having applied myself to two languages with different parameters of execution: writing in primarily in English, reading fiction and poetry primarily in English enabled me to gain strength in reading philosophy and conjuring up white-rabbits from a top-hat in Polnisch - i can't read philosophy in English - which explains why few interests in philosophy exist - the English have undermined the worth of philosophy, oh sure, David Hume is the rave in Scotland, because he's Scottish - but the English took to solely understanding the world via Darwinism - image deciphering accounts of how the natural order of things is attached to inanimate materials propelled by falling apples - the continental procedure is less concerning Darwinism and more akin to a mental fashion statement, as in: what's vogue these days? what's the cognitive vogue? the English "philosophers" with their rigid Darwinism are like priests - which is why they attracted biblical literal interpretation - the creationists - there's no other explanation why the creationists emerged - it was because of militant atheism, atheism without individual originality - invoked by a sense of herding the sheep to the grazing hills of nihilism - the pillar that became the crutch - of course i admire and know it's true - no Genesis story that's merely a p.s. in history is ever going to undermine the naturalist's fascination with the world in every minute detail - i'm not against that... but at this moment i was thinking of a cult idea for a naturalist - take a pornographic movie, and give it to a naturalist to assess - after all... we're just mammals - i think this could turn out to be a real daytrip for a naturalist - oh sure, it must be ease with organism that apparently do not derive any pleasure from procreation... give two beings that apparently do derive pleasure from procreation... to later debase it with the malignant forces at work in the Encyclopedia that's 120 days of *****... the naturalist narrating a pornographic scene would be bewildered as to why these highly evolved creatures are exponentially higher-up the tiers of evolution, needing so many complex adaptive techniques - boredom for one, people have created more distractions than they have created tools of necessity - but perhaps they're equal - our evolutionary drive? the thing that makes us tick is not necessarily physical discomfort - we exercise for the pleasure of physical discomfort - the drive is boredom, the fear of it drives us mad with constant ingenuity taking form - like a ballerina in a salsa bar... sadism in the aura of hot-sweat-and-coconut-***-shaking as if playing dice in Las Vegas... Don Quixote (the ballet on three days away)... we're done with the empirical satisfaction of Darwinism, we know it, we need a humanistic approach to it, something that goes against the English priesthood - Darwinism will never be vogue in continent Europe, continent Europeans just say: Egyptology is as far back as is necessary to go... our lives are more important and more complex than those of primates... our lives are more important and more complex than those of primates... we want to write history, not look at history as a burden and therefore try to erase it, placing ourselves in a garden of awe and glass; honestly? Darwinism is a bit like creationism - it all starts with a garden, awe, and the grand spectacle - only the other includes a need to procrastinate by doing some ritualistic mumble and Hosanna Hallelujah in the highest - and the other tries not to yawn.

so onto my favourite topic... rich boy's slang -
do you really think a *prince of Egypt would speak
slave tongue Hebraic?
do you think **** & 'arry could speak Bulgarian
or Romanian? let me think... no.
they might speak French... maybe German...
but certainly not the eastern tongues -
now, whoever wrote that book wrote it in ancient
Egyptian, the chronologically speaking
yes, female genital mutilation was practised first
in Africa, notably Egypt, prior to male genital
mutilation being instigated by frustrated Abraham -
the collision was bound to happen -
see how pretty prince slang looks?
it's poetic - the rich boys call it poetry, the poor
boys call slang - which is why poor boy raps
and over uses rhyme - or perhaps rhyme is easier
to remember than free verse poetry -
rich boy brings a page on stage and recites because
he's too lazy or not bothered to memorise,
poor boy says yeah a lot in between his lyrics
without a page so he can the the bowling aisle
movement as if he's rolling in a convertible Cadillac -
sing ***! yo! ***! yo! so the chronology matches,
Eve first, Adam second - but not as in: they did it first -
later down the line they cut off the precious skin
and hence felt naked, they fell, they revised was not
to be revised - sure, the man got the favour right -
he was the winner - but at the same time, the loser -
hence the good & evil bit - we don't really know -
is it really necessary to have good *** to later have
a fickle partner and laws being in her favour via what's
called the missed prenup thought? to me it's just a literal
reading of the text - looking for laurel leaves to cover
the revision of the genitalia - not the actual genitalia per se,
just the revised versions - so if the female variation is
whatever it is - less pleasure from *** and what not,
for man that also means counting the stars and weeks
and having no pleasure from ******* when her period
arrives and you have to try a diet of **** or something -
well of course it's slightly uncomfortable with it -
but at the same time you increase your endurance with it -
a slight sadomasochism, no whips no ******* women,
no leather, no adventure, just raw meat and raw meat -
no fantasy no role play - just a little bit of skin making all
the difference - can you imagine Marquis de Sade writing
as frankly as this? well... every time i revise my thought
on the book of genesis, i obviously become a covert literal
reader of it, deciphering the eloquent slang of a prince of
Egypt would use on such "delicate" matters -
but with that being said: it becomes all the less fascinating
a myth-making engine, and given he was forced out of
his comfort zone (and i mean a comfort zone) he would
cite God as the word (reason), but by word alone and
the word only - the reasoning behind what entered the land
of Egypt as being the same as what entered the Garden
of Eden... and tempted... the temptation came with the pyramids -
oddly enough only the Eiffel Tower was higher than
the pyramids - look at the time it took man to become so bold again!
look at it! massive - and in some weird quantum physics
interpretation of the mythological past becoming the actual
future - the tower of Babel... and... yep, you guessed it:
the Burj Khalifa (or the Khalifa Tower) is its equivalent;
but ****, only the Eiffel Tower overshadowed the pyramids -
something must have happened back then then,
if man was so shy in rising his structures too far up into
the sky - but i guess the Enlightenment spurred him on...
later to crash back down with the atom phobia of the second
part of the 20th century, which in the 21st century morphed into:
well, how will wars be profitable if we drop a nuke?
e'oh! no, sorry, one nuke will make us bankrupt -
we need tanks, guns, bullets... huge bulks of them!
stockpiling nukes ended up a bit like stockpiling too much...
ah crap... don't have a good analogy - just started thinking
of a desert of sugar - sugar dunes... imagining a desert
like that... well, partially true - with the Arabs not drinking
alcohol and eating too many sweets, diabetic amputees throughout
the desert land.

After harmlessly crossing your border
          you take our friendship hostage
guarding your perimeter with sandbags of arbitrary etiquette
a no man's land of manners separates us
   you snipe from your defensive position
              so I retreat and start strategizing.
Consulting my generals to discuss your tactics
  they advise me to start stockpiling weapons
                and to start looking for weaknesses.

There is a counteroffensive to your intentions.
            While you were destroying my satcoms
a successful infiltration of your command center was accomplished.
Once your defenses were understood
           your flanks appeared vulnerable.
                      Blind spots were revealed.

You only sign a treaty once your resources start depleting
then you ignore the rules I'm reading to give me a beating.
          So I'm building up my arsenal and
enriching my uranium in this centrifuge
                             where we spin in circles.
My nuclear option is prepared and capable.
                  Pacifism is more appealing than violence
     but when you try to erase who I am I must take a stand.

Armed with an ability to attack
I get a warhead on my shoulders
               found from old schematics
you shared with me while I fought your enemies.
               They were never thrown away
now they're dusted off and revisited
to make your walls crumble
and incinerate you flag.

Your nation starts hiding from what they were once confiding
                              after my nukes obliterate your infrastructure.
Rebels and runners fill fallout shelters and basement bunkers
                                         hiding from the radioactivity in the air.

Everyone's death equals success proving I'm best
        so I develop a permanent wartime economy
                                      and fire missiles mercilessly.
There's no difference between fighters and civilians
             because some insurgents are chameleons
                                      so I **** them by the millions.
                        The more weapons I get
                        the more needless death
                        until the only nations left standing
are those that have stockpiled weapons of their own.

All weapons of
   the fates you've sealed
Are no match for
   this pen I wield
The power to
   articulate
Ticking rhyme bombs
   to detonate
The conflicts waged
   gambling mankind
My perfect hand
   is treaties signed
Hellbent hounds pray
  like dogs, I hunt
Frontline this notebook
  battlefront
With metaphors
  of mindless drones  
Like similes
  to brainwashed clones
Whose C4 booms
  and IED's
Can't build bridges
  like ABC's

Or tear them down
  with death regimes
By rusting through
  the war machines
Flamethrowin’ my
  verbal grenade
With ****** noun
  scorched-earth tirade  
On militant
  cold-blood elite
King cobras know
  I'm packing heat
Seeking missile
  resolution
Winged raptor
  devolution
Prehistoric
  barbarism
Literacy
  cataclysm
Stockpiling
  extinction bones
We're cavemen carving
  fallout stones

My Hiroshima
  prose explodes
With nuclear
  bushido codes
Released from my  
  katana's ward
To free my press
  from shogun lord
Oppressing haiku
  imagery  
And samurai
  epigraphy  
Expressions of
  my ronin soul
Omitted by
  the daimyo
Satsuma is my
  poetry    
My final draft's
  Nagasaki
  
Ink cartridges
  strapped 'round my neck
I print no charge
  or background check
And ****** every
  live round free
Of innocent
  blood elegy
And killing sprees
  of gunned-down news
Domestic violence
  black and blues
A Number 2
  pencil dependent
Obsolete
  lead-head amendment
Open carry
  shoots a blank
Empty shell case
  at my think tank
So grip this peace
  then **** and pull it
**** my diction
  write the bullet

The coach capsized and spilled its freight,
a glut of rabid reprobates,
who swarm towards a sea of lights
and fill their cups with harbour nights.

We do not heed the lighthouse glare,
or match the fortune-teller's stare.
We storm the cliffs as if to pillage
the gift shops of this seaside village.

We mill around a restaurant's doors
and nip at hot dogs with our claws.
Stockpiling rock up by the stick,
whilst wearing hats marked 'Kiss Me Quick'.  

Because we cannot hear their cries
for whispered arcade lullabies,
the gulls will dance above the tide
and mock sandcastle suicides.

The distant fort once planted proud,
clings to the hillside like a shroud.
Its craggy face a last dissuasion,
against the sea's saline invasion.

Perhaps the Ferris wheel's arc,  
can count each dawn against the dark.
A spotlight shone upon each heart,
as we rehearse our weathered parts.

Pastime play or parlor show,
we forget the lines we ought to know
and stumble on with blind devotion,
to pour our years into the ocean.

And yet! We catch the child's smile,
projected on a seafront mile.
His mirth casts doubt upon the claim,
that each new act concludes the same.

The beach begins and ends each dance,
each interval a second chance  
to wake the youth we put to sleep
and cast the hourglass into the deep.

A rampaging torment flows
with every passing wave,
escalating regression
and stockpiling the rage.
Clarity, now a fading memory
wilting in the shadows of a cave.
The price of congenial lunacy,
satisfactory for those who enslave.

Yes Mr. Hemingway you are right.
I have sat at this desk
and bled, but how much must I bleed
before I can cry?

All this time I have been distant,
and confused the stockpiling of distance
with strength. Pain, blinded me:
I could not see that instead I was building on weak foundations.
Everything collapsed.

Now I am strength-less and can break nothing,
and not myself.
I want so desperately to break these banks
which hold poisoned-water; to cleanse my mind
with my body. But they move awkwardly
past each other-
as if they were once close friends who have since drifted apart.
I need them to say:
Hey my friend
I have missed you;
why did we stand by and watch such a beautiful thing suffocate,
and die?
I need them to hold each other,
in an embrace to bring back to life all lost embraces - heads
in each other's shoulders,
as if heads and shoulders were only ever for this moment.
I need them to cry: relentlessly;
not a moment spared
for Sorry;
tears say enough.

it starts as the first day of our first year ends:
the sun's fading rays reach out
to touch each snowflake
       (like lazy sundays
      baby come back to bed)
before it hits the ground,
or the dog's nose,
or the very tip of tongue and fingers,
pulsing magnets for the tiny flakes,
drawing them in.

she stands on the cracked bottom step of our sinking porch,
arms and mouth open,
stockpiling snowflakes
she'll want to save in a jar on our windowsill
       (like catching fireflies
      there's one there)
though they'll melt as soon as she seals the lid.

her hands will be December-morning-cold
when she presses them into the spaces
between my top and bottoms,
against the skin of my hips,
made for her hands alone,
but her breath will be July-afternoon-hot
against my chin
when she leans in to kiss me,
a snowflake and her words caught between our lips
      (it's snowing)

The only thing I've ever committed to
has been cigarettes.
So I've been stockpiling my doubts
and all my little regrets.
Maybe I'm useless, maybe I'm a waste.
Or maybe I just haven't found it;
maybe I haven't found it yet.

And the taste of smoke is jolting, renewing,
reminding
me of that fear that I
am designing my life around:
desperate to find color in the insipid motions of living.
Maybe I am committed to the search;
That one day I will wake up and be found
And the first thing I reach for in the morning
will not be the lighter but
her
or him
and their pluming breath, rhythmic will surround me
and the warnings
on the side of my pack will seem real
and my god, will I finally ******* feel.

the time has come
when walking home
with two loaves of bread
and a pack of gammon rashers
makes you really feel
like you're bringing home
the bacon
I have seen sights
that are from the movies
I am Legend comes to mind
the whole world become
greedy grasping zombies
out for their own personal gain
we have turned our backs
on community compassion
left with a void
once filled with toilet roll
and pasta
queues outside supermarkets
marshalled by police
people stockpiling petrol
***
we're supposed to be on lock down
where the hell are you going
the old and vulnerable
pushed to the kerb of life
thrown from the safety of a pavement
now reserved for the big enough
to elbow everyone else
out of the way
but today I have bacon
and bread
today I can have a sandwich

In the vast difference between what I wanted to be and what I am
The temptation is to count missed opportunities
To what extraterrestrial province has my Muse flown?
My legacy has been the evolution of an unhealthy obsession with death
A defiant ******* when plenty of years buffered from consequence
Getting used to the fear
Never forget the times I was high on potent hydro and paranoia kicked in
I thought I'd be dead on the ground in a matter of moments
Those times I wondered what the hell was wrong with me in courting the Reaper
Slippery medications knocked me down, metaphorically and some of the fear
Is replaced by numbness and a desire to leave
Take me in my sleep, o Eternal One, just don't let me wake up
Alas I keep waking up
And it comes down to giving up everything I have and know
Totally submerged in amnesia
In hopes that what comes after will be better in it's unique way
No brain to process senses so you might as view them as the wave of the past
I'd pay for mental telepathy and full reign of an active imagination I helped create in this life
So in the chasm between what I hoped to be and what I am
The potential for hope, even miracles stockpiling and inventorying blessings
They have their own expectations
All too rarely amused but **** 'em
In that chasm life still conducts business
Handshakes are still exchanged
There's no reason to give up hope
In that vacuous cave death and joy do a dance, ambition sings a number with missed chances
Like me Charlie
Have you got a bowl of that hydro and a light?
I need the big reminder
Coming soon
Love sonnets to a young Linda Blair

An old man on the street corner proclaims
"The End is Nigh!" with a cardboard sign held high
And he's stockpiling ****** and ammunition for the coming of the nuclear winter
He builds a bonfire of his welfare checks,
Because what good is welfare when you've got no government?
And he killed himself with a strychnine laced cigarette
Watching the apocalypse party on a Tv in the department store window
His last will and testament was tagged on a tenement wall in black ink
Notarized by the gutter rats below
To the President he left his shotgun
To the Pope he left his bag of pills
To the pilgrims who forgot where Mecca was and dropped to their knees wherever it was convenient he left his compass
To the pagans he left his lighters
To the street youth he left his clothes
To the witches put on trial, and to the witches in the wild
He left his body to be used as they saw fit
Provided they burn it when they are done with it
Because to the wind he left his ashes,
To the earth he left his soul
And to the protesters he left his fortune
$2.27 , enough for a train back home
His tombstone is in the subway terminal
And they leave flowers every day

I lose one sock every other washing.
The wisdom of the washer and dryer
says that God is stockpiling the lost one
to be reunited with the other in heaven.
Does that mean those with perfectly
mated, never separated pairs, are
doomed to the spin dry of eternal hell?
But then, it’s Smart of God, not letting me
hop around on one foot in my nakedness.

Socks are greater than love.  
They remind us that things
lost will eventually be found,
show the foolishness of looking
back to see what’s coming.
They are reminders that
rain is the reason clotheslines
have disappeared.

There are preparations being made for another funeral in my hometown and I am late again for a fitting,
I pass by a familiar old man on the street corner, still stockpiling ****** and ammunition and I think it is beautiful that he still has hope,
So I give him the last of my money,
$1.60, the price of a rematch never won, not nearly enough to pay for the guilt of privilege but the best I could do nonetheless,

In sickness I watched the faith of my drunken friends run down their faces among half full glasses of red wine and bummed cigarettes, and it is this same divine tragedy that runs feedback loops through my deluded cortex every night between bouts of drowning clarity,
'There may be hope for you yet,' whispers the phantom poet of my fever dreams,
As I notch another eventual demise into my belt,
While the white washed pages of bloodied history sneer back at me, asking,
'What are you gonna do about it, punk?'
I don't know how to answer that question

Somewhere out West my shadow firewalks with the best of the fallen heroes, and I begin to understand that feeling I heard sung about in my youth
I never could've imagined it would feel this bad
Of all the things we do to find people who feel like us, this is by far the worst

You were taught
From a young age
To collect your money
Save for the future

You were taught
From a young age
That anything you can't see
Doesn't matter

And so you go through life
Collecting your money
Being very frugal
Never over-spending

But now comes a time
Where you should spend
Spend the time you
Never did

But old habits run deep
Deeper than bone
And so you continue
To play your medley of insanity

You keep stockpiling
Your pile of material goods
But you ignore
Every one of my cries for help

What are you saving for?
You'll die soon anyways
Live life while you have it
Don't forget it when it's gone

I feel trapped
In these ways
I still have a life to live
And not here, no

When will you stop?
Please
Please
Stop.

Pick yourself up off the ground and find another quiet place to cry.
The crying isn't the problem; it's the people who see you.

Bury yourself old novels.

Go to therapy and order coffee afterwards,
But always go through the drive-thru.
You can't let them see you fully.

Take your medicine instead of stockpiling pills like a suicidal squirrel.
Attempts won't get you anywhere, you know you're too afraid to die.

Make some friends and fall in love with all of them.
Know that they will never love you back but do it anyways.
If someone tells you you mean something, they're lying.
That's what happens when you're sad.
People pity you.
The last thing you need is pity.

There is an objective truth
we all live through
that doesn't always give you
the answers you want to hear
which is always a fear
but we persevere
and adapt to the new information
or ignore it for mind incarceration
and see how this can tear apart a nation
of usefully dumb
and emotionally numb
people stockpiling guns.

The deniers and deceivers
give birth to true believers
spreading indoctrination fever
like broken breeders
following Loki leaders
claiming the Earth is flat
Covid is whack
white is better than black
commanding to attack
the different ilk
like Harvey Milk
their army built
only blood spilt.

This mind state
might make
the crime rate
climb great
when murderers believe that they're saviors
because the oppressed are framed as slavers
making mass shootings answer the prayers
of lambs led astray
guns, god, and grenades
pave our tumultuous grave.

I committed a crime against the state
I effected the money oligarchs make
So they send me away to deflate
Inside a prison estate

The punishment of prison isn’t enough
They want my life to be extremely tough
So they take an unknown parasitic bug
And inject it into my blood

They don’t care what it does or where it goes
Because the main goal
Is that it’s painful
To satiate the disdainful

So I’m stuck in this prison
Because of our decisions
I have a parasitic incision
That starts blurring my vision

In prison I see things bleakly
And my eyes start leaking
On the verge of weeping
Until the bug starts speaking
Telling me not to show weakness
Because I’ll just sleep less
If I display any meekness
I’ll surely reach death

The parasite replaces my eyes
With its own advice
Of not acting nice
And being cold as ice
As it crawls through my skin
Teaching ways to win
That are quite grim
And mortal sins

The parasite tells me the only way to survive
Is to create an environment where evil thrives
So I start sharpening shanks
Like the military manufacturing tanks
Stockpiling my weapons
While I live in deception
Hiding my deviousness from the guards
Whose giant targe
Gives vibrant scars
Behind prison bars

They put me in solitary confinement
For my humble consignment
But my bumbling mind went
Following my blind pet
Telling me to keep fighting
In this tiny room without lighting
It’s the only way to feel lively
When I know I’m slowly dying

The bug says I’m weak
The bug says I’m lonely
So I desperately seek
A way for people to know me
So I spread my **** on the wall
Looking for an officer to brawl
Once the extraction team is called
I don’t feel so small

In a prison of concrete and resentment
I’m drowning in indefinite detention
Which was the intention
Of this sadistic invention
But they forgot to mention
That innocent people end up here
I barbarically **** to inmate cheers
Feeling only hate and fear
The parasite enters their ear

She may look at you in mid sip from her morning coffee.

A sparkling city of Emerald stained in her eyes, she scrolls over you as if browsing library books.

A pulse of fantasy seeking distractions to direct her own noisy traffic jam mind.

Her slender fingers gripping you in urgency. Words you can't stop reading smacking under sheets eventually lie carelessly twisted on floor.

Her sensual looks flying through pages.

Autumn breeze blowing through bedroom window.

White excited curtains rising up like a ghost leaving the body.

Intense concentration. Deep moans. Light awes. Luscious surprises hiding in unexpected corners.

A gentle folk band gone ******* metal. There is throbbing and thrashing, tearing and smashing.

Midnight blue pulsing between reader and writer. Secret lovers meeting somewhere in foggy distance waiting one clear breeze to lift them both up from long brooding silences.

Silence. Bare. Bright. Thick enough to break or free you. Swift voice riding in between dream and awake.

Hold steady. Shake. Find its channel before it vanishes between slippery blinks. Mysterious as deja Vu before meeting someone you dreamed of ten years prior.

Words cut like an ice storm. Dreamy mountains glitter. Both our eyes transfixed on the same mingled breath listening for truth to clear away brutal traffic.

Seeking peace in total madness.

The deeper the break the greater the bliss.

Make room for us there.

We started innocent and fragile, returned stunned and ravaged
holding onto family barbarians as if their axes were our own.

Stare into her cup.

Lakeside birds darting from tree branches leaving you hungry to sing something brutal and fragile.

Close your eyes.
Disappear like ripples on the calm surface of her face. Clean thoughts jet ski under vast indigo sky.

Nothing matters.
Everything matters.
All is matter.

One stare above her coffee cup sip leading up to the library of treasure.
Stories stockpiling up. Words rose like thirsty dreams from somewhere else we can't explain.

Whispers interlaced with curtains, snowflakes melted into coarse fabric. A lamb stares out like a fierce lion catches iron maiden in its teeth, rips it apart.

A deep desire to remember Love's undying fire, crackling flame possessed on oak timber.

Let it be me discovering you as if my pen knows every spontaneous word written on your secret page.

She is just a phantom skulking through treachery hoping to be found in your tossed up mind.

Manifest her dripping misty mountains. Let it tenderly stroll ancient forest branches.

She is a white moon lit up in chrome fractals.

Look up from the last page of her betraying kiss. Fully complete.

Study a desert voice carrying spring water. Drink it. How do you feel?

Icy brilliance mingled in midnight blue. All the cracked edges stocked with luminescent sky. Smile. Cry. Scream.

Stare into her distant eyes.
We are Home again.

I was raised on The Beatles and
The Rolling Stones and all the Oldies
serenading me through the speakers
on long trips to Gram’s house,
And on dixie cups half-full of beer t
hat I sneaked downstairs
During the late-night news
during your nightly rituals.
I was raised on stockpiling
the pillow mints you saved me
From your many hotel nights
when you’ve been gone on fires
For what felt to me to be
several years at a time.
I lived for your homecomings,
with the smell of deep smoke
Still clinging to your work clothes
when you finally came home to us.
I lived for even your shortcomings,
which always feel to me to be
imperceptibly small.
I was raised on fishing trips
by the lakeshore
where you would
Let me reel in your fish so
that I could always get all the credit.
I was raised on Star Wars
and Star Trek and all the
Friday night Sci-fi movies that we could finally
watch weekly after you retired.
I was raised on our solitary Quincy trips
Where I saw you take better care of your mother
Than anyone else could.
I was raised on the trips you took
That you probably would have never taken
To Arizona and SoCal and Philly
and to a cafe on the side of the road outside of Redding,
after my car crashed into twisted mounds of
metal after I was ran off the road,
the day you thought I might have died.
Because you always knew when I need you.
You still always know when I need you,
Because I always do.

i've met a thief once, straight of prison,
who began to reshape his life,
as a dub-step d.j. when the genre first
arrived... i never understood it at the time,
but then i found the mellow grounds
of distance, and i managed a befitting
conjunction of: and it matters to rephrase
drum & bass as a genre, within dub step confines.*

so much of history is coherent -
so much well versed -
even without the literacy of
the gatekeepers of power -
when once power meant literacy,
as when once the hand could
mould a man into finding it -
all in all: when war became a
game...
               what a sadness to be able
encompass this world
with the world preceding it...
this world's over indulgence
its rapport for gluttony in the north
western lands,
    and its pompous greed out
of africa...
              fertile ukraine -
      the seething host for the tapeworm
posits of a populace -
once upon a time man made
milk, that turned sour,
  and became a sort of yogurt -
and was scooped with fresh baby
potatoes and dill...
     i remember the seasons in poland,
i remember the seasons in poland
because, once upon a time
the people had seasonal diets...
not this ******-down dilution of
a berry, this persistence to impress diners
with wintry strawberries from
the spaniards, or the dates of the levant...
seasonal diets were once in place
in poland...
           we ate the fruits in the summer,
and we ate the vegetables in
the autumn,
                 we ate without a vision
of a, ******* treadmill worth no man,
but a, ******* hamster!
- and when i ask a conclusive english couple
aiding their ailing dog,
whether they know of seasonal diets,
they startle me: bewildered.
    global warming begins with
an omni-inclusive diet -
there's nothing to await,
as there is nothing to miss,
as there is nothing to binge on -
          the only binge is that of food per se,
but never the surreal binge on
strawberries when in season...
or mushrooms in autumn...
      why is history so coherent,
while the present a vague attempt at
itemising a "vogue" -
with yesterday or today or through
to tomorrow, the current affairs of our days
seem so incoherent,
so, pointless -
     only with a hindsight can they
reveal something...
but they never do,
in that history states no real hindsight
worthy of attire...
           the "hindsight" of the ever-impeding
present is bound to a future, alone,
      the past is a gloating parthenon
of both celebration, and of unimaginable
anguish, nonetheless -
how gluttonous we have become
     by stockpiling historical events,
whether celebrated or simply archived -
history is a tapeworm,
    the past requires a host of the present day,
and the present day requires
a knowledge of the parasite that history
has become, or as it always was,
             i give you the sole, impeding
memory:
an ability to ascribe arithmetic -
  and an ability to assert grammar.
                yet beyond?
                   this cinematic daydreaming
theatre of unfulfilled "ambitions" -
this cinematic daydreaming
              theatre of the unfulfilled former
glories, reduced to paperweight in the modern
world, a paper or a pen,
       where once a sword might find
an abode in a firm hand?
there's nothing worse than pretending
to be the already pathetic rue of history
with coordinates lost...
these warrior like ambitions are like me
acquiring the patent for english discretion,
or sense of politeness -
my *** is stinging from the insulated
rage at the queue in a supermarket -
it's spitting cayenne pepper and chilli powder,
but i still manage to pull off the english
doubled-faced sorry, or: don't worry...
                   the english, after all, invented
theatre - the double edged sword of a smiling
face, the courteous smile,
but the sinister: pull your testicles in
a monkey wrench, and make you sing
ave ******* maria to a handel composition,
you, drum roll dumb, ****!
         oh ya ya, why don't the ******* ****
just close off oxford street and plant a *******
mosque in the middle!
****, close of reagent's st. while you're at it,
after all, reagent's st. has that nice cinematic
curve... but **** me,
you could have at least made cut ins into
the grand high st. layout of no traffic:
only pedestrians welcome.
                        you just created a pointless
array of cul de sacs... in the middle of london!!!!
**** it, whatever, the whiskey is good,
my mood is good,
  the post-summer / early autumnal blues are
other, finally i stopped caring about light...
because? early november:
  the thrill of a chilly night has arrived;
god, the cold is so important to blank out
the receding hairline of the sun -
but it only happens in early november /
late october -
    these are the days when you can finally
say goodbye to summer...
  the perky days of over 12 hours of sunlight,
the incredible sunrises and sets,
but only when the cold arrives,
   and starts pinching your face
like an annoying auntie when you were:
the cute 5 (year old).
                       and the rather necessary
post scriptum:
     i write verse, i don't write theory -
i spew strained content and then relax by
a necessary rant -
saying that:
some people have actually seen the pyramids
of giza, the taj mahal, the great wall of china,
they have, the mayan pyramids -
                       erected more as the gallows
for criminals than sites of superstitious
sacrifice for the sun -
                     but i have laboured enough
through writing, to find my own wonders,
equivalent to the ones stated, in my cognitive
escapades...
i have managed to endear a subjective
analogy bound to greek myth -
for my ego is a minotaur -
              guardian and seeker in thought -
that is his womb, the same exact labyrinth.
- and what have i most annoying about having
acquired the english language?
that everything has to be turned into a joke,
that nothing, ever, can be deemed profound,
that we all just shrug it off...
     only the english sense of humour is as
numbing in affection as a bite from a feral dog...
beneath the humour:
          seriousness becomes taboo...
and you can almost sense the silent struggle,
the silent agony of the english,
   the man-up-desperation...
                       with such a fine array
of topics that are "necessarily" funny comes
the consequence of taboo -
the taboo being: no man has ever suffered
or will ever suffer, the taboo being:
not ever man will shrug at his demise,
or his downfall, or his tragedy.
            english humour has created
  a mono-polar enterprise in being unable
to craft a reaction to tragedy,
a tragedy it might provide,
  but never an adequate reactions -
all it can provide, in a reactionary language is:
apathy mingling with confusion -
a befitting epitaph -
           a comedy that relies too fondly on wit,
and not on the shallows of what makes
man laugh...
      all these insider jokes -
             these arrogant insider jokes ******
who unwittingly began their own
exclusivity of a "joke" just landed the scorcher
sucker-punch:
hey, bro, i'm laughing because
laughing is a contagion -
i have no ******* clue whether the joke
you said it funny, or whether i'm laughing
next to this numb-wit to simply not appear
stupid.
  - come one - ego minotaur -
          cogitans labyrinth -
                    i've just suggested a perfectly
reasonable gesture of analogy -
and yes, i do not think it comical to excuse
  this analogy as a low-fat cheese of metaphor
to soften the blow of comparison...
otherwise? i can understand depression
  nearing the end of his life, like my grandfather
over 70...
what is bewildering is the current revelation
of premature depression in children...
what have these children accomplished?!
   nothing!
         it's unnatural to be prematurely depressed...
this definition ought to coexist
in the current psychiatric vocab alongside
premature dementia...
          as of yet, i'm still to find out
why the national health service of england
would treat bilingualism as schizophrenia -
   maybe i should find out: and sue them.

So so so disconnected/
Poltergeist with the numbest hands/
Life's a video game/
And phantom limbs don't button bash/
Shot by a cop/
My soul did the running man/
Can't tell if it's now or later/
Non-playable character/
Glitched out/
Stuck in a wall, and can't get out/
There's something in my brain/
That gets switched on/
Sunken place/
And I cannot save you/
I'm just a ghost in the shell of a caveman/
Flailing in an ocean of paint/
Islaamic heart/
Junk heavy in our veins/
Leftover cold turkey/
Double brass knuckle sandwich again/
Cut off mid-sentence/
Head spinning like a ceiling fan/
But that's what I get/
For unleashing the kraken/
King Kong still perched on my back/
Heard it snap/
Cockroach aqualung/
Stockpiling cigarettes for the apocalypse/
Negative negative positive/
Math rock paper scissor kick/
Random hill to die on, fool/
Modern day Sisyphus/
Submerged in watercolour./

I find myself
reflexively
looking for reasons
to evade situations that might cause pain

I'm always alert,
stockpiling excuses
like armor
for a rainy day

I guess those old lessons
have seeped into my bones

I want to yell into my marrow
"you don't need those anymore!"

They were preparing for the third world war
Stockpiling all the ammunitions of hatred and destruction
But none of them had ever imagined
That they all would be in the same alliance
Against an invisible dust as fast and precise,
As the missiles and the lasers.

They're still stockpiling
the good of humanity
in them you believe

             Kelly McManus

One turns into three
They add up
Stockpiling corpses of cardboard boxes
Butts in ashtrays still smoldering
Ash fills my lungs
As I chase nerve endings
Why won't they stop vibrating
Straight lines turned to circles
I'm going crazy
Staring at blank paper
I want to fill with my emotions
Cigarettes draining my pocket
Faster than my hands can my heart
Encased in this tomb of black
Lungs suffocating in soot
Convincing my liver it should rot
Easily married the fire and alcohol
Tag team duo
Hell bent on decaying me inside out
So what if my insides die
I'll finally be whole
Deceased inside and out
Face removed of emotion
Heart filled to the brim
One more cigarette and I'll finish this out
Disgusting in all its essence
I just need the fix
To ease my racing nerves
Before anxiety causes metal to twist
High speed chase
Nicotine or anxiety
Which will **** me first

They ask for respect
while stockpiling certain death
indefensible

                           Kelly McManus

Funding assassins
stockpiling our destruction
lack of brain function

                   Kelly McManus

Provisions substantial
Don't become sentimental
Its created thin walls, its more detrimental
Diving into pure plumbing
Empty Space - no becoming
Anything - obtain something
Stockpiling to create in operable doors
Auctions sold: Created in Store
A bolted desire
Remains a room thats shown itself prior
Framing embodies a stage set in fire
Contorted minds turn to lobby
Leaving its work on your body
Welcome : A blind carbon copy