Coming outa the fog that was a steady binge I reailzed it had all
changed.
No longer was I the in demand writer but more like a sad cliff note
to a on going trainwreck.

People either stopped by to view the specticle or laugh at the
man who no longer was what they secretly hated.
The drinks but a old vice and my only true friend who held the
promise of my death.

The night befor had been a display of Gonzo like a vetran preformer
I played the role empty to myself yet the joke they did thirst to
know to see that spark and relive vision's of a burning fire.

To have the safe laugh with the old drunkard.
My eyes but a store window to a long since closed business.
I had become a human ghost town a walking monument to
the strange case of what used to be.

There taunts were clear hidden under a mocking yet sweet candy
covered lie.
tormented like a lion in a zoo who's rage if released would
make them run in sheer terror if only they could imagine the violence
that loomed in my thoughts.

But I just continued to extinguish that fire every drink
kept it at a dull smolder.

They wanted the image the walking joke not the truth.
like a burnt out ****** eventhough it killed me i still
craved that feeling of utter acceptance in the reality of it's
true rejection.

The road called to me as it viewed me as a lost love
who had fallen and was notning more than a sad parody
of a once brave yet now bitter soul.

The mystery of that last great journey still did awake me.
The heart is a highway it's road looms on into the horizen.
Hitting deadends and emotional near insane crossroads.

And I no longer was numb enough to take it's punishment.
Th scrapbook of my mind was full yet pages were added by the drop.

The final chapter waited.
But befor it's end it must be lived.

Alone I knew this was the last stand and only when you walk through hell do you understand how it feels to rest in silence.
A circus preformer left with only posters and trinkets to recall
thoose failed glory's.

One last battle still did wait.
All i needed was one last spark.
So began my trip from paridise to hell.

The words my guide the whiskey my fuel.
Insanity my old friend in battle.
And this semi thing called reality my willing rival.

As writers we thirst for perfection and all its beautiful destruction.
As for gonzo it was all down hill from here kids.

There is ***** for sale and wombs for rent
For same *** couples it’s cash well spent.
While heterosexuals breed their own
Gay couples, as yet, cannot clone.
A lesbian couple who had the itch
is suing their ***** bank for “bait and switch”.
They wanted a Caucasian baby
and had requested ***** from vial “380”.
The donor of that ***** was white,
Handsome, smart, just “not their type”
They were given another’s ***** instead
And an interracial child was bred.
It seems they were given vial “330”
The vials, it seems, were marked unclearly.
An honest mistake by a nearsighted boomer?-
or one with a twisted sense of humor?
A civil suit will go to trial
seeking damages for a mixed race child.
If their motion to dismiss should meet denial
The “bank” will suffer premature withdrawal.
In which event bankruptcy looms
For the bank that supplies the ***** for wombs.

An introverted saint

An introverted saint named after a saint
Who died for rebirth of faith
A ******* is very intuitive and alive
Like poem
But that’s not who you really are
You are running away from your past
Your pain you took risk to give rot to a friend’s innocent body without why

The way it glows how the light holds you in silence, taking care of you
Experience the energy of where all life began when you met a friend

And yet you keep it so close to you
So you don’t have to be afraid of who you are... you might lose your mind you refuses to take it factual. A ******* wants to spend the cell with who he is.

A ******* sees an angel for the first time is a friend when he told a friend is an angel without a *******’s feeling in unclearly to complete desirable to be aware
Know your purpose feel your birth
Hear at first faintly then distinctly is a friend’s a state of harmony
The sweet strains of our union
Our friendship heats up the cold universe,
And give your tired desperate heart you lost your introversive
Purified by our kisses, are eternally healed.
It’s destiny by the way it’s weird feeling
It is magic?

A ******* is a weak man that he is extremely hazy
the way narcissism made him lack.

Your brilliance
Your heart is very weak because of flattery
You are not afraid in the world you get hidden away from a friend’s sight as light that from your introversion compare with extrovert in experience
But you can’t cook to save your life for who you are, you are so desperately to erase in anything with good thing come in your timeline to move to make sure you are safely where your home is with you
To believe in something that’s all around us
But hidden from our sight
The gift of the faith that destiny is willing to create us to be purpose to meet in happenstance that who we are
Life can be kind and zealous

Because you are beautiful. —They move me.

An introverted saint

Thinking about the meaning behind things and how people hear them differently, like how ppl hear them differently, like how people heere them differently, like how people hear dem differently, like how people hear them diffrinly.

and see them a little more unclearly, like yesterdays crystal-future-seeing-glass orbs

and thinking about teammates and how they work together, but think alone, and there's nothing there in the air or to wear and tear at together anyway

and thinking about teammates and their roles and their lines and their act and their heights and how all of these futures are lonely

thinking about strengths all tacked up on a bulletin board of connect-the-dots exercises

thinking about connect-the-dots stories and who is listening

stay busy
fill every moment
with thoughts to fill my mind
to occupy my senses
divert my eyes
distract my heart
stay busy
I've been deceiving myself
or is this the deception?
I acknowledged it
I accepted it
but what if
I didn't?

With the first free moment
in weeks
I see clearly
or unclearly
I can't tell
all I know is that I hate
not being busy
being alone
and it doesn't help
that you've disappeared
from home
from my life
from the face of the earth
stay busy*
and I'll survive

hapax legomenon “Texas Women”

(hapax legomenon: a term of which only one instance of use is ever recorded)
(Texas Women: a term of which only one instance of use is ever recorded)

for
ꏳJ LꂦVꏂ  & Cne’

once again, they sweet sweep me off my feet,
carry me to the Court of Finger Wagging,
to be accused of hating and/or loving Texas Women
simultaneously, diffidently, consequentially, unclearly differentially

this is no flower picking exercise, shaking of the head,
“he loves me, he loves me not,” rinse and repeat,
a northern trick to confuse the plano truth,
warns the Judicial Triumvirate

your Honors, I swears,
never wrote those conjunctive words,
Texas, Women,
never ever, until just now,
a genuine hapax legomenon

akin to taking god’s name in vain,
if one dare ever utter these words, and
blows the opportunity,
well, shotgun, if you know what I mean,
one gets only
one chance

so cut me quick to the chase’s conclusion
let’s go to my defense single & singularly:
true, of women I have written, and
“too much,”
is a mere theortical constriction

I love to love women,
and a 57 variety pak is a-ok by me

an inordinate number of poems may have referenced
females hailing from a certain great state,
but never together, side by side, have I ever employed
that phrase, for my imaginations
are more than sufficient

have loved women from many places, too many faces,
some beyond measure, now a forever,
a hoarded memoir unpublishable treasure,
some, it’s true, possessed jeans and a cowboy hat,
and dangerous boots, which one admired from a
goodly distance

they brook no con, tilting their heads quizzically,
there is no maybe with women from this place,
maybe you love us, maybe not, but either way,
there ain’t no maybe in our emotional lexicology!

ok.

the only woman I ever hated is dead and buried,
and yes, I shot her dead for being ornery cactus mean,
so by this roundabout roundup summation,
you may put your head on pillow tonight,
smiling confident thinking that your hapax legomenon,
is deep in the heart of a grown boy hailing from nyc,
still a crazy straight shooter

I

When we are still combating the problem of evil
With our vicious guns and metals of empathy
An invisible enemy much more clever and stealthy
Has been sneaking behind us
Suffocating us with the suddenly plenty
On this battlefield of seeking

We seem to be caught in between
Two grotesque foes, but are we really?
The gloomy autumn sky is covered with change
Perhaps we judged too early, unclearly-
The red leaves fallen with grace of leisure
Have obscured their countenance, and we see
Only a tattered fool holding a scythe of nothing
And a soldier looming with righteous perfection
Yet, perhaps behind their foliage masks
The fool has his brow raised with love and longing
Cherishing his tool for harvesting
While the soldier with his bullets ever ready
Smirks with an air of violence
Perhaps we have failed to distinguish
The unwanted, cleverly disguised humble friend
From the well dressed yet poisoned with greed, foe

II

Where I come from we used to send
The youth not to the land of plenty and above us
But to help the poor, those who after hard work
On the land, lie beneath a clear sky full of stars
Unwounded by the pale light polluting the cities
With nothing but the vast dome of possibility
The moon and specks lighting up nothing
But a heart full of hopes, love, and dream

Now we climb and climb
Till the new sprouts are already at the peak
Or they are struggling under the shadow
Of the giant trees
Unable to find higher climes
Or
Unable to break free from this lack of oxygen
Of the giant canopy of already achieved greatness

III

The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
Was not supposed to be experienced by us
In a couple of generations, in a couple of decades

And the speed of the waves of boom and bust
Of our stability and the longevity of great things
Is only getting faster and faster
In this ocean of constant rise and falling
In this new age
We lift up the logs above us so quickly
And then let them drown so rapidly
We are more like volcanic rocks
With so many holes floating, to ask to be filled
And when fulfilled, drown as we fill, purposeless
And empty

IV

Youth in both poverty and idleness craves for unrest
But those on top should never be opposed with
Proud antagonism
With cries of illusive victory the restless rush towards
The king who tied himself to the top rung of
The wheel fortunae
Who is yet unaware where his inertia leads
Till his destined demise as it turns
To lift up the newly rich
And the new enemy
The vicious cycle of wanting to be above all
When the unwanted truth is glad humility

V

The oak trees stable at its roots, undefeated
Sends us in leaves and birds chirping
A warning to heed that we are losing our depth
In our growth and rooting
For we have rarely seen the valley empty
Yet with all the space to fill with everything
And now live and dream on a slopeless plain
Some with it all and unable to hold anything
Some struggling to breathe under the shades
We are all waning, waning
For our fingers had never dug through the earth of life
With the desperation of the fear of being swarmed
By the dark clouds of timely locusts
Yet,
These wizened words are being scoffed
For being too connected to the past

Are we proposing to cut off the rope
Connecting us to the very beginning
Just so we could get faster to the end
To the depth of this pit
Where no traveler would truly return
Without the past guiding
And we will fall again and again
Ever repeating

VI

I was filled with guilt and despair
That while people are still with next to nothing
With no luxury and sometimes not even family
That when others try to bring them necessities
I can sit in cozy idleness writing poetry
Yet filled with nothing but shame and the empty
In a world less and less occupied with reading
Why I must be a poet sole and wholehearted

And when the missionaries
Send the doves through the screen
Asking for awareness and money
To support these bodies with nothing
I was suddenly filled with hopeless shame and pain
For only one thought echoed from the words said to me
"They have very little material things, yet they seem to be really happy"
And that was the way it used to be
That the suffered and now living with peace
Seems to recall with loving longing
With great sorrow and gladness, I ask you
Is it really monstrous to say they are in a better place than we
They have the most important things
Love, hopes, and dreams
And the nothing waiting to and could be
Filled with anything
While our shaded and sheltered youth
While we hold our cups full
Filled with useless glamorous materials of our own
Or
Constantly poured out for others to keep
Wailing for something more
And lasting

Conclusion:

At the core of our ever-hungry souls
We only really needed one thing:
To be filled with something.

Hopefully more permanently,
But nothing of materialism, or even rationalism
Last more than
A mirage of permanency
Even the century tree of sunset dunes
Eventually sets as whispering dust into the sand
And even the wisest man fades away
Into the senile body whose soul
Has already bid farewell
To this temporary land

I sought and sought
And only found that  
The Word is true
Only Love transcends time and space
The embrace between two condensed hearts
Of pure longing could exert
The gravity
And gravitational time dilation
Of such self-forgetful density
That would wrap entire fabrics of reality
Around us, immersing us, with brief
Merciful revelations and trials
Of the unfathomable
Eternity.

Tonight, the sky is seemingly so dark. I can‘t even see the bitty stars that used to shimmer. But, it‘s lucky that tonight, there is a moon for me to see. Even if, I can see it unclearly due to the curtain of the clouds, the pale moonlight can fulfill my heart alot for it makes this night have some light. And, this very light helps a lonely man like me to get by through this lonesome night.

- Stephen Hugs
   20/10/2013

Today it will rain once again,
In the windows of cloudy eyes,
Where I and you unclearly exist,
On the lotted shores of memory.

Stoic birds wading upon waves,
That grieve and go, riding, broke,
An endless sweeping of sorrows,
Carried by moans on the wind.

In the windows of our new eyes
There was, then, true gleaming
And we were *****, by seasides,
Among sparkles of stars and sun.

The island so far away was here,
Perfect, bright, cast of nowadays,
Land only love in whisper knows
O, by the graceful seasides only.

Now, dry, shelled and castaway,
The wind is shrilling its long keen
And the cradle bones of our love
Lie still, asleep in sinking sands.

These subcategories of articles
That separate theory from fact
Are lines that, really,
Are quite unclearly drawn.
Categories for theory and qualia
That put me under the impression
That everything is based on a conjecture
And it's all in my head.
Qualia is defined as being subject
To your sense perceptions
Brought on by stimulation of phenomena.
Theory is a system of ideas used
To explain something.
But don't we theorize everything,
Based on our qualia?
If we perceive that a rose is red,
And we theorize that this type of rose
Will always be red because we will always see it red,
Does that really make it red?
Is my red your green,
And you only call it red because to you need to call it something?
Or is that just our theory that to be comfortable
Is to fit in and be accepted by everyone?
And that to challenge what is called fact
Is to be rejected?
Where do we draw the line
In these thickly worded and sinking articles?
Is it where we can finally say that
Everything is based on theory that our qualia subjects us to?
If so, am I under the correct theory that
I really am alone?
That my sense perceptions just play tricks on me
So I don't think to hard, or go insane?
Is insanity just theory based on qualia?
Or maybe I should be under the theory
That being a thinker like this
Subjects me to the unpleasant qualia of a perceived headache.

everyone thinks you're different
well so do I
I conclude that everyday
what a wonderful thing to see
your green eyes shine when you look at me
how will this end I always ask
"don't leave me here" I always whisper unclearly in your ear
silently enough that you can't hear but loudly enough I can say I told you
just keep on holding onto me
trust me
I won't let go only if you said
"I found something better,
now leave, now go"
I would listen and I would
but I would never do that to you my dear
I hope you feel the same
I know you have potential to always be here
but I can only hope and pray that I'm right oh oh dear

I can't say I have many friends,
So I glued faces to my ink pens.
They lend me words where people fall short
And sort these emotions to thoughts I've absorbed, see.
I've become rather smitten with comments that are written
Because while the pen is mightier than the sword
It's my teeth to my tongue I have bitten
So while my words remain sitting in front of my screen
I reread and delete them and make them more terrific for an audience to read.
Still I over think causing my thoughts to seep and the ink still bleeds.
But I'm getting ditracted, this is about my friends, the pens, not me.

Mr. Bic writes quick with his thoughts in a rush
And Sharpie goes deep but tends to make my words gush
Uniball  makes my mind think unclearly
as my hand runs across making words all smeary
Lastly, a rainbow gel pen who is such an old friend,
Her name was lost long ago.
They are flawed by their nature,
Still they remain the closest friends I know.

Life spent as lent
Twirls of uncondescending senseless ideas my mouth spew
Saying words I didn’t meant
Sadness of all leafs autumn threw

Where did it all go, all the magic´s gone?
All is seen unclearly beneath the pelagic under the sun
Reminders from yesterday make me reminisce de past
Concluding with hopes that this won´t last.

Even when nothing is more than you have
Zero is better than where you at and your all you have, you gotta know that having it bad ain't nothin but a chance.
Take an opportunity to live thru the hurt, it'll show you how the world works.
Havin everything given to you is worse than the struggle it takes to make every penny you save.
When  you never worry bout bein at the bottom
Losin every thing you own and only havin what you know. The times people like I consider  better then most feel like a tragedy.
From the first breath I took i inhaled poverty.
School was never a priority and anger was the only emotion that filled me fully.
I hated every body equally but I was never dull enough to be a bully.
Police and authority only go around humanity never seeing the situation only pressing what society says is politically correct.
Enforcing the views of the 1 percent who's life's supposedly means  more cuz money got given to the lucky ones when they were born.
Ignorance to make it on your own is taught by the parents before them.
So to end I'll tell you this.........

I was born pour to a teenage drug *****.
No father to learn from or siblings to worry for. But I'm smarter than any professor you've meet before.
I can afford to have nothing at all support myself my girl and my dog.
Cuz I learned how to mold the world
Might not have it all but I stand tall
Adversity is daily so why would it pressure me
Make me act differently or unclearly
Maby if I had been given anything I'd be different
An ungrateful little dip **** that took happiness for granted
,

The things we say,
made into something other,
anagrams discovered,
mumblings muttered unclearly,
reprieve me,
for, these games are deceiving ,
just yell for to leave
or my company,
maybe then I can sleep.

I always wanted to meet a genius
Being not one myself
But every time I thought I'd found
Was always something unsound
A scratch or scrape in the wrong place
An area unclearly seen
That in the end
My search did end
No genius to be my friend.

Plenty in the times of old
The voice vigorous and bold
Now there is shimmer on the bough
Temptations for an hour
But that quality I do seek
Lies dormant and not complete.

I had just written about
when I realized
the death coming at you
may be dissuaded
though not by
a tongue's lying
to itself over and

unclearly sworn
yet dashing
from smitten
to smite
a pretense
to light
and i'll take
anything not as dim
as 'e tonight

starting sloping
the sound
of my cries
to be more and
what do you
think does
the blood spilling
sound

eclectic I was going
for eclectic though
the sound of spilling
blood splishy splashy
warm and gushy
maybe mushy
4u

sorry too much 2 far
no one likes 2b fished 4
with brazen hooks
and need I know
i know hooked flesh
waiting in darkness
to be released

thinking lines like
these want to be
"just like the wind
said she would"
cut loose
and running
out of the light
I'd say burns
sounds cool