Streched out gazing, on the sands,
Of one more of the common seas,
An orange orb setting slowly apparent,
Shiny path of light heavenly,reaching my feet,
Taking me briefly,to creations wonderous,
Minds magnanimous,hearts Alexandrian,
A short utopia of a world universally real!
The unrests forgotten, all toils borne stoic.
All shall pass,Endurance is all, truly Human!

As the path sinks into the deep waters dark,
To shine in worlds other,rays of morning hope,
I know they shall witness the same, some morning!
Night lights of revelry beckon me,the traveller ever,
I merge in them,the sunset feeling sacred in my heart,
Praying,May it hold true for all people all over Earth!

My joints have dislocated
Stretching out to find the truth
Finding empty bottles
Broken pencils from writing
and a whole lot of ghost poems  later

These times have left me with
Bones engraved by promises
Inscriptions I can't read
Dreams replayed on bad records
Grasping for relief of mind

My relentless search for
The most beautiful
Is over.

You came to my lap
Leaned this graceful
Head on my upper
Tight,

Covered with
The puffiest blanket
So familiar to us.

And Thou are ~
The eloquent Elegance,
The proof for the Sacred
Geometry, alive, warm
And lovingly cuddly.

I adore Thou blackest
Dots, above your Feline
Fangs, hidden as your
Cat's conundrum; When

Rest, how
Thou charm seeps
In me; like classy  
Lion paws
Streched,

Touching my hand
Lovingly.

I trickle my fingers across
Whitest beard, and savannah
maroone blackness.

Jade consciousness opens up,
And starts to purr, pressing my
Wrist tenderly when me writes.

the more i stick to a routine
that might leave a few people in a mental
asylum,
    who would not welcome
frustration, doing the same thing,
over and over again,
   i.e. going to a supermarket and buying
whiskey and coke, becoming "too" friendly
with one of the shop assistants,
    knowing her name,
that's she's diabetic:
i'm only in here for the whiskey luv...
it's not that i mind,
  it's about as close i'll ever become
bewildered at life, in general...
      **** Jupiter and a moon-landing,
this bothers me more,
   i don't get the puppy-eyed look
of people embarking on a philosophical
odyssey -
i don't know why i should be prescribed
the Aristotelian: beginning with awe
  type of management of the subject,
or what Nietzsche predicted,
   and is currently known:
the narrative in the west,
alias: talking for the entire human species...
   that ****** uber-schnurrbart
really did see something...
   now i'm experiencing it,
  it's called 2 billions worth of China and India...
i'm actually, sometimes found,
listening to pointless youtube videos...
  i get it: it can get a little bit *****,
my bachelor status isn't exactly orientated
around diapers, although,
as Borat might have said:
that would be nice...
         you know they filmed that movie
in Romania, and not Kazakhstan?
              it's almost a bid sad to be around
poverty, and tribalism,
     can't make a joke out it,
couldn't make a mid-western gothic out
of it either... what with t.v. in your own company....
and yes, oddly enough...
   i have a bed, and i turn on the radio,
i never fall asleep watching the t.v.,
must be a western thing... you dig?
    1950s slang, more comprehensible than
anything i could ever hear from the slang
quarter of language these days...
   the latin quarter? busy...
literally... greece and italy backrupt...
    so, hey man, what's it like not able
to *** around the country doing factotum jobs?
    what's with that over-arching
castration concept of living with your parents?
ah, you know man,
   ****'s on the stove, and i hit a ****** note
with my saxophone...
sound very much like a wet ****...
you know, the **** you **** that almost feels
like ingesting carbonated water through your ****,
what's the word: trembling, frizzy?
    you know: do the motorboat with your lips...
i woke up today and didn't feel like living,
but the noose wasn't exactly an option...
my grandparent's neighbour?
hanged himself on a door-****,
i was visiting them when it happened...
****'s sake! on a door-****?
                      that's really desperate...
    i mean: i wish i was that guy...
but at least in the case of capital punishment:
when it was still active...
   you got the scaffold... and you dropped...
and your neck broke, and it was death in an instant...
   he had a gimp for an executioner...
   so yeah, life's cool,
i drank that wine i made in less than a week,
35 litres of it...
         i woke up today, thought:
give me the downhill... right now!
i thought i'd delay *******...
          built a quasi lego piece of the Eiffel tower,
then decided... i need to brush my teeth...
had a shower...
              then i cooked dinner...
  well... dinner two days in advance...
one sauce was a spaghetti bolognaise...
another a sauce for cottage (i.e. using beef,
not lamb) pie...
made some funky cool poh-ta-toes...
               for yesterday's roast beef,
left uncarved the previous day by being
left to get the thrill man gets
   ******* and jumping out of an ice bath...
so the juices condense, and you can almost
make out the pink flesh on the second day...
and some ménage à trois.... oh sorry...
too much Dell Boy Trotter in me at the moment:
gosh... the memories of watching that twichy
character on screen... mangetout...
and in between i took off the washing from
the washing lines in the garden...
             faked smoking sitting in the february
cold for a while...
   that's 2 meals in advance that is...
      and this really belongs to a creed that states:
if you can read... it's better to read about
something that doesn't have cars blowing up,
or avalanches... or dams bursting in northen
california... well: it's not exactly
   tolstoy's war and peace... but it's something
that allows for sensationalism of the news
and the odd chance of seeing a good movie...
    or i guess: the antidote to a good poem,
is the worst imaginable poem, actually...
saying that: people call poems bad when
they are rigid in using technique...
poetic technique... i prefer a stance on
spare of the moment / spontaneity than something
that might require a hammer of metaphor
and a nail of a pun...
           some call it innovation,
others can't say much because they're myopic...
and lo! yonder the savannah and the buckling
gazelle! right on the chin...
hoofs, no shoelaces, back legs made front legs
into spaghetti... and there... a plum on the chin...
boom... down onto the green...
          another consideration would be
a man in clown make-up crying,
    and a fat-cat billionaire laughing...
    or was that ever, not the case?
  it has to be idiosyncratic, this english "thing"
of calling laughter crying and crying laughter...
     it actually is a very english "thing",
when you get too much psychology,
about how keeping the word ego can complicate
merely saying i...
  and there's no other latin word in sight,
and you then get egoism, and egocentrism...
    i mean: what's up with that basis for a theory,
    evidently it's a case of the word becoming
too uncomfortable, since no one actually says
  ego cogito ergo ego sum... it suddenly drops off
and people who say the above end up only saying
cogito ergo sum... and is that why people
you can actually ascribe so much theory to the ****** word
that might rob people from having a narrative?
    rob the people of a narrative and you return them
into a state of being pulverised by 5 vectors,
the pentagon of the senses,
    and evidently they're unable to narrate their
day-to-day, because they're herded like wild
hysterical animals... even though they are
given the membrane of civilisation...
      it really is a case of somehow not embarking
into keeping the latin and the north barbarian
words... how can you keep up
with ego, i, self? how long will this italian
**** of bulimia and gluttony last?
     you want to keep spewing that *******
for another 100 years?
evidently there is no theory concerning i,
there's merely an ipod...
              sure sure, you could only derive a
theory if you said the unit wasn't i
(because that would be too personal to construct
a narrative) - but had to be
   the reflective ego, and the reflexive self...
i.e. that string of pronoun compounds known
as myself, itself, himself...
   and when given the scalpel... my self
   (which becomes a reflective stance on meditating
the words, rather than a reflexive pronoun
in its original... no huh? but thump!
on yer bike! go!).
   i call them for what they are...
        yes, and my parents are great,
cooked them dinner...
   just about now, when in the 1970s and 1980s...
when the first cold war was happening,
the americans / the west merely wanted
to feed stories into the soviet union,
if every spying was a c.v. joke, it happened
when ian flemming wrote his series...
   what ever happened to a campfire and telling
stories, or when we told horror stories to each other?
  spying: can you just imagine
what the job description would look like?
pst... it's a secret.
       but you know, the americans had this thing
of telling stories to the "enemy",
     false news...
                it's so obvious now, since everyone
seems to be onto it...
     well... it's happening in england, right now,
but it's not exactly an attack scenario...
it's self-mutilation, yes, a masochism...
  you reach a real dead-end when you tell lies
to yourself... and that's what england is sitting
on: an implosion of well... the n.h.s. in crisis...
the housing crisis...
                 you name it...
  i guess there were many people out there,
willing to sacrifice their sanity, by appropriating
the excesses of c.c.t.v. voyeurism,
mingled with the excesses of ***** that paved
the way to this massive delusion of the next
jain boond to swing on a rope into a gorilla
enclosure and beat the **** out of a 300kg gorilla,
Klitschko style! bang! bang boom!
    silverback gorilla on a torture rack!
job done.
       no, i get it... a girl got to kick-box and a girl
got to play footie... cos girl can...
     wait till she don't get a: fragile heart...
like mine, writing odes about
walking past a church when the church bells ring
eleven times, and there's the moon...
  it will become very very pointless writing
about hearts of porcelain in the future,
      but just as nietzsche pointed out:
imagine talking for the entire human race...
yes, i can, or should i say could? because i don't
have to...
   the western narrative is so up it's own
*** talking about species, while the Moldovians
are talking about Ukranians,
the Poles are talking about Germans,
   the Italians... they talk all the time,
so who cares?
                but it's this globalisation vocabulary
that's halting, and making me think:
the Genghis Khan tribe isn't exacrtly in
the news? they must have neighbours!
they must actually know the people living near them...
well...
   on my street... 6 houses in a row of
identical architecture, i.e. built in the 1940s...
   first house, sikhs...
    parents went to the daughter's wedding,
woman brought over some curry,
   i ended up making even better curry...
my cat is left in their care while i'm away
visiting my grandparents,
   i get this panic attack premonition
  that i need to be back home when i'm away...
   i come back home, the cat is dead...
   we rarely speak these days...
  he was on aspirins, and yes, cats take a ******
long time to die from kidney failure...
ever watch a cat ****? cats take a shorter amount
of time to take a **** than ****...
   watching a cat **** into the toilet it like
watching a person drinking a melchizedek sized
wine bottle...
   a cat could be a man
   as a man taking a **** as in the cat taking a ****
and reading a newspaper...
     seems we're parallel creatures,
  i exfoliate and massage my **** muscles
by taking extra time with them stretched open
once the bombs away passes...
    and i'm just sitting there:
  to vank?! or not to vank? or what i call:
the 3 in 1.
        well, you can't exactly think about
lighting scented candles and doing it in bed,
can you?
      you'd have to be a woman to do that,
and invest in a good ***** replica
of a man that would only tell her:
honey... tree bears.
    do i sometimes think about putting it into
a moist couch-like environment?
   yeah... but i guess ******* is a bit like
doing ****... **** the bone and those muscles man!
   ****? yeah... never did it...
biblical regulations...
              about the same time when
heterosexuals take over from the once famed
taboo provocateurs in the homosexual department...
haven't seen a worthwhile Oscar Wilde come from
that scene for years... maybe i wasn't looking,
ah yes, they're too busy being "normal" and starting
families... funs over... and so is the art.
no wait, all i wanted to say is that
what nietzsche said in the 19th century,
  the anglophone world is trapped in it's own
end product of globalisation, and this whole:
speaking for the entirety of humanity doesn't have
and local thrill to it, no local accent,
      it's scary, to be the only language willing
to speak for the entire human race,
  and, when travelling to other places in the world
realising that you were pretty much:
not thinking, and merely talking to your self...
    i have that taste for foreign cultures...
   you can hardly hear an existential argument
in the same vein as you might hear in england...
     basically... i just think that english is
over-streched...
     in the case of russian, it's stretched:
but contained with interlocking tribes of people...
if i want to hear english sprechen in the pacific
it's a 12 hour flight to australia...
               i can't imagine talking for
the entire human race... and given this
seemingly ancient german, i'm imagining it
as the counter-argument of the current narrative,
because i can't even state that i'm in awe of it,
but more or less apprehensive about it...
given the numbers... the total anglophone world
doesn't even number that of China...
and you know, infiltrating that place with
the complexity of the encoded sounds that are
later echoed back as Xin Ping...
    who lived in Beijing...
            you really have to address either silent,
or talking about something so complicated,
that it would equal the Chinese encoding system...
  otherwise it's falling through the holes...
oh look... q r o p a d b g...
  the best we can do is make silence complicated,
since what i'm hearing: isn't exactly complicated...
on youtube most noteworthy...
   oh right, almost forgot...
the other neighbours on my 6 house line
are a Jewish family... well... sorta...
   just a literal mad-house... we get on fine...
and after that: 3 houses, natives, so yeah, english...
all of them broken families...
   the neighbours next to mine are:
woman in her late 40s... man in his early 50s...
about to have a child...
       after that it's single mother and son,
and after that divorcee and... like... dunno...
     they thought the indians were savages
moving across the pond...
              i'm sitting here having a right old laugh...
and it's a malicious laugh for the laugh in itself...
        last time i remembered
  taking a mouse from the mouth of my cat
after he caught it, and then releasing the mouse
  into my neighbour's garden...
   or a fly... crawling over my forehead
     while i took a selfie to exfoliate my face
like that of an acne riddled moon.

The road was shiny slick with glissoning rain as I flew  down the highway,
Owl city's voices hymed through the poors of my radio,
"When I'm far too tird to fall asleep"  they say,
A car rushes round the corner so I switch my lights to low.

A Buzz or two,
A twinckle light luminates the middle concile,
U coming home baby? We miss you:(

Heh,
I miss u2

A little  girl goldest hair  you can  think of pops into my head,
"Daddy" she says  arm streched wide inviting,
"Welcome home, Daddy," the lovliest women  you'd ever seen said,
I walk in and the aroma of chiken, mash patatos, and fresh cut bean meet me I'm home in time for supper that's supprizing.

God it's so late,
My headlights chase after the yellow dashed line,
Buzz When you get hom we should go on a d8
22 miles till home says the sign.

Such a long drive,
but to where I'm going it's worth it,
into bed's the first place I'll dive,
all the rain glows like a candle that's lit.

Buzz We can't  wait 2c u:)
Reply me 2

I set me phone on the dashboard as I start to round the mountian's sleek edges,
Rain sets the road like ice,

Buzz! I love you;)

In the distance apears yellow wedges,
My breaks are squeaking mice.

Hydroplaning we lose control,
My head bashes gainst the air bag,
driffting away is my soul,
Head hung eyes sag.

Buzz *I love you

snow fell
on my city

and the grey clouds streched aross the sky's

i sit inside
drinking the tea of memories
oh how they taste good



i'll walk out later
with my friend
around the city we will go
on the snow we will walk

on the train we will ride

will i see familliar faces walking around?

who knows
i bet the snow as hidden everyone from me

i'll sit inside as i watch the snow
and my mind will melt

will the storie go on
or will end it a dramatic pause?
and never to resume again...

i hope the snow doesn't freeze
our storie

footprints will be left in the snow
just mine will be there i suposse

i'll wait for spring
when eveything will bloom
bloom
bloom

Bare that hell, oh Dante's child,
as a crown. Let the flames dance
on your fingertips as you build
your kingdom on ancient ruins.
Light a cigarette and watch the
smoke rise and pollute the
heavens above, the angels
choking on their halos.
When the monsters knock
welcome them with open arms,
streched smiles, and embrace
the beast of your own.  
Scream of the riots, my dear
because you are not the fallen,

*you are reborn.

Before I met you,
I could look up
towards the sky
and see the
possibilities
in the spaces
kept between
the stars
now, all I see is the
loneliness in the
shadows
streched in between
them.

Like a giant cotton ball
Moving at its own pace
In the giant blue ocean above our heads
Of many shapes and many sizes
Thick to thin
Streched and clumped
One color
To some
Making it like cotton candy
depending on the morning or night
An hombre of colors
Making them pop
As if in a pop up book
Light and white
Or darker and grey
Being filled with rain
Ready to cry on the earth
To water the lands below
Most times you are there
And sometimes you are not
But when you are up there
Floating around
Making shapes
I could sit or lay down
And look up all day

Sixteen wasn't too far away
But I can remember it
Feel it
Like it was yesterday
Hearts beating out of chests
As if to reach for one another
Speaking language on skin
Goosebumps as braille
That only we could interpret
I do not remember every second we spent together
Only certain moments
Sacharrin memories that have stuck to my tongue
Can not be washed off with mouthwash or salt
They are far too sweet to erase
I do not remember it all
But I do remember feelings
I remember movement
The involuntary curve of upper the lip
Brought on by overwhelming delirium
Contentment
Happiness
I can feel your smile more than I can picture it
I can picture
The lone tear that would escape an eyelid
Every now and then in the heat of an argument
To remind us
That this is real
And it was
Our distance was never anything more than a few miles yet
We always stayed up to make sure
That the other
Was home safe
Tucked beneath the covers
After driving home
2am in pouring rain
It's funny how
Love comes in more than just four letters
In more than a word
In more than just saying it
An announcement
It comes in
Reminders
In ensuring well-being
In wishes
In thrown pennies into wells
In nostalgia
In remembering how lovely it is
I know we were never ideal
Maybe we fought way more than we should have
Our persistance got between us more than once
You a virgo
And I, a taurus
I'm sorry for being a bull
But I never meant to bully you
I used words like grenades all too often
I was a detonator
When I should have been shelter
Protectant
It was silly for me not to be
I was sixteen when I met you
And sixteen when I loved you
I'm older now
Slightly wiser than I was back then
But in reality
I'm no different
The scariest thing to me is that
It seems as if
Years are nothing more than days
It seems as if
This was all yesterday
That time hasn't even begun to graze our youthful skin
But it has
And it is
Time has touched us in ways I never imagined possible
We have already grown apart
Streched to other sides of country
Dipping our bones into different waters
But if there's something you've shown me
Something you've taught me
It's that
Your first love
Will always be your first love
Regardless of how life goes on
Regardless of who you meet
Where you go
What you see
Regardless of distance, time
Whatever it is
Your first love
Will always be your first love
And love,
You will always be
Mine.

You play my emotions
With nimble fingers,
The hands of an expert,
Unapologetic.
The music of my suffering,
Dazzling.
"Love?" you laugh,
I'm not supposed to.
You're not supposed to,
Use my emptiness,
As part of your show.
But,"It makes a pretty sound,
you know?"
Yes, I do.
You streched a skin,
Across my eyes,
And made a drum.
My hollows ring.
You make them ring.
A lovely sound,
A painful sound,
That's just an echo,
In my empty head.
"Like I care."
You said.
To you, my heart,
Is dead.

I streched the spring.
Then put it back.

Closed the reciever
With a click and a clack.

I charged the handle.
Then let it go.

I counted my rounds.
Twenty nine in the mag.
One in the hole.

She felt the same.
Cold and steady.

I felt no shame.
Cold and ready.

The air felt heavy.

But something was new.
Some mechanical remedy.

My magazine was full.
And I could face my enemy.

with a 2 lb. trigger pull.

I cheated myself the way i never wanted,
hands does'nt move but scroll to be granted,
eyes take a snap of feets,
enourmously both hand bleeds,
knees are bent eyes are narrow,
screams are so loud can make a hollow,
space between concious and unconsiousness,
the cloths are ***** and the fellings are pressed,
be within limits is now a deed,
what i will define is the tear's of need,
lips are died to say anything that i want,
i want to do many things but i cant,
breathes are borken,
my thoughts are frozen,
want to define each and ever thing i feel,
but i have to take it out from the kneel,
beside chest nothing is there,
the thing was freezed and can't flair,
hollow bones but filled with air,
still i cant fly because i am here,
for just crying,
but still i am trying,
for my mind to on it,
cheeks are streched but a little bit,
i have to fight and i cant quit......

Mine incarnation streched like William Wallace of Scotland upon this old timber trunk, mine head is dunked in a *** of needing and haveth nots, for didst the world forget the gots?
Ripper's rip out thine gut's by spoons, the feeling of a balloon as thine heart's pricked by human needle.......

Scarab's and Beatles crawleth in dung, when they sucketh they sucketh hard from thy dud's and put thee in confinement wherein realignment is fully needed....    

Handcuffed to solitary hole!!!

Like two yo-yo's we're taking turns on having feelings for one another.

Will we ever meet halfway?

We spin between fear and love, but never at the same time.

The midpoint is within reach.

Yet one rope is streched while the other is wrapped tight.

I hope one day our yo-yo's get tangled so we can live in balance and harmony.

You live through me,don't you?
You breathe through every pore in me
You are not made of skin,streched on a skeleton
You are much more vivid than I will ever be
Yet it was I who thought you in my mind
It was I who drew you by my hands
It was I who built you brick by brick,stone by stone
And now I am a mere sandcastle in the yard of a concrete home
You stayed by me while I lost my sleep
You made me feel special when they ignored me
You gave me reason to justify the leap
and though you gave me so much
I never realised how much you took from me
Now it is I who lives within you
A kindred bond that binds us two
I guess like all creations you exceeded your creator
But now when I die,you will die with me

We live in a world with Billions of people
Sleep under the sky with trillions of stars
Some long to venture but are trapped behind invisible bars

This boy of grey lives each day in a town of blue
Though you just met each other you pray he thinks of you

But this boy of grey has a heart of gold like the rays streched from the sun
Of course it's just first instinct you assure him his journey has just begun

You're a girl of red; revived your own heart when others left it dead.
Unlike the boy of grey with Heart of gold you're actually very bitter and have an angry soul.

Boy of grey with heart of gold
We don't always have to do what we're told
~Alyssa De Marzo

You don't have to worry about
Sleep- you'll get more than enough
Before driving me to the doc's,*
She reminded me last night.

A mental note to text my boss
In the morning.
He'll understand. They always do;
Humans as full of love and worry
As anyone.

Instead of cranes, concrete trucks
And workers in black and yellow
Like bees outside my office window,

I see pinetrees dancing with winds
Warmer than yesterday's,
Beyond homefields of fresh-spring
-Light-brown-

And she breathes heavily on the
Sofa, shielded from the early
Afternoon sun,
Relieved from white coated,
Warm-handshaking sharing
Of news; none but reassuring.

Streched out like a cat mid-nap.
A beautiful, deflated balloon.
Breathing; not bleeding.
Sleeping; not anesthesized.

I worry not about sleep.
Hers is mine.

It's gym class
Laughter fills the space
Test Artistic Gymnastics today
The long ocean blue mat
Streched across the floor
Either you got it or you don't

Elisabeth, the clumsiest
Sweetest girl I know
Bright and kind
Easy to influence
A little shy...
Mischief is my middle name

She runs towards the middle
I wait and analyse
Her slender body arches forward
A moment before her hands
Touch the ocean blue mat
Preparing to place her weight on them...

"WATER!!!"
Distracted she loses balance
Now laying flat on the ground
She screams at me
I laugh and run off
Persued by a D-

Inexplainable emotions,
Connected by spiderwebs.

Rather, the past and present
Webbed together by
Haunting cobwebs.

Regrets left to haunt,
The present left
For us to decide.

Steung together and
Streched thin

Who are you?
My haunting present?
My nightmarish past?
My bottomless imagination?

Or the black widow
Connecting it all,
And leaving the dust
To settle,
On my abandoned heart.

perhaps the hardest lesson to learn
is based upon drinking
whiskey slowly...
    you can down one kalimotxo glass
after another, and if you have
to litres of wine, you can also chain-smoke
choo-choo it down the slide
into more uninhibited territory -
but with whiskey: there's a need to
keep vigil, and wait, and wait...
  and it can sometimes be disengaging
that you somehow have to wait
for the right moment, and begin...
      oh, i drink out of choice,
not out of an addict's plea -
   what three weeks in Poland showed me
was that i can switch off the "addiction"
in a day, and feel no cold-trukey drama...
the western world with
its romanticism of madness and its
theatre of addiction narratives bores
me... quiet literally bores me...
   so why am i writing this?
well... i feel the tipping point of the Libra
working its way into my drinking session...
a few aphorisms by a german
philosopher in hardback...
   then a few newspaper articles from
a newspaper (column section, primarily)
and i can begin...
   and i can begin: because i feel no shame
in writing what i would consider to be
utter tosh... but given the Libra principle:
at least i'll write nearly as much
as i have read...
     i find it a disaster to merely write...
to fill some void, as if to rekindle once had
conversations with transcient friends:
notably those in a system of either schooling,
or work...
    i just have a void in my head
that once had pristine conditions (soul-like)
for thinking... now i don't...
  as happens when blood spills onto neurons
and you hear a sound akin to water
on an electric current...
but never mind that...
          do i care for past conversations
as a writer might, in that current film 5 to 7?
well... i'm not really a writer...
   as it is self-evident: i have the least
interest in paragraphs, or ensuring someone
takes me writing to bed as:
the best way to fall asleep... not as depressing
as someone falling asleep with the television on,
i gather that much...
     but i'm not really here to talk,
to orate grand things in the vein of a Cicero...
i thought i could begin citing more
Seneca and Cicero than the Greeks...
but then i found that: they cite the Greeks...
so why bother citing those two?
     pedantry, for the care of it being
a reflection that: there actually was a beginning,
and with that beginning i find myself
lodged in the current year, a.d. 2017.
    it's not that i care about these historical
figures... they're as far removed from me
as someone in a village 100 miles north off
Beijing... gearing up from tending to a field
to occupying a cubicle-sized room
with a naked lightlulb dangling off the ceiling...
it's hardly an umbilical cord...
but such is the contrast i'm experiencing,
a philosophy book on the one hand,
and a newspaper on the other hand...
  you can't find a better case of zenith and nadir...
i read one and i reach a nadir -
because current affairs and my place in the world
are a bit pointless by comparison...
  but i read the other, and i am walking
up a mountain, upon which i find coordinates (0, 0)
and of all things: gravity - a pulling force
that drags me to say, well...
coordinates (0, 0), but that's on an x-y graph...
i'm the z-line, so, more precisely 1 (0, 0) -
neither of these two mediums are actually
three-dimensional, as such, not the objects
themselves, but the content...
   so i have to stand outside the already prescribed
coordinate foundation...
but i still find philosophy books inadequate
in some way... a) no grammatical words...
not using the basis of categorising language,
all the time, just throwing words into abstracts
and geometric bulwark -
      no grammatical words, not one,
only Artistotle nibbling at it: proper names...
       or such thing from ancient lore...
and b) the rigid concepts used, intact,
to further an argument, or merely state
the logic of language...
           e.g. ad infinitum (to infinity) -
and never toward, say, something poetic...
   it's enough that grammatical words have never
been used in philosophy books...
  allowing a pseudo-ping-pong or at least
the quickened step... a wormhole effect...
but the fact that there can be no, i.e.
    αδ μηταφoρυμ -
        for example syllables, diacritical marks
as punctuation marks / syllable enforcers within
words... why then all the way to infinity
and not toward the given, now?!
toward metaphor, yes...
               how there is medicine all around...
a doctorate in linguistics might also mean
using another kind of scalpel to cut open words...
and not begging at the oratorium of:
the pen is mightier than the sword...
         so i guess that would mean:
the tongue is mightier than the thought,
  or as some would say: the thing that incubates
thinking... the in abstracto brain...
why would we begin to think by claiming
the origin of thought is in the brain and is by
brain solely coordinated?
   what of feelings concerning the heart,
and my drunken odes when the liver speaks more?
i can hardly be as merely a brain in a pickle-jar
attacked to a computer (some time in the future)...
the heart speaks as much as the brain,
if not more!
           side-tracking,
and why:                    Γγ      Υυ
   and not akin to Ιι                      Ρρ   Ττ    Χχ
      Ψψ, i.e. identical shrinking?
   some would say: can that ever be a serious question?
well... unless you're part of the crowd
asking about the mysteries of the universe,
i guess it isn't...
                   well... it's there, i'm in it...
it's unfathomable to the extent we currently
understand it... but at least this thing i asked is
concerning a human question,
   not a dialectically theological question
that stacks a lot of brains working on
the cartesian "i am" without much thought,
i.e. the tri-tier dialectics of theism / deism / atheism:
no matter what thought i put into that thing
that boasts moons, stars Jupiter and Mars will
ever produce a lightbulb...
     or a recipe for a well cooked roast...
here, now... language... it's bewildering
on the basis that: well, we're not exactly
merchants on the silk road writing route symbols
so we don't get lost when we travel across
Arabia... by the looks of it... we're already lost!
yes, that really was an exaggeration:
but i like to think it's so,
it's not as simple as 1 (straight), 2 (turn left)
and 3 (turn right) -
so to walk through a maze you were given
the instruction schematic:
1, 1, 1... 2... 1, 1, 1, 1... 3... 1... 2... 1, 1... 3... 1, 1...
bingo!
   and believe me.... you will end up writing
these little codes at some point, wondering
why it was that you didn't remember modern
code given computers... or as i do...
or why i do these little codes, because,
as a byproduct of being drilled 1 + 1 = 2
   from age 8... i feel like taking a break
and writing the most basic ciphers...
a bit like receiving complimentary chocolates
on your hotel bed...
  it's not exactly a chocolate fountain...
but hell... they're there.
yet what was that thing i mentioned,
the Libra principle?
     well... it doesn't matter what i wrote...
i spent the past hour reading...
   which makes me feel, actually a bit shameless
about writing anything at all...
   it's how i find writing to be at best
a chance of being trapped in a moment
    that post-pones more balancing acts...
i just can't stash inside of myself
  this high-air i'm wearing a cravat sort of airs...
like i might need a butler...
     i can't say i write more than i read...
but at feel less urgent in writing anything at all...
and the content just passes me by...
the context is more important:
whiskey, cigarettes, newspaper, windowsill
a bit of heidegger...
               and that's how it should be:
it can never be that important as i might even
like to think...
         and yes, as Kafka noted should
his works be kept, published IN LARGE PRINT...
you seen a Kafka book?
    New Times Roman... probably size 9 or 10...
they overdid the justice bit with Bukowski...
Kafka is stacked on my shelf and he's moaning
saying: you ******* should have at least
published my books in larger font:
so it's easier to read... who's this chuckling Charlie
doing in the myopic section of the library...
i mean: how many insuctices have been served
like that... he can boast all he wants:
the reason he's pop is because they printed
him in LARGE TEXT... Kafka received
a **** when he ordered a steak tartar...
   and yes... the stench of a nation once incorporated
into the Roman empire is all too evident
in an English newspaper...
   coming from a faction of peoples who didn't
experience being brown-nosed by the Romans
or who claim no conncetion with the Roman world
can be a bit daunting...
               it would seem to suggest that there's
nothing to boast about...
    and that much is true...
as if true that Poland: has absolutely no moral
obligation to prevent the people of Hong Kong
from being swallowed up by the one-party Chinese
state...
       because no more Kowtow means: no more Kowtow.
if i were British i'd cite Bilbo Baggins...
Gandalf... i feel streched... like
    too little butter spread over too much toast...
what's with this predicate of having moral
obligations... 6000+ miles away from Dover?!
well... these are middle-class opinions,
   instead of reading a newspaper, i should really
try to get an invitation to some *******'
    dinner party in Devon... or Richmond...
that's what i meant when i meant: two Europes...
  suddenly got the fear
and left: because there emerged a workforce
with a communist work ethic,
a generation who had to join the army for 2 years...
given the conscription laws...
         every time i wake up and feel nothing
but jealousy of not being born in poland in the 1960s.

I lay awake,  legs streched out in shorts, short of the feeling I used to have, I forgot to open, I keep them closed counting the months not winning prices though dertermined to make a count
It could be fun
I should bend my legs look at my knees facing my face, blocking all mental pace, maybe I should sit up keep my legs  open, a potriat of compassion is me
I'm keeping them open
Its safe to enter!

exhustion sets is, from the heavy daily toll
the eyes are sleepy, each step is slow
the body stiffens, bending over to untie the shoes
toes touching carpet, soft, another day is through
streched on the sofa, blood rushing to a calm
the mind turns of the noise, only quiet is the sound
amen

"Did you see it?  Oh... god, please tell me you saw that.  It was ******* beautiful, the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.  I mean... I never... never saw anything... ANYTHING.... GOD.... just tell me you saw that....  It h..ha..happened so fast...was...was that even real.  It was crazy.... Her hand, it just...She just slipped it right through his chest... like he was a ghost or just air... and pulled out his HEART.  It was a beautiful thing to watch... and the air went electric, you could feel it in the  air... so much love.  His heart, there in her hand, it was singing and purring.  I never felt so miserably happy in my whole ****** life.  What a thing to see,  watching it beat there in her hand, It was flopping around in her hand like a fish, jumping, and I swear, barking and whining like a little puppy.  It filled the air with such love and happiness...oh... If I could have just stayed there in that air.  Then she smiled, and he... he was smiling too, the whole time, frozen with his eyes glazed over, a hauntingly beautiful smile... but her smile...wow... I couldn't breathe or move either.  God and the Devil, they would have wept to see such a beautiful smile.  And then she kissed his heart and I swear,  you could just tell...it kissed her back...  The electricity and music in the air,  it grew louder... it was like heaven and hell opened up and ever angel and devil and god and demon started playing a symphony.  Then,  this was the best part, she pulled wings out of thin air and started to sew them onto his heart... while it was still beating and singing and  jumping  around in her hand.   What a show... Unbelievable.  The wings came to life as she tied off the last stich... they streched out their feathers and then flew off with his heart... And... then they both turned to smoke and vanished.  Can you still hear it... the music... Can you still feel it... The love, here in the air... Its... Its amazing right... I could just stay here forever... couldn't yo...Hey, where did you go...where'd everyone go?... Hello..."  
But he was alone...
No one was there and it suddenly went black and he felt empty and he knew before he put his hand over his chest... his heart was gone

Once we walked in the sun
Where the fragrant flowers
Were obvious, nothing special
The sun burned our skin
And we streched our wings
God was ever present
And smiling upon us

Yet somehow in the shadows
Of a tree in the country side
A beast grabbed us
How it ever came
To walk among us
Is a peculiarity
A curiosity that swallowed us whole

We lost faith
The Light is a dream for the naive
The beast is the toughest reality
In which we relish
In order to not get dumbstruck
As it devours us
Digging it's claws in to our skin

Stay faced with that reality
We weren't unlucky
We were faced with truth
The Light is just a distant dream
You know, for the naive.
Here the candles burn
In all their medival splendor.

Here rest the heart-shaped lockets
That hide a watch within them
As it numbly ticks away
Counting our time
In the place where
Time over distance
Is merely an expression
Because nothing ever changes here.

But there's Light somewhere
We smile as we think back
Resting assured that it will never come back to us.
It's a distant dream.
You know, for the naive.

But we're no fools.
God saved us once
Yet we've stayed within this abyss
Of the marks that were
Cut in to our skin
Because this is reality.
And it will hit us as we enter the Light.

*but there are hands reaching out to us, never giving up. Not even after we gave up on ourselves. They know the true meaning of "naive". Which is what we are as we sit helplessly in the dark. It's a naivety in it's own right as Light is a reality in it's own right