There are some wars
Which cannot be lost
Which cannot be won.
Where you used swords
And I used guns.
There was bloodshed,
Deep cuts and wounds.
And each soldier each side did swoon.
Yours more than mine!
In the fought span of time.
And when we were done
The world around thought, I had won!
I looked around,
My gaze to the ground,
Covered in red.
'Tis true all your soldiers were dead.
And half of mine remained
Going never to be the same.
We hung our heads in shame
Killing is not a game.
There are some wars
Which cannot be lost
Which cannot be won
And...
Which cannot be undone.

Ghosts unglorified
Watch the black angels weep
Demonic doctrines at play in our minds
In our homes, in the streets
Your diamond earrings
Your rhinestone-encrusted phone
Your manicures
Your shoe-shine labor throne
The devil is in the details
But only the dead can see
The big picture
Count your pills
Count your money
Count your friends
How’s that honey?
Ghosts with wide eyes
Watch the angels cry
Demonic ways at work in our heads
In our beds, it should be a crime
Devil is in the details
Every nook and cranny
When will we see the big picture?

Ochre scrubbed ebony skin
Wooden jewelery here and there
Picture perfect beauty in simplicity
She walked in moral fortification -
fashioned in decency
Hardwork and wisdom was her charm

Barefeet and weighted with firewood on her head
Pots and baskets she juggled in hands
and through scorching heat she focussed ahead
the dessert sand burning her feet
Not once did she say it was a plight

She was proud to be a woman
The keeper of men and children
Through rain through sunshine
cooperating with her man's other woman

She worked for survival of all
Getting up in the first light of day
Submitting and respecting
Raising her children in acceptable ways

She was the unglorified worrior
A war hero could not fit her shoe

But she didnt have that shoe
So she smiled and made her man happy,
and her children

Unglorified victories
are glorious yet.
No one knows
what the novice knows
as he goes from worse
to better.
The consequence is small,
of course -- too small for pros
to care to notice.
Yet every pro
is a glorified novice.

the entirety of the english tongue's
"finalities" are nothing but,
banalities...
                  and yes, chris isaack,
could have been the new elvis...
  try or no try, there was no
train from st. petersburg to moscow,
and however women love party...
men are always in love with
a wrinkle...
  what of thinning hair,
         men age into lizard people,
women age into the graeae...
      the last one laughing stands...
   i'm thinking of conjuring pasta with
a poached egg akin to heston...
but it is as it is...
that gateway into the affair,
heidegger,
     VI, LVI,
   we really do live in an unquestioning
age...
     i love that phrase:
spiritually determinate...
no one is actually asking a question,
everything is "seemingly" intact,
readied for some glorifying plateau...
but we live in times when there is no
question, worth answering to,
in that there are too many answers,
and hardly a question to craft a usurp action
(usurp-tion)...
                    the tragedy being that:
we don't live in a questioning age,
we live in a paraphrase age,
             in an age worth reclaiming
an "original"...
                        you can fry lard all
you want, but after a while the game is up
having tasted the butter...
       chris isaak was the new elvis,
but he wasn't, because he got the J.F.K.
treatment;
retrogative in an age of completely unquestioning,
an age where the only question is
questioning perpetuated?
there's a possessiveness of "being there"?!
apart from journalism?
can dasein ever reach a dasein's dynamic?
thank **** not a lot of pdf. existentialists ever
read kant...
            i'd be worried had they ever done so...
sartre's novels are fun, his thinking though?
about at dry as an overcooked doughnut...
but we really do live in the age of a lost question...
          aetate quaestio amissa;
and for an age filled with answers, as ours is...
i find it obnoxious, too certain,
       too "truthful",
but also too fricative in what scientific
     fictionalisation provides...
    summa ut...
          age of a question omitted,
                  summed up to perpetuum sors:
id refero qua quaestio
    ut quaestio qua refero,
                 *** finis ping pong logica.
            and it is true:
why are we left so completely unquestioning?
as heidegger noted with my own
reinterpretation,
why is history simply a delayed end,
                   as it is: a falsified beginning?
falsified by the count of:
   the unglorified estimates of poetics
being allowed the burden of the images
cleaving to a claustrophobia of space...
we can't live for the next 100 years
by being satiated by the already "certain"
answers...
we never managed to call the planet
mars inhabitable, when we already stated:
earth was once uninhabitable...
   the once upon a time schematic needs
revising...
      i never bother a latin friction of
a "dictionary": i write pig,
i snorkel in piggish, and then i snort
a hog's affair of "compensating" grammar
in english grammar schooling (private)...
we live in an unquestioning age,
    an age riddled, rather than filled with:
all the answers...
      if i were my own, in the contemporary sense,
of being sharing a tempo history,
i'd begin to sound the bells of suspicion...
  i never warmed to this age,
it's neither road nor highway,
but a cul de sac...
                 and i will never warm to this
age, i will always be nefarious towards it...
because it has been oh so blatant in treating
a case of awe, as a worthy take on the carousel.

I thought I was special, but you stripped
me of my blossoming beauty, my humanity,
overpowering me as I begged you to stop
violating my space, snatching my soul
so savagely, your grubby hands holding
me tight around my throat, the hunger
burning within you as you ***** me
with an uncontrollable force.

Your flaming face was filled with sheer
hatred, smoky sensations surfacing his
darkened lips, his filthy cheeks, his touch
so disturbing to my flesh, stressing
my subconscious, making me feel like
I was slipping into an unconscious state.

My life wasn’t the same, my beautiful
******* unglorified, my sweet and delicious
lips lost in the distant seas, my oxygen
shattered, ****** up from his disgusting love,
his damaging fingernails clawing into my skin,
my memories bleeding raw rhythms, scarred beats,
unrecognizable songs slowly shrinking, vanishing
away into deserted lands.

I was filled with mad screams spinning within
my cells, derailed, dismayed, fading, shoulders
slumped, arms crumbling like a brick building,
my thighs exhausted, my ****** bombarded,
ripped apart like a stolen heart, like a lost star
searching for its counterpart.

My innocence was cruelly taken away from me,
my flourishing flowers of life divided, subtracted,
cut off as he had his way with me, and I was steady
drowning in faraway galaxies, wishing
this nightmare would end so that I may
have peace.

I was staggering helplessly through the darkened
night, blindsided, misguided, colliding with flaming
asteroids, feeling unsound, drowned, inadequate,
desolate, my swollen skin incessantly bleeding
broken metaphors, slashed similes, and freezing
diction with no rhythm.  My body was screaming,
seeking a missing dream, not knowing how to survive
or thrive on this wild ride, confined, divided, drifting
deep down below bottomless depths.  I never thought
I could feel so alone, maxed out, ice-cold, shouldering
the damaging storms of unglorified depictions, my breath
periodically fluctuating, breaking, slipping away
into lifeless labyrinths where the darkness haunted me
with its terrifying illusions.