On my journey through the Unsocial Anarchy,
I could see the crooked dream.
The tranquility I felt was infinite.
But though crooked, it was impervious.

It’s as if I’m stuck inside a shell I can’t see out of.
I’ve never been able to even try to tear my way out because that is too much.
I dream of all these things inside,
But on the outside I can’t get there.
I know it’ll always be hard work and I’ll just have to try,
But I can’t force myself to be confident and have nothing at all to say.
I can imagine as many situations as I like,
Plan out some different possible future jobs.
Only I’ll never be able to get there,
Because I **** at social skills.
Right now I’m trying to figure out what to do,
Right now I can’t find any solution.
I’ll get there because I have to,
However I really don’t know how to escape from this zone of comfort.
It’s something that I don’t seem capable to fight.

Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Bumming your fat knobs and insert your helmet naked and unashamed

Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Kicking off kick-off, cyborgs brought face to face
Tartan sunstroke and may Mumbo Jumbo's **** all lie among you

Nine, eleven, seven, thirteen, six, quinquereme, *******, *******, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, unsocial person, erectoffensive!
This is Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
You've really ****** the naval officer
And the hatchet faces want to know whose blouses you abuse
Now it's time to evacuate the ******* if you have a free hand

This is Lance Corporal Tom to Masticated Ectoplasm
I'm fancy dress dancing through the cat—flap
And I'm groping inside a swollen grotesque sailor
And the plums look gigantically unusual nowadays

Ergo from Land's End to John o' Groats am I piddling in a crumpet slammer
Telescopic hindward the lump
Uranus Arsenic is scatological
And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** ******* with

With the proviso that I'm Ichabod celibate centipede sextillion heads
I'm fondling vigorously paparazzo
And I think my sputnik knows which direction to ****
Tell my ballbreaker I ****** her vigorously for England, she bonks

Masticated Ectoplasm to Lance Corporal Tom
Your menstrual cycle's kaput, there's oojakapivvygizmo spleen
Can you smell me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you get to the bottom of me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you delve into me, Lance Corporal Tom?
Can you...

From Land's End to John o' Groats am I vibrating ring my crumpet criminal lunatic asylum
Telescopic hindward the groupie
Uranus Arsenic is scatological
And there's sweet **** all I can have ****** ******* with

That day i finished
A small piece
For an obscure magazine
I popped it in the box

And such a starry elation
Came over me
That I got whistled at in the street
For the first time in a long time.

I was ***** and roughly dressed
And had circles under my eyes
And far far from flirtation
But so full of completion
Of a deed duly done
An act of consummation
That the freedom and force it engendered
Shone and spun
Out of my old raincoat.

It must have looked like love
Or a fabulous free holiday
To the young men sauntering
Down Berwick Street.
I still think this is most mysterious
For while I was writing it
It was gritty it felt like self-abuse
Constipation, desperately unsocial.
But done done done
Everything in the world
Flowed back
Like a huge bonus.

I seldom need people and being they are seldom around it sort of balances itself out .

Friendships are like flowers they take to much care to keep them alive.

As for me.
I'm a cactus a total ***** .

Get your ******* life
out of my facebook,
stop ******* twittering
in my ear,
hang your selfie
with a vine.

By WILLIAM LOGANJUNE 14, 2014

GAINESVILLE, Fla. — WE live in the age of grace and the age of futility, the age of speed and the age of dullness. The way we live now is not poetic. We live prose, we breathe prose, and we drink, alas, prose. There is prose that does us no great harm, and that may even, in small doses, prove medicinal, the way snake oil cured everything by curing nothing. But to live continually in the natter of ill-written and ill-spoken prose is to become deaf to what language can do.

The ***** secret of poetry is that it is loved by some, loathed by many, and bought by almost no one. (Is this the silent majority? Well, once the “silent majority” meant the dead.) We now have a poetry month, and a poet laureate — the latest, Charles Wright, announced just last week — and poetry plastered in buses and subway cars like advertising placards. If the subway line won’t run it, the poet can always tweet it, so long as it’s only 20 words or so. We have all these ways of throwing poetry at the crowd, but the crowd is not composed of people who particularly want to read poetry — or who, having read a little poetry, are likely to buy the latest edition of “Paradise Lost.”

This is not a disaster. Most people are also unlikely to attend the ballet, or an evening with a chamber-music quartet, or the latest exhibition of Georges de La Tour. Poetry has long been a major art with a minor audience. Poets have always found it hard to make a living — at poetry, that is. The exceptions who discovered that a few sonnets could be turned into a bankroll might have made just as much money betting on the South Sea Bubble.

There are still those odd sorts, no doubt disturbed, and unsocial, and torturers of cats, who love poetry nevertheless. They come in ones or twos to the difficult monologues of Browning, or the shadowy quatrains of Emily Dickinson, or the awful but cheerful poems of Elizabeth Bishop, finding something there not in the novel or the pop song.

Many arts have flourished in one period, then found a smaller niche in which they’ve survived perfectly well. A century ago, poetry did not appear in little magazines devoted to it, but on the pages of newspapers and mass-circulation magazines. The big magazines and even the newspapers began declining about the time they stopped printing poetry. (I know, I know — I’ve put the cause before the horse.) On the other hand, perhaps Congress started to decline when the office of poet laureate was created. The Senate and the House were able to bumble along perfectly well during the near half century when there was only a Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress — an office that, had the Pentagon only been consulted, might have been acronymized as C.I.P.L.O.C. instead of being renamed.

http://www.nytimes.com/2014/06/15/sunday-review/poetry-who-needs-it.html?_r=0

I don't know how to tell you friend
don't feel like sayin' much at all
these days my words seem make-pretend
perhaps my pride before the fall

It's not unusual for me
to write a song without regard
for all the souls in misery
to play the sap, or happy card

but now I know just how it feels
wet sand is cold like soft concrete
and I can sit and dig my heels
'til burying my loathsome feet

and standing now without a keel
high tide they say, is coming in
I dig to break the salty seal
to free my legs to walk again....

unsocial social butterfly
finds a sunlit place to rest
the lightest breeze will pass her by
and stir again the vacant nest

she's seen a fairly ugly past
hung in, the pillar of her peers
and now the warming rays alas
will dry her bitter butter tears

and staring now, just down below
the spider's web has never freed
but pitched a battle, awesome show
which spoke again to butter's need

The words we tend to weave within
dark thoughts can surely build a wall
to block the sun and thickly spin
our pride, so fierce before the fall...

and caterpiller's stiff cocoon
gave place for wings like silk adorned
with patterns, colored matching moons
in darkened place her future formed

I speak in words, which make it real
the stuff,  it all comes pouring out
a substance formed and packed with zeal
for all the things I talk about

but some not nice have taken flight
and reaching, caught within your net
like thunder in your morning; light
I spoke too soon and now regret

sometimes I tend to overthink
and miss the point, that awesome prize
I sleep, awaken,  eat and drink
yet somehow came to realize

That YOU, my very precious one
sweet salty butterfly of grace
a brand new life has finally come
and gee, I LOVE that butter face!

It's not unusual for me
to write a song without regard
for all the souls in misery
to play the sap, or happy card

but more unusual to write
a poems which ends without a word
the butterfly in silent flight
the sweetest thing I've ever heard.... :)

You moved in, family friends with mine
Siblings friends with yours
Yet you’re still unknown

I watched you, trying to understand you
Never really talking to you
Just observing, still learning

Interacting around you
Seeing how you act
Different environments
Different people

Quiet, not shy
Funny, but reserved
Unsocial, but not mean

Watching you from across the room
Waiting for you to notice me
Watching you when you finally do

Teasing you but not really flirting
Unspoken discussions
Eyes meeting and agreeing
When our friends say absurd things

Sitting right by each other
Still not really talking
Knowing you, who you are
But you’re still unknown

He keep his mouth shut.
You think he is unsocial or just a loner.
He looks boring, but he sees and hears everything.
Maybe he don't speak, but that doesn't mean he dont sees and hear.

He see more deeply than others. How the object is in colours, what sound it makes, what vibrations and feeling it gives out.
While all you see is a "thing".

He sit all by himself, and write what he observe.
No one walks over to say "hi", nobody notice if he is sick.
He is just "there".

One day a guy steals his notebook.
And he reads from it out loud infront of the whole class.
The quiet guy seem calm, he sits quiet as usual.

In the notebook, it's the reason to be. It's the anwer of our existence, it is all the colours and music in descriptions.

It is so beautiful that the whole class get touched.

The next day, the quiet guy isn't their. He is in their hearts.

I yearn to exist in a space where the stars all but blaze
Where stars aren't celebrities
Where they bask in the night sky unpolluted
And just exist
I crave truly being in an environment that does not depend upon phone screens
Where my peers and myself do not walk through life in an addicted daze
Unaware of the haze that descends as an effect of such technological dependence
We are walking around with our eyes unconsciously searching for the stimulus that society constantly feeds us
These electronic signals flashing upon thin panels of glass
And This is what we call Living
The dopamine flooding our brain when that text vibration brings our popularity to attention
Capturing our attention holding it captive
We are prisoners of our own purchases
Rusting our humanity away enchained
In a web of unsocial media and notifications
We never have any silence

When was the last time you just sat silent doing nothing

When was the last time you allowed your mind even a sliver of space to just exist

Brain was a happy place where
all the memories lived together.
There were occasions of mistrust
but it seemed like a good place to live.

Like every society, there were
some unsocial elements in Brain too.
But the good memories could
keep them in control easily.

But something changed in Brain.
Negative thoughts came in large numbers.
They were heavily armed and
were well trained for combat.

The good memories, the core
defence of Brain, were helpless.
They lacked the necessary skills
and the “good will” wasn’t enough.

All the memories were terrified.
To make matters worse, the bad memories
colluded with the negative thoughts.
They leaked vital intel about the defence.

Once the good memories surrendered,
all hell broke in Brain.
The negative thoughts became unstoppable.
They tortured the memories to death.

In this time of terror,
the memories needed a leader.
Someone, they could look up to.
Hope came to their rescue.

I have no room for new scars.
My heart is more glued seams than pieces of
Hope and muscle.

My smile is as pale as the back of a
Dalí painting; all canvas and
Dirt.

I have opened my arms for a hug and
Stood accused of impersonating Christ.
Meditation rendered me unsocial.

As misunderstood as Latin, yet
I yell at the walls of common reality with
The dead language of my innersoul,

Cursing and blaspheming for the attention
Of deities. Some may listen; not one needs
To reply.

All I want is to break down the wall
Between myself and any creator
Listening,

And say Thank You. The Love
Of my Life is
My life.

What I love the most about my
Life is  
It.

Raymond was strapped in grade four.
Reportedly told a kid to *******.
True heresay.
This happened a while ago.
He could'a been stood against the board,
With his nose in a circle for thirty minutes.
(Lines were always a waste of everyone's time)
Could'a stood him at the back for the morning,
Or out in the hall, or suspended,
Later expelled.
He could'a been fired and unemployed,
******* and unsocial,
And, again, later, crooked.
True heresy.
Then we tell him to *******,
Which we should've done first,
And left it at that.

I yearn to exist in a space where the stars all but blaze
Where “stars” aren’t celebrities their plaster faces plastered
on magazine covers lining the shopping aisles
But where they bask in the night sky unpolluted
And exist radiantly

Where the culture ceases to revolve around
the newest latest fashion or video
And instead revolves around the ripening of figs
And the blooming of chrysanthemums
And the migrations of the swallows
Where we look like awestruck children
to those unpolluted stars above us
and this great earth around us
to tell the time and pass the seasons,
Living then in harmony with the revolution of the very soil and air
from which our life flows
It’s easy to forget

I crave an environment
that does not depend upon phone screens
Where my peers and myself do not walk through life
in an addicted daze
Unaware of the haze that descends as an effect
of such technological dependence
We are walking around with our eyes unconsciously searching
for the stimulus that society constantly feeds us
We are tripping over ourselves just trying to keep up
These electronic signals flashing upon thin panels of glass
And This is what we call Living

The dopamine flooding our brains
when that text vibration brings our popularity to attention
Capturing our attention holding it captive
We are prisoners of our own purchases
Stepping into voluntary chains
Producing our wrists for shackles
Rusting our humanity away enchained
in a web of unsocial media and notifications
We neglect to make space for our own existence
Disconnecting from our own physical experience
We don't even feel our fingers typing and swiping
Hoarding gluttonous over likes and comments and click bait headlines
Consumed by our own consummation  
We never have any silence

I yearn to exist in a space where our eyes like stars all but blaze
Awake with acute awareness of the present moment
Where we break shackles and push comfort zones
Basking in the raw beauty of an exuberant life we are conscious to experience
I yearn to exist together as radiant as the stars in the vastest galaxy

I decided to make some changes for myself
starting with my social life
It seems that whenever I trust somebody
I end up paying some sort of price
I need to start doing good in school
I cannot keep ******* around
When the pressure is high and life is out of control
I gotta keep my feet on the ground
I need to do more physically
I sit around too much
I need to start hanging out with more people
that way I do not turn into an unsocial nut
I need to start reaching my goals
they are very important to me
I need to think more about my future
there is so much that I want to see
I need to change my attitude  
I am turning into a *****
I need to stop being jealous of others
I am too old to be throwing any fits
I need to start making changes now
there is no better time than the present
I need to start setting up a life for myself
and drop all of my bad habits
I need to be a better friend
before I lose someone very important
When my friends make stupid life long decisions
it is my job to love them, not judge them
I need to re-think about a lot of things
I am starting to hate the person I am becoming
I need to catch myself before I fall too hard
and forever lose myself

I’ve always wondered...
Where did the little Lilah go?
I’m so different
She was outgoing and extroverted,
And I am shy and unsocial
But... I’ve finally realized
That we are the same
I am me
13 years ago or not
I’ve just changed
And I hope it has been for the better
Because I can’t really go back and change it...
Right?

With no make on and eye lash hangin’
Pumping on E. bassy travelling the subway
Friday jumps on you, with expectation galore: Drink, gloat, sitting on-
Refurbished old rustic sofas on the far end of the bar.

Would your TGIF be a spent screaming over the music?
To make yourself heard with sweaty drunk happy hearts grinding?
Or would it be a cosy comforter holding you tight-
While you binge on anything scrolled now since the dragons flew?

Measuring ourselves to our own scales is-
Scary, if mildly put; social beings we are, to be, is a need-
But contentment may lie in unexpected unsocial moments sometime then-
As the years grey by, clear becomes the crystal, ever much so.

Random thoughts of a wandering mind;
Smother not, caress quietly- tune into some AI’d playlist;
Put on that conversation repellent, we all call earphones
And glow warmly in your sweet company, for it is TGI’my’F.

How sweet is the affliction of humanity
to speak of it's ills renders me unsocial
to think of it's crimes too horrendous
How sweet it is to turn an eye away

And farewell, sweet world, my dearest
fiend.  That we remain calm and serene
while all things great and small burn
makes us one of a kind.  

That I have secluded my sanity from all
******* of my fellow creatures
and have remitted self to tangled
words and convoluted thoughts ...
makes all of my internal organs
breath easier.

How sweet is our affliction.

Humanity!

:: 10-07-2018 ::

I saw this girl in a supermarket isle
I'd been interested in her for quite awhile
She'd filled her trolley with all things that I like
Except for the broccoli that can cause a spike
But she loves biscuits, crisps and sweets
Chocolate buttons and other treats
My courage built just in time
We met at the corner, by the wine
Here's my chat up line, now, where do I start
But how can I tell her at 2 meters apart