This is a poem I wrote looking out my window this same evening in autumn I think I was just feeling a little lonely..


Life, it passes by outside the cold chained window
As I stare out into the light, out of my lonely dark corner
My eyes burn a little, I don’t mind though, I’m used to the pain life brings me
It has grown to a dull itch rather then a perching pain

It has been made null and done in by the pain my heart brings me
For the love of my life, the one who lied about his feelings,
He, he has ripped it out of my chest, painfully and slowly
Taking his time and plotting each and every single step he shall take

To make me suffer more then I should
I see a copal, and how cute they look together
But then I look into her hims’ eyes and see, I see what I saw in my hims’ eyes
I shan't worn her for tiz her own petty fault as was my own when my "incident" happened

I’m not mad at him, I’m sure he couldn’t help it, it’s just one of those unfortunate inconveniences
I hope it was anyway, even so I’m not mad, it was my own fault
So as happy life goes on outside my cold chained window
I watch and wait to see all the unsuspecting victims who will end up like me
But they’re different, they think they’ll have someone to blame

Sundays are for poetry
it's just the way it is
The fact that I should mow the lawn
doesn't get me in a tiz

And sure I could shingle the shed
but it ain't fell down yet
and besides so what if it rains
things'll just get a little wet.

And I could be stripping paint
hanging wallpaper and doors
but quite frankly I dont want to
There's a reason they're called chores

No I'd much rather be sat here
with my laptop on my knee
sharing the thoughts within my head
for everyone to see.

Because Sundays are for poetry
that's just the way it is
perhaps I should go write that down
into a poem such as this

-Slightly sadistic 17-year-old girl seeks suitable mate
Re: matters of dystopic fantasties
- A cannibalistic companion, mayhaps
to soothe lingering curiosities held captive by the bright red and steady rhythm of dripping blood
Disclaimer: this advertisement (pronounced ad-vur-tiz-ment) is not a cry for help - but next week's definitely will be
"Hi, I'm not usually like this, I haven't really done this sort of thing before, but..."
thinking to self I would like to carefully extract your organs and construct a small fortress out of them. I would like to staple your mouth to my mouth. I would-
"Oh, what? No, I didn't say anything."
- I'm imagining you as more of a shadow, all tangible beings seem bleak to me - but could you still hold my hand???
"Yes, it's lovely outside. Beautiful weather."
- But when we venture outside its proven that our eyes are much too sensitive for the light and inside beckons as much cooler and safer, inside of me is dangerous - and inside of you is an inferno



(Please set me on fire)

And it is is mine that I
Speak of:  Once upon
A time a great truth I
Knew  great and good-
Know still its true and its.
No lie I tell but was a time
Apart and is not the same
The truth  I know it is
Great and Glorious from
Afar but not so much with-
In where  it fulled my heart
And soul.  Now I know but
I know less now than before
When twas a Glory that can
Not be remembered as the
Old woman said speaking
Of the Fall in mountains of
Her Youth -tiz but once
We know and must forget.
But as the poet said of our
Youth long is its memory
For this yearning sin I ask
Your forgetfulness and mine
That I may love you as myself

The long and the short of it is,
at the moment
I don't give a krap if the
World's in a tiz
I'm in my cocoon
I'm growing and soon
I'll be able to fly far away.

Constant aches, constant pains.

Oh sweet peppermint candy canes.

year after year, wishing on that bright, old star

Wondering how you are.

Torn apart by the court.

It's time for cheer, for Christmas is here.

Tiz not the time to mourn.

Tiz the time of year yet again,

to be with you,

But only in my faded memory.

Year after year,

missing birthday after birthday.

Year after year,

no family Thanksgiving dinner.

Year after year,

asking Santa for what I know he can't give.

Have all the cousins forgotten one of their own?

Aunts and Uncles too?

What about the older sister,

and brother.

Have they forgotten as well?

Ten years of being seperated,

doubt they remember.

Only time will tell

It was the new way to say goodbye
Simply text

Dear John
It’s over
Don’t cry
Must fly
Time to start anew

And if it doesn’t work out
We know just what to do

Dear Jane
Been thinking about this for a while
It’s your style
Just not for me
Want to start something new
Be seeing you

What the hell
No style
Dear John
Have you gone mad
Are you on the moon
Been thinking for a while
I've got no style

Dear Jane
It’s not all about you
Look at the bigger picture
We can see other people
Now that we’re through

Dear John
I can’t get my head round this
We’ll have to meet up
I’m all in a tiz

Dear Jane
Only if you insist.

If I keep writing, what will be revealed?
Nothing I'm guessing but it it seems I cant yield.

Am I a poet? Or is this a new fad?
All I can tell is that the rhyming is bad.

I don't know the rules or the technique,
But I can't stop the scribbles, no matter how meek.

It's a natural thing, a way to express,
But part of me just see's a terrible mess.

I am a dialectic, whatever that is.
Two opposites combining, one mind in a tiz.

A poet, an artist, a creative being
Married to a stoic, logical, seeing;

All sides of everything, large and small
No black or white, just grey over all

So that's where there is a difficulty,
For I know not what I'm supposed to be

But sometimes I feel different in my creative side,
This part is sure that it is up for the ride

But the stoic, the practical, the logical me
Reprimands my free spirit, say's it's best not to be.

A war has been raging inside of my soul,
One side of me buried like a lost blind mole

The other side leading with logic not spark,
We're moving and moving but still in the dark

If we walked together, trusted, believed,
Then there would be no panic, there'd be blossom and seed.

Together to freedom, together to truth,
Living in harmony til long in the tooth

Both sides need work and both sides need space,
But both will be represented by this one face;

Smiling and free, contented to be,
Who she is, who she was, who she ever will be.

Mama's on her iPhone
checking out
'Worst Places to Live in America'
heck
I guess anywhere's
better
than here.

The youngster's all a tiz
& teary because
his new bracelet making
thingy is actually
a real drag
to work with,

& me,
I'm all a glaze-eyed
looking at my bank account
& its negative
$35,

oh,
& did I mention
there's now a hole
in my boot
to match
my socks,

ha!

on the rare occasion that it does happen,
bad news, i was already fired up
to get on with the work,
of painting the corridor,
    when i was informed that
the boazeria (wood panneling)
had a lakier / lacquer finish...
at first i thought that i was
******* at the person giving me
solid advice...
    i stormed out of the house
thinking of the impossible,
yet what dragged me into reflection
of the possibility of: the abyss
of so many lives interchanging
social cordiality hiding beneath
a depth of life: worth more as solid
bricks, than as would be novels...
dare i: suckle at thost most mundane,
and do so, without any
responsibility to burden my
       already freelance devoid matter
of fact, as if: there was no
duty, no inheritence tax on
say, the english speaking world
effort of the memory of 1066...
       well... 1410 is quiet another date...
when the northern crusaders
were vanquished when a nation
of newly converted Christians were
wed to a nation of polyphonic pagans
of ancient Lithuania at the core,
extending: from the Baltic,
                              to the Black Sea...
sad almost, yet blinding nonetheless,
to be bound to the accummulating
eyes...
               hunched, sitting at the tease
of the river before the high tower
of the setting sun, before the altar
of žalias and mother May...
           of course no heroism...
saison: added the zest of bitter
orange, based using French yeast...
had i not peeled off the etykietkę,
the label, i wouldn't be writing this...
thankfully some passing stranger
noticed me, asked me for a light,
thanked me (he too towed
several beers to his abode)
    and without a lost in translation,
lit.: hold on / trzymaj się...
   ty też / you too... came my reply;
had Sisyphus been giving the task -
or told as little...
    anger arose from an immovable
object, yet the day was retained,
in the smallest of fathomable
vanity projects, thinking, or spare
morality, vagabond ethics, Democritus'
dogs and other howling
in crematory urns, graves,
and within spying crow beaks
perched in pretending sleep martyrdom
statuettes...
           are we to **** a poem
for worth of rhyme?
     or suddenly, the uncontained
gong, and rattling chains, crisp to
the 20th bellowing frost-bitten echo:
as replica, of a chattering chess game,
king a tier above the pawn,
pawn the numerous analogue,
a queen, a bishop, a rook,
                   a knight... and a long lost
******...
        but by nighttime the concern
for lacquered wood panneling was gone...
anticipating a full moon
that the calendar later refined as:
till Monday....
       ah... not only in Germany such
beer is drank...
           sure enough ***** comes at pure
night, czysta noc,
        but prior to cliché sword dance with
sweet, come sour, come the barking dog...
perpetual autumn with accents of spring,
till that orb and Atlas and Louis XIV ego
market assurance of a tomorrow:
   HEFEWEIZEN...
         hefe-weiß-bier...
   meddlesome murk and twice worth
the romance associated with the fabbled
smog of London...
     and just today...
   it started in Naples:
        schatten, **** and a fondness for
scalding frost:
              but before the ladies started
investing in botox,
    and elsewhere apart from the lips,
before came lips like
early flower buds teasing a comparison
to Violeta, and the violoncello...
          vigour and violence...
    sophia loren and nature playing
with dice...
       sack of pears each side,
cider on the left, poached with cream
on the other fused with cinnamon
and cloves...
       and a pair of lips,
    like poststamps and sealed envelopes...
before nature was robbed of
throwing dice...
           gambling and sieving and
all manner of alchemical fabric...
whether chicken prior
   to the egg or vice versa...
   the lips of sophia loren
came prior to the genenric:
   industrialisation of a plagiarised
beauty...
                bad expriment,
or simply bored...
                   stash of doodled ideas
and sketches -
   sie ist ein modell und sie sieht gut leer,
    genießergelage auf bandwürmer
    und champagne flöteglass sträusels
             on gestrig erbrechen...
   pardon mein schwabian,
     tiz noot too güt...
    ol Fritz didn't teach me well,
but I happen to notice...
   Italy, albeit fascist, enjoyed
a colourful revival under
the watchful eye of holywood...
a Roman holiday...
       huh... no wonder I'm teasing
roboboy and thinking:
surely the only complimentary
exponent of the third *****,
to compliment my reading of Heidegger,
must be a more, public, figure...
    ah... the biography of
Leni Reifenstalh is waiting...
once i finish the ****** affair of
a historical novel, and a lost tourist
who was supposed to have summoned
a quest for inspiration at Marienburg...
if we're looking for artefacts
from the third *****...
   who better stand as antonym of
Heidegger, if not Reifenstalh?        
as are we all, tourists of history...
    it could have been a fascination
with the Weimar Rep.,
                      or the Polish Peoples' Rep.,
but...
     history seems rather,
congested... and that hardly mentions
Jacob Ripplestone...
                          a fascination
as concise as it is consistent with:
in the days when journalist are thieves
of time, and kings, their marionettes:
part etiquete poodles,
      part lunatic patrons,
             part honing devices for
small town tourists...
                      and to think: the night
as yet, so young.

let's just say that when the rhythm is good,
and you end up catching yourself
with a pen in one hand (between the index
and *******) and the other minding
the rhythm also... a mild sūdokú puzzle
can be a breeze... notably?
    while listening to helena beat
by foster the peopke (which seems to have
a slight accent of gun's song word up.

rewinded the **** song three times,
and ****! the *sūdokú puzzle almost solved
itself...

  never mind that, i already am familiar
with me signing each puzzle, by inserting
the last four numbers, replaced by
greek letters...

   this is the chaotic approach to the linear
projection...
   of? gematria... and i think the hebryes
made a mistake, acquiring this
assyro-babylonian-greek system...
   i think they did the wrong thing,
to me? it's a load of *******...
   might as well solve a sūdokú puzzle,
or do the crossword...
                    it's a bit like saying:
moses and the golden calf:
   the **** have you adopted? what you doing?
you turned authentic prophetic insight
into: a ******* lottery!
              i should know: i'm not playing
this cheap game of ascribing letters numbers
and nullifying the meaning of words
already lost to modern slang...
                the hebryes should be ashamed
of themselves, having lost their way with
due cause by the assyrian, babylonian and greek
"system"...
      it's almost as problematic as iconoclasm...
the hebryes have become iconoclasts of words!
away with your incorporating gematria!
away with you!
          by god, i'll topple this bollocking waste
of language like blinded samson toppled
the temple!
                   you play your little lingo lottery
elsewhere...
         you wasted a decent understanding
of language, and made a golden calf of it...
useless!
            don't you dare to play this gematria
game any time soon...
   learn to gamble... using pennies to
make bets... don't you ******* gamble with
language as you have...
   or instead of hebryes i'll start calling
them philistines of language.

       so i finish my sūdokú puzzles with
inserting the four last blanks with greek letters...
you know what that showed me?
   the rigid learning of the alphabet...
why the said order?
   why not the order that suddenly pops into
your mind,
     namely: it doesn't begin with a, b, c
ending with x, y, z...
        it doesn't have to, personally? if you
remember all of the 26 letters of the latin script:
you're good to go...
    me? i'm still trying to burn an effigy of
the greek alphabet into my head...
   problem is: i've forgotten two letters
(cf. plato's theaetetus, i.e. SO) -
  
but this is how remembered the 22 / 24 of the letters...
oh look, what a lovely ratio...
   0.91666666666666666666666666666666...

well... i could only remember some letters
in their CAPITAL form...
  
  and this is how:

α   β    π   ρ    ω    η     o
         λ   μ   υ   ν    Σ   Γ   χ
             φ    ψ   ε    Ξ    ξ.....

wait a minute...                Ξ = ξ...

     how did i miss iota (ι)?
i admit, it was a rushed experiment of memory...
and this was the first attempt,
   i can't forgive myself for forgetting ι...

point being... the two letters missing?
     Z (zeta) & θ (theta) -
            
                                tiz zee twooth;

then again, i was writing this down
   on a newspaper supplement,
   with a woman showing off her flat stomach
and tensed neckline...
    
            ****... the ration becomes
simpler, just another 0.875...

    but the jews should have never disgraced
themselves playing with gematria...
    prophecy is not a lottery, you can't gamble
with or disgrace words as
                 the assyrians, babylonians
or greeks did...

                 take that little ****-storm of
a game, and feed it to a sūdokú puzzle,
minding the four letters missing,
and for god's sake, pay the due homage
to god's signature on this world...
    
  coming from someone writing in latin text...
you ought to know
   what these past twenty centuries have been
like.

Whether tiz fare t’middling
or
Excruciatingly Wonderful
simply
beyond rarely drempt dreams
of
what most think possible...

...uhem
L'Life and Poetry
are
Judged Subjectively
so when
a poet of
upcoming note and stick.to.it.tivity
takes his or her work seriously
it being
not
foolhardy
due to
some sort of mental malady
or maybe
quite conversely
another fellow
silly and frivolous
just may be crazy
but
didn't know or
particularly care
yet  
penned a poem plucked from
ethereal air
discovering his creation
making slight on-the-fly alterations  
in front of an audience
say
just on a lark or
where a wild feather was or  
Perhaps he's up there on a dare
I don't know
it happens though
anyway
something of great value was found
within themselves
they didn't know was there
so
However these things happen
steadily over time
or thunderstruck all at once
identity is fundamentally
amended to where
what was once unattainable  
is now unimportant since  
a page was turned
to greater awareness
so now
the poet's words
are
more worthy and valid
for
what was once hidden
is now revealed
only then can
all elements necessary be assembled
from this omnipotent coagulation
to sublime manifestation
A Focus and Fervor of Defined Desires
Is the Poet Stung
with
Purpose and Power
then
applying design to
words verse and rhyme
til when
Time itself
becomes no more
than
a
fraction of an instant
in
Infinity
of Truth and Beauty
so full and rich
Truer and more Beautiful
it lasts forever in just a
fleeting glimpse
continuing to
emptiness
with what?  
nothing?
nothing to grip!
****!!!
you're slipping inexorably into
the vilest of
vile pits
the stench of ignorance
grips your breath
fear and doubt
floating in chunks and clouds
smack into you hard
and harder
the faster you fall
and all is
no more
than
terror and gloom  
that massive splat coming at'cha
will
be your doom
it's wildly impending
sooner than soon
You're not sleeping
All is lost
because
there's
No way out that's not up
from this
the lowest hole you know about
Oh!
You just remembered  
You've been here
it's familiar
remote
dark and far away
the
Most Vile and Disgusting place ever!
And we're here
Caught involuntarily
in the wake of a wave of a
train of thought
to this self-made imposition
of
Boredom
Hopelessness Torture and Rot
to be avoided
Of Course but
here we are
with dispassion
looking at it wondering at
all
the picks and shovels laying around
instantly knowing
escaping permanently was gonna be
certain the second mighty ****** downward
the blade of the shovel
hit something metallic
it was

!! <><><><>!! A Treasure Chest !!<><><><> !!

filled with
The Greatest Treasure in Life Ever
including
a super lightweight, high-tech, full-body
environmentally protective flight suit and
helmet seamlessly
fitted into a Rocket Pack featuring
six individual super way hightech 'n powerful
rockets mounted
on their own 6-servo-motor
articulating navigational vector control arm assembly
for aerial cat-like maneuverability
combined with
Out of This World Acceleration        
Vertical and Horizontal
All Instantly with Grand Facility
at my fingertipped command
through incredibly way advanced
integration and supercomputerized by  
Super Intuitive Control Interface Devices
plus
an elegant locking leather satchel
containing
lots of money and
some other
vital
bank information and passport
and
I wasn't standing
in a deep hole anymore
with fears and doubts
swirling in chunks and clouds above me
clogging
the pathway to anywhere
and everybody in the audience
was much wiser
having traveled
on words poetically
to
the deepest and darkest
most forbidden
most hidden
One of those
just-so-many-sensible-reasons-to-avoid places
only to find
Life's Greatest Treasure was buried there
oh my
and
I couldn't get it published
no matter how many lives changed
so I started thinking
ya know
everybody in the audience is
wiser and better but
I'm the only one with
this
really cool rocket suit
and leather satchel full of money
so
of and relating to
the poet's
Our Own Little World

...uhemm
N'No One Loves
A Poet’s Poem
more than
The Poet who wrote it probably
and
The Poet who wrote it knows it
and
They don’t get **** hurt
when
Publishers **** up
because
It happens
All
The Time

There once was a SOMETHING , that i couldn't see
a dark shadow lurking,Waiting for me
No matter how many times I stayed in the light
I couldn't quite shake it
out of my sight
And when the darkness came
And I couldn't see
this  dark shadow lit the way for me
not seeing any other way through
And just not knowing what else to do
so ****  it, what do I have to loose
what  other option is there to choose
I'm climbing the walls
trying to find a way out
But nobody's coming
No matter how much I scream and shout
So eventually after growing tired and weak
sick of this game of hide and seek
I decide to choose the obvious way
no longer able to resist it's compelling sway
because at this point I just want saving
Will this lead me to my haven

So  This shadow with his teeth shining bright
blindingly dazzling and pearly white
Once it was seen it branded its mark
pulling you into the impossible dark  
no matter how hard I tried to stay strong
time turned to eternity, a never ending long
So what would you do if you were in the same boat
do you think you would sink or be lucky enough to float
do you go left or do you go right
do you fall deeper further
or strive for the light
so I made a choice to follow this path
and for a while it was great , I had a good laugh
But I got distracted and soon became lost
and before I knew it I found out the cost  
I thought I could trust this invisible D
but I should of realised he was always coming for me
Thid invisible man, only mouth on show
If he gets you lost i told you so
Coz really are you that nieve
To trust blind talk and believe
That a mouth with no face  could be your guiding light
Well do you think they really might
So why let an unknown voice lead the way
Surely you want to have your own
say
To make it clear what's on your mind
It's down to you which path to find
So take a breath and clear your head
And read back all that i have said
Why follow a voice when you can light your own way
It's a huge step I know,
today may not be your day
but keep these words close for one day you will find
that one morning you'll wake and realise it's your time
To brave the darkest tunnel all on your own
But when you finally come through,
It's like no feeling you've never known
It's going to be hard and proper ****
But it won't last forever , just for a bit
so Prepare for a journey like youve never known
and then at the end see how much you've grown

With the ultimate prize  on the other side
it will be the ultimate high
just one small step will set the right path
Just take it slow and the distance you'll  last
So take a chance on yourself
you may be surprised
this could be your time to truly rise
what's truly important, what can't you loose
well have a good think
only you can choose
We all sometimes struggle to see the wood for the tree's
But after this trip you'll be shooting the breeze
So never give up, for life is a maze
Sometimes you get lost , forever and a day
But like with a maze there's always s way through
It's up to you what you do
You can run round like crazy
always hitting dead ends
or twisting and winding round every bend
chasing your tale and doubling back where you've been
And repeating mistakes you still don't mean
trying to cut through the bushes to cheat a quick path,
it might make you happy now
But I guarantee it won't last
because no matter how many shortcuts in life you try to take
It's always going to end up being a mistake
I think most of us feel lost most the time
am I coming or going ,**** it pass me the wine
So let's loose myself ,disappear in style
Even if it only lasts  a while
Coz after 3 bottles and I'm saying I'm fine
while grabbing thin air to get that last bit of wine
And it finally happens and you fall flat on your face
And it's clear to all your fall from grace
and there's no sickening feeling that utter shame
and knowing you only have yourself to blame
For there is only so long we can put  blame on others,
my mother did This and my dad is a ******
And just like this poem
I'm.not sure where I'm going
haha the ****** up me is showing
I'm trying to say something but not exactly sure what It is
my heads going nuts I'm in a right tiz
in fact I don't even remember how this poem came to light,
Maybe it's a sign that's it's time to step up to fight







.....