All I know I have learned from anime.

I have learned that intelligent high schoolers and unbelievable power sources should be kept far apart,

That there is a harem out there for everyone,

That ***** are the ultimate source of power in the universe,

and that nothing in all the world can not be improved by the addition of giant robots.

I have discovered that studio gainax has a huge stockpile of LSD, and that I must discover its location.

I have learned that Makoto Shinkai loves the taste of your tears,

and that Satonshi Kon is the thing the boogie man checks under his bed for.

But most of I have learned that you should always take that swing,

That if you stand strong you can pierce the heavens,

That if you stand together with those who mean the most to you, you will never be defeated,

And that true love can span the galaxies, knows no boundaries, and never dies.

Otaku forever.

Just a wicked peacenik’n quick draw from the Paw
Game of Thrones’n the Shah, crussian bones of the law
When the baby-skull splitters want nuclear winter
Ideal New Cold steel and send Chernobyl shivers
Down Roman Republicans’ severed headlines
Till there’s no more dead kids on for prophet front lines
I’m in exile sharpenin’ [sic]kles in style
Pyongyang’n Kuomintang climate denials
Erasing their nation-hate racial profiles
Outpacing their skinhead disgraces by miles
Shell casin’ this place like the Nuremberg trials
For Fords sellin’ swastikas stockpile bibles
Defiled by Normandy tide genocidals
Fresh meat off the boat spreadin’ Plague mercantiles
I smile and **** ‘em with kindness
Then grind
Battle tax in my acid bath
Salt Marchin’ prime
Because WAR IS THE CRIME
I’m the Clown Prince of Rhyme,
Level 9 state of mind
Like the state of Rakhine
The Black Hand before time
Runnin’ Africa’s Luciest Sky Diamond mine
I’m the ronin alone in
The monkey god shrine
And my guile’s reprisal’s Versailles treaty signed
Strippin’ pride from the Rhine
Now your Motherland’s mine
Swine

Life in Duality and Non-Duality

Birth is the first gate.
Death is the second gate.
Between these two gates lies the path of life
travelled by all sentient beings.
All are born.
All will die.
Between death and rebirth lies the unameable state
where the next life is chosen, determined by the individual Isnesses
stockpile of accumulated Karmas,
Good and Bad.
All human beings,due to their accumulated Karmas,
both Good and Bad,
must pass through this unameable state
and be reborn into their next life.
All beings accumulated Karmas,Good and Bad,
are assessed in that state and that assessment determines the next life they are  reborn into.
There are NO exceptions to this process ever.
Karmas,Good and Bad,are accumulated in each life.
Karmas ,Good and Bad,are the result of the morality
of each individuals actions.
Karma is of three types.
Good Karma which ties each individual
to the Wheel of Incarnated life,death and rebirth.
Bad Karma which ties each individual
to the Wheel of Incarnated life,death and rebirth.
Neutral Karma is the only way that each individual
to can free themselves from
the Wheel of Incarnated life,death and rebirth.
Both Good and Bad Karmas tie each and every human being
to the endless cycle of birth,life,death and rebirth as a human being.
Only Neutral Karma can free each individual from
the endless cycle of birth,life ,death and rebirth as a human being.
Neutral Karma is only realisable through the practise
of the Six Fundamental Yogas.
Neutral Karma is the only way to erase both Good and Bad Karmas.
The practise of the Six Fundamental Yogas increases the BrainBloodVolume to the level of that of  Foetus in the Womb,which causes the Mind and Conditioned Identity
to dissolve,temporarily or permanently.
Those individuals,female and male equally,
whose practises of the Six Fundamental Yogas cause
the Mind and Conditioned Identity to dissolve temporarily or permanently will enter into union with the Isness of the Universe
as an equal,temporarily or permanently.
Those individual human beings who  pass their lives accumulating Good and Bad Karmas are unable to escape from the endless cycle of birth,life,death and rebirth.
For the overwhelming majority of human beings who refuse to generate Neutral Karma,by practising the Six Fundamental Yogas,life can only be lived, in the state of
Mind created Duality and  Non-Duality.
They are unable to enter into the state of union with the Isness of the Universe as an equal.
The permanent feature of such a life lived in either Duality or Non-Duality is the ceaseless deep suffering of being separated from the Isness of the Universe as an equal.
For those very few human beings who,through the practise of the Six Fundamental Yogas,have dissolved Mind and Conditioned Identity,permanently,life is lived in union with
the Isness of the Universe as an equal.
Life is lived in the state of Experiential Knowingness
which is called Separate and Merged.
They live out their last lives in this realm in union with Isness of the Universe as an equal.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

.

i get to be ridiculous, i'm an artist, it's only that my ridiculousness doesn't border with the Vatican City, or Switzerland that it's deemed "weird" (symbol use, also know as passing on misnomers, ~ - that's ambiguity, a stranger punctuation construct from the hyphen), it's weird because i'm attired in familiar clothing to an Essex loafer, i don't have the currency to buy fancy Pompidou mascara or lipstick and stroll with other drag queens at gay pride... i'm back-of-the-woods type of guy, on the Cartesian Libra heavyweight to the side of 'i think' than on the pigeon-**** weight side of 'i am' - mathematically speaking that's like 2 + 1 = 3 - "schizoid" thinking coupled to non-schizoid behavioural patterns therefore means... an increased threshold capacity for experiencing pain.

the first time i smoked marijuana
(and i didn't know how to roll
a joint of marijuana and tobacco)
was the happiest time of my life,
i exercised a lot, practised Roman bulimia
unconsciously - no pills, nothing,
******* down my throat, later
i trained the *suprahyoid and the infrahyoid
muscles so well that
i could just throw the chocolate bars up,
trained them so well as if i was gagging
on a *****... but to keep a body image,
well, you know, to look **** (add sarcasm
with the italics) you have to do what women
do, for me it was a Roman Bulimia,
for them, dieting - it was weird owning
a different body from the one i own now,
c.c.t.v. Narcissus-shadow stalker was all a craze back then,
too much self-conscious ******* wrapped in
a ***** and sent to a daycare centre -
it feels great these days, drinking 70cl of whiskey
a night, and why would i be bragging without
a bowler hat and a cane a butterfly prim
on my neck and a neat suit?
i read Bulgakov, that'll do, i have an operatic
cat at this moment, i've never heard so many variations
of meow after the doors to the garden are closed
and he's told to remain indoors after 9p.m.,
he sits on the bathroom windowsill and wants
to be nannied in the lap while someone smokes
downstairs... 'fella, same fresh air down here as up there'...
it's more of a fox than a cat...
he matured to be ~10 kilograms, and so's a mature fox,
i know, i weighed one, cutting a work's pay for
some sanitary worked one night
when i was eager to buy a few beers... mature foxes
~10 kilograms minus 21 grams (you know, the
Higgs' boson of soul, alejandro gonzález iñárritu -
but why add ñá so close? it's -nia- anyway,
so Mexico or e ** ** **, the Mexican Hew, huh?
ah... Habana!)
swear to god, never heard so many variations...
where was i? ah, adapting Bach's polyphony within
poetry, could have been a king david, but i smashed
my lyre... i never liked the cheap one-man tennis
and a brick wall of poetry within claim of stiffening repeats:
rhyme... bounce... rhyme... Bunsen! rhyme... bounce...
rhyme... Bunsen! ya-d'ah ya-d'ah ya-d'ah...
a carousel in Golders Green where all the payots
flew off and made french pastry curls... cinnamon... mm.
and two books i wish i'd written -
closed society and it's allies, the alt. to Popper's
antonym based yawn-epic - Karl, falsifier -
and anger and restlessness, the alt. to a Danish
epic by Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling -
alt. say it as it is - ******* is like a bow-tie event,
a moth a butterfly event - the ******* was
there for a reason, pleasure from *******
when your *** partner was "feeling tired",
men and women are both libido struck sometimes
to extremes, they mentioned f.g.m. but didn't mention
m.g.m., with ******* you ain't chasing, you ain't
playing the dating game - circumcision gave
women the upper hand, the toy machine of manhood,
you have ******* for a reason, it's not in line with
ancient Hebraic laws where you have to do 613 things
to obey... and with ******* you're less likely to
go Boko Haram cuckoo and steal girls for their ******* -
i believe the fabled conversation between Zeus and
Hera is necessary - women derive more pleasure
from ***... but men derive more pleasure from life -
well, if you have *******, see the image problem?
i'm dressed... you're undressed... i have two capacities
and a tool to curb my libido, you have jack and a stockpile
of nukes - with a cigar smoking duke on percussion
that only takes one press and the whole orchestra starts
up with a crescendo rather than a build-up.
oh right... the first time i started smoking marijuana i
was 21... i remember it clearly, i don't know how i managed
to roll a joint... Edinburgh 2007, Montague Street,
i rolled one... smoked it... lay on the floor...
and giggled my way through Daft Punk's album human
after all - giggled and danced horizontally...
solipsism at it's finest... later i met a girl who said that
*** after marijuana was so much better than sober...
i beg to disagree... given that solo moment,
and ******* prostitutes drunk, esp. in Amsterdam,
where i don't have to feel any English sensibilities on the matter.

Is there a natural virility to the fertilities of the inductions of space time’s continuums?  Is this a microcosmic phenomenon or more dependent on the depths of pervasion of its macrocosmic relativities.  Perhaps there is a unifying field theory we are not yet aware of which explains how it paradoxically is a little bit of both.  Regardless, given the fact that there probably was no beginning to the universe then quite literally an eternity has already passed.  So why then, given our understanding of the physics of physical interaction, is not all in a state of complete entropy?  
     This afore mentioned fecundity must exist.  Further in it’s quite likely the cause of physical existence as we know it.  I have a theory: This creationism occurs at such an imperceptible rate that positive eons of quadrillions of ages must pass in order for the cosmos to replenish its stockpile of physical matter (possibly matter without atomic structure as we know it) so that a new cycle of infinite big bangs in infinite space can occur.  Ushering in a new 500 billion to trillion year cycle of physical existence as we know it.  Further again, perhaps the implosion’s contraction’s revisions are the cause of the atomic structure of matter we experience during this new physical cycle.
      The thought of such quantum leaps to me for the intensities of physical matters existence and catalytic capabilities.  
     Granted your not going to find these speculations touted as fact in a Wikipedia excerpt.  The answers are in fact unknown.  I’m merely being hypothetically thoughtful with what I’ve learned of possibilities prospectus.   Given these truths allow me to hypothesize further.  
     It seems to me that the evolution of the organic morphologies of biological ontogeny were created by a conceptually reflective derivative (or perhaps antiderivative on the interpolations of integration) of functional physical mechanics.  That perhaps the creative force behind their inception (similar to the afore mentioned natural inductions of space time’s continuums) was the physical realism of and or the residual harmonic vibrations of kinetic supremacy.  
     Consider, the planet we’re on is revolving at approximately 60,000 miles per hour relative to the sun, the solar system we inhabit is revolving at approximately 500,000 miles per hour around the center of our galaxy.  Our galaxy is traveling at approximately 1,332,000 miles per hour through space with our local group of galaxies and revolving at approximately 216,000 miles per hour around the center of mass of this group of galaxies.  All this to give you some conception of the kinetic actualities of our planet’s trajectory’s extant as a projectile.  We have an almost incredible amount of potential or kinetic energy that is generated by our physical velocity through space.  Although we don’t seem to be aware of the impending preponderances of this realism as tellurian denizens it is nonetheless fact to our intellectual relativities.  
     Once again perhaps the actuality of and or the residual harmonic vibrations of the actuality of this phenomenon are the impetus behind the evolution of the organic morphologies of biological ontogeny.  We don’t know for certain how the first amino acids were formed.  Much less how these acids in the primordial soup made the quantum leap to living existence as biological organisms.  Once again I hypothesize it was a conceptually reflective derivative (or antiderivative) of the creationism behind functional physical mechanics.  e.g. the natural inductions of space time continuum and the quantum leaps created by the implosion’s contraction’s revisions of our big bang.
     By now you may be wondering why I have extrapolated these hypothetical scenarios about the physical creationism of our universe and the perceived similarly analogous state of organic and biological origins, so I’ll tell you.  I hoped it might make the dissertation I’m about to make on the fecundities of the corporeally preternatural and perhaps metaphysical inclinations of our sentient race easier to comprehend.
     With the advent of biological organisms the diversity of physical existence has apparently exceeded its physical complexity.  Understanding has evolved.  Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeed in a hierarchy of functionally integral forms.  Being a firm believer in evolution this phenomenon makes me wonder: Is the impetus behind the genetic anomalies that influence the seemingly positive nature of natural selection’s progression a pervasion from the social contiguities of a species? Perhaps a random occurrence with no discernable precedent?  Or, more likely even, the equivocal nature of the superior essence of the ontological state of the beings involved?
     Though many believe that it is truly a random occurrence I have a tendency to want to believe otherwise.  That just as there is a natural fecundity to the induction of space time’s continuum there is a positively oriented inclination integral to evolutional progression.  A sort of élan vital on the orthogenesis overtures.  Granted it is somewhat dependant on the phenological nature of environment but improvements occur which have little to do with the ability to cope with the weather.    
      So is there such a thing as élan vital as it relates to ethology’s entelechy?  Is there any benefit for humanoid demagoguery in pursuing zoomorphic zoolotry as a social contiguity?  Can we actually make accession to transcendentally existential ascension?
     The obvious answer would appear to be yes, at least in partiality.  Maybe we’re incapable (at present) of assimilating incorporeity ideology’s non-corporeal states and existing as godlike disembodied spirits (who perhaps have not lost their proclivity for corporeally preternatural being) but social relativities are an evolving state.  Truly the better we treat each other the better off all will be.  Now I’m not talking about being a bunch of fawning sycophants or schmaltzy schlep-it-ness schmucks, more like the swanky saunter obsequious diligence could indentured servant sail lend to all.  Not given because it’s mandated but because it’s the essence of social contiguity’s evolution.  Granted the individual must remain sacrosanct.  Our metaphysical prowess is at best hypothetical.  Actual magic is not a tool in our kit-bag though I aspire to such everyday as I attempt to be teleportation real with my telepathy to the demons I appear to be confronted with.  I site clairaudience clairvoyance on the vicinity victuals of vigilante villain, the propinquity habitations of harbinger’s harangued, the proximity parameters of perimeter’s peripherals, why I’ll even throw in the objectified manifest’s diminutive minutia iotas of self inductive interstitial extrapolation, and if that doesn't get it I'll talk about the embark embargo extraditions and the extraversion embezzling euthanasia extortions.  The thought of such spatiotemporal telemetry tactician.  Protractive analyses of dimensional delineation on the terrestrial equestrian.  Tellurian terrene!!
     The obvious realisms of all of this are that we are indeed capable of making these quantum leaps armed practical magic.  I say lets fecundity get down to it.  Exserted protuberances of erotica erectile errantry, the vibrant volition of verve.  I’ve had enough of vapid flatulence and insidiously sinister archaic.  Mankind’s inability to supersede his developing anachronism may well be the cause of his demise!!!  We’ll become theosophy’s theophany incarnate, the ecstatic euphorias of corporeally preternatural’s enigma entity on the identity crisis!!!!

I am the hermit who lives in my head.
I gather...
I analyse...
I stow away all that I've learnt.

Because when the wind would blow
and the earth wouldn't understand.
When the world would tremble,
shaken by man's ruthless hand.

I am the hermit who lives in my head.
I listen...
I keep...
I stockpile in the shadows.

Because in my blood exists grudge...
And my bones, weary from despair.
My skin screams exhaustion
and my body feigns to care.

I am the hermit who lives in my head.
I overthink...
I hide...
I hoard all my thoughts.*

Because the walls have ears
and these pages bear eyes.
What my heart truly knows...
Is that your mouth tells only lies.

Hallucinating Bureaucracies and auditory Hallucinations : When the voice in your head speaks when you don't want it to, to head's of State not present. I could snuggle in bed if I wanted to, but I've got to orchestrate and reorganize the Clinton dowry. It started outright with trying on a purple, yellow, and blue button down shirt that had Scabies in the sleeve- and now you're all going to know why Mr. and Mrs. Obama don't want to talk to me about potentially increasing livestock traffic across the Americas. I think could practice will follow from such a manure, I mean maneuver. I pick up 10 or so bottles of plastic single-serve water for consumption in my apartheid room. It's awful in here. The gold disappears from the mines, and even the hands I used to work with are blurring up in the twister, and as much as you call or don't call I have no business managing your intentions- only mine. Some barrge of women over thirty. But still there isn't a problem. The river is beginning to flood, and the fishery's stockpile is running low. Maybe we ought to empty out an African mass grave and fill it with blacklists of co-conspirators and then make a drake or a flume out of the narrow walkways between the cities. Then maybe we'll have water to last us through the dry season.----------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------- Where in the world is Sam in Hammond, Can Diego? Forklifting pillars, bribing monkeys, playing with his Mickey Mouse and Michelob, catching the taller, eighteen and up crowd catch the last car riding the rapid drop from Space Mountain through, "It's a Small World After All:"  

It's a world of laughter a world of tears, it's a world of hopes and a world of fears. There's so much that we share, that it's time we're aware- it's a small world after all."  

And then he takes the biggest gulp of water into his mouth that I've ever seen the man take, and he puts it in a small cooler that's strapped to the back of his calf, and he swears to me that the aeroplanes are going to come loop around, and when they do their glorious water-landing, he and I, or rather, the both of us, will be saved. Saved, hm? I don't even bother sharing insights or my insides. I quickly flash him the most-pod horrific a tryst that irons down a photo of Egon and I back in the Old City, what was it, Chicago, or something that very much sounded like Chicago. Could be totally awesome and I'll chime in that now is the time when we do our work best. That's all. Intrepid,

I wear white
I wear white

I wear white and stare right back at
the other end of the world

The hems of the loosely fitting traditions
Barely touch the ground anymore

I wear white
I wear white
White like the chalk on the blackboard switched from
right to left.

Aimless and bereft of the desert I once called mine,
I walk alone

I wear white, I wear white
As I have done for 14 hours
and 14 years

7000 miles on the screen and 2 more up there
to be precise. It faded for every mile
Just as it has been doing since the day Darwish died

I wear white, I wear white
A different breed of Semite than they're used to

Not walking but flowing almost
as contradictory as "poutine Arabesque"
The routine wears my jaw out
as the vowels twist from right to left

I wear white, I wear white
Not just quite there yet
Not even close
Not even halfway to the surface but then again
I suppose we've always been at ease at the depths of the sea
Pearls and black gold abound

I forget that sometimes in between
intermittent bouts and doubts of "3arabiyun ana"
As if that's what makes up the anatomy of an Arab
As if that's enough for you, Khaled

I wear white
I wear white
Or at least I tell myself I do
Leave myself open to the prospect
of life starting anew
Forcing myself to see it through
See life through your eyes
Or are they my own **** you ?

Tell me for the love of Christ
Call me by name and don't
bury me under the empty discarded photo frames
that you stockpile

I'm calling to you, Walid
And will keep on calling
And trying and burning and aching and failing and dreaming and irritating
like a bad itch

I sink under it all and push it all off step 3 repeat as necessary

I scream in the tongue that you deafen your ears to and pull at the beard you've tried to shave off
I pluck at the horizontal heartstrings you've tried to mute

Above all, I wear white...
And I fight.... I fight.....

I FIGHT

I'm a doomsday prepper
Afraid of zombie lepers
And nuclear line steppers
So I spend my life preparing
Instead of repairing
A civilization that is constantly crumbling
I focus on post-apocalyptic rumbling

My self reliance
Met my defiance
In an alliance
Of deadly appliance
When I have no faith in the government
Because they might make preparing futile
For the disasters of my wonderment
I don't copy their community style
They'll just die when the world ends
So they're a waste of the time I spend

I tried to look above
To find love
But a giant tidal wave
Blocked the sun's rays
And I could feel the Earth quake
Under my shaking feet
So I decided it was a mistake
And to avoid what's sweet

I will no longer be a misfit
After the apocalypse
I will be more comfortable than everyone else
But will I really keep my resources to myself?
I say of course
From my high horse
I fantasize about being right
So others will see the light
Of a nuclear blast
And see that I last
They'll beg to see my stocked shelf
Yet I will offer no help
I'll say my memory is hazy
Didn't you call me crazy?
Protecting my goods in that vulnerable hour
With a stockpile of firearm firepower

I prepare for an impending doom
That'll create some elbow room
Instead of friends I gather supplies
For a cataclysmic surprise
Where everyone dies
Then I'll be happy
Hunting and trapping
All alone
In a blast zone
Where someone once said
Life is what happens
While you're making plans
But the apocalypse
Is my promised land

Is there a natural virility to the fertilities of the inductions of space time’s continuums?  Is this a microcosmic phenomenon or more dependent on the depths of pervasion of its macrocosmic relativities.  Perhaps there is a unifying field theory we are not yet aware of which explains how it paradoxically is a little bit of both.  Regardless, given the fact that there probably was no beginning to the universe then quite literally an eternity has already passed.  So why then, given our understanding of the physics of physical interaction, is not all in a state of complete entropy?  
     This afore mentioned fecundity must exist.  Further in it’s quite likely the cause of physical existence as we know it.  I have a theory: This creationism occurs at such an imperceptible rate that positive eons of quadrillions of ages must pass in order for the cosmos to replenish its stockpile of physical matter (possibly matter without atomic structure as we know it) so that a new cycle of infinite big bangs in infinite space can occur.  Ushering in a new 500 billion to trillion year cycle of physical existence as we know it.  Further again, perhaps the implosion’s contraction’s revisions are the cause of the atomic structure of matter we experience during this new physical cycle.
      The thought of such quantum leaps to me for the intensities of physical matters existence and catalytic capabilities.  
     Granted your not going to find these speculations touted as fact in a Wikipedia excerpt.  The answers are in fact unknown.  I’m merely being hypothetically thoughtful with what I’ve learned of possibilities prospectus.   Given these truths allow me to hypothesize further.  
     It seems to me that the evolution of the organic morphologies of biological ontogeny were created by a conceptually reflective derivative (or perhaps antiderivative on the interpolations of integration) of functional physical mechanics.  That perhaps the creative force behind their inception (similar to the afore mentioned natural inductions of space time’s continuums) was the physical realism of and or the residual harmonic vibrations of kinetic supremacy.  
     Consider, the planet we’re on is revolving at approximately 60,000 miles per hour relative to the sun, the solar system we inhabit is revolving at approximately 500,000 miles per hour around the center of our galaxy.  Our galaxy is traveling at approximately 1,332,000 miles per hour through space with our local group of galaxies and revolving at approximately 216,000 miles per hour around the center of mass of this group of galaxies.  All this to give you some conception of the kinetic actualities of our planet’s trajectory’s extant as a projectile.  We have an almost incredible amount of potential or kinetic energy that is generated by our physical velocity through space.  Although we don’t seem to be aware of the impending preponderances of this realism as tellurian denizens it is nonetheless fact to our intellectual relativities.  
     Once again perhaps the actuality of and or the residual harmonic vibrations of the actuality of this phenomenon are the impetus behind the evolution of the organic morphologies of biological ontogeny.  We don’t know for certain how the first amino acids were formed.  Much less how these acids in the primordial soup made the quantum leap to living existence as biological organisms.  Once again I hypothesize it was a conceptually reflective derivative (or antiderivative) of the creationism behind functional physical mechanics.  e.g. the natural inductions of space time's continuum and the quantum leaps created by the implosion’s contraction’s revisions of our big bang.
     By now you may be wondering why I have extrapolated these hypothetical scenarios about the physical creationism of our universe and the perceived similarly analogous state of organic and biological origins, so I’ll tell you.  I hoped it might make the dissertation I’m about to make on the fecundities of the corporeally preternatural and perhaps metaphysical inclinations of our sentient race easier to comprehend.
     With the advent of biological organisms the diversity of physical existence has apparently exceeded its physical complexity.  Understanding has evolved.  Relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity succeed in a hierarchy of functionally integral forms.  Being a firm believer in evolution this phenomenon makes me wonder: Is the impetus behind the genetic anomalies that influence the seemingly positive nature of natural selection’s progression a pervasion from the social contiguities of a species? Perhaps a random occurrence with no discernable precedent?  Or, more likely even, the equivocal nature of the superior essence of the ontological state of the beings involved?
     Though many believe that it is truly a random occurrence I have a tendency to want to believe otherwise.  That just as there is a natural fecundity to the induction of space time’s continuum there is a positively oriented inclination integral to evolutional progression.  A sort of élan vital on the orthogenesis overtures.  Granted it is somewhat dependant on the phenological nature of environment but improvements occur which have little to do with the ability to cope with the weather.    
      So is there such a thing as élan vital as it relates to ethology’s entelechy?  Is there any benefit for humanoid demagoguery in pursuing zoomorphic zoolatry as a social contiguity?  Can we actually make accession to transcendentally existential ascension?
     The obvious answer would appear to be yes, at least in partiality.  Maybe we’re incapable (at present) of assimilating incorporeity ideology’s non-corporeal states and existing as godlike disembodied spirits (who perhaps have not lost their proclivity for corporeally preternatural being) but social relativities are an evolving state.  Truly the better we treat each other the better off all will be.  Now I’m not talking about being a bunch of fawning sycophants or schmaltzy schlep-it-ness schmucks, more like the swanky saunter obsequious diligence could indentured servant sail lend to all.  Not given because it’s mandated but because it’s the essence of social contiguity’s evolution.  Granted the individual must remain sacrosanct.  Our metaphysical prowess is at best hypothetical.  Actual magic is not a tool in our kit-bag though I aspire to such everyday as I attempt to be teleportation real with my telepathy to the demons I appear to be confronted with.  I site clairaudience clairvoyance on the vicinity victuals of vigilante villain, the propinquity habitations of harbinger’s harangued, the proximity parameters of perimeter’s peripherals, why I’ll even throw in the objectified manifest’s diminutive minutia iotas of self inductive interstitial extrapolation, and if that doesn't get it I'll talk about the embark embargo extraditions and the extraversion embezzling euthanasia extortions.  The thought of such spatiotemporal telemetry tactician.  Protractive analyses of dimensional delineation on the terrestrial equestrian.  Tellurian terrene!!
     The obvious realisms of all of this are that we are indeed capable of making these quantum leaps armed practical magic.  I say lets fecundity get down to it.  Exserted protuberances of erotica erectile errantry, the vibrant volition of verve.  I’ve had enough of vapid flatulence and insidiously sinister archaic.  Mankind’s inability to supersede his developing anachronism may well be the cause of his demise!!!  We’ll become ethology's entelechy, zoomorphic zoolatry's  incarnate, the ecstatic euphorias of corporeally preternatural’s enigma's entity on the identity crisis!!!!

Poems about Things that Break

These are poems about things that break and/or shatter: a bubble, glass, a mirror, a twig or tree limb, a thunderstorm, cities and towers in times of war, old habits, our hearts, and sometimes Love itself.



Shattered
by Vera Pavlova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I shattered your heart;
now I limp through the shards
barefoot.



Dark-bosomed clouds
pregnant with heavy thunder ...
the water breaks
―Michael R. Burch



As grief reaches its breaking point
someone snaps a nearby branch.
―Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Lightning
shatters the darkness―
the night heron's shriek
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Eros, the limb-shatterer,
rattles me,
an irresistible
constrictor.
―Sappho, fragment 130, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



My heart is unsteady as a rocking boat;
besieged by such longing I weaken with age
and come close to breaking.
―Otomo no Sakanoue no Iratsume, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Mirror
by Kajal Ahmad, a Kurdish poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My era’s obscuring mirror  
shattered
because it magnified the small
and made the great seem insignificant.
Dictators and monsters filled its contours.            
Now when I breathe
its jagged shards pierce my heart
and instead of sweat
I exude glass.



Mirror Images
by Michael R. Burch

She has belief
without comprehension
and in her crutchwork shack
she is
much like us ...

tamping the bread
into edible forms,
regarding her children
at play
with something akin to relief ...

ignoring the towers ablaze
in the distance
because they are not revelations
but things of glass,
easily shattered ...

and if you were to ask her,
she might say―
sometimes God visits his wrath
upon an impious nation
for its leaders’ sins,

and we might agree:
seeing her mutilations.

Published by Poetry SuperHighway and Modern War Poems



Second Sight
by Michael R. Burch

I never touched you―
that was my mistake.

Deep within,
I still feel the ache.

Can an unformed thing
eternally break?

Now, from a great distance,
I see you again

not as you are now,
but as you were then―

eternally present
and Sovereign.



Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Not the blossomings of song nor the adornments of music:
I am the voice of my own heart breaking.

You toy with your long, dark curls
while I remain captive to my black, pensive thoughts.

We congratulate ourselves that we two are different
but this weakness has burdened us both with inchoate grief.

Now you are here, and I find myself bowing:
as if sadness is a blessing, and longing a sacrament.

I am a fragment of sound rebounding;
you are the walls impounding my echoes.



Bubble
by Michael R. Burch

.................Love
..........fragile elusive
.......if held too closely
....cannot.........withstand
..the inter..................ruption
of its.............................. bright
..unmalleable.............tension
....and breaks disintegrates
......at the............touch of
.........an undiscerning
..................hand.

I believe this is my only shape/shaped/concrete poem.



Because Her Heart Is Tender
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth, on the first anniversary of 9-11

She scrawled soft words in soap: “Never Forget,”
Dove-white on her car’s window, and the wren,
because her heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her. As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.

She wrote in sidewalk chalk: “Never Forget,”
and kept her heart’s own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.

Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers’ glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on ...
she stitches in damp linen: “NEVER FORGET,”
and listens to her heart’s emphatic song.

The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when fledglings fell beyond, beyond, beyond
its reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.

She writes in adamant: “NEVER FORGET”
because her heart is tender with regret.

Published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Villanelle, The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Nietzsche Twilight, Nutty Stories (South Africa), Poetry Renewal Magazine and Other Voices International



Break Time
by Michael R. Burch

for those who lost loved ones on 9-11

Intrude upon my grief; sit; take a spot
of milk to cloud the blackness that you feel;
add artificial sweeteners to conceal
the bitter aftertaste of loss. You’ll heal
if I do not. The coffee’s hot. You speak:
of bundt cakes, polls, the price of eggs. You glance
twice at your watch, cough, look at me askance.
The TV drones oeuvres of high romance
in syncopated lip-synch. Should I feel
the underbelly of Love’s warm Ideal,
its fuzzy-wuzzy tummy, and not reel
toward some dark conclusion? Disappear
to pale, dissolving atoms. Were you here?
I brush you off: like saccharine, like a tear.



Breakings
by Michael R. Burch

I did it out of pity.
I did it out of love.
I did it not to break the heart of a tender, wounded dove.

But gods without compassion
ordained: "Frail things must break!"
Now what can I do for her shattered psyche’s sake?

I did it not to push.
I did it not to shove.
I did it to assist the flight of indiscriminate Love.

But gods, all mad as hatters,
who legislate in all such matters,
ordained that everything irreplaceable shatters.



Mate Check
by Michael R. Burch

Love is an ache hearts willingly secure
then break the bank to cure.



Water and Gold
by Michael R. Burch

You came to me as rain breaks on the desert
when every flower springs to life at once,
but joy’s a wan illusion to the expert:
the Bedouin has learned how not to want.

You came to me as riches to a miser
when all is gold, or so his heart believes,
until he dies much thinner and much wiser,
his gleaming bones hauled off by chortling thieves.

You gave your heart too soon, too dear, too vastly;
I could not take it in; it was too much.
I pledged to meet your price, but promised rashly.
I died of thirst, of your bright Midas touch.

I dreamed you gave me water of your lips,
then sealed my tomb with golden hieroglyphs.

Published by The Lyric, Black Medina, The Eclectic Muse, Kritya (India), Shabestaneh (Iran), Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry, Captivating Poetry (Anthology), Strange Road, Freshet, Shot Glass Journal, Better Than Starbucks, The Chained Muse, Famous Poets and Poems, Sonnetto Poesia, Poetry Life & Times



Resemblance
by Michael R. Burch

Take this geode with its rough exterior―
crude-skinned, brilliant-hearted ...

a diode of amethyst―wild, electric;
its sequined cavity―parted, revealing.

Find in its fire all brittle passion,
each jagged shard relentlessly aching.

Each spire inward―a fission startled;
in its shattered entrails―fractured light,

the heart ice breaking.

Published by Poet Lore, Poetry Magazine and the Net Poetry and Art Competition



In the Whispering Night
by Michael R. Burch

for George King

In the whispering night, when the stars bend low
till the hills ignite to a shining flame,
when a shower of meteors streaks the sky
as the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame,
we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen,
and gather our vigor, and all our intent.
We must heave our husks into some raging ocean
and laugh as they shatter, and never repent.
We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us,
soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze:
blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning
to the heights of awareness from which we were seized.

Published by Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times and The Chained Muse



Distances
by Michael R. Burch

There is a small cleanness about her,
as if she has always just been washed,
and there is a dull obedience to convention
in her accommodating slenderness
as she feints at her salad.

She has never heard of Faust, or Frost,
and she is unlikely to have been seen
rummaging through bookstores
for mementos of others
more difficult to name.

She might imagine “poetry”
to be something in common between us,
as we write, bridging the expanse
between convention and something . . .
something the world calls “art”
for want of a better word.

At night I scream
at the conventions of both our worlds,
at the distances between words
and their objects: distances
come lately between us,
like a clean break.

Published by Verse Libre, Triplopia and Lone Stars



The Ruins of Balaclava
by Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, barren Crimean land, these dreary shades
of castles―once your indisputable pride―
are now where ghostly owls and lizards hide
as blackguards arm themselves for nightly raids.

Carved into marble, regal boasts were made!
Brave words on burnished armor, gilt-applied!
Now shattered splendors long since cast aside
beside the dead here also brokenly laid.

The Greeks erected shimmering marble here.
The Romans drove wild Mongol hordes to flight.
The Mussulman prayed eastward, day and night.

Now owls and dark-winged vultures watch and leer
as strange black banners, flapping overhead,
mark where the past piles high its nameless dead.



Once Upon a Frozen Star
by Michael R. Burch

Oh, was it in this dark-Decembered world
we walked among the moonbeam-shadowed fields
and did not know ourselves for weight of snow
upon our laden parkas? White as sheets,
as spectral-white as ghosts, with clawlike hands
****** deep into our pockets, holding what
we thought were tickets home: what did we know
of anything that night? Were we deceived
by moonlight making shadows of gaunt trees
that loomed like fiends between us, by the songs
of owls like phantoms hooting: Who? Who? Who?

And if that night I looked and smiled at you
a little out of tenderness . . . or kissed
the wet salt from your lips, or took your hand,
so cold inside your parka . . . if I wished
upon a frozen star . . .  that I could give
you something of myself to keep you warm . . .
yet something still not love . . . if I embraced
the contours of your face with one stiff glove . . .

How could I know the years would strip away
the soft flesh from your face, that time would flay
your heart of consolation, that my words
would break like ice between us, till the void
of words became eternal? Oh, my love,
I never knew. I never knew at all,
that anything so vast could curl so small.

Originally published by Nisqually Delta Review



Eras Poetica II
by Michael R. Burch

“... poetry makes nothing happen ...”―W. H. Auden

Poetry is the art of words: beautiful words.
So that we who are destitute of all other beauties exist
in worlds of our own making; where, if we persist,
the unicorns gather in phantomlike herds,
whinnying to see us; where dark flocks of birds,
hooting, screeching and cawing, all madly insist:
“We too are wild migrants lost in this pale mist
which strangeness allows us, which beauty affords!”

We stormproof our windows with duct tape and boards.
We stockpile provisions. We cull the small list
of possessions worth keeping. Our listless lips, kissed,
mouth pointless enigmas. Time’s bare pantry hoards
dust motes of past grandeurs. Yet here Mars’s sword
lies shattered on the anvil of the enduring Word.



The Higher Atmospheres
by Michael R. Burch

Whatever we became climbed on the thought
of Love itself; we floated on plumed wings
ten thousand miles above the breasted earth
that had vexed us to such Distance; now all things
seem small and pale, a girdle’s handsbreadth girth ...

I break upon the rocks; I break; I fling
my human form about; I writhe; I writhe.
Invention is not Mastery, nor wings
Salvation. Here the Vulture cruelly chides
and plunges at my eyes, and coos and sings ...

Oh, some will call the sun my doom, but Love
melts callow wax the higher atmospheres
leave brittle. I flew high: not high enough
to melt such frozen resins ... thus, Her jeers.



Old Habits Die Hard
by Gulzar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The habit of breathing
is an odd tradition.
Why struggle so to keep on living?
The body shudders,
the eyes veil,
yet the feet somehow keep moving.
Why this journey, this restless, relentless flowing?
For how many weeks, months, years, centuries
shall we struggle to keep on living, keep on living?
Habits are such strange things, such hard things to break!



Having Touched You (The Boy in the Bubble)
by Michael R. Burch

What I have lost
is not less
than what I have gained.

And for each moment passed
like the sun to the west,
another remained

suspended in memory
like a flower
in crystal

so that eternity
is but an hour
and fall

is no longer a season
but a state
of mind.

I have no reason
to wait;
the wind

does not pause
for remembrance
or regret

because
there is only fate and chance.
And so then, forget...

Forget that we were very happy
for a day.
That day was my lifetime.

Before that day I was empty
and the sky was grey.
You were the sunshine,

the sunshine that gave me life.
I took root
and I grew.

Now the touch of death is like a terrible knife,
and yet I can bear it,
having touched you.

I wrote this poem as a teenager after watching "The Boy in the Plastic Bubble" with John Travolta playing a young man with a defective immune system who risks death for a chance at love.



Published as the collection "Poems about Things that Break"

Keywords/Tags: break, breaking, breakings, shatter, shattered, shattering, delicate, fragility, fragment, touch, cruelty, brutality, abuse, stress, love, pain, relationships, society, mrbreak, mrbbreak

K.p’s dad was a Science Fiction author,
While his son and I learned at school.
The teacher talked about planes, bombs, and towers-
Explosions, debris, and jet fuel.

We were poised like guppies, fidgeting with our lips,
Our bodies seemed made of lewd rubber.
Not one of us understood the weight or gravity-
Of one person killing another.

K.p’s dad wrote about a fair United States,
Called: “The Defined Territories,” rather tenacious.
A satire exploring justice with exaggerated sameness-
That most readers found to be tasteless.

His main character was a ‘rookie cop,’
And every skin color was uniform and equal.
Homosexuals gladly aided population control (by not making babies)-
And bullets were designed to be non-lethal.

In the story: a group of smugglers find a stockpile of real guns,
Automatics, ammunition and bombs.
The valiant cop pursues them through page turns and plot-
With sweat budding on his palms.

K.p and I fought over a girl at school,
I broke his nose and we each served detention.
At the end of his dad’s story the smugglers are caught-
Fined $1,000 and given lethal injection.

Let's bury the lovely inconsistencies 
Leave the intimate fallacies to mystery
Then my perception of your passion fits with me
Red brick to mortar 
you laid your deceit in a building order
Despite the inherent wrecking ball tendencies you chose to utilize
Blind to my youthful eyes
Let's brush the displaced fervor for lust under makeshift throw rugs
Void of emotion until you know no love
As exhilarating as the love you left long ago as leaves of dogwood trees in a late Pennsylvanian november
Rigid structures that wait a season to return to the lively form they remember
Bare white bark and dead extremities 
Bare as your stockpile of passion meant for me
The surplus became a short supply when I left your graces
Amidst the sea of faces
You encounter in the places
You replace me to fill the voids and spaces
My memory laced with traces
Of your gentle touch, a cool spring breeze to my sun soaked skin
Recalling the ominous climb before the downward spin
We always seem to find ourselves in
Perhaps the fact the rush of the climb washes my mind of the inevitable collapse
I all too often push the moment from thoughts of past
The sinking in my stomach peaking the point of no return
As I set my eyes to the horizon and watch us burn
In the setting sun of an Middle eastern summer
Your lightning fast decisions to leave never compared to the rolling thunder
That swept over my soul
When you tore the hole
In the hazel eyed sky of my perception
with your ill fated rejection
Casting projections 
Of your likeness in the constellations 
Trembling fingers wait patient
Making comparisons and relations 
Between every aspect of you I savored
To Orion's belt, cassiopeia, ursa major
Every slight shift in its luminous glow
A subtle reminder to me of the love you will never know
Intergalactic representations paint the stage for supernovas
Expunging the lovely aroma 
I grew accustom to
Coming to harsh realizations there's no reciprocal paid in full for the love I loved for you.

I am individual Isness incarnated in this body which is the latest of the many bodies of either female or male of all five skin colours and all ****** orientation that I have inhabited throughout all time.

Each individual Isness is a small but equal,individual,independent, nameless,formless,genderless,non physical,unconditionally loving entity formed from the Isness of the Universe and incarnated in a human body lifetime after lifetime.

The individual Isness is not Atman or Soul or Spirit--these are mind created identities and will only take you as far as groupmind allows.
As Janice sang"freedoms just another word for nothing left to lose".

I am the individual Isness.
I am that! --I am!.

The Isness of the Universe is responsible for the manifestation,from its own nature,of the entire universe and all in it,physical or metaphysical, including so-called "gods" and "goddesses".
Each body alive contains an individual Isness here for the purpose of realising its true nature as an individual Isness--ruled in its actions by Karma and evolution.
Only the individuals efforts at self realisation count here on Earth.
No one gets a free pass!
Mind and Conditioned Identity must be dissolved totally and permanently consciously in order to become Isness realised.
I am an individual Isness.
I am that! --I am!.
I am the only permanently mindless/conditioned identityless male person  in existence--by my conscious choice and effort.
My partner is the only mindless/conditioned identityless  female person  in existence by her choice and conscious effort.
ALL others claiming to be Yogis or Yogins are prisoners of mind created dualistic delusions and can speak only truth but cannot speak truthfully.
Yogi is not a title or rank or buisness status but merely an acknowledgement of the state of permanent Mindlessness and Conditioned Identitylessness that any person,equally female or male,can attain through their own conscious efforts.
We are individual Isness united.
We are that!-- we are!.
There is no luck or short cuts involved.
No one can be born in this state either.
Any person that says they can "grace" you is a liar and a criminal.
There is no grace option as all religions would have you believe with their lies.
It is NOT possible to buy your way in either.
We are not and would never ever want be "enlightened".
We are not nor would ever be Bhuddas.
We are not and would not ever be  Avatars.
Very low states of existence these all are.

We are not and would not ever be celibate.
Love a good ****,
We are that!-- We are!.
We celebrate life only and do not celebrate death as religions do with their phoney "heavens and hells"--and their vain bloodthirsty "gods"..
For us and our future there is NO heaven or hell--- just endless existence elsewhere to this planet--for this planet is truly the hell of existence and made that way by the groupminds of petty religions and politics with their petty violent  followers.
Only a personal conscious effort to dissolve mind/conditioned identity can lead to the state of Separate and Merged
or Isness realised.
Isness realisation is NOT a group activity.
The path of Yoga we follow is called the
Yoga of Dissolution of Mind and Conditioned Identity.
I am that!--I am!.
I am incarnated in a male body in this lifetime.
Grene,my partner,is incarnated in a female body in this lifetime.
We have been incarnated in both male and female bodies many times.
We carried the accumulation of Karma,both good and bad, with us through these past  lives--as do all alive...
Karma is the undeniable and unquestionable moral energy stockpile earned by every action every one commits,both good and bad,and is a reflection of their acquired morality and determines the next incarnation type that they have..
Karma,both "good" and bad" ties each Isness to the ever revolving Wheel  of Birth Life Death and rebirth--from which the only escape is through Isness-realisation.
No "god" or "prophet" or "holy man or woman"can make it happen for you--only concentrated personal effort.
Before Isness realisation can happen ALL Karma ,good or bad,must be dissolved completely.
Enlightenment or gnosis or being a Bhudda are nothing but worthless mind generated states that have seduced and betrayed humanity endlessly resulting in a planet at war with itself and heading for all out nuclear war rapidly..
for instance---
Buddhism,the so-called philosophy of peace with its monarchs and differing interpretations according to nation states--has utterly failed after 2500 years to bring peace to the world--buddhist terrorists killing in S China or Sri Lanka anyone?..
Islam-Christianity--Vedism--Hinduism--Judaism and all their various subgroups have only brought wars and division, with their ensuing trail of death and destruction, throughout the millennia--drenching the planet in the blood of innocents in the names of  their "gods" and "holy" monarchs and nations.
I am 75 years so far in this body but I have no age--only the body has age.
I followed the true inner path of Yoga assiduously through many lifetimes.
I am not a physical contortionist--a "hatha Yogi"--a contradiction in terms if there ever was one..
To be a follower of any "religion" that boasts a "god"or "goddess" or saving philosophy" is to be mired in bad Karma--as all "religions" are immoral and can only bring war/death and destruction in their wake
then ones action in supporting can only be bad Karma.
No religious follower of either *** has ever gone beyond  ignorance and self deception.
My partner and I are united in the ultimate state of existential beingness
that is called Separate and Merged.
As neither of us have a mind we are able to communicate closer than mere words and voices.
We share mutual ******.
We "live inside" each body--separated by flesh ---merged by mindlessness.
We are two id-entities playing the game of life as one.
We are Separate and Merged with the Isness of the Universe.
We are that!--we are!.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

Carla told me to infiltrate.
To ignore all the precautions,
And breach my resistance under a full moon.

After all, she said, your sadness isn’t a disguise.
Your gloom is genuine, although prefabricated,
Surely you see the blueprint.

You have planned your demise since childhood,
Carefully constructing a fortress of self-abuse,
You don’t self-medicate, she said, you obliterate,

And then you wear your inadequacy like a crown,
As if to say no one feels pain like me.
This blow of sorrow, your prevailing wind,
The smell of burnt hair follows you, your melancholy assaults.

God, I can sense your anxiety blocks away, Carla told me,
Even if I’m baking chicken *** pie
And drinking breakfast tequila,
There is always this gust of despair.
And your current ability to fester a modest nausea,
In everyone, everywhere you go,
While amazing,
It only convinces, even your intimates,
That you have begun an irreversible decay.
Jesus, either you act now or you will disappear, Carla said.

You have one option, Carla told me,
Confront yourself and
Think about death honestly every day.
It is the only way for a depressive,
A man in a life jacket, she said
To survive.

Comfort yourself early, before dawn,
Curl up with your litter of pillows
And in that storm, that tornado you pretend is a bed,
Lie still, stare at the cracks in your ceiling
And search for spiders, Carla told me.
Wait until the disappointment of waking up alive again, subsides,
She said,
And while the sounds of the toilet you left running all night,
Convince you of the futility of self-improvement,
In this hollow moment,
Allow yourself to passively, selfishly, contemplate death.

Do not conjure up the act of dying, Carla said,
It is deviant and corrupt and insincere to rehearse your final moments,
And as you know, she continued,
I have no inherent objections to suicide.
After all war is mass suicide
And where would we be without violence,
Jesus, nothing would ever get done, so no, she said,
This is not that at all.

And God knows with your ego,
If I tell you to think about death,
You will descend into hero worship, she said,
Or worse, martyrdom and quest,
No, Carla said, imagine what death is like,
Think scientifically about what it means to be dead.

I will never get out of bed, I replied,
If I’m encouraged to wallow.
If I roll over before I wash my arms and feed my birds,
I may recoil forever.
You know I have an addiction to thought, I reminded her,
An adhesive meme,
(Why did that woman throw her cat in the garbage can),
Will arrest and detain me for an entire day.

It’s worth it, Carla said,
I want you to understand the carefulness of death,
The miracle of pain in absence,
The cessation of doubt,
The sudden end of futility and horror,
And I want it to absorb you, all of you,
Until you become reassured of its tenderness,
The fairness and equality that ends all things.

There is no need to frustrate,
To pray for significance, Carla advised me,
Free yourself from heroism and
Your self-destructive pattern of wishful thinking.

As it is, the number of women you sleep with and discard
Should be punishable by jail time,
When will you learn that fulfillment will never be a number.

And your attempt to write a novel,
Is tiresome, the delusion insulting,
The pretense unforgivable.
And the lies you tell,
The anger you express,
Mostly from a stool,
Undermines everything you claim to be.

You have a mirror,
Probably one that hasn’t been cleaned in a century
So use it,
Study the creases in your face,
Your boxer’s bruised eyes,
Jesus, why do you always look like you’ve just lost a fistfight.

I stared at Carla, my cup of coffee warm between two hands.
Ok I get the death is my reward thing, sort of, I said
But how do I salvage any joy at this point,
Is my life, my whole ******* life, going to be a stockpile of misery.

Christ, you are a perpetual novice, Carla said,
And I have the feeling you are about to drool,
Listen,
Death isn’t our reward,  
But to those who corner it,
A well worthwhile prize.

I don’t want you be puzzled by outcomes anymore, Carla said,
Do they like me, do they hate me, do they even know I exist,
You must stop chasing and being overwhelmed,
Be consumed, be rebirthed by the attractiveness of irrelevance,
Empower yourself with insignificance,
Forgo your Causa sui willingly,
Surrender your need for meaning, purpose and story
And go sit on a bench for a year, nothing more.

You must allow the softness of death to befriend you, Carla said
And when you do,
You will stop being impulsively afraid of everything,
Perish your self-serving search for an absolute truth,
Accept your limits without choking on your limitations,
And your confusion will degrade, she advised.

Carla frowned and turned away from me.
Usually a crow flies by when we part.
If you **** yourself, I want to be there, she said.
She undid the top button of her coat,
Took off the necklace with the crucifix and the picture of John Lennon,
Threw it into the East river,
And squeezed my hand as brief and sudden as a ghost.

i was about to start writing this up when i thought:
another whiskey Quincy? **** storm,
spilled the remains of the one i barely touched
before having to pour myself a:
puritan Scot in Cheltenham.

now, i heard people say any town in Essex
is a ****-hole...
                            fair enough...
but there are darker recesses of England you
must get to know before making that
assumption...
                  sure, London, proper London,
zones 1 - 4, E17 (post code, outer reaches,
Walthamstow, used to have a dog racing
track - played there once,
like a typical Paris catwalk, those hounds)
can skive off Greater London
                    like New York can laugh off
New Jersey, it's pretty much like that...
the only thing is: Londoners don't know what
exists outside this area: the buffer zone.
this is the buffer zone...
                 you experience England outside of
this very sensitive area of integration,
take for example a 3 hour coach trip to
a little town of Cheltenham in Gloustershire
not far from Oxford (a hub of learning)
and Bristol (Massive Attack, and that
bridge by Brunel - funny, engineers are above
architects, in that engineers build things
that *work, architects are like science-fiction
novelists rather than scientists -
do you know how many problems workers
experience, because an engineer
"forgot to mention" something essential in the plans?
at least an engineer gives you a read table,
all architects work for Ikea -
          ah, here's pieces a - z,
put it together yourself) - anyway...
              spilled my Quincy whiskey, now i'm a puritan
of scotch - unlike that damning quote from
1950s Hollywood: whiskey with a drop of water...
   ok ok... a little **** of ice floating about...
when will the nagging stop? no one says jack
about putting water into authentic absinthe...
      why? cos it goes cloudy green when you do!
(too much digression, news paragraph).

   i was leaving London on Friday,
murky the way i like it... Albert Bridge never seemed
so out of cinematographic urgency -
               but the west end with its grand buildings
appealed to me to start imagining
                    Oscar Wylde ghosts leaving these places
for promenades in top cats and tiaras for the ladies...
                     west London... the best way to see it
is in transit... preferably rather urgently...
                    and in a coach with other people not paying
attention...
                       the Thames receded into the estuary (
as it does), those housed in boats experienced a wake-up
call with a 10° ***** into the mud -
                                past the Chelsea pensioners' abode,
past many monuments to be exact...
   and then onto the open M4... past Windsor Castle
and the streak of aeroplanes about an aerial mile
apart landing at Heathrow -
                                  3 hours later, there i was,
in Cheltenham - chitty chitty bang bang,
apparently dubbed the hub of all English literary
endeavours - well, if you're going to host
a literature festival, wouldn't you claim to host
it with at least one patriotic son of the word?
did i see any statue of a famous poet or writer in
that little rugby stockpile of excess triceps?
nope.
           well, at first i thought it was cute...
                                a little Portobello, albeit
without the St. Petersburg paintwork on the houses,
houses as grey as the skies...
                                           got lost looking for
the b & b hotel i was supposed to be staying at for
the night, went into a gas station, asked,
i was apparently only adjacent lost -
                           old school, map printer and no
g.p.s. on foot -
                                  i once read a map and navigated
a car from an obscure Essex city,
to an even more obscure city in eastern Poland,
past the dreaded Penta Germania consisting of:
Düsseldorf, Duisburg, Essen, Wuppertal and
obviously Dortmund -
                                           i call it the whirlpool
of navigation...
                            anyway, so i found the abode,
what a nice little place it was, shied away from
all the traffic - a lovely garden,
a room fit for a journeying writer,
          actually, everything a writer could hope for
to lock himself away and write,
            tunic scenic - everything to ease the literary
constipation - the surroundings, the whole decor,
i even took a picture thinking: shame if no
Balzac were to not emerge from these rooms...
                           i sure didn't,
i dropped all the things, took a shower,
went into town to do the g.p.s. topographic of
the city so i wouldn't need a map in the future -
bought a bottle of whyte & mackay with a huh?!
apparently this brand isn't popular...
               went back to the room and found myself
drinking in front of the dreaded sight...
well... it was a room fit for a writer...
               but it had a double bed in it...
and a mirror at the desk...
                                    i downed one puritan glass
and looked in the mirror: i don't need your company.
looked away and found to my amazement the
truth of modern writing: the industrialisation
of writing... it emerged in the 20th century when everyone
did it by himself, with a typewriter -
        the industrialisation of writing on an individual
scale can be quiet debilitating when trying to
rekindle the quill... i didn't write anything, i doodled,
and those were bad doodles, it wasn't writing,
it was doodling... i drank a quarter of the bottle
and went out...
        went into the first bar, ordered a Guinness and
and sat down by a table with a
(later disclosed) Gloustershire University student,
a Canadian, jacking-off a script for some
B-short-movie in a public place: to catch the oozing
exfoliation of inspiration from crowded places -
if ever that worked, it might have ever worked
in a graveyard...
                             we were joined by his friend,
some peasant, we got chatting, boy, it was such a thrill
to exchange names... the Canadian's name
i did remember: Darcy...
                          he had that look about him that made
it worthwhile to remember his name,
ah, when names fit the image...
                         chubby, pig-blondish, hairy...
i'm guessing a native of Quebec...
                               but i could be wrong.
so a few hey hey, yeah yeahs later i asked if they
knew something about this gig on the festival slot
that was starting tomorrow, 5 p.m. and for free...
sure sure... got to eye the guide... so i asked:
so, maybe we could meet up at this place at this time
and go from there....
                                  Titanic looked more graceful
sinking than the reply...
                                                 i had to really check myself,
this isn't London psyche chess, this is:
we are small people from a small town,
we think a charming stranger is a serial-killer...
                    the Yorkshire ripper case scenario,
not last... first.
                              i might have been ******* a lemon
by then and pretending to be drunk squirming
a Buddha look - i pretended the polite noting down
the details: suddenly i didn't think like attending
this ****** venture that would start at 5 p.m., end
at 12 a.m. and according to my travel diary:
having to wait 2 hours to catch the 2 a.m. home.
so i went to the first instalment of the "literature"
festival... lemn sissay and salena godden -
and i have to admit, it was a corker - a true
a champagne cork popped and hit the crystal
chandelier and i laughed... and that's how i lost my
virginity to "spoken word",
                                         i wasn't listening to poets,
but i was thoroughly entertained, i swear that
at the end of her performance Salena pointed into
the dark (great tactic, how can they be nervous
if they can't see anyone? they stand on a pulpit of pure
light and see black ahead, where the nerves?)
and said: esp. to my friend over there...
                i might have involuntarily back-laughed /
snorted like a pig trying to catch enough lung volume
for a ha ha...
                          got chatting to this lovely middle-aged
couple: told them: i'm being ***** with gags.
                prior, i was watching the queue build up
into the room, with a god-awful grin on my face...
i couldn't take it off...
                         perhaps because i was looking at
the demographic and thinking: where are my peers?!
i spotted about three people in a close age proximity -
the rest were farts and soon-to-be-farts...
                             now Sissay freaked me out...
in a good way... i met the two after the show,
i brought two copies of my own printed work to give to
them... i had to ask their publicist if i was allowed
to touch the Aegean marbles... luckily i did,
but then i asked the stupid question to Sissay:
so who were you trying to imitate when your eyes
were bulging out nearly gauged out like a Pink Floyd
song video of: teacher! let these children go!
               i should have associated something African
freakish in mask, a strengthening - the sort
of look that New Zealander rugby players put on
to frighten people off when dancing the haka -
he really did talk like that...
                                       the little devil voice didn't help
either... but i only asked that "stupid" question
while mumbling something about how hard it was
getting published and how anyone aged nearing 40
forgot the free press of the internet emerging and
how he asked for a q & a after the performance...
and... hand on my heart:
                                   got asked one question...
          and answered... only one question...
                                        a complete and utter ******* meltdown...
   not: oh yeah, so who's your major influence...
                      a Samuel Beckett moment from not i.
later i standing outside and smoking, a grand English
dame of the west approached me,
chitty chatty kiss the hand later i got to say the most
famous line known to the current Englishman:
unfortunately... from Essex.
             honest. anyone asks you in Essex the question
they always ask: so where you're originally from?
                         anywhere else in England
they just ask you: whe

For God so loved the World…
Why? How? Does He see the same World that we live in everyday? Do His eyes see the same people? I cannot believe that they do…
We are everything that He is not, complete opposites in every way.
We are ignorant and arrogant. We see something beautiful and immediately cut it to pieces to find out what makes it so radiant. We are hateful and self-centered, thinking only of ourselves even alongside the deathbeds of others. We are destructive and self-absorbed. We only help the needy for a tax credit and a clear conscience.
We curse and condemn and never give our actions a second thought. We tear each other down to build ourselves up.
We lie and we cheat and we steal and we ****. We torture and torment in the name of boredom. We rob and we pillage and we **** and we raze, leveling the achievements of our own for the temples of posterity.
We live in a world where dog eats dog and beasts eat God, and He goes on, loving us just the same.        How? How can anyone love something that is so perverse; so malignant? We burn what we do not understand to ash instead of observing and wonder why our neighbors stockpile gasoline and flame retardant clothing…
Love thy neighbor as thyself and hate each other, it’s alright, as long as you hate yourself for being like your neighbor and hate your neighbors for being like you.
We are the worst that the universe has to offer, yet the creator of all has still decided to bestow his love upon us? Why? How must His eyes see our wicked race to continue to feel that way? We are nothing more that wicked mud, and deserving of nothing more than a harsh drought followed by unending windstorms.
Bring on the sun and the winds. Wipe this plague from the face of the Earth. She will not miss us, just as your neighbors will not miss you.  
But please, dear God, do not stop loving us, for we are merely children with money, nuclear toys and a strong dependency on anti-depressants, and we know not what we do.

I'm melting
Icicles crashing
snow fashioned animals
melting from beneath

melting
this ice carousel
******* breaking
cant you hear hear me

I shall hibernate in the eyes of winter. Torpor in the wake of fall.
Crucify the image i made of you
Mount corpus delecti Ensconce The carcass on my ceiling wall

I’m reminded now of that creature when i sleep or i wake
I need this stone of guilt wound around my vertebrae
So it hangs so it hangs so it sways with the weather vane
So it hangs so it hangs
So it slowly brings feelings again

We need this Contrition On the roof of our eyelids
To the struts of our mouth guilt through your body infest

Every nook and cranny

I crush all these blown glass animals. They all try and creep to my brain hiding in the amygdala
Take shards of them
Ingest them
Carve your likeness in my arms

No beat can hit me hard enough
No stone breaking bones could slough
How this carnival creature menagerie
Has destroyed all my self conscious stockpile
Esteem was a book that sold millions of copies and mine burnt up
The firemen. Came and disintegrate the pages in a pile a mass grave of individual triumph

Carousels destroy childhood

Holding hands destroys manhood
Just when you think you can finally stomach the ride
Those fingers course up your arm down your throat and pull out your insides

The mistakes I've made
become the ammunition you stockpile in this emotional arm's race
promises we break
dig at my heart's cave
that I hide in throughout our love's cold war
but it's ventricles
become tentacles
begging that I don't hand it over
grasping at my rib cage
pleading to stay
ripping my chest, waiting on a truce
an armistice in the separation of you...

The familiar wrenching in my gut when you speak of love
The acidic burns and aches I keep bottled up
Become a flashflood
Rushing through my veins, poisioned lines constricting and forcing my extremities to spasm
You cast your words fruitlessly into the chasm
The indescribable void that lies before us
My hands scraped and bloodied from tearing down the nails that keep your heart boarded up
I can never break through the barrier you have erected
I leave myself vulnerable to your outlashes, you remain overly protected
Sheltered from the reality that is the extension of my love through every action
Every emotion you stockpile and ration
Maintaining a craving in the depths of my essence
For your ill fated presence
You bask in the symphonies that expel from my eyes gazing
Hear the strings and percussions playing
Without every fully repaying
Any emotional debt you may have accumulated over time
Fingers dancing along every line
I have written vast and true as the moon above
Yet I feel the familiar wrenching in my gut when you speak of love...

dis- (negation of) -ease can take up so many forms of expression, the likely venture in a coffee shop with espressos variants and mocha coffee, or the lattes and something else.

which hardly means Paul McCartney dreaming
up *yesterday or Robert Stevenson with dr. jekyll and
mr.vhyde - when the weaknesses of yours
express themselves naturally - you accept them -
the only riches are bound to health -
all others care nothing - take away the able body
or the mind - and you take social realities -
i remember running wild with Peter and Ciarán -
slobbering off car parks on people's heads with spit,
surviving mugging, getting underwear-wedged on
park fences - deciding to smoke *** aged 21 for
the first time - listening to Limp Biscuit while
playing pool and donning Samuel L. Jackson Kangoo
hats john otto, take 'em to the matthew's bridge -
****'s sake, the who?! long gone. moths frantic right now -
we walked the mall, the bought artefacts before
digitalisation took over - and the book was lost
among toilet-paper heaps - 'cos when you need
a ****** to wipe his **** you need to write a book -
to feel seminal and human.
like the way Ilford high-street changed from Jew haven
into Bombaystan - that Ilford is mythical -
clever cue to suit a hardened worth of wearing tuxedo -
Maggie in the Sky filled with Piggy-stockpile Metaphors -
white boy rap - coo or undo clue - the same
**** precipitates into brown men in autumn
salivated together with oak drop leaves -
so hey ***, how's my solo? good or not good enough
to churn a mirror scene at a party?
'cos the cool kids "hang out", i guess **** of butter either.
as abandoned poetics had it: ensure it rhymes.
but it was me Peter and Ciarán on the weekend -
hell-raisers before i started smoking dope -
oh come on! i just turned 30 i'm allowed slang -
it's not unruly to rule the rubric with some sentiment
without wish for retirement -
ah man, that ****** in South Park - Ciarán just
hanging there in mid-air - got a g-string to boot -
i have to admit, the smart ones in England got out
of the education system aged 16 - the dumb-*****
made it to university - connectivity came in even if you
excelled - the smart ones got out aged 16 -
dumb ones like us with immigration a surrogate
family of ideas kept it up to university level and received
jiggly-squat of **** to get bothered in encouraging
attention to the idea of society - gave up, rebelled,
started singing X Ambassadors' song like Christmas carols -
readying ourselves for our parents to die,
watching our parents watching their parents die -
readying for the squat - as i once said:
i know a place where i can bottle clean Evian water -
you have to pass the centurion guards that might
kick you in the head if you try feeding them your
hand rather than a sugar-cube... but that's fresh water -
some *** left a ceramic tomb where the stream runs
free. or the maxim from high-school:
take a picture... it'll last longer;
it doesn't matter, aged 18 through to 21 i was sticking
******* into my mouth to imitate a Roman rite of
passage -
just when Eminem came out -
and wrestling was a beehive with Kane and the Undertaker
and StoneCold - cheeky chic wahwah on the turntables -
but **** me that ****** on the park fence
by a centimetre missing Ivan the Impale(r)'s tactic -
at this point can come like an e-mail,
that @ stamp can **** itself... i'm ready...
it's the cinema that no one bothers with -
there for the taking - spitting on a man's head
from a car-park uppermost level -
getting ****** for the first time with white lightning
cider. Pete? lost his teeth, got a mother of a beauty's
worth of **** last time i met him in a pub -
Ciarán became a nightclub door gorilla -
well, you know my story -
it's hardly the twinning of the Krays -
although that was on the cards -
last time the high-school people were together
we were at the Beckton bowling-alley
jumping into plastered fake walls head-diving
until i broke the wall with a cranium of an elephant's
worth of horizontal canon-ball gravity propeller;
mind you, Beckton stinks of **** in the high
season of the recycling harvest - A13 via Barking?
i'm not too sure - i never bothered to learn to drive -
i took the Chinese route - bus stop wankers? sure.
bicycle wankers? tell that to the Beijing horde -
shame i boxed Ciarán's kidneys in once before
we were lessened in B-tech queuing to enter class.

The black
overtakes iris,
I scatter all writing across the room,
digging for notes
on the next chapter,
and outside
bluebirds sing
while ants crawl on their wings,
new babes suckle,
while mama texts another,
and inside--
a madhouse,
an oven--
always on,
always 425;
no respite--
her skin
invites
like late night
milk
and
she gleams
sharpened front teeth,
presents
30 poems-a-day
of **** teenage poetry--
"love me,
like you did in the beginning,
love me free"
and I stockpile
the pages
for my calendar-approved
pyre--
6 more days
and I'll let
this darkness
bend
to fire.

Remember, remember to vote by the fifth of November,
to stop the Socialist’s treasonous plot.
I see far too many reasons,
why the Socialist’s treason,
must be completely stopped.
There truly is a lot.

Everyone should be stunned,
but the world is numb,
and twiddles its thumbs,
as nations completely rot.

With their totalitarian hearts filled with hate,
the corrupt Socialists, ‘tis their intent,
to destroy the United States of America.

The Socialist horse has already been brought in the gate,
but it may not be too late.
We can still win,
if we capture the Socialist soldiers that came from within.
They are notorious for projecting the illusion that Republicans are an intrusion,
keeping us all busy fighting each other,
while they dig under our nation's foundation.
They wait for the Republic to collapse into chaos and destitution,
so they can execute their final solution.

They live by the saying “laws are for thee but not for me”.
They love to disguise socialism as democracy,
and Republicans as a threat to thee.
What they really mean is they are a threat to their hypocrisy.
They gaslight our nation into sedation,
wear us down to control our towns.

They wish for the sacrifices of our national heroes to have been in vain,
as they attempt to flush our Constitution down the drain.
Many are fooled under their guise of safety,
should they give up their liberty hastily.

They have damaged alliances and stoked the fires of war.
They tax our retirees while rewarding our enemies.
They have intentionally hindered military aid to our Israeli confederates.
They have failed many of our military veterans,
that have come on their knees with broken psyches,
while continuing to feed our enemies.

In the meanwhile they drained our petroleum stockpile to provide for the vile.
They wasted our nation’s FEMA funds on the illegal ones.
They print more Bens to implement short term mends.
Their heavy inflation is crippling our nation.
They fuel racial division among man,
encourage violence to begin,
unless we grant them more power within.
They appease the mobs if it will help keep their jobs.

Many lies they have spread.
One even led to a madman taking a shot at Trump's head.
We thank God that Trump is not dead.
Another one lain in wait at his golf estate to assassinate.
Again, we thank God that Trump is not now the late.
They once peddled a fake dossier,
with hope that it would put President Trump away.
If you aren’t already aware,
they’re practicing banana republic lawfare,
to get him put in ironware and fitted for orange outerwear.
They’re trying to drain the billionaire.
They thought they could give him a major scare,
to get him to surrender in fear.
But they were wrong.
He continues to stay strong,
has a growing throng.

They participate in many criminal activities,
it sparks theories of conspiracies.
They marginalize and persecute the theorists as enemies.

They think facts should consider their feelings.
If one points this out it sends them reeling.
Those that deny their misinformation,
have their speech labeled lies to be censored from the nation.
They control most of the media,
and wish to rewrite our history in the encyclopedia.

The Socialists wish to abolish free speech,
and to be able to teach defiers a lesson.
First they must outlaw your Smith & Wesson.

They seek to destroy the owner of X,
because he won't support the Marxists.
He has been a global voice of reason,
loves to mock their treason.

They use government funded education,
to brainwash future generations,
malnourish kids of essential knowledge and good morals,
to make them ignorant depraved government slaves.
Many colleges are scamming our youth,
and withholding the truth.

They wish to dissolve traditional fams,
and convince kids to be trans.
If parents attempt to protect them,
they run the risk that the government will nick them.
If you don’t affirm their delusions,
they will see that you are met with a nasty conclusion.

They harm our little ones,
feeding them social media carcinogens,
to rot their mind, body and soul,
that they might become societal tumors instead of productive bloomers.

Science to them means whatever they want it to mean,
and it is the absolute truth, so it would seem.
We are expected to live with faith and reliance on their fake science.
If you pry, defy and not comply,
you could kiss your job goodbye.
Those that show no defiance to their fake science,
believe they will get reprieve from the Socialist’s persecution.
It seems they now unofficially practice a state sponsored religion based on this fake science as well as perverse, unethical and immoral behavior.
If you practice a religion they haven’t approved,
they might have you removed.

Their D.E.I. hire doth conspire to move even higher.
The serpent whispers in her ear,
“do anything you want,
no matter how severe.
It’s OK, it’s for your career.”
She stabbed President Biden,
and ain't even hidden,
that she aims for more power than Poseidon,
to wield the Tridents of war.
Now she’s the Democrat’s presidential nominee,
without even receiving a single vote from you or me.
But it’s ok, because they say, it’s all to protect our democracy,
run by their bureaucracy.
She hides behind Biden’s name,
so she doesn’t have to accept the blame.
She claims that she will start doing her job,
if voters finalize the motion to give her the promotion.
She has taken as her running mate,
a Manchurian candidate.
When he debates it sounds like he isn’t sure,
that he actually agrees with her.
As our current Border Czar,
she allows in raiders to get votes later.
She looks the other way,
while the largest slave trade in the world is made.
Our streets are filled with fentanyl,
because she refuses to finish the wall.
She thinks it would be nice if she could abolish I.C.E.
She should have thought twice before suggesting that bad advice.
It has all led to a lot of strife.
Now our nation is torn.

The United States of America they seek to destroy.

We must fight the plight of the Socialist’s might.
Socialists need to be ripped from their thrones,
and be no longer known.
We need to unify our nation with one determination.
Act forthwith lest our family and friends turn to foes.
Our communities need mending and socialism needs ending.

Holler patriots, holler, let the truth ring out.
Fight patriots, fight, never surrender.
Vote patriots, vote.

God save The United States of America!

© [2024] Author: Emet Ezer  All Rights Reserved
Inspired by John Milton's “In Quintum Novembris“

I am made of saltwater and glass
and I am a hundred years old.
I breathe in your cigarette smoke
for a minute, you are in my lungs.
Stockpile warmth,
winter is coming to crack our hands.
The light trembles and dissolves
we are now in darkness.
When you left our eyes were still layered with sleep.
My fingertips still hum from the realization
that we are made less of flesh
and more of electricity.

You use my greatest fears
as slings, rocks and arrows
meant to draw not blood, but tears
hitting the earth like meteors.
You bend and twist my limbs
in a figurative way.
You train my hopes like a dog,
telling them to stay
and you never come back for them.
You stockpile sharpened words
and hails of insults.

You used to be what I called friend,
but I was always aware of your simplicity.
Perhaps it was how explicitly
you framed desire and hatred
in the same portrait.
You made sub-cultures fit into your own identity
and always found a way
to make me feel unwanted.

You were a ****** friend,
but the way you brought about the end
like a hammer crushing the skull
of the decades I have left to live,
THAT,
I'm not sure I can forgive.
But when I wake up tomorrow,
and I look into the mirror,
I will not see your face staring back
but you always will.

And for this reason I still find it in myself
to feel pity for you.
The same pity I feel
for those short of food and clean water
because for every time
you put my dreams to the slaughter
you put another notch in your belt.
The same one that keeps you fastened to your hate.
You'll be padlocked there until you find the key,
hidden in your own humanity.
To win against hate,
you have to not want to participate in it.
When it comes to mine,
it's still there,
but everyday it grows dimmer.
Not dim as in, you,
but less strong.

So this is our swan song.
You asked me to write you a poem
and after today,
I just couldn't say no.

Tombstones marked with years gone by. A personal, though nearly inconsequential timeline that has filed by and left a full life and a hollow body in its wake. The give and take, the motions that propel us into the future one moment at a time until quite suddenly and certainly too soon the track runs out and we all crash into the black. We will be commemorated in the most carefully worded manner so as not to insult our memory, making our lives much more tidy in death than they could ever been seen while we were still about walking. The others left will cry for us and mourn our impressionable personalities and the impending lack thereof. But to passersby, in life we were just a few gestures and a face. In death, we are a Slab of rock and two dates. The question is what shall be done with what very well could be hoarded into an ever-widening stockpile of unused moments, never considering the irretrievable vault into which we place them until it finally swings shut and closes us in  along with them. That is, until we reach this unmovable and unchanging space, disintegrating and replaced by new voices, new notions, and new life. Will you fight? Or will you lie down out of practice and in wait for the steadily encroaching date we all must face.
C.e.M August 10, 2015

Compassion is a distraction
Leaving butterflies and still question marks
While I'm smiling, groaning, and thrashing
Swimming in a cesspool filled with cruel sharks
Not used to kind remarks and the complimentary excess
So I hashtag fallacies and clever messages to make them all perplexed

Then
Come the moment of truth cross them out wave goodbye
And slash every last dime a dozen heart
If what they were saying was genuine. . .
I'd find a way
To be disappointed from the start
Pixellated picture frames hover play over dull space
When it's the only real way to me I ever get to see your full face
And when left alone in the confines of a necessary moment
I'd lead with retrospect and waste time wondering what it all meant
I forget to taste and touch. Too busy while I preach and rush
To enjoy a moment in the sun and all that noise seems to hush
The day I forgot to stop and think was the day I had some fun
Until I rewind the reality tape and press play to watch it come undone
The tale I spin runs with parasites that perforate dripping abcesses
Ravage rats ravenous and infected blood flows through cordial asepsis
Fantasizing of better times while right now passes by.
I close my eyes and kiss the sky and wish that I could fly
Fish for stockpile rhythm and dive bar singing blues
Sizing up and dicing up and slicing up the clues

Sometimes it can be as simple as simple: me and you
Until I **** that too and habits bloom I'm just a fool
Who thinks on wasted talent
The words I write don't render sight so I don't bother myself
A single dent.
My cup has run over wild amok. Belly up. Superfluous in extent
I'm not certain whether to give a **** or pray to God my soul is sent.

RE: :) Wow. My Gawd that is sooo hot. You're really so tlented! Hmu 2 c wat's up. Or better yet txt me #Spent xoxo
Until next time
Let me kno wat u ment.

...

where space and space become mandible,
where flex is not distinguishable from flux,
where, precisely, on a treasure island
of contentment i could have planned my
daydream trip solo to India, and set off by
myself aged 21, but i didn't - and perhaps
i have a regret or two not having seen
the tsunami of colours, brighter than
fireworks, in whatever gloom we represent
grey, to be cremated and turn into the colour
of cinnamon, or chilli, or turmeric,
if only we could turn to such colourful powdering,
one song, a mosaic of feeing: Moby's porcelain
spurred me, but indeed, the trip was abandoned,
India was replaced with Hades, the internal
adventure, with my ego theories extinct,
no couches, represented as a walking stick,
a prayer mat, a support of some sort, and before
me the mountains, canyons, rivers and seas
of thought - nothing more.
aeons have passed since my hope to travel
the oceanic and oriental traverses -
but in my ivory tower, like old Merlin trapped
on the drip of knowledge, i read a ted hughes
poem glimpse: /
'o leaves', crow sang, trembling, 'o leaves -'
the touch of a leaf's edge at his throat
guillotined further comment.
                                                        ­nevertheless
speechless he continued to stare at the leaves
through the god's head instantly substituted. /
commiserations having left a sense of
achievement from a novel - but the feelings
are not mutual - a love for a god or a love
for a novel is quiet alike - cold narcissism of one,
instant devotion for the other -
poetry like breadcrumbs, sometimes, all the time,
it's not a loaf of bread, the poem isn't,
to have a taste for poetry doesn't necessarily
mean a capitalistic sport, competitive and blood
thirsty, it's a chance, a stealthy endeavour -
in whatever profession, forever defining our art -
i'm sure many chemists could say:
reduced us to skin-care and suntan lotion,
perfumes and bleach? imagine the geneticist
working on the d.n.a. of down syndrome people,
i mean: those people hardly age!
what's your secret Freddy? come on, tell us,
you're 50 and yet your orangutan expression
is hiding Dorian Grey for ****'s sake - yet you're
pristine like a snowflake!
apart from that, what i really wanted to say,
what philosophers and quasi disciples of regurgitation
speak of: to stand outside all of space and time -
well, hell, i'll give it a go!
the great mountain range that was once Sahara,
the great mountain range that was once Gobi,
a day will come when the Himalayas will turn
into a desert, a grand desert by the name of Himala,
jasmine scented Layla told me so, whoever she is,
i probably would have met her, had i travelled to
India and walked from Bengal to Jerusalem,
walking across Persia - but i didn't, and since i didn't
i did the best i could: with my ego acting like a walking
stick, i crossed frontiers of what horizons came,
and all horizons consolidated themselves as a thought,
unblemished by choice - residue of ink,
not even a bone - to be incubated in the elemental,
a walking flask of water that i am, non-revelatory,
to enshrine myself in fire, to that likelihood i
am affectionate - all this stuff of coffin and burial
is humorous in the extreme black, the morbid rites,
expecting resurrections almost everyday -
so morbid - housing shortages due to cemetery spaces
needed, strange, isn't it? i expect we're hoping
to be the next stockpile of oil for other humanoids
later on - the mechanisation of our age, apparently
due to some great disaster -
as i wonder: historically speaking, isn't
reaching so far back into history, to the humanoids,
to the dinosaurs, to the big bang, sort of,
make our history slightly meaningless? the effort
to write it, you'd have to write it like a Holocaust...
and who wants to write history like that?
with affection, given the scaling of where we wished
to regress to: the big bang theory or no theory...
is... just... as... important... as... a... full... stop                    *.

Someone has started a war once again
says the news bulletin; the news caster
munch it again and again, tempting
listeners as if it is her favorite nutrient pill.

Gloom spreads in the after noon, distressed lovers
are getting ready to live together some time soon,
"Only if things fall in place,without any hitch
and the world decides to be kind" they resolve.

Like the background score, they hear the wails of children,
their lives are destroyed for ever by precision warheads
made in the best of factories, yes death creation, is a business for profit
not too may'll shy away from such prospects,
                                      
               ­                                                    isn't gun a reality of life?

(protect it with life, what if if destroys life bit by bit)
Why he asks her, is there no bar, in creating war for fun
she says they must start one, the sooner they can,a war to end all wars,
till the moment one or both go down offering no surrender
or a law to stop making wars, is to be brought  in force at gun point.
Allow warheads to stockpile, to get rusted, harmlessly go waste,
so that all in this world once more can feel safe,
                                                           ­       the beleaguered lovers dream

a man of no fortune with a name to come.*

Important things are happening
in the outside world of events,
but no one ever mentions you.
You have had a celebrity buzz cut.
You are not attuned to twittering.
The glasses you broke work better now.
Your hunger for renown is so great
that you can't stand to order poverty.
The cat looks at you like protein.
Your bed is an ancient dry well.
The ghosts of your memories
can't even afford clean sheets.
Do not these signal events import?
If you could but get your boyish face
out there on the Internet, someone
in that outside world might mention you,
and the virtual lottery of fame would
allow you to purchase and stockpile
marrow bones, crème brûlée and ******.
You could go out with a belch of flame,
and everyone would say they knew you
long before you were even nothing.