die...

...So it is with my faith.
Many people are searching
And I have the answer,
But I am too afraid to speak.

So I step inside an elevator,
And lift myself above their problems
Pridefully rejecting the searching
Of those who need an answer.

There was a fog that seemed to hover thickly
over the perceived salience of his musings
  
It was as if there were a veiled mystique
that left hopeful understanding ,
                   ambiguously obscured ...

His soul's cadences fell beyond the pale ,
like a reverberant iron bell’s clamor ,
                   drowning acumen ;

albeit , unmistakabe crystal clear allusions ,
scanning inwardly, rhapsody in his mind's eye

                    Illusive accord ,
                    beclouded by seeming stigmas
                    borne of the flesh ;
                    delicately sensitive nuances ,
                    misunderstood imperfections ,
                    bespoken utterance weighed heavy upon heart ...

In the hush of pensive repose ,
flow of soul streamed forth from its retreat within ;
bequeathed as if darkness
was magnetically drawn towards light ,
purging muted understanding ...

                    Assuredly seeking all questions with verve ,
                    accepting , that all answers sought
                    are not meant to be understood

A realization of those who wish to speak yet abide unspoken ;
the unseen mark of those that wished they had been loved ,
befallen the music of a thundering heartbeat ,
understanding a circle is vulnerable ,
only makes it stronger ―

                    hence ,..
                    it had been written
                    in countless misunderstood ways ...

Knowing he resists an inner-voice to endure silently
for a fear of that which remains indelibly writ ,
tattooed on introspective walls
far removed from the afterglow of light ,
where depth of soul yearns to be freed ;

                    heart speak hushed , deft words avowed
                    in enigmatic tongues ― Vayu doth whisper

                    soul's prevailing tides ebb and flow
                    from unseen depths , permeating
                    deeply within inner realms

The spirit of soul once steeped his heart’s intone :

               "Spell words that bind together passing strangers  
                 Coalesce  thoughts to inspirit those whom often walk alone
                 Append the goodwill of poetry, aspiring to bond individual
                 hearts and minds with words of love and light.  
                 Conjure written  spells to bespeak sincerely ,
                 a faith in unabated love"

and yet ,   he will write it again and again ,.. searching beyond words

…words grasped from emerging thoughts
                   drawn in to the light
                   searching for other adept words
                   to recite yet another way ,
                   sketch another word-scape ,
                   written with the relentless inexhaustibleness
                   of an unstoppable awakening ...  

Another winter dawn imbues a new day come to light

                   he will write it again and again ,

                                          ... finding another way to be set free ...



                                                          ­       Harlon Rivers

Rio can have its lava lamp spectacular,
i have my Van der Graaf Generator,
studying lightning and brainwaves
(the **** you can find on suburban streets -
as they say: the best things are for free);
trees and roots upside-and-out akin to branches
stretching for the paparazzi tropism -
wannabe junkies through and through the U.V.
glittering additions.

Damocles and global warming;
it's hanging, a birth of the guillotine -
America is armed, give it a sneeze
and the public will be ready for an insurrection,
we basically marched back to the 1960s
without a Martin Luther or a Malcolm X...
people are testifying a need for leadership,
the C.I.A. and F.B.I. are on the prowl
to subdue it... if this was the ice age
i'd eat you, ******... i got bored
of chicken, let's see what you taste like;
the revision of Damocles' sword hanging over
all of us... believe me, the Arabs are fine,
they can stand this kind of heat,
they'll fry us all on a Ferrari sports-car revs
from that carbon monoxide **** ****** at
for brain damage and a ***** **** under a niqab;
me? i'm as politically correct as politicians
are on a Wednesday in Parliament during the P.M.'s
questions: ridiculous, ridiculing, ergo double
agitated... take your defence of apathy elsewhere,
into your safe-circle and dance me the ******* tango
while shadow boxing. i'm as politically correct
as the prime minister and as much as the shadow;
pulpit plonker of Peckham that was needed as a
plumbing pecker of assured speech getting the job done.

this is the revised version of b.m.i.,
i vouch like a scout that my personal library
weighs more than my body,
******, i'd eat you, no questions asked;
i'd eat you, the corpus christi curse right back at you,
Moses was a former army general,
he exploded outside of society,
Christ the Redeemer was catching carrier pigeons
by clapping inside society, the effects
came later, Grecian,
only an enriched literary civilisation could have
made profane remarks about the Jews...
what with Plato et al., the four gospels
really did miscarry the treasures of the tetragrammmaton,
that's the only Jesus bit i don't like,
well, it's pretty much all of the Jesus bit -
attacking religious figures like Elijah and the Baal priests,
he attacked but the religious cults under the Romans
flourished... then came the northern invaders of Rome
not really bothered by what the Greek wrote...
**** is this?! the **** is this?! you forget they lost
the runes and said: well Latin is the *******
for encoding hush and sepia, let's keep it,
start afresh, keep the coliseum rotting.
so much for human rights: chop the head off
and long live Charles I... keep him rotting in a cell
and you're inventing zoology, hardly human...
most men would rather the chop-off than the chaining...
vegetables in 2 cubic metres, hardly human...
**** it, most are like: end it, quick! don't make me
a loiter with my crimes... but of course the sadists won
and things collected dust...
the story was: don't read books, write something
original... Gaza strip would make the perfect novel
archetype -but subsequently loose your human empathy
allowance - somehow finding it in Oxford, half-******
and half-the-time missing the plot, to no one's bother.

yes, b.m.i. (book mind index), all that god is dead got me
thinking while we're obsessing about diets and
eating vegetarians... **** me, ain't i the cannibal tonight?
Rio... it's all Rio's fault... the ******* lava lamp and my
prize for going to buy the spirit of St. Paul's cathedral **** -
my own, van der Graaf generator -
along with the band, all classic **** given prog rock
introspection done by the one famous magazine Mojo -
no, not mojito - jackal, joke, jumper, jazzy,
south american ha or the Mexican Xavier's achoo cha ha cha
(i admit, Michael Jackson's version of: pope checks whether a choir
boy is castrated to sing the high-notes).

well, the plan is to drink yourself to death -
**** this place and **** it twice over if i am the spaghetti
with a chance of meatball genius to save it -
i'm not a coward, i'm just practical... the dinosaurs never
had so many paradoxes running through them
when Michelangelo did the meteor sequence,
after the Welsh and the Chinese intuitively drew dragons.

this is is the perfect time to be loners and childless -
it's a time when death and god is clearly explained,
but an en masse suicide pact is harder, unless you express
human pride and human vanity as the sourcing secret -
i did a mini course on sustainability beneath my
prime: chemistry at Edinburgh... can i say it was like
g.c.s.e. history? any idiot could do it.

or as was the case with political correctness with the recent
attacks in London - the English uber way of saying it
politely, they're campaigning for a loss of stigmata in
this branch of medicine that, for some strange ******* reason,
everyone gets involved and is suddenly a ******* expert -
i don't know how many ordinary civilians
claim to have degrees in psychology... too many by my count.
all those campaigns to relieve the stigmas on mental health
in order to "keep the public united" after such attacks
simply back-fired - like everyone depressed or anxious
would simply slit some stranger's throat, because
of a "history" - no amount of eloquent cover-ups will discourage
people from seeing what they see, media freedom allows
for per se manipulation - shadow-people tricks -
the other form of spying.
if it wasn't a terrorist plot why mention the Somali heritage?
could just have said he was Norwegian...
so whatever campaigns there were to ease the stigma
surrounding mental health issues just backfired -
only to keep the ethnic divisions intact in the agglomerate
of social cohesion - to be honest, mental health isn't
even a medical concern... it's a political tool for
exploiting harsh scenarios - and this
medical schism is pretty much akin to
the Sunni v. Shia division in Islam - or the 1054
great schism; i have absolutely no idea why or how
it happened, or when... but this isn't a religious topic,
it's a medical schism, and i'm assuming the anglophone
world is primarily prone to it... as an outside i have
my unique perspective... this isn't religion... it's medicine
for crying out-loud!

are these psychologists and quasi and alter counterparts
prescribing medication like penny-sweets?!
because they ******* are! humanists that have no right
to prescribe medication, but merely talk...
oh wait... didn't i hear some cultural critic write that
words are nothing? so we communicating in ******* Braille then?
words are the primary data imprints we all need,
i'm not writing in a language to make it my own -
but there this massive schism in medicine at the moment,
somehow not reading philosophy in western society
never got to grips with Cartesian materialisation
of i think into i am - i can answer for that -
mental illnesses are subtler than a leg infested with
gangrene - but they're still physical ailments -
obviously not as rainbow as a gangrene, but there can't
be a schism, because too many amateurs and sadists will
exploit the schism... there's also the necessary claim
for thinking and being to reach the ergo equilibrium -
by unnecessarily treating a thinking pattern
that does not really deviate into stabbing someone
will only encourage all this proto Narcissistic crap...
and you'd think that polytheism died under the 21 grams
worth of certainty that the soul exists with monotheism...
that's the strength of Greek polytheism
(and Indian polytheism, i.e. it didn't adopt a monotheism),
meaning that it's philosophical background ensured
that the revision of Hebraic in its hands gained so much
popularity as Christianity - but Narcissus is a telescope
to introspect - i blame Narcissus for the medical schism
we're now experiencing - mental health and the imaginary
fifth limb.

this schism is the result of subduing religion -
at first it was a wise move, i admit that i wouldn't
want to be on the Inquisition rack -
but when violence was perpetrated on us
we held a stealth belief that it would end -
but after we internalised this violence
there seems to be no end; another schism
was bound to pop up somewhere, i'd never think
it would be in the medical category:
due to the failures of reading philosophy,
bypassing Kant, phenomenology and the existentialists
to simply write a profit-banking book:
philosophy for dummies (+ ****** et al.).

When did feminism become a taboo?
When did equality become uncool
Men not superior to females
Us not superior to them too.
When did I become the taboo?
When did this become uncool.

So I wish we are all square and blue
true, it'd make dating difficult
but what'd you do,
you'd talk to people
true
*** would be awkward
too angles
too many rights
won't create create the sweetest wrong
but at least we'd break the taboo

No colour
No gender
No looks
apart from the individuals descriptions

Believe: I am female
I am male
without doing a cursory glance up
and down
believe: I am intelligent
I am creative
without checking my pigment or
my ****

because I am done with it
I am tired non-acceptance
Snap decisions
Stubborn judgements

it's nothing personal

No, you made it personal
You stole a personality
Smeared it
Said it was wrong
Said I didn't belong.

So I wish we were square and blue
No stereotypes
No stigmas
No ***
cos maybe we don't deserve it yet.
If all we see are
pigment
genitals
and stereotypes.

To be a Mrs Joe
or become a lady
Havisham?
I weep for him
I weep for him
I weep for him and me.
I lose tears salted with his stress
or his concealed thoughts plugging up
his brilliant mind
i weep
about him, about me
about us

there's no shame in being pure
we're all pure at once
there's no shame.
To him there is.
in the doubts of his voice and tongue
there is shame.

i love him.

i love him with everything i have
everything i see
everything i believe or know
i willingly give to him but
he loves me not.
ill slip him some purple petals
dipped in yellow stigmas or become
a ghost of a girlfriend.
a ghoul of a lover.

one insignificant link in a long shackled chain of
exs
forever bound in his vast memory and mind
as
"*****" "cow" "****" "ungrateful" "unworthy"

Am I Cleoparra?
Mrs Joe? Havisham?
Estella?

I have no twinkling green eyes
i have no slender waist or
vast, indefeatable wit
i have no enigmatic undeniable beauty
That would quake the heavens and make angels sing and string Apollo's lyre
or beam such light that would Diana's breast
i am insignificant
.unspecial.
he is special.

i believe in no such god
but he would be my proof
my tear of hope
a small ray of belief and defiance
tearing apart a black unbelieving universe

i am a passing pair of peepers
he'll see a million as insignificant as i

ill only know a love like this
once.
For him.

he should live forever
he will
if not this world in a wasteland

am i Estella?
Cleopatra? Mrs Joe?
Miss Havisham?

I wonder sometimes
What it is the that people see
When they look at me
What it is that people notice first
It never ceases to amaze
Just how many seem to have
A hard time really classifying me
I think that we tend to classify people in general
Its often very easy to just
To automatically make assessment off of what we see
We almost have a harder time
Dealing with the people that are ambiguous
That we can't classify right away
Than the people that seem to fit
The stereotypes
Or are preconceived ideas
About how we think
People should behave
Or even look
And if people don't
Automatically fit
Into our neat little boxes
And into a neat little
Classification
Its almost like we repel those people
Somehow it scares us to see people
That don't fit into our ideas
Our ideals of normalcy that is based
On social constructs that we have
Built ourselves
I think we need to step
Away from putting people
In small boxes
We need to start really
Looking at people
Getting past the stigmas
And the social constructs
That we put on certain people
And seeing the person for who they are
Everyone is lost in their own ways
We all could use a little help here and there
But when you automatically
Shun someone
Or push someone aside
Based on superficial constructs
You ultimately end up alienating them
But you are ultimately alienating yourself
Living in lies and false fears
That are based on false precepts in the first place
We all want to be seen as people
We all want to have our own voices
To have our own views
Without worrying about being judged
Or classified by anyone
We are all human
We all deserve to be treated as such

A POETIC MONOLOGUE

Romeo, romeo
wherefore art thou Romeo
Why are you Romeo?
Why must I be attracted to Romeo?
Was it God that made me this way?
The Christians will scoff
and they will judge
and they will say
“It's a choice that you yourself make”

Is this what you believe?
That every struggle I go through,
every ignored prayer I've ever prayed,
every tear I cried,
was all happening by my own choice?
You would dare to sit there
and hold me in judgement
and tell me that none of my feelings are real?

And you tell me that I have a choice to make,
that I can choose life or choose death.
Choose who you will follow!
As for you and your house,
you will serve the LORD.
And I came to the conclusion
that's you're absolutely right.
I have a choice to make,
and here is what I have decided:

I choose life.
Life lived how I want to live it!
Not dictated by someone else's morals
handed down to them by some
ancient blood god.
No, this is life as I choose it!

A life of loving someone
until you feel like they are a part of you.
A life of selflessness
in that you would die just to save them,
A life of laughter,
of tears,
of fights,
of make ups
and tender moments.
Is that really all that different
from what you have?

I choose to break out of the mental *******
that you programmed into me
throughout my entire life.
I choose to believe that our Creator
would not give us the ability to love like that
and then punish us eternally for doing it.
I choose to break free of fear
of stigmas and prejudices and ideas
that make no logical sense.

So you asked me my choice,
and now you have it.
Ostracize me!
Label me!
Gossip about how perverted I am
among the other church hens!
Your ******* will no longer hold me back.
Your scare tactics and your unreasonable hatred
will only add fuel to the fire of the rage
that you yourselves have kindled.
Perhaps you could even say
that my anger is fueled by the hell fires
that will one day consume me.

There should be no shame in loving Romeo.
As Juliet said as she stood there,
her love far below,
“Deny thy father and refuse thy name, 
Or if thy wiltnot,be but sworn my love, 
And I'll no longer be a Capulet.”
Montegue and Capulet,
their love forbidden.
Their families against them.
And one said to the other
“Forsake those who oppose us to be with me.
Or if you will not forsake anyone,
then I will forsake those who discourage me.
To be with you.

That my Christian family will ostracize me
when they find out
does not bother me.
That many friends who are Christians
will suddenly have no time for me
does not bother me.
What bothers me is that you could be so cold
while claiming to have the love of God
that you would treat people this way.
Where's your compassion?
Where's your mercy?
God commanded you
to have those things too.
I guess picking cherries
doesn't just happen in orchards.

I wish I had a voice.
I wish I was someone that people listened to.
I would tell people to love without question
and NEVER
let anyone
tell you who you can love.
Stand up and be proud,
and proud of the ones who love you so much.
Grab life by the *****,
if you'll pardon the expression,
and stand up for what matters to you.
Show those who oppose you
that you love this person so much
that you would gladly forsake being a Montague
to be with them.
And that they would happily leave behind the Capulets
just for an opportunity to hold hands with you.

That I found someone
I would spend the rest of my life with
should be a happy moment for them.
That they'd turn it into such a moment of sadness
is heartbreaking beyond words to express.
Oh I'm not a member of your family anymore?
Oh I should lose your phone number?
Well played, Christian brothers and sisters.
Well played.
But I will not be discouraged.
I will not be swayed.
Must I forsake the Capulets to be with my love?
Fine.
So be it.

But let it be known now
that I will not be silent.
I will not cry off until
injustice has been broken
and humanity's darker side
falls into a dark grave
dug with it's own ignorance and hatred.
Until every person is free under the law
until every voice raised against us
finally falls silent.

Equal love, equal rights.
Peace, brothers and sisters.

sadness how could I ever forsake
the sacred?
indeed child sometimes
we seem to forget
where we come from
on our way to where we are
our current plans for tomorrow

i never forgot

i just didn't always remember.

stigmas of the past
social tap dance transgressions
left me aghast; mouth agape
confused marinating

it never mattered,
nothing did.

that was the motto
life long LSD lessons to follow
at times not adequate
others still so hollow
make room for others
and make room for tomorrow

Last night's Wim Wenders film Wings of Desire, not starring Adam
      *******,
great in the great tradition of Metropolis, Fellini, Children of
      Paradise, Ikiru, Open City.
This is not comedy though it can be funny overhearing people
      thinking,

the randomness of thought, data dots, circles with dots, sadness and
      silliness,
silly sadness, confusion, rarely a clear thought, not one logical
lucid progression. Deep art.

I'd like to do better than my best so far, write something with
      hydroxyapatite
that won't gather dust then become dust a neuron of
sweetness, an early morning bicyclist, a lost ghost or fallen angel

any form from which death might abstain or forego appetite.
Appearing to meander from subject to subject is my practice.
      Looking for solutions to the equations. Learning the changes then
      forgetting them.
The expressions emanating from mortal minds are broken stamens,
      sticky stigmas.

Striving for immortality,
some Spanish philosopher (who looks like Don Quixote)
says he understands and it's alright.

I will read what he wrote and probably agree
but is he immortal? Not his body, but his thoughts.
True, I say, but this also: Not his mind, but his thoughts. Unchanging
      and finite. Put them in a hatbox and pass them on as heirlooms.

To overhear the secret thoughts of others. Sharing and unsharing
      electrons, disrobing
and bathing. That is the purpose of poetry. Gargoyle twice. Did Wim
give each thought its own voice or use the same voice for all thoughts,
      every whim.

I see, I see it everyday. False smiles, different from the suburban trophy wife. These smiles tell their story. You've never seen these smiles, felt them? Then you haven't noticed yourself making them. "How are you?" To the cashier at the grocery store, followed by a smile. but really, you don't care how they are, your busy, I don't blame you, busy with nothing to do, I do it too. Simple hellos let others know your normal. What's normal? How many times has that argument been fought? 'what's normal'  I can tell you, but like anything, its all relative. Normal is being content having a good job holding some sort of stature being above those not normal keeping the social stigmas living them, naturally. I just realized I can't tell you what normal is without writing too much. Look at the magazines and those big T.V's
they can tell you better than me. But from what I told you... Being content. None of us are. You got yourself a good job, good job, you now have status among the living, good job, your not that alcoholic *** living on the streets, your not begging for change, you give it, not because you want to but to show that you have that to spare, good job, you are an outstanding citizen contributing the only way we realize how, by spending, good job, but, oh there's always a but,why, oh why the but, tell me my cups half empty, but I assure you sir, I've only drank a quarter of my coffee, my americano to be sure, in a 16oz cup to be surer, but to the but's, that is what we can call life, or reality. But what?! You hate your job and your bigger house only made you smile when you bought it and when you flush your demons down your ebony marbled **** catcher. I smile then too, the ladder that is and without the marble. but you still feel unfulfilled,
and still, yea, still, you don't know why, but your not content with not knowing, because then the boogie man is real and you look the fool, so we give our little smiles to tell the others "I'm normal" because we don't think we are. but, if they don't know,  then, its fine. But, thats not all. If you haven't noticed that 'habit' in you yet, then your smiling that same smile to yourself. Because if you don't know then your free. Free of the burden of fearing you don't know. Oh but brother, I don't blame you, no, I don't hate you, I do it too. I guess what makes me different is that I noticed. But, Does that really make me different? Does it really matter? I don't know. I don't know if I ever will. I'd like to say, "but thats okay" but my americano is almost gone, my cups about empty. If i was really content, then fear wouldn't be my 'companion'. Fear of money fear of love or lack of, really, fear of progressing, fear of failure, fear of moving back becoming less, not fear of death but of dying unnoticed. Fear of not being called of rejection of life. I've noticed, with myself, that when one fear grows strong, the other worries grow into fear, they rise to the surface, goop in my pores, suffocate me and I hear myself plea with death to take me so I won't have to take myself because everything would be easier done dead. But, I don't want to die, I want the easy button, but I don't want that,
but I do, then I get confused and lost in this push and pull which is my devil which is my angel tugging on my ears as i scream "Shut up! Shut the **** up!" Sometimes though, I remember to ask, to be honest with myself. Why am I  afraid? What am I afraid of? Is that really what I'm afraid of? Why am I afraid of that? Is it because of my past? Or because of urgency? I keep asking. Sometimes remembering hurts, but, thats how to clean your pores, I find it sometimes, sometimes i find what makes my devils grow. Most of the time I don't like it. Because I feel ashamed of it. Which is why I bury it deep. but, if you allow it to be, accept that it is true, to bare that shame. These fears are walls, friend. Pass through them. Are you still listening to me? Its okay if your not. Punch me in the ******* face because thats what you might think to do. Who am I to tell you your fears are just walls that rebuild if you break them down and close if you build doors, that these walls aren't solid, which is why you can pass right through them? Huh? Who am I?! I don't know. Just know though that I tell you to tell myself.
because I forget because I give better advice to others, because I should give that advice to myself, because I breathe, I think, I die.
We all die. But death is not different from life. Just like I am not different from you. But how do I know that when I don't even know who I am. Who am I but another but in life. I am that ant which carries the maggots, I am the creak in the door, I am why your car won't start, I am the sugar in your coffee, I am your god, I am god. But don't worship me. Worship yourself. you are the smell of the rotting trash.
you are the water we drink. You are god. Everything is. So what? So what's the point?To remember that we don't have to give each other false smiles anymore. The more of us that open ourselves, the more that will choose to open too. What does that mean? I don't really know. I have answers. But what are answers from another. An answer from yourself answers more. At least for me. Your worried if your right though. Right? Believe, Breathe, Be patient. Again, this I tell myself. Your still listening? Thanks. I end my rant to ****. Is that crude? rude?
But...

It’s funny sometimes what you find in the aftermath; amongst the smoldering debris and crumbling societies.  I knew that I was irrevocably in love with your dark side.  Contrary to your beliefs I think that if you love someone long enough they become yours.  You are mine.  I am yours.  It’s just how it works.  Though the chances of us ending up together burnt to ash, I find myself digging through that aftermath- through the smoldering debris and crumbling societies.  I may be looking for an explanation or more so perhaps I search for an excuse.
  I try to uncover what made me fall in love with you but when I get knee deep in the memories I find nothing; nothing? How could that be?  I find no trace or vapor trail.  Not a breath or exhale.  From the evidence one must surmise that love just happens and that it’s a curse to despise.  I haven’t discovered yet whether this love of mine for you will lead to my demise or if by some roulette of fate I’ll be spared the cruelty of destroying who I am because of what I’m afraid you’ve made me.
  I wish I could **** myself.  I wish I had the heart to take the easy way out of discovering myself- discovering how the world operates.  But I am far too arrogant to let sadness get to the better sides of me.  I want you there; your love a dagger and no exit wound.  Despite my wishes trust me when I say I’ve tried- tried to die.  Dying is a chore, something that can’t be done haphazardly.  The best way to be killed is lovingly and slowly.  If you’re dying correctly it’ll take 80 years and a million kisses from a woman, a woman like you.
  I swear that this affectionate way I harbor you is a hex.  My body is an altar, pentagrams and other witching scars, marks and stigmas.  But the scars tracing my body like blood veins are reminders, or more accurately they’re lessons.  If I had the opportunity to travel back in time and do everything ‘right’ I’d refuse.  This is what’s meant to be and somehow; by some twisted notions I am still convinced we’re destined to belong to each other.  When you love someone long enough they just start belonging to you.  There’s no deed or contract other than the love we share.  You’re mine.  I’m yours.  I don’t like it but that’s how things are and even though it’s ****** up I hold onto that simple truth.  There isn’t a lot of truth to hold onto in this world but I’ll hold onto you.
  Sorry that sometimes I lose my mind.  I get scared easily, by change, the future and a menagerie of other common things.  But you have always forgiven me and looking back into those ceaselessly flowing memories: that is why I love you; I love you immortally and with the strength of diamonds.  I love you because every time I lost my mind you said that you still loved me.  I love you because every time I tore your blade from its place (snug in my heart) you held your hand over the wound.  I love you.  I love you.  I love you.  I love you. I love you. I am asking you to do it again and I know it’s hard, but I am asking you to do it a million more times.  I am asking you to love me until I die; even if I die 80 years from now- Even if I die tomorrow.  Just let me go on thinking you love me immortally and with the durability of the ocean.
  Even though I’m your hex, your curse, the worst part of you I believe wholeheartedly that you’re the best part of me.  You’re my boon, my blessing, the best part of who I am.  It’s terrifying what you find in the aftermath; amongst the smoldering debris and crumbling societies.  I find though that when you love someone long enough they become yours.  You’re mine.  I am yours.

Could thou, sweet flower, grow in any garden
besides that closest to mine, just past the fence
that bounds my lush, ever-growing heart? And
weak shrubs cannot veil you, for lucid scents

prevent and taunt my tangled garden, green
and always lacking. At times I descry
those delicate petals kissed with color
and wonder – and wonder what could have been
had I not left your strong seeds out to dry,
had I overcome two stigmas' azure.

Regret is such a reoccurring dream.
I would soon whack redwoods and evergreens
that overflow my empty flower bed
and plant my cherished flower there instead.

Honey,
no matter how many indie songs I listen to
or how many times I think about
telling you I'm angry,
I still love you.
No matter how many times I get mad
and sit being my passive aggressive self
I love you.
Despite the fact that I connect with pictures about loss
and still use depressed in my description of who I am or
how I feel in counseling sessions or
that I make statuses about **** stigmas
I love you
and you have changed me.
So don't leave just because I tell you I feel lonely
or scared or sad.
Because baby, you cannot move away the mountains between us
or change the way Pangaea separated.
I'm here and you're there
and I have not yet found
a song about how passive aggressively angry
that makes me.