The pains of reality justify the
Deep seated sorrow of man.

The vulture encircles me
Events surrounded by mystery
Enveloped in insanity
The human race is
Captivated by mystery
Doomed to repeat history

Collusion to bestow unmitigated
Sorrow upon my being

Simply put, I am
Damaged goods

Speak softly now
And choose your next thoughts
Carefully,
For the devil has called
My soul to dance

Reckless, unmitigated
Abandonment
Of mind, body, and soul
Fruitless searches
Forever numb
Longing to feel whole

Deep beneath the rolling waves
Lies serenity
Amongst sunken slaves
Deep inside my brain
The labyrinth of my mind
Memories that
I've left behind
Gone with the breeze
Above arid land
Somewhere lost in the desert
Where only shamans understand
Somewhere locked in the innocence
Of childhood frailty
Misplaced in the universe
Perpetuating reality
Walking alongside
All the gods of the ages
Bounding across time
In history's pages
Vacated with the morals
Of man
Lost in the seams of
Our lives
In the absence of the infinite
Shared hallucinogenic cries
Gone with the limbs of
The serpent
Ignored individuality dies
The reflection of man tainted,
For it is where the devil hides
Looming in the shadows
Of irresistible allure
No acquittal of our sins
A race ****** to remain
Impure
Violence surrounding our
Unequivocal, dastardly instincts
Perched in the forefront of our
Perceived selves
Selfish, devilish
Acts of kindness
The misfortune of the fortunate
Given all the amenities
Of a king's meal
Without the sensation of
Taste
Washed away with our
Dreams of betterment
Laying upon the chests
Of mythological beasts
Souls left rotting
Souring with ferment

Supreme consciousness
Arouses the senses
Invent my future with the
Myths of the past

You're stuck in a state of
Imaginary grace
Dream myself into
New bounds of transparency

Cryptic writings
Things left unsaid
Unsure of the real
Or the surreal
Life's slipping away
Once again
Paper in hand
Palms begin to sweat
Indulging into reality
Memories
I long to forget

It seems forever
Since I've been home
Trying to balance
This chemical imbalance
But always, I'm left here
Alone
Believing my dreams real
Realizing my world's surreal
Living with uncertainty
Imagining reality

Where do I go
To hide the pain?
Dual existence?
Acute psychosis?
Trapped inside my own
Brain
There's a place in my mind
I like to hide
Where all of my secrets
I do confide
There's a place I go
To bury the pain
A papered existence
Conducive synopsis,
Abstained

I begin to sweat
My heart screaming
From my chest
Let the feeling pass
Delve into the kingdom
Inability to
Repress
Take me away
To that far off place
Abscond into surreality
Amongst things I dare not
Confess

Drinking in divinity
Affixed on mortality
Will I die in this place?
Unable to resurface
Back in reality

Stuck running in circles
On a surface-less plane
Can't escape the shadows
Can't remove the pain
Simple design
Made up of
Over thought complexity
A universe separated
Removed from the modern mind
Inexorably

Amputation of
The mutation
That is the
Human race
Segregation of this
Charred realm
From other wordly
Space
We live
We die
And death begins it
Reinvent our minds
Ignite our passions

Drowning in a gene pool
Of degenerates
Souls thrashing
Wildly, forlorn
Plunged into unmitigated
Evil
Of a race that destroys
The unborn

Lachrymose gaze
Upon the living dead
A thin film of separation
Through which lies
Are fed
Understanding the weakness
Into which we are
******
For shed blood
Forces cries
Ripping from mother's eyes
Witnessing her own demise
As a piece of her
Slowly dies
For father's impenitent
Fantasies once dreamed
Torn away from aching
Fingers
Left ravaged,
Impotent

Gazing at you
Under the cloak of
Intrigue
Watching you struggle
In the tangled lies
You weave

Commanding the head
Of the serpent
Lilith forcing man's
Non-repent
Imposed upon our being
Righteous punishments
Such ramifications
Deemed astringent

Incomprehensible
Allure
Masochists of
Everything pure

Watch the world die
From afar
Irrevocable despair
Promising allegiance
To a life I cannot
Bear

Killing myself with
Indecision
On the perimeter
Of sanity
In the psychotropic prison
And psychotic affliction

Here it comes again
The voices, getting louder
It doesn't feel good anymore
How do I escape
Escaping?
Where do I go when my sanctum
Has been compromised?
Unable to quiet
The insurgents afoot
Incurable, incalculable
Indecision
Lost, finding my way home
Left in between existence
Alongside myself
Alone

The cold, inhuman ability
To sacrifice one's own mind
Hanging onto the coat tails
Of free thought
Journey we now,
Into the nightmare
Ignoring loss of
Comprehension
Vacated laws of
Apprehension
Arming latent illness
Plotting revenge
Beneath the surface

Here it comes again
I hear it getting louder
It doesn't feel good anymore
Who will save the lifeguard
When he's about to drown?

Can you see me?
Can you hear my cry out?
He looks to find
There's no one around

Searching indefinitely
For myself
Lost in another
Under the guise of
Someone else
Why does it matter?
Seemingly insignificant
In a moment of clarity
Just breathe for a moment
Shoved back in reality
"Am I dreaming," he asked
His reflection replied
The answer profound
Unknowingly died

I sold my soul to get here
On the periphery of realization
Stuck on the perimeter of reality
Reentry revoked
Forced to sit idly
As my life passes
Before my eyes

This is my letter
Unable to deliver
This is my life
Unable to decipher
This is my nightmare
That I've never dreamed before

Trapped in the prison
I've constructed on my own
Locked myself in four walls
Of uncertainty
Built in the center of being
Unnoticed by the proprietor
Frailty prevalent
Implosion of the mind
Leading to the ******* of
The insanity
I've come to find

Death looms at the end
Of the candlestick
Walk hand in hand
With me
Fellow traveler of
Uncharted paths
My fellow affliction
With the unknown
Unable to save myself
From the pain I know
Awaits me

Here it comes again
Inescapable, maniacal laughter
It doesn't feel good anymore
And all I ever wanted
Was your guiding hand
Complacent in lies
Forcing deafening cries,
For there will be
No reprise
As my soul flutters
And dies

Death for sale
Ten will take you away
Consumed by the thought of it
No more worry
No more being suppressed
This other kingdom
Unknowingly repressed
Delve deeper into the nightmare
We lie together
Naked
Unashamed
Open to the probing
Fingertips
Of the world
Unable to speak
Sleep paralysis,
Yet this is no dream
Wide eyed
Searching
Unable to scream

Incommunicable desires
No longer latent
Unsuppressed is the disease
Of your discontent
Insufferable, forcible pain
Towards the ones loved most
Catatonic, embryonic
Feeble mind
Please save me from myself

Forgive me, father
For I know not what I do
Forgive me, mother
For I do not blame you

Plastic state of being
Suspended in the viscous
Coagulant of stolen thought
And free will
Drowning in my
Own enjoyment
Of self suffering

How will you remember me?
A trembling voice
To read my eulogy?

Forget the things I should have said
This demoness I've brought to bed
Speaking in riddles
Bewilderment of the senses
Deeper appreciation
For the subjugation of man

War criminals in suits
Pretentious, cowardly vestiges of man
Surrounded by an air of
Undeserved arrogance
Getting fat on young girls
Sending their children to war
Safeguarded by a desk
And the allure of change
Obscene, disgusting animals
Consuming their weight daily
In the profit of drugs and
Devised disease
Profiteers of death
Politicians work the corners

And I fall,
Too weak to carry on
Can't escape my own
Lonely, cold, loveless
Gaze
Black holes in my head
Leading into the depths of
My soul
Emptiness pervading
Madness running rampant
Destroying who I once was
Tearing to pieces
My uniqueness
Stripped of self
Thrown back to march
Within the masses
Towards impending demise

Staring into the eyes
Of the serpent
Turned to stone
Numb to emotion
Numb to pain
I cry out for substance
I miss the person
I used to be
The person you loved
Before you met me

Relieve me now of sin
Unto re-birthing, begin
Relieve me now of this burden
Knowledge and shame
Relieve me now of myself
And self inflicted pain

There it goes again
Making me feel dour
It doesn't feel good anymore
Purge me of this dependency
Ancient, carnal need
Necessity of loathing the infinitesimal

I've met the devil in my dreams
She looked a lot like you
Dreaming in wakefulness
Awakened desire in dreams
What is my intention?

Do I provide a function
Or functionally provide?
Are you living in a nightmare?
Have you gone to sleep and died?

Synesthesia upon awakening
My sensory perceptions
The permutation of the
Infinite

Children of the wilderness
Remove us from the
Impurities of societal disorder
Relieve us of the blandishment
Of media driven fallacies
As the masses are hoarded,
Spoon fed their own flesh,
And directed onward
By the pusillanimous grave robbers
Awarded with the title of
Government official
Given diplomatic immunity
And free reign over
The direction of our lives

There lies a serenity
Beneath the quiet surface
Of the ocean
The ocean floor is vast,
Uninhabited promise

I have developed an acute prescience
For what will come

Man unknowingly conspires
Against himself,
For the good of man
Cannot overcome
The evils of mankind
Conquering in the name of
Worthless ideals
And fruitless endeavors

Conforming to nonconformity
You're only fooling yourself

Wandering about in a dreamy state
With unexplained expectations
For some sort of happy outcome
Welcome to my nightmare
My inescapable kismet
Defend me from myself
I have become
My own worst enemy
Just a hyena looking for
A lions share
More animalistic than
A starving predator

Morally ambivalent
Acting upon
Inconclusive notions
There is no stability
In this loose earth
Sinking ever deeper
Into life unbeknownst
To me
Quicksand enveloping
Sanity and conscience
Leaving behind
Only memories of
What we ought to have
Become

Been suppressing emotion
For so long
Seems like forever
Since I've gone
Numb to the heartache
Blind to the happiness
Rediscovered childhood
At the end of my life

The words become a
Flowing river
My pen cannot dance
Quickly enough
To capture my
Escaping tongue

Discovering escape
Through self sufficiency

Sanity is nomadic
Traveling from
Person to person
Mind to mind
At any given moment
We are all insane

There is

the bitter taste of the last cigarette

on the roof of my mouth,

a sourness on my tongue

and i try to remember the last time i felt like this.

or rather…

the last time I DIDN’T.

seems like as time goes on, every day becomes a struggle,

and some days more than others.

I want everyone to be my friend,

but i wonder where this inferiority complex comes from?

it paralyzes me and i do not want to speak.

meeting people, seeing my ideas put into words

by other lips and others’ gestures,

and yes I agree,

but ******* you make me so tired.

no, i do not need your hugs,

and no i do not need your validation.

and hell no i do not need your apathetic agreement

because like hell you would understand,

like hell you would know that

you can’t bleach this brown skin of

all the slurs and all the stigma,

that you can’t flat iron out the

ethnic tangles of my afro-something hair,

that you can’t even guess,

cause even i don’t know,

even we don’t know,

if i’m black or native or forcibly half white,

if i’m 10% this or 50% that,

like I have to be broken down

into numbers and percentages

cause I just can’t be whole again,

cause we just can’t be whole again.



They took everything,

they came and took everything

*******,

and yes God ****** us,

your ****** God ****** us,

you came and you traded

our generosity, our good faith, our sustenance,

you took all of that

and gave us biblical ******* about a God,

some overbearing, vengeful Lord

that didn’t even love you,

oh God, and we were the savages?

You came and you stripped us naked,

took off layer after layer of dignity and prosperity,

we gave you firm hugs of solidarity,

and you groped our ******* like they were worthless,

we gave you kisses of peace,

and you rammed your tongues down our throats,

demanding we choked into silence,

and we were supposed to thank you.

You came and you ***** our land,

our mothers, sisters, and daughters

and we were supposed to be compliant.

we were supposed to be quiet,

and we were supposed to be content,

happy to fill our wombs

with children who would later struggle

with the realization that the reason the color of their skin

was neither yours nor mine,

that it was neither milky white nor toasted earth,

was because my people had been ****** by yours,

figuratively, literally but most significantly, forcibly

generation after generation,

subjugation after subjugation

for 400 ******* years.



And here I am.

400 years later and I don’t know who I am.

They say I could be Chicana,

or Mexicana,

I could be Mexico Americana,

I could be Latina,

or even, god-forbid,

Hispana.

I could be but what does that even mean?

what does Mexican mean?

a land where the majority of the people

descend from the great people of indigenous America,

or the great people of Africana roots,

or these chaotically beautiful blends

that result in the sweetest of dark coffee- soft caramel of spectrums,

still say “indio" like an insult,

still say “*****" like an insult,

still say “prieto" like an insult.

still say, “baby girl, get out the sun,

what you tryin to get darker for?"

still say, “hell no we ain’t african!"

like that would be a bad thing.



and ******* it i am ******* tired.

Awaking blithe each morning,
with eyes upon the World,
I wonder, are we mourning
with ebon flags unfurled –
or are they but a warning,
some draped like snakes and curled,
stray stars and stripes adorning,
sent from the netherworld.

I wander through the garden
with nothing on my mind
and say 'I beg your pardon'
alarmed at what I find
as winds begin to harden
and fate begins to grind.

Confused, I watch my neighbours,
they're wide-eyed, unafraid
to halt all useful labours
and join the death brigade;
the ritters rattle sabres,
the frail and fragile fade,
morticians tap on tabors,
the potentates parade.

The military blesses
(in tunics somewhat browned)
its crimson-stained successes,
hell bent and heaven bound.
Such scenes no more distress us:
a ****** battleground,
dissevered heads with tresses
and arms and legs abound;
the fourth estate suppresses
the heaps of bodies  found
(collateral excesses
discarded in a mound).

Society regresses,
now living by the sword,
with torture and its stresses
upon a waterboard;
a captive kid confesses,
his innocence ignored -
fallacious facts and guesses,
the guts of justice gored!

With canting vindication
a big brass bully brags
(with pearls of perspiration
and swollen tongue that gags)
of third world  subjugation
for gelt and oily swags,
of human rights' castration,
and on and on it drags.

The manifold migration
of refugees in rags
while searching for salvation
soon finds compassion lags;
uprooted populations
are fleeing from their flags
else dying of starvation
as naked hunger nags.

With trump cards politicking,
two little hands (all thumbs)
may send the Mad Dog siccing.
Insane! All sense succumbs.

Atomic timepiece ticking
until the Reaper comes
as Geiger counters clicking
drown out the droning drums.

Cast out for not conforming,
I wander day by day
to find the earth deforming
as nature wastes away,
with bees no longer swarming
(expunged with garden spray)
and ocean depths transforming
(neath plastic overlay).

With CO2 performing
the climate's led astray,
the atmosphere's been warming,
the grasses ashen gray,
eternal tempest storming
while permafrosts decay,
and ozone holes are forming
in deadly disarray.

The people profiteering
descend a slip'ry *****
destroying, never fearing        
of running out of rope;
instead they sit back sneering
“our wealth’s your only hope”.

Yes, Armageddon's nearing,
it's doubtful that we'll cope,
for Evolution's jeering,
she's scanned our horoscope:
we'll soon be disappearing
with whale and antelope.


           Epitaph

The multitudes were jumbled,
some milling ’round the mall,
while politicians bumbled
when bracing for the brawl.

The World around us rumbled,
our backs against the wall,
as bombs were tossed and tumbled
across our broken ball.

My kneecaps creaked and crumbled
but I, too proud to crawl,
took but a step and stumbled  
yet found no place to fall.

And no one heard me grumble
although I tried to call,
or maybe I just mumbled,
as strength began to pall.

Well now the World’s been humbled
I seek an urban sprawl,
but since the feuds were fumbled
there’s nothing left at all.

Perplexed people of a politically polluted land,
Are uncertain of who they truly are.
Sons supporting freedom's fight, fathers seem lost,
Seeking meager gains with no gain in power.
Subjugation and forced order is in play,
Forgotten the episodes of cold blooded ******.
Rapes, intimidation and tormented nights,
All ignored, for they are not
our daughters or mothers.
No concern given to our neighbors strife?
Our humanity we sold, for positions in this land.
Strengthened the corrupted power at play,
Full of anarchy and devoid of mercy.
The foibles in name of government and development,
Oh Lord!Fill our fellows hearts
with compassion.
Open their eyes to the inadequacies,
Bring our nation back to consciousness.
©Perveiz Ali

How we start is only part of what we eventually do.

Physically that's easy to see. Being human, adamkind,
we see weak starts often in life.
Colts or pups born a week too soon can be loved to lives as pampered pets,
Siring toys for the enjoyment of those who can afford to fuel them,
For generations, with never a single care,
Past that initial trauma and subsequent subjugation to the will of man.

I don't tell horse stories, dog stories or war stories, if I can keep from it.

But when you want to demonstrate the purest of payback,
revenge getting the bad guy in the end,
having a horse be the hero makes behaving like an animal
more noble to the mind of vengeful man.
It's not true, revenge being noble.
That's a very old lie.

Law is to prevent error by disallowing failure. Law.

Relative to the rest of God's creatures, we, adamkind, seem dependent, weak and vulnerable next to bears being weak
a way-less long time
Than we.
We come into this world weak as a baby anything and we stay that way longer
Than any living creature.

I am an American, by birth.
I was not born to a political party or a family with political roots,
"I ain't no Senator's son."
Still,
I was reared drinking mythic cherry wine
sprung from George's failure to lie
Regarding his woodman's knack with a hatchet.

Sitting on the fence rail Abe split,
town fathers where I lived
were said to have decided the most harmonious of towns
have only gainfully employed darker folks,
while white
trash was allowed to loll around because they was
some employer's kin by marriage.

It all seemed pretty normal, as a child.
The loller-arounders let kids listen when they told
Their friends, who could not read, what the newspapers said.

One block from my house there was a vet's and hobo's flop-house clad in corrugated tin, rusted-round the nail-holes all the way to the ground and the rust had spread, so at sunset,...
I only recall the single story shed having one door.
There were always old white men sittin' on the southside of the shed. At sunset, those old men's whispy white hair

appeared as white flowing mare's tale clouds under
a scab-red wall held up by old men with sunset shining faces...

It was a big shed, a low barn, a bunkhouse,
eight or ten 4-foot tin-sheets long on the north and south
Windowless walls.
The one door was on the south side.
Once I saw an old man selling red paper buddy poppies.
He was missing both legs about half-way up his thighs.
The poppy seller rode a square board that had what I think were
Roller-skates, the key-kind, with metal wheels about a 1/2 inch wide.
Nailed to it's bottom. He had handles made from a carpenter's saw
Without it's blade. He pushed himself with those handles.

That looked fun, to a four-year old.
It looks different now-a-days. Knowing
Those red poppies symbolized
The after math automatics of the war to end war.

Who knows the poppy-sellers son? He would be old.
Does he know how his father lost his legs, but lived?
Does he bear the curse of the curse that lost his father's legs?
Does he honor his father's cause or weep at the thought?

Enough is enough.
My family tree branched in America, but only one great grand-parent,
Three generations back from me, was rooted in this land.
My gran'ma's ma, a Choctaw squaw,
That rhymed fine,
But it's not true. My grandma did not know her parents. She was born an orphan,
And her father and mother were likely strangers.

1910 in southwest Arkansas or southeast Oklahoma or northeast Texas or northwest Louisiana
And the color of her skin is all that proved my American heritage.

My grandma was born poor as poor can be,
she never told me how she survived

To survive a 1925 or so car wreck
in eastern Arizona's white mountains.
I never asked what my grandmother knew,
nor how she came to know.

This is my point.
After you and I have gone into forever more,
Our great grand children may wonder
what we did or did not, since we
Are no longer around to give our account.

These days we can leave our story to our great grand children.
Our own children
And our grand children follow us on facebook back to before they were born.
Shall they judge us idlers wielding idle words for laughs,
or  think us knowers of all we found while seeking first the Kingdom of Heaven
In the place Jesus says it is. You know where Jesus said the Kingdom of our kind lies?

The double minded man is unstable in all his ways,
hence Eve and her broader bandwidth corpus colostrum
Come back later, there is a breath system upgrade evolving.

Such changes to the courage of the mind rolls out more slowly
to the root ideas, labouring to find sustenance,
it is a struggle being a radical idea,
we agree, but we have our part,
as do the flowers
and the spore.
Leaven the whole lump, like it or lump it.

The now we live in grew from far deeper roots than
the roots claimed by the
Self-identified nation through it's cartoons/representations of national desires to rally 'round the flag as if it were the fire,
those desires to herd beneath any shelter from the storm,
Your country, your incorporated allegiance
to the inventor and creator and counter of the money under
the protection of the sword and crown representative
of the flame that burns,
The namers of patriot, the rankeers of ideas
who, by their existence,
naturally, over rule you.
Such powers are granted by the individual, not the mob.
You get that?

The desires of the nation over rule the desires of the individuals who
Com-prize the nation.
Whose side are you on, dear reader?

Is the idea we believed believable?
Ex Nihilo, I don't think so because
I can't imagine how now could be
Accidental-ly.

When my hero wore spurs as he went from the jail office to
Miss Kitty's place, (Gunsmoke on A.M. radio)

What did Miss Kitty do?
I had no clue.
In my hero's world people never
Did the wrong thing
While Marshal Dillon was in Dodge.

So did you think Miss Kitty's place was anything other
than a culturally acceptable
reference to professional social ******* workers
under a strong, smart female CEO
with top-level links to the local cops?

All these are rhetorical questions, this being
Rhetorical if you are hearing me say this.
That means, don't nod or raise your hand or shout Amen, kin!

I see your answer my answer and
I know my answer, so you know my answer.

Step-back, 1961, USA Snapshot
Unitas, Benny Kid Perett, Mantlenmarris, the Guns of Navarone.

Why I recall those things, I know not.
Why I did not say I do not know, I do not know.

Though, pausing to think,
knowing contains the doing of it within it, you know.
What's to do?

Outlaws were more my heroes than cowboys, and marshals, and such
Especially the ones that had been forced out by law.

I grew up in a 1950's junkyard with no fence, one mile north of route 66
On the Al-Can highway to Las Vegas, 103 miles away.
My Grandpa was a blacksmith's son,
who rode a horse he broke and his pa had shod
From Texas to Arizona in 1917, at the age of 18.

by the time I knew him,
He was fifty, settled down, nearly, from the war.
Momma had to work, so, daytime, Granddaddy raised me.

Horses weren't, wrecked cars were,
the toys of my childhood.

Grandpa built a junkyard from cars left steam blown
on the old stage road, from before
the railroad.
The Abo Highway hain't been Route 66 for some time yet…
Hoping…


Hoping sometime to polish this bit of this book, I left myself re-minders
Hoping memory of mental realms might rewind or unwind sequentially
When trigger
Neighed.
That worked, Roy Autry and Gene Rogers were names Sue Snow's
Mormon Bishop granddaddy called me,
back when I first recall My Grandpa Caleb,
a baptist by confession,
who was,
as I recall a *****-drinkin' jolly drunk.
While Grandma made beds in some motel,
granddaddy built boats and horse trailers
and hot rod 34 Chevies,
and he fixed this one red Indian, I could read the word on the gas tank, I knew the word Indian
and this motor cycle was proud to wear the name. I was 4.

A stout-strong man, no fat near any working muscle system,
he could and would
repair any broken thing,
for anybody. People called him Pop.
Pop and Mr. Levi-next-door at the Loma Vista Motel, shared a listing in the Green Book,
so broke down ******* knew where help could be found
after dark in that town.
There was a warnin'ag'in
let'n sunset there
on darker than grandma's skin.

My Gran'daddy's shop had two gas pumps
that were reset to begin pumping with the turn of a crank.
As soon as I could turn that crank,
I could pump gas.
I could fill up that red Indian
Motorcycle.
But "m'spokes was too short
to kick the starter."
I told my eleven year old uncle
and he told
how he would always remember learning
that saddles have no linkage
to horse brakes.
"Not knowing what you cain't do
kin *** ye kilt."

He grew up in the junk yard, too.
My first outlaw hero.

Likely, I am alive today, because
On the day I discovered I could pump gas as good as any man,
I also discovered that real motorcycles were not built for little boys.

To future conquering civilizations
in galaxies far far away . . .
don't worry about polluting the air,
our smokestacks have shot *****-bombs
into the clouds for centuries,
mixing rain drops with the
black grime of industrialization,
transforming our children's tears
into cesspools of sulfuric acid and ddt.
We've also drained the bayous and swamps
and between you and me
don't even bother landing in Africa
there isn't suitable drinking water
for miles, you see.
You can thank years of colonization for that.
In fact, you may not want to land
on Mondays, Tuesdays, or Thursdays
in LA either-
on those days the air quality index
is 175 and far too unhealthy for any
biological organism to survive.
But at least you won't die of malnutrition
you've got decisions:
McDonald's or Burger King
choose
cholesterol and diabetes are your shock troops.
Send them in immediately,
there won't be much resistance
we've got these things call lazy boys
and daytime t.v which have
enslaved the population and decreased
the distance
between fully functioning
human beings and mindless apes.
Don't worry about bringing weapons
we've got those too
we've perfected the art of blowing each other away
there's not much for you to do.
we destroy cities with fire from the sky
and our mushroom clouds rise
at least ten miles high.
And god can't see, there's too much smoke
in his eyes
and our radiated children die
with radiated sighs.
While we are on the topic
don't worry about us spreading
propaganda
we've lost the ability to communicate.
We've learned
books turn a peculiar dark yellow
when lighted and burned.
And forget erasing history,
we've done that too.
Our subjugation of native peoples
is masked as 'patriotism'
under the red, white, and blue.

But don't get me wrong,
I tell you all
of this not to dissuade,
please come and attack,
please come and invade.
Here, I'll even turn
on the lights . . .

this is truly a welcome break from:
freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

     pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

   a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
     they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
                
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                   a man with...
a gamble...
         i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

   the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
       there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
   even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
             past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
     i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
   and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

             Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
               lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
         i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

   when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
   weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
   much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

           chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
           da pacem domine...
             agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
         there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
   new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
       i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
             kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.

Bathed in a bruised fire-glow,
The gypsy's ball shows
The future.

A life for the wicked,
OH, the sins it depicted!
Nature wins.

Enigma entity’s ethology entelechy as it relates to clairaudience clairvoyance.
Everyone has a personal futurity fatidic or existential metaphysique.
What we need is a universally acceptable form of id conclusion.
Unfortunately we can’t even agree on the social stigmatisms of ego’s expression.
We are relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity that succeed in a hierarchy of functionally integrateable forms.
There is no functional deontology, even though its visage would seem to portend cogently fecund probity for all.
We are not ethereally sublime, we are corporeally preternatural.
Objective is individual; obligation to each other is not a mandate.
Though many might find it inherently indispensible to some it impedes success.
The depths of debauchery this debacle ensues are almost intrinsically endemic to our race.
How am I going to get there becomes more important than ‘what are we fighting for’.
So, if there’s no unity of purpose how do we decide who we are fighting for.
Will it be good for all or lead to oligarchy and subjugation, the seemingly inescapable byproduct of capitalism, the inherent decadence of socialism.
It’s times like this that make me love the constitutional fortitude of Americanism.
Theoretically I have an inalienable right, hypothetically this leads to anarchy so I’m not allowed to mess with your rights.
This is mandate.
The republic for which we stand.
Mendacious tales of unity, not merely the obstinate tenacities of I, but also the cogent fecundity in the infamous we-ness of us.

Hell with Manu! Manu go to hell!
The wrath of your interpretation,
Put us under an inhuman subjugation.

You turned a group,
Dictators of a merciless culture,
Transformed us worse,
Than a scavenging vulture.

You gifted us the psychology of the worst slaves,
And robbed our culture, worship and God,
Who is there to get us out from these graves?

For centuries till now continue our struggle,
We are forced to live with worst strangles
In the poisonous jungle,

We the humans treated much worse,
Than dogs insects and poo eating pig,
Our scars wounds and blows,
Still remain untouchable and big.

Poisonous **** declared the crops untouchable,
Proclaimed itself the most unconquerable,
Less than a second it takes,
To **** the poisonous weeds with a cutter,
Throw them into the useless gutter.

Landlords, who rule the land and hill,
Put the lives of untouchable crops to a standstill,
Multiplied the existence of poisonous ****,
At the expense of the healthy crop seed.

Our journey in the doors of
Movements, struggle and legal
Was quite a win,
That proved out to be absolutely lethal.

We won successfully in the battle of right,
Till the end of the topmost administrative fight,
We lost to erase your caste ridden thought,
That is useless rigid and tight.

With your caste names,
You remind and hurt us, with useless exhibition
In hearts, we created die hard flames,
To take up the long term ambitions,
And get us out from these addicted inhibitions.

From mother's womb to a cemetery,
We have a same human life,
But when it comes to temple sanctum,
You **** us with a political double edged knife.

We built the temples,
You played a gamble and created troubles,
Pushed us to convert,
Got our identities to subvert.

World belongs to everyone,
Our life does not hold value.

Nature belongs to everyone,
We do not have access to water by Vedas virtue.

God is equal to everyone,
But we are restricted entry, as an oppressed queue.

There is no use to argue,
Of course it is untrue,
Let's put ourselves to the rescue.

What's next? What's next?
Let's create a new humanity societal text,
Let's create for ourselves new religions,
Let's begin to reach out to the next generation,
Work with them to build new revolution.

Let's create a new religion,
In nooks and corners, all areas, rural and urban,
That treats humans as humans,
And give life to the humanity slogan.

Change the rules! Yeah change the rules!
Throw into gutters all these useless fools,
For human lives, there can be nothing to tally,
Human life remains invaluable and holy

Being human is my true breed,
Crows and cuckoo belong to our creed,
Mountains and sea belong to our human group
Be proud, you will belong to this peaceful troop.

Let us get up, where we fell
And put this curse to the hell.

Some introductory food for thought...

"Threats to freedom of speech, writing and action, though often trivial in isolation, are cumulative in their effect and, unless checked, lead to a general disrespect for the rights of the citizen"
  - George Orwell

"There is only three states of being. There is slavery, tyranny, those are both forms of conflict, or negotiation. Negotiation depends on freedom of speech and you have to be able to talk to people if you are not going to fight with them or capitulate to them."
  - Jordan Peterson

"If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.”
  - George Orwell


The key proponents of the Bill and it's context...
On the 18th October 2016, Bill C-16 received Royal assent in Canada, despite having a small, but thorough opposition, even from those within the LGBT community who felt that the proponents of the Bill did not represent their desires, but that of the most extreme and ideological spectrum of their community. A prominent figure in the opposition to the Bill was Jordan Peterson, a Professor of Psychology at the University of Toronto, who has dedicated a great length of time in study into the **** and Soviet regimes of the past, paying particular attention to the ideological and psychological elements of those periods, which has built his principles as strongly opposed to ideological thought, Postmodernism and Marxism, all of which were instrumental or played roles in the mass genocidal regimes of the early 20th century that began with the subjugation of ideas and speech.

The Bill's implementation is an amendment to the Ontario Human Rights Code that makes the refusal by an individual to refer to someone by their preferred gender pronouns a hate crime. It also brands discrimination by 'gender expression' with the same impunity. To those who do not understand what these concepts mean, essentially what the gender pronoun debate is, is how a minority of the LGBT community demand they be refereed to by different pronouns, and have their gender expression (fashion choice) protected by law. For instance, those who claim not to fit into the binary gender pronouns (he/she) and therefor don't identify as either a man or a woman, wish to be refereed to with artificial neologisms such as ve, they and them.

These demands, however, are not being made by the majority of LGBT people, but a small minority of people, mostly younger students who've been indoctrinated into postmodern and social Marxist ideology. This means that the Canadian government is taking the most extreme representation of a group as the representatives of the entire group, which would be like taking the **** Party as a valid representation of Germans, or the British Olympic squad as representatives of the standard fitness of the entire British public. This is a key focus of opponents to the Bill, like Prof. Peterson who recognises (being an employee of a University himself) that Bills like these are the result of borderline indoctrination in the Universities, and not the demands of LGBT people in general.  


The innate authoritarianism of the bill and it's Marxist/Postmodern motives...
Why are the proponents of this Bill innately authoritarian in nature? Well, as Professor Jordan Peterson makes the clear distinction, that unlike other forms of what is deemed hate speech in law, that enforces what you CAN NOT say, this Bill enforces WHAT YOU MUST SAY. As an example, Holocaust denial is considered hate speech, and so you can not express such a position, however, here you are now forced to speak words that you might not want to say, something far more Orwellian that one might be able to conceive when concerning a seemingly trivial enforcement, and having often spoken of gradualism, this is certainly not the end of the issue.

What is also concerning is that the supporters of the Bill are evidently ideologically motivated, in terms that their ideology (Marxist/Postmodern) is in itself authoritarian in nature, and as they fail to gain support by ideas, they suppress them. Law like this should not be able to slide through the apparatus of the State this easily, for it conveys on many levels a lack of respect for the generations of people who suffered under despotic rule for centuries until finally the rule of law gave them rights (and now we throw them away). It also shows to those more nefarious groups, that the public will not blink, even when you chip away at their right to speak as they choose, which I don't believe is a habit that should be maintained.


- a short essay by FabiusSideman

You told me you see angels sometimes
and hear them talk. I hope you're ok.

I see the fallen one. In reflections,
Watching me, surfing on glass,
Menacing, gliding across
or astride my path,
hiding in corners (he's got my back).
A soft voice with life's answers at my beckoning ear,
"Through victory my chains are broken".
I figured I would not be missed.
So personal it became
the person split.

I felt this wonderfully sick thrill in my veins
as I became a devilish man; sardonic eyes
brimming with mirth, the eyes of the dammed
that I forged, pupils dilated; content with the way
the wind blows, in pursuit of happiness at every turn;
And they call this evil.

that's what ****** me off about western journalism,
there is a satirical newspaper in Poland,
there is a counter-culture,
but you obviously don't see it...
NIE is a decent newspaper,
    because it is satirical, but also serious,
at the same time...

  and there is anti-Catholic sentiment among
the people...
   i should know, my grandfather
was a communist party member,
   a strictly atheistic, humanistic,
secular upbringing -
              
   but when did nationalism die
in the western nations?
         16th century? 17th century?
you know... before nationalism morphed
into imperialism?
  obviously these post-nationalistic states
are looking at states that regained
their nation-state status like
**** sapiens looking at a bunch of
******* retards... sorry... neanderthals...

well... d'uh...
it's because the western states do not
understand the concept of a healthy nationalism,
oh a collective citizenry,
  of solidarity...
                   these days, anything right
of the center is... FAR RIGHT...
   there are fringe groups everywhere...
but you're talking about nations
that don't have the privilege of
   the imperialistic interlude...
instead: subjugation by other powers,
in the case of Poland... 3!
      
          maybe the western states just
don't know how to express a healthy
nationalism,
           maybe imperialism really
****** them up....
                    what?
   in H'america don't they call nationalism,
patriotism?
   last time i heard,
   i've been the subject of H'american
nationalism since an early age...
      cultural exports...
             more cultural exportation from
H'america than anywhere else...

/ interlude:

new additions to the jukebox
(and no, i haven't listened to these tracks
so even i don't know whether
i'm going to like them):

kokoroko - abusey junction
quantic - time is the enemy
lafayette afro rock band - hihache
gramatik - just jammin'
anthony brancati - neo-funk
savages - you're my chocolate
funky destination - the inside man
       (soopasoul remix)
kiasmos - looped
thurisaz - endless
LTJ - i don't want this groove to ever ends
low - lullaby
blonde redhesd - for the damaged coda

o.k. i knew this one already -
cymande - dove                               /

yeah... concerning
this:
the curious case of suzanna berlinsky

i can understand being blocked
for, incivility...
      but the Mongols really did sack
Moscow...
   and they had to traverse Siberia...
so...
             well **** me...
if i get blocked by someone for writing
such a comment,
as i wrote...
       just a **** shame...
   have to block them back...
    if anyone is available...
please tell suzanna berlinsky
   that's she an outstanding poet...
                  i would have liked to read all
of her works (yes, she is on this site).

Dear Poet friends. After reading Dolly Lama’s poem ‘Poetry Helps Heal’, I was reminded of a poem I composed many years ago titled ‘The Healing Power of Poetry’. This poem is not a work of fiction, but based on reality. Hope you like it, and tell your friends to read the same. Thanks, - Raj, New Delhi.


  THE HEALING POWER OF POETRY:
    KNOWN  AS  ‘BIBLIOTHERAPY’

The word Poetry derives from the Greek word ‘poesis’,
Which means ‘a making’ of a literary art form,
Where language is used for its evocative, aesthetic,
and emotional response.
A poem is an emotional-intellectual-physical construct, -
meant to touch its reader’s heart!
Poetry links one individual to another by its
distilled experience.
Through its rhythm of words and imagery,  -
driving away our inner loneliness!

‘Words are the physicians of the diseased mind’, -
Oceanus  tells Prometheus in ancient Greek
Mythology.
Thus the Oracles at Delphi used the healing power
of poetry, -
Through their various ritualistic chants and
incantations;
And tamed many a savage mind into subjugation!

The Roman physician Soranus in the First Century
AD,
Had prescribed poetry and drama for his patients
who were mentally oppressed;
Tragedy for his maniac patients, and Comedy for
the depressed.
The great psychiatrist Sigmund Freud had clarified,
That it was not he but the Poet, who had discovered
the Subconscious Mind!
Freud went on to say that the human mind is a
poetry-making *****;
Focus of ‘poetry for healing’ is self-expression and
growth of the individual.
Whereas focus of ‘poetry as an art’ becomes the
very poem itself!
But both use the same technique Freud had said;
Words, rhythm, metaphors, sound, and images,
But in the end the result is the same.
The word ‘therapy’ comes from the Greek word
‘therapeia’, -
Meaning to nurse or cure through dance, song,
drama or poetry;
Perhaps the divine way to poetic therapy!
It is therefore not surprising that Asclepius, the
Greek God of Healing,
Is the son of Apollo, the God of Poetry and Medicine!

The first hospital for the mentally ill in the American
Colonies,
Was set up in Pennsylvania in 1751, by Benjamin
Franklin.
Where a number of ancillary treatments were used,
Including the writing of poetry and reading it aloud.
Written by the patients who were mentally ill.  @ (see notes)
‘Bibliotherapy’ was the term used for poetic therapy,
Which had become popular during the Sixties and
the Seventies.
It was also effectively used in Group Therapy,
With patients sharing their feeling and emotions,
Providing a release for their inner pain and tension !
The rhythm and repetition of words often created
a hypnotic trance, -
Reaching out to those ‘secret places’ - creating a
bridge, -
To that unconscious mind from which poetry springs!
Friends, in support of what I have just said let me
quote,
Those immortal lines which Robert Frost once wrote;-
“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
  But I have promises to keep,
  And miles to go before I sleep,
  And miles to go before I sleep” # (see notes below)

Foot Notes: ** Initially poetry was ****** recited and also sung to the accompaniment of the lyre. After the invention of  writing, it started to develop its own form. Forms make arrangement out of derangement, harmony out of discord, and order out of chaos!
@= Writings of some of these patients were also published in a newspaper titled “The Illuminator”.
# = Lines quoted above are from Robert Frost’s famous poem, “Stopping by The Woods on A Snowy Evening”, - were extensively
used for poetic therapy at the Hospital.
        All Copy Rights Reserved By the Author Raj Nandy

--------------------------------------------------------­------------------------

Some people say and will say, let us unite and heal. Unite round what exactly? Fascism??  This is at best a pipe dream and in reality a nightmare for billions of people everywhere on the planet. There can be and there should be no unity with fascists and a program of global violence and destruction (already under way for several centuries now)..  An historical reference: People who say this are actually saying "be good Germans" do not protest or resist the death camps and slaughter of Jews and others. Their cry: "Uber Germany - Uber Alles" - "God, Fatherland, and Motherhood".  In our case 2016, it is non whites, Black, Muslims, Mexicans, GLTQ people, women and abortion rights, and the environment that will be the targets of this "resurrent America"... and why would anyone want to "unite " with this?? In the name of humanity, I will not unite, collaborate, conciliate, nor capitulate to a fascist America.

In this light I offer a statement / message that is being distributed throughout this country and where ever people are protesting and resisting, including to people in other countries who are looking to us to see what we will do. Here is the link:  

http://www.revcom.us/a/464/in-the-name-of-humanity-we-refuse-to-accept-a-fascist-america-en.­html

While I encourage everyone to read  by following the link, I am also going to post the message below.

In the Name of Humanity,
We REFUSE To Accept a Fascist America
Rise Up... Get Into The Streets... Unite With People Everywhere
to Build Up Resistance in Every Way You Can
Don’t Stop: Don’t Conciliate... Don’t Accommodate... Don’t Collaborate
 
Donald Trump has now won the presidency. Under the slogan “Make America Great Again,” he has viciously attacked Mexicans and Muslims, threatened to deport millions and boasted that he will build walls and close borders. He incites people to fear and hate those who are “different,” or who come from other countries or nationalities, or practice different religions. He crudely demeans and degrades women, and openly boasts about molesting them. He’s a champion of white supremacy who has insulted and threatened Black people, and whipped up a racist lynch-mob mentality. Trump has mocked the disabled.  He is an aggressive and unapologetic militarist, who threatens to use nuclear weapons and will have his fingers on the nuclear codes. He openly advocates war crimes and crimes against humanity"including torture and killing the families of people accused of terrorism. He plans to pack the Supreme Court with justices who will gut and reverse the right to abortion, gay rights, and other important legal rights. He calls climate change a hoax and his policies will wreak further devastation on the environment. He has attacked and threatened the press and stirred up his supporters to do the same. Trump has utter contempt for facts and the truth, and consistently lies to advance his agenda. As for the rule of law, Trump went so far as to openly threaten his opponent, Hillary Clinton, not only with jail, but even assassination. Donald Trump is an outright fascist. And he is now the president-elect.

Fascism is a very serious thing. Fascism foments and relies on xenophobic nationalism, racism, and the aggressive reinstitution of oppressive “traditional values.” Fascism feeds on and encourages the threat and use of violence to build a movement and come to power. Fascism, once in power, essentially eliminates traditional democratic rights. Fascism attacks, jails, and executes its opponents, and launches violent mob attacks on “minorities.” In **** Germany in the 1930s and ’40s, under ******, fascism did all these things. They imprisoned millions in concentration camps and exterminated millions of Jews, Roma people (Gypsies), and other “undesirables.” And ****** did almost all of this through the established institutions and the “rule of law.” This is where this goes. And yes, ****** himself could “talk graciously” when he felt it would serve his interests and lull his opponents.

Trump did not even win the popular vote, (even though he did win the “electoral college” which decides elections in the U.S.). ****** himself came to power through democratic procedures, including through the process of elections. Should people have accepted ******?! Unfortunately, they did, at a horrific cost to humanity. Today, with nuclear weapons, that cost could be far higher.  

In the name of humanity, we must refuse to accept a fascist America!
The fact that Trump won as many votes as he did must be understood. The fact that he got more than even 10 percent of the vote is disgraceful and reveals some very ugly things about America. So why did this happen? The world today is turbulent, full of changes. Those who supported Trump’s fascist program were overwhelmingly sections of white people, especially but not only white men, who yearn for the days of open white supremacy and American global *******, and the blatant subjugation of women. A significant minority of white people did oppose him, but we have to confront how deep the racism, the national chauvinism, and the hatred of women is woven into this society... and not give in to this, but vigorously challenge and fiercely oppose it. 

But even more than this, Trump was backed by powerful forces in this society. Beyond those who directly supported him, the media, the Democratic Party, and others treated him as a legitimate candidate, refused to call him out as the fascist he is, and now call on everyone to accept his ascension to power. All the major powerful forces in this society bear the responsibility"it is they who have, over decades, either built up this fascist force or have “enabled” it.

You cannot try to “wait things out” with fascists. Those who lived through ******’s Germany and sat on the sidelines, looking on as ****** rounded up one group after another, became shameful collaborators with monstrous crimes against humanity. Trump and his regime must be resisted and defied, beginning now, in many different ways and in every corner of society. 

Reconciliation and collaboration would be nothing less than criminal and deadly. Literally. Come together... resist... and let the whole world know that we will not allow this to stand!
                                          **revcom.us

Bordering the ear of Dyonisius, in the latomia stone cuts of paradise, they stopped at Syracuse. A certain flash of limestone reflected Wonthelimar's court; Marielle Quentinnais, wandering before him on calypso calcareous stones. Her superior powers made her eclipse her from an underground world, to mount towards carbonated stones that made egregious tilts to revive her in her arms. The end of a century became part of her heart with the premiere of the female species that led her to the Shemesh of Syracuse. The excessive temper strengthened it in everything, making it a revived stone from the Miocene with the Avignon characters, colluding through the Rhone until hitting this neat gold stone brought from the arms of Ezpaktul, transplanted with precision and gold typologies, with great Malleable morphologies that carried him across the surface where Wonthelimar was looking at her, his heart almost pounding when he saw her! the waters spoke of hydric morphologies that conferred of her on waters and springs that were inferiorized in disheartened lower levels when he lost her in the forests of Valdaine. Her brackish tears did not stop imputing a micro space with distinguished Psilocybin mushrooms, for an Ambrosia Mercurial compote that Wonthelimar chewed and that had been immolated from the remnants of Eleusis, helping to revive it from the lost space die of the Mausoleum of the Quentinnais. The mantles froze the cold and warm air masses in Syracuse, carried several meters above sea level, with eager extra surpasses by coexisting in the cave blocks, where she would rest with Vernarth in her arms. For the subjugation of the journey that would make him perhaps mortal, retreating towards a three-dimensionality that would raise him above the Pleiades, as Aurion would do behind with his club, but rather leaving behind the cavities that would put his quantum at the mercy of the tiny rosaries that she did, while he was getting ready to approach on the surfaces of the hypogeal speleothemes, like the Profitis of the Mediterranean who spoke to him of music, and of flood episodes with his spectrum in front of her, losing her in a melancholic fervor, being plunged into the hypogeum of Chauvet. The level of her vicious intrigues led him to follow her like an unattainable cousin, but with backwaters that compelled him to think of her master Vernarth, linked to micro images that warned him when he tried to get too close. The floating instants weighed more than a slight depth through accumulations of his retro memory, making him flee from her, and now she was fleeing from him, with large sprays of dew that filtered into her arid aquifer memory, superior to the kart that is established by correspondence when someone supposedly disappears, because their free will is entombed with their stone specter. Due to regimes suffered, there was only one monarch that rose in icy and polar vadose conditions, towards an earthly level where the feet melt the calcaneus as if it were a weak relative ascent towards a couple of beings who loved each other imprecise, and contexts when vivifying their hiding place. in the caverns of Chauvet. He can hardly recall it a shallow light, almost falling without mass towards the front of the stalactites, creating concretions of solid love under the deepest prodigality.

Wonthelimar, had had a vision on the vadose threshold when he came out to the surface with Vlad and Vernarth, being able to realize that the cloying environment made him subordinate himself in the altimetry of his maniacal impossible love, putting at risk the mission of overcoming the fluctuations of his visions, placing precepts in the sighting courses in Syracuse that had him dazzled, and very close to the entrance pit of the Ear of Dionisius. The puffs of caliginous air mass climbed before the beastly decibel of Vlad's chiropterans, falling through the marshes that were found from freshwater by several estuaries, and with decimeters when they tried to adjust their addiction. Solvents in the glaciers looked immutable when they were taken by underwater stimuli and models, still remaining after an extraordinary performance of vague probity, reviewing the details of actualism on the interfaces that led them, causing the water to flee from their bodies and inclinations. Only a few deposits favored the band mechanism to protect Vernarth's burning, which crystallized in excesses of the Sun, precisely when the fluctuations seemed bulky, by coordinating the foreign fattening in its arms, with which it would open the floodgates before entering the Grotto of Dyonisius, with greater rigors of concretion and emotion that flourished towards a maximum extension, which progressively gave rise to the devotional areas that received them at adjoining angles of forty-five degrees from its main arch, where frequencies stood out and the light with the mass of the Sun, distributed in small stars, which leaving campaniles that adhere to the normal area of distribution of the frequencies of the cave, on bands that reflected moved bodies on the mirror of rain that was shown on themselves, such as once striated towards a more tempting rib of the Coralloidal Speleothems. In Catania, they settled in the polis of Artemis's prosapia, on sieges where he led Marielle to past vigils with the Archons of Athens, not being able to subject her to arbitrary vexation.

Marielle was screened behind the Erithrina Coralloides of the Speleothemes, when this deciduous tree changed the color of its foliage in emerald colors, its spines served to deposit the Vernarth clone on its leaflets. After the libation of the alkaloid by Wothelimar, helping him to materialize the elusive effigy of her Marielle, making insertions in her disintegrated seeds allowing him to remove from her back some elytra, like those of Daedalus when she fled to Sicily escaping from King Minos. A snowy thread emanated from the similar ether that was picking through the noses of Wonthelmar and Vlad Strigoi, making it necessary to put wings on both of them to go to the cave of Dyonisius, toning the resins and aldehyde they carried to keep the Vernarth clone alive. Both rose over Marielle who was left with the custody of the clone, as well as their backs released red resins as consumed fuel, which was circularly reconsumed to rise up and enter the cave, resisting the arid aridities of the toxic fuel that was expelled on the Edens of Sicily.

"And now please welcome today's anti-terrorism speaker, Anonymous!"

[anonymous applause, dwindling out]

"Thanks, everyone. The reason I prefer anonymity should be self-evident, but just to make it clear, I wish to avoid the recrimination of the hostile element."

"Before I got here I was just reading, and believe me I'm still not believing, but it would seem, on the whole, that planetary aggression is on the slow."

A hand is raised
A hand is ignored
The speaker moistens his lips
Prepared to emit a bit more.

"I have stats and stories
Tortuous anecdotes about little girls and boys
Food and sanitation is a crime itself
And I'm prepared to say we live in our own hell."

Arms upheld wither down
As new hands reach for attention
But the speaker ignores them all
Intent on his own presentation.

"The reason for hate
Is more or less clear
We fiercely believe one thing
As they devoutly believe another.

But do not fear!
We are right and they are wrong
They saddle their own children with a death song
No cartoons of basic morality
Just legs with bombs
Made to go off remotely."

An angry rustle
Amidst lowered hands
Quieting now
Like they're getting the hang of it.

"Humans are robots
Programmable, malleable and sometimes trustworthy
Highly complicated machinery!
Indoctrination is the virus
That seeks to destroy the outside."

Again the raised hands
And eyebrows too
All these fluttering robots
Fluttering in a pseudo-free zoo.

Ignoring the obvious
The speaker plods onwards
But modulates his voice
Against their trained reactions.

"We need to accept and enfold
An ideology only thousands of years old
To mutate and twist
Into what our children might wish."

Someone yells "Disney!"
Another mutters "Black whiteys"
But there are a few
Who remain to hear it through.

"Despite what you think
Despite who you are
Against all you've been taught
We've come quite far.

You may not know your son
You may not know your daughter
But leave them alone
And tomorrow may happen.

Put the guns aside
Drink from your hidden bottles without shame
You are who you are
And you should let them be them."

This is not what anyone wanted
Anyone over the age of ten
This is not what anyone wanted
With children and the urge to brainwash them.

The room trickles out
Leaving the most devout
Devoted to the future
Any future left standing.

But amidst this group
Are hard-liner elements
And one has a voice
Cutting through it all
To ask, "What about bomber babies?"

And riding right on top
Is a fat slobbery Republican fop
Demanding in his self-entitled way
"What the **** about America?"

The speaker shrugs
As if to indicate
Which question
Is more stupid.

"We seek to leave the planet
And develop tech to make it happen
You go your way
And we go ours."

The room is smaller now
They indulge in eye contact
Personal communications
Words, hands, heads and eyebrows.

The speaker sighs
As if on the cusp of absolute honesty
Then spills his true guts
To these few radicals and emissaries:

"Our worst enemy is ourselves
Through millennia fashioning our own hells
Subjugation of non-prominent DNA
Believing destruction will pave the way.

But on a not-much larger scale
We're just cheap entertainment
For every other race
That crawled up this hill."

The crowd is slightly subdued
Probably more from shame
Than anything
Because shame is in the DNA
And experienced by everyone.

But we can always rely
On some fat Republican to decry
"But not me!
And for sure not my children!"

And now even more file out
Hearts emptied and minds afloat
Now it's just the sweating speaker
And a few odd haters.

"We're a microbial phenomenon
Miraculously still alive
And still inept
At staying alive."

He waves a casual hand like a maestro
And behind him the stage glows
A 30x30 screen descends
Illuminating bugs as they crawl.

"We're slightly smarter
But no more hardier
Than Hymenoptera
Except we can leave this planet."

Red-faced and obviously insulted
The old fat plushy storms out
Leaving now just a few
To adopt this future-flung view.

"We need to terraform and colonize
Sure, and design space suits
Pleasing to the eye
But ultimately,
We need to get the hell gone."

One clap, one frown
The speaker shrugs
As if wondering
Why aren't we all gone?

And so he is left
With the clean-up crew
And one fruitcake
Who asks
"Will God come with us?"

compressed into tight tingles
escape impossible
boundaries high
sold into solitude
stay anchored to hope
change no direction

tigress locked in a cage
still a tigress
unchangeable attributes
life ****** away
in solace

break free from *******
fight snarl escape
don't turn back
look beyond the mirror
take no reflections
flee. now.
find yourself again.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

the year is two thousand and fourteen and something isn't right

maybe it's related to the fact that there is no more history on the history channel

and the only thing the discovery channel wants to investigate
is the depth of our bank accounts

the word 'integrity' has become archaic. obsolete. unnecessary, simply, because nobody has any anymore.

whatever happened to learning for the sake of learning?

who was the sick greedy ******* who decided that it was okay to charge money for knowledge?

our youth are being put into ******* for the knowledge necessary to survive in this society

of inequality.

in the 21st century slaves toil away in classroom as well as coal mines.

and those who dare to resist the path of post-modern peonage laid before them are doomed to a life of minimum wage mundanity or constant criminal risk.

there is something to be said about the quality of our reality if we are constantly seeking mind altering substances to escape it.

i too have become a slave. and a large portion of those who read this message have as well.

our souls signed away at the dotted line, sealed within great paper phylacteries adorned with the sinister sigils of Sallie Mae.

the chains of our debt will never let go of us. even upon death our progeny will have to hoist our burdens on their shoulders.

and for those of you who know not of our *******, i bid you welcome, like a Brother greater than I once said:

"welcome to the united snakes, land of the thief, and home of the slave. the grand imperial guard, where the dollar is sacred and power is god."

if your total net worth rests below a cool few million i suggest you stay away.

silly me. silly me, silly me, silly me. after all this country was built on generation after generation of genocide, **** and fraud, codified into the laws we hold so tight and so high, how naive was i to even expect civil discourse and equality from a naturally sinister state?

cloaked in the fog of pure ignorance we the people paradoxically bear the weight of our fraudulent federal government on our backs while simultaneously parasitically depend upon it.

parapets and gaudy domiciles all built with the blood sweat and tears of the disenfranchised. soft music composed of the screams of children dying from predator drone hellfire missiles lilts through the hallways.

news flash: the illuminati and the reptilian overlords are not trying to control your mind.

this is not about pineal gland calcification and third eyes but about the systematic disenfranchisement and subjugation of every man woman and child in this unfortunate nation.

they impose harsh sentences on small time drug crimes and outsource our only sources of economic stability.
left with no upward mobility, we then resort to any means necessary to simply survive.

'the world is your oyster.' they say. and they conveniently fail to mention the fine print which emphatically states that you may only possess the oyster shucking knife if you are white, male, and upper middle class.

this is not about checking privilege and white guilt. this is about the way that this ****** up world works. about the sinister cogs turning behind the scenes.

and if you dare raise your voice in resistance you'll find yourself staring at cinderblock walls, spools of barbed wire, reinforced steel bars, and armed guards for the rest of your sad life. your enclosed inmate existence making the coffers of the prison-industrial complex even deeper.

some say we should raise our fists instead and fight. and i say to them good luck fight the world's most technologically advanced military in its own home territory. Guerilla warfare and armed millitias stand about as good of a chance and gorillas armed with sticks and stones when the enemy possesses satellites that can see your face from orbit.

and i hope you don't mine being despised by the public of the modern world when you're slapped in the face with that dreadful catch-all term that is 'terrorist'.

but we can't just sit here and let the vines of greed asphyxiate our vitality away.

so herein lies the eternal question that i pose to you:

what are we to do?

I feel his presence behind
I hear the danger in his stride
I smell the trouble in his perfume
As he caresses my side.
The calculatedness of his every move
Automatically has me on guard
I turn around and look into deep, brown eyes
With a red glow in his irises
Must be a trick of the light
But I'm so afraid of the sight.
The air freezes
Or that could be me
Holding my breath in
Just an exhale and he could unleash
His wrath on me
I'm too scared of his wrath.
I wanted freedom and I found him
A bigger prison than I previously escaped.
All hope but one lost
I pray I live another day.

Effloresce

Lift up your eyelids; unlock the chasm of your heart.
Let the deluge of fervency cascade within you; submerged volcanoes begin to erupt.
A world devoid of feeling; a world devoid of golden thread.
A realm full of disassociation; it’s illuminating and yet so dark.

The soil beneath me pulsates with anger at the core; the heart becomes sanguine, the soul is crimson red.
Night and day bear no variation and the twilight is all that exists; this world has a Cimmerian existence; a vivid look of despair.
Trepidation is my captor as the Earth becomes my abyss; vehemence overtakes me and an inferno consumes me whole.
For a while I am nonexistent; feelings are a thing of the past; I am no longer myself but merely a vessel of something than can’t be seen.

Ethereality envelops me and my quintessence is conjoined with God’s soul; I am being guarded by His spirit and with to it’s elixir I have been exposed..
Cognition is my purpose and I’m recreated being void and null ; I await my resurrection, Phoenix pinions shall subjugate the world.
Seconds have already passed and time has allowed my soul to bloom; it is time for efflorescence and I become one with the moon.
A purple aura emanates from nothingness and fire bolts start to fly; heat becomes unbearable and light pierces as a sword.


A silhouette of the light and airy exudes colors from all around; a shift from on realm to another and like a bullet you hear a bang.
I’m standing here in darkness but my heart is filled with light; spheres of different colors await me in anticipation of a brawl.
One by one I face my demons, one by one they are hurled into the sea; with each abomination that is subjugated, I become less an less of a vestige.
The past is filled with corpses in a sea tinged with reds, blues and greens; I am grappling with vehemence; now the gunk no longer weighs me down.

One more final battle, one more to defeat; the abomination is merciless and it corrugates me from within.
The darkness is a Dictator, I am under it’s totalitarian rule; The Kingdom of Obscurity has been set in place by The Sun.
A prayer leads to certitude and certitude leads to faith, faith leads to action and action leads to sight.
The wind is my messenger and with it’s power I beseech the Sun; I must tap into heartfelt desire and make an earnest request.

“Please help me subjugate the darkness! With your eminence please intercede! Please rejuvenate the dank and hollow! In your light I rest my hope!”
Spheres of light are lifted into the stratosphere and within them rests my hope; I watch them depart from the terrene till’ I sense them fuse with The Sun.
Rays drop from the heavens and the dark fortress is revealed; it’s safeguard of mendacity is no match for the truth.
My sword was encapsulated within the confines of a cloud, now the clouds have been broken and the blade is in the ground.

I sit here in anticipation, I wait for The Spirit to break free; my heart is pulsating with divinity and it courses through my veins.
Wisps of ethereality are slowly released from my pores, now the holiness will be a barrier; soon the darkness will be more.
I tightly clasp my weapon and my shield is in my hands; He tells me that I am detoxified, now the vitriol is no more.
I charge towards the kingdom, my breath goes in and out, hearts are in there waiting; my barrier is my guide.

The doors are right in front of me and The Abysmal lies in wait; fear is slowly building; time has yet to cease.
Malevolence overtakes me and evil is within the eyes, the doors break off their hinges and an anomaly ***** me in.
Strange sounds are all around me; there are echoes in the fabric of time; when emotions come back to catch me then my fate will be revealed.
Dereliction runs amuck here while perverse joy is in The King; He believes subjugation imminent; He does not know that I will win.

The dark has no bearing over that which pushes it away; soon He will become a shadow and I will lead Him along The Path.
That shadow will become a sheep whose wool is thick and black; he will break his way into nothing and I shall guide him into naught.
He will walk along my pathways and as a shepherd I will guide; we will walk into The Sun together and that sheep will turn into light.
Iridescence will last eternally and my love will effloresce; The Sun shall be my Master and in his rays I shall forever bask.

*By Sanders M. Foulke III

Enigma entity’s ethology entelechy as it relates to clairaudience clairvoyance
Everyone has a personal futurity fatidic or existential metaphysique
What we need is a universally acceptable form of id conclusion
Unfortunately we can’t even agree on the social stigmatisms of ego’s expression
We are relatively extraneous interpolations of adhesively practical extremity that succeed in a hierarchy of functionally integrateable forms
There is no functional deontology, even though its visage would seem to portend cogently fecund probity for all
We are not ethereally sublime, we are corporeally preternatural
Objective is individual; obligation to each other is not a mandate
Though many might find it inherently indispensible to some it impedes success
The depths of debauchery this debacle ensues are almost intrinsically endemic to our race
How am I going to get there becomes more important than ‘what are we fighting for’
So, if there’s no unity of purpose how do we decide who we are fighting for
Will it be good for all or lead to oligarchy and subjugation, the seemingly inescapable byproduct of capitalism, the inherent decadence of socialism
It’s times like this that make me love the constitutional fortitude of Americanism
Theoretically I have an inalienable right, hypothetically this leads to anarchy so I’m not allowed to mess with your rights
This is mandate
The republic for which we stand
Mendacious tales of unity, not merely the obstinate tenacities of I, but also the cogent fecundity in the infamous we-ness of us

Buy me clothing, man of mine
Dress me up
And dress me down

Take me to see the lights
Swish me away
And give me up

Bite your lip and cluck your tongue
Let me be
And I'm not young

This empty ***** bottle,
has been cuddled and swaddled and squandered.
In my ***** it seeps to every dame between,
a dad and not knowing her own preponderance.

I ****, I ****, by the ****** of my hilt,
of the sword of unrighteous, self help,
and filling their wombs with guilt.

I've never helped anyone all of my life.
Though they would tell you different mistruths,
of their positional view, so skewed by proof,
undo, that I sent them through.

It's  a fun house of lies and mirrors shaping figures,
of veneers, so botched that plastic surgeon quacks wouldn't own up to
the scars.

I ferment peoples living.
I turn drunk ****** into angels.
I mask charlatan as queens,
and poison my own gut with the fakes in my head.

Crops die.
Crust subdues verdance.
Chronos rhymes the days and night.
Course subjugation to penance.

But now I seethe my own head into my throat,
and end in ink wrote as prose.
Killing beauty. Art.
**** Art.

Today is.
Death.
Tomorrow's not life,
nor living,
breathing nor breath,
oxygen's just a molecule,
it causes no spark,
except in molecules charged,
with dividing and subdividing,
and rejoining and conjoining into something that can use it.

happy flights :)

my ***** Little Secret, symbolized
by ***** words and little idiosyncrasies and
secret secret liaisons;
je c'adore,
laying Control alongside
cast off clothing and kicked off wet *******,
heartbeat aflutter beneath your
oh so deliberate ministrations and
thighs aquiver beneath your
oh so deliberate teeth.
my wrists chafe; bound by bitter steel to demure wood,
powerless
or rather
entirely in your power.
you've always loved it,
the thrill of exploration, of
Newfoundland, of
conquer and subjugation and ravishment;
your tongue flickering against my
**** like eiderdown,
fingertips tracing spirals and Möbius
Strips upon my *******.

I have previously,
and this is forbidden knowledge I am about to indulge you in,
(feel grateful perhaps)
I have previously been accepted here before.

In my blueish age
of 13,
deemed enough of a literary
writing reams,
cartoonish spools, overspileth
sounds about right,
and history was recorded!

Little did your establishment know that
years into the future,
in a plasmatic stopwatch,
I'd be
frantically,
absolutely sweating bullets!
attempting to erase
the pubescent penning about
Lord knows,
depression and gym class.
and after, said to no one in particular
in a completely
revisionist fashion
"bless this mess"

so how about it old friend,
another round?

Living by ideology must be comforting.
The freedom of constraint, the security of single-mindedness.

It gives one a sense of position; rooted
Behind battle-lines, clear division.

I always thought Marxists naive,
But not in the way you might think -
I was impressed by the notion that the ruling classes
Knew what they were doing.
Subjugation is at least part of a plan.

Humanism simply baffles me:
One might as well believe in
The primacy and potential of pigshit.

Even nihilism is ideology; its comforting
Sense of community: "We believe in one Nothing."

Ideological blinkers preserve order
By blocking out the surrounding chaos.

Perhaps I should find something to cling to
Before the rising tide sweeps me away.

(Not poetry.
I've tried that;
Too unstable.)

Tonight's grey cloud hangs over the pearlescent blue and pink of today.
The gray is an avalanche
criss-crossed  
with black
powerlines
that spread like cracks in a mirror.

The rain starts to fall.

To my right is a young blonde
age (17?) unknown.
        Her bag and telephone
would
match
        but for a shade.

The rain starts to fall.

Young lovers kiss in the calm embrace of one another
beneath an awning the colour of
old ladies - no
boredom - no
subjugation -no.
        the under side of an old mattress.

The rain starts to fall.

Across the gap stands an Asian man with the complete accoutrements of a golfer.
Obfuscated now by a train
with the palette of a McDonald's ad.

The rain starts to fall.

The streets are become slick
and every lamp bleeds the start
of an oil painting
with brushes made of light.

The air is cool.

There is a canal that stretches between seats, walled by rows of heads.
In the distance a little girl peaks her head up in the middle of all this,
she wears a bright pink plastic bow on her head that blinks and glows.

Traffic lights streak
green and red
over black gesso.

Cars streak
silver and blood
down black gesso.

"I simply don't need to cheapen things further"

Matching work uniforms.
Matching looks of boredom
Matching shoes and glances
Matching telephones
Matching lack of conversation
Matching hair
Matching matching carpet and drapes
Matching posture

why is everything matching?
       (they got off at the same station)

Suburban princess holds the phone like a bible.

I attempt to sketch her arm in my head....but I am too ******.

I am hungry.
The outside air is cool.

This is a carriage for the antisocial
3 rooms of solitude.
Everyone is plugged in
No-one dares to speak.

The Art of Conversation.

An old woman sits in front of me, with the face of Ray Winstone in drag.
Her hair is a dandelion
and her eyebrows are birds
painted in the distance.
Hands wrinkled and knotty
like old fruit.

Trains are predictable
the purest form of modern transport
all the little fishies
in the giant metal can
are silent to one another.

The train conductors voice is boredom.

I mistake ambient noise for music.

The underlings stare
In submissive awestruck
Subjugation in landmine-filled
Landfills, are stuck
In the trenches, the feces
The carcass-strewn muck
Where the vermin-spawn ****
As they're taught how to work
And to fend for themselves
Like the Fall of Dunkirk
As the imminent doomsday device overhead
Incapacitates them
As mere prey to a web
Of a global dominion
Ambition connection
Subconscious hive-mind
Buzzing out the objection
And phobia-spreading
Pandemic misanthropy
Greed in disguise
Subsidizing atrocity
Not for me,

I am
The justified treason
The reason the man-hunters
Close open season
The cease-fire peacekeeper
Proliferation
The water war's rising
Desertification
An MIA runaway
AWOL defector
Still haunting the tombs of detente
Like a spectre
With what I assure
Mutually in the end
When I send go-aheads
On the ICBMs
And avenge the dependent expended
Caught in
This crossfire for-profit
Arms race it has been

A warrior of love, a perfect Amazon
you are well equipped for a war,
ready to take whatever it'd be to win,
beauty of such kind wages any war
only to conquer,the news has spread
that I am the one, you've set
your sight,so glad I am, for me!

Hypnotized by your painted dark eyes,
I am thirsty; instead of water, your lips
offer great solace, only disentangling
becomes a deed impossible at last!

Your armory is full,I could very well  feel
the moment you employ embraces as a part
of your tactics of overpowering and subjugation,
I guess you still have more moves hidden,kept ready
in case of a prolonged war of ****** masterfulness,
I gather, but why, yes why ,should I bother?

Take me by my hand and lead,show me which way
to move to please you most.
                                  To your bed,we'd retreat,
warriors of unrelenting amour, we'd take up
this beloved endeavor couched in  ardent desire,
we'll play the parts riding the horses of passion,
till dawn shows us the signs to retire for a time.

Scene I


Rodolfo Graizani is seen sat in his new office in Addis Ababa .
A messenger salutes and hands him over a telegraph  letter saying " it is from Benito Mussolini."
Graizani reads the message loud

Dude,
We have done
Things good!
Hurrah at long last,
Using banned
Poisonous gas,
Ancient Ethiopia
We have subdued.

For our damaged moral,
We nurse after
The battle of Adwa,
The aforementioned news
Will be a nourishing food.
Slavish obedience
To fascism
In Ethiopia
We shall advance
Be firm
In our iron grip stance.

Hurrah, Ethiopia
Will be Italian
Infuse that
We can
With the dictates
Of  the gun.

(Graiziani stands up and walks in the room with a jubilant mood while the messenger watches him wide-eyed.)

Yes our subjects,
Ethiopians, serfdom
We shall teach
Hence summoning
Addis’ residents
Tomorrow
I have to make
A grand speech.
And also
I will
Coax priests
Slavish obedience to us
To subtly preach.

When our subjects lose
Their identity
We shall
Enjoy liberty
To siphon their wealth
Or property,
Also as a tactic,
Among citizens,
We should promote disparity.


Messenger what can you say?
Tomorrow will be my day!

(Messenger putting both hands on his head)

Good God
But I’m afraid
You may not do that
Unless every nation-loving
Ethiopian
You behead.

Be it luring them with a gold
Or threatening them with a sword
Unflinchingly, religious leaders
Will prefer to be a sod.
They will call down
On you a curse
If you try
To desecrate
Their abode,(Pope Petros)
You see
Preachers and the laity
Have a genuine faith
In God.
Also to
Fight back
They are bold.

(Graiziani pointing his finger towards the messenger)

Get out
Me don’t try
To flout!

Rather, let me practice presentation
To grab the audience’s attention.

Tomorrow putting on my uniform,
Bedecked with medals,
This message
I will drive home
Also the video footage
I will send to
Musoloni in Rome!

 Scene II
(Grizani dances into a podium. A messenger asks congregants to stand up for a tumultuous applause)

On nationalistic bombast
We have set a ban
Like it or not
Ethiopia is Italian
By the virtue of the gun.

(Among the congregants stands up a hoary-headed man)

We are citizens
Born free
Yield shall not we
To your crazy decree
Haven’t you read
How Emperor Twedros II
Lodged a bullet
Into his head?
Not to surrender!
Why don’t you look
After he fought hard
Why his life into his hand
He took.

How do you try
To subjugate
A nation,
With freedom that surfed
The tide of time to date?

(Angry Graziani answers)

How do you fail to realize
In the meantime Italy
Will help you
To civilize?

(Two two young adults(Moges Asgedom/Abrham Deboche) threw bombs )

Swish blast
Swish blast

Graiziani realized
How the breath
That could be his last,
Drew close fast.

To Graiziani
After it became stark
He narrowly escaped
A bomb attack
And his speech of
Subjugation
In Ethiopia is
An empty talk,
Still on the floor
He ordered attack.

 Scen III
(In front of the Yekatit 12 Martyr’s monument a small kid asks his father how Ethiopians regained their independence after the massacre ordered by  Griziani, who  soon after surviving the bomb attack, gave instruction for a cold blood retaliation.

The father dressing the hair of his child and looking him said patriots that  ambushed at the valleys and mountains of Ethiopia vowed to fight out invaders. They succeeded in doing so after a five year occupation of Ethiopia)

Waging a Guerilla fight
Shortly we shall gain our right
"Aiming from a tree high
We have patriots
That hit fighters’ jets on a dark sky!"(Patriot Belaye Zeleke)

“ As hitting a nail on the head
We have fighters
That pierces through
A tight tread.”           (Patroit HaileMariam Mamo)

“In the nook and cranny
And every gorge
We will wage
Many heroic fight
Enemies from
Our soil to dislodge”(Geresu Dukie/Jagama Kelo/Abbebe W/Aregai/Omer Semeter/Balcha Abanefeso...)

“We have heroes smart
With an artillery missile
That pierces artillery apart!” (Patroit Bekle Weya)///

Time is a dictator
It takes the form of all the elements:
liquid- slipping out of your hands endlessly.
Each wrinkle is two years multiplied by five,
impossible to keep track of.

Havoc is all it causes,
hand in hand with subjugation,
As the pair of crystalline eyes
dart ruthlessly
in a futile attempt to tally the seconds.

Why am I called "white"?
Why am I an absence of color
To be associated with purity
Flawless innocence
A clean slate

Why am I called "white"
When I have the blood of monsters in my veins
There is nothing immaculate about my heritage
Simply from a lack of pigmentation
My hair is braided with the ******* of masses
My eyes see the broken lives of the oppressed
My ears hear the echoes of homelands invaded
And my hands hold the books with the historic lies enclosed

Why am I called "white"
Compared, as if, to the paper
On which my people's crimes could be written
Repeating so frequently with so many new victims
But we are never called to justice
And the cycle remains unbroken
When we are addressed
We stand up from our thrones, screaming
"Unfair, cruel, why attack me?!
I don't understand, what privilege do you see?!"
We act like the victims, fed by the system
And we eat it up with our metaphoric silver spoons

Why am I called "white"
I've been stained from the years of hatred
Perpetuated by a people who claim guiltlessness
Just because they are a newer generation
What was once called subjugation
Is now appropriation
But both are used to deny culture and rights from nations
But I won't sit by and prolong this delusion that we are any better
Any more beautiful then any other one of God's creations