Electromagnetic Motion Ocean Of Pure Focal Emo-tion.
The Very Sound Of The Creators Verse And Rhythm In Loving Notion Pouring Through The Crystalline Endocrine Indoctrinated Shock Ra Of Shocking Unblocking Colorful Tones In Unmolested Focus And Definition.

To Flow Your Emo-tions Through Your Core And Manifest In Your Intended Notion All Without The Misidentified Horror Of The Wrongfully And Negatively Defined Emotions, One Finds That The Mere Act Of William Tell And That Apple Upon The Head Must Have Been One Hell Of An Interesting Interaction, Yet Instead Of The Reassuring Smiles And Calm Demeanor Of The Archer As They Lock Eyes, What Pray Tell You Think The Eyes Of The Archer Looked Like On That Very Frozen In Time Moment As He Released The Arrow To Guided Love Of Perfected Intent And Delivery Of Safe And Demanding Fortitude Of Action To Defeat All Possible Variable , As If To Need To Bend The Very Laws Of Nature If They Were To Cause An Number Of Odd And Unpredictable Events To Derail The Intent Of The Man Shooting The Apple Off The Head Of His Dear Child's Head, For Not A Bird May Pass Between, Not A Gust Of Wind Be Seen, Not An Earthquake Be Fabled To Accrue, Not A Single Action But The Undeterred Focus Of Absolute Might In Will, His Fee Will In Flight. What Might His Eyes Be Relaying In That Frozen Moment? Reassurance, Pity, Fear, Confidence, Or The Electric Fire Of Electromagnetic Motion Ocean Of Pure Focal Emo-tion To Get The **** Thing Done And Without Foolish ******* Reactions To The Real And True Focus Of Emotion, And Pray Tell, What If The Child Mistook This Look In A Moments Notice And Flinched Out Of Concern That The Father Was Angry With Him? Or Is It Best To Realize The Real Importance Of This Story As It Is The Trust In The Definitions Of Intended Focus And Not Of Simple Trust.? ,... Yes, Intended Focus Of Emotions Being Trusted As True And Not Negative In Nature, Dear Friend, Yes. So Let Your Soul Be Your Pilot, Let The Flow Of Emotion Be Free And Not Dictated By The Restraints Of Control And Be Seen And Used In Negative Ways, For These Are The Crimes Against All Mankind And The Bigger Part Of Why Spoken Word Is The Very Spell That Binds The Psyche, For The Focus Of Or The Lack Of Focus Of Emotions True Meaning And Purpose Is The Crime Against All Life Indeed. Live Free And Pilot This Love Ship Successfully By No Longer Defining Self By The Ways And Means That Have Caused Us To Fear Our Own Power To Move Mountains, And Kept Us All Mustard Seeds When We Are Truly  Far More Than You Can Believe. Feel Free, Yes, By All Means Feel Free.

i cannot seem to write anymore.

gone, the days of furious penning
that delivered a trail of thoughts
to your door.

now, my inkwell is full of air
and dried crumbly scrapings
of purple berried residue.

and this paper? yellowed onion-skinned
husk of memory,  too flimsy to withstand
the heavy strokes of my pen.

no, i cannot seem to write anymore.

here, thought floats through my head.
i play ****** and grab, clutch at nothing.

swimming, swimming words,
a wispy film before my eyes.

Hey Ranger Rick why don't you add this
one to the  YipYap  collection too
You  **literally  unblocked me
so you could add my nonpoem ''really part
3'' to your collection and
then blocked me again...?
Furthermore you say we're the bitter ones...
you're the one that keeps unblocking me
so you can comment on my poems
then blocking me back. Uh, stalking...? much
Didn't I tell you to stay off my page! ?
Stalker: unwanted or obsessive attention by an individual or group toward another person. Stalking behaviors are related to harassment and intimidation and may include following the victim in person or >monitoring them.<
Cyber-Stalking: Cyberstalking is the use of the Internet or other electronic means to stalk or harass an individual, a group, or an organization. It may include >false accusations,<  defamation, slander and libel. It may also include >monitoring, identity theft,<threats, vandalism & solicitation.
.........................Ranger Rick Your are a  Stalker,  point blank.

'brickin it'
but
still in the thick of it
getting sick of it
time
to go fishin'.

Mississippi.
it's
Tom and I because
Tom always gets top billing
but
I'm willing to bet
he'd swop.

Sunday
rode in on a white horse
pale and drawn
before dawn,
dismounted
counted the hours
until dusk.

I do stupid things when I wake up at night

Like unblocking you on Facebook.

Now I have to wait 48 hours before I can hide again...
And 48 hours may not seem like much.
But it's actually a lot.

Especially considering the strings you used to pull in my heart.

Freeing my life force
unblocking meridians
energy balanced

Two days is a long time to have you back in my
digital life, and I don't know if unblocking you
is even worth it.

Because I'll be too scared to look at who
you've become, but I know you'll see my
existence in it's entirety.

I'm afraid of you, love.
I'm afraid of your love.
I'm afraid of love.
I'm afraid.

i would like to argue with anyone regarding Chris Rea's music... well... it's not exactly dad-rock... glam rock in spandex... it's not the Eagles (god forbid) or Lynyrd Skynyrd... it's a music to do something while listening to it... or rather... not listening to it: rather... it's not listening to traffic... while cycling at night... i don't even think it's car music... it's: cycling at night music... say... to the 24h Tesco for a £6.25 35cl bottle of the cheapest whiskey... while the brothel just teases me... road to hell... it was written about Chris being stuck in a traffic jam on the M25... well... there's hardly a traffic jam when cycling at night... no hands on the handlebars... gliding...

i woke up today and... cleaned the drain...
oddly enough i didn't puke...
but the sight of all that grime of soap and hair...
and fleshy dirt... i always say:
there's nothing like the smell of fresh horseshit
in the morning... nothing can beat it...
no perfume... no delight of a curry...
the smell of fresh horseshit in the morning...
or... spreading manure when planting baby
trees in the garden...
the butterflies were still there...
it didn't feel right: come again?
nothing ever feels right in all honesty...
although i lie: it does for a while...
probably like the fury when undertaking
the act of ******... it probably feels great...
*** also feels great in the act...
and when done properly...
a day... now two... afterwards... it still feels
quizzically good...
but just because there were still butterflies
in my stomach...
let's be honest...
i'm no Edward Lewis... maybe a Bradley Cooper
lookalike... ha... ha...
but no Richard Gere...
and she wasn't some Vivian Ward...
                                i cycle in the night for 35cl
of whiskey... he drives a Lotus...
a lawyer while over 'ere... some sort of a... poo'et...
reality check... what a fascinating take
on hyper-gamy...
                    i too liked  La traviata...
   (saw it at the st. petersburg opera house...
she wanted to see madame butterfly...
                    i insisted... bending of will)
although... this is some retelling...
   what poet wouldn't fall for a *******?
   - how's it going with ms. chaste over there
on the cockerel-carousel?
i never understood the mystique of...
not letting the lecher out during *******...
what "no kissing" rule?
why have i managed to kiss all the prostitutes
i've slept with... i lost count... i don't have
a number...

- but i have a fitting song to complete
the movie in my head...
faithless - woozy...

    - away from internet culture... eh... listening
to a book review of... HALSEY's poetry...
the bisexual experience... ****** men...
the trauma of having *** with a man...
i do hope they don't use ******...
that wouldn't be fair...

  and having *** with women is somehow...
not "traumatic"...
like that one time she was a timid *******
and i fed pearls to pigs
or rather wasted £120 on... touchy-feely bollocking
that left me feeling like castrated imp?!

listen 'ere... missy... what choice do some of us
*** "starved" when encountering ***?
i had to check my body...
itemize it to stop this... ****** cinema having
fun in my mind... all this daydreaming
where i really was the protagonist with
this... pristine nymphomaniac...
i said i wouldn't drink to save up for another
encounter: not going to happen...
i drink to write truthfully...
but i've cut down...

i said i wouldn't look at *******:
no films anyway... something akin
to the old tabloid: the Sun's page three...
three shakes of the fox's tail
and i turned into a premature *******
case...
from being an ******* dysfunction case
with a timid *****
to fully blossoming with a head pulsating
in the spectrum of purple:
i guess she really did tell me that
she owned my phallus when i moved my hands
to pretend force-feeding her:
she already did anyway...

how's that? the dark arts... i don't have any other
name for it...
*** of the *** "starved"...
while i'll be giving her another hour's worth
of drip... ******* so easily over...
let's me honest... thinking about a cow's ******
sack will not make a difference...
i still like milk...
   but... if i'm so ******* adamant on semi-:
feeding pearls to pigs...
i need to harden my body and my mind...
i can't have a cockerel for a mollusc...

           yes... because *** for men is not...
traumatic... perhaps in stable relationships
where both man and woman
can... pretend *** never existed...
at the supermarket i spotted these two chubby-loved-up
bundles of joy...
let's just pretend... *** has to translate back
into furthering genes... whatever the hell that means...
a good idea never seems to attach itself
to genes...
nothing biological came out of Newton...
perhaps it would be best
to aim at an ***... perhaps...

*** isn't "traumatic" for men...
  so bisexual women have to state that all *** with
men is ****?
**** inverted... a timid ***** that can't
give you a hard-on is like...
a barber who can't trim your beard...
or a dentist that can't ease your toothache...
for ****'s sake... am i not imprinting a
parody of 2 + 2 =  4?!
no... wait... last time i heard:
how do i manage to pick up these
bogus messages i don't know:
mathematics is racist...
well... let's all study algebra if arithmetic is
too soon... "too soon": to somehow also pretend
to spell...

among the Goliaths and the Nimrods
i have learned that...
sure... we're all supposedly literate...
but... for some people there's still no horizon
for... there's still no... chance for language
arriving at a spontaneous fluidity...
there's no horizon for...
  digression...       n'est ce pas?

the best **** turns out... i have to return to...
cycling... push-ups and stomach crunches...
drinking in moderation...
and once i've tested the waters and the dream
is finally over...
where i can **** myself off for... at least ten minutes
without teasing the prospect of an *******:
i'll be ready for another encounter:
as promised...
where she will show me her mouth: agape...
her wonders of her tongue...
her eyes glistening in her mania...

   funny how i was once diagnosed as psychotic...
well... a once upon a time... a...
nymphomaniac met up with
a Spartan psychotic and...
oh... they had a dozen children...
and these were the envy of Nox and Cerberus...
when that... ******* concept
came to its final fruition...

it's almost unbelievable how...
the most... tried and tested method of... "inquiry"
can become a put off for some...
but i know what this is worth...
the butterflies in my stomach:
the unblocking of the drain with the sight
of curling hairs and soap grime...
by comparison... her well attired body in cleanliness...
but for me... i need to harden my body...
i need to exercise...
and wait for my cockerel to recover
for pecking at the oyster...

that's how it is... esp. when not conscripted
into the army of the numbed heads of
male genital mutilation... circumcision...
of course she knew that she would pull it back
during *******...
but that i still have the sheath...
i don't have that ****-numbing luxury of
somehow being... brain dead enough
to have to compensate with...
hey! 3 ****** at a time!

- i can't just become a duracell bunny and have
a hard-on all the time...
recovery period...
after 4 years of "solo project" of projecting
fantasy... to come up with the reality...
it's not going to be... well... i had
a dream: although i sleep but am a dreamless
****... her name burning into my brain:

oddly enough... it's akin to the prophet
Muhammad's first wife... Khadija...
has she rolled in her grave long enough
to emerge as a ******* in a brothel?
i'll just wait for Muhammad to turn in his grave
and be called out as:
ambitious pseudo-Solomon...
i'll wait for that one...
although: i think the concept of reincarnation
is horrid: i.e. there are only a limited number
of true selves...

  the rest? zombies... dead once: dead again...
monstrous strap-ons of technological
advancement: suddenly running dry on the prospect /
need to procreate...
no? if everything is being automated...
who needs... i never liked reincarnation...
that concept of completely obliterating the faculty
of memory... it takes a second to conceive...
circa... 9 months for the tadpole to wriggle out...
about 4 years for any consciousness to arrive
armed with the faculty of memory...

reincarnation is like: a hyper-inflated take
on libido... or... something akin to...
the doppelganger...
but it's not like there isn't a push-back...
if actors could steal the shadows of people...
people steal the faces of actors
and associate them with... the crippling furores of
fame... once upon a time...
how were you known who...
so-and-so was... Richard the Lion-heart...
this freely available spread of the image...
once upon a time...
of greatness was never associated
with an immediacy of recognition...
oddly enough...

i suppose there's still more time, required...
to ponder this transition...
**** me... if i'm going back at a stab
with this nymphomaniac...
i need to harden my body...
my phallus can't be a mollusc...
i need my body tense...
so that when she does her... ***** tricks...
i'll be fit for an hour's worth...
if not to my pleasing:
then at least to hers...

      oh sure... only women find *** with
men traumatic...
only women have a voice in a democracy...
where's the ******* fire?!
where's that: a face that sent a thousand ships
toward old Priam's gates?

obvious there's a sieving process...
i like a sieving process...
those that arrive... those that: don't arrive...
those that are late... and those...
that are... always late...
perfectly simple...

           i need a second encounter with my nymph...
i need to crease these meanings...
i need for my sight to turn all blurry
and my hearing to fade out...
a gurgling snigger of a boar...
        a sound of an animal almost drowning
in a swamp of its own ****...

the *** was great... but the aftermath...
well... if i were in a closeted, stable... relationship...
none of this would have happened...
i wouldn't be writing like this, or even:
about this...
there are some journalistic columns... funded...
properly paid... of the higher sort of "peoples"
describing visits to... Parisian ******...
like... affairs were: solid steel... Lego-building encounters...
but me and these ****** is suddenly...
what? decrepit moi?
    degenerate moi?
                  self-deprecating humour comes...
allied with... a self-moralistic accusation-al mandate...

it's trivial overtly-worded *******...
but it does... sometimes...
turn my heart of a pebble's worth of a throw into
a... soft... fleshy... essentiality of...
the plethora of doubts... and negations...

        yes... a night well invested in...
                                      came the time for hardening
the body...
to later hope of relaxing it with another
encounter: for the vain hopes in all of existence...
her face is still unknown to me...
it too immediately contorts into
her manic circus of arriving at pleasures:
conversations will never give.

I can't really rhyme very well,
or write.
so... apologies.

[verse 1]
finally asking for some help
and swallowing my pride
friends won’t listen to me
and I’m stabbed in my backside

scared of my own shadow
and watching my every move
giving it my all despite
knowing you’ll disapprove

there it is again,
that funny feeling. that funny feeling.
there it is again,
that funny feeling. that funny feeling.

[verse 2]
writing my own hero
that I thought I’d always need.
giving him the deepest,
darkest flaws inside of me.

broken hearts and promises,
makeshift therapy.
run into burning buildings
always voluntarily

working from dawn to dusk,
told secrets I cannot keep,
work always follows me home
so I cry myself to sleep.

writing to escape this ****** reality
while I sit in silence
and question my sexuality

there it is again,
that funny feeling. that funny feeling.
there it is again,
that funny feeling. that funny feeling.

[verse 3]
sleepless nights, stick & pokes
unblocking my ex
bloodshot eyes, fake smiles,
fill the void with meaningless ***

always stopped when I said no,
but never heard a yes.
stepped outside to call his wife;
left me a crying mess.

total disassociation
lie, say that I’m fine.
googling ptsd
but denying what I find.

exploited daddy issues,
making myself small.
the silent contemplation
of ending it all.

there it is again,
that funny feeling. that funny feeling.
there it is again,
that funny feeling. that funny feeling.

hey, what can you say?
we were overdue.
but it’ll be over soon.
just wait.
ba-da-da, ba-da-da, ba-da-da-da-da-da-da

The negativity tries to show it's ugly head,
the hatred swells up inside.
Wishing chaos would go away,
lugging around the contempt in my mind.

Neglecting what is right,
disregarding what is true.
Hoping light will dance within,
and rescue the soul from the abyss.

Image a furnace in your mind,
hot coals full of peace.
Put the emotions of negativity in there,
once and for all get rid of the disease.

Unblocking the hatred inside,
the thoughts are now at ease.
Channeling goodness in my mind,
once and for all get rid of the disease.

I'm thinking of my old lovers all the time
All the time they are on my mind
I think of texting them
Unblocking them
Looking them up on Linkedin
And I can't
Or I don't
What if I'm disappointed?
What if I would be inviting the wrong energy into myself?
What if they come and the magic is gone?
But all I want to do is smoke a ******* cigarette
On the water
While I get too tipsy off an aperol spritz
And a hot man looks at me and rubs my calf
While he thinks about how to get me into bed
Or better yet,
He already has me in his bed
And he still acts like he's working to get me there
I want to be touched
Tenderly and aggressively
I want to be lifted and throbbed
I want to feel hot, tequila breath on my neck
While a sweaty, hairy chest looms over my back
While a hard **** enters me
And one hand holds my throat and the other holds my hip
Holding me in place to **** me just right

But then the problems arise in my mind
The problems are as follows:
1) who would I select? an old lover? Probably not, they are in the past for a reason, and yet a new one I can't be sure of
2) what if the *** is bad? And I give myself some new trauma to overcome. The vessel of my newly healing ***** is so tender and I could easily disturb the climate of peace growing there, rip the tender shoots from their roots because I want so badly to get manhandled

Aren't these problems just fears?
And why shouldn't I be afraid?
After the three assaults of 2018-2019 *** wasn't the same anymore
It's less to do about the assault of 2009
But even as I type that
"2009"
I remember that I was just a sophomore in high school
The womanness in me barely beginning to grow
And those roots were brutally ripped out of the new soil
The new leaves on my sweet spring green branches
Were torn and smudged
And the soft velvet of my body was ripped
And new pollen was discarded

So of course 2009 also matters
And it's so shocking
2009 sounds like a time for babies to exist
Not a year for brutal assaults
But what can you do? Things happen as they happen.

Anyway.
After the assaults of 2018-2019
I went back to Tony
My stallion
My perfect ****
My daddy
My sweet long beach lover
And I left shaking
Unable to connect
Unable to **** or *** or play in the same way
I left reliving the rapes of the summer, fall and winter
And then no *** was the same
No *** was as free
And now I still have this overwhelming feeling
That the good years are gone
But that can't be true. I know it's not true.

My ***** just needs to heal
And it's hard to heal from ****
When I crave a good, sweaty **** down
And I am afraid to have it
Because what if I get triggered
And then I feel like a broken woman
Or what if I get triggered
And I say hey I'm triggered
And I don't beat myself up for getting triggered
And I don't get embarrassed and I don't cry
And it's okay
So many what-ifs

But I know I'm not broken
And anyway my goal in life is not to **** well
The measure of wholeness is not how well I ****
If I don't enjoy *** exactly right now
that is okay and is not a reflection of my wholeness
I am whole

And yet still
I want a ******* cigarette
and a spritz
and an espresso
and a hairy man with a big chest
wearing an open button down
who looks at me
like he'd like to ravish me any minute
and within all of that
I want never to think
never to worry
never to feel unsafe
or triggered
I want my brain to dissipate
but my brain doesn't feel safe
leaving me alone with my body
with my body where dangerous moments have left scars
and that is why I am trying to cultivate safety in my new garden

Safety in the body
Safety in the body
Safety in the body

and even better would be then to feel safety against someone else's body
safety with someone else inside my body
I feel so lame feeling scared
Feeling scared makes me feel weak
It's toxic I know
It's utterly toxic

But the point is that I am actually safe
I am utterly safe
And if I were to decided to find someone to ****
Right now
Either from my past
Or someone new
I would vet them
And then
The **** would be safe.

How did I do it back then?
At 5'2, inviting strange men to my HOME
Men all above 6'2 by the way
Muscular, fit, strong, healthy
Total strangers into my house and never ever feeling afraid
Knowing they were safe
And you know what
The ones who I knew were safe actually were always ******* safe
And if they showed me that they were less than safe
And I had my faculties in place
I left them
Or made them leave
I did.

I did my best to protect myself at every turn as best I could
And it still didn't work 100%
but I guess that's not true huh?
I could have valued my gut more
Said no earlier
Not had the shot that felt strange
Because I had many many shots
That felt great with safe men
Who wanted to have a good time
And we did have a good time
And everyone went home or to bed or to wherever happy
So it wasn't about the shot
It was about the feeling in my gut that didn't want it
And the women beside me who said go ahead
And the betrayal of my instincts.

And isn't this all just a part of the journey of life
as a woman re-learning to listen to herself
And listening to myself now
having said all this
I suppose it's fine that no man
Is laying in my bed hoping to impress me by playing guitar
Ready to lick me and squeeze me and touch me.

But I would still love a cigarette by the water
and an espresso
and a man bringing me a cool, strong drink
who wants to rub my feet
and **** me mindless
as the sun goes down
I want to forget my name
in someone else's arms
who also forgets their name
inside my perfect, precious, healed *****.

Ladies and gentlemen,

That person that didn't want you, love you, pick you for their love, for their life. For what ever reason.
That person doesn't deserve you.

Those texts you send when you shouldn't, but you're drunk and your boundaries have slipped.
They are not the real you.
The strong you.
Don't send them.

Looking at photos of their new love. The one that they picked instead of you.
That's not going to help you.

Those poems you wrote them. Stop!
Save your beautiful words. Don't waste them on someone who reads them but doesn't feel them.

Don't feed someone's ego, and destroy your self respect in the process.

That ocean of tears you cried, over someone that wouldn't even catch one tear for you.
No more.
Save your tears for those who deserve your love.

This self destructiveness, isn't you!
This never has been you.
Miss guided passion.
The drinking, the texts the phone calls.
The modern day problems of blocking and unblocking of numbers and Facebook profiles.

This isn't life. This isn't living.

This is wasting precious time.

I know it's hard. I know your heart is heavy with the cracks it now must endure.
But time can stitch over the cracks and pull the pieces of your heart back together.
Trust me. I've done it.

Surround yourself with your own love.

Hibernate, metamorphose, lick your wounds.
Heal yourself.
Take as long as you need.

It's not easy for us sensitive souls. But it can be done. Overcome.

Learn, be brave.
Then Love again.

To my friend who I’ve let down.

It feels as if my proclivity to think of myself before others and to not consider how other people may feel has finally presented true and real consequences.

She won't talk to me anymore.
Won’t give me the time of day.

It’s different from before, when I was able to patch a wound with a verbal apology.

Now I’m trapped in an echo chamber where all I can hear is my own voice repeating “Im sorry”.

So what now?
Where do I go from here?

Do I pull the same empty, soulless  apologies that I’ve repeated since the 1st grade, only adding to deepen pitch of my echo chamber?

Or do I face the fact that she’s never coming back, never unblocking me, never being my friend again?

But why should she?

What does she have to gain?

She could accept my meaningless words sent through the phone of a friend.

But for what?

To become infatuated and obsessed again, only for me to break her heart and use my ex girlfriend as a scapegoat, to hide my fear of her.

I see her point of view, and I see yours too.

Until such time when I emerge a better man, a real man, who knows how to treat a lady with the proper decency and respect that any human deserves. I shall remain in this echo chamber.

And I don’t expect any more from you than to leave me on read.

Breaking free
which is free
and for the poor
like me
that's just as well.

The entrance fee
on any given day
to any given hell
is variable
although
one must pay
and
pay you will.

In going to speakers corner
I was greatly disappointed
to find it was not a corner
at all

on the plus side
it was near to an arch
Marble Arch
which
I never passed under
only looked at in wonder
that
such antiques exist.

I missed my stop on the way back
and so
stopped off at 'Chicken Shack'
and ate four nicely spiced wings
another disappointment
I still can't fly
next time I'll try
the breast,
ps
the legs worked the best for me
( that's a joke I hope)


Okay
I'm nearly somewhere
almost got there
wish those wings had worked.

Breaking free
unblocking me
seeing in stereo
the things that I see
and I see an awful lot.

haven't we reached the pinnacle
of en masse allowance
for a collective allowance
for introspection,
       introspection:
that's nothing to do with
the reflective aspect
of the same allowance granted
for the reflexive aspect
of "thinking"...
      came the day when thinking
became detached from doubt,
and aligned itself with a belief,
secular, scientific belief...
raving lunatics,
why else explain the plethora
of terms,
psychiatric: boost with
the pharma additions,
   and the pop psychology...
       random terms...
  disorder this, disorder that,
when did philosophers
ever prescribe:
cages,               words that cage
people, and broccoli stalks...
into: ugh... can't be done?
  now i speak a language i'm
uncertain of,
it's constantly suspect...
the heroic past, the stupid past...
the current scientific obsession
with i.q.: as if, it leads anywhere...
what's high i.q. for me?
plumber...
      someone who isn't
exactly driven by etiquette,
that ******* ask of aesthetic by
the ruling classes...
but at least someone,
who manages to perfect their
craft,
   to the point where
he's critique free.
                            **** me,
the jews were all over this...
why translate the pyramid
into metaphysics...
       i'd sooner want to live
in the shadow of a mountain,
than a fake mountain
in a desert...
                      i.q. i.q. i.q.,
                  inverted quantifier...
          imploded qua,
          i can go on and on and on
with ******* up this acronym..
   ("discriminatory") inclusive qualifier...
it's the sort of intelligence
measure,
that... doesn't exactly solve anything...
blocked toilet...
   i see i.q. scores...
         and two left hands...
      basically can expand
on 2 + 2 = 4,
  but is really ****** at unblocking
a toilet...
       god forbid if they can't
cook a decent cottage pie...
            how many bay leaves?
two!
        a whole all spice bud,
some nutmeg, but more in the mash,
etc. yadda yadda yo...
         at a time when
humanity is achieving its "supposed"
goal...
               becoming more and more
introverted,
          and less heroic / dumb
extroverted...
           where all that requires
discovery, adventure,
orientates itself around some *******
fetish / fantasy originating
on the moon...
                          big dreamer back
down... well... not exactly...
                   who are these outliers,
not the really intelligent people,
not the really stunted people,
i mean: this... "fizzle",
   this "in-between"...
             the buddhist middle "rank"?
the average?
                      autism, solipsism,
soliloquy, theism, atheism,
and just some plain out of sight
*******...
                     angry?
n'ah...
             i'm standing in the breadth
of time,
with some snarky ******* telling me
to either climb up a tree,
or join the ******* savannah herd...
             darwinism is such
a ******* ****-joy when it comes
to your allowance of using language
as a means of "escape"...
          as if everyone keeps
  "forgetting"...
the cosmological argument, for god,
the ontological argument, for god,
and the...
                        the free will of the other,
for no god...
              oh... wait... 'ere comes
the straight-jacket...
            the argument of free will,
and whether not or whether,
  "we" have it...
                           welcome to the loony
bin, i'm matthew,
                      conrad to some,
i hope you're welcome,
we try to respect those with
extrovert layers of despair,
i'll be your moderator,
   we only have one
       prospect of occupying
this here space,
notably within the confines
of the suggestion:
             let's find the bottom
                      of this pit;
and if we don't?
          hell...
           preserving the experience,
that's as much as life
will ever allow, democratically,
democratically, counter darwinism.

Thinking about unblocking his number
Is suicidal thoughts
He's my death wish
My reaper's kiss
Can't believe he was once my everything

Manipulative, darkened and deceiving
I fell for every trick he fed me
And always woke up from nightmares
That left me screaming
They were dreams of him
And a rooftop
And giant claws
They're suicidal thoughts

I see his face
In every scar on my arm
Every shriveled patch of skin
Is something like him
So twisted and deceived
Well, that's more like me
But I still miss him sometimes
Wonder what I looked like in his eyes

A fool, I suppose
Just a foolish girl
Lost in his fantasy world
A world where he might actually love me
Pure fantasy
Where the rope around my neck
Is a daisy chain
And this suicidal thoughts
Are pure bliss to me