This harbour was made by art and force.
And called Kingstown and afterwards Dun Laoghaire.
And holds the sea behind its barrier
less than five miles from my house.

Lord be with us say the makers of a nation.
Lord look down say the builders of a harbour.
They came and cut a shape out of ocean
and left stone to close around their labour.

Officers and their wives promenaded
on this spot once and saw with their own eyes
the opulent horizon and obedient skies
which nine tenths of the law provided.

And frigates with thirty-six guns, cruising
the outer edges of influence, could idle
and enter here and catch the tide of
empire and arrogance and the Irish Sea rising

and rising through a century of storms
and cormorants and moonlight the whole length of this coast,
while an ocean forgot an empire and the armed
ships under it changed: to slime **** and cold salt and rust.

City of shadows and of the gradual
capitulations to the last invader
this is the final one: signed in water
and witnessed in granite and ugly bronze and gun-metal.

And by me. I am your citizen: composed of
your fictions, your compromise, I am
a part of your story and its outcome.
And ready to record its contradictions.

The straw that broke the camel's back
Was auctioned off on Ebay
And bought by an amnesiac
Who liked collecting hay.

If possession is nine-tenths of the law
All I need to do now
Is buy the final straw

And then he was sectioned
And taken away.

In the book Going Solo,
Roald Dahl wrote about a woman
Who refused to eat anything with her bare hands
Instead, everything had to be handled with utensils
Knife in one hand and fork in another
She described the satisfaction of fruit cutting
The inexplicable joy at cleanly cleaving peel from flesh
Skill precise as a surgeon
Cutting it up according to Nature's dotted lines

I tried it on the same fruit
Somehow it just didn't feel right
Too refined, too silent

Unlike the practised deft peeling with bare fingers
Fingernails digging into the fruit, both refusing to compromise
Until eventually, the rind gives way and a cut is made
And from that same opening, tearing outwards
Sounding like strips of velcro are slowly being separated
The uneven globe of translucent orange flesh coming naked
Its pith shielding you from its full bright glory
Pulling it apart by halves, and then quarters, and then tenths
Each crescent shaped carpel in its mouth sized perfection
Sacs accidentally bursting, fingers sticky with juice

That is how an orange ought to be peeled.

Scribble ten words,
First three are a verse,
For what it's worth,
Only an idea for you,
How to stimulate the muse.......

Hello, York Suburban! It’s great to be here today, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be...speaking...than right here...with all of my awesome classmates. I can’t believe we made it here, you know, this was a really great experience, going through school and everything. Back in the day, before our generation became obsessed with social media and electronic stimulation, I used to have a past-time that I greatly enjoyed. I don’t practice this...practice, much anymore, but back when I was young, I used to watch cable tv a lot. I know, I’m really dating myself here. When I say dating myself, I mean, we’ve been dating for a little over 18 years, myself and I, that is. Anyway, watching tv, yes, and when I used to watch tv, I saw what our media portrays as a usual high school life. And much like everything the media portrays, I later found out that high school is nothing like how it is portrayed. I used to think it would be a bunch of young adults standing around, talking about each other, with each other, waiting a few tenths of a second for the studio audience to start laughing, that part was definitely only on tv. (If no laughs, move on. If laughs, say, maybe it wasn’t only on tv). Anyway, yeah, they were all standing around talking on tv, so young, gullible me, I thought  I would just stand around and talk for four years. In order to prepare for this activity known as high school, I proceeded to wear what I thought everyone wanted me to wear, I only expressed myself when I thought I should, not when I wanted to. And for my first year, that was about all I did, more or less. I was scared at first, I was defensive and I loved my life back then, but my life was motivated by fear way too much. My whole life changed after that like the sun changes the sky when it rises. There was a light that came into my life, or should I say, the light came from within myself. I had revelations about my motivations, my beliefs, and how I wanted to live my life. Once I started being who I wanted to be and making choices that were good for me and were the choices I wanted, I started to love myself. During my time at York Suburban, thanks to all of the amazing people I interacted with, I learned to love my life more and more every day. I learned that if I continued to express myself, I would increasingly love myself as well. Expressing yourself is so important because it doesn’t just build your confidence, it builds you! When you express yourself, you learn what you like and don’t like about yourself, and that’s what happened to me. Even though a lot of my high school career was unfortunately spent alone, or feeling isolated in some way or another, I really loved watching other people express themselves and have fun. I always wanted everyone to express themselves more because I learned that I love watching people express themselves, it’s the most beautiful behavior I’ve ever seen and that will never change. I learned so much from every person I had the privilege of interacting with, so thanks everyone, you know, that was really great. I love you all! And that won’t ever change. But I can’t promise I’ll remember all of your names, and I don’t expect you to remember many either. Kids these days, you know, always overstimulated by media and smart phones haha. But when you leave, really take yourself with you! Take yourself and hold on to what you love within yourself. That’s enough, you don’t have to hold on to any memories here. Siddhartha Gautama (also known as Buddha) once said, “Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.” It’s sad to leave this all behind, but leave it all behind. It’s ok to be happy and remember the good times, but I love you all, I want you to succeed! Don’t just remember memories, create memories! Keep changing yourself, changing people around you, and changing the world until your body runs out of energy! That’s all I ask. I’d like to thank all of the employees here at York Suburban High School for giving our class a healthy and constructive environment, full of excellent role models, and good life lessons. And thanks to my family too, especially my brother Max, he’s really cool. Also, check out my Hello Poetry account, Nick Gati ;) haha. I had to plug at least one electronic media account, this is our generation! And before I leave, I would like to recite a rap that I wrote.

Class of 2015
Let me say what I mean
I’ve been inside this machine
For four years and I’ve seen
People loving and hating
People giving and taking
People in boots shaking
People with hearts breaking
I’m like Kendrick Lamar without the beats or the fame
I’ve got rhyme and time, I’ve got pride and shame
It took me too long to make my life mine
It took me too long, but I’m right on time
I love being weird here before you all
I love it so much, but let me take this call
“Hello? I am currently giving a speech
Before I go to IUP to learn how to teach.
I’ve gotta speak these bars to try to communicate
How all we need is love, we don’t need any hate
So let me hang up, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
MY WHOLE LIFE has been consumed by too much sorrow
It was hard, at times, to navigate my way
I had times where I’d go days not knowing what to say
Until I found all the answers written in my mind
Until I changed myself and became one of a kind
Thank you all for letting me express myself
And express yourself too, leave your pride on the shelf
Love people, love life, and remember these words,
Life is about listening and letting others know that they’re heard

I. there is a sort of ephemeral longing
you can only find in the heartbreaks of grown-up girls
(old tracks, cleaned room, messy hair, simplicity)

thinking back on the glowing days of adolescence
when bad flicks brought you places

IV. back then, the anticipation of being older was
almost tangible enough to cut
in halves, fourths and one-tenths

now the mere thought turns you off;
lemon cakes taste as bitter as the sugar
poured in your third afternoon coffee

V-III. your love of chocolate was left at the beach
along with pink heart-shaped sunglasses

(i rented that semicentennial-old russian novel
to convince myself that dreams aren't real
and until the skin breaks, your past stays intact
at least that's what H.H. taught me)

VI. looking back, your childhood was not as bad
as you make it out to be, truth be told
fascinated by your infatuation with the
place where you always belonged;

II. today the world is cold, punctuated
by the sore troubles of reality
that friends, majors and late-night talks
both compose and mend

and heaven knows how much you have to say.

I've been repeating rhymes since 1989.
Writing my letters backwards - still can't draw a straight line,
but I could paint you a pretty picture of a troubled prince.

I wasn't old enough at the time,
but I've been partying like it's 1999 ever since.

Doing what I can just to feel more alive,
because I've always had trouble sleeping at night,
so I look for adventure wherever I can find it.
I've gotten lost a few times but can't say that I mind it.

When the things I've picked up along the way come back to stake their claim;
I fight it.
I'll be alright.
I purge.
I writhe.
I write.

I've been recycling lines since 2009,
but getting more sleep ever since I lost my mind.
Almost two halves closer
to achieving half-remembered dreams,
but can only imagine where I'll be come 2019.

I am several more times more than then
and ten tenths more than most men you'll meet
but I can't meet you in the day
because you'll take my breath away and leave me wondering if I am,ten tenths more than any other man, why can't I
look you in the eye and say
I love you more and more than any other day that I've walked through and again I wonder do you
understand how
fallen,shallow is the man who stands before unable to raise his hand to knock at your door.
did you dream of me and if you did why was it that I could not see that what you saw
once more I try to knock upon your door
and if I am the cancer would you answer
yes or no?

Toe to toe and cheek to cheek
if you would seek the truth of me
open up your eyes,deep brown and see
me.
In my humility
I am that familiarity that you would yearn,
turn away
look into the brightness of another day
and tell me,say
go away.
you're not welcome here
I fear you do not trust your tongue or words of yours that would run unchecked and free
look at me
tell and feel just what you see
just be.

Black holes in the human psyche –
Depression in the laughing space –
Hopelessness amongst us rising,
Shadows illustrate disgrace.
All we’ve put our faith in fails us:
Reason brings its power of war,
Unity of hearts eludes, thus
Severed isolates we are.

Most of western humankind
These days prefers the company
Of dogs or cats to people bonds.
They do not bite.  Well, not many.
If nothing else this observation
Clarifies the entropy
Of this rational thing called reason.
When, of such, shall we be free?

One tenth of the human brain power
Is the maximum we use
If we are to credit science.
“What if…”  What is our excuse?
We can wonder what if we had
All the other nine tenths  too.
Would we not be chuckling, die-hard,
“Just Neil Armstrong on the moon?”

Where would lie the great credential
If a man could understand
How to implement potential
Past this morbid limit land.
P’rhaps we’d learn to live together.
War would now no longer rule.
No starvation, lonely fever,
Intimacy no more a duel.

Man has known, since history
Began to make its mark on time,
Of the other world of spirit.
Some are terror, One sublime.
One there was, who visited
This planet in the days of yore,
Astounding elders with His wisdom
At the age of twelve – no more.

He grew on, no less inspiring
Thousands with His repartee.
Everywhere He went they’re gathering
Immeasurable compassion He.
Miracles his feet accompanied.
Where He trod served love profound.
Yet His voice sliced through the need
To self-promote with loud resound.

What had He that every other
Man throughout the history
Of humankind could find no brother
Quite like this?  Who could He be?
People fight, Him to discredit.
“No man could perform like this.
**** Him off.  We’ll simply edit
Him from all our histories.”

So they did.  Or so they thought to.
But the grave could not defeat
This super human. Think we have to.
Human brain is now complete.
Jesus had the Spirit intact -
Mind and Truth now entertwined.
Change to holy human impact.
This is HOW WE WERE DESIGNED!

If we ask He gives His Spirit.
We can entertain His heart
Overflowing with the wisdom
That the Spirit can impart.
Yes we too can yet experience
Life in full 100%.
Well, nearly.  Falling short of holy
Puts a smudge on every sense.

He empowers with His Spirit
Settled in a human heart,
Livening up the old grey matter
So it works in every part.
Exchange misery for gladness,
Shadows for a radiant light,
Thrown those lies out with the garbage
And the long depressive night.

You're gone.
It's my fault.
I'm deadened.
la lumiere
it's gone
I'm bereft.

the choice to fan the ember to blazing flame
was there
I ran
I'm empty.

match-perfect, close to narcissism
I can pretend we were torn apart by Fate
it is I who did the tearing
we're deleted.

I'm a coward
oh, mon chéri seul
please find in your heart to forgive me.

You're perfect
but poison
I'm nine-tenths to numb
Don't forget me.

What say you on the matter?

For,
To say the Pilgrims were not of the Americas,
Or thereby American,
Is False.

For,
To say the life force is not moving, pulsing,
Or thereby alive,
Is Wrong.

For,
To vocalize a sonnet as written,
And not vary tone or infliction from line to line,
Or to sing the Song of Madness.
But not feel the grimy groove,
Is flat out and most indescribably improper and in dire need of revision.

But to break off from the meter,
In travels that lead on out,
Progressing into a voyage of the vastly uncharted,

Is to paint a magnificent beauty,
Or write a tale with uncanny comparatives to a Huck.

And to forthwith stand from the bow of the vessel, not the stern, to say when they say, “Nay.”

From the start, on the breaking dawn of this episode, a new life seemed only natural to resurrect;
A chapter to rewrite that had too long needed a rewrite.
And so perceived and attempted it was.

Then, from the inner yearnings, came a need to profess what so vividly troubled.
But in unsure footings, the tongue could not confess.
But in undone attire, the feet would not uphold.
Repressed.
Halt!

The body comes to rest.
Lain upon the threshing block, to gather.
And preface a proclamation of the more just cause.
Ideals certain to be less casually fit than their predecessors’.
An ultimate theory of outlook.

Thus, this is my prelude, to the coming of age battle, and my constitution.
With most sincerity, this is what I proclaim.

The Right of Understanding.
—The act that in any case, every account and depiction of any story and thereby situation, should be heard, allotted, marked, and understood in full. It should stand, unbiased, before all, prior to any fore coming or hasty decision: the act of listening without interpretation by a lonely mind; of not intruding upon or giving up immoral ground in adherence to a person; of not spreading hell, nor involving the uninvolved in personal matters; of letting people share both the tangible and intangible, without hesitation, or living in fear being persecuted and/or misrepresented; and the understanding of every individual soul.—
The Right of Understanding.

The Right of Albatross.
—The act of grieving over loses, and accepting that things will not be the same. The act that time is so deathly important in revival that the absence of its constant equilibrium will cause damage; of stability in the face of fear, whatever that may be, or the fear that is eminent and sure to catch us all in its foot snares; of compassion to the suffering and those who have lost it all but continue to rise again and prove the statistics, kept and known only by the creator, wrong; and of being unsettled in the grey areas. For no one soul can truly ever make it alone.—
The Right of Albatross.

The Right of Acerbity.
—The act of saying what’s on your mind, no matter how pugnacious or acrid it may come out to be. The act of bluntness in dealings, without further discretion, but only after retched hate has built and anger tormented past its due date; of civility towards others in the postmortem; of biting your tongue until absolutely necessary, and only through well founded intent, however deluded the intent may be to ascertain such conclusive foundation, and of arrogance in expression and language for the betterment of others. The act of ripping out the orthodox for a radical reckoning of souls.—
The Right of Acerbity.

The Right of Escape.
—The act of fleeing tragic misunderstandings, for the sake of saving face, and to make great hast. The act of thinking contrary to the proof, setting a pricey wage on your personal beliefs, dissolving unknown barriers and outward influence, and claiming your stake; of being alone to the mind in hopes of evaporating the exorbitant data; of basking in the glory that swift feet have brought; of turning the corner, and establishing new peace of mind to comfort the once boxed in soul.—
The Right of Escape.

The Right of Pursuit.
—The act of allowance to a pursuit in anything, with the freedom of beliefs, and articulation. The knowledge and acceptance that not all pursuits end, nor will they ever on the intended terms. End may or may not be reached, but the communion of trial, even if failed, is all that is needed. No hatred should come of a man’s choice in their personal pursuit; merely the acknowledgment and appreciation.—
The Right of Pursuit.

The Right of Assertion.
—The act which is commonly referenced, and includes great similarity to, the speeches given on the basis of freedom, with the truth that prior most follow up to the same base rule. The acts that no tyrant or thereby abusive parent should, or has the right to, downsize or ignore the declared speech of his child. Nor should one be angered by the truth that so passively flows through their ears. The right to free a man’s mind without a show of emotions becoming of us; just the listening of and rock like appearance of the stern look upon agreement.—
The Right of Assertion.

The Right of Compliance.
—The idea that man-kind can fit in with man-kind; the ideal template that brother and sister is known and used universally, not just selectively, as a label of people; that an atheist can walk into a church of any religion and fit in among the plenty to find a new assurance and home; that no restrictions are made to shun or cross out those unwanted in group, club, education system, religious aspect, or government area in question; that all of man-kind fits in anywhere they so choose when they are there under the prefaced agreement of good and strong intent. After all, intent is nine-tenths of the law. Lastly, that people can never feel out of place or lost in life.—
The Right of Compliance.

The Right of Deception.
—The knowing that man-kind can easily be duped by the specious mind; that promises aren't always kept, and that some stories aren't always true. Often times, there even a change in maxim just when we all become accustom to order; the idea of flowing emotion from one betrayal subsequently falling and spilling into right into line: next in life; that man could plainly be trying to be grandiloquent and fascinate rather than honestly working to be even with other men; that imagination can take over, yet leave a trail of crumbs leading toward reality, and remain in such a constant comatose state until life seems to become better; the mere acknowledgment that the mind can fully overpower the body.—
The Right of Deception.

It was that long ago that we were invincible,
Or too long ago to remember the good ol’ days,
Or too long ago to remember how past, present, or future,

We would always be friends.

No rivals could break us,
No terror could render fear,
No mountain was too big to climb,

We would always be untenable.

Every time we thought that,
Every time we felt safe,
Every time we leaned closer,

We grew older,
Time set in,
Tearing us apart.

As we fell apart,
Thoughts got the better,
Days turned as years past,
And our minds now seem to confess,

So here we are,
Once more staggered in unity,
And for the last time linking arms,

To exalt a power high above our reign,
And sign the final treaty,
Forever binding our humble beginnings,
Before the long journey,
That will, in retrospect, be a mistake…

But at least they will know exactly what We have to say.

yeah, the serious ones
have babies, and finalise
being single by becoming
hubby or hub hub hub
hubby dub da'h satisfied
cupcakes (bake 'em
while they're monkey do dah dough)...
and the ones
never originating for a replica
had their poems treated
by a pop orchestra as unplayable,
because of the profit margins...
and the necessity of power
being kept for a country
a fraction of the tenths' of monaco,
because, after all... not everyone
nerved to tie a bow-tie for the occasion.

There is light climbing up on the horizon where the day puts another disguise on and I have the kettle on.

The bells haven't started to ring yet but a debt I must pay is on the way,

Sunday and the faithful are beaming.

The older I become the more salt I throw over my shoulder,
protection is nine tenths of my religion.
It's a join the queue and take a pew the sermon begins about ten and then we'll be healed for next week when we're sealed
back into the city again.

An accordion player smokes a long cigarette sat on the seat where he's slept with his feet on the ground
I've seen him before in East Ham, a short rather fat man who carries his tunes rather well and sells people a song for the price of a tea,
he doesn't see me.

A refugee?
an immigrant?
back bent with the weight of his cross.

I toss another egg in the pan and wonder who's loss and what kind of man can stand and ignore what shouts in your face outside the door.

No one goes somewhere to get nowhere.

We travel on with the scarecrow,
the one that puts straw in our ears.

Poem a day, day 2*

It's all fun and games
Until someone loses a heart.
Take it from me.
Well, he did.

Great fun, good times
Next thing you know...
You turn around and
Someone's stolen your heart.

I only took my eyes
Off of it for a minute
And it was gone.
Possession is 9 tenths of the law.

The law of attraction.
I liked him,
I love him.
**** didn't see that coming.

Or maybe I did.
I couldn't have stopped it if I had.
Pickpocket skill level 100
Item: 1 heart.

Hello, My Beautiful Black Hole
It's been a bittersweet minute since we last engaged
The circularity's had me freezing out the frame
Systematic collapses happen whenever I check mark my passion
I'm grasping at static captions lagging from an attic packed with distractions
I've been trying to refrain from seeping down the drain
but for some reason that **** just keeps calling my name
Face to face with the drips I wonder how my cysts will taste
If possession is nine tenths of the law
I'll take you legally bound to my tongue
I'm a repulsive cultist proposing voltage
engrossed by the most revolting poet

I need a guy
that swoons
when I play the piano.

He needs to love the way my long fingers
reach for octaves, ninths and tenths.

He must grin when
I nail my tricky sixteenth note runs
and
he must support me
when I perform ill-preparedly.

The tenths of milligrams of saturated fat,
The letters of words of a cereal box,
The colors of the eyes of my big, fat cat,
The sound of the door when she knocks, knocks, knocks.

The shape of the curve of that one perfect wave,
The rising of the smoke of our back yard fire,
The itch of my brain from that all-essential crave,
The pain of a word heard passing by her.

The fear of a hand that’s always swinging,
The red of my heart when I just can’t take it,
The grasping of the smoke that’s never staying,
The blue of my eyes when you just keep faking it.

i thought you were with me
so tender so human so fresh
absolutely into me.
easily you say you think
you love me(you think!)
“let’s go for a walk, baby,” you console me
then you ******* a kiss through the fibers of your eyes.
you blew it, for god’s sake!  and you slip into yourself
ever deeper.  bit by bit you’ve been fading away
so tender so human so fresh
just slipping away.

possession is nine tenths of the law
just doesn’t apply
just can’t apply to things
that can’t be owned.
you’re one step ahead
while i’m out of step(with myself
with you with all)
“memories don’t come cheap,” i realize
and you’re too absent to relate.
so tender so human so fresh(to me)
so cold so phony(to others)
you’re so you(to you).

persistently we go on with our walks.
there’s days we go to the park and feel the flowers
and there’s days we don’t go to the park at all.
i’m so ready to grab life by its throat
and rip it open and let
all this fakeness spill out
until its last drop.

Today I eschew all matters political
and examine a subject I consider quite critical.
The greatest invention in man’s history
is, IMHO, the apostrophe.
You must admit it’s quite impressive
even if sometimes it’s a tad possessive.
Suppose, if you will, you need to drop one small letter
(because somehow shorter is always better)
’tis the thing that shows any gal or feller
That you’re not just a miserable, terrible speller.
So go on, drop your letters with wild abandon
and know the apostrophe will be there to stand in.

Just one other thing before I call it quits–
concerning the fuss about its and it’s.
It’s an issue for some that is really quite raw
Because they think that possession’s nine tenths of the law.
But I tell you now without any deceptions
In life there will always be some small exceptions.
“It” owns an apostrophe, I hear some of you cry,
But its apostrophe’s useless unless it loses an I.

O' brother
    Today is the anniversary
    of the day you were born
    But Fear not
    for I have a Present
    It is a cake obviously
    Never doubt me
    never
    Either way
    cake
    For you should feed your Gluttony
    And though I ate nine-tenths of the cake
    you still ate
    O how kind I am
    How much more Retribution
    truth
    But I am higher of that
    Regarded as Saint
    that is what kindness I have


    O' brother
    I write to you today
    for my anniversary of the day
    I died came
    I have seen a ******
    I have seen a robbery
    I have seen the cruelty of humanity
    But all I am and is a bystander
    who keeps His Head down
    With mediocrity
    and hypocrisy
    Ego dominant
    while the Id is miniscule
    Either way
    It seems that
    I can't show my kindness no more


    O' mineself
    I have a confession
    I may see the trash
    out of all the trash
    and though the foggy mirror
    blurs it
    I Still See
    Mineself
    For even though
    I have saved a kittens life
    I have saved a boys life
    I have saved a girls life
    I have saved an adults life
    I have saved my ego
    I have saved my Id
    How more trash could I be
    I can't say sorry
    no
    I can only say that I am no more
    a saint
    a bystander
    just the trashiest
    of all trash

I’m laughing this morning, spontaneously. We’re not studying anymore. Our sophomore school year is over. I’m giddy, giggling, like a 9 year old on sugar.

I think I just finished the hardest class that I’ll ever take - my last pure-math class, ever - and I got an “A.” Just barely - by two-tenths of a point (.2). That’s by the skin of a bacteria, the thickness of a sigh or the weight of a glance. Yeah, and I’ll take it very much.

We’re gathered, with two extra-large NY Pizza Supremas, around Lisa’s parent’s long, white kitchen island. Lisa and I parked on tall bar stools and Peter, lounging on a nearby couch. The playlist we’d had going, had just ended. We’re looping a lot of T.Swift because we’re going to see her in concert in TWO days (May 14th 2023). Leeza (Lisa’s 13 yo little sister) is here too - but she’s in a mood.

“You know what I want to hear?” I offered.
“What” Peter asked.
“The other side of the door” I said. Leeza groaned.
“OH MY GOD,” Lisa squealed, “ANAIS, Anais!!, I KNEW I loved you, I already knew!
Lisa turned to Peter, “Anais and I we, we have this string - some might call an invisible string”
“Yeah,” I laugh. “tying us to each other,” Lisa continued, laughing, “and sometimes I get so shocked when she reminds me it’s there.”  “right,” I agree.
“And you’re so real for that - it’s so true.” Lisa finishes by starting the song.

“Taylor Swift’s  “the other side of the door” plays, Leeza stomps out, taking half a pie and when the song finishes there’s silence.

“Wow” Lisa said. Peter looked up from wherever absurdly boring physics article he was reading.
“Sorry,” I told Peter, fanning myself, “we’re recovering. That song has the best outro in the business.”
“Cause you just expect a song to end on a chill fadeout” Lisa explains, “and end nicely.”
“This one just ends, BAM!” I laughed. “BAM!” Lisa echos, laughing as well.
“It’s trenchant - the little black dress - you just have to shake your hips every TIME,” I say.
“It eats, it eats every TIME,” Lisa agreed.
“It eats so much I forget he cheated on her!” I laugh, “I don’t even CARE!”
“I don’t even care,” Lisa chuckles, “in the outro,” she tells Peter, “she’s takin’ back her man because he got with some girl in a little black dress.”
“It’s a hard lyric,” I say, “the beautiful eyes, the conversations, the lies, are all I can think of.”  
“I like Taylor’s version the best,” Lisa said, “you get the emotional maturity and her voice is more mature.”

“Of course,” I said, “I grew up with that album - I think it came out in 2008 (I was 5) - but I remember, about two years ago, maybe three, I was in high school, some friends and I were driving to the lake and it was a full-on Swift-sing-along. We finished singing it, and I thought, “WOAH, that song EATS - how had I missed that?”
“I know,” Lisa echoed, “her music just hits at different stages of life and still comes off fresh.”
“Like someone discovering the Beatles,” Peter said, “who were - 60 years ago?”
“Yeah, or David,” I said. Peter looked confused.
“David - from the Bible?” I explained, “THAT was a long time ago too. Have you Godless Californian’s ever read any of the Bible?”
“No,” Peter said, sarcastically, going back to his reading, “but I saw the movie.”

When pop was a boy
Iz pride and joy
Was just to have wheels wiv a mota

Tricked up didn’t play, not in their hood
Even though you could
End result wouldn’t lift the skin - off a rice pud

Real quick in that day
Only came by the way
Of serious a serious wedge of pay

Aston, Ferrari, you could take to the bank
Hemi, Stang and Vette for the yanks
For most just wall posters and wanks

These days it different, back from the dead
Universal balance has got out of bed
And delivered justice for the poor petrolhead

You can strut your stuff, in your supa caa
But the kid in a Rex or an EVO jam jar
Gonna embarrass you, you fucken rockstar

We quikka N you - its no pop quiz
These days turbos and nitrous is the biz
Nuffink about the money just how big your ***** is

Want to put up your half million Mclaren
Thats just a few tenths quicka, than a subbie wagon
Equipped wiv a teenage ****** called Darren?

We quikka N you - even with your cash
One real aspect in life, where design and dash
Triumphed over money and flash

We quikka N you

And don’t you forget it

Now get out of my way

Though the distance
between the star and the earth
be a thousand light years
I would gladly walk on rough pebbles
till I get to the stars feet.

If heaven were a physical city in some distant land,
I would hold your hands and surmount the mountains between.
If depression were an island in the Pacific,
I would hang you on my shoulder and swim across.
If fun were a drop of water,
I would rain on you showers of memorable moments.

I will take you to the moon
and dance with you on those barren rocks.
We'll visit Mars and stand on Olympus Mons
At night we'll watch the stars
Pitching our tenths in space we would never grow old.

I would rather hold your hands,
than steal your heart.
I just want you to be fine,
Even if you aren't mine.

Says Leiak: “I have parleyed with the spirits of Strigoi for more epsilons and nocturnal tenths than of the Vóreios of Zefian, endless in the gloom that have divided the chains, with magic that blinds my eyes in the budding sunrises of Ovid and his horizon, With the Katana of a Lapp warrior between the blades of the benevolent Hagakure of a samurai, between the two flaming zones was the Celestina next to me, to degrade alone and old with her ****** folds, collapsing in frenzy as she lost between her fingers with the whiteness of his ciliates, so that as Celestina was the decoy of the Ars Amandi, Ovidio also appeared on the Mataki tablecloth, without hindrance of the worn and lethargic over-relief between the sheets worn by his thumbs and outer fingers on the sheet of the Ovidian index, prevented from having, and rubbing the Mataki full of colorful eyes to see if the third book walked only on the belly of the Celestinas courtesans, or were a strong choice The omens that Strigoi had already confided to her at the door of his ear, with fribrous and cold astragali that they grafted into the damp darkness of the other bleak wetland of the Mandrake. My stoicism has been extolled with the courtesan in a filial augury with the daughter of Laban, for Jakob's needs after twenty years in Harran, in the antitragus of Raquel's ear and hers desert of kabbalah of hers. Laban made obedience to Mount Gilead a command, before a sub-first-born being pulled on the heels by his brother Esau, fear was another option of the augury of sensitivity that was approaching instead of moving away from a greater panic, if at all. Whoever comes and draws its bellicose root from the complete saying of Yahweh turning his back on demons that imitate him, but not being able to walk like him on the desert without leaving footprints. Leiak had all these spirals of Spartan Mirages, where all boasted of democracies, while others evidently in the land that he watered them by hands that also secured the Xifos with blacksmith and agricultural handles, with riches that only provide wood for ships that Will they never sail, not even in half-freedom from the oligarchic mirage with men of war in the pulp, and that they will walk free in the polis until it puts them in the ****** battle where their bones will trade for soft money or lavish exchange?

The farm wasted to comrades who had crossed the dagger, Leiak after collecting them from the fields that were strewn with bones, wasting statistics with a Republican victory. Where is the money? nor would I want my discouragement to attack affections or stoicisms to be the one who averages my flock. The great effort belongs to all or to those who lose their parallelism if regularly a sword is well taken for what since its gain would be desired there, where the possession of wealth brings more care than joys that provide its enjoyment? (Xenophon, The Republic of the Lacedaemonians, VII), so that then more swords than anyone else will charge those who lost them in battles, not even those of gold at auction, for those who collect it as an integral bronze with maximum original zeal, to who must have had it tight in his hand, until the last minute it expired when he remembered that he did it with his plow in the hoplite farm, and in furtive actions now with the "V" Lacedaemon of Vernarth in the complete love of a God that still listens! Let's sing to the beasts, they act with imaginary benevolence, but not with tangible demonicity that touches their human offspring, always fighting with their necromances as a multidimensional actant, with texts that speak of a world that abhors human environments already possessed by a Laban, or by an illustrated Ovid, which crosses Celestina with necromances who only know of their cursed wombs of dry iron, narrated of an empress not reflected in her only until the last gasp to have her convalesced who sings the song of necromancy with her. The Mataki is a peasant with leathery hands impregnated with truth, poured out by the astrology of the horse of Alikantus, which limped in the noisy wand of Betelgeuse, with magical alchemy that gave way in the caverns that could not bear any more necromancers. This is where I come from, from the forests of the transversal valleys of Horcondising, of Andromancy, who was awakened one night at the next dawn in a new world and a new morning, without knowing where it was, but it was a human who guesses its hereditary Andromancy, among dead spirits that indicated that he too is and will be one of them, the advent of a nekroi who only shone towards a female sorceress but filling the maiden fields that mowed the pastures near the deceased people. Right here Yo Leiak, for whoever falls into this spell, I will round the square of a secular necromancer brandishing, only with written science that beats with interferences of his heart, towards a new concordance of the elusive Spartan mirages, where wealth lies on poverty being nothing more than their own science, from an order or Cosmos that piles up the empty bodies of the souls in their empty stomachs, without even an astrological medicine that would measure them of any veracity in the Contemplationis in Deum, where other things will be angels that they will roll through the doors of the tombs, where no one will truly live in the paragraphs of the mute angel. The vampirism taught by Vlad Strigoi, sleeps in the gulfs and inlets where he finds to provoke what or who he woos, and takes them to his fortified castle where passion scales the accents from where it is born, nor will anyone be able to write a single verse with stanzas hidden in a mysterious heart within another, which is from a man versed in the cartoon that synthesizes the plot of a title "Here I Leiak Necromancer, one day I was Franciscan and now I follow the stillness of my master Vernarth and our Apostle Saint John ”, I almost become a clergyman where everything arises and ends in the uniqueness of the functions in this banquet on Patmos, before the greater and lesser compliments, where my heart will serve for the greater good, I live in you my lord,  you taught to close your eyes and not lose your life that does not intercept the gates of the other, here is my adhesion Vernarth "

"Sonnets From a Conversation With a Friend XII "


Possession is nine-tenths of the fall to
Captivity of spirit. Many times
You've said those words to these selective ears
And i've heard nothing but your voice. Now, through
Some grating shift of cells, cause unknown, a
Newly perceived response enlightens some
Hitherto unlit portion of the dim
Pre-conscious realm. Which from here on casts a
Shadow interwoven with the many
Other shadows in the vast and blood warm
Ocean called the mind. And i see the harm
You speak of threatening, purely, clearly.
To hold is to close and occupy a sheaving
Of brain, which does empty its use for living.

nothing hurts more
than what you havent got
possession is nine tenths of the law
but its the other part
that you can never have whole
in your hand or your heart
that will sear
as it tears you apart

The most basic rule
of chemistry
states that
no whole is greater than the sum of its parts
but now we think that particles
are wave functions that blink in
and out
of being and look at you,
all blonde hair and blue eyes
small hands and crooked teeth,
you are so much more
than what makes you up.

You are more
than nine tenths empty space but nature
abhors a vacuum; what I know
is that scientists
cannot get their **** together.
Trust me.
I am one.

The human experience
as you put it, your small hands
waving in frenzy
was nothing to me
until I experienced you;
and even now - look at me.
I'll never have a Master's of Arts, like him.

I do not know
how many words there are
in the English language. You don't either -
but if I asked you
you would definitely pretend that you did.

All I know
is that I have spent three long years
trying to find ones that do you justice
and I have failed
every single time.

I'm not going to write tonight
I thought I might but there's nothing left inside of me,and
nothing there that I can see,can use and so I sit and lose myself in conversation with some long lost place that I can't place where faces from the distant past pass by and say, hello to me,
a place where conversation's free and small talk is the currency,I've spilled my pens in drinking dens and ****** I've had a plenty, but not for forty years or more,I knew I'd been here once before,
when I thought that I might write but never did and so put the lid back on the well, where inks are brewed deep in this hell and sometime when I climb out of the shell I hide beneath,
I think I'm back there on the wild and windy heath with nothing left inside of me,and
she, who is nine tenths my inspiration and one tenth sweat and dedication stands beside me using words for currency,I see her now against the moonlight,I thought that I might write tonight
but it seems it's not to be.

Reflections are tricky things
Man didn't create them
Only trapped them
Hung them on a wall for his own vain glory
The glassy stillness of a lake
Was first
To echo reality above it
Distorted
It ripples like a gateway
At the kiss of a stone

It calls, it beckons
l have mystery lurking
What will happen if you
Little you
Dared to pass through
With no intention of return?
One might find oneself upside down
Standing in the sky
And brushing their feet against the stars
Or there might be monsters
Real ones
Which we can touch and feel and fight
And see while fighting
The seeds of monstrous things
Separate themselves from us
In the last few seconds of life
And we see them laid out

Even knowing this
The water calls
To the nine tenths of us it possesses
Enticing us
With the idea of a world
Identical to ours
I think
Have you ever stopped
Looked
Counted the branches?
It would be impossible
So we assume

And as the water accepts you
Feet
Waist
Hands
Shoulders
Hair, drifting like seaweed in the tide
It whispers to you
Just a little deeper now
So you go on
On
Until you discover, or drown

Or
Until you are pulled upwards
Arms grasping you around the chest
As your lungs burn with the ache of tipped scales, the balance within you lost
And you hear the voice whisper
Breath warming your ear

Not like this
My friend
Not like this

Nine-tenths of a population
housed in a
sprawling conurbation
extending ever outward

looking inward as if we could
would do no good

and even then we do because
we have no place to go,
neither in nor out,
I know.

and freedom is the price we pay
for fair rent property
from which we see sod all
but the building bricks that brick us in
and another ******* wall to bang
our heads against.

When
your head starts to hurt and there's sweat on your shirt and your hands have a tremble, when you've picked up a pen but can't remember quite when and what for and the floor looks inviting for another night writing, but you're right in  the middle of something and something they say is better when hot but the memory's shot full of pitfalls and holes that you fall in and you're falling, who's going to save you now?

So you share your possessions which are nine-tenths of nothing and nothing is there but the emptiness that's outside you which is hard and unyielding, a shield built before you were born.

The island breaks away from the fault lines of a day and drifts into the middle of nowhere and you've been there before you were born.

Torn from the pages of magazines, gleaning the news from the popular press is depressing, ******* my spirit to put some more in it and a bottle of brandy or gin helps with that.

Whoever is calling me tell them I'm falling free, tell them I'm on the way out.
Speak still of me present tense and let there be no pretense, I haven't sold off my soul for a bucket of coal and some kindling to put on the fire, I'm alive and still kicking it, picking at the pie and perhaps sticking a finger in it, you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

When,
your head starts to hurt and the ache gets much worse I remember it can and there's no man out there that can possibly compare the pain that's in here with anything and on that point I'm clear,
Live as you find  because at some stage in your life you'll go out of your mind with the worry and grief and there's little relief, but you knew that before you were born.