when the earth makes a complete orbit around the sun,
it is called a revolution.
when people stand up for what they believe in, enough to make a change,
it is called a revolution.
when you save something, preserve it for yourself,
it is called conservation.
when you told me you were leaving and i couldn't come with you,
we held what is called a conversation.
when i followed you across the country, train ticket in one hand and your hand in the other,
it was called love.
when you left me with nothing but a note on a hotel pillow,
it was called hate.
they say a picture is worth a thousand words, but words and pictures, slip-ups and homographs, grammar and literature and math and science,
none of it matters anymore.
none of it matters when nothing is changing and time stands still.
none of it matters when preserves run dry and talking turns to silence.
none of it matters with notes on a pillow that doesn't belong to you, thousands of miles from home.

my linguistic observations were not written onto a blank canvas,
they arose from a backdrop that suggested political apathy,
and language games: my observations
came about not from observing
the necessity of what was suggested,
my observations didn't come
from omission - by was to consider
mathematical acute and macron
sense of what's to be punctuated
in addition, or stressed multiplication -
it didn't arise from omitting something,
it actually came about from
the futility of the leisurely fragrance
of language that politics could abuse
and leave many politically apathetic -
similarities with mathematics:
whenever the arithmetic cauldron
reached out-of-proportion counting methods
to value things -
same with these 26x nth term variations -
(nth term? the easiest allocation,
globalisation: ask a Croat of a Slovene
and i wonder if a Californian
might regard a Nebraskan in the same way) -
no, my observations came by way of
antidote: i looked at language and thought:
they're wasting it...
                  what with language entertainment:
crosswords and anagrams -
               i never understood why poetry
became obsolete by some noble pursuit
akin to philosophy... it didn't...
philosophy, pure philosophy didn't undermine
poetry, offshoots of philosophy: logic
games bedded the goodbye of emotion,
we're great at self-preserving emotions bound
to anagrams and crosswords,
   but cross love and hate together
  you get:                       h
                                        a
                     ­                   t
                 l       o      v     e...
                                                      philos­ophy is
at some points poetry, when there's a new crossword,
when there's a game of anagrams -
well, it write a new poem every day,
because people rarely acknowledge their everyday
apathy, they think they're without pathology,
and in a sense, they're without pathology,
their only pathology is finalised with
a connectivity of emotions, the paradoxical
unity of chiral emotions, a chance of opposites
solidified within the opposites of man, and woman -
when we speak of man, we tend to speak
primarily of femininity -
            and when we tend to speak to woman,
we tend to speak primarily of masculinity -
   the noun with the opposite-effect adjective -
but as sure as i am: it's a tightrope experience,
https://www.google.co.uk/searchsclient=psyab&biw;=1600&bih;=775orld+trade+towers+tightrope&oq;=world+trade+towers+tightrope&g;_lp..r_cp.&bv;;=bv.132479545,bs.1d24&ech;=1ψ=kOjZV5HjNckUqoiegM.1473898640411.14&ei;=UPTZ_IOKAbinangBw&emsg;=CSR&noj;=1 - is unreachable raph.co.uk/film/thewalk/philippepetitworldtradecentr/
Philippe Petit's expertise would do just now,
but on the confusing subjective deviation scope,
not minding the objective facts - two buildings,
one rope, one man... oh there's logic in subjectivity:
you just have to revise the objects surrounding the
feat - it's not exactly a United Nation's translation...
something has to uptake a poetic feeding,
and some has to be discarded...
   crosswords are philosophy's version of a poem...
i'm pretty **** at them... which spurns me to
write a poem, i'm with the Japanese squares -
as always, an optical consideration to allow variation...
but a poet usually wakes up when he sees
what others have done with language:
   crosswords are thesauruses in disguise -
      the hint is aligned to a thesaurus, more than
a dictionary - there isn't a care for
                       your vocabulary,
given that philosophers systematise and therefore
   acknowledge a need to curb a chance vocabulary
deviation as: in addition to... it never happens...
     but when did poetry become so discredited
form of entertainment in the use of language,
averting poetry as not music is wrong -
              poetry was replaced by crosswords and
the play on anagrams... music was wrongly attributed
to poetry by philosophy - it was a double blow -
a secondary **** - poetry was never music,
                    it was never about hitting rhymes:
Tenacious D's one note song and the clinically
   real:                              hate
                         ­                ate
                                         late - same ****, different cover.
imagine an onomatopoeia orchestra: doors, knock knock,
        sand in hands: the sounding of mortality,
whatever...                             can you see this
****** attack? i know Nietzsche's poetry was pish-poor,
but his maxims stand out for me to provide the
necessary reflex - philosophy attacked poetry,
the thespian art took over, the monologue is a holy
grail: a monologue that is free from narrator -
narrator exclusive - spontaneously: here! there!
nowhere! omnipresent!
                                          the pleasure from poetry
is in every household, not the poncy pretentious
households of frail households,
  your grandma is doing it already,
she's doing the crossword, she's not raising an emotion,
a gamble, she's a sterile duck, doing a crossword
rather than reading a poem -
                            and the philosophers?
the Shiva-disciples? before another art-form is attacked
they'll make money from being critical of films...
    to be honest, they'll have a hard time attacking music...
they can be great film critics... but in terms of music?
  well... the original confrontation with poetry
has made them impotent in this field... music is pure emotion...
including all the cheese entanglements -
however cheap an emotion might be (cheap: pop,
appealing to the universal attainment, shy, hidden,
the standard base of later improvements / idiosyncrasy) -
they can't attack music, it's double jeopardy -
given that poetry is deemed akin to music...
although caveman orchestra: man and his echo -
philosophy can't attack music, Plato's cave and the movies
beckons them... try once more,
                         and here comes the spectacular!

I can't eat Ramen.
Which *****, cuz I love Ramen!
The broth is so good!


Curley fries are great.
They're better than normal fries.
Nobody knows why.


DVD's aren't dead.
I like the commentary.
That's why I buy them.


Thesauruses help,
But is using them cheating?
I will never know.


Okay, I'm done now.
Seriously, you can go.
They're just dumb haikus!

"There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love." - 1 John 4:18

a maladjusted little minstrel, rage focused in the pinnacle
least invincible principle of my environment, so biblical
i'm re-tired of rituals habitual to introducing individuals
like our voices and choices and self-importance, all cyclical
i wonder

does your infallible tongue feel hungry and porous
like your short lived torpid fond memory abhorrence
the inorganic and unfactual that actually came before us
dissident power of your ****** diction in a chorus

coughing on insincerities meant to be favoring,
listen to yourself giving your secrets away, wavering
like a white bible page ripped from the spine of glue on your mouth,
a risky display of leaking doubt, you gave out,
disobeying social conventions and being made prey
******* sick of everything being so **** blasee
you keep forgetting we all rust when it pours this way

you’ve got infectious dictionaries of fiction
fidgeting with the insecurity ignition
telling you what you're missing when you don't stop and listen
and these thesauruses can’t arm you with the proper vowel consonant friction
to out-enamor their derision when you pout as you fit the description,
constricted by eviction, waiting for the jurisdiction
never completely comfortable in someone else's kitchen
something's always a little bit different
they take your bewilderment for ignorance

and hey i wish you would scream and shout
but instead you just keep playing cards now
wish you’d unlock but it stops between your lips slow scowl
swallowing your tongue, the key, he cut out when you kissed
you left it in a public bathroom, it fell into boston's abyss
it's not hateful but afraid, to let it out, ‘kid’
afraid the words would fit like a slit smile on a spit
afraid that they would flow, just ******* like this

an unspoken conviction for viscious fulfillments
and dereliction of indiscriminate sauve depictions of riches
of addictions to ******* philanthropist princesses,
and affinities for infinitely angering insistence
what she represses expected on the table in an instant

you say poet as if it means perfect
when i know enough people with the bruises to show it
to realize it really means nervous
and i have nothing to show you see,
except the mosquiteos who ****** my blood
and would be delighted to tell you
what lovely ugly things they know about me

lawyers don't use dictionaries... they use thesauruses... why would a lawyer use a dictionary in the first place? to get a concrete meaning? i hate how novelists are still prone to use that infernal tool... if a dictionary is a compedium, having precipitated from philosophy, and how the encyclopedia is a precursor of the scientific method... then the thesaurus is nothing but the end result of jurisprudence... that branch of philosophy that doesn't really have morality as the central piece of its care for a compass... the thesaurus exists for the sole purpose of man exercising "law", or as the poetics of Moses said: you will "know" the "difference" between good and evil... clearly the conjunction and means we wouldn't know, hence the existential either / or... but more precisely: between neither good or evil... of law and the thesaurus and the juggling circus act of synonyms and sharpening flint stones... and looking for words, and shallow ground and a bias for a fully established mono-personnae vocab with a dictionary.... or at least that's how i like to think of it: that the basis for humanity expressing a moral obligation of law is settled by creating a counter-intuitive fluidity of language... the holy bible of the strand of philosophy that deals with moral will, i.e., jurisprudence, is set in the thesaurus... there's no point referring to the dictionary and law books... i'd discard the dictionary completely... after all, dictionaries will never teach you anything rhetorical... you begin learning law by learning to avoid the dictionary, and equpping yourself with the thesaurus, no wonder i once called it thesaurus rex, the idea that humanity has any foggiest about expressing law, rather than finding a law, like that of gravity, is precisely why the scaffolds took to the stage, and the guillotine in the french revolution...  but i am capable believing man can bake a decent loaf of bread... not so naive in a belief that all law and justice stems, as it does indeed stem, from a book, like the thesaurus.

i have a very due exposure of what a 21st century
poem currently looks like: i write horror,
  but i wait for the music to become translated...
   aren't we the ones to write
the most kept, most worthwhile
secrets the next man might
wish, or care to encounter...
i write under the one pretense
that modern people don't
dive into amnesia of forgetting
classical music, as i know
they will, when they only listen
to classical music in cinema...
a *vide cor meum from hannibal
(cassidy),
or from seven...
bach, g string & violin concerto no. 1...
at least applying classical music
to the genre of horror in the cinema
can lace us to universal memories...
tender hands, oh such tender porcelain hands...
bitten by the frost...
bitten by all except my teeth and lips
to dare perform the custom of lip unto knuckle,
like a knight,
         bound to receive the slap across the cheek...
so much less with ego-ego bonding...
as much as Hegel might presume...
that my love to no gravity of womb be secured
the imagination lost with the reactive
tendency for *****-count...
            and how horror really is the basis
for ensuring movies are filled with music...
if so much of life is equipped with having lost it...
unless we're sprechen deutsche Dante..
              or what's left to claim there was a spark
of believing the nearest of touches with
Michelangelo depiction of the gemini architects...
juliusz słowacki: the clad angel,
szatanioł -
   who's books i never read, and instead read
Kraszewski, or so the world is understood to be left
in the mechanism of constant continuum...
but this is only an imitation poem...
   how cruel, how unkind, the world surrouding us,
that our friends become our enemies,
and that after, so few and ever fewer to be accounted
for are asked to be friends, or can be...
how i will never life in Venice,
or Tuscany,
  and how i can be laid naked and senile,
not having a venture into these pockets of paradise
as a tourist,
   how can such places remain intact as fictional
oasis, enclosed in history books, and there
be read about, among egos and bookwoorms,
and have one soul, eager to think about them,
not having trodden a single banknote of pavement
in them, to not have bought a cup of coffee in them...
it's a sadness realised, and never forgotten,
but at least never beaming to have been
undone from such an arithmetic, as to have done so...
with only two words as remedy:
Kant & Königsberg - it almost begs to revise
the concept of nationalism, starting with the stated
example, as the face to resemble local avenues
lost, or foremostly undiscovered.
localism, first, then we can gain the gateway toward
nationalism, and the drift, the tide;
only when things are assured to have taken to
local "journalism" can we explore a world,
and thereby a happening / being in it...
what Kant lived, heidegger excelled in describing,
just the local, the mundane,
the: if you don't have what you like...
be content with what you do have, and be content
with it, as if it were something you would like to have.
so much concerning the study of being is formulated
upon the basis of not having;
  to me being is not having...
not possessing; so much of being is about
   not having, not possessing...
why pirates always overshadow the adventure of
clinging to the seas...
why pirates are the worth romantics easily translated
onto the silver-screen, and why admiral become
shoved and scarecrow stuffed into libraries with
dust and bookworms that wish:
that a moth might wake up, when a book it opened.
that it becomes self-evident that it's better
to possess and have, and not-be, than it is to be...
in that layering that's known to be man,
we're last in attempting a human feat...
to ascribe ourselves being human,
is to describe ourselves having roles...
   for by not ascribing ourselves the role of man,
we act with impetus to congest the world
with have, for there is no possession
in the ethereal, or with god alone... and that means:
yhwh will hardly translate into the n.e.w.s. or
the crucifix vector with the satanic lie from mt. sinai,
as the chinese are ready to prove
not being convinced, or converted...
only by acting with impetus to congest the world
with "having" it, claiming ownership of it,
can we act by deviating from claiming the sole role
of being men, and therefore like an oak
reduced to tooth-picks, call claim to
the industrialisation of meats, pork, beef, paultry,
and lay our foundations for the seemingly
countless examples of occupying space...
and the professions that come with it...
   until an enzyme akin to space-time emerges,
and as technology catches up to our comforts,
and says: we have to insert a revision,
a limit, a robotic schedule for the jobs that
are, well... pointless...
   then we worry... what with taxi drivers and uber apps,
and bus drivers and robot steered cars and the Docklands
light railway...
               and why lawyers will always be there,
a bit like us, dictionary prone, and them,
stretching the contempt for humanity having
a content for prescribing law as if contending for having
invented gravity, and using nothing,
but a thesaurus...
they should have just said it! *****!
there is no basis for jurisprudence working from
the 0 of a dictionary, a 0 meaning: plateau...
sea-level... jurisprudence does not even
acknowledge the existence of a dictionary...
when poetry, philosophy and all the other arts
use the dictionary as a reference point...
jurisprudence, or the practice of law
only uses the thesaurus... as do some writers,
who try to look smart for about a second
when they're looking through their recyclable *******
of a novel that takes 3 years to write:
milk bottle, tin can, milk bottle, amazon wrapping,
newspaper... law: same ****, different cover.

this ins't the Cabaret Voltaire moment,
but it almost feels like one,
i'm not cutting up newspapers into
singled-out words to pull out of the bag
like some magician with a top hat and a white
rabbit... i know i can influence people,
and that's my prime worry...
but sometimes you get to point out a correlation
of your own words the preceding day,
and the day that follows in newspapers...
and i do think that newspapers are the perfect
canvases to work from, to write a poetry,
all the tabloid presses get left in the gutter,
the famous and the rich get their faces printed
on its pages, but they nonetheless end up
in the gutters and get stamped on...
if i'll ever set up a polished Instagram profile
i'll think about keeping a clean lifestyle
photo-feed just prior i get my shoes polished...
so this ain't a Dada-revision...
i'd love for it being so... starting with
cuts of newspapers like writing a ransom letter...
you know i stress the need to avoid censoring
swear words, i'm getting systematically peeved
about this practice continuing...
like i said, newspapers are more about poetry
than philosophy ever wished to attack...
of course some of those trailing in the marathon
with their idealism will still meet the natural
critique... but poetry these days is more about
journalistic adventures solo
than essences, orchestras, ideals and singing
about Larks... those that lag behind will get burnt...
believe me... they're already barbecue burnt
chicken wings... and it does happen,
not like Cabaret Voltaire rebellion Dada,
i mean writing something akin to the argument
between Newton and Leibniz about who
discovered the mathematical Antarctica first:
calculus... it doesn't matter...
a day ago i wrote about swear words being
like conjunction words, the lubricants that scare
away dictionaries and thesauruses...
and what do i get today?
I SWEAR THAT'S POETRY... (Tom Whippie),
page 37 of the Saturday Times...
the jyst noting of things:
they are poetic, expressive, build trust and offer
a crucial linguistic hammering...
also aligned with Asterix and Obelix due to
their malignant oncology...
but! but... a US academic has called for a rehabilitation
of swear words, saying: 'profanity is poetic'
(Michael Adams, University of Indiana) - adding
'poetic because it's a surplus of expressiveness
and also poetic because there is something
in an extremely frustrated person finding no other
word suitable fir the level of frustration they feel'.
well... i just liked the idea of toying with
grammatical classification... i already said:
i would condense that statement into... to be honest,
and to be honest once more, and once more again...
i like to see these words like conjunctions -
which is the polar opposite of what western
society deems as: ******* **** and a demise
to further encourage dyslexia - the same joke
from Poland about the graffiti: huj and chój and hój..
people laughed at the excess aesthetic of the latter
two examples... bellybutton intellectualism of
the world (i.e. English) doesn't necessarily have to be
right... but nonetheless, Prof. Adam's in his
in praise of profanity speaks about the versatility
of swearing, that it has a power to make it
a much underappreciated linguistic device...
'there are words that punctuate experience; profanity
is artful speech'... add the word therapy to
that statement and you become a Guru...
socially useful, like teenagers using slang and acronym
encoding to talk cool, but also to provide the herd
an insight against paedophiles... nothing new...
paradox? you cannot praise profanity without
rules of legislation being imposed...
failing to preserve profanity would mean letting
down future generations... then the *** comes out...
a Prof. would talk about restraints...
straitjacket vocabulary... casual swearing...
oh right... i ought to fit my larynx with a bow-tie
for the formal affairs of the world...
i never expected my poems to be Grecian marble
smooth because i was about to gobble caviar and
champagne... well, let's face it...
somehow Evelyn Beatrice Hall's Friends of Voltaire
seems a bit redundant these days - it's no longer:
i disapprove of what you say, but i will defend to
the death your right to say it - is that at all true these days?
i always thought that the internet was more of
a thinking platform than a stage to shout your
opinions... maybe i was wrong... the sins of thinking
and leaving your thinking output exposed
in a public realm rather than in your bedroom
drawer... i rather be offended than live my life
out in an Apathetic Utopia of Fascist Islam...
******... just shoot already, but make sure i'm dead
rather than disabled.

I wasn't always good with words
until I learn they can be manipulated
stripped for parts,
treated,
reworded and planted as if sod,
sound the same,
rebuilt like a cars:
thesauruses are essentially junk yards,
they allow you to play tennis with your mind
they can replace signs,
are intimidated by the weak
yet rejoiced by the blind,
and --
in the end
I know words can do more than just rhyme
they chime in during chimes and relate simple parking tickets
to fines,
politicians use them as smoke screens
with words
I can metaphorically call them ninja’s
the way they evade questions and attack with their sharp tongues
so I won
well -- I'm winning the battle with words,
just know I can curse you now
without saying a curse

There aren't enough
love poems
love songs
pencils
journals
dictionaries
thesauruses
to gather the words of beauty and pain you've caused this
foolish little ***** cuddled beneath my chest..

Silly of me to be silly for you...
only to leave
leave and find comfort in another
while  I was at our home, longing for your affection
thinking of ways to bring the flame back to our connection...

Naïve of me,
but the nerve of you...
You went outside of us
to find you
I bet you're still lost

...but you're human, so maybe you needed that
& I needed for your love to never become selfish

Tell me,
tell me in its entirety why I wasn't enough

Was I not gentle enough with your soul?

Or maybe,
Just maybe I could've stared deeper into your eyes when we made sweet love?

I guess I could've screamed your name louder when you made me squirt passion?

Was 27 hours across this country to get to you not enough dedication?

Was leaving everything and everyone at the drop of your heartbeat not enough sacrifice?

I don't have enough fingers to count the countless times I forgave you...

Love was in the way, so I went out my way countless times to put a smile on your face

It wasn't enough
I wasn't enough
In your eyes, we weren't perfect enough
I did everything that wasn't enough

She was enough

...I wasn't enough of her

no! seriously! how many ******* times will we have to go over this format of reciting biblical compliments to each other, chapter 1 verse 1 through to 3 like it's worth 30,000 word essays on hermeneutics... if any rational man could see that somehow 3 words = 30 thousand words... he'd have written a dictionary in 10 languages, and thesauruses combining 3 of them for aesthetic purposes of non-tutored rhetoric: the talk that made drinking a pint less about st. st. st. stuttering, and more about: rub-dub-rub-dub... why in seashell the sea and in cave the echo? psst... don't wake them... the English rationalists will have a monkey scout on the trails of such loose language insensibility... they'll keep the power of the un-tripped domino with Shakespeare... the only country in the world where a dictator exists... and no one wants to own up to the identity of who he is.*

for all its worth, history is like science, quiet frankly history is
a science of humanism, so many facts in science, as there
are dates in history -
we educate people for the hamster catch -
drill them Pythagoras to reach a blind spot,
likewise quantum twins:
here too, there too,
Xerxes mad lashing at the sea for disobeying,
some Emperor of Japan not lashing at the sea
and allowing a samurai smooth tsunami stroke
against the neck wipe a million shaven heads
and a beard from the cares of
the few entombed in modern pyramids: harems.
if only Xerxes were transported to Japan
and began lashing against the sea for disobeying,
sent a few army bombers to disperse the wave,
maybe then we'd know why he failed
in his conquest of Greece...
apathy is the worst kind of madness,
it breeds no King Lear... it breeds no fear,
no theatrical splendour...
it just showcases the homeless man
at Covent Garden with the sign: please help...
walking past in fake diamond but nonetheless
esteemed ownership for status...
i'd run naked past... but to prove what?
that brother C.C. owns a t.v.?
prove what, and to whom? the grey mass
that entombs a life we once had
but are left to this perpetual-awe riddle
of up-kept science and ridicule of awe from
the beginning? up-keeping awe in science goes so
far, as Cancer Man said: the minute
they reject my book, i turn into the subverting
agent of their success... they don't
publish my book i un-publish their so called-truth
books, which become nothing more than
cookery books... the people of Siberia
are stern enough to survive without some
mush from upper-east side, some
London elitist with a flavour for Dubai...
to attain the uttermost objectivity of man's concern
is to devolve his highly evolved protection
of the subjectivity of the state, or patriotism,
of the Hegelian protective ownership of goods,
of the Marxian communal dis-ownership of such escapades:
to give birth to a God of jealous inquisitions,
one must give birth to a God of jealous intentions,
as of any time as the one time in mythology,
no greater time would be assured in being equal,
to his being... oh i favour the Cancer Man...
the object remains intact, censored subjectivity has already
been in place with the enforcement of
keeping Shakespeare saintly, erasing all existing memory
of, i admit, unnecessary bureaucracy to merely
draw a halo over a frying-pan of scrambled eggs...
it doesn't matter how right or wrong i am...
people have been given an almost eternal history,
so that they don't believe in an eternity...
but whereas a wolf once attacked a flock of sheep
and could be easily distinguished by adaptability,
the wolf within the sheep, as with the sheep within
a metaphysical suggestion (abstract) is no longer
distinguishable... we evolved to cannibalise each other...
whether intentionally in isolated cases, or poetically
with unintended cases of isolation...
we gave birth to a greater death than that of god...
we gave birth to the death of poetry, by precursor
to a death i mean the birth of the mediocre.
all the avenues are exhausted... all that fanciful
cocktail of clown and mime and acrobat are done...
we turned to comparative existentialism, as we always
did, we always wanted to protect the lamb from the wolf,
the fly from the spider... but when we were given the
bigger picture, the pyramid, the schematic, we became
so scared of our natural power that we created an overwhelming
seemingly over-worldly power of the atom...
we pitied the lamb lost among a pack of hungry wolves...
but then we gave sway to the industrial slaughter of cows
for mere food fights in schooling institutes that cared
more for imagining ourselves without body rather than
without god... god is dead... enter the dietitian.
as one swine plucked the heat from another swine's comfort,
another anorexic prickled her skin against another's
for the other's to only feel nerve and bone than anything
mammalian... we, the lizard people of the severed cranium,
who, through our concreteness to fact:
as in science as one fact changed, so history without mythology
no fact remains with the mythology of hindsight, the what if...
who cares if it happened, why are you trapped in the mythology
of what if? we are truly lizards... to the core that we imagine
the canvas of our fancies (muscles, fat, fibres) so gluttonous
with ****, while leaving cold skeletal phonetics dyslexic,
broken... why then so many people dare to read?
want to? want to escape the horrid comforts of the papier mâché?
fibula... but is that φι- or θι-? you don't know,
before you could teach the coherence of the movement of such
bones, you enveloped them in moulds of images,
which you later called sacred, and knelt before them,
in the worship of former stone engravings, which you engraved
on canvas depicting learned folk who were bitterly ignorant...
then you desecrated graves... giving fake skeletons
property over pointless words, words that could never stretch
to the sentence of: i love you... you left them,
in slogan canned, until started asking: where are the dentists!
where are the dentists! we need dentists!
you we simply slurring a stupid karaoke into a microphone
while your grandmothers ****** your very lives day by day;
but hey! ooh those steroid biceps that would
end up giving you a heart-attack when running
against true athletes of 200 metres at 20 metres dead;
oh believe me... those tourist trips to Auschwitz?
they're fakes... you don't have to go on a tourist trip to
Auschwitz to start realising you're living in hell...
those trips are only real for people who've been there
for real... even those Israeli schoolchildren have no place
there... it's a place designated for Nazis and Poles
who identified themselves as Jews first...
mind if we import the Sphinx to Trafalgar Sq. for
kicks the tourists might admire in between breaks of
watching Netflix?

I spend days and nights
Trying to find the words to write
The words to describe my pain
The words to explain why I'm insane
But little words can explain
What's going on in my brain

Dictionaries, thesauruses, every literary tool
Extensive knowledge of every grammatical rule
Yet I'm still staring at a blank page
Unable to explain my fueling rage

Reading math shall become as easy as reading spoken language.
To question comprehension is only natural until higher degrees of practice are obtained.
That's why I have dictionaries and thesauruses for spoken tongue, and why I have textbooks and the Internet for maths.

It started in the fiction section
Beginning with a trickle causing lights to flicker
From the floors below hitting the dictionaries,
The thesauruses became wet or rather dank
Those are synonyms I think
Unfortunately, no books to now know
As a storm in the library began to grow.

Children abandoned in their places,
Started tying books with their shoe laces
Setting sail, trying to hold their head up for a bit.
As a white whale's tail caused waves in a flick.
One parent yelled "everyone for themself!"
As his son coughed water asking for help
Books floating, amongst dirt and crude,
The third floor was beginning to flood.

The nonfiction was now non-existent,
Drifting past CDs that no one had listened.
Computers with a floppy drive were fried,
Electrically hissing through historical fiction.
The water came to hit the roof, the sky
Just then the walls crumbled
And I opened my eyes
To see I'd fallen asleep among the graphic novels
Where I had been known to hide.

Would you agree with witty words from a dictionary?
And do those confusions all depend on mind play?
Who could help us more correctly:
Definition or detonation?
Lust or Love?

Who will promise to find the differences?
When we dig ourselves into dictionaries
or thesauruses 
Defining our commonality,

Refining our uniqueness, However
the death is the dictionary of unknown words,
Cant’t anyone edit and omit it, to none,
It’s soliloquy.

My body pressed down by stacks of dictionaries and thesauruses
And people desperate to iron out my creases before they need to use me,
I lay flat against the map of the town, my cheek brushing a tree’s branches.
The paper town is pretty to perfection, all done down in diffused pastels
It’s long and tall, but it has zero broadness to its name-
A perfect match for me in those days leading up to a stint in rehab
But SHHHHH!! We’re aren’t allowed to talk about rehab.
The river that flows unassumingly through town traces a line across my thighs,
Covering up with its blue murk the lil red scratches that paint my skin
But SHHHHH!! We’re aren’t allowed to talk about those problems either.
The paper town is quiet and quaint on the face,
Which is good given there’s not much else to see here.
The infinities wasted here linger below like the taste of peanut butter
But anyone could see from a glance the lives frozen in one serene moment
What they can’t see, the part that’s hidden under the soil, the second layer of paper
Is that the moment is surely fading into a photograph
And slowly, slowly, slowly… the paper town is home only to pathetic paper people.
Picture perfect. Perfect picture.
I can feel my heart disintegrating with each passing day I can’t give it any meaning
And I can feel my blood boiling with each day the powers that be control me and I don’t know why
I can’t find any rhyme or reason that works for me, I can’t find a meaning to be me, or being this
I’m made of paper, blowing in the wind wherever it wants to take me
I’m a powerless slip of paper with a painted on smile fading in the brilliant sunlight I’m driving into.
I fade. I’m not even a fresh paper anymore.
But I feel doomed to be a paper forever. So I fade.

i hope that one day i stop stuttering, that i become good enough with words to do justice to your love,
to the way you wrap me in your arms on a daily basis, even so far away
i hope that one day i can tell you that you are an oasis in the desert, a warm blanket in the winter in a way that is less cliche
you are so much more than "roses are red", than all my tired metaphors
i am stupid in awe of you, it's like the english language leaves my head,
or maybe it was never really equipped in the first place
to describe
the exhilarating, calming, comfortable riot of your love
so i just stumble over simple phrases,
i just say over and over again, you are the sun, you are the sun, you are the sun,
i cannot quite describe how caught up i am in your gravity
i just ramble on, i say
you are my person, you are my safe place, you are my favorite song
flipping through dictionaries and thesauruses
i don't think i will ever have the words to describe you, to verbalize what you mean to me
but i'll happily spend my life by your side trying