Hello snorer, I hope you didn't sleep any poorer
when I stayed up all night typing this not-poem
I meant you no harm, but I had to stay up
Because I couldn't make music out of your obnoxiously loud cacophony of windpipe crap, er "music".  Time to not-pretend to absolutely hate your snoring under the guise of being perfectly okay with it for the sake of setting the tone a bit nicer to all who must hear it, so they can BEAR to, for otherwise it would be absurd.  Not as absurd as anyone hating to have aural drills applied to all their chakras all night, but still absurd enough to get a chuckle out of me (I hope it didn't wake your fine specimen here). It was never my intent, though it was always my ethical concern (if only everyone could be as reciprocal as you and I).   Oh, my not-pretend hatred is very thinly veiled.  I wasn't totally defeated by your snore-sound armies so that I couldn't type words, but I may have lost some of my desired effect due to the sometimes wincing distraction they caused to my piece of mind at this or that time when I needed it the most (even though I was awake, which is no crime if snoring at night and keeping me that way isn't).

Well, I did ask you if you'd mind if I typed,
I did tell you that you could tell me if its quiet purr of clicks would bother your precious sleep
But I never felt a need to be concerned, because whenever I
was typing, I heard you snore, and whenever I was in the heights of
some new discovery or epiphany, your sharp sudden thunderstroke of near death
corrugated metal vibrating in the torrent of some sudden gale force gust of wind.

These were signs to me of your restful sleep.  So I simply didn't worry about your sleep.  I was certain that my electronic beeps were every now and then music to your ears, just as they were to mine.  This is because in the midst of these I heard you snore, and when you snored, I took you to be asleep.

Ah but then again, then again, these are fanciful constructions which simply say that what is wonderful for me should be just fine and dandy with you, at a bare minimum, and on those grounds of very unsymmetrical attitude about right and wrong I would have to begin my music tirade of words as well.  But I don't view justice and propriety along such selfish lines as these.

What I see is that duplicity is your thesis.  I have anecdotal accounts which are marvelous to behold first hand, but the details of the absurdities cannot be done justice in the language of men, for the intensity of such insanity can only be borne lightly by the frailest frayed ends of my sanity for having lived through your acoustically maddening inanity.

You didn't ever admit to me that my noises were not music to YOUR ears.  Indeed  you claimed never to be bothered by them because you never voiced up against them.  I suppose you might as well voice up against them in the street as well if it turns out not all of you snorers-go-a-viking types like to hear my mouse clicking away like a tapping noises on a metal plate in your skull.  Sorry if it is another non-snorer-who-must-stay-up-late-and-so-be-occupied person whose nocturnal joys were misinterpreted as direct assaults on the dignity, spirit, or just basic mental viability of your wounded snoremonster troop of anti-late-stayer-uppers, because in fact, we used to be sleep-at-night-entities like you, but that was before you showed up, thoracic marching band in tow.  Marching bands are musical also, to some people.  And for some all hours of the night are perfect for a marching band.  Who am I to tell them otherwise.  

Well let me know the next time a marching band is given special permit to come through your neighborhood at night, and I'll be glad to point out to you the first Snorer'sville, because only they should be expected, in all justice to live with the macroscopic manifestation of their personal narcissistic paradises.

Let you all go to your own place and form your own nation, and see if you can consistently demand everyone else find music in your ****** and accursed racket!  But until then I expect some of you will have to take the damage returned by the growing number of people who are very much tired of living under the horrors of your infliction upon us, your demonic and evil tyranny of mind-crushing hate that is your ****** noise.  We will do yoga and breathe, and stretch, and some light calesthenics to relax and seek some focus and composure, whenever our spirits require, and this will be unchallenged by you so long as you are asleep, and it will be unchallenged by you so long as you are awake too.  For in the latter case you are already awake (and so still are we, usually) while in the former case it is far quieter than your snoring, both in its valleys and peaks.  And moreover it has not kept you up, but in fact I have noted that you wake yourself up with your own music when it reaches a certain crescendo.  

Unless you want to say that those crescendos are some sort of involuntary complaint about MY crescendos of spirit, when I start typing about 20% faster than normal, with perfect focus and accuracy while reaching an aesthetic pleasure approaching ****** as I realize that it is almost unerringly in the midst of such an experience that I hear your crescendo resound. And since it was no more intended to be a distraction for me, then surely my music must have also gone undetected by your ears, as well as your spirit. Or is it fairer to say it was the very cause of your crescendo, or at least its inspiration?

Therefore I needn't worry that it is I that is keeping you up, even if for only brief stints at a time, especially by comparison to my all-night vigils.  Not so, but it is you who are so enraptured by my occasional laughs or giggles as I edify my weary, sleep-deprived mind on some bit of morale boosting entertainment.  With headphones on of course.  It's also courteously plugged into the computer to prevent my favorite bit of Judas Priest from hurting your ear drums, or else overstimulating your music appreciation centers, which are verily attached to your ear-drums by a nerve bundle (and what nerve you all have there).  This means I've spared you too much distraction from any already-abundant music of the spheres effect you may be savoring which might have emanated from my bumbling around in the dark (to keep the lights out of course, after all people are sleeping).

Yes but that is a minority of you perhaps, who would lie about that and in fact who ought to say that our nocturnal emissions are not what you'd call restfully mind-relaxing crickets in the dead of night with an occasional hoot in the distance...  But they are a minority, the rest of you are so definitely in good faith.

But then why do I always run into those of your tribe who have strange and unethical habits, such as destroying others' lives by ruining their one perhaps most preciously personal and inalienable need second only to air and water, and that is sleep.  It is, in terms of acute necessity, in many ways more needed than food, though in the long term food catches up.  But food catches up only because not eating food is a  lot like not getting sleep, but just a lot more intense on the body when it drops to some critical point because we know from experience it is on raw nerves that we can go for a while in search of food, but if the food can't be found (perhaps because of our lack of sleep ruining our cognition in some way), then we will not eat, nor sleep, because we'll be dead.  

But either way, we'll be dead, for lack of sleep kills, both directly and indirectly, if suffered over a short time and/or in a diluted form over a long time.  That would be poetically commensurate to the sadistic similitude of the types of snoring sounds with the types of ways to die from being deprived of sleep according to two modes (acute and chronic), over many keys of incident, accident, lost opportunity and ill-stared fate, all of which can be mapped in some way back to that auditory persecution of our very souls of which your kind are in some swelling numbers quite proud.  Just think of all the car accidents, work accidents, altercations, fits of rage, inability to concentrate well or sometimes at all, and other life-damaging conditions of the mind, and also of the body, which accrue from lack of proper and healthy sleep at night!

Good thing for most of you though, right?  Because surely our music is also sweet, and I really hope I've inspired many to face this need for equality, and be on their guard against any unjust whining or groaning from those who seem in point of fact to value their sleep just a good deal more than they value anyone else's.  Not only because they really really love to get those zzz's but because they think that in the natural order of things, before people suddenly went mad and evil, people went to bed and slept well even partly BECAUSE of this brachio-esophageal orchestral lullaby.

But we'll be on our guard against those complaints, because we know you have plotted to take to the streets against us to defend your noisiness-all-night-every-night rights.  So we'll be on guard to defend ours, TO THE LAST FIBER OF OUR BEING.

Because you insufferable ******* are cruel, and cruelty no one should abide.  No one in my world, in my society of people, will be allowed to inflict cruelty on another person, nor be callously prejudicial in their own favor when injuries do occur because of their actions merely on the grounds that the damage it causes coincides with the fulfillment of a need on their own part, even while that fulfillment is of a need which is obstructed from satisfaction in the other part, and by THAT VERY SAME REASON, so that your sleep depends on keeping others awake.  UNLESS you can somehow con or coerce them into developing some form of Stockholm Syndrome and confuse the torment you inflict upon them with a sign of your love and wonderfulness to be around.

Yes, I know you hear me typing now, through your well-behaved proxy.  I feel it. If not he per se, then in a parallel universe not too far off, there's a version of him who does.  Perhaps not the one I know now, on day one of having moved into this room, but perhaps one represented in this universe by someone who has found himself in some sort of circumstances found later on during his stay, this mixed with the fact that familiarity breeds contempt... He'll start making some righteous demands of some kind, and I might not be in a such a good mood about that due to lack of proper sleep, and this will coincide with said contumacy against my own rights (such as to breathe, type, surf the net, or do other nocturnal things other than snoring which might keep others up).

As to that last point in parentheses, snoring is an activity which you perform in conjunction with your getting sleep, and it therefore means not well for your notion of fairness to say things as they are, and simply say the truth, which is that your getting sleep deprives others of theirs, but it can be logically deduced.

It can also be logically deduced that the don't give flying **** if you don't like the fact that we don't like your ear-**** night after night, which is a good name as any, but should perhaps at times be amended to body-demolishing soul-****** of a mortally sinful nature, and with an ethical incongruity to good character of a person to maintain it, all the more to sings its praises to us and call it "good poetry".

Captured in the psych ward Part 11



You see Ron's grandfather died 10 years ago, and he was having these weird nightmares
As he was sleeping on the couch. And suddenly the phone rang at 4-30 in the morning
And it woke him up in a way that he fell off the couch and he ran to the phone and it was
The hospital and an 8 year old boy was rushed to the emergency room who had bipolar
And yes, he was saved, but he started to have these weird dillusions that Ron was his
Grandson, and yes, he demanded that the hospitals call up Ron cooper and when Ron arrived at the hospital the staff brought him to the operating theatre and Ron said hi
And the boy said, hello grand son and Ron was shocked, and said back to him, no buddy,
I am not your grandson, I am older than you, anyway, and the boy said he is Abriaim salie
The spiritual Buddhist leaders son, and he told me that Ron Cooper is your previous lives grandson and Ron said, ok your a Buddhist, well, they are really peaceful, but, what makes you say I am your grandson, and the boy said well, my dad said, he has the power to put a
Doctors grandfather in his wife's ******, to keep seeing them and Ron said, no I know nothing about your fathers beliefs but I know reincarnation as something that nobody can guess, but I would love to hear more about your beliefs and the boy said no dad said, no son of his is ever going to the psych ward, you see that is the nut house, and being a Buddhist
I mean that in the nicest kind of way, you see, Ron cooper is my grandson and the boy
Shared this with everyone and Ron went to the HDU to get Pete, who had these dillusions
That Jesus has healed him and the beliefs that came from an 8 year old boy were better than this messed up old man, but Pete, wanted to actually know, how he knows that for sure, he is only 8 and then his Buddhist father said, he had voices that no kid has ever heard before, and Ron asked him, how much TV do they watch, and his father said, I
Try and discipline them about what they watch on TV, but I am sure there is nothing on
Between 3-15 and 5-15 and I don't let them have a TV in their room, only because TV
Can spoil aura, of a child's beliefs, but then Ron said, it is great to see kids with an imagination, and TV is good for that, and the Buddhist said, yeah mate yeah, imagination
Is great but, being good in a spiritual way is great, so I want to find out more about your
Grandfather, because I don't want my son growing up, fighting me and breaking Buddhist
Code and be disrespectful and Ron left him and took Pete back and told Pete that not
Everyone has the same beliefs as you, I was trying to tell you that yesterday and then
Went into the HDU and Charlie said hi di partner and Ron said howdy mate, how did you sleep, and he said fine how did you sleep, well the Buddhists said my grandfather is an
8 year old boy on the operating table and Charlie said, he is crazy hey, and Ron said
He is about as crazy as you, saying you are silent movie actor Charlie Chaplin, and
Charlie said, but I am, Buddha said, in a dream, a few years ago, that I was Charlie Chaplin
And I lost my kid at the age of 23 and I wss devastated, I mean I was 23, and he was 6,
Mind you Ron, Buddha told me, my kid, is too much for me and my wife to handle and Ron
Said, it's hard to lose a child, and the new foster family thought so too, and Ron thinking
He lost his kid through death and said, have you thought, of trying to find your kid, and
Charlie said, I broke off with that ***** and started to have visions of being Charlie Chaplin
And I have no idea of if I ever see him again, but if you can find a way, I would go with you
Mind you it give me closure, cause really all I did back then was just drink beer in front of the television, watching the footy, and I was at the MCG for the 1996 grand final when
The kangaroos beat the swans, and I cheered and partied all night with the Roos, and
When I got my kid, I said one day, I will take you to a grand final,one day, but, we never
Made it, and it looks like we never will, and I have been in this ****** psych ward for
So many 3 weeks stints, cause I really want to be with my son, but, the adoption agency
Keeps ******* me around and it drives me really crazy, Ron told Charlie, what is your real name, if you feel safe enough to tell me, and Charlie said it is Noel Gordonsmire, but I hated
That name as a kid, but I grew to like it, but when my kid and wife left me, I said **** Noel
I am Charlie chaplin, and I am a real person, and I really did do a silent movie, my parents
Tried to get me into a few groups of today's silent movies and I enjoyed them, and that is why I am Charlie Chaplin and Ron said goodbye and clocked off and went to the coffee shop and had a milkshake a cappuccino as well as a vanilla slice and Fran said how was your day, and Ron said, this kid, was brought into the emergency room claiming to be my
Dead grandfather and his Buddhist father gave me a Buddhist teaching and I found out Charlie chaplins new name, who is another Noel, and he had a kid taken from him by an adoption agency, mind you, this man, looks to me, he could be a great father, and he is
Heavily into the kangaroos footy club, when he gets out, I am shouting him to a footy game
I am promising that tomorrow and Ron went home and half left over Chinese and sat
On his balcony and watched the cars down on the road, you see, he really had a change of heart, or maybe a spiritual change, Buddhism really sunk in today, he say there, for hours
And hours, looking really serious,


Sent from my iPad

My friend and I talk about it
Neighborhood got decimated this year
One after another the corners of community are gone
We touch the elder memories
as one might touch a head in blessing
as loved ones pass

We linger longest over John

Found dead after ten hot days
by other-worldly hazmat crew
flanked by cruisers
with their special, yellow truck
and zipper bags

...found 'im
glasses folded neatly on the night stand
in his jammies
all tucked into bed

No one thought it strange
that strange young guy would die
already decomposing in his head
Lost
among his personal effects
his fleet of rusting cars
and half-assed projects
Deck tacked to garage
his herds of “pets”

Easy to pretend he wasn't really there
between jail stints or some imagined threat or theft
of crap
haunted by the shadows of his persecutors
caught in motion lights
and cameras' blinding evidence of
jungle-jumble and malfunctioning alarms
going off in the wind
Everyone's out to get his stuff
We could dismiss him--

mostly
sorta

...except for times
he mowed his grass at night
or hand-built “the lunatic tower”
just for mom
from scavenged scraps and
hammered hours
power-sawed
through the housing codes
and horror
of the neighbors...
...Such a special spectacle...

******* crazy-- John!

He was enough for one day at a time
like when

he flung that threatening bolder
on bilco doors
for percussive effect

"Get off my ******' property!”
(not using his “inside voice")
“Next time, that'll be your head!!

He announces his intent
to not get mad, behave himself
to call the cops on me instead
Fake-dialing
While his mother screams in dread
“John is off his meds!”

My phone is set to speed dial
911
__

“How did we miss this?
How did we not miss him those quiet days?”

How we miss him now
How quiet

We, the invisible reasons for your problems, blind ourselves to the
dismal inevitability that we will
suffocate because you refuse to stop
the pillaging of the future for the sake of your own ******* lineage being able to further itself and potentially give you a chance to again close your mind and scream as loud as you can when confronted with your own toxicity

We, the ones who humbly take the bludgeoning from your self-proclaimed pious hand, know these chains are only on your bleeding wrists and ankles.

We, the silent and the broken, know Santa Muerta by the nicknames she had in college and all accompanying wildness she brought in her wake.
We still will stroke your hair while you
throw your tantrums and wail about what is and isn't fair on your deathbeds.

We will burn the mattress and all while cheering you on on your flight into the night sky you ignored for a lifetime.

We, the servants of streaming digits and stewards of bottled stardust, will create stories about how it wasn't your fault and how you shouldn't be hated for bringing the world crashing into the excrement of wasted potential so our children know there was a choice to be made.

We, the overly polite pariahs pry laughs and love and lust and learning from looming catastrophe like Burroughs writing Naked Lunch with a glassy eyed stare that burned holes in the veil hiding the tide of partially coagulated blood and ******* that YOUR world preached as milk and honey.

We, the proof in the moldy pudding still finding time to rot, will burn tobacco fields in your honor just to dance while getting drunk on the breaths you'll never waste.

We, the lovers of questions and haters of creeds, let tears stream in the hope that they are not considered part of our body's 75 percent while fantasizing about your ghosts seeing them and the dehydration they may be in spite of and quiet your tired old yelling and shaking of fists at the clouds when overcome by the slight sadness that whispers "its too late" lovingly into your ear.

We, the lovers, the thieves, the reviled, the *******, the witches, the junkies, the ******, the reptiles and worms under the rocks society deems unusable and misshapen, will be the ones lifting the crowns off your corpses and throwing them high as graduates do when full of a hope only ever dashed by themselves.

We, the drooling monsters you vehemently deny anything besides the cramped closets or the space between bed and floor in childhood bedrooms, will be the Valkyries to descend onto the blood-choked battlefield you set aside for your souls to suffer on and offer you respite in the form of soggy bread and wildflower honey while  ravens and jackdaws bicker over the eyes and fingers of those that once showed us how to ride a bike or drunkenly beat us beneath our favorite trees or touched us in dark rooms in ways that would chase Love away from the shadow of our hearts until we finally climbed high enough to see it all as someone screaming of war and bravery while running from the sound of steel biting steal because their protectors talked so highly of honor and duty that it seemed as if it were God and Adam touching fingertips on the arched ceilings of youth. that, then was painted on the crumbling walls of abandoned houses they would secretly indulge on the forbidden fruit soaking pages of a faded **** magazines or up skirts of blushing  girls who put on their mother's prudishness until fingers pushed past
cotton and virtue alike to the warm center they both melted in.

We, the unsung and numb, walk in spirals while the complexity you rebuked as devil-born becomes the sigils of yet-to-be kingdoms bringing about golden age after golden age in the distant mists rolling over hills and valleys of memories of moments yet to coalesce into rigid experience.

We, the eyes weeping blood atop crumbling pyramids, have seen the walls you want to build in futures dissolved in the winds blowing dust over the dream-roads we skip down and how it resembles the one you built to keep your heart from breaking from the pressing mass of what you can't file away as noise or heresy or communist propaganda;
We drew throbbing ***** and dripping ***** on all the blueprints we came across and tucked them back into the secret compartments of wardrobes and roll-tops passed down through generations.

We, the keepers of the singing stones you traded for cheap concrete, will embrace the tiny souls you neglected out of ignorance to the existential snake oil pitch you broke every tooth biting down on all because the salesman reminded you of your drunk father or mother imposing their wills like you make shadow puppets dance on peeling wallpaper in the silence that ensued after they had passed out on creaky couches reeking of Lucky Strikes and spilled ***** while the shine of the staticky T.V. set covered them like the blanket no one ever put over their slumbering forms because of those infinite lists of excuses used to skirt the skirmishes of showing any kind compassion even if they alone were sole witness to it.

We, the pieces of self the deathbed "you" sent hurtling backwards through time to shine lights on the siege seething at the gates of what you stand for, are only holding those lanterns to show you that fleeing is futile and your death is just a hallway with a door that leads to the knowledge that life is not a cell to watch time morph into tally lines scratched into cold stone as if they were epitaphs for the seconds bet and lost at the roulette table crafted from any slave ship the ocean never swallowed.

We, the flames mimicking those dancing girls you longed to have squeal under the idea of your thrusting masculinity amidst the graffiti on the bathroom stalls in seedy dive-bars or the paupers playing prince you follow giggling with hope in hand like a bouquet of baby's breath and daisies for that one day they would stop and turn and smile so handsomely that your knees would shatter against one another and wedding chapels would bend down to tie tin cans to bumpers of beat up Buicks and Oldsmobiles your fathers give dowry and the crowd could watch "just married" poorly written in shaving cream on the back window grow small until it disappeared over the horizon.

We, the dreamers, are tired of sleeping and are in need of a old tree to swing from, to bury our dreams like beloved pets under, and watch as it lets its leaves fall to the hungry earth that is more patient then anyone closed eyed and humming ancient syllables beneath crooked branches could ever be.

All the trees you climbed and kicked and fell in love under have died from too many hearts around intials being carved into them or were used to make fascist pamphlets you yourself passed out at churchs mistaking the mask with bone structure or the river for the people it swept to sea.

We are laughing;
like a loving mother at her clumsiness on display in her cackling child and not like the crowds gazing at the sideshow stage as the curtains pull back and stage lights illuminating John Merrick's flesh and the intricate dissonance it lent to minds.
Minds that afforded only sips of bliss as monotonous stints on factory floors but were preached about like they were some heaven-sent golden cobblestones laid lovingly all the way
to the beach where Heimdall will one day sound his horn, one foot feeling the grit of the edge of the world and the other washed clean for the grave we will all step in.

So, all these words, all these images, all of it is intended to be a moon so all the stagnate tide pools that have forgotten their origin and the freedom they used to give form to lesser forms they forage forgetfulness from.

We, the ones beneath you on the climb to the summit of our collective potential, beg you to think of something beside yourself when taking a ****.

It is not just ******* in the wind if there isnt wind and we are right below you and dying of thirst.

It is not an inalienable right if someone else is deprived of the same.

It is not Heaven's gate if the brilliant gild has a melting point or if it remains latched to any soul's approach.

It is not "liberal *******" or a myth if whole flocks of birds fall from the sky or schools of fish wash up on beaches while people snap photographs for their feed.

It is not "god" if love dispels it like smoke hanging in the kitchens your great grandmother sat in and told you about a witch shapeshifting into dogs without heads to scare drunks stumbling home because she was a ******* racist.

It is not just food if someone's organs fail from starvation that even the worms and flies are free from.

You wave your banners and let your war-horns echo and you wear your ignorance as armor.

We, the eaters of life and death, will chisel a name into stone and pick your bones clean if you think we should march to the sounds of drums and trumpets just because you were stupid enough to think it was anything other than your masters convincing you to whip yourselves ****** because "at least God hath been kind enough to give you a purpose" or "he works in mysterious ways".

**** that.

Look at what it has brought out of the swirling sea of " all that could be" while you write the same song about how shiny and numerous the scales of the prize are.

We are not responsible for pillaging God's bounty.

We are the bounty and our emptiness and lack of foresight are in jeweled bowls at your feet, but in your hubris you believe it to be the slaves that come to wash the dirt from between your toes.

We are Death and She is the wet-nurse that will give us intimacy to fertilize our hearts by refusing us her breast but turning our heads to your silhouettes shambling off the edge of existence far off in the distance only a decade or less could be confused for.

[AS ONE VOICE WE SING/SANG/HOWL:
Lux amor potentia restituant propositum dei in terris.]

As if it were as easy as holding the hand of a dying tyrant afraid they cannot the luminous terminus while wearing your father's face as a mask to trick radiant angels or the contortions of gods reeking of struck matches by those trembling and their swirling black hearts closed to the breeze carrying leaves celebrating their liberation and caressing a cheek they were too ashamed to kiss when opportunity was their ally.

We shouldn't hate these piles of skulls all parroting the same axioms to those who only show up to add another or leave an empty bottle turned into a candle holder, wax dripped down the neck and froze before any trace of tallow could finally unite with the dirt it longs to become one with;
icicles hanging from the eaves of abandoned asylums.

This place was supposed to be alot of things but that is what lead THEM to drown in the sound of buzzing bees, birdsong, and abundance in all directions.

I suggest we stop trying to squeeze it into a shoebox we scribbled Promised Land on and just let it be the open armed paradise it inherently is.
Let it be the heart and home as well as the hostile territory because it is only ever that and what we wont find in any Oracle's Prophecy.

I'll end my rambling with a question and it's answer.

How do you turn a police station into a hospital and a schoolhouse?

Burn it to the ******* ground.

only today i felt this strange fear from boredom, i don't expect housewives to feel it, although i'm certain they do, brain-draining watching some Jurassic adaptation where man's imagination really did a runner - not into the fantastical but into the absurd - like in science fiction, did a runner, completely off the mark given chemists making shampoos and toothpastes and fertilisers... ethically-free science fiction - but this housebound fear from boredom, greater than a fear of death it seized me and rattled me, i had to go out to buy a few beers; just like it happens to really rich people, they make their homes into micro-units of what's out there, in society, a swimming pool when there's a communal one elsewhere, a massive library of unread books, when there are plenty of those elsewhere, home cinema, snooker table... it's the entire spectrum of social pastimes condensed into a single household... anyway, i got hot and bothered, i'm starting to think it was not a fear of boredom, but what to do with the piri-piri chicken i was marinating: tomato puree, 1tbsp balsamic vinegar, half a large lemon squeezed, 1sp sugar, 1tsp paprika, 1/2 tsp cajun pepper, 14g of parsley, mint, oil, 2 chillies, 2 tsp of garlic puree, salt to taste - whisked in a food processor; ~1kg of chicken - because i thought whether i should shove the chicken marinate in an oven bag and cook it for a while, or whether to take the chicken out from the marinate and place it on a baking tray... ****!

poems and book reviews these days, nothing more,
get someone else to do the legwork -
a thoroughly modern malaise -
social anthropology - titled *tribe -
the pros and cons of modern life and our
search for tribal mythology -
the 8x more chance of depression and
other mental deviations in wealthier
societies than poorer ones -
once it was called adventure, now
it's called tourism - after a while you sort
of get bored of the naked ego
and the clothing range your thought
provides you - unless you keep thinking
out the same thing, over and over again,
dressed like Armani, all black, nothing else -
odd, isn't it? they're playing the cat game,
cat wakes up, same ****, different cover,
well, the same cover - same fur - can't
change - the paradox or parody of
the fashion industry, i.e. that the designers
wear the same thing over and over again
and insist people require a spring collection,
the latest autumn trend.... parody.
so back to this piri-piri chicken      n'ah, not really,
i was thinking about what we already did,
this anti-tribalism, to have given ourselves
the opportunity to experience the least
amount of pain, the anaesthetic, sleep inducing
on the butcher's table more or less -
but we also created another anaesthetic,
this anaesthetic is not so subtle - it concerns beauty -
ever see it? ever walk into Tate Modern and
think about Raphael or Michelangelo?
you could tell me i'm overly nostalgic -
but what i see in plain sight is an anaesthetic in place,
against beauty, esp. in architecture -
who'd think of building a new Coliseum or
a St. Paul's - the Tate Modern (as you might
or might not know) is inside a power station,
big massive chimney - would have worked
better in the Battersea (Pink Floyd's Animals
album sleeve), but then St. Paul's is right opposite
and what a staggering dichotomy it is -
i'm sure that's what you call an anaesthetic in art,
the sort of art you have to get or not get
because, frankly, admiring a tin-can of tomato soup
even by Warhol's standards isn't exactly appetising -
i know, conveyor belt necessity and all, once
artists painted on commission for some duke or
duchess, or king to be adorning lavish palaces,
but as according to Walter Benjamin - the work
of art in the age of mechanical reproduction -
some could once claim the original to be worth
a stupendous amount of dosh, but with the above
mentioned essay, the original is worth diddly-squat,
because there is no actual original these days,
because artists don't necessarily have to invest
in raw materials - and the copying process is 100%
perfect, what with photocopying and all...
but **** me over once more, how am i going
to cook this piri-piri chicken?
the few beers took the problem off my hands,
i ended up marinating the chicken in a bag
but then shoved it into a baking tray
an covered with aluminium foil, forty odd
minutes and the chicken was tender - ~5 minutes
without the aluminium foil covering while
the oven was switched off and the temperature
was descending - the carbs? couscous -
alt. North African semolina - and extra cucumber
in tzatziki - a few hours later and i'm a little
buddha not thinking an ounce or a continent's worth
of suggestion... one of those rare albums
salmonella dub's  inside the dub plates,
i'm a real provincial with this album,
tumble **** here, tumble **** there,
never settling for a ****-garden -
i told you i'm just borrowing the language, in fact,
given my alcoholic and status as vermin among
the bulldog rigid British (Londoners can have
their little gay pride parade, whatever, they
better give me up for surgery to a veterinarian than
a human doctor, after all, i'm all ******* gerbil from
now on in, it doesn't take enough pacifists to turn
my attitude into a Neo-**** and bulldozer the Union
Jack into a shallow grave, i don't expect the Caribbeans
and the Pakistanis to usher words of: it's how it is,
a rite of passage, **** your cumin and your ****,
battle of Britain, who among the R.A.F. flew and spat fire?
us) i'm more Apache in a bigger zoo than the one in
Reagents Park, i'm in a conservation zoone -
i'm Aboriginal - shaman of the fire water -
i'll be as ******* ridiculous as i want - go chant
you little kirtan get together mantras going,
i'm sure you'll *****-fight-those-pigeons dead without
a single coo being ushered in - and your little yoga stints
asking questions about the flexibility of the skeleton
not pulverised by scientific eyes for a schematic and
a schooling rubric to domino up the cranium with mandible,
ulna and radius etc. -
but at least i know what sort of country i live in,
and what country is wandering into political apology that's
too late, in ratio 27:1, soon to be Turkey + the Yugoslavian
gape, Albanian and Macedonia by 2020 -
>30:1 - great Welsh ratio that is, oh ****, wait, Scotland too?
i never thought about it coming - there's my 2 cents
on the topic, and that England is becoming more American
by the day? that's good? really?! i thought the
aim of England was to inspire America rather than
vice versa... what a ****-storm these few days ended
up being; ol' McDonald didn't have a farm, but
had the slogan - *i'm lovin' it!

I walk around my hundred person hot tub party
and I
cannot feel anything
crawling through my veins alcohol takes over
alone in my yellow living room full of people

\

The girls from the local apartments are here
they arrive in groups of three
five
six
sometimes in long trains of sixteen
I try not to **** my pants with laughter
as I hug and greet each one as they grace my home
I never thought I would be this person
this tongue tied host

\

the felons are here talking about their latest stints in jail
the Olympian is talking about how he walked next to Lebron James at the opening ceremony
the musicians are serenading a girl that does not want to hear it
plastic bags have been placed over the smoke alarms
the marine is talking about killing in the desert
leaning on the northward wall I take a long drag of my blunt trying to look aloofly attractive
, but failing miserably at the act
until she walked up to me
red leather jacket
skin so soft
binding black dress
I liberated her from it and she kissed me
Kissing her back emptied my inhibitions and the morning after: when I found out he was in love with her and I had slept with her; I felt alone all over again
She ran when this was spoken
Me and him fought with our fists
nothing got resolved
all of a sudden
I feel isolation again
just like the party
leaning on the northward wall
having made thirty conversations
none of which compel me
finally leaving me to the world
that exists in my head
THE ONE I CONTROL

\

I have this negative kick back
whenever I feel something going too nice
I just want to be in my room
alone
with a computer
books
marijuana
a chair
pen
paper
precious paradise
I want to run
tear my flesh off my chest
rip into a heavy metal howl
then have blasting music come in
come in from every corner of the room
the bass tones would bounce from the corners
the high tones would bounce of the walls and refract rapidly
and I would be gone
now wondering
what my position is to where they stand

\

What worlds we can mentally create
and which do we want to step into
Sometimes the ability is strong on Tuesdays but not on Thursdays
Why the inconsistency?

I saw demise in her eyes
acceptance of a summarized
existence in this instance
incidentally its in stints

well baby take my hand and
we'll ride the intertwining serpentine
you feelin my energy in an instant

i feel
i know you missed this
lips reveal whats sealed from description

oh woe to words, absurd innately
oh woe to words' deceptive paintings
We owe an ode to the world, and im thinking maybe
its this moment
its this moment
in this moment I feel relative
in this moment, man, im so not relevant
what tomorrow holds, there is no tellin ya
weve only just crossed paths
yet Ive known you for millennia

Universal Invocations
serendipitous relations
deceitful daggers draped in red cloths
slash at eternal hearts carried by temporary raven claws

disperse

fall into insanity
and land in my lap of chance
no more wallowing in the mire
rhetorical kiaros at a glance

awake, shake these dreams from my hair
evaporate those inhibitions into thin air
exposed soul, open emotion to bare
tip-toeing the peripherals of Medusa's glare

convergence in a vicious cycle
vinyl in perpetual spiral, we rendezvous in eternity
convergence in a vicious cycle
vinyl in perpetual spiral, situated, stuck internally

Many moons might fall and several suns will set
but in this instance, together, we'll always be infinite

"The population is expected to level off at around nine billion," says my father
A nearly full plate of Thanksgiving feast food in front of him
but he has been asked to pontificate which is what he does best
and I hear a tremor in his voice like I have when I teach
I know he is in the throws of excitement about what he's saying
planning for his keynote in Brazil, and what plant scientists can do
to help save us from global warming and the lack of water since there isn't
even two liters of fresh water for every person on the planet for use every day at seven billion
I gesture as to what two liters looks like  and my mother snaps "I know what two liters is!"

It's cold in here, in this large Oakland short sale house that fits my cousin's family
and my Aunt downstairs, where I like it better because the children aren't there
Like two houses put together and there are no carpets just hard wood floors and
open windows that make it cold and it is anything but warm and fuzzy
My Aunt is angry with me that I shop at Walmart but that's what I can afford
Tomorrow she's holding a strike at a Walmart with her daughter which makes them superior to me
She's also mad because I don't like my "Union" which does nothing for me since I'm not tenured
"You have to organize" she condescends, like that is a reasonable thing with my one and two year stints at schools but she is the big Union Head for CSU so she should know
She was on TV with Jerry Brown after all, so what do I know
The kids are noisy since they all have their own phone and can play anything they
want at any time in addition to turning on the myriad of TVs and radios and stereos in the house
and the noise ricochets off he hard cold floors and walls that have pictures on them
of people from the family, but they don't look quite like they belong
and they hang there uncomfortably and self consciously
There is every skin tone except deep black at the table
My family--all that is left

Childhood: I loved going to my mother's family in Idaho
It was hot in summer or cozy warm inside in winter and
a wonder land outside for snow shoeing and skiing
It was quiet and they always had wall to wall carpet
I rolled from one end of the room to another in it the first time I felt it
It was warm and fuzzy.  
People listened and there were breaks from noise and chaos

Here, every conversation is disjointed like we are going
in and out of different time periods and different petty rivalries and
fierce competitions under it all and families are blending and being
torn apart and the latest one has formed from "OK Cupid" online
and my Aunt has to be right, the smart one, the good one, the one of the people
and it is so cold, so very cold, and the windows are opened to let in more
cold Oakland air as if there isn't enough of it and all the sounds of
kids and electronics are driving me slowly insane

What can plant scientists do to help nine billion people
without water?  Not a whole lot, except invent crops that
survive like camels, or can live underwater like fish
since everything will be either dry or deluged with water
and I wish there was carpeting, warm carpeting and less
noise and more harmony
and this is the family I have now
the old one is gone, like the glaciers that will melt all at last
and the rivers that will run dry forever.
And I think: what we need to do is invent a way to make water
Make enough water for everyone, maybe from recycled bags or used Nike shoes
and if we can do that, maybe the air in this house will warm
and it will become quieter and the hard wood floors will become soft and warm and fuzzy
and I will feel at home here, with my family

A pass between
the ceiling stints,
ivy sinews,
and unhinged bricks.
The broken glass
still shifts and cracks
in narrow steps
of a time passed.

Streams of oil,
weaving between,
to a seamless,
tar and fissure,
smoke clouds pummel,
passing stranger,
surging street lights,
to the waves of.

On the edge of
the coming rain,
consignment times
as beauty lies.

Mysterious may I see you smile,
I know it's been a while,
and you think it's lost,
to your heart that has been overcome with an exhausting frost,
I have a silly picture I found,
so make a small giggle or some kind of sound,
to know you will be ok.

Mysterious may I give you this dance,
and show you that by happenstance,
you have a friend that will listen to your greatest laid plans,
even though you hate the blueprints,
and show you that friendship doesnt come in midnight stints,
of only needing someone to unload an emotional burden upon.

Mysterious may I be your loudly sang music,
when the world tells you that you cant sing for ****,
let me show you that your voice is amazing,
not because of tune, harmony or rhythm,
but because it lets you exhaust your overflowing stress system,
that everyone needs to release.

Mysterious may I be your nostalgic future,
memories that you will hold onto long when you are old,
the midnight cigarette you light to get the feeling of being a kid,
the feeling of the reminder that you are strong and bold,
and even though you feel like you are beyond your years,
let me be the one to tell you a ***** joke,
to show you that you can always be forever young,
and to laugh that you just liked the smell of the smoke,
because of the memories that dance around with it hanging in the air.

Mysterious may I be here,
to watch you grow,
you hate what I know,
and love what I say,
may I show you that I am here to stay,
to show you that you are just in the first act of an unscripted play,
and what ever way and whatever the lines you choose to say ,
you decide to do what will break the already to straight of a face.

Mysterious may I show you that you are something more,
you arent just a face in a text book or eye's blurry and sore,
a person of great might,
because even the smallest meteorite,
has a brilliant flame as it descends from the darkness.

Mysterious most of all may I be your friend,
because in the end,
know one knows whats around the bend,
but at least we will have someone else,
who will enjoy the ride.

I’m writing this in between
Stints of self-medicating
When the memories scream the loudest
When the heartache feels the deepest

This feeling it feels bottomless
An unfathomably hollow emptiness
A deep dark abyss
From which I can’t escape

Let me start by saying
That I feel like a ***** up
A self-destructive *******
You were the only one that kept me grounded

My heart’s beating too fast write now
Even though I know you’ll never see this
I have an uncontrollable angst
You kept me sane in this crazy ****** up world

You were my best friend
You know everything about me
Even my ****** up daddy stories
The ones I don’t tell anyone about

We almost had a kid together
It was the most terrifying moment of my life
And I still haven’t told anyone about it
‘Cause I thought I’d have you to hold me during the nightmares

But I’m a complete **** up
(Nothing good ever stays with me)
Not my father, not you
Yeah, everything I touch turns to ****

“Light up till the pain gone”
Now I’m quoting rap songs
But I’m inconsolable and it’s true
I haven’t come down since you left me

I wish you could’ve seen the pain in my eyes
I wish you could’ve heard my cry for help
Every time I drank myself into oblivion
All I needed was for you to take it all away

I wanted you to fight for us
To put your beautiful pride down
For just one second and to realize
That I would go to the ends of the universe
                                                        ­                                 for you

I would've swept my self-numbing aside
Not for you but for us
I believed in us and all we were
But I was for us and you were for you

These past few weeks
We haven’t spoken a word
So the dreams keep getting longer
And the aching keeps on aching

I keep telling friends funny stories
My best memories throughout recent years
And all of them include you
My best memories are with you

I realize you don’t want anything to do with me
But I hope you at least look back and smile
I pray that you cherish our memories
..
Please don’t throw our love out of your consciousness completely.

Love,
L

The flame
In his chest
The same
To the rest
But twisted
As he was
Blessed
But gifted
With inferiority
And was horribly
Conflicted
Of the message
He was meshing
With the decrepit
Feeling
Of his fleeting
Half stepping
To the
Recollections
Of his blessings
That he was tempted
To dissect
From the crowd
Inflicted
Despite the
Shroud
Of clouded
Bouts
Torn from
The panicked ****
Of the phobias
He knew they were scared of
And glared
Right through them
Before he opened up
His coat
And started shooting
Proving
Others wise
In the silent
Reprise
Of 45's
And nines
He smiled
In the exile
Of fear
Escaping
Through
The fading
Lights
Of dying eyes
In the wild
Surmise
That with each
Trigger squeeze
Eased him
Into shame
As he
Aimed
To please
For the release
Of lives
Crawling
For the
Finished
Lines
And in gorgazmic
Slitherings
He delivered
The final blows
With power ups
And scores
Progressing
The killing
As he reloads
With shrilling
Grins
And stints
Of compassion
Fashioning
The rationed
Satisfaction
He received
From the screaming
Mothers and babies
Brothers and maybes
Splattering
On the plastic trees
Of escalators
And skeezes
That laid shuttering
Headless
Upon the exits
Of his
Insurrected mind
And he was just fine
With dying
In kind
And he was just fine
Shining from
The shrine
Of Santa
In a sonata
Of solidarity
To the led
Soldering morals
In a story
Of victory
And of
Personal glory
For the lords
Of defeat
Seething
In the completeness
Of a defeatist
As he stuck
The heaters
In his mouth
And was out
Without
One doubt
As to what
Nothing
Means

Dear dream girl,

Before I let the words unfurl
Let me thank you for meeting me there.
It's a place I know but have never been,
It's ground soft, like a nostalgic sin,
And I wait,
Wait for a sound or a feeling,
Sortof sitting, sortof kneeling,
You are there.
How you found the lair,
Or why we started talking were questions
I would not far,
to ask or know
Your face would change in your tone,
I had my bottle and you had your phone,
But neither of us would let go of them.
You didn't like talking unless I said something first,
And I was always left with a thirst.
There were walls like we were somewhere artificial,
Manufactured for a short use time;
I didn't reply, but you said "it will be fine".

The walls have reel to reel projectors,
With a hum of ghostly patriotic defectors,
With a weird blue tint,
Memories of terrible heartache stints,
My demons playing on the left
Every time I yelled or was jealous,
And zooming in it shows your smile
Or the sadness on the other end of the phone,
Or the craving to be with me at home,
And on the right was you putting walls up,
Fighting on things that now really don't matter,
Zooming in on me smiling,
Or the me just getting sadder.

I asked you to meet me here tomorrow,
Because I'll take all the time I can borrow,
The door closes,
And I'm awake.

From toes still in the water,
With love.

In Pakistan
The CIA has bombed bombs funerals in Pakistan
I heard in this interview

Yes this nation sometimes kills the innocent
But that is nothing new

The Pakistani government cooperates
With the drone strikes

The UN investigation is being stalled by our government

This high ranking U.S. official said,
"We are the only country that thinks
We can use drones wherever we want,
Outside of a hot battlefield."

U.S. citizens are told the strikes are lawful
Our courts are being blocked from
Weighing in on the issue

They have had hardly any impact on the Taliban

According to the state department
Al Qaeda is 10 times stronger in Yemen today
Than when the drone program was started

According to the expert
Tactically they can be successful
Strategically we too often don't know what
We are doing with them

Often the operators
Are traumatized by what they experience
3 or 4 year stints with no down time
The operators were internalizing their experiences

Flowers whither in my hands
time pulverized to grains of sand
I make walls fall within my presence
I'll stomp your faith with no repentance

I take love and make it sour
Create eons within an hour
Any taste
I will make ash
Paint your life white
and laugh unabashed

Im the warden
who made sin
as matters worsen
inch by inch
I will miscreate these stints
with my Midas touch of ****

everyday i'm discussing with everyday, myself as i make out to the glamouring
the inches and dashes of every self i have
and stitches of sinew here in which lies the me that is this i, i that am

i walked in leaves of grass, of wriggling splendor's summers of shoulders
and achy crimsoned necks by the suns meters of light
measuring the stints of our crawling opaque days and suns of many sons

it's very that is that even when sun should repose his ***** of uncadenced
carefully miraculous shimmering blood
like orange and ardent flesh he'd go on us it, giving his very stuff our bodies

to wear on our wheres and whens and whys. is night not also beautiful?
it is naked beautiful. **** and beautiful
plenteous and beautiful with all its hearts in tinder palely igniting every

atom of copious earth. bowls of copious illuminant children, the things
which will become after us
the us that we were before their coming. but they are gorgeous and neither

would i weep if in my going they should take that space where were was
i. resting the shouts of my self
in the orchards of youth, i am now so but it's quickly running, flitting

eagerly from my this. in vines and plurals i am single and many. neither
none nor many. but many ones,
little bubbles of tranquil vile fluid guttering the songs of wind.

i go to streams and they are me. i go to mountains and they are me. i go
to valleys and they are me.
can i be streams and mountains and valleys? can i not be streams and

mountains and valleys? they are weeds and i am a ****. a **** is a rose.
i am rose.
i am blossomed in full spring. able of petals. i am turned to the sun, with my

root between the lips of earth. who is my lover. the earth is woman.
she is a ****.
a **** is a rose.

by another name. they smell just as sweet.

The fingers moved in short stints
shyly, hungrily, pulling up and down
unsure the direction to navigate.

The skin tingled and agreed to the warmth
the hands awkwardly dancing the hair standing
and knowing the sound in your head is the blood in your heart.

The drive to lose the game play of childhood fantasy
to commit to adult life before knowing it always is and always will be
a game in which we have plenty more to lose.

Gesundheit;
Just looked back over the letters I never sent
There were so many of them
I can always start but seldom finish
Not just innuendo, trust me,
I wish that it were
That would be a better problem to have

Grandfather ambled about,
In some strokes standing as still as a
Clock and waiting for me to
Wind him. I didn't just then,
Too rusted. Peered through the blinds,
Some light spilled in, I sunk further
Under the covers like Nosferatu,
Dracula, accurate.
Demon.

Eventually he left me to
My slumber again but the
Tranquility was disturbed,
****** left the lid to the coffin
Wide open.
Later I shifted about,
Slinking around different eaves,
Trying to disappear
From the frames of any
Francophilic voyeurs,
I can never find them
Though I know they're always there

Later still returning to the
Origin point of that morning
Finding grandmother now occupying
That plot where I bury and unseal and bury again
She asked if she should leave
But I assured her I'd tell her
Were that ever the case
Though I surely wouldn't:

She's sensitive like I am,
She knows all the signs from her youth abroad
Her mother alternating between
Stints of fox and hare in as
Many rapid cycles
of the phases of the moon
Tareyton smoke drifting over
The damp gardens of tea leaves
She read for prophecies always
Served to keep her steady until
They walled her up in a mattress room
Some of us aren't designed for this place
The coveted excuse of genes,
These weaknesses are inherited traits

A return call from the doctor
Too distracted to find a pen

The following fictitious poetic vignette attempts a feeble tale of one ordinary day in life of anonymous miscreant.

"I don't give a ****
about my bad reputation."

I haint never done nobody no harm,
nor did any animals
(code word for other gang members)
get injured or killed
in the making of a video
(our lingo for done deal).

A decoy police officer
(one named Sergeant Smart)
pretended to be a drug dealer.

Turf wars made clear
the domain each mini kingpin oversaw.

Our base, which included
drop outs, whose parents
did not give a fig whether
their son lived or died
(got pitiless date with death)
drove motive to act truant
or commit a serious violation
warranting expulsion
generated a buzzing business
for social services field attending minors.

Thus here we were at our "den",
when this officer (dressed
in plain clothes) wanted some
(even just a dab) smack.

One badass dude of this pack
nicknamed "Hen Owes"
usually tried to "sniff" out trickery
when a new bro showed up out of nowhere.

Me and the boys could “feel vibes”,
and sense an infiltrator, sleuth,
or simply traitor,
(which last mentioned
a real impish whinny *****),
when we immediately see him.

Between ourselves, we exchanged
specific non verbal signals
if someone ratted on us.

Thar haint nuttin worse getting duped.

A posse member
(if found out got pole axed for revenge).

Usually the beans already spilled
with a caper on our tail,
but the ragamuffin who tattled
would pay with his life.

At this instance, I felt trapped.

No doubt flaunting law groupthink
and figurative cohesiveness
exhibited obvious signs of defeat.

Once no escape in the cards,
each "coyote" barked, howled,
and jabbered like any other teenage punk
when outsmarted by authority
decorated figure head honcho.

A hair brained simultaneous idea
lit up all our brains too ****
this menacing enforcer of the law.

As if on cue, the beefiest beastie boy
sucker punched, and pistol whipped,
and kicked in the groin this ******,
who lied thru his teeth.
      
They all did!

We knew that.
    
The unmarked car
the mutilated body mortally wounded
with a couple/few token gunshots
for good measure got stuffed
in the trunk of the vehicle.

Already headquarters triggered
the slain global positioning satellite
to track location of this rookie.

We subsequently found out,
he attended the same hell hole high school
some years before we
plugged, plotted, planned
to bomb the **** building
to kingdom come.

Since the moniker
"bad company" linkedin
to every f**k'n trouble
maker and threat
to other students in general
and homicidal maniacal
reputation in particular,
thus gave us bragging
(cachet **** reputation)
rights in this underground
world wide web of all gory
blood lust and violence.

Live to be freely mean and die,
or a nasty, short and brutish life
found most every day a shooting gallery.

A temporary bond meant nothing,
(or meeting the barrel of a gun)
if a turncoat wielded a loose silky tongue
spoiling opportunities
to mow down another body.

Justicia, undue, un-dewed, *****
But spiralled, like convolvulus vine
crawling past pinstriped stems that harrow
the spitting aches in tandem.
Behold bent
Blossoms whose petals, like
Whose dead men's lids,
Have yet to be teased awake--
Justicia! Blind you are!
Lower the sword-swung abraders, buckle
their knees, on-pounding earth surrender.
Grand gems mark and drip along their lips
Rightly red, though creeps on
Soft pink Vertigo, and dizzying stints
Above my sinking mossy senses--
Justicia, undue, un-dewed, *****
But sunken, lady Hyacinth shall never
bloom near your toe-thin tread.
Long may her purple bleed into
your blindess.
Long may your sword lay low.

He ran two stints in 'Nam,
his face is a jumbled mess of scars,
rat poison runs through his veins,
half his teeth are missing
when he smiles
& the eight ball
inked on his forearm
says it all.

This is a guy
you don't want
to rile up and
if you do,
you do so
at your own risk.

I'm really glad I can call him
my buddy Clint
& I'm going
to keep it that way,
I'd like to live
another day.

You left around ‘06
And the wall called my guard is still up with these old bricks
I’m scared to tell a girl their heart is in good hands with me but my emotions in theirs is too slippery they won’t be able to get good grips
I feel more blue than red nowadays I feel like my affiliation belongs to the crips
Hennessy been looking better and better these past couple of days she might get these elite licks
She took my pain away after a few sips
Sike I’ll never fall for these plain Jane girls like French tips
You’d be surprised I’m 20 and haven’t fell for a hoes tricks
You can thank my mother and sisters for the guidance
Thinking you’d come back used to be a big hope in my mind that occurred in wide stints
But before I turn 20 I just wanna say I’m not mad at how your absence made me a hollow man
I’ll never know a mans love so when I tell my future kids that I love them I hope I can get them to understand
I’ll be the embarrassing dad just because I want them to know I’ll forever be apart of their life
I’ve dealt with that sharp pain of wondering if my life would’ve turned out better if you stayed in mine
So I’ll never want my kids to feel the pain of that knife
Again sorry for the long voicemail
Just some last minute thoughts before I turn 20

Apollonian vs Dionysian virtues
imperfect forms storm the acropolis
in temple halls the dreamers wept
for the old gods to bend
their icy paws once again
saws cut through the logos
in lieu of cedarwood we got cement
now only short stints of sunlight
descend from the heavens
and the gods pretend not to notice them
but i'd like to take you on a trip
through my thoughts
and around my mind
between my skin and my spine
and define words and feelings
archetypes, images and concepts
that have barely begun to surface
to the light i rise again
beyond sighs and fears we fight
for our right to awaken them

I'm in need of a reboot
brain off and on again
I'm aware of the waning
i can see it plain as you

my attempts at poetic stints
attest that I'm spent
i need some rest and maybe splints
to fix my broken talons

i feel talentless currently
I'm surely unbalanced
if prowess was a currency
I'd be financially challenged

I fail to bow when i encounter powers
i pale in comparison to
my pathetic dispensing of word spam
is worse than mental mince meat

and although from what I've displayed
I'm a bit ashamed and embarrassed
I'm still not done yet
still feel compelled to fill wells
with ink from a quill

and you can bet that
no ill conceived notions
will go unspoken
I'm broken
but there's hope yet I'm hoping
my mind is so open

I'm not stuck here moping
I'm building momentum
clawing out of this rut
my pent up mental frustration
is draining out
and being replaced with
meaningful phrases
with crazy rhyme schemes

I'm finding more and more
that my complacency is shying away
and by the light of grace
I'm absorbed by a new
mindscape reformed
I'm team Lord
but don't read too much more into it
I don't commit to conviction
i am well aware of my ignorance

that's why i withhold judgements
religions not meant to draw blood with
I'm all done with hypocrisy
that forced philosophy is shocking

we've all got our own ideas
and matters of course
although towards the same end we forge
for it's the same thing we're all
fumbling for

let there be light.

There’s days where feel a little under appreciated
But every time I’m with you I feel that get alleviated
I don’t know if it’s you or me turning 20 but I feel my life’s purpose is a little different now
You should see me running in my house answering a notification hoping your name on the screen will come around
Not desperate but my happiness comes in short stints and doesn’t last for long
And if your wondering about my scars let’s just say most of my clouded judgement and overthinking is the result of me micromanaging all the things I should’ve done right that I thought were wrong
Don’t look at my wrist just put your eyes on me
Let’s just say I’m the type of person who shouldn’t be left alone in a dark room with their thoughts because they’ll be a shock for few and that would be a total surprise to me
People shed a few tears and I never thought I’d see a few cries for me
I never let you in because I’m scared once you leave the haunted house called my thoughts you’ll go far away
My best friends called anxiety and depression keep interrupting me when I’m trying to find the words expressing my emotions and it’s hard to say
You ever feel like you’ve just met someone and you wish the conversations you had with them get longer in duration
That’s how I felt with you because I’m usually beating myself over the head with my thoughts and every time we talked I had one less abrasion
And if your reading this just know it wasn’t you that had a part in me doing this I just got tired of everything and I wanted you to know that the time we spent together was the perfect date
And I’m sorry I could never tell you this in person and had to put it on the fourteenth tape

Fires singe flighty moral wins that sea-quake D.C. bordello twinges
Jail singes trite coral stints to swell semi-flimsy poor-house twinges
God is in the details, or the devil's in the details. 5 of 1 shall gain 6
of the other. I'm right-handed in 7 matters. I'll not sell you to Arabs.

I’ve got another cold night ahead of me
exhale and treasure the breath that I see.
Snow prints don’t lie,
dark tints the sky and I
still witness a star glimmer in my lazy eye.

Whipping winds lash at my face,
squeeze in my shoulders and pick up my pace.
Snow prints don’t lie,
my squints still try to magnify
and catch a glimpse of light to my lazy eye.

So I’ll wear a heavy sweater
and will double up on socks,
prepared for all types of weather
but I’ll be tripping over rocks.
No choice but to keep on going
even without water, shelter or a knife,
and though I’m done with all of the snowing
I guess I’ll just layer up for life.

I’ve got another long day in my view
hopelessly chasing a sunset, I miss each shade and hue.
Snow prints don’t lie,
short stints too high but I comply,
hoping to rest my head and close my lazy eye.

So I’ll wear a heavy sweater
and will double up on socks,
to be facing the outside better
but I’ll be crashing with the stocks.
And in order to pass “go” again,
you gotta trek through heartbreak and strife,
cold hands, do you have mitts to lend?
As I must layer up for life.

I’m determined to walk the path less taken,
and when we intersect it will be the one less shaken.

Putting iron stints in my sides to stand up alone