Don’t ask me why I was standing in the middle of my backyard that Friday evening in March unscrewing a bolt, but do know that I was standing in the middle of my backyard that Friday evening in the middle of March, and I was attempting to unscrew a bolt. The bolt belonged to the remains of a gazebo we had built last summer, a fairly nice, painted-aluminum thing with copper colorings and khaki drapes. It had been blown over in a wind-storm sometime over the winter and I had been dreading the day I would have to come outside and take it apart, piece by piece, and finally get rid of the wreckage of what had once been a beautiful center piece to our back yard.

            The reason I had finally gotten around to taking it apart was that I was angry. This is also probably why I didn’t care that it was raining, or that the sun was setting in less than an hour, or that I would much rather be in my room sitting around and doing nothing. I enjoy physical labor more when I’m angry. If I can avoid any complications, I work briskly and feel better overall when I am done. Unfortunately, this was not one of the times I avoided complications.

            The particular bolt I was working on seemed to know that I didn’t need something frustrating to deal with. It waited until it was the last one that needed unscrewing to suddenly become difficult. After ten minutes, I had gone at it with Phillip’s head ***** drivers, flat heads, two different types of wrenches, and my own bare hands, but still it refused to budge. In between mad attempts to turn the stubborn piece of metal, I would make quick little circles away from it. Up the brick path I was working next to then back down it, alternately glaring at and shunning my nemesis as I went. Each circle was my way of letting out the excess frustration building with each failed attack on the bolt. But as my attacks become more frequent and my efforts seemingly more futile, I was beginning to lose control of emotions.

            The whole situation felt menacing. The corpse of the gazebo wore a condescending smile, my tools giggled each time they failed, and the bolt said nothing, sitting smugly in its socket. I will defeat you, I thought, I will unscrew you and it will feel good to throw you into the woods and forget about you. But I knew that winning this battle would not mean I won the war. My mood was shot. While I set out to make myself feel better, I only ended up feeling worse in the long run. Regardless, this realization did not reduce my anger. I was determined to unscrew this ****** and that was all I could think about.

            Taking hold of a wrench in one hand and a ***** driver in the other, I twisted and jammed the two things for as long as I could. When the bolt didn’t come unbound, I grabbed one half of the structure I was trying to deconstruct and began to rip and tear it with all of my might. When it still wouldn’t budge, I loudly screamed “fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck”, and with one last burst of strength, lifted it above my head and used my other hand to smash the bolt until it was loose in the socket. This was when I finally was able to unscrew the bolt and its uneventful fall to the ground was somehow unsatisfying at the time.

            Taking my newly freed hand, I grunted loudly and hurled the hunk of precision cut aluminum piping over to where another piece of the former gazebo lay. I sat breathing heavily, even if the moment lasted only a few seconds and required only a fraction of my strength. I realize now that I breathed so hard because this was an emotionally straining task. Man against machine. Unstoppable against the unmovable. And I had won, but not before I lost control. Lost myself deep into a fit of rage where I could hardly recognize myself. Anger, I realized long ago, is not my natural state. I get sick with it after even a short time. Those retched moments when rage takes over the entirety my mind are some of the worst in my life.

            I’m still not sure why we humans have never found a better way to deal with anger. We have two options: To bottle it up or to let it out. And the former always eventually leads to the latter. In my life, I’ve managed to avoid anger all together. I stray from conflict, do not work with people I dislike, avoid restricting my ability to get out of any contract or dedication. But I can’t always hide from it, and I suppose that’s why I was standing in the middle of my backyard that Friday evening in March trying to unscrew a bolt that I was convinced was my very worst enemy. I was trying to untighten something much deeper, much darker, something I don’t think I, or most people, ever have the depth to deal with. It seemed the only way out was to fall back on the imperfect methods of my ancestors, and for the time being, I decided that was alright.

You were a drug to me, babe.
      You weren't the medicinal kind either.
                                          You weren't just a painkiller.
You weren't an antidepressant.
                                                     You weren't a Xanax.
                                                        You weren't ******.
You weren't even the good kind of drug.

                    You weren't ****** or **** or ecstasy.
You were the kind of drug that
                                           messed around with my heart and left my brain feeling clouded.
You were the kind of drug that left me confused and
                                                                               feeling worse than before I took you.
But I did.
Again and
again.
I told myself I would
break this vicious cycle of unscrewing your cap and
                                                                   hating myself for it afterwards.
That I wouldn't draw back the plunger and
                                                          force you into my veins anymore.
But I didn't.
Again and
again.

I told myself you
                                                would be the death of me.

Every high you gave me left me feeling
                                                                          lost in the clouds.

I might as well have been
                                    six feet deep.

This is what midway is,
half out and hanging in to
dream on.

And that way to Wednesday,
but it's hopeless to tell you
unless the experience is
first hand,
second hand will not do,
I am watching.

It's early and
there's barely a sparkle in
my eyes
but I can see the future crawling
out of me,

hanging on with all my might
against things that drop off
in the night.
getting old.

Anyway midway's no way to start the day,
you need to motivate, to energise,
to put that sparkle in your eyes.

I take a wrench to each temple
unscrewing bolts used to hold in
the gray and red sediment
pull out a handful, and begin.

Upon the spinning wheel I throw
a formless character yet to be
until I choose which way to go
and become a piece of pottery.

But my mind dances in fragility
so I move my hands deliberately
as to create without any haste
or ruin my clay's graceful shape.

Dissatisfied, I grab a tool and scrape
the useless remains of my broken brain
and throw them back into my skull,
my once sharp mind now completely dull.

/ and there's me, sitting silently, fiddling with my beard, attempting to craft a trumpet by twisting the tip of it into a "zenith"... i'm sure there are many more useful things i could be doing... but then again: having subverted any interest in the world cup can keep you guessing... please please: can the croats lose, so i can see the english and french rekindle their 100 year war "friendship"?

there's always a first,
    notably with a message

   this video is unavailable
with Restricted Mode enabled.
    to view this video,
you will need to disable
Restrcited Mode,

   why would i even bother
enabling a Restricted Mode
concerning
   a video like

    loose canon: mystique
by lindsay ellis?

   i like the sound of her voice -
i mean -
     ****, better than watching
*******...
  
this is probably the first video
i've encountered
   that i: i didn't even enable
Restricted Mode

                             to begin with!

how do i disable,
   what i didn't, in the first place,
                                enable?!

it's a chick talking for crying
out-loud!
           what's wrong with a girl
talking (wait, what?
  girl is not a sexist slur because
i might "think"
    she's not mature?
                       can i just use
                           it to imply: cute?)

apparently no...
              brick's a brick type of scenario,
i have to somehow
succumb to the niqab curtain
                of "western" values?

thanks for allowing me a peek...
                        ******* tantalißing!

to also add:
       can't get any better than listening
to an anthropologist
            like ayidin paladin talk...

but even i know that my use of
the youtube algorithm
                     has, of lately, succumbed
to an exhaustion of
my "predictability":

                     so many fewer
connecting avenues of a music allowance...

mind you...
   i spotted a future harmonia
(pump *****) would be player
    on a warsaw tram...
     who wasn't a prof. gypsy stereotype...

i have to samsung appliances,
a dated laptop and a tablet...
internet connectivity
  "problems": the tablet acquires it,
the laptop doesn't...

i go to the box room and check
the reuter: three green lights...
   so this is a meta-problem?
pick up the she-cat
   and take to using scissors,
cutting out botanical
                      attaché-sez
    from the furr...

       the internet connection problem
solves itself....
    
  róże europy -
  kości czerwone, kości czarne

plays in the background:
i remember why i didn't take up
martial arts,
   instead taking to cycling
after being
kicked in the testicles
  and no one was invested
into making authentic law
obligations...

   apparently there are some,
who don't mind paying charon:
instead wrestling with
                 cerberus...
that limited comparison with a hydra...

really?
   that's why i spent bewildered by
schizophrenic internet connections of
a samsung products deviating from
the "grid"?
  making snippets of furr from
a she-cat silently infuriated by
botanical insurrections of:
                "passing on the seeds"?
why reconnecting my laptop access
to the grid?
           giving the router a 20 second
nap away from over-heating?

   there actually is a:
                   in between narrative...
fiddling with a belt buckle
(already detached from the actual
belt)
   with a pair of scissors
                unscrewing two bolts...
1st attempt: into the base
of the metal,
  2nd attempt:
     out of the sleeve...

              and then...
  coming from a parental construct
of exercising metallurgy:
  not having inherited it
  (due to a dying town) -

   that scent of iron, or any
kind of metal (for, "that" reason)
   rubbed off onto me...

i already made the leather into
something more than
lizard-boots,
      "arming" myself in
the pretty-piglet abstract
                 of a boxing glove,
   of the belt wrapped like a tefillin...

but the buckle "closure"?
   had to fiddle with the screws
in it
   with a pair of scissors,
intimidating
                         a screwdriver!

philosophy with a hammer,
genesis-circa nietzsche?
               hammer and the nail...
there's the second "face"
of the hammer...
   the face that easily pulls out
the nail...
          
find me a screwdriver as
synonym of scissors
                           to confess to a *****?

February 12, 2016

I lie **** on top of my blankets; praying. Praying. Praying. I am fighting waves of nausea and sleepiness. Medicines I feel sprinting through my veins dragging me downward. No.
The rain slow at first but gathering wrath in the warm night.
Lightning and thunder will come I smell it afar off. Ions heavily scented spill through the atmosphere holes in my plexiglassed window.  
Thunder rolls through my chest shaking deeply my whitewashed plaster cocoon. The cries begin to swell, and echo strangely through the sterile corridors. I am not the only light sleeper, I muse.
I doze momentarily even among the screams of the mentally hilarious; I am called into sleep. They must have doubled the sleeping medication; the storm will be worse than I thought.
I start at a sound. Steady. A theta wave vibrating through my room. I pitch to my side in time to see a lightning bolt slash through the sky. I saw something. The bolt plays hell with my night-vision as I sit upright on my bed.
There. Struggling up the plastic surface of the viewport. It cannot fly in the rain; it struggles for purchase on the portal. I study her. Elegant and slender she reaches the airhole and pulls herself through. Far off the screams wax and wane as the storm intensifies.
Her slender thorax and polished, obsidian, exoskeleton strike excitement through me to a cell. A perfect engine of pain and terror. A great black wasp. She reminds me of a thorn as she rests on the windowsill; unmoving in the air conditioning. Giddily, I shake with excitement nearly overwhelmed. Delicately she cleans water droplets from her abdomen and shakes the moisture from the thin membrane of her wings. I slowly move to my shelf and remove the specimen cup from its placement; silently unscrewing the threaded lid from the clear plastic container. Down the hallway a tired groan and a throaty grunt from one of the other patients. The wind now screams through the breezeport that runs to north toward the cafeteria. A shingle is peeled from the roof of a gazebo and cyclones into a bulkhead. I lick my lips, and consciously check my excitement.
I slide a sheet of crisp white paper from my desk. Quickly, I trap the great insect with the jar and slide the paper over the aperture trapping her between jar and paper. She does not struggle, but looks intelligently at the walls of her new prison. Beautiful, and intricate machinery at work; she readjusts her  wings, observing me with with bulbous eyes. Lightning strikes, and there is a deafening pop as a transformer explodes. For a moment it creates an azure sun outside, and casts curious shadows through my room. In the corridor the lamp light is squelched, and then ignites emergency lamps in scarlet hues as the diesel generator sputters to life and idles. A deafening clackson alarm begins to wail.
I am not aware of this at first; obsessing over my catch. Her form is ******, deadly. Something deep within me stirs at the very site of her. Revulsion? Ecstasy? From my reverie I am stirred by the clanging of doors and staccato laughter in the crimson glow of the storm lights. In a moment I am resolved and I slide the paper from the opening and cover it with my hand. Now footsteps. She senses me and reels in instinct. Without hesitation she draws herself tight as a bow string, poised to ****** the hypodermic stinger into the warm pink flesh of my palm. Quicker than thought she strikes piercing, seemingly to the bone she injects poison. Down the ward doors are slid open and the sound of radio chatter plays toward me. I am engrossed, in bliss as my arm begins to numb. Five times then Nine times she spears me with the barb. My heart beating so hard in my chest that I am sure the orderlies must hear it. Then I hear a burst of static and a sing-song reply of phonetic alphabet followed by my room number. I grasp her delicately from the specimen cup with my thumb and forefinger as she stings me with prejudice beneath the nail bed and cuticles. I cast her through the air hole in my window and quickly lie upon my bed before the door is unlocked. A man in white scrubs and a five o'clock shadow opens my door and pierces me with two steel blue eyes. "You should be asleep." "Get some rest, we will have the lights back on in no time." I smile my head swimming with post adrenal bliss. When suddenly I hear the droning of wings. A sea of raging hornets sounding ominously in the small cell. A black cloud pours through the airhole, countless chittering wings encompass the orderly in a poisonous storm cloud. With vengeance they sting, his eyeballs his hands, his throat. All swelling with purple nebulas of poison. In his mouth they crawl and down his throat. Efficiently suffocating him in mere moments. Then they quiet. All at once they flock to me, walking on my pale naked flesh caressing me with millions of antennae. They do not sting, instead they are still. Their crescent shaped bodies vibrating,  like a cat purr against my cold skin. I put my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing hilariously, and I shudder hardly containing the joy. Then I pick up the radio clipped to the orderlies pants, and pull the 18 inch telescoping  steel baton from the holster belted at his waist. I click the PTT and speak into the radio. Epsilon Wing Cell 005 Accounted for, Over Quintar beep followed by a burst of static and a reply. I cover my mouth to suppress another fit of hysterical laugh. I step barefoot over his body and onto the cold tile of the ward; spinning the heavy keyring on my finger

Going to sleep isn't hard anymore
I'm so tired of everything that the exhaustion just takes over my body
Because that is where I am supposed to be
I am supposed to be resting in the ground
I am supposed to be gone
Unscrewing a razor from a pencil sharpener is where I am instead
Shoving a toothbrush down my throat
I tried destroying myself completely and it didn't work
people got angry
So instead I will keep going bit by bit until I can finally disappear

This is mostly based on the true-ish happenings of
Beth Huges was born in the 80s, her parents
called her Lizzy for short well that would explain
a few things. Her upbringing was more in the 70s
then the 80s. Her parents were new-age hippies but
with the chemical abuse of the 80s.

They were vegans, nothing on land was to be sacrificed
for the fulfillment of their needing only organic substitutes.
  They'd eat from the Ocean as that was the well of life
and always giving and in a continuous replenishment cycle.

Not knowing, she was repeatedly dosed with LSD.
to open the spiritual aspects. But Daddy had a bad trip.
            And wore mummies face saying she was
talking through him.

The cops didn't see that way and vented his body with
                           at least nine new breathing holes...
She was still high as daddies blood spayed over her and
she finger painted on the floor.

She'd lived with relatives but this didn't last long as they
were meat-eaters and she had a vast disdain for all who
murdered and disfigured the life of the land.
   Her auntie was a vegan, so realized the pressures.
   But as she got into her older years having episodes.
of repressed trips. Glaring at the walls and painting in
her own blood.
It hit a moment in her twenties when she caught
her auntie giving head to her new boyfriend..

She was disgusted as she heard her call it "the meat,
             distrustful of her auntie and she'd desecrated
the law of her body, after she pleaded no meat.

While her auntie was being contaminated she put
sleeping tablets into their drinks after the *****
inducing acts had finished and she came out of
the room wiping her mouth.

                     "Here guys I made you a drink,

She played it cool reading a book until they
fell unconscious. She was reprehensible that
                   what was being done was right.
Pulling down his joggers she got some
scissors and grabbed it, momentary she put
it in her mouth, it was soft and she felt a sturring
and gagged... with one fatal swipe she cut it off.
throwing this maggot in the fire, Burn filth...
Her auntie lied there silent, her breath deep.

"How could you,

Even though she has momentarily engaged in
                pleasures of the flesh.

She went into the cupboard and found a cleaner,
             the warning on the side said corrosive
wear gloves.

She stroked her aunties hair and then tipped the
entire bottle down her throat to clean the desecration
from her.
All that was heard was a curdling and then froth
expelling from her nostrils and mouth...
She got a cloth and wiped her mouth, even though
doing this had murdered her auntie, she still loved her.
Now she was clean from the manmade contamination.
    Pure once more, the acid mixed with her stomach acid
creating a pungent smell as it was eating through her side.

A pool of blood and partly digested food bubbled
on the floor, it started to eat through the laminate flooring.
At that very moment, she heard screaming incoming on
her kneeled position.
As she turned she saw the half-naked bleeding profusely boyfriend. In his anger, he never saw the pool of corrosive remanence of his departed girlfriend.

Scissors raised and ready for vengeance, he lurched
losing his balance and landed face down in the
bubbling maroon stench.
Lizy scrambled to her feet, ready to run.
Instead, she screamed as he got up and turned around.
The flesh was peeling off, as he grabbed at his now dissolving
features. The shock was too much as she passed out.
A while had passed and as she awoke she went to move
but the scissors were interred in her hair.
Her scalp felt wet, as she touched the area, red liquid coated
shaking hands. She put her fingers in her mouth and tasted,
yes, it was her blood. she pulled at the scissors and they
wouldn't dislodge as they were firmly embedded in the
laminate flooring.

She had no other option but to yank her hair out,
******* that hurt, she had a blad patch where
the hair follicles had pulled away.
Her head spinning, but as she turned around there
he was still, his face no more just white, with patches
of blood his hands around his throat.

She got a hand towel and threw it over his featureless
remanence, and then saw the disemboweled auntie.
If it wasn't for the middle missing dissolved all over the
floor, you'd think she was sleeping.

Lizzy had to think fast, how could she get out of this?
But it was easy, she'd heard shouting and saw her
auntie come out with scissors, soon after her boyfriend
came out blooded, she saw me and told me to hide.
As I watched he grabbed her dragging her to the
cupboard unscrewing a bottle with his mouth,
then pouring it down the struggling auties mouth
at that moment I ran at him pushing him away as her  
auntie convulsing. We struggled but he was too strong.

It was at that moment he grabbed the scissors lifting me up,
he lost his balance and that the last I remember before waking
up with my hair pinned to the floor by the scissors.

The flashing lights were so bright in the darkness as I was huddling it to the waiting ambulance.
Crocodile tears poured from my eyes.
I told my story, it was worthy of an Oscar.
There on the stage, thanking the gullible audience.

As I walked from the courthouse, tears flowing thanking
everyone for their condolences and wishing me well.

I looked in the mirror as I saw my aunties face,
wearing it like my daddy wore mummies.
sprinting at the policeman at the door I got him
in the neck. Shots echoing out into the dark night.

They must have been alerted by the screaming,
can't people just die quietly? I ran into the night.
Not been found yet, but I kept the scissors.

I go after men now, I'm quite pretty for being so
crazy. I offer them ****** favours for drinks,
I always make sure they have a car, that's a must.
My favourite trick is getting them to drive to a secluded
spot offering them head-on their bonnet.
somewhere we will not be disturbed.

It's amazing how gullible men are when they think with
there meat instead of there brain.
I found this awesome pen that's a tasar, telling them
I'm leaving my signature and number, so if they liked it
they knew where to look if they wanted more fun.
Its quite funny the gurgling scream they make when
you zap their ball bags, they crumble like wet paper.

Kind of pathetic really.  Now we alone and there quite,
snip, snip some do take two chops you know.
Then into the woods or the dirt side of the road.
But I learnt from my first time, cut the femoral attire
in the leg, that way they stay down some did come to
but a was driving away by then I heard their
screams and I smiled. Of to the next town now I think
Driving while its dark is better I sell their belongings
in a pawn shop to raise money the dead cant report
their belongings stolen after all. I just tell them there
my ex. They don't really care about where it came from.

I like my new  hobby, at last count I'd snipped fourteen
of them and I still have my auntie with me I wear her
sometimes just to feel close to her.

I wore headphones, sunglasses and masks of malevolence, to bare the barren waste of public transit.

I omit wrong doings, in loosened valves unscrewing under the pressure.

But I often gestured for fire in showers of frozen rain while waiting for a train to come.

I bummed smokes from bums and hustled five quarters from a one, I was stunned in the slump from suburban lives.

Catching buses every morning, and every night.

Three there, and three back.

I was tired of lines, tired of waiting, growing impatient, and empathetically vacant to the vagrant wasteland, just passing through the corner of my eye.

I was lazy and decided to move close to work for a 10 minute walk instead.

Liberated and aware of the massive savings on bus fare.

I lived happily ever after.

The end.

G'day Chaps and Chick-a-Deez
This Luna-Tick has Awoken (Again!)
And, this Time round,
Will be somewhat Outspoken.

My confidence is up
And doesn't/cannot be deflated;
I'm neither here or there,
But I am under-rated.

To realise is one thing,
To release too soon another:
While I hate the current system,
It both feeds and protects as my Mother.

So...slowly, slowly...and
Breathe deeply...breath deeply;
Let's not get ahead of ourselves
And spoil the fun of the Masses.

I might be an Adept
At Adopting new strategies,
But my personal Evolution - unscrewing -
Entailed my total undoing - Devolution.

The pressure We face when **** hits the wall
Should at least be balanced when we know the score.
So thank you my friends - the Voiceless believers;
I was never going to forget my countless Leaflets.

"Are you scared?"
She stared into his brown
eyes, forcing him to
see the darkness behind the browns
and greens of hers.
"No".
She placed his hands on
her collar bones,
running them down her shoulder
blades, sticking out like
bird wings,
then over her ribcage,
down to her hips.
"Are you scared now?"
He shook his head.
She stuck her arms out for him
to see,
cuts new and old visible on her
placid wrists.
She took his hand again,
and ran his fingertips over her
wounds.
"Still not scared?"
He refused to answer.
This time, she stepped away,
unscrewing the top from
her head,
releasing her demons into him.

A piece of me died tonight
A physical tearing- The person I once was and the person I am today
I've changed and there's nothing I can do
I thought mothers were supposed to care after their daughters-
Not mine
Tonight, my mother made a choice-
A very definitive one-
Between me and a man
She chose the man
My mother told me that I'd always be her number one
Tonight, she let a man yell at me
Tonight, she let a man hit me
Tonight, she let a man, who is not my father, make me cry
Tonight, she watched a man yell at me, and she sat there
As I saw the violence in his eyes
While she saw the hurt in mine
She chose the man
She later came in my room that night and tried to justify what he'd done
Tried to justify what she had done
"He was just angry"
"You came in at the wrong time"
"You knew better"
But by then it was too late
The separation had already begun
And now I can hear the popping of wine corks
And the sound of a mans fist on my mothers skin
I can hear my sister crying in the room next to me, and I long to hold her
I can hear my dogs yelping and the World stopping
I can hear the unscrewing of a child's lock on a cap of prescription pills,
And I swear to God I can hear the sound of pills being swallowed down my mothers throat
And I have never wished to go deaf before this night
Tonight, my mother chose a man over me
Now its too late for justification,
I have all the answers to anything I'd ever want to know
The confirmation of the fact that I am completely alone-
Is nothing new to me

There loomed a certain belief,
One that exhaled soon as she passed.
A sudden urge that fizzed over soon as the bottle opened.
Now granted you can still drink a soda once it's shaken
Most would replace desire for that of another, the discord
Of being splashed in the face by the very desire one in the same.
Drops of truth splashed everywhere seen as backlash, a sort of wrath
Spoken but never heard.
There was something about the contour of the bottle,
Fixed thoughts filled in ovulation.
Everything kept inside.
A certain vengeance that loomed in bliss.
If not handled carefully doom was immanent.
Each time she walked passed he'd shake the bottle more vigorously.
A cold fizz that quenches every desire steadfast with reality.
Curious he looked at the bottle, wanting to quench this need
He placed his hands on the top slowly unscrewing.
Her eyes connected with his, everything paused.
For the first time in a long time everything was beautiful
Sharing a brief look relaxing his shoulders.
He untwisted the top, for a moment she sighed
Feeling a release she hasn't felt in a long time.
His hand smooth against the contour of the bottle
He placed his lips against the bottle easing her to quench this thirst he's waited so long for.
This urge that dried the well of his throat.
She refused him the pleasure of her, keeping her fizz to herself.
Now he knows what it's like to be on the outside looking in

So what will I do
With my heart?

What will I do with it
Today
Or tomorrow,
How much does it owe,
(How much did it borrow?)

Is it daggered into my
Chest with ruby darts?
Is it butcher wrapped
In class-passed
Love notes,
Or shrink wrapped carnations?
Is it waiting around
For the perfect donation?

And what will I do with my head?

Is it getting bigger?
Will it slot into a shelf?
Is it killing me?
Will it fix itself?

What will I do with it
Next week,
Or next year?
Will it be William Blake
Or Edmund Lear?
(MRI:
blooms - blushes – stains,
This boy’s got roses
on the brain!)

And what will I do with my hands?

What will I do with them
For the rest of my days?
Will they stick to my lap?
Will they flutter away?

Will they get even worse
At unscrewing lids?
Will they shake sticks
at the neighbours kids?

What will I do with my body?
Will it see me through?

What will it do with me?
What will it do?

find my voice
box, speak, words
forming and foaming
mouth agape
stunning

stunned

growing
taken root
not withered
withal
without you and
me, with words,
to speak,
words
too.

an inky melody
a heart's rendition of tar
and travelling near
never to lose, to halt,
unscrewing the pen,
snapping
the cartridge
drinking down
words
lips blue
body cold.

if I spat on a tree
would you hear
that melody?

a hundred times
you've told me to
stop-
"your words mean nothing"
and on and on,
but if you could just see
wade through to me
experience what is not
going
on
no lines in the sand
that i don't need to rhyme with
or rewrite
'the wasteland'
then i think
you
would think
more of
this
end, of my end
think more
of our
end in
this
our ending.

if i were a drug addict as supposed,
at times when marijuana is legal somewhere
and england testaments it a criminal activity
like murdering someone, or stealing something,
then i'd be up all night,
unscrewing my kneecaps and replacing
them with roller-blades, to move to scuttle
faster past the crowds for another addiction's answer,
what drug addict would be asking for sleeping pills?!
wait... not one! but as i guess marijuana
is as punishable as taking a gun to school...
legalisation came too late for me...
the authorities goody-two-shoe-schooling-nerds
acquiring psychiatric authority got to me...
oops a mickey mouse and everything turned
the daisy into black & white bloom of revisited
televised snooker: black? black. brown? darkest grey.
pink? middle grey. red? middle-middle grey.
yellow? light grey. green? middle-light grey. etc.

I saw it in a magazine,
on a gloomy indoors night.

The art of deconstructing;
     I read the article.

It took things apart,
but didn't place them

back together.

Deconstructing,

where taking apart
someone's soul
becomes as easy as
unscrewing a box.

Deconstructing,

we take each part and
lay it tidily over a white table.

And we do too,
deconstruct.

Like children unhappy
of their building blocks masterpiece,

we

fall

apart.

Everything we ever thought
we were comes away
with a blow of the wind.

We dissect our minds,
and become like all the others,
broken,
     empty.

We deconstruct and build
ourselves upon society's
stereotypes.

We moun our lawn
of personality,
all of our flowers
gone.

Crushes, smashes,
sounds of death.

We have become
like all the others.

The art of deconstructing,
or as they call it,
the Art of tiding up.

the glinting, shimmering bottles on the shelf seem to be glaring at me
their penetrating stares create a twisted knot of guilt in my stomach
my friends come over, asking and asking for the invisible secrets in the clear glass
I deny their knowledge, another layer of guilt befouling me
a few of them have watched me unscrew my bottles
and they ran from me, as far as they possibly could
but one day,
he comes over to my house
my house with my shelf of glass bottles and quiet old me
he isn't interested in me or my bottles
but I am intrigued by his innovative, analytical presence
so loud and harsh are the colors surrounding him
but they are hiding something, I am sure of it
and suddenly,
a bottle falls out of his aura of light
he reaches down to pick it up hastily,
and looks at me, for my hand is on his fallen bottle
he looks at me with those secretive, manic eyes,
and then looks at the bottles on my shelf
he picks one out, and I let him open it,
for I am gently unscrewing his glass
the secrets fly out of both shining bottles
and enter the jars of our mind
I look at his face, which mirrors my own
the intensity of our understanding gazes is why I place my hand on his
and neither of us run away

drunks and women, napkins and pencils
remote bartenders unscrewing rivers of cheap grape
blue moonlight cafés, bars and broken windows

a pretty waitress and coffee, ashes and fear
aging liquor, layers of dust, and a little ***** beer
lonely shifting curtains and my own used bed

crackling radio and comfortless poetic ***
these naked fingernails sneaking into dry pockets
cigarettes, sadness, and a cold wet towel

From somwhere outside my bubble,
the mindless quacking of a mallard
has infiltrated my thoughts and ideas,
confusing and annoying.

The sun, blinding at it's zenith,
now fades into a vermilion pool,
mercurial silver water transformed,
photovoltaic cells failing in loss of light.

I too begin to fade, diminishing energy,
consumption of power during the day,
draining batteries, my thought light dimming,
the sun, passes the horizon, and darkness envelopes.

Unscrewing my light bulb and setting aside,
preparing for a rest. and shedding thoughts,
much like the fall trees losing leaves one at a time,
I close my eyes and dream, of a duck and a lake

When you live as an imposter, life feels like a cage.
Smiles are a disguise.
Carrying on a conversation feels like acting in a play.
Inner thoughts and emotions implode like a shaken soda bottle.
Finding a safe space to be unapologetically you, is slowly unscrewing the cap.
How good it feels to let the pressure out, to let the air in.
Breathing and bubbling over the brim,
Spilling out of the bottle, feeling refreshed.
Let them soak you in.
Let yourself feel.
Let yourself be.
Be you. Be free. But be careful.  
It won’t be long until the liquid turns to blood dripping from the heart on your sleeve.
You feel too much.
You are too much.
The bottle explodes and they drink you dry.  
The panic and rush to collect as much of yourself as you can.  
You can’t be you, you can’t be free.
Back in the bottle.
Back in your cage.
To be the imposter once again.

Headlamp illuminates glass, fear has passed like summer showers
Hours and hours of waiting for you, dandelions grew in pace
A face, name forgotten, incubating heartfelt goodbyes
Forever cries to the moment, forward movement, unconscious atonement
Blowing it, down and destroyed and dead, call it a solution
Solvents fluid, plastic, pollution, unscrewing the lid to the genie jar
Listed over to far, capsize a species,  man made atomic meteors
Empathy depleting like mana, ran out of blue potions
Just a ghost to a ghost most nights, smoking under bulb lights
Waiting for the moths to come by, fly in their drunkenness
What we miss is imagined bliss, dull dragging gravity
Tattooed skull on your soul, dagger piercing tragically
One day magically the lights come on, you hear the same song for the first time
And you slip into the sublime, now, now, now

One fateful day,
I flew far, and far away,
From a spindle, unscrewing the bolt in my nut
Peace, patience, gentleness, generosity had fled
Spindle verged lousy replacement,
Mother flung me into a luminous tomb

Here are the movies!
The thrilling movies of tellurians,
In the tomb I was flung.

On seat, I spectated as a cinephile
Cobra venoms, I watched single file
Nascent awareness, dripping white!

I loathe talebearers!
It seemed they were absent
Behind my shutters, engines roared into a turnpike,
human chirped even under the twilights
The house; rooms and passages seemed placid

One day gone,
My doorstep was furnished with gongs
Talebearers weren't far from us
They were right there, peeping from walls
Bevy of women at my doorstep for conference
Hadn't they mistook preference?

As the days shrinks,
I becomes piqued as engines still brushes...
Rotund, slender and bony women glues buttoms
To my doorstep, chirping, that burns my inside!

Why had mummy flung me into a wrong tomb?
I never asked for where zero quiet loomed
At the yawp of talebearers, books becomes blank
At the rev of engines, ears stuffs with clanks

Could the shoes of intellect be polished
When the aspirational buckle had been damaged?

Being a nerd in Osogbo, requires jungle's lodge
'Why didn't you fling me into its jungle'
‘I hardly assimilate, when I study!'
‘Can't there be any remedy?'...
Gander vitally waddled into water.....
She was about beating me with anodyne brows!

From somwhere outside my bubble,
the mindless quacking of a mallard
has infiltrated my thoughts and ideas,
confusing and annoying.

The sun, blinding at it's zenith,
now fades into a vermilion pool,
mercurial silver water transformed,
photovoltaic cells failing in loss of light.

I too begin to fade, diminishing energy,
consumption of power during the day,
draining batteries, my thought light dimming,
the sun, passes the horizon, and darkness envelopes.

Unscrewing my light bulb and setting aside,
preparing for a rest. and shedding thoughts,
much like the fall trees losing leaves one at a time,
I close my eyes and dream, of a duck and a lake

assumimg you are safe
i tell you about the villages
close by yet still over the
mountain

where the good grub is
for midwinter while men
buzz about hunting

while i disapprove
and eat the vegatables

where the man talks about
his toe endlessly as the other
word is rather complex & all
this with only one paid for cup
of tea

where the child lays low playing
and unscrewing the chair legs

where the night comes earlier
each day and pheasants walk

the lanes in procession. this
was a gathering
this was a confession

yesterday
was not quite
midwinter
solstice
yet

Boisterous like a spoilt child
he hurts and haunts his victims,
unscrewing the bolts
dismantling the pieces
picking apart the structure.
He leaves behind a pile of wreckage
burnt, broken, butchered.
He twists and pulls
poisoning petrified prisoners.
Doing as he pleases
facing no penalties.
He torments and tantalises
shaping lives as if he is God.
Taking lives as if he is God.
Enslaving lives as if he is God.

Worse than the killing virus
it plagues them fast like wild fire.
They squeeze our lungs
“I can’t breathe”
infecting our system
“please”
venomous, vicious, vindictive.
A man made disease
known as privilege.
Victims are villainised,
soles stained and stolen.
******!
He is the devil
and he is they
and they destroy our society

and we…

and we are angry.