his own & this world's realities are like the fuzz in the States
they're ones to escape, which is a plan of attack
that, like a unit of ammo dispatched
to the bean of a **** autocrat dying physically damaged & sad
hits his deli̲ght-bankrupt brain; like Donald the dung piece, today
he feels bold, so maybe there'll be, like abundance of cake
["bald"]
fortune coming his way
["fortis fortuna adiuvat"/"fortune favors the bold"]
————————————————————————————————
this one's a schmuck thing to say
but this club reminds of Ukraine (what?)
he, like motorized cavalcades from the next-door empire, invades
its territory causing, like unaccommodating writer, a sla[ɛ]m
[Eminem & his "Unaccommodating" song]
as he shuts the door frame; obvi, sO̲me people may
find them bars offensive, like an armed aggression
so my apologies, I'm somewhat ashamed
mainstream house stuff is on play
a thought in his skull: "this is lame"
Michael S. straight after he turned around & stumbled on blamed
Toby F.; through the crowd he cuts like a blade
[the ending of the "Frame Toby" episode cold open from "The Office" series]
having hopped U̲p on the stage
as if it were a narcotic substance you've ta'en
he, so loud as if with his cullions in grave
nU̲t-wrenching pain, bawls: "THIS ****** *****!", like a brace
of someO̲ne's OTKs colored with stains
["*****"; "so[ɑ]cks"]
of blood; a schoolgirl on sO̲me yandere[eɪ]
sh#t; disgruntled, he makes for the f#cking DJ
delivers a verbal punch in his face by the fo[ɑ]llowing phrase:
"boy, go house-sit with your confounded
boring house sh#t, just like a housewyf"
whereafter thrusts him away
ending the uproar with "ciao, drip!"
music-wise, it's gon' go hard as nuts in this place
as if a flock of ones who're deranged
["who're" is supposed to be read/pronounced as "whoor"]
swung by a club in the wake of a ****** **[ɑ]spital break (nuts in this place)
he puts on midtempo dark cyberpunky synthwave
Gesaffelsteinish mid-paced
type of music; that's what drives his crumpet insane
speaking of crumpets, he spots a buxomish babe
while nodding his ******* nut to this cray
music, he feels like a **** being aimed
at, for she stands with her sight, like one of a gun, fixed his way
————————————————————————————————
for a few secs, at each other they gaze
she's quite a fox with her vibrant locks
reminding of flame; somebody call a fire brigade
hourglass-shaped & rigged out in tight pa[ɛ]nts & a blouse
with a U̲-neck, like a fella without
*****, & leaving her waist a bit out
["******"]
on display; he makes his way to this frau
salutates her with "ciao"
she greets him with just the same, then he mouths
the following: "babe, you're way like a house
for lodging that's nowhere to be found
that is, in the deep of a labyrinth"
she's like: "what in the void's name's this about?"
he replies: "I'ma translate that one now"
"the way you look's amazing, ten out
of ten", like that "KleanColor" skin bro[ɑ]nzer
["a maze inn"; "Tan Out Of Tan"]
she makes a soft smile, then replies: "ain't you nice, pal
when you lay your thoughts out?"
"not being nice would be a crime
when you face a fine gal
like you", - he replies
"if so, rejecting the company of a guy so gracious would count"
as a crime too", - she replies
being a music ****** with such a need fO̲r it it's
stuff he cA̲[ɛ]n't live without
the guy asks the gI̲rl if she
is ta'en with this sound
her reply is affirmative
she says she mostly faves underground
kinds of music; they vibe
to these tunes being pU̲t on, just like
that loony sh#twipe the whole antifa community'd like
to see end up ruined, just like
Aleppo or Mariupol; stop, I'd
like, before the main telling resumes, to rewind
a little: the newly-met vibe
to these hard-hitting beats put on; he finds
out, when asking her what drinkable fluid she'd like
to have, that she deems it uncool to imbibe (*****)
he replies: "to tell you the truth, so do I"
so if there's somebody to end up lit during this night
it is the moon in the sky
["some body"]
————————————————————————————————
soon after having their soft drinks taken, they bounce
like the name of the style
of music brought into this wO̲rld heaps
before chicks twerking
blew into the mainstream like "blaow!"
["hips"]
like a sick pervert that digs scourging
while engaged in a bout
of carnal fun, he's got a whip ordered
they wait for several mins for it
finally, the motorized conveyance comes out
like a deb girlie
[debutante]
he trails this fox like she's prey to hunt down
watching her proceed to[–]ward it
in a way like she's on a catwalk waving around
a rig splurgy
having hopped in it, to a lodging place they set out
the saucy look in her eyes
once his palm is put on her thigh
a kind of luminous sign–
–board reading: "absolutely alright
with going on a lewd spree tonight"

Stains & worn spots in carpet.
(A heart trampled, abused & neglected)
Torn wallpaper.
(She doesn’t feel as beautiful as she once did)
Chipping paint.
(With a little maintenance & love she would shine)
Mold from water damage
(Nights of tears & heartache stain her pretty face)
Leaky roof
(Her mind only dwells on the past not able to rise above & find something better)
Poor design
(Is it her fault – she was made this way by God – to give her whole heart & soul.  For what?)
Needs expansion to fit more people
(Her heart is cramped and closed – afraid to let anyone in.)
Chairs hard, uncomfortable.
(Unaccommodating, she turns people away so that they won’t hurt her too.)

That sound, like vengeance, bitter and whining!
The unseen terrors ‘midst an unstirring throng
Come weaving between my fingers, books, ears.
Why, oh, why does it target me?
A bee, a stinging assumption of the most
Prevailing type, a thing—if ever there was—
Most hated by the modern man:
A loafer inspiring fear, inspiring action
But to act would draw the cool judgment
Of my peers—a ****, a twitch, a sound—none move.
This distance, for it does not bother you!
No hesitation to act progressively when charity
Is abundantly “there” but the coffers deign to open
And the kitchens are dry, and the powers are artifice
To shove the matter—illusory—to the great blue wayside.
Away, away thing! Do not plunge your itinerancy
In the soft of my skin—I do not want you here,
Remove yourself from my sweet drink,
Remove yourself from my food, remove
Your presence—transparently, I don’t have to think
About you if you…just…leave!

And it did—ha! Hell spawn! Parasite! But such a lonely
Planet finds its orbit just as drifting rocks find theirs,
Even if it unaccommodating, in the outer wears,
To sylvan marches—take thy there!
And it has, poor little creature, buzzing through the miens aslare
Spacey, empty, sans (attention), but sans care.
None will bat an eye as its well-meant body,
Interpellated annoyance, genetic condemnation,
Vermilion-paints on the walls of Hell,
Floats, broken, between uncaring faces, looking for
That thing called home, arms warm from its
Present-roam—uncared for Other on lithe little wings
Glass beats at the speed of sound, beat heard
Against the sky’s blue scrim, glass rippling, incensed
So quick, movement becomes oneness and still.
Who could not love you when you’re world’s ignominy?
These ******* are but foul, they can not love you
Steeled by the constant repressive ire
For that which is so homeless—what is spurned in steely pines
And flown away, far, far from the mind,
Ceases to be in the cosmos free, trapped by hate
And invisibility, objectively all, subjectively none.

I find meaning in the eyes of others,
Love never seems to come from within,
It comes from the eyes of the girl who despises my being,
From the lips of the guy I never seem to fulfill,

I find meaning in the flesh of others,
My own seems rotten,
Unaccommodating to my soul,
Undeserving of my dreams,

If one day I let myself relish in the flesh of others,
Will my body become worthy of her eyes, of his lips?
Will my soul find rest?
Will my dreams...

If I could speak during an episode I would probably tell you that your well intended jokes don’t make this easier. Faking a smile is impossibly hard when I am trying to disguise my skin and bones as an acceptable member of society.

Sometimes my emotions feel like a human being; physical, demanding and in need of my entire body. I feed them because I’ve never been able to ignore someone who is in need.

I must tap my foot faster than my heart or my stomach will explode into my chest. When my body is imploding in on itself because of my hair trigger brain, I run through the drills I was taught by someone who has never felt this way. By someone who knows that no amount of breaths will protect me from the blast. Like a school child hiding under her desk, this is only a distraction until the inevitable rains down and the whole world disappears.

If I could speak in this moment I would probably tell you goodbye. No matter how many times I have seen the end of the world, I always believe it IS the end. How could anything grow back in a place that repeatedly destroys itself. My body is a vessel and my mind is a natural disaster, senseless and unaccommodating.

The sand bags under my eyes are strong but they cannot stop the flood. They create a **** at best, until the stinging in my throat is no longer bearable and I willingly strip the windows of their boards and defense strategies.

When my chest becomes a balloon with a hole in the middle, when meditation becomes suffocation and I wish trees would produce helium instead of air so I could float away. When you look at me and think “it’s just in your head,” I wish you understood that ,yes, it’s just in my head.
It is in my head.
It is inside of me.
It is a part of me.

If I could speak in this moment, I would tell you that I have studied amputation but there are no Cliff Notes for taking out a part of your soul. I would tell you that attention is the last thing on my mind. I would explain why the closet floor is the only place I can be terrified of the world without the world being terrified of me.

I have watched the end of mental illness. I was there when schizophrenia turned to dementia and forced my grandmother to forget all the dilutions her brain worked so hard to create. As if nature was cleaning the slate but showed up 80 years past due and forgot to apologize.

When I look into the mirror I should see a solid form but sometimes I see static and I wonder if this means ,somewhere, hiding beneath my hair is an off switch. If it could be held down for ten seconds would I reset or lose the ability to come back.

If I could speak in this moment I would tell you I am not coming back. I am changed through every self induced tragedy. The chemical make up of my mind is an evolving experiment and this shell you see is just a test subject.

If I could speak in this moment...

If I could speak in this moment...

I probably wouldn’t.

It's not the world I've done with
(I don't go out seeking any enemy)
but one person--the singular-
the most unaccommodating---ME!