BELIEF & TECHNIQUE FOR TELEPATHIC PROSE
Lee Sharks & Jack Feistfrom Pearl and Other Poems

1.     Compose real poems telepathically, with mind control powers, inside your glorious brain.

2.     You are your own best advocate. Insist the world acknowledge your poems as artifacts of tiny doom. Accept nothing less. Threaten to smash yourself in the face with gasoline and set your hair on fire. Leap over the seats to aggressively stand inside the world’s personal space and get up in its grill. Take this container of Tic-Tacs and smash it on your forehead. Crush each Tic-Tac individually into your eyeballs and ask the world if it likes your poem, and if it likes your poem, then eat your poem: “Do you like my poem? Then eat it.”

3.     Always seek constant approval, then punch your cat in the face.

4.     Arrive alive. Don’t text and drive.

5.     Always write poems all the time.

6.     Never professionalize writing. Professionalism is the last refuge of responsible people looking for work.

7.     Your life is your poem. Take care to write it biographically. Failing that, invent false biographies and post them on Wikipedia.

8.     Get as much education as you can, then ****** your education in the face to save it from sloppy education. Get enough education to respect your contempt for education.

9.     Give it all that you have, as deep as it goes, as desperate and total as taking a breath.

10.  Also be pedantic mundane pig-critic of precise punctuation juggling and ruthless crossed-out darling murdering of your own puny sentences. Save every draft and revert to original after enormous work, then drown yrself in the bathtub. Remember: editing is organization.

11.  Be long-sighted prodigy of skeptically believing in nothing, but also believe in destiny, but quietly, and hit yourself in the face for naivety’s sake.

12.  You are a seamstress of words—place each stitch carefully, deliberately. Develop a series of rituals and perform them, without variation, prior to placing each word. Allow the frequency and intensity of these rituals to grow until you spend hours, each day, touching and retouching your left index finger to the tip of your nose in a rhythmic, counter-clockwise motion, in sets of thirty revolutions, in order to place a single character. Spend years of your life shut away from the world, wasting away into an awkward, unhygienic shadow of your former self, and have, to show for it, a two-syllable word of Germanic origins on an otherwise clean, white page. This word will be redoubtable, the bedrock of your writing career. Go on to spend vast sums of personal wealth and total dedication, alienating the remaining handful of long-suffering friends who continue, despite all odds, to solicit the memory of your humanity, in order to learn the arts of metalworking, Medieval alchemy, and font design, recreating a metal-cast, alpha-numeric set of Times New Roman font, from scratch, going broke long before “numeric,” and with only the half-formed germs of the characters W, N, and sometimes-vowel Y.  hat are such retrictio s to  ou?  ou are a poet,  ot a mathematicia .  ou are a creature of steel.  ou  ill  rite a  e  and better  orld, a  orld  ithout the letter   , forgi g it, o e smoki g husk of a  ord at a time.

13.  Turn over a new leaf. You’re not getting much done like this, anyways, let’s face it. Break the chains of your censoring, conscious mind; tap into the spontaneous well of unconscious human brilliance that springs from the source of dreams. Thwart the stick-in-*** tyranny of your internal editor by making a commitment to write constantly, without ceasing, editing, or even thinking, no matter what, ignoring the anally retentive quips your brain will no doubt make. Make a further commitment: you will not only write, irrespective of internal censorship, but in a way that is unconscionably terrible, on purpose. Your writing will be, by turns, embarrassing, infantile, automatic, and marmaduke poppers—or shall we say, antagonistic to the indoctrination in repressive concepts such as “sentence” and “word” of your reader, who is always, and only, you. Let your writing be a spiritual discipline of Bat-a-rang pancakes and lightly alarm clock, ding—your toast is done.

14.  Always Alka-Seltzer eyelids all the time.

15.  At last, you are ready to make it new, to ****** your darlings, to first thought, best thought, to your heart’s content. Your adverb will be the enemy of your verb, the difference between your almost-right word and your right word will be the difference between your lightning bug and your lightning. You are ready to have a spontaneous overflow of powerful feeling, then censor the s**t out of it. You are ready to turn your extremes against each other: Unlearn your apple pancakes and burst through the mental barriers; then slow the flood, let the lovely trickle out & edit, edit, edit. Capture spontaneous gem of native human genius, then marshal vast armies of technical knowledge & self-discipline to ensure it glimmers and cuts.

16.  Believe in things like destiny. No really—the path will shatter you so many times your shards will have splinters, your bombshells, shrapnel. By the time you get there—which you probably won’t—even your exhaustion will be tired. Exhaustion of mind and body will have passed so far beyond the physical, and through malaise of spirit, that it will emerge on the other side, as physical exhaustion again. In the face of this, nothing but a little Big Purpose will do. Besides, a little ideology never hurt anyone. Feel free to be all Voltaire with your bad self, in public—but don’t give up.

17.  After all of this, when your will is finally broken (again), and you have given up for the final time (again), start over. The former model wasn’t working. Refashion yourself and your writing. Lather, rinse, usurp your noble half-brother, and repeat, until you get somewhere, or die in the trying.  

18.  Achieve consistency of voice; it is the signature by which you will be known. Your “you” should ring out clearly from each individual letter. In this, the writer is like the salesman. Like a new car, neither the writing’s merits, nor the reader’s needs, will be the final, deciding factor. Ultimately, the deciding factor is you.

19.  Unlike a new car, it is difficult to drive a poem, to use it to get to school or work. Unlike a car salesman, a writer does not wear enormous ties.

20.  Be so consistent that your writing consists in composing the same words, in the same order, creating the some overall voice and style, consistently, over and over, an eternal return of the same. Maintain this disciplined drudgery over the course of years. Let years become decades, and decades, an entire life: You will have “found your voice.” Variety is the spice of life, but consistency is its signature.

20.  Be so consistent that your writing consists in composing the same words, in the same order, creating the some overall voice and style, consistently, over and over, an eternal return of the same. Maintain this disciplined drudgery over the course of years. Let years become decades, and decades, an entire life: You will have “found your voice.” Variety is the spice of life, but consistency is its signature.

21.  Then again, consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds. Throw things up a little bit. One day, put on your hobgoblin hat, the next day, your small mind.

22.  On second thought, re: #16-17: Stop here. You don’t look like much of a writer. Save yourself the trouble of a deep investment that is sure to yield no returns. The prize is big, and not many take it. The Iliad showed us that the prize of writing is life eternal, and taught us to long for that promise; but the Odyssey taught us not to bother. There are many suitors, a single Odysseus. While the husband wends arduously homeward, Penelope weaves impending glory, an evaporating glamour, enchanting them, until he arrives. We are in for a bad end, if we chase another man’s wife, or a prize not rightfully ours. There are many suitors, a crowd of them. They begin as a chittering swarm of bats and end in the very same manner. You cannot have what is not yours. What is yours, no man can take. So, like Emily says,

I smile when you suggest that I delay ‘to publish’—that being foreign to my thought as Firmament to Fin. If fame belonged to me, I could not escape her—if she did not, the longest day would pass me on the chase—and the approbation of my Dog would forsake me—then—My Barefoot Rank is better—

23.  Therefore, take these Sturm und Drang commandments to the trash heap. Return to step 1, as the only useful piece of advice: Compose real poems telepathically, with mind control powers, inside your glorious brain.

(c) 2014 lee sharks & jack *****

from Pearl and Other Poems:

http://www.amazon.com/Pearl-Other-Poems-Crimson-Hexagon/dp/0692313079/ref=sr11?ie=UTF8&qid;=1429895012&sr;=8-1&keywords;=lee+sharks+pearl

This one time,

12. or 13, when me
And a bunch of other kids
From a different neighborhood
Played. Outside. From about sunup
To 9:00 at night. I dimly remember
(This light-bulb memory is the barest bit of energy
In an ancient filament of thought:)

It was a nightmare come to life.
There was this one kid across the River
(Rock Island)
They found him naked and dead,
In a discarded pile of coal.
His life brutally taken from him.
But that was the only time
I'd ever heard of something so horrible. Happening.
It was as commonplace as school shootings.
Which is to say, it didn’t happen in the
World that was ‘As Far As I Knew’.
Outside, everywhere, as far as I knew;
Was just where you went. No matter what.
It’s just what we did. And we did a LOT.

We played. On a job application, I would have
Written that. “Player”. As in: “Hey, I’m a kid.
I mess around. I’m unhygienic and smelly and
My hair is long and arms sunburned and sweaty
And tired and about as happy as any kid
Could be in 1975.

This one time,
I go in this dumpster and grab a
Sandwich the Mgr. of the 7-11 mistakenly threw out
It smelled. Badly. I pretended to take a gigantic
Bite out of it. My buddies weren’t ROTFL.
That stupid phrase was pre-born.
They laughed so hard they fell off their bikes.
Probably painfully so.
I worshiped this praise. Ate it like
Seinfeld eats applause.
They were rolling
On hot Iowa summer pavement, laughing fit to split.
On top of that dumpster, that day, in that single moment,
I was the King of Whatever

The manager heard some kind of ruckus.
The sandwich was in my hand, a cheesy spoiled grenade.
Which I promptly threw at him. ‘Cause he was the Adult
And I obviously wasn't Victor Mature.
He waddled back inside and called the Cops.
Not amazingly,
They were literally right around the corner.
My buddies took off like scalded dogs
I got on my homemade trail bike, laughing so
Hard I pedaled into a sticker-tree.

I didn't know what "irony" was back then.
Back then, I was so inherently goofy, that funny
Hilarious crap was somehow attracted to me.
Ironically, when I tried being funny on purpose...
Fill in the blank. There's a lesson in there somewhere.
I'm pretty sure.

We met at that French word I still can't spell.
Ron Day View.
Cackling like
Loony loons. We laughed out little butts off.

And we rode bikes EVERYWHERE.
Through the trails. There were bike
Trails trailing everywhere, short-cuts from point
Hay to Tree. And oh yeah, I climbed trees.
Constantly. And ate apples and plums from
That mean lady’s yard. She stood in her
Kitchen and glared through cat-eyed glasses,
Daring us. Daring me.
GO AHEAD. PICK JUST ONE SINGLE PLUM.
THEN I'LL CALL YOUR MOTHER!
(Interestingly, we didn't hang out with the
plums which didn't fall too far from Mrs. Tree)

Ate whatever was edible. Wild clover.
Yeah. Grass. And
Crab-apples that held the promise of
Painful bowel movements squirting out of
Your ****. Not ‘***’ because cussing wasn’t
All that big of a deal. You heard it in R movies.
But it hadn’t permeated the marrow of
Our entire culture. Not yet. It wasn’t all over
TV after, say, 8:45.

Nothing about ***. Absolutely Nuttin' Honey.
'Cause I'd be making stuff up in 1975,
When I was 12. Kissing was just...
You know.

We messed around, got into and out of trouble.
We laughed. The future hung over us like
Those mean-sounding thunderclouds,
Miles away, but moving from the North-East,
Because severe weather in Iowa always came
In the same direction.

It’s what we did. It’s just about
All we did as kids. Man, we were crazy, and had
Crazy fun.

We built bikes out of spare parts. They were low-
Slung and cool. Mine was always breaking.
I did a lot of stupid things, and somehow,
Somehow I got away with doing a lot of
Stupid things.

I believe in God. Now.
Way back then, I was Catholic. I don’t
Know if that sufficiently explains it
Or not. We ate fishsticks on Fridays during
Lent. We went to church sometimes
On Wednesday nights, the Guitar Mass,
And on Sundays. The Mass felt like it
Lasted 93 minutes, like our services do
Now. But it seemed to go on forever.
It as about 45 minutes, and we would always
“Leave Early” which meant, we’d take
Our Communion, solemnly, eyes
Downcast and humble, but I would slow,
Then stop, lost in the visage:
I looked up at the Man on the Cross and
Wondered when the Priest would ever
Get around to explaining why He
Died for my sins.
Someone would wake me from my
Reverie, and whisper, “Please move ahead.”
Shamefaced, I would say, truthfully,
“I’m sorry, Ma’am.” Because, in 1975,
When I was 12, I really was.
Sorry.

Then an hour
Later I was dressed in
Salvation Army rags (today)
And I would jump in the creek with my
Jean-shorts and off-color shirt on.
Sometimes, the bikes weren’t in the picture.
So we hiked. Never ‘walked’ but “hiked” which
Was moving with a greater purpose.
Great distances. The distances weren’t the great
Part. I forget what the great part was, because
This was when I was a kid. When I was 12.

The things you did
As a kid
You store them in a secret kid-locker
In your heart
And your heart, it grows, along with the rest of
You, like a quarter pounded into the meat of
A young tree. The tree envelops the quarter,
Taking it in to itself, swallowing time
That you only try to clumsily relive
(Like I’m trying right now)

It used to be cold, icy, and snowy in Iowa.
I know this; I was out in it most of the time.
Does anyone sled anymore? Toboggan?
Round-saucer spinning uncontrollably at
About 12 mph? Metal sleds with runners
And power steering? Down crazy-steep
Barreling down frozen white hills, crashing
Into copses of thin pliable young trees.
You only see this kind of stuff on Youtube
In somebody’s ‘All-time Epic Fail List
The failure is epic, alright. We’ve moved on.
And not necessarily to a bigger, brighter future.

Ice! I skated on long-bladed racer skates.
I could stop on a dollar’s worth of
Dimes.

And this one time
I
Fell right on my knee hard enough to
Grind a hole in my jeans. It looked like a ******
Meteor crater. A pretty girl named Tina
Felt sorry for me and sat right next to me
She wore pink pom-poms and I fell in
Puppy with her for about three hours.
Then she smiled and hugged me and
I was more frozen than the ice outside
And she left, her Mom picking her up
And eying me balefully as I stood
Pink-faced and flushed and utterly
Confused about the randomness of
What had just happened to me.
Girls from my town all knew
More about myself than myself knew
About me. They had me PEGGED, brothers
And sisters. But not this girl. She was from
The next town over.
That was a good day, if I’m remembering
It correctly. If. I’m pretty sure I am.
Or, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter.

We played a game called ‘Blackman’
Like a tag game in Gym, where
One kid is “IT” and a mass of skaters
Goes from one end of the ice pond
To the other, and the people you capture
(I couldn’t catch an old man in front-wheel
Drive figure skates and I got so frustrated
I gave up to jeers and yells and found the
Trees were good listeners to kids
Who couldn’t skate as coordinated as
They wanted to.

So ten minutes later
I would go into the Warming House, and
Listen to am radio. All the Hits! KSTT! Davenport,
Iowa. On ******* Blvd., which was really
River Drive, because the Hostess Plant stood
Sentinel on top of the hill, pushing out
Sponge-cake filling and HoHos and Cupcakes
And those awful coconut snowballs, and
This one time, in high school, I shoved one
Inside my mouth and tried to swallow it
And about choked to death.

I walked to Mark Twain Elementary School
And ran home for lunch, and was usually
Late because I was easily distracted
And when the school day ended,
I walked or ran home, hurrying, because
Captain Ernie and Bugs Bunny Cartoons were on,
And then Gilligan’s Island from about 4:00 to
5:30, when the news would come on,
And then Dinner,
And I couldn’t stand to sit still
To save my life. I have ADD. I
Know this now. I didn’t know it
(Nobody knew what it was)
I knew something was wrong with me
Or not-right. It was just the way
The World Turned.

Back then. I had no sense of ‘self’.
I was a changeling. I tried to fit into
Whatever people expected of me, which
Was very often extremely difficult, because
These people I emulated and thought were
So **** cool were just as messed up
As I was, maybe more; But I
Didn’t have the emotional maturity
(Or I couldn’t face the awful responsibility
That went with that awful truth)
To deal with it, so under the rug it went.

I was moody and happy and singing
One moment and crying in the shower
The next.

This one time, I was stuck
In the borderlands of childhood
And the beginning of a man
It was safe, for awhile
This one time.

Blood is thicker than water.

I'm nine years old and my mother had sighed us both up for a dieting course.

At eighteen I still see how interchangeable fatness and ugliness are to her.

I still have to stop myself from thinking of skipping meals after I ate "too much".

Clinging to the fear of the slippery ***** that serves as my only guard.


I see it in my friends too,
comforted by their opposition for what my mother had embraced like gospal for the helpless fools.



Blood is thicker than water.

I like the hairs on my body.
The short and soft strands that cover my legs, blonde and black and all too
natural.

Removing them leaves my legs red and *****-*****- pickling for days but-

My sister laughs through a wrinkled nose,
My cousin tells stories, horrified, of women like me,
Mother says it's unhygienic and would not let me leave the house like this.


I haven't worn shorts in years.

But my friends' confident '*******' to everyone who isn't them,
who dares control their bodies and shame them into pain or hiding,

makes me feel like one day I might wear them again.



Blood is thicker than water,

I find it hard to talk to people.
The thought of discussing anything more than trivial matters makes my lunges heavy in my chest.

Talking to my parents- a heavy led filling what seem less and less like lungs with every passing second.

Talking to my friends- the heaviness doesn't always go away, but the weight doesn't get harder to bear.


I heard my mother tell a friend how her kids talk to her about everything.

A bitter laugh never tasted so much as the sea.



Blood is thicker than water,

Since I can remember myself, I never wanted kids.
Took me years so unveil why.

The dismissal cut deep when Mother assumed she knew me better than I do, a cruel arrogance for what she must only consider her property.
'You'll change your mind and give me grandchildren'

A payment for my life-
"Interest" she calls it.



Blood is thicker than water,

When I came out to you, dear parents, you once again ignored me

as if I hadn't tortured myself enough,

as if it hadn't taken me years trying to accept myself before you turned your back on me with cruel dismissal.

As if I don't still struggle.


All I have left is to fall back on my friends' support again,

being caught in their loving embrace without ever asking to.



They say you can't choose your family but-

the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.

that’s the thing with those trophy wife types,
never really mandible in *** like a jaw ought to be,
too stiff, too anorexic model type:
pooch pooch a handbag full of duck quack pouts of the lips.
i like mandible women, scary scarred women,
the types that will grow into fond babushkas
and cook you a broth.
ah all this crap with daddy longlegs walking into a paparazzi
web of flashes is ruining the red carpet,
i was about to frizz it up into cushion afro softness
that would be quicksand for high heels.
i need blotches i need survival skills that hold the skin together,
every wrinkle, every passing jest of “irrelevance,”
every amulet glow of feeling through the kaleidoscope of depression,
jet-lag i call it, although i rather call it trombone,
with the numbers it was bound to happen, leaving the mammalian
kingdom and entering the insect kingdom, it was bound to happen,
the lost identity tiling the earth, ploughing the eardrum for symphonies,
it was just waiting... just waiting... like a spider waiting
with the flies of the urbanisation of green & green...
can’t change my mind... blotches on skin and bulges of missing protein
on the hips... perfect girth for child rearing...
i don’t like perfect... it’s supposed to have an aesthetic aura of an art
gallery... instead it has an aesthetic aura of hygiene of a hospital;
i arrested all the beauticians while talking to the paediatricians
painting my nails with u.v. liquorice in this hospital of hygienic looks
but unhygienic romping pompoms that swayed man to chlamydia.

In 1410 the village of Little Darling was a pretty nice place to live,
it’s houses were stout and wonderful and the people had lots to give,
the lord who owned the area was benevolent, he never ruled with an iron claw,
he spoke with softness and kindness, not knowing a cajoling roar,
he left the people to get on with their lives, unless they needed a helping hand
and then he’d be there to provide a peg up somewhere in his land.
Because of this the folk who made home here had it better then most peasants from this time,
who were condemned to a life of grinding servitude as if their living was a crime,
they were happier and joyful and free from the toil of subjugate,
each second was a pleasure and every minute spent first rate,
however there was one thing they shared with those who spent every day under the cosh;
everyone was filthy, no one liked to wash.
Only about once every 10 days would they pull bathing water from the well,
If they were especially filthy and their stink they wished to quell,
the rest of the time they didn’t care that they resembled a muddy shrub,
or their faces were still covered in last weekend’s off grub,
nor did they think it mattered if their hair was a matted mucky mess
or that compost heap didn’t smell more than their locks, it actually smelt less,
to them water was mainly a drink when their mouths were feeling parched and shoddy,
not a soothing liquid  with which to  cleanse their body.
Everyone in Little Darling didn’t mind being ***** and looking a unhygienic fright,
actually not everyone, everyone’s not quite right.
Alice always wondered why folk didn’t wash
and that’s not because she wanted everyone to be pretty, pristine and posh,
she just pondered as she daily made herself all gleam,
“why does nobody else round here care about being clean?
They all wallow around in their own filth like a burrowed germ,
more buried in soil than a busy earth worm,
I don’t get when there is plentiful water from wells not that far away
why don’t they dose themselves in the aqua good at any point in the day?
She thought, “Of course it’s their own life and if you never harm anyone else you can never do anything wrong,
but how how how can they fester in their own awful pong?”
So every day Alice would get up before she heard the going to work bell
and go and fetch some water to cleanse herself of smell,
she’d make herself all fresh and totally sans of grit and straw
and revel in the gleam she had coming out of every pore.
Everyone else in Little Darling all thought Alice was great,
a truly smashing lass who had tons of friends and mates,
yeah sometimes they’d remark to her “I don’t get your penchant for keeping yourself immaculate if I had to say
but who cares, I love you, have a fantastic day!”
And yes due to the mud in the village sometimes Alice would get herself all shiny and within a couple of hours look like she’d just crawled out of a cave,
but she didn’t mind as starting the day with a sparkle was what she did crave!
One fine day the folk of Little Darling decided to throw a big party as they adored a drink, a chat and a jive,
just have a massive night of  dancing, where they could give appreciation for being alive,
as Little Darling was a ace place they invited another village to join in the hedonism,
as they wanted folk to bask in hours through a wonderful prism!
When Alice heard news of the shindig she let out a chirping coo,
as revelling in the realm of fun was what she was really made to do!
As the week whiled to an end the day of the party came,
Alice could hardly contain herself as carousing ran through her brain,
she picked out her favourite garments feeling all of a super gathering quiver,
and then full of beans moseyed on down to the river,
she washed away with gusto and dressed all primed to go out,
“I’m on my way to get down and groove!” was her gleeful shout.
She started making her path to the good times, feeling all content,
she couldn’t wait to be immersed in the hub of blazing merriment,
as she was walking to the barn where the party was she encountered others making their journey to fun,
lit they all were by the going down sun,
someone said “hey Alice, I reckon you’ve spent an eternity scrubbing yourself for this bash”,
another said “yeah, I bet you’ve wasted hours by the river to get yourself prepared for this night on the lash!”
Alice replied and remarked, “yes I may have used my time getting myself ready and not been able to enjoy the chills and sits
but at least I don’t have hay in my hair like you ******* smelly *****!”
Everyone burst out laughing and happy all skipped to the revelry,
the slow dusk sky reflecting calm as far as the eye could see.
They jaunted into the barn with the music already in full swing,
the harp, drum, lute and trumpet players all doing their tuneful thing,
Alice grabbed a jar of foaming ale and started moving her body to the beats,
each noise in the air a consummate amazing treat!
Then from out of the corner of her eye she spotted a guy with dancing around in the air,
who'd cleaned his garb,
and washed his hair!
Alice thought "Wow! That guy doesn't look like his stench would make my opticals weepy,
in actual fact he makes my heart all leapy!"
They saw each other and felt swirls and sparks,
a knowing of what could and will be lover’s larks,
a chance they both knew could never be missed
and finalised their first look synchronicity with a longing kiss.
Everybody else stopped,
turned to look,
and knew a little bit more about
loves' rushing roars,
and couldn't help but breaking out
into a round of applause.
Alice felt a dawn,
reciprocated the smile of her fresh guy
and hand in hand they left the barn,
on their lips a glimpse of forever,
and went to find a empty stable,
where they could become all
***** together.

Familiar with the way to my village

I start my bike from my home

Sometime beg to go there

And many time escape without asking mum



Every turn, temple and tree

make me fly fear free.

Every plant, poster and pole

touches my senses, sprite, my soul.



As I approach my village

I feel pure, please and privilege.

But, the blur scenario of people's situation

is because of superstition and lack of education.



Every action of the people

denotes "what they think "

Every eye of the man

speaks they are addicted to drink.



Three things bring the battle

our history has the sign.

Same flows the blood here

Wealth, Women and Wine



These *****, unhygienic atmosphere

never suits to my prime.

Dad never lets me commit mistakes

As a mistake is a mistake once, next time its crime



I sense the air of my place

I sense the people of my kind.

kids playing on roads, ladies cooking on the courtyard,

I sense the mud, I am bind.



I love visiting my village

To feel me, my origin, my exist.

Something connects me to there

Maybe the blood in me, that persist.

You call me cute as if it’s a good thing,
but I see it as saying I need to be taken care of.
I don’t need your help and if you try
to get too close, away you will be shoved.

My friends say you’d like me to be girly,
and that would be accomplished if I shower.
They tell me to let you in and let you help,
But why now? I’ve done so much by my own power.

I’m trying to let you take care of me,
and I can tell I’m getting attached,
but I’m struggling to let my guard down,
because if I do, my heart will be snatched.

I’m trying to focus on my schoolwork
instead of texting you all day,
but Patient Management and Anatomy
don’t capture my attention the same way.

I hear from you periodically,
and each time I put on a stupid smile.
I’m then reminded I’m acting silly
and resume my unhygienic style.

When I let go of my concerns
and feel like giving you my all,
I have some reservations because, if I do,
this won’t be an easy fall.

I’m not saying that you’ll cause me great devastation,
yes, some hurt and pain I will feel,
but if you think I’ll crumble like other girls,
All I can say is, “come on, get real!”

People call me
Positive
A smile on my face
With just enough grace
To pull off a lie

You see
I’ve never been
Happy
For more than a couple weeks
Since my debut at preschool
I was never meant to live
Free

First came physical abuse
But not the kind you get from someone
Older
Rather someone your age
Some who’s only four
Someone who has no idea
No idea
That they’re the trigger to the bomb

But too late
For it’s already set off
The alarms blaring in my ears
But to everyone else they’re
Nothing
Silence
The laughter of children
Because I was never important enough to be seen

I was pulled off playground equipment by my hair
Slapped for wanting to use the same toy as the other kid
The mulch was my best friend
For it was the only thing cushioning the blow
Showing any kind of mercy
To the little girl who just smiled it off

Smiling
That’s all I ever did
I never wanted to cause a problem
I never wanted to become a burden
I never wanted to be
Alone
But it was too late for that

By elementary school, I was the target
Even with a new playground
The mulch remained my only friend
Friends
I wish I had some of those back then

Second came the emotional abuse
Tearing me down by
Taking my things
Ripping my projects
Taking my books out of my hands
And accidentally spilling your school milk all over it
And they say people never cry over spilled milk

Talking behind my back was nothing new
Even for the teachers
My supposed guardians
They could be the worst of them all
Not even sparing me a glance to see the pain
The agony
Behind my eyes, my smile
For I still wore my smile

People can be cruel
My entire grade against me
Convincing the nurse that I was unhygienic
Convincing the principle I was a “bad kid”
Convincing myself that I wasn’t
Worth it

It
Is that life?
My dreams?
My hobbies?
My smile?

They were all after my smile
After every physical attack
They tried to wipe the grin off my face
But I stood strong
My biggest mistake

Third came the mental abuse
When I started to realize
That something was going terribly
Wrong

My mind saw people as a threat
A weapon
Their words, bullets
Shot left and right
One after the other

I researched
I tried to find out
Why I kept smiling
Why I kept thinking
That it would get better

The letters hit me like a freight train
P-T-S-D
I know it was associated from people in war
Those in other countries fighting for our people

My war was more invisible
On home turf
With nowhere for me to run
I was stuck
Grounded
Lost

My war was hell
My war is hell
My mental illness is no joke
Anxiety and panic attacks following close
Afraid to let go
Afraid that I would leave them behind

My PTSD is no joke
The night terrors keeping me up
I’m afraid to fall asleep
Going to school with bags under my eyes is a prettier site
Than me screaming in the night

I couldn’t make friends my freshman year of college
I couldn’t look anyone in the eye
When people asked if I wanted to sit with them for a meal
I smiled
Said no thanks
And braced for a punch

For my body was always braced
My body was always ready for abuse
My brain was numb
Numb to people
Numb to their actions
Numb to my internal screams
Numb

It’s funny
How a couple people during recess in preschool
Turned me into this

A girl
With PTSD
Anxiety
Panic Attacks
A phobia of meeting people
Because that’s coupled with abuse
And that doesn’t always mean getting punched

It all started with a couple people
And it ended with a life-long mental disorder

Their hateful words define me every time someone new talks to me
Their terrifying glances define me when I catch a stranger’s gaze
Their punches define me
Their attacks define me
The backstabbing
The laughter
The whispers
It all defines me

So why smile?

Because
That person that helped pick up my books in the hallway defines me
That person that picked my face up from the mulch defines me
That person that told them all to “cut it out” defines me
That person that smiled at me defines me
That person that said “hi” to me defines me

While the bad took its toll
The good took its place
As the staircase
As the sunshine
As the only hope I had left to hang on to
For these positive actions
Overshadowed the bad ones
Even if they happened less often

It taught me that my smile
Could mean someone’s entire world
Could mean life and death
Could save *me

Dark ghosts under
Deep wild eyes
Make me wonder what you do at night
Instead of sleep
Crazy smiles tug on the lips I once loved too thoroughly
The jaw I once memorized shadowed with unhygienic ways
Where have you been?
You say you're no good anymore
The world ****** you up
And this is what crawled out of the abyss
Searching for light to live in

It started
in the corner of the dining room.
His favorite leather shoes set aside
to repair on a more convenient day.
He would get to it –
eventually.
In the meantime, both umbrellas
that bang and bump
in the floorboard of his litterbox car
made their way
there
next to the shoes.

Higgin’s yard sale had treasures.
A 16 lb. gold-glitter bowling ball,
a new set of silverware
(new to him)
and a VHS of Rocky III
which he always wanted to see
but would never see
hidden deeply in a
hoard of lethargy.

He goes to the Dollar Store
for soap and brandless chocolate,
returning with discount storage
boxes to organize the
growing meant-to’s in the corner.
But for now
he put them…
"uhhhh, there next to the other stuff".
Spring is almost here anyway.

Here.
Was.
Gone
just before the Summer, Fall, Winter
and the next Spring…
and 15 Springs after that.

One day he woke
on the body-worn sofa
entombed
by stacks of the Hays Daily News.
His cold, unhygienic feet
reminded him of the shoes
he could no longer see
buried ‘neath
piles of misshapen intentions
and a dead cat
staining scattered old calendars
all crossed off with
“How did I get here?”

oh yeah... and i just spotted a crow pecking a pigeon's ***** with a pecker the size of an elephant's trunk... give it a 100,000 years and you'll see a new species... like that saying: when pigs grow wings.*

because the current theory of darwinism teaches
us we interbred with lesser species
and justifies ******* -
the dualism is horrid, i prefer parallelism -
parallelism and our own individual lives,
rather than mediating two extremes...
and indeed i prefer to think we were uniquely
classified from the start... but i guess there's
a fetish going around the joke about the welsh,
sheep and cliffs... i want to ask you:
when did **** insapiens emerge, or rather,
when did he actually manage to integrate
into our species with such subtleness
that we actually proclaimed some men mad
when they weren't, and assured ourselves
that some mad men were actually sane?
how to decipher this conundrum?
he did so... bringing us h.i.v. and other presents...
and indeed his identity will never be known;
indeed, who is this unhygienic brat?

***** with brownness that I can't wash away.
Born into a filth that made me unhygienic before my feet could touch the ground
Before my hands could grasp objects other than my mothers hand or chest or face
Guilty before the gavel was struck
Before the cell was locked
Before the siren rang off
Guilty of brownness that is not innocent until proven guilty
Rather brown until proven worthy
Brown until the grave
assigned to us before we have a chance to see the world and become who we're suppose to be
Graves are becoming just as crowded as those ships they brought us here in
Stuffed and cramped like the cells they keep us in
Piling bodies on bodies while blood cells fill the avenues we march in
Graves over crowded
Hearts over hurt
Innocent with a guilt I can't wash away.
Our mothers can't hold us now.

I never bite my nails,
the taste is just not for me.
I see others chew on pinkies
and much to my disgust
        they chop on them between
                                      their teeth.

Do you know where they
                          have been,
do you know you didn't
                  wash your hands
Now your biting the tips.

I noticed that those who chew,
have stubby fingers
                           looking grossly.
Use a pair of scissors manicure
                                appropriately.

Please don't bite your nails,
              then spit them out near me.
Its not the wild west there isn't
       spit buckets to collect rejected
                                      nail clippings.

Paint them,
                trim them,
manicure them properly.
but please don't chew them,  
its unhygienic and is so unsanitary.

My ultimate ambition in life
is to be recycled. When I die
I shall not be put
with the newspapers, plastic bottles,
glass, cans, batteries
and aluminium foil
into the box to be collected
on alternate Tuesdays.
That is not dignified
for a human,
and besides, it is unhygienic.
But recycled I will be
into soil and air,
beetle, centipede and blackbird,
and the blossom
that every year comes
and fades.
Yes,
I'll be back.

one. my brother is in love with a girl.

two. my mom saw me reading peculiar books she asked me what was the story about. i just laughed and told her, ‘you know just the usual.’ she doesn’t know.

three. it was when i lied to my mother about school.

four. i cried myself to sleep.

five. i forgot to brush my teeth. it’s not that i’m unhygienic but when your body is too tired to live, it’s just too difficult to move.

six. i decided not to throw a birthday party when i was
6 years old. it’s not that we can’t afford it, but
i know that no one would show up except for that
boy with the weird hair and imperfect teeth.

seven.  it’s my third day in bed.

eight. i tried cutting myself. i tried but i’m too tired
to move.

nine. i’m so angry. i’m so ******* angry. i’m so *******
angry.

ten. it was when the funniest kid started to cry.
he didn’t said why. he remained like that for god
knows how long. that was when i knew that sadness
lives in every single one of us.

eleven. a few of my friends cut themselves to calmness. i
just watch them get eaten by the lines they drew.

twelve. i regret saying that.

thirteen. but i said it anyway.

fourteen. i’m too in love with the idea that someone better
will come, turns out that each person is the right
person. we just live in a timeline where they never
are.

fifteen i looked through a keyhole and saw my parents’
corpse.

sixteeni need someone. not the suicide hotline. i need
someone real. i need someone. i need someone. i
need someone. i ******* need someone.

seventeen. i’m falling in love with someone whose heart beats
fast for everybody except for me.

eighteen. i'm in a birthday party. everybody's laughing because someone made a joke about god. i left.

You always attract the aspect from the opposite person what your own soul is either starving or deficient of.

Men are the pearls of that wisdom that sparkles rarely and when it does it shed off the unhygienic stuff for once and ever!

She is just a stigma of verbality on wisdom, no one knows she herself doesnt know from where these all words come from!

The instant u absorb positive energey from people around, u are turned into a monster!!

Speaking of gloominess, there is a heaven between the differences of its action and the state. Both are step sisters to each other

They came,
They mutated,
Antigenic shift from birds and animals to humans
By droplets, air, touching surfaces and *****- oral route.
They were the greatest warriors causing pandemic and endemic on Earth
The likes of  The Plague, Black Death,Spanish Flu  Swine Flu,
Mers-CoV, SARS ,  and Ebola,
Like the measles all stayed and never went away,
They  love their Hosts; the Humans,
A unique being in existence,
Apart from all life on Earth.
They love their complex languages,
Chatter, Chatter Chatter,
All day long- musical,
The delicious food they have,
So many varieties,
Especially the Asians,
They eat everything even wild animals,
Their thoughts  and abilities!
***!
Lastly their emotions,
Colourful like sunrise and sunset.
Who would want to leave such beautiful warm hosts,
It is awesome inside the Humans,
Especially when they are unhygienic,
Not to forget smoking and drinking.
The viruses  becomes hyper and contagious,
Causing sickness and deaths,
Until man learned to control them by finding vaccinations.
All was well,
Man went on with his life becoming arrogant,
He abused Nature that gave him life,
So the warriors invited Covid-19
to come,
Each one donating one of their strains to Covid.
It is strong like Godzilla,
Powerful and spreads fast like Superman,
It is chaotic affecting the respiratory tract, the kidneys,brain, heart and digestive tract too.
It loves the old, the sick, the obese and the unhygienic,
It pounces on humans as easy game.
It has lockedown and quarantined Man
It has destroyed the economy,
And shaken the Governments.
By caging humans it has given new life to nature,
It is a special agent sent to make humans realize their mistakes,
Before finding a vaccination I hope man wakes up.
Health is more important than nuclear weapons or space search.
30/5/2020

Papercut
Now I write red words, for it flows so freely.

I write therefor I am.

I bleed, therefor I can- express.
Unhygienic paper printed to the masses
Infection, Sentimentally Transmitted Document.
Infection.

Papercut, I cut the paper and turn it into a paper plane,
Crane- origami
spitball gun.
A sleeping paper tiger in the field factory of spiral bound notebooks.

Papercut.

granny gave some cough medicine, granny pooped up some Sean penn (pen pen, ******* pen why the extra N) medicine... granny was this granny was that... you start slagging off this generation? 3rd of millenials living with their parents? good luck living with your: grandparents; *****-slap ****** whopper-wha-wha? don't know: thought ****, said no said: really became constipated after a Friday take-away having learned: i really don't trust food that i don't cook myself... i don't care if it's fish & chips, esp. if in the hands of a Turk... a turkish barber? no problem... a fish & chips turk? that's a ******* big problem... 3rd party sources? you really want me give a testimony of diarrhoea? honest to god: why did people abandon the concept of cooking their own food being equivalent to a hygiene?! people wash so much and yet eat in places that might be riddled with pathogens of unhygienic people! which is, after all a presupposition: if you haven't had the *****.*

(da faaaaack
               am i doing
             here?
  feels like being
a butler with
       a: complient
**** your **** off
bias to
  manage:
  what fame-claim
can't allow
you to manage)
                           \
                             \
                                 it's called poetry
becoming compliment-cartoonish...
it means: let me draw you a square -
and treat it like a triangle...
   it's a ******* quote bubble.

better still... call that a:
interpretation of self-consciousness:
because coupling these two words
really worked out well
                      for care of history.

Super value autism
friendly, parking &
store of the year but
one has to go out the
back by the riverbank
to toilet. Today I had
a strange encounter a
mooning man (( who
had been but no paper!

Doc leaves to the rescue
and later he entered the
store without disinfecting
his hands proceeded to
touch apples bread but
not purchasing.

Dano's toilet has been
locked since Covid, yet
Tesco's one is open as is
Quay Co-oP in Cork.

But even when Dano's
toilet was open it had
a key demand system
which is unhygienic to
the extreme as very few
people wash their hands
after using the toilet and
the keys are handed in at
the counter but never
cleaned.

There is no consideration
for those with prostate
problems or a general need
of a toilet due to age or any
other health problems.

Disgusting.



Dano's Supervalue™
Market Mallow 9:30 AM
Sunday 28th June 2020.

BIRTHDAY CANDLES


LET'S NOT BLOW OUT BIRTHDAY CANDLES, even though it's a tradition, pretty old.

All Aryans, fire respect and it consider holy, worthy of reverence; since ages, this we are told

Also, not because it is merely a western ritual; but unhygienic it is very; especially if one has covid or cold.

I  too have done it for years as a child, but since last few years, I  have this decision taken bold.

Just Besides the cake, light a candle;  make your birthday wish; eyes please close n your hands do fold

God most willingly will grant it unto you; because it is to Him, you have, this secretly told.

Amen/ Aedoon Baad/ Tathastu

Armin Dutia Motashaw