Thank you for validating
the debilitating fear
I had of losing you.

At least I know I'm not crazy.

Or at least I know I wasn't.

I can't compute and become mute
When you walk by
My circuitry is fried
Because your program is an encryption
And your pulse is electromagnetic
My car dies, so does my phone, so does my home
I'm immobilized
And demoralized
By immoral ties
To temporary generators
They're validating veneraters
Ultimately unsatisfying
When you're still not buying
I'm attracted to your charge
Until there's a battery
Yet you're the cure to your lure
The EMT for your EMP

Your negative charge casts a cloud around my nucleus
But if you could be positive for a change
We could meet in the middle
And feel energy in our synergy
But as soon as I feel electricity between us
You shut me down
With your EMP
I can't get free

Am I attractive, hot, or ****?
Or just a forlorn idiot flexing
In order to join the *** scene?

I put a towel down
And set up a picnic
My head spins round
From the dirt they kick
On my meal
To make me feel
Scared and alone
With nowhere to roam
So I stay here laying in the sun
On the other side of a Gatling gun
I searched for a savior
Who's willing to say words
To me
For free
My search was fruitless
My eyes turned youthless

I grazed in the grass
As time quickly passed
After I finished my food
And was left there to brood
I became a floating satellite
That was accustomed to night
Because of my frights
That reflected all light

Now I see ants trying to feed on my crumbs
They must think I'm pretty desperately dumb
To not know they enforced my segregation
When I had naively sought validation
I waited there silently salivating
They responded by not validating
It's for that bitter reason
During my new season
I reflect my light on the approaching ants
So I may thwart their encroaching dance
My humble heart yearns
As I watch bugs burn

They wouldn't partake in my feast
So I morphed into a brutish beast
Now they're here to eat what's left
If they can survive my dragon's breath
They put out the fire in my heart
But ignited my mind
My useless humanity parts
As I focus on time
A time that keeps passing
While signs keep flashing
As burning bugs dying
Or sad satellites flying

My life was no peaceful picnic
After they noticed my sickness
And left me alone
For that is my home

When I don't need validation anymore
I search for love
Unfortunately I know what's in store
A picnic in the mud

no, i don't need an outlet: talk to the public,
they tell you you're
either a well guised political machine,
a psychiatrist,
           or an oddity: come October time
propheteering rather than profiteering;
your choice, not mine:
   i look at poetry like
a plumber might look at a toilet:
go in and get the francophone out!
    so pardoning the French
is lost, as casual phrasing goes, woop,
  away away Superman included.

oh right, you might think i'm spelling
something Evangelical,
sure, i hope you do or d.p. as in
do please,
           what with the cool of Wall St.
sprechen d.l. (down low);
i had a few scribbled notes,
yes, Yanky, my laptop broke down
and i'm reduced to pen & paper
         like handcock & *******,
easy does the ****** of loser vill
           (can we drop the e
for the sake of autocorrect being right
when the big words matter? thanks) -
Platonism is plainly Thespian,
             Platonic thought is a Thespian
"espionage", get used to it,
you haven't matured into Aristotelian
         autism: you still want to act,
to puppeteer that shadows of people
without ever *being the people,
don't take it as if it's supposed to be unlikely:
there's a boss around every corner:
whether you get paid or don't, which is fun,
because you state an authority but
still only play the cameo.
      reminiscent guise literature
of rewatching that t.v. phenomenon
that's billions -
             oh sure, t.v. these days overshadows
cinema, cinema is worth jack-****,
it's poverty is intrinsic in forming ideas
or reversed "Latin" grammar  idea-fermentation,
i said English loves to hyphenate
two kindred words,
    like that ego theory
             with the Germanic self-theorising,
self-enabling, self-interest, self-haemorrhaging
  gusto of the capital -
    what a way to finish, i as a prefix
toward robotic modula.

(i write pending, but ensure the enso,
            or Swahili wasabi sting of
green horseradish,
       same so, i live dangerously, or pretty
much on the sly,
           if i tell the taxpayers
  they're getting their money's worth
i'll bound to see a third runway at Heathrow:
got my nose in an Alsatians' buttocks mind you).

so...

i was going to end with it, but i'm afraid i must
begin with it, page entitled

a. a rebellion from the top?
    or right, it only comes from the bottom,
the guillotine and all,
  but never the despotic cupcake for an Antoinette,
right? wrong!
                coming from a worker's background,
i'd been happy doing the ******* roofs of
the Tate Gallery among other examples,
but i was educated as a chemist,
  and, i was told, you need toothpaste, or
am i wrong in that assumption?
     picture it thus:
a son of a roofer is real smart,
      goes to Edinburgh, gets his money's worth
in terms of tuition, over 30 hours year three
of his chemistry degree, when things were still
decent, ~£1,250 a year (one thousand two hundred
and fifty pounds): with words like that
you might sketch Dante and Donatello and
the Italian Renaissance in terms of clapping the ****
away at the gesture...
     but no, it was like that, study chemistry
and you get your money's worth in terms of tuition,
so how the **** did i descend from the "high" tier
of the sciences into the murk of poetry
and humanism?
       history of science and David Hume:
black swans to mind, also.
                          but the other kid in question
was a son of a doctor / radiologist,
and this talk of rebellion from the top?
he couldn't stomach a shifting hierarchy,
he couldn't stomach social progress,
     had i or hadn't i invested my pleasure
time in reading philosophy is no one's business,
had i made a professional wage from it,
sure, but i wasn't intending to do so:
      what's your favourite colour sort of
question and whether truant of the zeitgeist:
the ******* guillotine, mate!
            i just can't perpetuate this loaf of wording,
but it's necessary:
    of jealousy so corrosive, of jealousy so lined
with lice, only then a god is spawned -
           the person in question?
a skiving belittling camel jockey -
and that's me being polite...
       you can almost become auto-suggestive
of needing to cite: what Abel did next when
the roaring Milton God subsided and
     wanked a crucifix that later became 2000 years of
history: or in the making.

i can be a pompous and bombastic parrot
          that cites Polly this, Polly that,
but i can speak to a scaffolder and laugh: with him,
and not, at him...
                 because i know my bombastic mr. fantastic
behaviour about spending aeons in a library
   rather than sniffing bullseyes and ****
        is made to be the fo' sho' lingua rapper tinder
of something or other that doesn't require me
to foolishly date...
                         **** it, cheaper at the brothel.

...........................

                        oh­ i'm just getting started, hence
the title with (penting) in it: no, not really mr. tough-guy,
just a **** break and a smoke and all that's
necessary in terms of transparency, begging to
be revealed in all forms of literary composition...
  
let's just say: a new interpretation of the paragraph,
     for me reading books, a paragraph means Sunday,
1905... because of the constipation and what-not,
   a comma makes me feel like i need a pause to
hiccup or sneeze,
       a full-dot is never a full-dot unless it's a full-dot
and then it's a definite article of end, rather than
the intermediate an end: let's start over, once again;
       but when have you actually experienced
a Macgyver of what's otherwise a "work in progress"?
answer? never!
               you never have: you had to become
censored by publishers and editors for everything to
look the end-product squeaky-clean!
                   unless published posthumously...
and then... you might already be dead:
you never got to see a work in progress...
   and believe me, i have 8 pages worth of notes to
encode into something that's not
that fable about a boy waking up Barbarossa
from slumber and upon seeing crows
shouting: messerschmitt! messerschmitt! messerschmitt!
well, a diet of hanzel und gretyl will do that
to you, you get a fetish like Shpielberg and direct
the Indiana Jones franchise...
                       funny little me, "phony" Englishman
speaking a piquant variation of Essex banter,
8 years in Poland and of memories i speak of the fondest
in my life, and 22 years in this rotting *******...
                    i feel less organic, more inorganic,
i.e. metallic,
       it's like my insides were hollowed out
and i was faking that i am actually being -
   weird sensation, ask any displaced individual when
they have the organism of a Slavic, but a soul
of a German... feels, ******* weird...
                        i mean, Nietzsche and that complement
that the Poles are the French in the ethnic category?
what are the English in the Slav category then?
                          most likely Ukrainian.
i dare you to find a philosopher with a similar dilemma,
i dare you: in light of how this whole
gaining of fame works, not one wrote about
being displaced... well... unless you're talking about
Moses -

                (haven't even started, i need a drink).

there was no social tract anyway!
    to be forced into accepting insemination
        when the forward wording was:
       "i'm talking counter-contraceptive
measures" & 'i want you to *** in me'.
                 ditto encapsulating quote
for ambiguity, the otherwise: real life.
       is my ***** worth more than me?
have i not transcended a weak bladder / **** muscles?
       a pseudo-humanity, intrinsic in man
but not not in beast?
                    i call upon a reversal of what's
a staging of ****, or money grubbing -
                with a woman's twist of the Grimm tale:
as she said: i want this man,
              i will impose a moral grounding / battlefield,
judgement on him! entrapment!
and there's me apologising for the "****" / so-called,
in a fully-consenting intimacy:
   well, *****, why don't you? another Beethoven
is waiting? who's the whopper feminist these days?!
               me? you?! hardly you!
   i consented to a full intimacy,
        is ***** a foetus?
tissue would know,
    or a twisted fetish for ****** cream
advertisement in ****, huh?
              sure, my socks smell, but so does
your moral instinct.
                        the difference is that that i get to
say airy, while you get to say fairy.
                         it really takes a man respecting
a woman's freedom: i seriously thought you
were advocating the right to abort
as you might avert ****...
    sure: i'm sorry i inseminated you,
can you please treat it as a tear-jerker experience
of a rom-com that's actually a transvestite-rom
  and needs 50 years to ferment for the earthquakes
and heartaches and cha cha attacks?
              to me it's an apron needing a wash,
to you it a ******* moral dilemma needing
a ******'s rights to not father a child and you
needing your body to unnecessarily incubate it
so you get the Catholic nod... bonkers!
    yes, i impregnated a girl, at university:
i avoided white trash at school, sorry, but it's true,
i liked reading... let me stress that: i liked reading,
      or bold if italics and colon Gemini be antiquity...
she lacked the character judgements,
the 'why he didn't stay' method statement...
she called my friend and study buddy a troll
based on her aesthetic tastes...
          i could have had a family now, and all
the responsibilities, it just didn't fit into
a replica of Cleopatra and Anthony *******
when they honestly didn't have ******* to claim
as their own...
          jeez (replica of the hand-written transcript) -
writing this on pen + paper is like *******
a **** for reach a champagne fizz of ******
for an hour - thank you keyboard and the digital
pixel off blank: ******* is less painful
than writing with that oddity that's handwriting).
there was no social contract anyway!
     it's not like i was married, there's
no unwanted child joke in this: i do find abortion
abhorrent within a social contract, a marriage,
but outside of marriage? are you ******* kidding me?!
you an Irish priest or something?
       there was no social contract,
did i sign a social contract akin to marriage?
      am i in this for the shambles?
of course i didn't get married,
there was no +ring,
                     sure abortion is abhorrent,
but under a social contract,
  without a social contract (marriage)
i,    had,    no,         obligation.
      what, in order to practice a variation of Islam
on a woman's whim?
    *******.
                     plus i had the gross indecency
gay men have with surrogate mother prostitution;
oh wait, it isn't that? my bad.
            i always had a nicety divisiveness for
incubators... a 9 month ****, with dividends...
        really: feminism can **** itself!
because aren't we at a stage of rhetorically counter-validating
what we abhor in certain Asian communities?
oh sure, the patriarchs are gone,
forced marriages are gone too...
          but didn't i just describe a case
of forced marriage, where a western girl is given
all the powers to reign over a young man
as any despot might over a worker
so he can "think" and drink cocktails and
chuckle over his position between cocktails?
      
  i said abortion, yes, i didn't like the girl's aesthetic,
and you know what? that thing you call abortion,
apart from the fact that the foetus has no soul
the baby neither: not until the diaper is off...
to learn to strain the muscles outside the womb:
you really forgot that the implant of soul
or the later disputed notion of god
is only implantable once the memory kicks into
gear...
               only when you start to remember
is the human person born:
   beyond that it's still nature's brutalist lottery...
maybe a Beethoven might have been born,p
but who cares? we already have a Beethoven!
it's avoiding consented ****:
that's feminism and 9 months spared
the continuation of endured affair / "relationship",
i seriously thought that's what women
were campaigning for... obviously it's counter!
   i claim soul outside of a woman's body:
when the ****** thing passes the diaper gym
and learns to automate the bladder and the ****...
then i say: worthy an implant of a soul...
or chauvinistically that's counter and double-****
of 9 months and Bach with his 14 children,
and the Borgia Popes...
          but at least we have the surrogate "mothers"
and that pretty Disney scenario of two gay dads
to fictionalise into watchable Platonic cavemen
when the eyes aren't glued to the 2D.
why do you think such thoughts ferment in
the heterosexual imagining of actuality?
                your utopian counter-clockwise
has already extended into China being the only
provable state of physical activity...
    and the western zoo of mental philosophical
build-up-detachment? your mental health
scenario only suggests you created acid professions...
at least the physical "antiquity" of China
is compensated by a universal shortcoming:
death and mortality...
you created acid-baths: sport and completely mental
professions: YOU'RE SICK!
     honestly!
     people used to enjoy physical professions,
and the essence of such professions?
no immediate competitiveness!
         you replaced physical professions
with sports!
                  and compensated the need for
physical hands-on with the ****** gym!
no wonder you countered-Darwinism while
adapting the need to advertise it
            and made so many young people
mentally ill...
      because your whole mental estrangement
is the sauce or a broth that's currently on the boil!

Criticism is validating
Your love is a choke hold
A marriage committed to my compromise
Generic mending
Each strand of bronzed chunk, represented a vow you gave me
The scissors cold and bare, cutting it away from my body
Swept into the nearest waste facility  
I was invested until the end
Dying with you was never scary
I now degrade, picking scraps off picture frame edgings
Look at us so happy
Lusted objectifying could qualify as the new I do
Well, we didn't make it to 80 not even 32
Congratulations to your selfish needs buddy
I hope you finally find you
Here take this ring, it doesn't fit me

Cockcrow harbour:
the gulls whining like tethered dogs
about rooftops
paliophobic cars and
grounded vessels..
Look:
on the hoary horizon
a glaucous strip
beguils
with backwater.
Not putting on a show
the frigid sea benumbed..
Easily,
with a tail of emerald jelly
skim a vanishing lane off that
lustrous sheet
and watch
the trailblazing mainland
scuttle.

Now,
Only scattered dreaming is possible.

In it's bachelor pad,
cradling over crinkles,
away from the meretriciosness
of validating the real by sharing it,
THE WIND
blusters off any veneer.
Here,
stale but spry,
fare your way around the inoffensive isle
to it's most shyest of harbours:
a mouth full of silver
saving it's breath.
The windows facing the sea
seem
black & white,
their wooden frames hooked to the wind,
the splattered gulls meow
your name
in a way
that's
personal.
Of course comes to mind.
The pines
are demanding a visit,
They're whispering
so you can hear them,
each as different as every snore,
these pines know
how to grow in the sand
and still reach for
the Nimbostratus with heads in unison.
The spaces
between their trunks illuminating
the blazing needles
raining down
painting the ground
familiar
to your lover's
skin texture:
Feel her closeness
from jilted borderwatchtowers
as she speads her mire
like no one's watching:
weedy and sugared
with bellflowers,
the waves in her shallow armpit
billeting a pair of white swans:
demurely they float
sometimes as pillows and sometimes
as question marks..
Go ask the seasoned locals,
they say the bones she parked
when she let her ice sheet melt
are portals
to her noble underbelly.

Hidden in the woods
reminiscent of your heart,
the red
tank-sized stone
is sealed,
but what the lighting reach cannot
the rain shall sluice apart
dumbly.
And though her hair has
come to be
the moss
black and hoarse
as sailor's beard,
there is still time.
The void says
her noisy neighbour is nothing
to die for.
The theadbear car with absent doors
incites
to drive her
in reverse gear
to the first few
days of holidays:
her golden locks a-blaze,
her arm around your
hind-sighted doppelganger.

Head shots like mug shot
selfies
Professing to the world their
desires to be seen like
gay barbie dolls

Green dots, I reply:
A collection of blue highlighted
selfies
of empty responses,
validating my
inadequacy

When I decided to accept
that I was gay and
cause a queer whirlwind into
the calm atmosphere that is my
family
I expected life to become easier

But as I venture into the world of
green dots and barbie selfies
I am reminded that
Gay
is not what stirred up
my hurricane of
Confusion
Insecurities
Inadequacies

It's all just me.

Riding in the car
with sweaty palms
playing loud,
fast songs
Getting a bit jittery
and maybe a tad bit anxious.

Wondering when it will be
that I can get High
with you next to me.

-On my way to you,
-my drug dealer
-who only deals the finest touches
-and most esquisite caresses

My vision is getting a bit blurry
and my thoughts stray from the road
to thoughts of your face
and I get that message
that I get to see you soon
so I slow down
and take that exit off the hiway
turn around
and tell you to head my way.

You get in the car
and the smiles begin
the hand touching and knee grabbing
and its a wonder
that I can still drive
in this altered state of mind.

We speak some words
about this and that
nothing too funny
yet we laugh until our sides hurt.

Im in love with you
my drug dealer,
my ultimate healer
my mind eraser.

The chemicals start flowing
and I wonder if im spoiling the moment
with scientific physioligical thoughts
validating this thing called love.

The chemicals
that start at the brain
flow through the heart
and down to the genitals
then down through the legs
and back up to the heads
(yes, both of them)
and I can’t get over
how much we feel the same way
and how
even to this day
things have not seemed to change

Hoping I don’t ever build up
too much of a tolerance
to the chemicals you make me feel
my wonderful man,
with the drugs you deal
and all the pain you ****.

I cannot sleep
Or at least I choose not to
Until the sun breaks the horizon
I wake up to a typical ringtone
But sometimes my heart hurts
Like it used to when I smoked
And after 12 hours of rest
I can still barely open my eyes
I cannot convince myself that
There's a real reason to wake up
I am so alone aside from my love
That any social interaction crashes over my body with
guilt and embarrassment that have no purpose
I swallow a few conversations but they hurt
I miss the friends I used to have but I know
We changed so much it could never be the same

And through recent interaction
I realize how much I miss my community
Surrounding myself with those who understand
My fears
My pain
My experiences
Without me having to explain it
Validating my emotions and
Reminding me that I am allowed to feel the way I do
Simply because I do

Conjugated amid liberated duality,
     surreptitious catharsis of
        poetic revelations' flip side,
          the underbelly of sentience
  potentially validating perceptions'
          indefinitely extended,
figuratively speaking beyond
      literally unleashed metaphors
             play it backwards, if you dare

Silky smiled girls
With cups tipped off of saturdays doubts
Validating infidelity for a firm grasp
Graffiti sideways winks
Your only as remarkable as your last debute
Born again to a word offering baptisms in svedka
Your vices tattood on a list of hymns
Find solice in no mans company
Bring faith on your knees to a boy who can't speak his name
Your body is a temple with access through insecurity
Bless me father it has been two drinks since my last confession
Silky smiled girls
Make no home for validation in weekend crimes

𝗧𝗪: 𝗦𝗲𝘅𝘂𝗮𝗹 𝗔𝗯𝘂𝘀𝗲

.
.
.
.
.
.
.

It wasn't until I heard
Someone say, "me too"
That I started to view
That this pain was from you.
And you. And you.
And yes, you too.
But especially... 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

I came fractured and bruised.
The deprecation of my self worth
Started before you.
I'd long since been used
As a punching bag for others'
Emotional wounds.

So, when I met you...
I was a perfect package
Of cracked porcelain
Just pretty enough
To salvage.

Your attention and approval
Became my food.
Like a flower needs the sun
I thought that without you
Shining on me
That I'd be all for none.

Your claws dug deep in my belly,
And mine into yours.
Validating eachother,
In a toxic swirl.
You in the center,
Creating a world,
Where "no" has no weight,
Coming from a young girl.

"You're so pretty" you said.

My skin was like rice paper.

"I love the curls on your head"

My throat was titanium.

"Come sleep in my bed."

My stomach turned sideways.

I had told myself enough times by now,
"This is what you signed up for,
So you'd better allow.
It comes with the territory."
I believed this somehow.

I attached so much of myself to you.
Addicted to the magic,
scattered in with the abuse.
The pleasure in the pain,
Covering up the dark truth.
So well, I couldn't tell
That we were actually living
In some kind of hell,
Being sold to us
As love and friendship,
But it was just a shell
For dead end *******.

Sometimes I find I look back
To these times reminiscing,
But then all I can think is,
"𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨?"

Cause now I sit here and wonder,
Why did I have no edge?
I had lost the understanding of what
A "no" feels like in bed.

It took me years to cut you off.
𝗧𝗲𝗻 to be exact.
All this time I've hidden
These dark secrets of the past.

Not even realizing
It was fear
Holding me back.
Not even realizing
That this ****
Fed how I act.

𝗜𝘁 𝘁𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝟮 𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘀 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝗜 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 "𝗮𝗯𝘂𝘀𝗲𝗿" 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝗺𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲.

How brain washed is 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵?

Ever since I dug your
Claws out of my belly,
My wounds began to heal
And i started to see fully,
This relationship with you -
You were nothing but a bully.
𝗔 𝗯𝗿𝗼𝗸𝗲𝗻 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗯𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻 𝗯𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗲.

I've liberated myself from you.
And all the guilt and shame.
Understanding now,
Why so long I played your game.
I've taken back my power, and
I've taken back my name.
I'm not a victim of abuse.
I'm a raging, healing flame.
Burning down what you became.

Ashes are easy to blow away.
I rid of you and I'm on my way.
No longer afraid,
Of the monsters in the night.
Because, guess what?

I know what a '𝘆𝗲𝘀' feels like.

Mica Light

A young boy embraces life, fearless!
He knows NOT the pain that's coming.
He lives, for now, in his cocoon

protected

Years go by, protection is lifted.
The world seeps through the cracks
introducing fear and self-doubt.

His once free-spirit, wanes!
He waits for loving words,

They
       rarely
                 come

What does come, often with intensity,
Are words and actions validating humanity's darkness.
Pressing into him, bringing crushing pain.
Stabbing his heart, his tender heart!

Slowly, without realizing,
he retreats from this world.
Loneliness becomes his

playmate

A cruel playmate for sure.

Now as a grown man,
He finds himself shy, tentative.
Lessons revealed and learned.

You pass him on the street,
None of his tenderness appears,
His heart tucked away,

protected!

He fears exposing even one more time,
The part of him that's most vulnerable.
His tender heart.

Better to just leave it hidden ...

He ran like the wind up the gangway
saw the door  still open
ahead near the door stood four Port attendants
gasping for breaths he reached them
with hands outstretched they stopped him
No, No, No, he cried
I've got to get on, I've got to get on

Sorry sir too late, their voices rang out
I'm afraid Sir, you're too late
What! look the door is still opened
Please, let me in, pleasee for heaven's sake
let me in, I've got to get on board
Sorry Sir, against the rules, you are just too late
but the door is still opened,please I beg you let me in

Afraid can't do that,you are just too late,
just too late today
What Jobsworth you lot are
how inconsiderate can you lot be
the ****** door is still open,why are you being so obstructive
isn't your job to help passengers,isn't that what you're paid to do
do you realize how inconvenient this is, do you realize what this
will cost me'
Sorry Sir, we are only doing our job
You are too late for this flight,go back to the departure Lounge
They'll help get you on a later flight,sorry but Rules are Rules
And with that   the plane doors were closed

Oh..how he hated these *******, ****** unhelpful inconsiderate
Jobsworth, ****** idiots, the whole lot of them, arseholes!

Dejectedly,he walked back to the ****** Departure Lounge
Fuming, dragging his ****** attache case, he sought out the
help desk
Cursing and muttering, he rued the ******* two minutes delay
that cost him this flight.
Angrily, he marched to the Air Ethiopia Check in desk
Sullenly he explained his plight!
Its a two hour wait for the next flight out, they informed him.
Still upset, he handed in his ticket and they did the necessary
Handing back his ticket, he walked away and sat in Departure
why, oh why did this happen to me, he muttered angrily
He sat miserably, he cursed again under his breath. **** God!

He had been sitting for about an hour when he noticed
people suddenly running around, something was happening
There was a real air of panic around, Officials were running
helter skelter, people were huddling in pockets, he saw
Police Official barking orders and Airport Staff talking excitedly
He heard some people shouting in a group to his right

He stood up alarmed
he stated walking towards a group to his left
Then he saw one of the Jobsworth that had stopped him from boarding his flight, the Jobsworth had a look of utter alarm
on his face, he was also sweating.
What's happening, what's wrong, he asked him, now alarmed himself.

Oh Sir, ooh Sir...the Jobsworth exclaimed, looking at him wide-eyed.

That Plane you missed has just crashed, killing everybody on board.....!!!

I love
Empty rooms
Because empty rooms mean no locked doors
They mean no hidden screaming matches
No unquenchable tears, from those you never thought would cry
They mean no sister doing stupid things
Or stupid people
That will only hurt her later
No sister you wish you could protect, like she’s protected you
No sister you wish you could save from heart break
Or impart to all the wisdom she’s taught you
They mean no sister who will spew the venomous words
That hurt more than any blow
They mean no whispered voices
Validating all of your biggest insecurities
No hushed secrets denied to you
No closed doors, locked or otherwise
Or even slightly ajar doors—that are really closed to you
Even a door closed on an empty room is an open one
Empty rooms mean space
They are a place to breathe when everywhere else suffocates you
They are a place to run to when staying hurts
Empty rooms are a solace you weren’t sure you’d ever find
A break from cold reality
And a pause from the crushing weight of the world that constantly pounds against you
Empty rooms don’t make you cry
Or think of what it would be like to finally die
Empty rooms are peace unlike anywhere else
Yet empty rooms leave a bitter after taste of longing
Because for all of the gloriousness of blessed empty rooms
They are still lacking and they leave you hollow as ever
With no one to fill the void
Still I love empty rooms
Because hollowness doesn’t stab through your heart with sharp fiery pain
Preferring to remain a subtle manageable ache

Arguably benign
Collecting dust, eventually
Forgetting...
Graciously heroic
Intrepid justification, knowing
Legalese...
Mistakenly nerdy
Or perhaps quite
Reasonably serendipitous...
Triumphantly understood
Validating wisdom
Xenial...
Yellow zealot

Did you know that words such as
"Experts say" and "New studies show"
are now called "Weasel Words"?

It's about **** time, in my opinion.

They appeal to anonymous Authority;
making claims with the validating factor being that
"Experts say" or "A new study shows.."

Truly a symptom of the Times...:

*Beware the power of Logical Fallacies in Social Psychology!!!

~

gold-encrusted jewels dance
on sun-drenched ocean stacks,
his rugged rocks etched deep
by her waves from far beneath,
and Pacific’s gusty breath;
his wind-swept islets burn,
aflame in sunset's dying embers,
like a lover's siren call.
his chiseled keyholes waiting
for the ciphered piercing rays
to collide in rushing tidal spray.
unlocking sunset's golden hour...
surging forth then quickly fades,
as sunbeam fingers slowly slip,
beneath horizon's sultry lip;
dusk unfolds in magic hues,
molten rose turns scarlet blues,
night descends as one by one,
we raptured star-kissed lovers
disembark this ferris wheel;
the curtain falls again,
with sea and rocks
rehearsing lines
to play again another day.
this their theatre
of the night,
performed by two alone,
beneath the moon
and starry sky.

~

*post script.

our last time through in 2004 was a blur on our way through to San Diego, an exhilarating ride for certain, with all of its bends and curves experienced top down in a convertible, but hardly doing justice to Big Sur’s stunning scene in mere hours; we told ourselves we simply had to return.  

it took eleven years, and this time we spent a full five days and nights along Highway 1, towing a camper and slow-driving south from Monterrey all the curves to Morro Bay, exploring just about every hike and lookout in between; and in so doing, validating our return in a most satisfying way.  Big Sur is officially off our bucket list!  her sunsets were particularly rewarding, especially two... one enjoyed at sea level, from the sand and keyholes at Pfeiffer Beach day use area, the other delighted us from high above the ocean waves, seated at the picnic table of our cliff-side camp site at Kirk Creek Campground.

a most refreshing time to recuperate and recharge our spirits; five glorious days of disconnection, reconnecting to nature, each other and best of all, life at the speed of sunsets and star gazing; evenings spent round the campfire with no cell, no i-pad, no laptop, only the light of the fire, the stars and that sparkle in each other's eyes!

your arousal fantasy
is a catch for me
comes in sound waves
enters my head
from the right ear
but no action required
I say
just observe
so I
pull it up a bit
- the activated tip
in the crypt -
from the line beneath
towards the umbilicus
spread
- the well calculated
as if instantly
phononized insanity
validating
vibrational ascendancy-
along the void
and render
all the whatever
patiently
in less than a moment
lest the mind won’t interfere
amid balancing the belly
I half
the remaining
equally
push one lump towards the zenith
another vis-a-vis the right feet
so it finds a correct exit
while especially the
toe tip
beside the small one is affected to be
the immediate target of delete
I shut personal sensations
of ‘I don’t like it’
so that I can dump
with a pure desire
to return to sender
as is required
as much as earth receives
air insists
for its ascending part
an accuracy of might
a simultaneous rush of flow
a cause of cranial vertigo
lasting less than a moment
on the right
quasi ready to squad
the head
but No - I fight not
fighting means slavery at your side
whereas your side exists not
without that foxy fight
hidden under smarty pants just
a mystified puff-gloom intensifies
but gets shot
in one bite
ready to gobble the pretender
which I am not
and flushes oh the so lonely
oh the so broken hearted
transforms to a flatus-cloud
heads up and up
en route the dark
skies full of angry-clouds
oh my brrrrrrgghhhh
even they take it not
hurriedly move aside
an irregularly contoured
eloquent ******  
ethereal space shapes
softly
along the
cotton like subtlety
pliantly tight
so you can pass
while I happily look up
to sing the
Oh Lovey-Dovey
See!
You also have some use
Finally
and Yes!
The sun shines for us
most beautifully
diminishing your blues
through the enchanting
blue of the patchy

Toney talking **** ever was been at relative action: so this is what happens when i own ****
the game and the actual man that prones ****
talking **** like if it was actual that arms **** short for the factual
i've been underneath like i wrote the bible since like it was his "wonder feat"
You're a wonder feat till you understand like every plundered treats,
the E in Eden has you wonder feats repetitive like a tree grown demanding scars in roots like i was underneath: Playing me only gets you murdered  like actual feats cuz this ******* talking **** like if anything hurters like Obama to your hair mang like how you arose a gangbanger to man defeat
ir really was me mang startin **** everyday all confused everyday like if demand was me.
Cuz i'm all g man another ******* till i'm ever he stand
raise it like how magnitude backstabs left was she man commandin fleets
Raise it like how it passes all magnitude was hidden from know by praise of it's masses, cuz now i'm startin ****, startin **** with my claimed owner of kinfolks, disposing flows and all opposing with your chinblow; been smoke till i'm ******* up all your naturality as it was real in every returned K to the K-O chaos enlived flow the to the now chin mode to every kinsmoke.
Bleed mode like an attempt to **** your **** up with one need- blow of my established chin mode to discovered manhood in precision given of range.
I'm jacking up my A-O to every Kayo like getting my cigarettes jacked now asked for every parallel to mind of my females to enlivened envision of range
enlivened envision of rage
enlivened envision of hate
.....Thinking jacking me was or is ever the body neutral has every one of you and my kinfolk women jacking your **** like shittin you at enlivened in thangs
I'll be everything anything anybody prasing me like assistance in ranks to be given out perception to my women now to restrictive in thangs insisting the aim: right? right, yeah right it's right as given as range
the higher you go you know ******* well of it's enlivened discovery absolute like marraige in range that **** the lesser when you're rearranging the pain
talking **** been magnitude mang like the masses pretend hides **** before i was ever fake claiming lives before you would know ******* well that proof aiming was claimed
as if rhymes was the median:
I'LL **** YOU ******* TO AIM RANGE WAIT,
i'll get your *** craving for everything stolen in energy that i own for every *** that you're in it just validates your life justly justifies your claim to my aim range strength truthly you're only talking **** as hindsight of all desperate measures to the existance of all body. Raise it and be the man of learnt confusion to all hate and chaos as chosen path to the actual "levels HIGHER already like if all extensions was justly validating as all talk when i been spittin claim when i'm shitten remember me as when i am all talk when everyone smaller was all brought like hindsight perception.
Knowing me was all absolute in all talk like minest sight deception: I'll ****** you **** now you're knowing truth: true truest nature before i was ever you in being a faker; more like a being you know truest dreams as instinct before i was ever a ranker: I'll ****** you **** in complete pristine dreamed grabs at crutch crotch as aim range prankster even wankster as the holder of time,
space and time clean backstabs as you fist **** of every trip traps as a pristinely dreamed beings pretending underneath when all you are now are on top of every wonder **** if ever reupping the true as if you know what i am in reality before intercedence death cuz it was truly me: like reality this is all future to all your poetry actual renders a blank gaze of mine of wisdom as you write your blank page is actually what aim range explains space to what blank faced truly is at fake takes of what you've stolen in actuality reality owned envisions of me
like enlivenment only just visions creates in actuality ranks raised none enlivens but make ways as a holder of time ever remembers me none as the entity's won actual remembrance of me: lonesome to none to truthful beings who reject truth in reality was really ever to gain none sight to minest right ever to wrong surity might right sight.
i own **** what you are: like all small things in my stature of nature lived as holder of everything comes to pass, your only fault is visions of perfection in education given back to your ***. I'LL WAIT *******.....

burning pages.
epiphanies procured through the pages of a book.
let's burn the already ones read.
i doubt the meaning of life is within the confines of the downed pink capsules.
the hollow shell of a human form.
i keep validating it. chemical communication has every place here.
the warm. hands clickity clackety against the keys. because they are home.
furiously scribbling is the one organic anecdote.
throwing a verse down is much preferred to THROWING DOWN. which is what human nature gives on the tendency to fantasize about.
let's not quabble over semantics here. (and let's not mention fantasy).
i'll check for justification in the mirror image of my face in the bottom of the carrot-stick bag.
no such luck, the soul ain't there either.
WANT TO VERBALLY SPAR, BABY?
i don't think you, nor i have the ability. (actually i do, it's more your well-being i'm concerned about)
erstwhile you sit and wait for the first attack, you should think into purchasing some pantene.
2.99 at walgreene's.
i've forgotten what i've started for. so let's not quabble over semantics here.
the death of white roses are never wept over. it's expected.
(maybe a vase in the corner is quite befitting of the lovely token of hopelessness)
it's like a catch-22, it's like fighting a losing battle.it's winning something like a full paid scholarship to plumber school, or finding out your best friend is a **** on christmas mourning.
merry christmas.
one should be cautious in stealing public property. the owner hadn't left it out for the recycling. you should have read the label.
and you:

i'm done.

It begins the same way it ends.
Fluorescent combinations of photonic crystals,
Burning beneath my skin, into my gaping soul.
These are my lights.

Gripping tightly to is base, holding it steady,
Peer through its open lense.
Record each and every moment.
This is my camera, so let it commence.

Take 1.
A mother wails as her baby rolls out.
Physicians stagger in, along with nurses.
NICU is now home to the baby girl who
Came 2 months before she was due.
02/01/1995 - the unforgettable date that
I changed my family’s lives.

Take 2.
Fast forward to when everyone else’s
Nightmare’s become my reality.
The thoughts took over my anatomy,
Constricting blood vessels in my brain
And with every heartbeat those enlarged
Vessels collided with my skull – throbbing.
A rainbow of pasty pills dissolved on my tongue,
Releasing their chemicals into my ocean-like blood stream.

Take 3.
Every waking day had not only become a
Physical struggle but in fact a psychological endeavor.
The thoughts hindered my perception of reality,
Just as cumulous clouds darken the suns light.
Back seat riding with my negativity leading
Me through a tunnel of self-destruction.

Take 4.
Addicted.
To the bottle, the drugs, and the razor blade.
Addicted.
The dullness of the liquor,
The euphoric journey the drugs took me on and,
The intoxicating aroma the blood gave off
As it poured down my wrist
Shaped my addictions to that of self-annihilation.
Those were my Actions.
It ends the same way it began.
Fluorescent combinations of photonic crystals
Burning beneath my skin, into my gaping soul.
Now this is the end.

If my life was a Motion Picture;
I would go back and film it again,
But this time validating true happiness.

You have your demagogic president-elect,
Dreaming in shades of Mussolini
And will sit in his downtown skyscraper and laugh that all the populists
Were not in on the joke,
And thus could not be in on the punchline.

The progressives hotboxed the shower the night we handed the country to Trump.
Pennsylvania, the center of the cataclysm.

The vortex has opened and engulfed all the steel,
All of the illegal immigrants have been scooped up and swallowed,
Reproductive rights will be voided in a stacked Supreme Court validating the opinions of white male legislators.

Tensions twisting to contort and ignore the onset realization
That all progress is halted to return the country to the era of segregation,

Deportation Gestapo formed with the lone intent to displace the children of those who dared to dream of a brighter life.

America, look what you've done and face yourself with your objections.
Look dead in your eyes and see all the minorities, tears in the diaries of closeted teenagers,
And the judicial dread of the gentleman who only wants to live comfortably with his husband.

You've made stepping stones of the counterculture, all crying in dorm rooms or next to their gardens,
All together in sorrow.

Underground America has been sold out,
We're a social experiment for what can happen when sulfuric acid is poured upon the voiceless.
The silent majority has shut us up.
We've been yelling to change history and now are tracking back.

Bigotry is back in style and I'm terrified.

Jealous type.
I'm just not the one.
It seems to create friction.
When there should be none.

Insecurity doesn't control me.
I love life and love too much not to be happy.

If the one I love isn't feeling secured.
There's nothing much I can do to make them secured.
If another comes along.
And they should leave.
They just validating with truth and honesty.
That they never did love me.

But they will see.
Jealousy just isn't within me.
The jealous type.
I could never be.

All because it makes you the hurt and the misery.

Yes I hurt you
Yes I broke your heart
But I've been here since the end
I let you call me breaking down
Even though I was with my girlfriend
Simply because no one else would listen
And I ******* care about you

Yes I emailed you first
You chose to listen to others instead
And told me to move on
Two weeks pass
And you reach out to me
You want me back
But I had my closure
and started exploring new options

Yes I'm polyamorous
And it's been the best realization of my life
But to you I'm just selfish
I can't commit
Just because I can't be your property anymore
You even said you'd try it with me
Then turned around and called it debauchery

Yes I've made mistakes
I'm only human
And I'm growing every day
I am becoming a better person
But how can I keep moving forward
With you constantly tearing apart my soul?

Yes I say your words don't hurt
But I ******* love you
So they brand pain into my entire existence
And keep hurting both myself
And my beautiful new relationship
Because I'm putting all my energy into you

And yes I let it keep happening
But not anymore
I told your dad you tried to OD
I may have saved your ******* life
But all I did was ruin you right?
I tore you down and broke your hopes and dreams?
Tell me how, when I've been here the whole time
I have been supporting you in
Whatever you want to do with your life
I've been validating your feelings and
Trying to be there for you to talk
Because no one else was listening
But I'm just a piece of trash right?

No
I won't let you lead my life anymore
No
You don't get to steal my happiness
No
I will not let you hurt my relationship
No
I may have made mistakes but I'm not entirely bad
No
You do NOT get to take your anger out on me
Not anymore
I'm done
I'm out

Enjoy your life now
Because I'm done being the reason you hate it
You made your own choices
And you don't get to take that out on me
Not anymore
I'm done.

Stop apologizing.
It is not your fault.
You are not wrong.
You are not bad.
There is no wrong or bad.

What you do
In that moment
Was the perfect decision
To you.
It made sense.
To you.
You don’t need to validate.
You don’t need to explain.
Anything.
To you.

Stop fixing.
It is not yours to fix.
You are not the savior
You are not the handyman
The only solution is time.

When others act
Without consideration
Of their surroundings
Step back.
You could get hit.
Step back.
You cannot resolve for them
You cannot justify for them
Ever.
Step back.

Stop. Just stop.
Stop apologizing, stop validating, stop explaining, stop fixing, stop saving, stop handling, stop resolving, stop justifying.
Just stop.
And just simply be.

When I wake on the steps of humanity,
I see the peril, the plotting, the running and the hasty implementation of torture.
For your children, we shall give them a crate and bowl and force them to live amongst their own feces to mold them into the industrious working class we so desire,
anything looking like upward mobility from the ditches we cry in.
For your animals,
we shall embalm them richly on your wall for you,
to gaze on with fond memory the corpse of an animal you never knew wholly,
merely the discipline you enacted on it to conform to your standard.
Never knowing the child without the work,
unable as a society to accept the being as what it is beyond all the standards and labels and cross-references of psychological history used to define your character and your place in this plane of existence.
At no time capable of committing to validating the true nature of the beast in every single conscious being on Pangea,
because, listen, listen closely,
in this jazzy age of deep beats and lack of swooning amounts of emotion,
you need validation to exist.
Confirm, tune in, download your inner interface to the great program,
and you shall forever be condemned to role of worker, or corporate  building block, you lucky duck.
Feed the system as it so graciously has fed you access to knowledge,
filtered and just the right temperature for complacency bred by millenial laziness and hopelessness.
Or drop out, and matter to none.
What is it going to be?

I didn’t want to face the harsh, true words of The Voice or put the energy in that change required. I wanted to drown in my ego. I wanted to flip through my social-networks, my validating Facebook page and perhaps consult better advice from my mother. But I knew that he was right and what needed to be done and I was prepared to do it… I think I was. But a good friend once told me that writing is painful and I believe now what he was saying more than ever. In order to succeed I needed to **** the part of myself that for whatever reason believed that I already had. When you cut off your willingness to learn, you cut off your fuel source for which to produce. It isn’t humbleness—no, humbleness suggests that you have produced good work that you must now be gracious and small rather than tower over the meek peasants that grovel below you. What a ***** word. No, you have to know you’re bad. Push each key down with a sweeping uncertainty that flows forward in effortless delight and carnage. You have to be bad. You have to not care, not what they think but what that chattering, high-pitched buzz of ego and “sensitivity” thinks about you, and especially what it thinks about your failure. You’ll have to get used to that. You’ll have to do strange things that are not quite immoral but resemble something close to opening the gates to a dark alleyway of confusion of despair, then going down it on purpose. Sitting down in this alleyway, among the muck and rats and denigrated newspaper, this is where you do your work. So long as the words flow and the mind continues to unravel, you will have the patience and satisfaction to make this your home. Cold, dark and ugly—it’s your life and it’s beautiful. Some see it as a selfish pursuit, but what a funny opinion that is to see from down here in the dirt. I’m sure in some ways it is. But it is also a sacrifice, the offering of a letter written in blood and shards of broken spirit and signed off to the bleeding youth of tomorrow’s heroics. They’ll be the one’s to save the world, they will think as we thought and they will be driven to make sacrifices of their own. But not without a little word of advice from the now stinking-bodies piled against the dumpsters in the alleyway soaked in the fog of time. Not without my advice—or at least this was the thought that kept me burning. Perhaps also why some choose to draw razors across their arms, to cut to the source of life and un-dig the hidden meanings and answer a few of the questions that keep us alive. Even if the answers are not buried here, and we know it. It is enough to dig, and find the bones of other diggers that have died in the sun of their own hole, their skin melted off and liquified but absorbed by the sand. Having their company is enough, in a life of strangers. It is a friendship that extends through time because it is timeless. It is The Voice in your ear that tells you to keep going, and knows that somehow it is worth it anyways.

And I think growing up had more
to do with the struggle of validating
your pipe dreams and protecting your
worlds virginity, than it ever had
to do with transcending your naive mind.
It became difficult to hope for
something figmental, let alone comfortable,
so you accept reality as only concrete.
Perhaps that is why you began to
digress through third grade
crushes, because it was the closest
thing to impossibility but borderlined
on the edge enough to authenticity
and tangible reality that it was okay.
And that was when you definitely sensed it,

*that hundred to one feeling.

“your children not to do what I have done”

long has this phrase from that old song,
to wit, to which,
we all knew it complete,
that phrase

and this one too,

teach them well their father’s hell will slowly go by


any parent,
knows instantly their secret experiences
validating these pregnant phrases to
unification,
combination and definition

our looking face down
on the children unafraid,
and
our looking back
at the mistakes we ourselves made,
that no one could have warned us of in advance

can we warn them well,
dare we tell,
make our lore their history,
make them
too careful and too afraid
not to repeat our mistakes,
but be not fearful to
make their own?

doubtful.

I am a young woman, and pappy says all parents have eyes in the back of their heads, and it still don’t help much