The sun set sadly on the settled window frame
speaking with the new dew soon to form.

the sweet singing voices rose from the garden
where you bathed with your sister
while your mother and father drank cherry flavored wine
on the porch in the melting sun.

when the stars began to rain you felt something new
staring up where the sun is commonplace
you felt little better than you did moments ago.

but when your sister,
hand on your spine,
whispered in your ear,
your hair stood up,
and your mother,
and your father,
waved goodbye to the Hendersons going to Florida for the weekend.

smile…… Manipulate…..complements ...... Manipulate……act interested……manipulate…..show some tears….. manipulate…….white lies….manipulate…..it’s a drug, to manipulate….flirt and manipulate…. escape pain or consequence…manipulate …..socially acceptable to manipulate…to get what you deserve…manipulate….to get what you want….manipulate……to change some one’s mind manipulate…..to be successful manipulate …..O i hate manipulation! i rather have paid every speeding ticket, stood in every long line, gone to jail, paid more than full price for everything, not got the job and been broke…..never been kissed…failed at everything….then to have ever manipulated in my life! O God i hate manipulation and it’s subtleness.. a quiet vice…a secret soul killer…. Call it what you will….swag….cleverness….success…..it doesn’t matter manipulation wears any Word you choose…it’s all self-centered…. me me me me me….. hehehehe…..stop!!!!…. Manipulation must die! Especially in its most subtle and acceptable forms. Even if i have to struggle…even if i lose everything…it must die…”those who save there live will lose it, those lose their lives will find it…………Christ guide me

/my "insomnia" isn't exactly a problem, when rationalised via: a Freudian desert, namely, i sleep, but have not luxury to dream, which makes a sense of death all the more procreational for thinking's sake... insomnia like dementia... or rather... better the erosion of the thought aculty,  replaced by hallucinogenic inducement to counter the erosion of the dream mechanics... currently staged by boorish media, 24h reels of insomnia pusher outlets... so who gave ol' zuck the oyster tongue, greasy skin, and a wet, shrinking prune *****? comes a time when a boy gets to grow oop... chances are, if you're insomniac, you are not an escape artist, and you deem the escapism of bound to dreams, as yet another, sheikh dubai lamborghini promenade, riding it at an urban speed limit of 30mph... revving for the "fear factor" of... dancing with gingy 'arry... risqué... insomnia erodes dreams... all the better, in that perpetuation of a mummified blink... theatre's curtain falls... what sort of Freudian banana is there to speak about, when attempting to compensate the intellect, for a *******  Eiffel... notably... an individual's insomnia comes after, the media insomnia, bite sized 30 minute intervals on repeat for 24h hours... and in between, no  in-between programmes, that might allow journalistic digestion... a lack of dialectical exercise has created journalistic indigestion... most notable and in plain sight... when applying the pedantic counter dialectic observation, in the form of diacritical marks.

doubt is a luxury in the current zeitgeist,
to unravel doubt,
when compensating love,
as a chemistry of endomorphines...
doubt, is the equivalent
of an intellectuals synonym
of love... both are gambles,
uncertainties, both are:
wavering of the heart, pendulum
swings...
   doubt is a phobia-philia...
a love of fear, less strenuously:
an apprehension regarding
the fact that Zanzibar made it
into song lyrics, and is a place
that actually exists, in situ...
without any global mention
in culture mining...
for those starved from loving...
afraid of their own shadow
and loneliness,
cogitatio ex-et-qua claustrophobia...
don mclean's starry starry night...
as big as a *******
universe and as plebian
as the lost V in a thespian
and the lost F in: definite article...
FE VACUUM PINT... sorry... POINT?  
doubt is a luxury,
equivalent to love...
doubt is a thinking man's love...
in both instances the heart
is swayed...
     how quickly did the Narcissus
economics become
the semi-autistic solipsistic pillar
that undermined the shear
exhilirence of doubt = love,
post curiosity, posit trust,
posit: disembodiment...
posit... and the siamese dream factory
(no smashing pumpkins' cliché)...
nontheless...
doubt is a luxury,
a graphite find,
with synonym-covert findings
of the gem equivalent to:
a fear of the existence of
the unum anima...
     and the precipitation of
ghosts...
    in the case for the argument
for the existence of purgatory...
     nostalgia...
because being sedated by a general
anaesthetic... is not quiet tot...
but doubt is a luxury these days,
sometimes misunderstood as
nonchalance...
but rather the ease of having
opinions, for the sake of
everyday narratives,
not dialectically challenged...
doubt, is akin to love,
in that there's the wavering,
nonetheless a teasing carrot
hanging before:
the palms that became
the Roman lynch whips...
one man rode a donkey
and suddenly four horsemen took
to a gallop...
     doubt is a luxury...
given our times...
    notably because the existentialist
replaced doubt with denial...
and denial, has no luxury
of thought as genesis,
instigator, alpha precursor...
     denial is not a luxury,
it is an accepted norm...
               perhaps the subtleness
of love in the guise of doubt
as the antithesis of erratic pulverisation
not associated with thinking,
or rather: cogitatio per se, est
supra "quaestio" moralis, id est:
     narratio moralis...
doubt is a luxury,
in times, when man looks upon
man as a chimera of
a wolf, a fox, and a sheep / goat...
doubt is a luxury,
when denial becomes the norm;
          this doesn't even have to
invigorate the comic holocaust denials...
but the sort of denials,
that allow a small town to exist
and the globalist city-state
cannibalism to also, exist...
        a "denial" for the sake
of "myopia"...
          came the pseudo-Socrates...
and the dialectical-Elijah...
              Copernicus the genius,
thesaurus handy,
also the solipsist, and also
the cider brewer's concept of
autistism...
          mind you...
the thin line...
between atheism and autism...
an atheist arguing for the nonexistence
of god, countered
with an autistic- arguing
                for the existence of a self,
without being questioned
by the other's demand for an
existence of, the self.
doubt is a luxury...
denial is the new standard,
norm.

I miss you when you're not around
So much sometimes it hurts
Like a pang that vibrates through me
A part of myself missing

You stole my heart with tenderness
And my body with affection
Laid my head down on your shoulder
And slept soundly by my side

You took me with a subtleness
Held my hand as we walked
Took me with you to the highest planes
Whispered things that had no names

I'll wrap my arms around your body
Slide my fingers through your hair
Touch my hands to your soft cheeks
And hold you to my frame.

Some day I'll carry your name.

The subtle makes an impact
Our eyes are enticed towards embellishments
Blinded by the glare

Matilda listens to make sure they’ve gone out knowing Mr Doozie the cat is licking his milk the slurping sound fills the now silent room but she has to be sure her aunt and uncle have gone she can’t allow Moses to come in by the backdoor until they’re long gone and in the town buying and selling their wares she places her hands on her head and closes her eyes to focus her listening to close out Mr Doozie’s sounds the saucer of milk being pushed across the floor the purring but she cannot hear them now cannot hear their voices can’t hear Auntie’s whines and Uncle’s bellows can’t smell Uncle’s pipe or the aroma of his farts or Auntie’s sour body odour and sniffs the air and puts one leg up on the chair and lets the skirt fall back revealing her fine thigh and underwear something for Moses to see and get excited about not that he needs any encouragement  especially after the last time he came around when her aunt and uncle had gone off for the day to market on the old bus and Moses had sneaked in the back door his eyes peering around the door and she saying They’ve gone out you can come in and he did and while Mr Doozie sat on the end of the bed watching disinterestedly Moses had kissed her all over her body and after games of foreplay he’d entered her with subtleness and moved in a slow motion so that the bed only moved and rattled slightly and did not disturbed Mr Doozie and they had only just dressed and was letting Moses out the back door when Auntie came in the front door followed by Uncle with his arms laden with shopping and moaning about the prices and the shop girls and how there is no manners anymore and she feeling Moses’ ***** easing down her thigh and stood there with her innocent stare but this time Moses would need to be quicker as they had only gone to town and wouldn’t be long and if they returned earlier and caught her and Moses undressed and ******* with Mr Doozie sitting watching she doesn’t know what they’d say or do although knowing Uncle he’d chase off Moses with his walking stick and tan her hide until she cried and cried but Moses hasn’t come and she listens out hushing Mr Doozie with a shush shush and scratches her thigh and strains her ears was that him? She sighs opening her eyes sitting up looking towards the door waiting anticipating feeling the body’s urge the body’s need wanting Moses to come through the door and hurry with her up the stairs followed no doubt by Mr Doozie and quickly ******* and into her bed and setting aside the kissing and messing get on with the ******* but the door remains closed the room is almost silent apart from Mr Doozie’s licking and purring and the soft tick tocking of the grandfather clock and her heart thumping boom boom boom boom like a small drum all around the room and inside her head and she disappointed frustrated with no *** with Moses just a small empty bed.

I'm speechless,
Held back by your words,
Of faith and harmony,
I place my hand on your face,
You heat me up,
The warmth is arresting.

We waltz through the barrage,
Of profanity and hurt,
We take no action,
We stand and watch the failings,
We intertwine and keep our hearts,
From being strangled by the hands of mistrust.

You're the one,
With a waist the size of a line,
Painted on the road that leads to paradise,
We're unbreakable.

The sound of the music,
Enlightens us,
The sweetness of the piano,
The subtleness of the violin.

I need you,
You're my medication,
The drama queen,
The artist of the painting that hangs,
Above the unmade bed.

So we have it all,
You have the attributes of a genuis,
The character that a fable yelps for,
I am the disaster,
With hands that shake like an earthquake,
We're unbreakable.

The special subtleness
that you use to bite your lip
is cunning.
And when your white,
soldier teeth,
come looming from between your gums
your subtlety is lost
rashly breaking the surface
so to speak
malevolently, or violently, or rather vehemently,
sexually, and lustfully
aimed down wind,
in my direction.

The only way to learn is the hard way
so some people say.
I like subtle teaching.
Let it hold sway
but if you think you're dense
then there's no false pretenses here,
getting hit on the head
with the truth thru a can of mace.
You obey.
Why not obey is an
institution emphasized
societe'.
"Get in line."
"Cooperate
and graduate, or else."
"hear what I say.
It's all the same.

I see your face in stages
As I flip through the pages
Following your story as the war around you rages

Significant in elegance
A cruel world's recompense
But fervent in your rarity and ever present subtleness

In no history books are you written
A blip in a grander vision
A story of mistake and scars from varying decisions

But I flip through and see you
And in this your story rings true
And I see the flaw and wonder that only living can accrue

oh yeah... and i just spotted a crow pecking a pigeon's ***** with a pecker the size of an elephant's trunk... give it a 100,000 years and you'll see a new species... like that saying: when pigs grow wings.*

because the current theory of darwinism teaches
us we interbred with lesser species
and justifies ******* -
the dualism is horrid, i prefer parallelism -
parallelism and our own individual lives,
rather than mediating two extremes...
and indeed i prefer to think we were uniquely
classified from the start... but i guess there's
a fetish going around the joke about the welsh,
sheep and cliffs... i want to ask you:
when did **** insapiens emerge, or rather,
when did he actually manage to integrate
into our species with such subtleness
that we actually proclaimed some men mad
when they weren't, and assured ourselves
that some mad men were actually sane?
how to decipher this conundrum?
he did so... bringing us h.i.v. and other presents...
and indeed his identity will never be known;
indeed, who is this unhygienic brat?

In this unconscionable soul rests a being
Void of knowledge, yet engaging in life
He has become stranded in his path
Nevertheless, he knows where to go, but reluctantly does not follow

The inability to stick with his logic has become a downfall
Blinded by the subtleness of repetition
He continues, unsurprised
Caught up in his unrequited lust for more

Sometimes, however, he finds truth in the greatest parts of his life
But instantly the figure appears, blinding
The figure haunts his memory
As dark as it is, he refuses to release it

Some unknown burden holds him closely
Entangled from years of darkness
Is it possible to even discover light?
Or is he eternally traveling with bloodless hands, outstretched in potential?

I find myself only able to whisper softly among the screams echoing in his head
Is it worth your life?
Without this burden you can truly find yourself
Can’t you see what it has made you?

Nothing more than a spec of dust in the ground
Worthless, beaten down by others
He placed himself in this state
Continuing to wander, as he desires
Hoping that in his brokenness he can bring life to something
The only influence he has is the darkness that consumes his soul

At one moment was change possible
Yet once again he has turned away
To find his worth in the loneliness of states
Unable to find redemption in his hollow face

In the birth of our world,
These creatures emerged violently,
In preparation for heinous deeds,
To be carried out viciously.

An uproar from the dark pit
Like the sound of a billion tornadoes,
Quaking the earth from end to end
With disturbing alarming tones.

The king sat on the throne,
Having messengers scamper around him
While he issued orders
According to a blood thirsty scheme.

Thick clouds gather,
Lightening bolts appear and dissappear,
The sunlight blackened,
Putting men in deep dispair.

An outflow of music-
A never been heard before,
Having such melodious charm
As to lighten and sucour.

But only for a moment
Until its original purpose achieved-
To blind and lead astray,
Those who trust and are deceived.

From whence cometh this fury?
Of what reason is such anger
Invested so much to the
Fulfilment of a wicked agenda?

Now comes the subtleness of a king,
Who is neither great nor small,
Holding out his golden scepter,
So that men would taste its gull.

With sweet voice he draws men close,
With open arms he gives men all,
But one thing he kept from them,
The truth that should keep them tall.

Off goes the adnihilos
From the throne of slavery
To fulfil the oath
Of bringing men to misery.

Here he stands upon the hill
With outstretched hands,
Claiming ownership of the universe,
Its kingdoms and lands.

Merry making here and there,
Fortunes lost to drunkeness,
Passionate pleasures being fulfilled,
In extravagance and wantonness.

Now is the war,
The streets are desolate,
The survival of any
Isn't by strength but faith.

Bright gory eyes lighting the dark,
Silent progressive steps emerging from afar.
The wailings of the bruised and maimed-
The smell of rotten blood like tar.

Hiding behind a wall,
Watching our open wounds bleed.
Skulls and bones scattered around-
Remnants of the dragons feed.

The kids around me-
Shivering in the cold.
Some have lost a limb or more
And have lost their old.

Maggot crawling up my legs,
Heading towards my sore.
The stench of my rotten bone-
My sacrifice to this war.

I assure this kids of safety-
A lie from my darkened heart;
In hours we'll all be dead,
And our members torn apart.

Within the ocean sits mother,
Or that's what she is called.
Dozens of maidens surround her,
Worshiping her as their lord.

Unto these we sold our seed,
Through lusting and whoremonging.
We could not but cast a second glance,
Which has ****** us for everlasting.

The kids are gone,
Smell of fresh blood fills the air.
The grunt of the beast from behind-
My heart is filled with fear.

Didn't they scream atall?
Where could I have been?
Was I carried away by the beauty I saw?
The same which caused me to sin?

Then comes the requiem.
From the kings choir;
Hmm, a captivating symphony-
One everyone would admire.

"Come unto me my friends,
My lost but stolen ones;
Come unto me blind ones,
Let us drink and dance."

How close could inferno be?
The smell of its smoke fills the air.
Or could it be the breath of the dragon,
Staring at me from the rare?

Oh phosphorus,controller of venus,
You have wiped off paradise,
You have crept in cold places,
And have devised subtle lies.

You have searched deligently,
For a companion to share in your pain.
You have wept concerning our freedom,
Hoping that we loose so that you'll gain.

Oh hades, why betray thine inhabitants?
Through pain have they come to you.
As an abode to find rest.
But with a spear you pierce them through.

On my knees I go,
Too weak to stand on one leg,
Not that I bow to you,
Neither am I here to beg.

Black creatures gliding in the sky,
Too far to know what they really are;
Four-footed beasts staring from the dark,
Having eyes that twinkles like a star.

Candles lights glowing in the dark,
An indication that another still lives;
But who could possess such boldness
As to knowingly alert these thieves.

Aren't these the priests we once knew?
Shouldn't they be hunted at all cost?
What price could they have paid?
Maybe saving their lives by ensuring that ours is lost.

They have chosen dishonor in place of honor;
They have chosen slavery in place of freedom;
They once gave wise counsel to the confused;
oracles of the dark they have now become.

Now they drink and laugh at our downfall
Taking warmt from the fire place
Having maidens sit on their thighs-
Whoremonging in our worship place.

Oh the river of tears that flow
Prompted by my broken heart through weak eyes;
As I remember my folly and arrogance
Of rejecting love and one free sacrifice.

Oh how clearly I can now see;
How they made my body their abode.
I see how they took my soul,
Making me heartless and cold.

The darkness never ends;
The daylight will never come-
A sign that a government is gone
And a new one has come.

I remember the unprofitable riots and wars,
That caused men, women and children to bleed.
A fight for dominance, land and power-
An exhibition of strife, hatred and greed.

Where are the men of power?
Aren't they lamenting in belly of hades?
Where are the slave masters?
Aren't they also in the belly of hades?

Where are those kings, rulers and masters?
Who thought that their throne is a life time abode.
Where is their power to command one or the other?
Aren't they in the same place as the children they sold?

What is thy duty abaddon?
Is it to guard or torture?
Is it to ensure severe pain?
Or is it for us to suffer sore?

Where is the great babylon?
She was so beautiful,
No one stood against her-
She was so powerful.

Where are her children?
They were properly fed,
No one compared to them.
Today they lack bread.

Finally, I surrender myself,
To a battle I cannot win,
To him who rules now
To this evil being.

For I am dead anyway-
We have made him ruler anyway,
When we harkened to his command-
When we sinned and stayed astray.

What are you reading?
Atara asked.

Book on Schopenhauer,
I said.

Dull reading.

Depends on what you like.

She sipped her coke,
her eyes studying
the cover of the book.
Is that him?

Yes, old photograph.

She looked at me.
Why do you read
such dull books?

Maybe I'm a dull guy.

She smiled.
Not last night.

I closed the book
and laid it
on the table.
I sipped my beer.

Does he talk
about ***?
She asked.

Not that I’ve read
so far.

If a book doesn't mention ***
it isn't worth reading.

Maybe I should read Freud.

Why read?

I looked at the waiter
passing the table,
his clipped moustache,
his deep eyes.  

You read,
I said,
not heavy stuff,
but you do read.

I like my books
like I like my men:
not too deep and fun.

I said nothing
about my books
and women.

She didn't have
the depth
and she taught me
nothing,
although
that session
in the bathroom
had insight.

The way she had it
right down
to a fine art,
the subtleness
of her limbs,
her gyrations,
her lips and tongue.

What now?
She asked.
I fancy a walk
on the beach,
catch some sun.

You go,
I said,
I want to chill out
with a cold beer
and watch life go by.

She pulled a face sulkily,
but went off,
her hips doing
that thing they did
when she was annoyed.

I watched her go,
sipped the beer,
icy cold
like I enjoyed.

Each moment I
need an escape
from the
day-to-day grind,
i go deeper
into my
inner corridor
and ignite the
search light
in my soul.
Therein is the
brightest sun and
the day-star of
my soul shining
with so much
radiance it could
swallow up any
darkness within
my heart.
Within the depths
of the spirit
is drawn the
strength to conquer
and overcome.
Hidden within the
framework of
my spirit is
linked with the  
power of love.
The joy of
oneness in love
is strong and
so mesmerizing,
it's power can
subdue anything
negative within
the mind.
With sublime
subtleness it
penetrates the
impregnable and
softened the heart
of even the
hardest offender.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

And I said to her that I need more than a friend.
That I need that compromise that calls for her immediate attention.
That my head has been the beneficiary of her shoulder for quite sometime.

Through the laughs, the jokes, the long talks that end with a deep stare.
To be as honest as I can, I revealed the fact that I've been digging her for quite sometime now.
You know that subtle weakness that makes it hard to say no to the smallest thing.

That cool but uncool moment every-time the phone rings you hope its who your thinking of.

That one person whom makes it through that thick fog of possibilities and it could be's.
That sometimes your right, sometimes your wrong. Gradually bidding your time until they call subtleness.

Revealing that the small moments we've spent together equates to somewhat of all her time,
And with her busy schedule and all that it's all she has to give.
And trust me that's all right with me.
That I am blessed to stare right into her eyes and be able to feel the exact thing
Holiday felt. The pause that captivated a audience until the end of her performance.
The same thing Stevie Wonder felt, that sort of superstitious that causes pause whenever I go to speak.

It's that urgent manifestation to tell you that I miss you, that if your not too busy stop by after work.
As her voice is the transportation that takes me from one job to the next.

That energy that could otherwise be describe as divine.
That is why it's important that I need her to know this.
This certain philosophy that she is needed to get through the day.
And here I am at my window seat seeing the world from a totally different view.
No longer sitting at the bus stop watching the world speed pass a moment at a time.
Without need for a transfer, just bidding my time without a thing to do. Tossing my bus pass in the wind.
At that moment I said to her that I need more than a friend.
What I need is that feeling that only you can provide

Oh you lady, you glanced at my sight,
The might of your stare shook my stride.
A glance that my eyes craved for,
A glance that opened the window to the soul.
Way too shattering,
Yet ecstatic.

Oh you lady, you spoke in my mind,
The words that filled up my life.
A speech that sparked the light,
A speech that left me with troublesome nights.
Way too engulfing,
Yet enlightening.

Oh you lady, you touched my heart,
Left a lingering subtleness of your palm.
A touch that my heart longed for,
A touch that made it who it was.
Way too provoking,
Yet calming at par.

Oh you lady, you clasped your heart onto mine,
Showed me what love is which no one else could find.
A firmly tied thread through which I dangled,
Reality and serenity cast me into a fight.
Way too catastrophic outside,
Yet all gentle inside.

Love in my eyes,
Liveliness in yours.
Fathomless trust of yours,
My dauntless promise to be by your side.

Dream of the day,
dream of the night,
are just,
subtleness of neon,
you on the ground,
stars in the sky,
are an,
integrated part of,
a trance.

I don't ask for much
It is only everything
Only the world
Only that you would help me
With unadorned sincerity
Subtleness and humility
Piety and virtue
Show me mercy

You can never
separate yourself
from the source
of all souls.
Here every single
soul is unique
like a song
and a flower
in their varieties
and so beautiful,
even so is,
all the stars
in the sky
different in their glory.
Everyone you meet
carries a bit
of heaven and
is so beautiful
and divine.
As beautiful as
the ocean,
profound and mysterious,
untapped and intriguing,
inviting and yielding,
yet sacred but
so scary.
It let's a
person look at
himself to find
out if he's
uncomfortable in
his own skin.
With a great
sense of awe
and reverence,
we approach
the beautiful with
sublime subtleness
and singleness of
purpose.
Beauty of
the spirit through
heart explosion
expressed itself
as desired.
Guilty as charged,
everyone seems
to feel the
same warmth of
love so beautifully.
©2019,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

are you sure that we're supposed
to be buried in earth,
earth the closest we resemble
as ash...
             are you sure?
just wondering, because i've
just stopped looking through
my grandfather's rea ding glasses...
and what i saw through them...
was akin to having your eyes
open, underwater...
perhaps this whole one-size-fits-all
coffin packaging is great
to cut corners and run the treadmill...
hell, floating murk
of cremation on the Ganges...
if the druids were to be stirred...
the eyes of man,
  ought to be buried in the sea
or lake or river...
    the other body parts?!
dunno...
            because that would rob
me of the authenticity
of where I'd like my eyes to be buried...
or rather dropped into...
apart from the eyes and the brain...
i guess the druids would prefer
the modernised version of events,
given the progess of science...
    donor flesh...
               even the heart doesn't
exactly fit a burial worthy of
the earth... you could in earnest
bury a heart of a wild animal,
when performing a burial rite...
      but there's something
comical about the inverted necrophilia,
a higher tier of hue...
there is a dead man,
but a part of him is still living,
in another...
    hence my sour taste in,
peace be upon him, Christopher Hitchens'
atheism, banking on genes,
and an eternity solely via genes...
genes are but atoms...
      i see...
                 a heart of my calibre
beating for 10 more years in
a foreign body...
                and all this...
with the exausted poetic eucharist
of Christianity...
and before the techno-tenticle
explores...
         a complete inversion
of necrophilia...
         a subtleness of life...
         and the endless possibilities therein...
at least by cremation:
nothing is sacred, all is elemental...
not this, from dust you came,
but unto wax you shall return...
    Madame Tussauds *** doll
precursors, and a stag night joke
about ******* a helium sheep...
with all due respect,
peace be upon him,
there are more avenues to eternity,
than in the immediate sense,
atomist, procreation and the passing on
of genes...
           unless you are of course
a modern day Portuguese ****
with the no. 7 roy-al white...
less about prostitutes tier C,
   certainly not tier B (strippers and
the sugg'ah daddy teasers)...
    no, we're talking Gattaca ******...
tier A... surrogates.

play me like a fool
try not to catch feelings
charm me with the flash of a smile
the subtleness of a wink
and tell me not to fall
because you sure won't
say you can't commit
and treat me like i'm needed
like you aren't talking to other girls
when we both know its a lie
making me want to die
i can't stand you
so all i do is fall
but apparently my body is just a mall
you peruse and look around
admiring things you'll never own
playing with my heart like it's just a toy
walking up and down the aisles of my being
stealing me without sacrificing yourself
for a temporary pleasure
until you get bored and throw my heart away
onto a dusty broken shelf where trash goes
i reach out for help but
you're already gone
but you never intended on staying for long
just wanted something to mess with when you became bored
and you decided that my heart was the perfect toy

hard to write poetry these days:
when it's a monopoly of lies...
and like a homeless man
had explained his predicament
to me: my mother told me
to never tell a lie...
         as original as the sin
as original as plagiarising
and you will be like the gods,
knowing the diffrence,
between good and evil;
even I can undrstand the
subtleness of an ingenious lie...
but not when it's obvious,
and esp. sickly-candy-choking
and all but: a depiction
of a desperate loss of idealism:
that synonym of innocence...
who is to say that
German Idealism,
           was not the awaiting
guillotine hanging before
the 20th century Mongolian
         repaganism of the Germans?
echoes of the skull pyramids
of Baghdad...
        tsunami of fame
              bulging against the immovable
rigidness of a people in number,
some listening to BBC 4's the Archers...
a past time worth the attention span
of one summer month...
          whatever this Anglo Idealism
is brewing, the scenes of
the aftermath are alredy
poking their Hydra heads through...
the aftermath is premature
unlike that of German Idealism,
which took, so much longer
to precipitate...
        hardly a reason to write poetry,
better start calling it
excerpts from a book
that doesn't exist in head,
print or tattoo...
          and never will...
              too many tornadoes
skim reading the horizon to
be both hysterical
and cool groove Aspen thrill
loaded Luke...
            but this blatant lie:
          that has as much originality
working behind the scenes,
as a dog's bark has
consonant clutches of the crutches
of canines, supporting
the uniform mammalian vowel
construct of exercising ba thing vowels...
catching shrapnel, chiselling
bone and exfoliating wet lungs...
     cul d sac of minds and
tongues working on an already
overworked canvas of people...
     as much as excavating the origins
of a handshake,
     when calibrating
the persistent script of Romans,
    who, apparently only survived,
sombre and delinquent,
and should they remind the current
people of their bulimic ******,
      no more in question as to why:
no laxatives were used,
other than the "name"
  of the father (index)
         and of the son (middle) - fingers -
shoved down the head of the osesaphagus
to agitate it,
like a seagull chic might agitate
its parent to regurgitate
partly digested food.

I remember the first time
My heart felt
Sick.
Sick for someone else.
Her face has faded from my
Memory
But not the feeling of my chest
Hollowing
For the first time.

Every pulse spent with her
Was like that of a fist
Hitting the head of a drum from
The inside.

Or like sinking.

A soft, crumbling
Concave.
Like fleeting footprints in
The sand of a bad
Dream.

I suppose it was pity, mostly.
Slumped with the stature of a
Vulture.
All crooked and
Insecure.
Of course my adolescence couldn't
Identify
With the terminology
Of such a foreign
Energy.

She wasn't alarming.

There was a subtleness to her.
She was like creeping
Quicksand.
Only,
I didn't know I was being drawn in
Further
Until the air became
Thick
To breath.

She wasn't evil.

There was a
Timidity
To her.
She radiated
Stagnancy.
Something I had never
Audienced before.

She was like the only
House
One finds at the
End
Of a road long
Forgotten
By civilization and
Laughter.
Broken and splintered from the Weight
Of buried burdens and
Contraventions
Of the white picket fenced
American
Dream.

She was like the figure one
Reluctantly
Forms in the
Dark
And her
Silence
Was the comforting thought that
Nothing
Is ever really there.

I know it's because of that
Forced
Reassurance
That she oozed the
Disregarded
Desperation
Of an
Unsolved
******.
The one tossed in a
Box and thrown on a shelf.

Overlooked.

To think of it
Now
I can't help but wonder if

The others saw her too.

when i feel, when i really feel like writing,
i turn from being a snowman, and become
an avalanche.

god, i love the tease!
  it's like tickling a bear -
ever wonder why large dogs
rarely bark, and you always
see these puny chihuahuas barking?
it's a phenomenon i've considered
a great deal of times -
puny dogs bark all the time,
even if there's no impedeing sense
of danger, while large dogs
      bark: as their last resort:
or a hello! look at me!
i'm lord of the manor, come near
me and you're chow mein,
or a tartar steak!
    god, i love big dogs,
   gifts me with the idea of
a **** the size of an elephant's trunk:
to boost my ambitions.
ha ha.
    
i always wanted to speak like
sean connery, or shaun o'connery,
or shea mac'connery,
can't remember which one was
catholic, and which one was protestant,
or which one was supposed
to be my uncle...
          evidently? none of them!

point being... i'm not a ****** predator,
i'm ***-prone: as any man finish
a 100m sprint **** first, head later,
but i am a predator of some sorts,
i hunt for observations,
you know, the type that looks
for telescopes without the astronomer -
the microscope without the biologist,
the kaleidoscope without a john lennon...

god, i love this word: *kauczuk -
imagine a monkey without
   a rubber ball -
what you gonna give poor gorilla heirmondo
next, a drum kit?!

funny you should ask...
i'm actually gagging for the day i'm called
a ****...
          i sent a letter to santa claus for
confirmation date that it could or would or
will happen...

    don't you *** it?!

come one, everyone knows the holocaust
happened,
   but people are still complimenting
the **** army uniform, how chic it was...
for all the wrong, the nazis always have
that one stable and historically bulletproof
observation repetition...

mind you, being a predator of observation
lists two individuals, the maxim perfectionists,
nietzsche & la rochefoucauld -
  no, no bongo-bongo parties around here,
predatory subtleness -
      a teasing voyeurism -
  a tickling sensation - nothing more,
enough for the eyes to feast,
and the rest remaining: grave ridden (as if
it were);

that's why i'm waiting to be teased as a ****,
everyone says: they were the best dressed army,
seems to me that ****** did become an
artist after all... albeit an artist in the fashion
industry...
    and never, was such a worse-attired army
of men defeat the best dressed of the lot...
i admit, the winged hussars of
the polish-lithuanian commonwealth were
a charity shop of pick & mix...
    
     call it: the ***** of "dolce & lagerfeld* -
carlie, dear, come on other,
suit up these ss boyscouts...
  
      as sylvia plath said: all women love a fascist,
except women that... don't know what
the answer to that is...
  nonetheless, fascists seem rather pseudo-****,
given they put so much effort into
their uniforms...
      ****** & mussolini,
i can see that brand selling,
given the backlog of nostalgia behind the brand,
you can see why so many wartime movies
have been made,
  and why americans and others are so
eager to don the **** uniforms...

       they called the catwalk:
khaki on black... it's the nuo white & black...

    and so whittle dolphie became the artist
in a double-edged sword moment,
an artist in auschwitz, and an artist in
fashion!
           this is exactly what british humour
looks like, i remember this one time
in edinburgh, this poncey english guy came
on stage in a comedy club,
  his opening line?

'you might recognise the accent...
  it's educated.'

beat that! mind you, beat the persistent fascination
with the **** army uniform,
   the totenkopf insignia...
look at them, poor buggers, slobbering as ever...
always tempted by the fashion,
it's always the fashion!
     nazis did one thing better than their
genocidal psychopathic mania:
  army fashion...
  the crispness of their attire is still
the most formidable apple of eden to be bitten,
and how easily people don the attire,
almost with a sense of pride & a chance of
bagging a bride too...

amazing... it's called something else in asia...
something about
   hsinchu city of taiwan with a bunch
of black geese marching...
      chan something...
haven't figured it out...
  but it seems there's a translation back
from asia among white men:
     kamikaze: hey, i'm all up for cultural
exchanges...

there we have it the new dolce & gabbana -
   ****** & mussolini -
      the best dressed pair of ****-wits
the world has ever seen...
     staggering as it is:
people will remember the nazis more
for their uniforms and a perfected sense
of fashion of military personnel,
   than their crimes;
****** really was an artist, although
i'm sure he never expected to become
a fashionista on the side;
it'd be nice to see a history in a universe,
where he really did, settle for
a career in still-life painting;
  i'm already speculating that:

his inspiration came from
                                   paul cézanne,
  and somehow precipitated into examples
of l. s. lowry.

Summarizing Something Nice💞

I’m so happy when you ‘get it’;
That you get its subtleness -
The latent and the unexpressed.

Happy that there’s one who takes on board
The theme, the art, both intertwined
In effort’s mind.
Just happy - nothing more
With not a jot of longing for the glory
Or the possibility of money.

As the jazzer makes the song her own,
The notes and chords and lyric one,
The improv, playing, unified,
Theme, technique grown,  
Thus, sweat and fuss,
The sugared press of muse and genius,
Poet builds on stuff and nonsense,
Common sense, the mystical, ,
The mundane-******-metaphysical-potential endless.
It’s all nice:
Expression giving peace to practice,
Practice peace.
With you the object of release.

Summarizing Something Nice 9.26.2020 The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II; Vaguely About Music II; Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin

Perfection Sire
The Perfection of all the Imperfect I greet,
The Eternity of Temporariness praise,
So welcomed be Love and allowed to lead,
So that Fallen had chance to be utterly raised.

It’s through Her that He’ll get
All that Lost was in Full,
And make healed all the Mad,
And the Broken rule,

And through Tears rejoice
To what kills the Suicide,
Making loud warm Voice
Out of whispering Ice;

And by Her Force to fight
He, the fragile, obtain –
Out of Subtleness’ Might
In Rejection regain,

To the World implement
That’s declining, untouched,
Shouting clear what’s meant
Out of Less bursting Much;

Persevering Anguish,
Prolonging the Bliss,
Smiling Rainbow embellish,
Embracing the Kiss,

Catching Myriads playing,
Embodying inspire,
Oh, my Love, Breath of Prayer –
The Almighty Sire!..

for how else could i be haunted
months after you've gone?

at first
it stung
wandering through this world alone
after belonging to you for so long
every song cried out your name
i had to plug my ears for peace and quiet

and then slowly
and with tremendous subtleness
it got easier
the nights were not plagued with memories
i reclaimed the streets we once walked on
i created my own religion
away from you
and everything you reminded me of

i found solace in getting to know myself
when the host is gone, who is the parasite, really?
i climbed into myself and found
all the things you loved about me
and all the things you learned to hate

it takes a long time to forgive someone who broke your heart
but a longer time to forgive yourself for allowing it.
the heartbreak didn't scar me;
instead, it was like the time i sprained my knee
in the second grade
it felt like i was dying in the moment
until
weeks later
it didn't

and now the only reminder i have of that day is the soreness i feel every winter when it's cold
and my body remembers what my mind forgot