Speaking of broken hearts
and mended fenced in mem'ries  
I am painting skies
of tangerine, saffron
& an illuminated lilac hue
against the starkly contrasted crisp cornflower blue, stretching canvas that is
along with all the
other blindingly beautiful colors of a twilight sky

And those dripping cotton candy stratospheric clouds
Ice crystals freezing into supercooled
water droplets
Streaking the sky in cirrus whispers
..I hear them whisper, "hello"...

Blinding beauty
through unadulterated sunlight
I am fleeced like a lamb
watching in awe,
..in wonder
then stomping sounds
of coming thunder,

Finding depth and height
out  in the stratosphere
Blinded by the
After Light
or afterglow
affected by the amount of haze
I'm in a daze
...as I am reaching

High above the fading light
of a brilliant early fall sunset
I take a big breath
of that sumptuous air
and twirl my skirted legs
my painted toes
where I know
I am back
to solid ground

Appreciating the last time
I say sleep well
to you  my dear
summertimes sweet mem'ries
and the fun we had this year.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

Hip Service
By Julian Malek

The zeal of cobblestone tolerance arrayed in fashionable hues masquerading as crimson secrecy, elevates the tide of man but some boats leak in their foundations. Therefore a cork to every exuberance and a triumphant torch for every sorrow lives onward in collective time. Larks that abound because prescience and PUGET sound, that brown has become the new orange which in turn prowls as a concealed swarthy black. To antagonize the willful and frenetic pace, a prodrome of lasting but memorialized disgrace. Should I move to a state by first or last name, or is the final appellation worthy of much more lasting fame. I scurry down the aisles, bemused by shimmering tiles and the beguiled audiences who see much in my limitation but doubt little about my debited elation. Ringmaster Barnum, how much horticulture is needed for assured superstardom, how many cloisters must we evacuate from the incendiary plumes of a metaphorical Harlem..  But know that no virtual reality can supplant the reality that does truly exist, or at least our time is too infernal and purblind to resist. Carrey the tops of mountains in the humor of wellsprings and fountains, we engage a menagerie of egos lilting of an etiolated pragmatic concern. Evicted from paradise, littered with say-cheese demise ensnaring three blind mice eaten alive by snake-eyed vice. To feel good without incorporated tyranny, we must see blue and red as alternatives to the same destiny. A world that reckons with the futilitarianism of pacified malcontent and astroturf monikers that lead the impressionable into a slaughter shed. Established or not, any enchantment under the sea must include fishes once a pastiche of me, but to them I avoid their courtesy flush and never even faintly blush as my egalitarian statements are lavish thrush.

Five TO Won baby one in 99, everyone here aboard the titanic stays alive, you got your boat baby and I got mine, gonna make it with babies numbered in surreal primes. Halt the slots game the nines, a stitch in time is going to turn out to be Mine. Flanger goals, girded piles, liminal like an aborted Harry Styles, we climb mountains we issue tithes, and the turmoil is etched into 45-notched bludgeons and two-tucked knives. Excuse you, where have you been all day, have you been sauntering in a gentle rain or a genteel pain, have you wallowed beyond the mires of doubt and ranked above David Blaine. I hope you tell me of your magic tricks, rather than your other flicks endeared I stand to fight an ineradicable itch. But if not, you placid pond dented by so many rocks and so many ripples give your heart over to me, before I clinch the special Olympics *******, we ran, we span the homespun garments of your left and right hand, but death is a specter that ghoulishly carouses along the carousel terminal disease we call life. I beseech your deepest affection and want to console you for your deepest struggle, to be there every time wed with time rather than a throttled scuttle. Moons make you guarded but maroons leave me desiccated, don’t ever let that wilted flower die, always water it with a rich but gentle ties and widened deck for all to at once marvel and pry.  Monsters of Mars Attacks once flanked my bed, as though the **** brain scared every gooseflesh and restrained every frisson of mystery. I lampoon myself for those cold Dark Knights and the protection ended by the plight of the poor mattering nothing to the deliberately internecine rich. I struck gold in a valley somewhere, an oxymoron of paradox that now you have the privilege to dock, to stay aboard to be a vessel of peace less widely deplored. Even if we don’t sprout wings, we garner the exactitude of measured things and our glass elevator though easily shattered by the glower of enslavement is actually our vista to heaven or listening to brethren tingles for rich mans trinkets and other things. For humanity deserves a legend and a princess, a regimented desuetude and a flanged lust but in our mistakes wildly flouted in momentary moments we become purified by the temptations of an alabaster palace.

***** the left-field wisdom of a pragmatic paragon ellipsis in prison, slip between the cracks and let my suburban muse become your urban ruse. To enchant a caged world beyond a reality delicately and deliberately unfurled. Squirming toads on highways enchanted but dead, are graves for the blue becoming purple in every dignified red. Gainsay assaults me with platitude, a repeated hitter quit on the first bunted ball into foul-line territory. Those gripes are swiped right in all circumstance no matter the plight. The pronged hearing of a trident sensitive to ambient collection, and suddenly we are all in the mad house even though the house of profaned pain is much worse. Glimpses of gambits that gambol for nickels in transit as occult grenades and known dice waddle through without artifice or device, and the laughter and slaughter that trains collegiate minds, differs no more than the tropes of a glamorous violence articled in sordid rhymes. This surfing movie means so much more than Surf Wax America pristine in limited but sacrilege nirvana. Teen spirits smell muskier than 90s pop dreams, the grasp and grunge of gouged eyes becomes a mummified staid, a scarecrow to those who disobey. Childhood flashes with blinding light, and new sight illuminates darkening blight, A blight eradicated only by two magazines and including one that houses the bullets that ***** themselves between death and comatose dreams both within astral sight. Littoral harbor on a seaside town, a shanty with a brackish gown that glides the gourmand to the cosmopolitan eatery on the outskirts of lost & found. But forever lost in embonpoint and forever gained in chavish that exonerates the gaunt, the etiolated prince in heart becomes irrefutable marrow in minded souls.

If I am a spy you are an ESPY, and if I cry than you are a baby,but since neither are the case my wiseacres will cultivate lava lamp dreams for a new generation and suddenly Boston bets on Harvard, but who knows of this piped blather squirming for relevance rather than voguish but temporary chatter. My regatta knows how to swim, my life now knows how to cringe and yet still win and in stilted plays of bungled sincerity the God of peace reminds us of our transcendent personalities. That we in sincerity top the barnacles of invention a novelty but a rarity. But the guillotine quill of emboldened unscripted parvenus ruthless in their eager dues, outdate and outlive the sued swayed blues that indemnify Clinton and make the atomic dog an amazing Winston hill a church often in sheltered disuse. Imps and urchins sting the sentiment, cloy the alimony of repentant betterment, but neither touches the gilded skies of pleonasm striving for raspy disguise as to dissuade further diatribe investigation. Lurking in those scared days of youth, the gore of unalloyed horror scourged me with a limp, that compassion itself could ever become a gimp. Now years later athletics better and scoring goals making the mildew sweat and the years wetter, not a global warming that can be alarmed by global mourning. Take peace at heart if distanced spears of separation make Idiocracy as a pastiche look exceedingly smart. And spar only with the true antagonists bridging malevolence with expedience. Killjoys sure, will joy even more sure, but still boys fluttered heart stopping dead at a stop-watched alarm the worst tragedy of our sordid sort. Give an African Child a real home rather than a spatial roam, a palatial desiccation of momentary Jonas Brothers snapping back at captives with sexualized foam.

Narrative blinds shuttered in an Island among mountains hardly ever wiser to sanitize the sanitarium among the wasps of stung power. Police crumple their uniforms as they prowl down the avenues, looking for misfits and widened platitudes. Somehow that the vigilance of those corrupted by their very career choice, look even worse when megalomania of private is the limelight of public, to their defense few turrets I can muster but castles in the sky will be the apartheid judge. Those that cling to virtue to eradicate Porsche-driven faked or real deaths at the most breakneck speed, that Fast & Furious operation if disclosed completely would turn the Shire of the ring into the hatred curtailed by a song in Sing-Sing. Immunity must not Yoda implore, that livery Liverpool marooned on islands can also to deplore the R.E.D. and still whet the sharpened stead and the fly-by-night Manchester United alights like militant peer pressure for wranglers in tights. But beating the Beatles at a game of Walruses and egg-shelled eyeful towers likely impedes rinkside hockey from anything over bellicose ballyhoo…it exists as a transient fixated glower. But who knows about soccer speculation when love is the transcendent temptation, when nest-egg hens rather than neglecting rig Bens of clockwork and clocked words designed arise better for their token ken. Do I must repeat the subtext of submarines, yellowed as though ugly unused as though unseen, as though the quixotic earthquakes of tintinnabulations Avatar dreams. Wafted souls console the disheartened thoughts of a dashed dream that Berlin hates more than a Furor’s unbridled and useless scream.
Demotic clips slinging from the bedridden silence of a token moon and its token friends, swimming in a shore of ambiguity whether history mellows or whether its furor melts away momentary doubts. I want to avoid the sting rays exorcised by due providence and become the amalgamated talents gentry and of course the upstart swagger of Jack Dawson. But with the psy-op going on, the people manipulated on all sides of a gray picket fence will the relationship bloom without muttered dissent or pretended smiles. Will we take upon the shuffled shuttle and dig with shovels deep-rooted Christmas trees and toast our lives to Dos Equis. We may never go out of style, but the treacle of illuminated imagery when divorced from sentiment bristle shows a swagger that prioritizes rather than amalgamates all love. I love being brash and brazen and honest because when she finally ditches the grandstand of delayed frenemies fandoms of other tinsel decorations without any substance beyond meretricious thrill. You want a roller coaster on some days, but most often you want the nutcracker to elope to secret hiding places. Swim with adventure not just in love, not just in affection with the starlight now matter how luminous, sixpence all the richer is no centuries any poorer and we could be that gilded couple of star and screen and if we ever have to scream, let our screams unite us in passion, rather than a milquetoast deference to pedestaled beauty. but of course the end times don’t laugh at your crumpled wizened relapse. Not out of convenience wed by a discriminating genetic harvest moon but a deeper engagement that flatters when stylish and bristles when romantic but never defiled, never riled of specious pretense. Promise me that you will always remember me in my flaws and my faults, in my scause factory destructions and the penults of PEN-ULTIMATE wisdom that comes before the grace of God in the annihilation of passion for eroded omission. If your goal is to be remembered, check that out…but the most admirable goal is as the propinquities of souls dusted in the wind returning to a spring equinox of passion and if you find in yourselves reservations do not depart from sacred land, and never jilt me because of a boisterous and menacing friend. You are everything to me right now, and I Hope this persists despite the vicissitudes of star-favored afflictions mixed with utter benediction without the pontification of stilted Benedictines  or rather the hyped ludic effrontery of termagants being made of younger and younger women. Leave it at this ,32 leaves the royal secret in royal hands and the Knights Templar and us we altogether hold hands, if only a prelude for a masquerade ball. But the stilted embarrassment of crestfallen time, let that be relegated and emphatically lets embrace what is like to not ever need a real white horse to get back into your favor, because we never go out of style we can brandish the best elements and reject the sentiments of the too newfangled and the too stodgy. We in our crenellated pleonasm can eager ride the lightning to another tomorrow and another yesterday and if even not that, we virtually make an indelible impression of embroidered love not too distant in ivory towers and not to vulgary( catering to popular sentiments) to become a trash glam movement. We soar, others deplore but let their purblind doubts render them blind to our burgeoning love.

Forget the brisk trees dangled in the wind on winding paths through haunted forest or remember them because of ghoulish fortress but with our apotropaic lamp we can avert most evil and call the rest fun and gains and shun but fames never profaned, never inalterable a destiny to magical to be some whimpered catcall. Or we could linger beneath lambent street lights disguised as though wilted garb, attrition of circumstance waiting patiently for the matinee and the vintner to escort us beyond the garb of pretense in a city so abundant with it that it deserves castigation. But I digress, a beachside cliff overlooking tepid waters tumultuous in their power but august in their noises, the cadence of love will sing a half-moon bay on full-moon nights and we will frisk each other like grasping at straws of permanent tracks trammeled of the elite and a sidetracked basque bet. Trim those antlers and instead grow metaphorical wings, to us we all sing but few can match your elegance and everyone would be crazy not to see your ennobled age and together thrilling songs to emulate thriller in sales we will collaboratively sing.
Haughty sneers from lifeless lycanthropy straggling furtively along the pastiched sidewalks of grime, livid because they can’t share the lingering limelight, with as many guarded perks of privacy clambering like a hive of snarky sharks. Lets ditch the big town dreams in terms of posh and stature if only for a caressed moment beneath the unadulterated stars and if you find spars **** to the extent they are amiable than I say guess what my name is Lars! Or wait a second, paused in the big city spotlight our stenciled hearts will guide whatever progeny is yours or mine or ours together we will sing the most comforting lullaby, and caves no longer must we abide. Yearn and earn every inch, as I gripe with my delicate saddened pinch but I think the innuendo speaks . Ripen with our trips to Napa, long afternoon sunsets swim in our hearts as we taste the vanguard’s toast on elegant wine.I console with entreaty to disavow the omen of that San Franciscan church October 2008, the doom implied by Einstein, the raillery of a world grinding down the endless decadence of a railed future inalterable in destiny or partialy amenable to widespread coquetry.

Forget those rumbles in your past that made you feel partial to insecurity and learning the ropes you transcended all and live in all eternity. Thimble and brook, tolerant of all those tokes I took your rebellious side flattens the yeast of Exodus raspy in its begrudged clapping. But the Pharaoh of the modern world sheltered me under his prickly thorns, shielded me from the sickly things that life adorns. We have the numbers on our side, the weight of destiny on our shoulders, dedicate yourself to yourself and I will preen the most vibrant wisdom and love will leap like Apollo across all borders not for camel-****** hoarders. We are culminated destiny in the wings of the best daydream

i couldn't never write a book, sorry, a novel, i'd hate to become a puppeteer, someone who attempts to play chess, a fiddling and bothersome shadow-baron (schattenbaron)... imaginary "friends" is not my thing, plus... i don't have an exact elastic approach to heidegger's compliments concerning poets: i only like heidegger because he likes poets, **** me, he elevates poets to the stature of philosophers when language "things" are made necessary... i.e. (and verbatim) - language - only if speech has acquired the highest univocity of the word does it become strong for the hidden play of its essential multivocity (as withdrawn from all "logic"), of which poets and thinkers alone are capable... welcome! welcome! to plato's republic! Brennus & Alaric welcome you, quiet fondly depicted by Joseph-Noël Sylvestre... and when the Huns pushed the leaders Fritigern and Alavivus into the eastern empire to settle... and emperor Valens... that's history for you: a cascade of: and and and and and and... sometimes a p.s., but mostly the and and and of causality... facts come barging in, you forage... but thanks to heidegger: the poets have earned their graces... and can return to the republic... as wordsmiths... i mean, was i ever to think of myself as a french dada dandy? frivolous and superfulous raconteur / racketeer? poet or philosopher, that's beside the point, the point being: i'm not a novelist... i don't like dealing with language that chokes that i rely on mostly and that mostly being: i like the idea of a raw vocabulary... i'm more of a butcher than an artist... i like the rawness of an inverted crossword puzzle... in my "trade"... there are no clues, whether synonymous or antonymous, in this spaghetti of: ex nihil factum sermo (out of nothing came the word)... poetry, of all places, allows this form of unadulterated nibbling at raw vocabulary... bypassing the standard g.c.s.e.: overt-scrutiny of poetics... i never like that... a 5/ 7/ 5 syllable haiku poem should never be preserved for its essay-worthiness to extend into 2000 words in a school exam... poetry strapped to pedagogy is... less heavily censored, more... over-scrutinized... you're not supposed to think in terms of poetry: you're supposed to, feel... and since when has feeling become so overrated, so despsised? oh... when people "learned" to feel, prior to learning to think... you really have to learn to think, prior to learning how to feel... if you ask someone from the orient, they'd counter the western perception of placing thinking / "reason" on the top of the pyramid with horus' eye as emblem... to learn to feel: is to learn to how to not think, while to think? it's to learn how to not feel... pretty simple, no? not really... neither approaches should be underrated, they should be understood better... who the hell needs, or wants, to be an apathetic brain-in-a-pickle-jar zombie: constantly engaging with a dialectic? then again... who wants to be a heart in an electric chair constantly bamboozled into pointless reactions? so i'm more of a butcher than a "poet", i simply appreciate the raw realism of cutting pieces of the tongue that extends into the brain's fathomability - and that overrated visual ******* of dreaming most people associate themselves with... but that's beside the point... i really appreciate days akin to this one, humid as in the concrete basin of Beijing while europe is frying in the African plume... no thanks, no, me go to Greenland or the Faroes Islands... do i look like a ******* ******* / camel jockey? why do i have limited respect for islam? i once watched a video of a saudi with an european bride... sitting on oil was both a blessing... and a curse... muhammad would whip some of these saudi brats silly... but of all days... when i get to work my magic in the kitchen, and make the most superior food in the whole wide world? blue indian cuisine: i call them blue indians and not red soxs because: come on... the raj... and that polytheism that doesn't want to disappear... h'americans can boast all they want: the steak, the hamburger, the hot dog, the pizza... n'ah... n'ah mate... it's either curry or you're chewing chicken bones, ******* out the marrow... indian cuisine is superior... i love the days when i cook up two curries... it feels like being back in edinburgh, walking into the joseph black building, the perfumes of sulphur and wood, the 12 hour experiments it would take us to conjure up an ester... esters? bases for the perfume industry... that' the grand thing about cooking a curry... you start to feel like a chemist once more... the two curries? a tikka masala: sure, an easy adventure... marinating the chicken what not... the real fun came with the malvani... blitzing the masala up: a bay leaf, half a nutmeg, 4 / 5 cloves, 7 dried chillies, 10 peppercorns, a cinnamon stick, cumin seeds, coriander seeds, chilly powder, turmeric powder... and that's just the malvani masala... the cocunut masala... ****... only two green chillies... how to get the right colour? ah... blitz up some coriander stalks... garlic and ginger... milk to get the whizz-kid on the job... it's superior cuisine, indian cuisine... it reminds me of a being in a chemistry lab at edinburgh... doing organic experiments... mind you: it's more fun, the environment is less sterile... even my mother said: you're stinking up the place, you're worse than the sikhs two doors down... so... why would i visit an indian restaurant, or indulge myself in an indian take-away, if i can mimic? i see no point... there is no other cuisine on the planet as good as what could come from either Goa or New Delhi... the colours, the perfume of the spices... by now a hamburger, pizza or hot-dog are staples or both humble beginnings and even more humbled ends... i've found my 1st to none passion... and with a afghani naan bread... and with rice infused with turmeric... tiresome ponce schemes of duck a l'orange... spaghetti this that and the other... one bias... though... scandinavian treatment of raw herrings... in cream sauce... i'm a sucker for those herrings like i'm a sucker for pop music... the added zing of the herrings' rawness out-competes the bland sushi manifesto... eating one of these herrings in a cream sauce... has the complimentary sensation, very much akin to performing oral *** on a woman... oysters are beyond the marker of metaphor / literal association... well: hello today!

I.

i'm starting to suspect, that one of the...
"supposed" stars...
   is actually a planet - due to its colour -
      it's unlike all the other -
todkompf, metallic white
glitter...
      it's hued in a more orange
spectacle - more fire...
less distance...
                and on the canvas
of the night?
   sits lower than all the other stars,
which are more up -
   rather than on a horizon
to speak off...
   question is... is that *mars,
or is that venus?

**** it: 'ere i go...
'n' buy me a *******
telescope to investigate further...

II.

did the ancient romans really
distinguish the arithmetic
quantity of I - or IX -
   or XII or...
                with a dot?
       not unless it was inscribed
in stone -
   where even upsilon had
to vacate the more easily chiseled
in:              YOVR POINT?
just wondering
   how only two diacritical marks
were applied to the encryption -
and both... not for orthographic
reasons, but for aesthetics -
    what's the actual difference
when the guillotine digestion
machine (like me) comes in and
says...
    
     ȷokιng around...
        what with the iPod...
   why shouldn't ι,
                    come ιn -
   and give a ȷester's ιnquιsιtιon?
out of... mere... curιosιty?
ιt's not lιke those two-heads
even make a dιfference...
come on! ιt's ιneffectιve,
there are no orthographιc reasons
for ιt!
        why, even, bother?
    and no fancy name eιther,
ιn the dιacrιtιcal famιly...
  dot... when compared to?
cιrcumflex, caron, macron,
      cedιlla,  ͅ (ιota subscrιpt)...
you name ιt!
can someone, please,
ȷust gιve me, an approprιate reason?

III.

it's not like i can confuse,
i with I - since i have 1, and 2 instead
of II, and 3 instead of III,
and 4, instead of IV,
       and 6 instead of VI...
ah... L(l) -
              and the exodus of handwriting
in the digital age...
any schmuck can write
now... but... i'd love to see
them write with a pen, on paper...

personally - i couldn't write an intact
word with a pen...
   calligraphy: a bit like monkish
Gregorian chants... coming near
to extinction...
          i could sometimes write
out a intra-connectivity of syllables -
but... entire words?
    no chance... the digit system
came in... and i had to learn how
to position my arms before
the keyboard, to write, and not look
down...
   unlike my old G.P.,
who, bless him... nearing his retirement,
pecked, like a crow,
on the keyboard...
   looking down on it...

the ENTER key? right arm pinky finger...
SPACE BAR key? primarily
left hand thumb...
   unlike a piano, you don't actually
use all the fingers on both arms...
e.g.? ring ringer on the left hand?
rarely used... unless doing some
mental hand gymnastics...
  
stream of "consciousness" - no words,
just observations -

(0,0,) LH ******* A
    RH index finger N -
     that's - ah! ring finger of
the right arm is used, quiet a lot,
  notably?  SHIFT + (?/) key -
      *******...
   but for the apostrophe?
    the (@ ') key...
  which, on my machine translates
as the (" ') key...

IV.

     - interlude -
--- -- - - - -  - - - logic  -- - - -  -- - bomb -- - - --  -
- - -- computers -- -- - - & - -- microprocessors -
- - - --- -- - --- -- -(parasense ----- - - remix) -- -- -

V.

it is chiromancy in reverse,
only that i'm reading my hands...
facing down,
rather than staring on the reverse
side of the... where the girdle of venus
is situated,
   or the index finger skin folds
of the chokhmah, chesed,
    netzach - respectively -
akin to reading mandarin:
   from the the head - to the base
               of a knuckle.
i read my hands - looking at a screen,
how else can you write anything,
distracted by looking down
onto the keyboard -
  no aware of the spacing?
        question: how fast is your typing?
don't know:
what sort of ******* am i to note
down, and how many amendment
will i have to make to the text,
as we plow along to your diatribe
monologue?
                  
VI.

why would anyone sit up all night,
drinking?
     ****** question, esp. given
yesterday's 5 / 6 am carnival of rain...
out of nowhere,
there i was, ready to call it a night
well spent (not working in a Stratford
casino) - dreading the heat of
the sunrise...
  boom!
   thunder, lightning...
    the air turned white from
the ferocity of the rain...
   literally...
                the ground was wriggling
with a meteor shower -
excited gnat fly like puddles
appearing and disappearing -
soon becoming lakes
  within the confines of a supposed
**** of worm parasites...
      probably your typical day
      on the Faroe Islands...
you know... on such occasions...
you really can't help, but stick
your head out of the window,
far enough to drench your head
and hair in regenwasser...
            i should have walked
into the garden and
cleansed my whole body...
   but...
guess all ι needed, was the head...
       god...
  there's nothing more **** than
listening to horror movie soundtracks
while it pours a mini-monsoon
outside your window,
  and there's thunder, and there's
lightning...
   and you're just about to fall asleep...
like a baby might...

VII.

oh god... the one time i don't take
a beer for a walk, coming back
from the supermarket...
and i pick up... this genius:
genius... tortilla wrap...
    falafel + hummus + a hint
of mango chutney (with a tease
of arugula leaves)?
            **** me... who needs
beer... if not a bottle of mineral
water... to accompany
taking a walk?

If one had a desire to define the word god where would he begin?  Why would he assign the traits he did to the word?  Would he want to assimilate traits that he perceived to be godlike?   Would he obtain a clearer vision in a realization of the futility of aspiration, or would pragmatism and adamant tenaciousness afford him a better route?  Perhaps we all could benefit by a reassessment of our affinity with god.
  
The metaphysical extremities of human nature provide man with a multifaceted image of the possible psychic states of God. Objectivity has led man away from the true nature of his need many times at this point.  Any retrospective analysis of man’s personifications of deity most often leaves one lost in the quandaries of the psychic quagmire.  The weaknesses created by man’s lack of a universally acceptable id conclusion have elevated many philosophical or theocratic hypotheses to the level of demagoguery.

One method which has been used by theologians in attempting to induct a sumerial derivation from the vast warehouse of human religious extrapolation is the concept that perhaps basic truths can be affirmed through the theory of sufficient constancy of conjunction. Which is to say that reasonably analogous conjectures can be found in the depths of religious pervasion.  But this is not strictly true.
  
The ancient Babylonians, like the Indians, were polytheistic. They worshiped gods of nature, tribal union, fertility.  Deifications created from allusion to natural analogies, yet often imbued with a euphemistic optimism.  Where as the pantheon of Grecian deities often seems an almost banal personification of psychological metaphors from the darker side of life.  Zeus a fallibly omnipotent being who pompously subverts all beneath him to his will.  Who along with Apollo and others roam the countryside ****** and adulterating the women of their choice.  And Ares the formidable God of war who’s natural lust for violence leads him and his cohorts to vicarious involvement with mankind’s altercations.

Egyptian theology seems to have been an amendable and progressive state that began with sun worship and gods of nature, and moved on to attempted assimilation of godlike traits through a natural alignment with the perceived nature of God.  There were in depth studies of the nature of time, and life, and notions of existential transcendentalism.  The momentum of this progression led them to the ultimate grandiose delusion in which the Pharaoh was worshiped as the universal supreme being, omniscient and omnipotent ruler of the ultimate utopian society. 
 
The Jews worshiped a God who was at once both a part of them  and an exogenous force believed to have created them in its own image. A God that deliberately instilled an understanding of it’s intended wisdom by instructing them of the laws they were to live by.  These divine revelations were often considered as the unadulterated word of God.  This God was jealous and demanded the adoration due him as the supreme essence.  His worship became the underlying force in their social conjecture as they attempted to inspire his continued grace and benevolence.  A seemingly irrational solution to the quandary of idealism.  An allegiance who’s impetus was unquestionable.  It seems by me to be improperly rooted on a personal level in that it overemphasizes the need or expectation of divine inspiration.

The ancient Chinese social wisdom was by me commendably rational.  Unlike the Jews they do not seem to have overemphasized the expectation of divine inspiration.  Instead they, like the Egyptians emphasized an alignment with the perceived nature of God on a personal level as the way to strength.  They of course had a conception of the possible natures of deity, but considered wisdom to be an honorably truthful self orientation.

Another realm of intellectual extrapolation from which one might hope to surmise a depthfully pervasive generality would be man’s philosophical treatises on the possible natures of God. Unfortunately due to the myriad nature of possibility this again appears paradoxically difficult.  To me this seems to be a product of the nonempirical nature of these conjectures.  Humans experience a reality which does not necessarily  have any relative effect on the transcendence of their conception of the possible nature of God. Although many have attempted to empiricise their conjectures through rational logic they are most often refuted by the possibility of ultimate transcendence or quandrified by the actuality of paradoxical argument.
  
Some good examples of these points are perhaps the arguments of Lucretius who attempted to empiricise that God can not revoke mathematical truths.  But what is the relative reality of those truths to the transcended essence of ultimate beingness.  They are refuted by irrelevance.  Another example might be the statement that God has aseity.  That is if he exists his existence is not caused.  This statement seems easy to refute for the supreme being could be all of the things possible for him except this and have evolved out of eons of cosmic continuum into natural omniscience and or through assimilation of the forces innate to the cosmos have achieved relative omnipotence.
  
One generally accepted statement that is refuted by these arguments is “the cosmos does not have infinite existence and is therefore not the supreme being.”  For if this supreme being has not yet evolved if it’s transcendental form could be said to have become out of cosmic continuum then the cosmos will indeed have achieved infiniteness.  But this already seems intuitively necessary to the ultimate cosmic essence regardless of a lack of self consciousness or even a physical form.  Perhaps what is possible and eons of void are the root of all force and matter, and perhaps this as yet unfulfilled sequence cycles on to nirvana.  Then again perhaps the supreme being does in fact preempt all as a self conscious entity.  This also would seem to be intuitively necessary to the essence of totality which of course has always existed and is in fact the supreme being in at that at that although not necessarily the true form of it’s transcendental being.
  
On this lofty note I would like to reiterate my thesis.  Perhaps we all could benefit from a reassessment of our affinity with God.

A man can accomplish many things with his concept of God. What is extraneous?  Perhaps the question would better be put what is expedient, but that becomes subjective.   You have to define your goals.  Where in lies wisdom?  Can man truly aspire to godhead or is this personally nonproductive?  Man seems to perceive a sort of manifest destiny for himself.  An intrinsic affinity with infiniteness that just must be dealt with.   Perhaps our beliefs in life after death are a grandiose delusion in which we hedonistically waste our time pampering our egos. Which brings me to my third and final argument.

Perhaps conscious regimentation and an affiliation with earth bound logic would bring us closer to our affinity with God.
One of the ideas presented by my philosophical references was that many of mankind’s inspirations to define his affinity with God grew inadvertently out of social realism and the powers assumed. Although often the subjective truths of these understandings went unmentioned out of a desire for objectivity.  For example what God must be if God is to be God.  Perhaps one would do better to relate personally to his affinity with God.

I think this is true.  Although we seem to lack omnipotence we are all individually speaking a preternatural corporeal state.  Perhaps we all should assert our godliness instead of hiding our talents in the sand.  Perhaps then we could construct a contractual reality.  An aspiration to the perfection of the human social mechanic.  I salute this concept.  In fact I firmly believe that by conscribing unalienable rights to our beings we have already performed the rights of the human social mechanic.  Our aspiration to godhead is complete in it’s conjecture.  All that is left is to obtain expedience and accuracy in our amendment toward continued obtainment of the majority goal.

E-Emotion
Angry, E-book hunger
Tear diamond drop

      Join Me
@ The Body-book shop

The Gold bonds his book Hot Rods
She reads about the Angels and Gods

He covers her mind and book
with his lotion

Are we ready for the E-book
In tip-top condition motion
Someone is mysteriously trying to tell me something?

How the moon hangs low
The book made her eyes
Open to really know?

I phone to book she's the grab bag
I'm leaving on a Jetplane
One chosen E-Book
Was Scarlet love flame

How the book needs to grab you
The day you were born or reborn
Never to lose your sight
But why does he split your pages

In a hot rush* money wages

The heart is bleeding out words
Feeling so crushed the bookend
Energetic stare or the blank stare
Your enticing book
What happens underside me
The pages one-sided

You're the sweet of the complicated
getting bittersweet to be love mated

The sundae banana split
*My ring book marker my lovely curls

I couldn't share my book what it said
Do you really love me
The spinning wheel
Feminity of book so girly but
Love so dizzy

To be told overstocked to be sold
But someone loved it
Its been properly viewed
Buying and reselling hearts of
book timeshare

His workout
he loves his curls
Ebook he sees he memorized
all his European beauty
turning do you love her books madly
The beast  is inside Jekyll
Girls needed to hide but got
Hyde
The book seeing our life
From a blinded pageview
What's beside our words
We need to be upfront
Once in a million chances
The whole planet of funny books
beach house turned
Blank page
of a clown funhouse tree stalk

What is the point of view
Like an adult book raided
If you're the unadulterated
The innocents being naive
Wanting him so much
Whats the use it's like a
the blank page
Like your hairstyle
the sixties pageboy
You need book law and order
Like the Feng Shui book surrender
Be focused Graphically cool artist
And paint it colors no
gun it blanks no favors
My book place has the ambiance
Different mysteries
and suspense behaviors

Somehow it thickens
like "French" roue paste

You didn't want one
page to waste
E for the Exodus
A blank page is love minus
You're hitting a plateau
E- love of kiss-book
French Chateau
Ebook has a pattern the same thing
It repeats and devours your thoughts
The ancient Grecian her structural
form of statues
That rip page needed words to capture

The Clean-Slate page to restart
your flight
The prize
Emprise
Empire to the book hire
E-book desire
E-lust
It sets an example
we need to trust
Not to mislead your mind
Whats behind the book
Exhumed or to be doomed
Like Witchcraft magical hands

This wasn't the Godly land
The blank page had a spell
"The Burned Book" no one
will ever know
Can we take it back what was written inside
We need to restore give more (Cat and Mouse) chase

As my equal poison mind of sugar
Equally or naturally book gifted
Wrap silk ribbons or too much
the anxiety of red tape
Explosion of E=books
Elixir eyes to the Ebook doorway
But the blank pages were
still inside

E-book and the text
Whats next *** journalism
The kingdom of Elust
E-book became all excuses
Those blank tweets of
Hummingbirds
Like you got some
earwax all codes and emblems
My blank form income tax problems?

Storming damage to the max of my book

Hitting rock or book bottom
You're still living in a shape
of an eggcup

And reading by your nook
Your Ebook swish wish a nymph
floating mermaid

Things turn (Retro) just go
The book was the turn of events
More pages to heart mend

We are not experts or philosophers
Get inside the greener grass
like a grasshopper

Your lovely book a tranquil place
You were booked into your gown
But your ebooks is being
transported to other towns

Her heart was skipping his pages
She never got the chance to read
His chosen page
Life is so the open book
Eyes wide shut

A bicycle is the most efficient transportation machine.  A little input and I’m gliding, moving a useful measurable distance but more than that. I like going fast enough so the wind in my ears is louder than my thoughts.  On a tough day I like riding until I can be grateful again; sometimes that takes a couple hours but every ride is a good ride.

My youth’s independence was a banana seat Huffy pulled from an under-appreciated pile of rust in the back of St. Vincent’s Thrift Shop.  No school bus meant riding to school, the first 45 minutes of every day in all weather. Afternoons were exploring detours; summers were expeditions to the city limits, sometimes beyond.  I needed an upgrade for high school; I found a spotless antique 3 speed Raleigh, the cultural English workhorse collecting dust in an unlikely garage for $50.

I kept it through two foster homes. The first one kept me busy with farm chores, but the second was back in town. There, I had the bike back, and as an aside, they had a phenomenally sophisticated wall sized sound system: reel-to-reel and amazing headphones. I would forget myself in records: Sgt. Peppers, Genesis, Yes, etc, and another favorite. Just a guitar and piano instrumental album with a simple melody called Bricklayer’s Beautiful Daughter. Something about that one song in particular I heard faint glimmerings of contentment that was denied to me.  I would replay it to cling to this hint of a simple happiness I didn’t understand; that if it was in the song, it was somewhere deep in me.
Without a car for 10 years, one used 10-speed or another got me to various eccentric jobs.  

Fast forward to the life-changer, after a divorce. Needing to reconnect with myself, I searched for a decent bike. I found it hanging dusty in the back of a cluttered boutique shop smelling of tire rubber, quiet with racers’ confidence. They had a Lemond thoroughbred on consignment, assembled custom 5 years earlier to race. It was slightly outdated, but a dent on the top tube put it out to pasture. It was steel though, so rideable enough for me.  My entire $300 savings and it was mine. Then I discovered the special pedals needed special shoes, so another month saving for those.  I wasn’t going to wear those silly spiderman outfits, until I started to ride more than 10 miles and my **** demanded it.  And those pockets in the back of the shirt were handy.  I met a friend who taught me how to draft: my skinny wheel a few inches behind the bike in front at 20 mph, to save precious energy in the slipstream. Truly dangerous, vulnerable, and effectively blinded; but he pointed at the ground with various hand signals to warn of upcoming road hazards. I was touched by this wordless language of trust and camaraderie. This innate concern is essential to the sport, even among competitors, so it seems to attract quality people I liked.  My new life expanded with friends.

I discovered biking exercise could stabilize the life-long effects of brain injury, lost some weight, grew stronger, and started setting goals.  First longer group rides, then a century (100 miles in one ride), then mountain biking: epic fun in nature, unadulterated happiness.  Then novice racing, then the next category up with a team, then a triathlon.  It became an admitted obsession but I won a pair of socks or bike parts every now and then.  Eventually tattooed two bike chains around my ankle, one twisted and the other broken.  I loved the lifestyle, and had truly reinvented and rediscovered myself.

A 500 mile ride from San Francisco to Los Angeles with fellow wounded veterans helped dissipate the old shame from the military.  I had joined the ride to raise money for a good cause.  I respected the program and knew personally that cycling had changed my life.  They turned out to be inspiring, helping me more than I could have helped them.  Some had only just started riding a bike for only a few weeks, some were amputees fit with special-made adapters on regular bikes, some had no legs using hand cycles.  They all joined on to the task of riding 500 miles. No one whined, and helping each other finish the day was the only goal.  While riding with them, I began to open up about my experience.  I found a few others who also had TBI, and we could laugh about similar mishaps.  The other veterans didn’t judge me about anything, like when I was injured, the nature of my disability, how much I did or didn’t accomplish. I had signed up just like them, had to recover back to a functioning life just like them.  It was the first time in my life that whole chapter in my life was accepted; I wasn't odd, and they helped close the shame on that old chapter.  (Thank you, R2R.)  The next year I took a 1500 mile self-supported bike trip through western mountain ranges with my husband and soulmate, whom I had met mt. biking.

There was one late Spring day, finally warm after a long winter, when I just wanted to ride for a few hours by myself.  No speedometer or training intervals, just enjoy the park road winding under the trees. I had downloaded some new music on the IPod, a sampler from the library.  I felt happy.  Life is Good.  Rounding a bend by the river, coasting through sunbeams sparkling the park’s peaceful road, my earphones unexpectedly played Bricklayer’s Beautiful Daughter.  I hadn’t heard that simple guitar tune in three decades.  My God, time suddenly disappeared.  I was right back in the forgotten foster home, listening for the faint silver threads of the contentment I was feeling at this very moment on the bike.  The full force of this sudden connection, the wholeness of the life and unity of myself in one epiphany, brought me to tears. I found myself pouring my heart into praying hang in there, girl, hang in there, you’ll find it and I felt my younger self hearing echoes of birds singing in new green leaves.

.let's begin: i've been watching youtube haemorrhage over the past few years (4 / 5 in total) and... i do still enjoy the sort of cabaret weimar associated with criticalcondition when comapred to beanie hat tim pool... sorry: i just like a bit of cabaret, i know that comedy is translated in the western lands by stand-up monologues, but in germany and poland: cabaret is the toy assurance to compensate the justifications for theatre or opera... i like criticalcondition, trans-, ******: my my, how did the chemistry prefixes of attachement groups of a benzene ring overpower bio-realism? imagine a blocked toilet in terms of hinduism / buddhism in terms of the metaphysics of reincarnation... well: metaphysics by their great culinary understanding implies: a return to the same debacle, perhaps only slightly elevated... we have already reached a post- gott ist tot scenario of metaphysics... gott is quiet apparent, since the ancient greeks believed that "shamed" men would come back as women: now? the women did a shortcut... they said: tod ist tot... wouldn't that be the case? a blocked toilet, well... if god has to die first, then death itself has to die, ergo: tod ist tot! ha ha... imagine... to think of the glamorous concept of eastern theology as nothing more than a plumber's day-shift... looks like the toilet is blocked... since... men are not spawning into female form after death, instead, deciding to spawn back into male form with a female "brain"... who is that god of mischief in hinduism? oh... look! Aditi! well it's not an isolated case, is it? i once picked up a thai surprise from a park bench, played her some jazz, ****** her in the garden... bangkok ladyboys are the duran duran of 1980s electro-puppy-pop! once god dies, death follows suit... after all... death is (a) shadow of (the) god... blocked toilet metaphysics, all the brahmin as running wild, naked, psychotic: but the lesser men were not supposed to know they were reborn into female bodies, there was that safety net in place to: let them reincarnate with an amnesia principle! what's happening?! the women are raiding up the ranks?! contrapoints compared to tim pool? sorry beanie-boy... you're not the beastie... quiet... i'd love to b.j. that make-up off from contrapoints... problem being... i love when a ****** speaks so much sense... but... hands... i find a woman's hands too be the most ****** aspect of her body... 4/5... that's a fraction... for my five knuckles in terms of hand size, ***** "envy" and what my five knuckles look like to a woman's 4? you get the picture... there is also another fraction... 72 genders?! wha-?! i see gender in the 3/2 fraction... a woman can satisfy three men... the ****, the **** the mouth... a man... can only satisfy 2... the **** and the mouth... oh... wait... 3/3... someone can be giving him a b.j. while he's giving him a b.j..... it's still a blockage of reincarnation though... the greeks believed the lesser man was to be reborn in a "lesser" body... ****, i always forget how the ratio works... i always think: 1 man has 3 options of entry, 3 women have 1 point of entry each... but fraction is wonky though... in that... a woman can entertain three variations of entry: mouth, ****, ****... but a man has to entertain two points of entry and one point of insertion... so the fraction still stands at 3/2... which makes the islamic celestial harem nonsense... unless equipped with an exess of res extensa ****** to satiate the hunger of 72 virgins... a ****** gambit if you ask me... 72 virgins sounds more like a headache than what Solomon forsake in owning for the queen of Shēba... king! Solomon! after all the *******, enough wisdom suddenly trickled into his head, and he chose the route of the monogamy of birds! mind you: whatever wisdom king! Solomon ever had to begin with... i would still favor king David... i like a man with a distrust of women and having an unadulterated desire for music as second to none medicinal property to cure existential ailments; i tried *******, no good... sure, great exercise... esp. with prostitutes... but an in depth analysis of the perpetuated banality of life and how to learn to masquerade it behind a veil of seemingly banal? a harem will not help, but music will. even nietzsche understood this... criticalcondition: i do actually fancy him it her they... she does have that: je ne sais quoi air... weimar cabaret "revised"... not quiet the switz cabaret dada voltaire... but all i know is the number of holes of points of insertion and the fact that i have hands the size that could hold a basketball in one... and how... oh, wow! i really came late to the asian fetish party late... here, have some grenades! **** ying, cat meng, na mu han, you mi, ni ye teng, ai sayama, hoshina mizuki, ayaka noda, (l)im ji hye, lie fei er, (barbie) ke er... ergo? this whole asian fetish scene? am i looking at dolls? i'm not even sure... am i white, by comparison to these procelain babushkas?! i'm not white: orange man bad! i thought so too: i'm... piglet! the i'm not white: these girls are... and the funny thing is, the "funny" thing, is? i don't have to see much more beside the cleavage or the ******* or the thighs to... hey! i'm a late bloomer to this asiatic fetish... side-tracked by the european transgender ******* and the thai surprise ladyboys... what is **** what isn't ****: that, really depends on how much you rely on your imagination... if a sight of white, porcelain cleavage gets you off... who the hell needs the whole "show"... after all... even the niqab is a game on how to arouse the male libido... it's pretty hard to be aroused by a fully exposed female torso like some maasai ivory beauty... then the "said" objects are more functional and designated for feeding purposes... than ***** *******... aren't they?! oh i can see a revision of the niqab... imagine this in saudi arabia... both the eyes are not hidden from view, as isn't the mouth! batman 2."oh"... oh i don't like these new communists in the west... white... priv. who, that japanese?! i'm not white, i said it already and i'll say it again: i'm not a porcelain doll! talk to the **** about white privilege... they're the ones with milk veils... my "white privilege" is only associated to having blond hair, green or blue eyes... it has nothing to do with... skin!

i’m suspicious of the ones that say: without telling the truth
we can moralise, by not stating the truth
we can allow ourselves falsehood in the prime
instinct to provide replicas of ourselves
without truth of two subject interacting,
but merely the truth of two objects interacting
reducible into the dwarf of darwinism
that speaks: over-sexualise and feel less encountered
by understanding the opposite!
so much is true in this era - with the english poodle
waggling in frenzies for the americans to spectate and applaud...
i’ve had to become a german in england,
the sort that might be liked by nietzschean arrogance,
but apart from that i’m working on how
certain people simply use words rather than letters,
how they can never use the shovels and pickaxes,
how this congregation of atheists at comic stand-up shows
is doing my head in: a theological mid-life crises,
this blatant take on theology using the logic:
from monkey you came, to monkeying you shall return...
now that trends like the crown all animals have,
all animals already unique do not need to replicate consciously,
but man is stumbling into wasting his conscious on replication,
on plagiarism... it’s so odd... so so odd! why would man
waste his consciousness to simply invoke replication?
where’s the self in that, the anti-frankenstein story so powerful
he does not wish to do anything other than marvel at
the connectivity of the bone to the nerve to the muscle?
the 20th century gave birth militant atheism -
the 21st century is labouring with a different kind of atheism -
the sort of atheism that says no barriers exist between master and servant
as between worm and pigeon - even though
the depression of the master is opposed to the servant’s depression
that he only spots analogues within the framework of
synonymity with other masters... ‘why are we so depressed?’
asked master a, ‘i have no idea,’ answered master b over lunch.
in the lower decks of the ship servant a says to servant b -
- ‘god, i rowed all day long, i’m so ****** tired!
no thought will keep me awake.’
- ‘that’s true, i’m knackered also, broken limbs of my effort
like a chestnut, no thought will keep me awake either,
lucky we exhaust the body.’
- ‘too true, with the body exhausted the mind is never disputed
never disputed by not having origins in thinking
but rather having origins in the body.’
- ‘verily, i rather our fate than the masters’ fate.’
- ‘why?’
- ‘as you said, our’s is the story of ****** demands,
their’s is a story of thought’s demands,
meaning they exhaust their mind in the accesses
thought provides, it’s like a secondary body we have no knowledge of,
they are exhausted by thinking because their body is not exhausted.’
- ‘makes sense.’
- 'hence their malady of melancholia and our as simple exhaustion.'
- 'where’s the buffer?'
- 'in the olympians, the discus throwers, the most positive lot, and due to this, the easiest
to break down from high positivity; they have no awareness
of complex thinking and are quickly undermined with all this sports’ psychology!'
- 'true to the burning tire... it's all dietary awareness and muscle bulk with them after a loss.'
- 'indeed, as our's is with aesop dreamily awaiting a freedom that’s an anarchy,as translated from aesop's fables into
spartacus' resolve.'
- 'ah yes, that old spartan revolt in the roman empire.'
so like i said, i do know that darwinism is the new super cool sensibility,
taking into account more than 10,000 years of history
and talking about it for 2 hours wishing that something
spectacular might happen tomorrow, or any other given day...
but like i said previously... darwinism just killed history...
outside the realm of journalism we’re talking millions of years...
so why would i give a **** if it’s a friday the 23rd of october in the imaginary year 2015?
well if you put crocodile into a pile of hyenas you’ll probably
get a a cuckoo mixed with a squid because of the beak shared by the two...
i know, atheism is cool, for now,
but when the quantum j provides the classical physics’ objects like jupiter
you’ll ask what the quantum of j is... and i’ll say... full-stop...
that’s because, perhaps, i never use language as:
copy - work - paste - with - copy - me - paste - on - copy - this - paste - one,
but rather...
w - grammatical arithmetic (g.a.) - o - g.a. - r - g.a. - k,
because no one can tell me that the letter j
is uniform in the context of i or k...
as the quantum phonetics of uttering the word
onomatopoeia... is no different from uttering the word bull...
so many variables of spotting the quantum physics
in pronunciation... so many varying levels of required energy
to utter j or k... onomatopoeia or bull -
so... what's the antonym of quantum - the maximum
amount of any physical entity involved in an interaction -
i know that poets speak of grains of sand = no. of stars
and that the mathematicians use the curtain of infinity
to digress... but finding the maximum will be harder
given that there will be no socratic knowledge to use as canvas...
i.e. nothing;
added to the fact that there’s a non-differential quantum
that makes ë and em almost identical in terms of the least energy used,
this humanistic paradox of bonding means there is no unique human
sound that doesn’t borrow another human sound to execute a phoneticism,
otherwise ë and em translate as eh and humming anti-treble of the lips, or finger licking mmm of kentucky.
actually... we have the opposite of quantum physics...
the body functions within an ~37ºC emission...
there are four seasons in a year... the earth's orbit is 365 days,
i just took all the known macro units
and consolidated them in the micro unit of joules undifferentiated
in terms of observable "energy."

the words used to flow like silk through my fingertips
i used to know exactly how to weave them
make them fall into tapestries, hang them from walls
emblazoned with unadulterated innocence.

it wasn't until you asked to look at my creations
that i realised sunlight could be so damaging
my words felt frivolous under your scathing gaze
and they stuttered, crumbled. my tapestries fell.

now they're dust and i'm on my knees, crawling
grasping fistfuls that seep through my hands
you can't write about something you can't feel
and now i can't feel anything.

this is the last poem i'll write about you.

A final inhalation, farewell to oxygen
submitting to oblivion
a conscious lack of everything.
The very absence of air, sickening and
desolate, destitute, despairing
tearing at my aching lungs,
my vacant mind.
Call me a vagabond, a wanderer
entrapped in the extrasensory.

My breath escapes. 

The empty core within myself rings in tune with the extant and extinct.
Neck arching, mouth agape
a single note transcends my lips of stone
unadulterated, unwavering, a melodious sound 
building and joining in harmony to create a symphony of
life, of
death, of
everything we cannot comprehend. 
Sonorous and assonant
my soul cries out
at ever-growing volumes.
My eyes begin to flicker and fade away.

God, can You hear my screams in space
in this vacuum, void of sound?

Large, billowing willow trees surround a small meadow, leaving no way to get out. Their branches hang to the ground, the wind whipping them lazily. The green sprouts and leaves on the tips of the branches drag on the ground softly. The trees are so packed together that no sight can be seen through the trees, no escape at all. No one can enter, and no one can leave. The bark is brown, deep crevices made in its skin. The limbs skim over the ground, swaying ever so slightly. On the limbs hang nearly invisible webs spun by clever weaving spiders. The bright green grass wraps around the bark, swaying in the lazy meadow. In the middle of the meadow floats a high overhanging cliff, no part of it truly connected to the ground. Vines cover a structure, obstructing what the structure truly is. Bright pink and blue flowers decorate the vines, adding a serene feeling to the floating island and a floating smell of nectar is carried by the wind. A waterfall flows through the middle of the gates, the cool pure water falling into the pond directly below the waterfall. The pond is covered with ripples, although nothing seems to be obstructing the surface of the pond for the moment. Below the surface flows gentle weaves of seaweed, rainbow colored fish swimming between the strands. They would jump up, spreading small rainbows on dew drops into the sweet tasting air. The cloudless sky seems to sparkle in the setting sunlight, spreading pink and red strips across the sky. No birds fly in the small expanse of visible sky, yet a small nameless tune is heard, the wind carrying it all around the trees. The tune is light, and filled with what can only be known as joy.

The tune begins to change, losing the quality of light and joy and changing into a tune of sereneness and calm. The wind carries it through the meadow, pushing it against the dark trees. The leaves begin to fall, staining the ground at their feet different shades of red, gold and orange. The lost foliage does nothing to deter the packed trees from blocking any view outside of the circular meadow, leaving it in seclusion. The grass is turning into bright gold strands, folding unto itself as it sways in the gentle wind. The wind tastes like apples, although there is no fruit on the trees. The wind continues to flow, picking up the leaves and scattering them away from the base of the trees. The pond is covered with a few stray leaves, the ripples from said leaves turning and spinning as if they were dihedrals spun by small children. A harvest moon sends out a bright light, casting a rainbow onto the waterfall. The forever flowing waterfall continues to cascade down from the floating island as the rainbow continues to color the water. The rainbow fish’s scales have turned deep colors of red and gold, and they continue to break the surface of the pond, jumping to and fro. The vines still cover the cold, metal gate, blood red flowers covering the island in stunning beauty. The meadow seems to secrete a pleasant smell, sending waves of comfort and  tranquility to every blade of grass and falling leaf.

The grass disappears from view as the ground is covered in white, cold powder. The branches on the trees dip from the weight of snow and ice, their limbs brushing the ground in small sweeps. The crisp, biting wind does nothing to help the swaying, and instead blows across the ground, sending small flurries of the snow upwards bound. It circles around the frozen waterfall, every drop of purified water hanging in place, frozen in time. The island itself is covered in snow and white flowers, their color unadulterated. The vines seem to be dead, no longer living as they were before. The secret of the gates seem to be revealed, although barely. The gate remains locked, but the vines are cleared enough that the fenced in area can be seen. The area in the middle of the island is glowing, brightly colored with the beginning of the waterfall, the rainbow fish swimming in the small pool of water. The trees that are in the fenced in area are bright with life and colors, shining as if they were in the midst of spring and not winter. Petals from the flowers that decorate the vines and trees gently fall, landing on the icy surface of the pond. Silence invades the wintry meadow, crushing upon the meadow with great strength as the wind howls silently. The sky is pure black, the only light seen is the glistening stars, all shining as brightly as the northern star. Bright strips of rainbow appear in the sky, the aurora waving like the waves of the ocean themselves. Softly, stealthily a small tune is heard to only those truly lost in the meadow’s power. The tune is filled with what words can only describe as confusion as joy and peace meld with depression and war, hatred and love weaving in and out of the tune like a needle and thread. The tune is suddenly broken, and the meadow disappears, leaving nothing behind but darkness and emptiness until the cycle repeats another day.

There is a longing you feel
To know the whole universe
All of its secrets
All of its flaws
Everything
You think about it and wonder if it feels light or heavy
Or maybe even a paradoxical combination of both
But you will never know
Because you do not realize that you are the entire universe
You are all of its flaws
All of its beauties
All of its secrets, all of its wisdom
You are everything and everything is you
You are forever
And you need to be loved
Just as everything and everyone else needs love to survive

Look at the clouds above your home
Notice the way water forms differently on every single surface
Muster every single detail
Increase your awareness
And you will soon discover the secrets of the universe
And if you are feeling sad and quiet turn to your soul and acknowledge your humanness
Love your human nature
Realize it is precious and valuable
You do this and you will feel the soft and kind hand of the universe on your shoulder
You will feel its presence within you
And you'll look down at yourself laying and feeling hurt and hopeless
Slowly holding on to old feelings and new times
You will realize it is time to leave
So you go and you write as you feel that familiar ache all over your body
Resonating from deep within every single corner of your heart and soul

You glance outside of your window and see the green of the trees and revel in their magnificence and beauty
And in that moment you realize how immaculate existence is
So you take a deep breath as you take it all in
Your thoughts are very much alive and pulsating
And your arms tingle and your soul emits strong and powerful waves of unadulterated passion from within
Joy waits at your fingertips as you reach softly
You constantly taste past times of pain and hurt on your tongue
Violently brushing your teeth every night in hopes it will go away
But it is always there and may go away at times but it always comes back
A constant reminder of who you are and what you have come from

Sometimes when you walk your feet feel old and you think about how you haven't even lived an entire lifetime yet so how on earth can you feel so tired?
You wonder when you will actually stop waiting
When a strong ocean wind will knock you over
Cold and hard
And you'll gaze ahead of you with bleary eyes
Your head still in a state of shock
And you'll come closer and closer to the reason that was dug out from the deepest part of your insides
Until everything feels soft and you can stand again
And you'll look to the sky and forget all of the pain
And a small touch of hope will be born upon a tiny spot on the surface of your heart
Beating hard and lovely and powerful

You think of the rain and how it falls completely
You think about how you exist and how it is okay there is no more innocence and just as much loneliness
You realize you've got to keep your dreams alive
You are thinking quietly
Your thoughts are kissing the walls of your mind carefully
"Oh, how beautiful it is to be alive and aware!"
You say in your head
And you wish to meet your perfect heart in the stars
And feel all of the care and warmth as certain waves of truth and ardor crash into you
A tree of sure sadness looks down upon you
Saying you are clean and new and beautiful
And that
It is okay if you do not spend the majority of your days feeling sad and lost and lonely
Until a quiet reverie born from stardust clouds your mind
You feel the secret tingling on the outer parts of your mouth
And things are better and you feel closer
You are no longer searching
And words have always been a dear friend
You are able to realize that now
You used to be broken
For a long, long time
So of course it is going to be extremely difficult getting used to life without being broken beyond repair
A part of you will always be broken
You know that and you are okay with it
Finally you embrace it
There is an ease and comfort with the going of sorrow
And you wonder
How it can feel so wonderful when your bones are free and you feel happy in the deepest part of you
Because really, what are you doing?
WHAT ARE YOU DOING???
You are living and that is all
You are embracing life and all that you feel and it is okay and when it comes down to it, you really do love it
But sometimes your mind refuses to hear that
It shuts itself off from everything and all you can do is guess for why it happens like this
So you take those two horrid
But so essential
White pills
And you sleep and sleep
Never awakening until your alarm sounds
And your lids open
And your lips bring in fresh air to your lungs
Your mind and your heart are engulfed in peace and never are they apart
Together they are one with your soul
The sunlight starts to kiss your face and you start to think about the years you have been living
And how the voice inside of you has changed over those years and the ways it has touched your life

So here you are listening to music
Lonely and sweet
With a strange feeling in your chest as your stomach rests lightly on the surface of your bed
Barely moving, your hand somehow knows how to write without your mind really thinking
You have always held your pen tightly and a lot of great and loving and bright words are capable of surfacing
Maybe differently than before
But even so
Your veins still continuously pump blood throughout your body

You get up out of bed and stagger into your bathroom where you stare into the mirror and know you are supposed to see yourself staring right back but really
You see nothing
All the while knowing your face is sober looking
And your skin is browned and soothing with the beauty of summer's presence hard and golden on your surface
Feeling crazy, your eyes are locked to a spot consisting of nothingness
Void of any control
In a realm that is almost reaching fantasy
Tingling and alluring
So you look for the window
But then it is gone and you feel an aching that gets stronger as the walls close in on you
And you notice the kisses full of blood that set the earth on fire
And you breathe with fear as death sits on your windowsill
Should you reach for it or push it away?
To die or to help this weak and troublesome girl who is far too used to living in darkness and not only asks for but needs trust?

The leaves on the trees don't stay dead forever
Open your mind and your heart and drift away
Far, far away
Your soul lives and exists in every realm of consciousness
You are safe
Even as your secrets build like smoke
Like wandering rays beating down strong upon you
Conquering your emptiness instead of all of the happy thoughts that reside and are inevitably known and lovely and consisting of everything except for unwanted goodbyes
Your heart shines on what it needs
Easy and lovely
And mostly, it has it
Your heart is the sun that shines on his face and makes his own heart race in perfect synchronization with yours
He is something you take like black coffee or straight whiskey because it needs nothing more than what it is
Everything it is
Is enough and beautiful and enticing because of that
But their strength is the most admirable
The sunshine gets stronger throughout the day just as one gets stronger throughout their own life
Accumulating more and more understanding as certain parts are more inviting than others
And still, others escape stability and their reflections whisper on your flesh and send a sense of desire across your cheeks until they reach the middle of your being and are forgotten

You have come close to death many times before
But now it is distant
So you close your eyes as you lie on the itchy, flat floor of your room
And imagine all of those and all of which you have met in the darkness
Staring very surely at nothing in particular
The sound of your heartbeat grows quiet
Changing the bad into nothing but tugging memories
Making you leave true despair behind as you not only grasp, but accept, the endless tears on the sand

Your mind is wandering
Walking to places both near and far
Trying to piece together the point and meaning of past lovers
But that doesn't really matter because nature fully forces you to not only imagine
But realize
The beauty and point of the present that is filled with growing wisdom
So you sit with your back against the wall
And your stomach burns with purpose slightly surrounding nature and the moonlight
And bliss surfaces like cigarette smoke floating then disappearing but still always present in the air around you
And you understand the ruined and intense thoughts of your past and the blessings they have brought
And the pressure you feel on your heart as you admire the luster of the sun on the metal of the railings
And the branches laying in rest
Void of hurt
But listening to conversations harder and more difficult with time
Solid
But struggling entirely with magnitude
Lifeless beings in a sense
But the raindrops make their hearts ache
Beaming ultimately away from conformity until they become another entity compiled of lust and beauty
And as you walk
The grass is loud and green as the dead branches lie hot and broken in the caress of the ground
Void of hate
As you watch the darkness pull them in and swallow them whole
Wanted completely
Written on your flesh with self supposed anxiety
Your kisses are longer and drown in a sea of meaning as you pray with clenched teeth
You feel on your arm a peculiar force and questions, smooth but loud, utter desperately within you as
Heavy but gentle hope swirls like incense around your nose until your spirit is calm and pain is hidden
And you find yourself to be trapped in nothing less than gold and passion
And that is when things were easy again

If one had a desire to define the word god where would he begin?  Why would he assign the traits he did to the word?  Would he want to assimilate traits that he perceived to be godlike?   Would he obtain a clearer vision in a realization of the futility of aspiration, or would pragmatism and adamant tenaciousness afford him a better route?  Perhaps we all could benefit by a reassessment of our affinity with god.
  
The metaphysical extremities of human nature provide man with a multifaceted image of the possible psychic states of God. Objectivity has led man away from the true nature of his need many times at this point.  Any retrospective analysis of man’s personifications of deity most often leaves one lost in the quandaries of the psychic quagmire.  The weaknesses created by man’s lack of a universally acceptable id conclusion have elevated many philosophical or theocratic hypotheses to the level of demagoguery.

One method which has been used by theologians in attempting to induct a summerial derivation from the vast warehouse of human religious extrapolation is the concept that perhaps basic truths can be affirmed through the theory of sufficient constancy of conjunction. Which is to say that reasonably analogous conjectures can be found in the depths of religious pervasion.  But this is not strictly true.
  
The ancient Babylonians, like the Indians, were polytheistic. They worshiped gods of nature, tribal union, fertility.  Deifications created from allusion to natural analogies, yet often imbued with a euphemistic optimism.  Where as the pantheon of Grecian deities often seems an almost banal personification of psychological metaphors from the darker side of life.  Zeus a fallibly omnipotent being who pompously subverts all beneath him to his will.  Who along with Apollo and others roam the countryside ****** and adulterating the women of their choice.  And Ares the formidable God of war who’s natural lust for violence leads him and his cohorts to vicarious involvement with mankind’s altercations.

Egyptian theology seems to have been an amendable and progressive state that began with sun worship and gods of nature, and moved on to attempted assimilation of godlike traits through a natural alignment with the perceived nature of God.  There were in depth studies of the nature of time, and life, and notions of existential transcendentalism.  The momentum of this progression led them to the ultimate grandiose delusion in which the Pharaoh was worshiped as the universal supreme being, omniscient and omnipotent ruler of the ultimate utopian society.

The Jews worshiped a God who was at once both a part of them  and an exogenous force believed to have created them in its own image. A God that deliberately instilled an understanding of it’s intended wisdom by instructing them of the laws they were to live by.  These divine revelations were often considered as the unadulterated word of God.  This God was jealous and demanded the adoration due him as the supreme essence.  His worship became the underlying force in their social conjecture as they attempted to inspire his continued grace and benevolence.  A seemingly irrational solution to the quandary of idealism.  An allegiance who’s impetus was unquestionable.  It seems by me to be improperly rooted on a personal level in that it overemphasizes the need or expectation of divine inspiration.

The ancient Chinese social wisdom was by me commendably rational.  Unlike the Jews they do not seem to have overemphasized the expectation of divine inspiration.  Instead they, like the Egyptians emphasized an alignment with the perceived nature of God on a personal level as the way to strength.  They of course had a conception of the possible natures of deity, but considered wisdom to be an honorably truthful self orientation.

Another realm of intellectual extrapolation from which one might hope to surmise a depthfully pervasive generality would be man’s philosophical treatises on the possible natures of God. Unfortunately due to the myriad nature of possibility this again appears paradoxically difficult.  To me this seems to be a product of the nonempirical nature of these conjectures.  Humans experience a reality which does not necessarily  have any relative effect on the transcendence of their conception of the possible nature of God. Although many have attempted to empiricise their conjectures through rational logic they are most often refuted by the possibility of ultimate transcendence or quandrified by the actuality of paradoxical argument.
  
Some good examples of these points are perhaps the arguments of Lucretius who attempted to empiricise that God can not revoke mathematical truths.  But what is the relative reality of those truths to the transcended essence of ultimate beingness.  They are refuted by irrelevance.  Another example might be the statement that God has aseity.  That is if he exists his existence is not caused.  This statement seems easy to refute for the supreme being could be all of the things possible for him except this and have evolved out of eons of cosmic continuum into natural omniscience and or through assimilation of the forces innate to the cosmos have achieved relative omnipotence.
  
One generally accepted statement that is refuted by these arguments is “the cosmos does not have infinite existence and is therefore not the supreme being.”  For if this supreme being has not yet evolved if it’s transcendental form could be said to have become out of cosmic continuum then the cosmos will indeed have achieved infiniteness.  But this already seems intuitively necessary to the ultimate cosmic essence regardless of a lack of self consciousness or even a physical form.  Perhaps what is possible and eons of void are the root of all force and matter, and perhaps this as yet unfulfilled sequence cycles on to nirvana.  Then again perhaps the supreme being does in fact preempt all as a self conscious entity.  This also would seem to be intuitively necessary to the essence of totality which of course has always existed and is in fact the supreme being in at that at that although not necessarily the true form of it’s transcendental being.
  
On this lofty note I would like to reiterate my thesis.  Perhaps we all could benefit from a reassessment of our affinity with God.

A man can accomplish many things with his concept of God. What is extraneous?  Perhaps the question would better be put what is expedient, but that becomes subjective.   You have to define your goals.  Where in lies wisdom?  Can man truly aspire to godhead or is this personally nonproductive?  Man seems to perceive a sort of manifest destiny for himself.  An intrinsic affinity with infiniteness that just must be dealt with.   Perhaps our beliefs in life after death are a grandiose delusion in which we hedonistically waste our time pampering our egos. Which brings me to my third and final argument.

Perhaps conscious regimentation and an affiliation with earth bound logic would bring us closer to our affinity with God.
One of the ideas presented by my philosophical references was that many of mankind’s inspirations to define his affinity with God grew inadvertently out of social realism and the powers assumed. Although often the subjective truths of these understandings went unmentioned out of a desire for objectivity.  For example what God must be if God is to be God.  Perhaps one would do better to relate personally to his affinity with God.

I think this is true.  Although we seem to lack omnipotence we are all individually speaking a preternatural corporeal state.  Perhaps we all should assert our godliness instead of hiding our talents in the sand.  Perhaps then we could construct a contractual reality.  An aspiration to the perfection of the human social mechanic.  I salute this concept.  In fact I firmly believe that by conscribing unalienable rights to our beings we have already performed the rights of the human social mechanic.  Our aspiration to godhead is complete in it’s conjecture.  All that is left is to obtain expedience and accuracy in our amendment toward continued obtainment of the majority goal.

When I first heard of the concept of self harm, in sixth or seventh grade, I didn’t believe it could be addictive. I didn’t understand how people tore apart their skin just for the sake of tearing things apart.

That changed real quick when I had my first panic attack at 14 and used a dull pair of scissors to scratch a line down my arm. It barely even bled, but it was the beginning of something. It was a temporary peace, a comfort in the moment and a monster in the next.

And so it began. I bought men’s razors, carried them home in my pockets and hit them against dressers and with books until they broke apart. I hid the blades in a small cardboard box behind the books on my shelves, hid bandages and antiseptic and a long, dull razor blade (the kind you use to cut glass and paint) that I’d stolen from my dad’s tool bench. Just in case I needed to escalate.

I wore long sleeves and jeans to cover my misdeeds, the long, thin scratches lined up neatly along my thighs. Monthly became weekly became every other day as I lost control of myself, lost myself in the glint of blades and the pools of red and the feeling of pure, unadulterated relief. I was 14 acting like my life was coming to an end (I was convinced it was). I wrote poetry in the empty pages of my French workbook and scratched panicked lines down my forearms in Geometry. I became a shell of myself, a shell pockmarked with fading scars, little white lines that screamed at me whenever I dared to look.

I liked them. I wanted more scars, I wanted them everywhere, I wanted physical, permanent records of my failings and my abysmal self-worth. I wanted a reminder that I could still feel something.

Sometimes I stopped. Six months after I started I decided I needed to quit, so I drew butterflies on my arms and labeled them with the names of people I loved. I stayed off the drug for something like three months, leaving my blades untouched in their hiding place. When my grandpa died, it became too much and the blades came out, crashed into my shaking hands as I heaved with loss and the revelation that I felt nothing.

One weekend I came home from a lake trip with my dad and my best friends to find that my blade box, hastily shoved under a pillow, was gone. After searching under the bed for a good twenty minutes I determined that my mom had found it. So I waited for the next few weeks to be approached, for her to ask what the deal was, for her to say anything. And she never did. That was when I lost faith in the adults in my life and that was also when I bought new razors to keep in a new box in a new hiding place. I carved my resentment into my arms now, instead of on my legs where I’d already mapped out months of self-torture. On my arms they were visible.

I sometimes rolled my sleeves up in class, past my hidden Band-Aids and sometimes up past my scabbed cuts, to see if anyone would notice. No one did. I wasn’t cutting for attention, but I was lost and looking for help.

My best friend taught me how to sanitize my blades, walked with me to Target to buy razors and bandages. It was surreal how normal it was to us. We were talking each other out of suicide every other week because we didn’t want to be alone but we didn’t want to be alive, either. I was so, so scared that I would wake up one morning to find her dead.

My cuts went from panicked, messy, urgent to carefully executed, perfectly straight lines. I had it down to a science, sometimes going months in between but always thinking about the next fix. A year passed. I thought about it less.

There was never a moment that I decided to stop, but somehow I did, between my first job and my driver’s license and my transition into adulthood. I traced the scars on my arms but didn’t really feel like making new ones -- I was still sad, constantly, but I had started teaching myself to be happy, to find love for myself and beauty in life. As I write this, I’ve been clean for over six months.  

The urge fades over time. Sometimes, in the midst of a 3 a.m. surge-of-panic, I’m tempted to take the few blades I still have out of the iPhone box in the top drawer of my dresser. But then I remember that cutting didn’t solve anything, and it never will. My escapades in self-harm taught me to be kind to myself. And it’s so, so hard every single day. I still wish for more scars, more representation of the suffering I lived through, but I’m still breathing and I’m slowly clawing myself out of the mouth of this beast. I’m alive.

Because at the end of the day, all you can do is survive.

The reason I don't wear makeup
Is that I don't want there to be
Anything on my face
That distracts you from Me.
And no, I don't look pretty
Buried beneath the layer
Of foundation and gloss.
Because then, I'm barely there.
Only when unadulterated, untouched,
Does my skin look perfect,
Adorned with the best rouge there is-
Which is, my Self.

What is this thing,
This change in me,
What is this feeling,
That is happening to me?
This possessing of my spirit.
This seemingly lack of control,
That was not always so.

That a concerto slow turn,
Played and heard,
Renders me weak in the knees,
A sweet moment of human joy,
Or actual real grief,
Even viewed on a movie screen
Can tug at my heart so.

So too, a child’s sweet song,
Though sung off key.
A blazing sunset,
Orange and red,
A thrilling thing to behold.
Nature always a motivator,
All of these and more,
Pluck cords of my emotions,
Like the strings of a harp,
So easily reduce me to tears.
Not body shaking sobs mind you,
Just a slow gentle stream,
Nothing my sleeve can't deal with.  

"Men don’t cry",
"Sensitivity is only for women",
Or so I have always been told.
Well it’s taken me a long time,
But I have concluded this bias,
Is a load of unadulterated *******!
‘Cause as it turns out,
I actually enjoy it.
And see no reason I shouldn't.

Not to mention,
It keeps my tear ducts open,
And free flowing.
In touch as I am with my feelings.

I'm sad.
And that's okay.

This heaviness in my heart
is not mine alone,
I carry it for my mother
and my father
and his mother

I carry it for her husband

who quickly became
the demon
sleeping in the
shadows
that then became
a
stain
who's faint edges
still linger.

Deep and bruised
like my heart
after that day
confused and
oh, so green

I was already shedding
my innocence,
but you stole
hers

in one moment.

And for this
she
starves
herself
of nourishment

of unadulterated
joy

her body,
something she feels
shame
about

all because you thought
every
body
was yours
to be played
with.

**** Your tyrarny!

I am passed

trying to understand

what your intentions are,

were,

or

what they would have ever become

with me.
Why did you

choose me

to torment?
What is it about me

that makes you want to

hurt me,

insult me,

belittle me,

and run ruff shot over me, when I am

and have been

the ONLY person who

has ever stood by you

no matter what.

Even so, you treat me like

a piece of trash

that you would just as well wipe your *** with.
You have disrespected me,

my home,

my heart,

and my dreams

of ever

having any kind of life with you.

I have been tormented by you

until

I really just want to be

rid of you and

and anything to do with you,

any memory

of you ever having been in my life!
Your pure unadulterated filthy meanness is

so obnoxious

and heartbreaking, that I frankly,

want nothing more to do with you

ever

anymore!
I just want to be far Away from you!
I pity you!
I really do.
I wish you well,

but I know now

you will never have any kind of  life with me,

Simply because you never wanted that

or me.

So.

it is time

to pick up the pieces of my life

move on

with what I have left of the material things,

and build myself a new life,

with the help of my spiritual belief,

and the faith I have in my own self worth.

you have left me with nothing

but hurtfelt memories

and the realization

that you

never meant to do anything

but hurt and betray my kindness

and to test my faith in what could be.

Now

all I feel is  disgust at my own stupidity,

not to mention

my repeated self destructive actions

and simple hard hardheadedness

when it came to making things work with you.-

-You never cared enough to even try

so

I am

as of right now,

gone, gone, and gone,

out of your reach!
Your mean insults and ignorant gestures

can no longer hurt me, as ..

I don’t care

what

you do

or

say

anymore!

There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God
The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea
A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists
Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something
and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy

What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching ******* and reveling in dissociative stoicism
Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching
They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers
Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper
and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ******* seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such  scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly

Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie
Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples
Using nothing more than ******-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration
There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human
and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories
and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries

3am, my bestfriend..
She certainly knows me in my most unadulterated form...
My anxieties, my fears, my frustrations...
3am, my bestfriend...
She is really good at keeping secrets..
For when I wake up in the morning, no body knows a thing
3am, my bestfriend
She sure is a good listener..
Listens to my sobbing, when I stuff cloth in my mouth to make sure I dont make any sound...
3am, my bestfriend
She is also a good counselor
Consoles me till my.heart is empty, till my eyes are dry...
3am, my bestfriend
I dont doubt her loyalty
I know she ll be there for me, every time the soul in me cries for help

For the first time ever,
I want to rush the summer along...
it'll close the gap
between the times I get to see you.
It will bring us closer to spending
nine unadulterated months together.
And sure, we'll have classes to deal with,
and roommates to navigate,
but we'll have each other.
Not a day will pass
that we don't see each other.
The hours we are in class
will seem like mere seconds
compared to the long weeks we've spent apart
so far this year.
And yet the cycle with start again.
Having spent so many days together,
the weeks apart in the summer will drag on.
No longer do I pine for lazy summer days.
I only pine for you.

As I contemplated the project of writing a persuasive essay I discovered that I would have to have a topic upon which to practice my persuasive techniques .  After much cogitation and enumeration of my possibilities , pursued with such zeal that it soon resembled pedantic ostentation , I concluded that the most positive prospect I could pursue in this endeavor would be an attempt to prove irrefutably that I deserve a grade of A in this class ; if not for the undeniable excellence of my effort , then at least for the unadulterated audacity of my pretentious assertion .  

In order to perform this feat first I must overwhelm your developing consternation , the frozen mastodon of your auspicious judition .  To accomplish this I will cite my impeccable attendance ; which although not perfect was indeed a valiant effort in the face of public opinion whose abstinence approached epidemic proportions .  I will expound on the effectual and pervasive inspirations of my in class commentary , which sparked many a heated argument or thoughtful conjecture ; and comment on the polished precision of my in class narration .  I will reiterate the diversity and intrigue of my subject matter and the competence of my delivery .

Next , with all the dynamic aggression of a wind-up tyrannosaur , I will recapitulate and exemplify my arguments ; until the ramifications of my inductive collusions exceed the boundaries of your psychic phenomenon and you are forced to acquiesce into impunity .  

Yes I will indeed proceed to exceed the parameters of your mind , until mesmerized by the multitudes of analogous content you find yourself , disguised as captain corpuscle , floating euphorically down stream in a think box mind gram dingy towards a sea of Colorado cool aid .  Then as if all that were not enough to thoroughly torque your ringer , adamant and tenacious I will portray realms of intellectual austerity so intriguing you will be raised to new heights of enigmatism , and then I will leave you , enraptured with your own anonymity , at the edge of the new world freeway .

College: the four year roller coaster ride,
Ridden by purchasing a one-way ticket to adulthood.
Blink, and it will pass before the very eyes
That take in media-based images,
Depicting college as no work and all play.

Click,   Click,    Click,    Click,

Leaving proud and teary-eyed parents behind,
We enter *******-box bedrooms
Filling them with unbridled enthusiasm, unadulterated optimism, and a hint of unidentified angst.
Even menial tasks like eating at the cafeteria or watching television
Are made enjoyable with new friends and a sense of independence.

Click,   Click,    Click,    Click,

We are filled with energy like hot-air in balloons,
Rising in the coaster as we ascend upward.
However, we ignore an important lesson
We have learned from any ride we been on or story we've read:
Nothing stays positive forever.

Click,   Click,    Click,    Click,

They say that ACT scores are designed
To determine your success in the first year of college.
But few of us take these tests while coping with things like:
Depression, suicide, bad grades, fear of independence,
Loss of identity, or unprecedented amounts of drinking.

Click,   Click.

These factors inevitably come into play
And collapse the kickstand of optimism holding our chins up.
We find ourselves hurling toward the ground;
And as if gravity has pulled them harder,
We reach to the seat in front of us,
To retrieve our hope, our control, our breath.
As we fall, we feel hopeless, helpless, speechless,
And wonder if we will make impact.

It is perhaps at this time more than any other,
We realize the importance of friends and family.
They reach their branches out
And root us in the soil of understanding and openness.
Like the front car of the coaster,
They pull us out of the plummet.
After experiencing the highs and lows of the ride,
The rest seems a manageable imbalance of work and play.

We spend time in libraries, cataloging our actions and emotions
Into a book, self-titled but preceded by "face."
Such internet activity is the placebo
We self-prescribe for procrastination, an epidemic among our people.

Drinking from Solo cups half-full with liquids as impure as our intentions,
We end our weeks hungover from mental exertion and social immersion.
But the optimist in me sees that these cups are half empty,
Ready to be filled with future plans and dreams.
Dreams of being teachers, doctors, nurses, lawyers;
Having houses with three-car garages, guest rooms, and foyers.

You see, this is a ride where no one judges you
If your hands or feet are outside the ride,
If you scream when you're excited, cry when you're scared,
Or puke at the end.
So remove your blinders and beer goggles,
And enjoy this while it lasts,
Because it is the final ride in the amusement park of youth.

I want nothing from the world for it owes me nothing
I want only to exist
In the simplicity of the vast wilderness
I want my heart
And my soul to be like the wilderness
Free
Untamed
Wild and alive

I want to be alive everywhere and absorb all the beauty and wonder of it all
Embrace
Embody
Reflect
And return it back to its keeper
The flowers
The ocean
The soil
All of it.
I want to become my mother
The earth.
I want the stars to teach me all they know
I want the sun to wake me
and tell me when I should rest
I want the forest roots to guide me
The birds to sing me the songs
of the world
I want to feel spring water against my skin
I want to feel the unadulterated dirt of the earth against my feet
I want nature to heal me
Detoxify me from mans creations
the material world
I want the wind to tell me her secrets and bring me all of her wisdom
I want all of the universes' intangibilities.
I want to scream.
I want to be anonymous
I want not to be tainted by the small realm that confines me
I want never to forget the scale of the universe and
Remember that I too am a star
A toxic
Intangible
Ball of stardust
A wonder of creation
Floating in a inexhaustible,
eternal sea

Lustful deceit of truth;
Unadulterated treachery of youth;
Transformation acceleration - Sloth
Like candle to moth

Deliberate disregard of lucidity
Profligacy elected humility
Portly modish scrawny
Legislature legitimate parody  

South Africa today

My Lighthouse Poem
4/4/2014

You make my toes tingle,
I never noticed them before.
You're like my hit single,
in my mind every time I walk out the door,
to start my day.
You brighten my soul
and one touch makes me feel a million different ways.
One more positive than the other,
but each heading in the same right direction,
to you.

I can't wait to trace every single millimeter of your body,
like I am on a treasure hunt.
And all I can find at each spot I come into contact with is golden beauty.

Your words are pure and unadulterated,
like the low sodium soy sauce and fresh ginger with sushi.
Ooo, there's just something in your smile,
and no it's not spinach.
It's a reflection of a happier me,
knowing that I could be with you and be happy.

I'll call you my lighthouse,
and nobody will understand.
They'll think I was a lost ship,
and that you helped me reach the sand.

Really it's because you are a stable structure,
out at an emotional sea in a dark sky night.
Really it is because none of the others compare,
to your special kind of shine bright,
with that light,
that I'm fixated on.

On our first date we played bingo and shuffleboard.
On our second date, sushi and tarot cards.
Who knows what crazy adventures any future dates will be,
but who really cares when they include you and me?
Yeah, that's right, it's enough with just you and me,
my lighthouse.

well, if everyone is
   going to be so *******
honest...

   tender, little melancholics
   attempting to punch
   above their weight...

egomaniac? always a superstition,
littered with scatter brains,
broken mirrors
   and: the eternal fire -
no longer a choking smoke...
   shrapnel from some fungus,
or some whizz-kid's experiment
in the Swiss Alps...

initial psychosis?
   oh sure... peppered with
polka dots of hallucinations,
some visual,
but mostly auditory...
   a bit like:
    being forced out of your
own head,
   but not your body...
i could call it:
     being fertilißed...

mainstream: "transgender"
hot topics...
get a load of this one:
all metaphor,
   the closest approximation
of the truth, or subsequent
"feelings"...
      the body is left intact,
the brain though:
   what's the difference
between psychosis
         and osmosis?

an etymological study:
shared suffix:
    -osis
                and that's about it...
but initial psychosis:
for all the fear,
   for all my travels between
London and Edinburgh
and Glasgow,
and Dover,
   and Athens,
   and... Serbia...
              Katowice...
          wherever i went:
i had ants up my ***,
         fidgety ******, i was...
i'm pretty ******* sure,
that if i decided to drop l.s.d.
i would be unimpressed...
compared to my initial
psychosis... which lasted
for... how long was it?
anyone care for the scale,
i just don't exactly remember:
months, years?
  i'd be boasting if i put it
on a weeks scale...

2nd tier psychosis...
ugh... too much Kant...
                 no hallucinations...
just debiliating thoughts,
a chimera of p.t.s.d.,
  depression and the whole
rainbow of the DSM...
    more ****-heads in these parts
than genitals or anti-genitals
or... whatever hormonal... thing...
there's to it...

look closer at
  the orthodox madmen...
and now look at:
    acceptable madness...
we're hardly cripples...
crippling thoughts yes,
in this case,
   a 2 week period of absolute,
unadulterated debility:
no i know where the word
comes from in ****** for
idiot, i.e. debil...

2nd tier psychosis:
it's a noumenon...
    unlike a phenomenon
you might hear about...
when some schizoid can't
restrain himself
and goes off off the tangent
of: perfectly normal
paranoia...

          what? if everyone's
going to be so ******* honest,
i might as well throw my two
cents into the wishing well...
if i write this out,
bash the blank slate,
that's me one step away
from doing it to a punching
bag... which...
i usually associate with:
exhausts the body...
   and the mind was always
   just silent, in accordance to:
elvis... has just... left the building.

i wonder what a 3rd tier
psychosis is...
              and there i was thinking:
the problem with madness,
you can only go mad once...
apparently you can
go mad twice...
   it was never going to be
a terminal illness...
madness is... like...
fluctuations...
   it changes over time...
       and with it: the language...
unless of course
    i'll be restricted,
akin to that amazon show
homecoming
   (julia wobewts:
tongue numb, forgot to trill,
lisp and all)...
   then again:
   memory is a fickle faculty,
i actually don't possess
the will to remember what
i want,
    or what i don't want...
it's almost automated,
akin to:
         the "ancient" rubrics
of pedagogy on a teen level
of exposure...

  as ever: first comes the drill...
2 x 2 = 4, a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, i, j...
like: who the **** invented
this pointless memory gap,
this pointless rust,
this pointless sequence of
non-events?
        memory erosion:
   right there, in school...
and not even a "menial" task
at hand...
   not even a craft that can be
repeated, over and over again:
for a reason...
  that it can be perfected,
and therefore made, easier...

yeah... 2nd tier psychosis
is too orientating,
thereby not disorientating,
therefore not a phenomenon,
but a noumenon...
therefore a cold-sweat horror...
and not as much
of a scenario of running
a mythical marathon
up and down England to Scotland,
or across Europe
   to Athens...

and there i was thinking...
perhaps one day...
    i might have a curious reader
akin to r. d. laing...
                      one day...

infringement on i.q.?
   who said anything about
an infringement on i.q.?
            well there's the exfoliation
process of...
   ridding oneself of the tuxedo
of social norms, constrictions...
like any old person might
given the notion: **** it,
i'm old, i don't care...
        the paranoid aspect is
associated with:
    youth...
        and the whole:
                   not yet, not yet...
well... if not now, then, then?

          brash, crass...
whatever you want to call it:
hit the iron while its hot...
            and here i am thinking...
so... this premature melancholics
is... the new, "normal"?

welcome to the chemistry circus
of lady pharma:
i always wanted to think of
my brain is either a chemical soup,
or my use of language
as a salad...
   that'll go just fine,
with the main course
                            of jesus christ.

though said to be golden like that of Eris,
the mores which you so savor are hollow with worms.
your stony statutes, finally crumbling, now
remind me of rose-colored saran wrap:
stretched too thin across the epochs
to bind each lawless Julia at present.
able now to be whole—free from your unadulterated peace,
spun, measured, and cut are your class lines at last.
and so with a sigh of relief so great that it could echo across
all of the Caucasus,
your Ovid, cast away, has returned.

Do not bother me with your absurd theories;
Reason, logic, and evidence have no place
In the heart of the true and righteous believer.
Faith in holy texts should be your guide,
Your faith should be blind, unadulterated, and quintessential, or
Risk a dreadful and eternal damnation.

If Einstein knew so much
Why do they call his premise the “Theory of Relativity”?
If Darwin was so sharp, why is it the most
He could up with was the “Theory of Evolution”?
The answer is simple, they really had no clue,
They simply did some scientific research and, in the end,
They came up with nothing more than theories.
And, what about all those archeologists
Claiming the earth is billions of years old, or
Cosmologists with their “Big Bang Theory.”
Everything is nothing more than
Theories, theories, theories.

Turn your back on these absurdities;
Trust, instead, the ancient, sacred texts
That offer immutable, unquestionable truths.
How ludicrous the idea that
The world is more than 10,000 years old,
(Carbon dating of fossil rocks is just mambo-jumbo)
The universe and all creation
Were made in six days,
God, tiring after all that work,
(Wouldn't you after working 24/6?)
Rested on the seventh day.
It's there in black and white,
For everyone to see.
(Assuming you've read the right version)
Men were created from a clod of clay,
(Or mud, but you get the point)
Women from the rib of man
(Which is why they should be subservient to men).

What nonsense from biologist and paleontologist
That claim we evolved from micro-organisms and apes,
This notion is total sacrilege, a blasphemy.
Life is too complicated, too complex to just evolve,
Intelligent Design is the only answer,
All the talk to the contrary is nonsensical hyperbole.  
God made everything happen.
Read the holy texts, the truth is as obvious,
As plain as the tip of your nose.
Everyone knows that all the anthropological data,
All the purported archeological digs,
With reports of dinosaurs and missing links,  
Are fabricated to fit nerd scientists' preconceived notions of
What they would like everyone to believe.

When in doubt, refer to the holy texts,
You will see all the unsubstantiated, ludicrous claims
For what they really are:
Trash, trash, and more trash.
Do not bother me with your facts, or
Your scientific data or findings;
In the end, everything boils down to more idiotic theories.
Have unquestioning, blinding, and total faith,
Read the holy texts and they will set you free.
So, the next time someone questions your beliefs,
Claiming there is no merit or facts to support them,
Remind them that to question the word of God
Will send them, along with their theories,
Straight to hell.

Amen!

increasing the yield potential of a crop
has been the aim of Monsanto
with great efficiency
this company has hit on a jackpot
it holds a monopoly on agricultural products
yet Monsanto are selling
a very dodgy line of seeds
the cornmeal and wheat
has not a taste
which is truly sweet
people must become educated
in what they eat
the Monsanto Company
don't tell of adverse findings
about products that it vends
they bring many cancers
which affect men women and children
we all want a wholesome loaf of bread
one that hasn't had it wheat
genetically tampered with
we all deserve clean and unadulterated
food on our plates
to decrease those ever rising
cancer rates
Monsanto is a company
who cares little for our health
Monsanto is a company
who has only an interest
in making profits and wealth

I used to be so hesitant about expressing
the extent of my feelings towards people.
There have been too many instances where
I value and appreciate and love someone
much more than they ever would reciprocate,
and to them I would seem overwhelming,
reckless, and desperate with the way I felt.
I’ve learned it’s too risky to pretend not to care.
What comes next is too uncertain, too capricious.
In the next 24 hours, I could get hit by a bus,
move to another country, I could disappear.
I am young and we are fragile and mundane
and we never know when the bus is coming.
We don’t know who won’t be here tomorrow
or in two weeks or in two years from now.
All we know is the unadulterated here and now
of our infinitesimal existence on this planet.
I love being straightforward and honest, I love
telling people how much they mean to me,
I say things like “you are one of my favorite
human beings to ever walk this earth of ours”
and “you are a strong, resilient, beautiful sunflower.”
I love hands in hands and heads in laps and
kisses and hugs and cuddles and caresses.
I love saying "I love you and I appreciate you."
I need you to know now, in this moment
that I care for you to the ends of the earth, and
I cannot believe that I have the privilege
of knowing you and your story and simply
having someone like you in my life.

I love being unapologetically Harsh.