At night, you sit and you make plans
- Houses, cars, babies, insurance
Just so many plans, in case something
Does not work out
You share some with him

He knows about your little problems
The ones you don't talk about
In polite company as you sneak away
Take your little white pills so you
Can keep it a secret for another day

You make so many lists of things
Things needed to build up your dreams
Different lists for every dream
It's exhausting, exacting work
But you sit up through the nights

Do it anyway, asking for his input
You were a little scared the first time
You showed him a list, told him about
Your little habit. He didn't even blink
As he started debating the finer points

His ease, total acceptance, took you aback
No one had done that for you- no one
You always had trouble verbalising how
Much it meant to you but he understood
Not a word from you, but he looked you in the eye

And he understood. It was tough going
There were nights when he could not handle
Some other things- small things- like toilet seats,
Other males in your life, but never your lists
It terrified you some times and you had to leave

You took a long time- maybe, too long- getting
Used to his presence, his little habits as well
But the both of you stuck it out together
Despite your differences. He tolerated things
- Loved the things- others could never stand about you

The plans now included him. Despite your
Competitive behaviour and the slight bits
Of insane and inane that you were, he became
Part of your world. People generally had no
Place there but he became a common fixture

You slowly started to believe

"He was in an accident. We're sorry but nothing could be done.
Could you please come to the hospital
For identification immediately, Miss?"

Your plans broke down and you could only watch
As they tumbled down, down into the sea of endless despair
Your lists were all useless now. All that work that
Included him, useless. You couldn't believe it
- the plans, the lists! Barely a thing could be heard,
Seen over all that wasted paper, all that time

(he said he'd be back in an hour or so
you were supposed to go out for lunch)

Your breath stopped. It nearly stopped and
You could only clutch your head, grip your hair
As you struggled to get a grip on yourself
On your perception of reality. He was gone
You were here. And there was nothing else

You looked up, horrified at all the desks and drawers
You frantically ripped them all out, hunted them all down
Tossed them together in a pile on the floor of your
Living room. All those lists, now just worthless bits of paper
With bits of optimistic, fictional words on them

You hated yourself. You dreaded, loathed, badly wanted to
Hurt yourself. Not the other driver, never anyone else
You hate yourself and you knocked back more than
The prescription said and you lit the entire pile on fire
As you went back to sleep. Tomorrow was another day.
There were things to be done. But before you let yourself
Get lost in sirens, neon lights, the could-bes and the accusations
Present in your nightmares, you took another piece of paper
And noted down, 'Funeral'.

you begat it all wrong with your genesis story: i don't think i'm hot ****, i doubt that i am, hot ****.

when i cite communism i don't imply:
a redistribution of wealth -
me? i'm happy with a good night's sleep...
i mean capitalism has lost the essence
of work -
         in that: there is no respect for labour...
such a trivial "thing"!
god... this sounds oh so awful -
      and in "career" one always ends up
sounding a crude as a lumberjack's echo
in a forest - chop chop - gunner on the tilt -
crude writing that comes when one has
ingested too much of foreign opinion,
via audio, and not via reading...
            i have to find myself apologising
for this outpouring -
       but then again sometimes the most
mundane "things" have to be said,
for *per se reasons, than for any vector
purpose culminating in a reached point (b)...
when people trivialise work is the worst
kind of times...
          when so many trivialise work by
contesting in karaoke sundays in england,
or "masterchef" kitchens on mondays
tuesdays through to fridays...
  how about honing in on the immediate
concerns, the near-breathing-aching-tomorrows
of these closest to you?
   how a father will complain to a son
that he made him too much lunch food:
what? it would be easier to complain had
there been too little, and that you didn't have
to throw excesses into the bin?
i had to outthink heidegger in his "fetish"
of dasein... it was too remote for me in
the end...
      and since i've never come across
a philosophy book that utilises grammatically
categorical words (e.g. noun, verb, adjective etc.)
i feel a veil has been lifted...
  the curtain of sleep -
and when i see how heidegger took to stressing
dasein: being "there" - i think of
journalism first, and how to excuse the world
and turn to hermitic ways,
  for there is a there, as there is also a "there",
i.e. there isn't any!
but that is much more an allocation of
counter-verbalising events -
      there's no talk of adrenaline when speaking
of a terrorist attack far far away,
       there's only the word: tragedy;
the terrorist is immediately felt,
but the post-scriptum is but a "loser" in
the descriptive allocations -
would you fancy facing this "loser" face to face?!
i envisioned heidegger's dasein to be
more procreative, more centred to
       a fickle coordinate of media attention...
   more the engaging "plotline"...
less a case of demanding aristotelian
post-etymological correction facility of nouns
i.e. calling things by their proper names -
and more engaging, always engaging,
even if by a centimetres' worth of engagement...
that old shambles of tornado in the west,
a butterfly in the east with equal event impressions
complimentary...
    of all places, my grandfather managed to
visit auschwitz three times, upon the third
he resigned from the encounter with the gas chambers,
but i somehow always seem to be trapped
in these barbwire confines, given that i've never
visited: romancing h. h. holmes earth...
    but i took to this **** philosopher like
a fish takes to water: the reason?
        defunct complexity of the prose
     in other writers...
                        notably aristotle;
i had to chop up history as some sort of
inheritance, that had to be kept for reasons
of posterity, rather than nostalgic romance:
for one, i hate history to be kept for
reasons of posterity,
   achilles or homer was not kept to this day
for reasons of posterity, they were kept
out romantic reasons...
      history as posterity belongs to scare children,
in the classroom...
      and nowhere else,
  but authentic history: desires no teacher
and no pupil...
           it just has the authenticity that becomes
ultra-history... myth!
   therefore my gateway to the ancient times
resides with heidegger's dasein
with? zusein -
         and yes, not being a native german speaker
i can understand the "mistake" of
this sort of "nuance" -
             again in inverted commas,
for lack of a better word, or a desire to open
a thesaurus (rex) -
           in auschwitz 2.0:
                     respect work, to be free -
it is this, in the concentrate form that's most
demanding: toward being -
     in a cubicle, in a tightly knit tartar patchwork
on a kilt...
     we're not going anywhere if
work, esp. manual labour is not respected,
or is frowned upon...
              when work becomes all software,
and little if no presence of work as hardware;
i guess that's one of the reasons
   i'm on comfortable terms with the supermarket
staff at my local...
  i go there so often, i'm so *******
predictable with my purchases i am almost like
the one ready to become part of
the flying dutchman ship... immersed in
my everyday recurrent predictability...
no qualms with the staff, just the frankly friendly
            'alright mate, how are you?'
'fine mate, how are you?'
    'oh, not bad.'
          'good good.'
i know i can be the most pompous ***** on
paper from time to time,
  but then my writing is one thing,
and i know there's an umbilical chord of segregation
between the hungry foetus of a blank page,
and me binging on pickled gherkins and
     raw herrings in a cream sauce with this
blah, as every over blah, turning into a blur
the moment i wake up the next day;
and in grammatical terms (i.e. categories) -
i have already given dasein a name (a noun)
in that i call it an offshoot of journalism -
whereas in the instance of zusein:
i invoke the notion of some act (i.e. a verb
dimension) - i.e. the acquisition of action
through non verbal involvement -
beyond the hier & the da...
        something that becomes a mongrel
of the two positions, to a non-relativistic
  compendium...
      and if we all assembled ourselves,
or simply had the ambitions of simple verse,
or complying to simplifying language
in order to "appear" simple -
well, what would happens to those of us
who wrote to attain complications -
and thereby remain the simple brutish folk
of easily understandable manners,
   and tactful hushes -
                and the awry grafts of hubris?
the worst enemy of staying awake is
the enemy of all of us: the simplified &
therefore overused craft of using language...
i am not writing a ******* lullaby!
       josé! pronto! yalla, imshi!,
i don't write for either children or for rhyme,
i have my reasons for this being
more than true...
        simple language is repugnant to me,
it just serves the purpose of itemising
the person who writes it as:
    well, **** me for trying to understand
that sort of writer for a year,
  i can sniff a rat with one line of verse,
neurotic, despotic,
      cleverly encrusted in homogeneity,
******, under-fed, just *******,
       language is there to be mishandled,
complicated, diversified, turned into
an amazonian cocoon,
                   something out the blue -
  something lost in space -
  opulent, high on fibre -
             i can't stomach reading works
that are nothing short of a geometric
precision & predictability of drawing
a circle, or a square...
  which is why, whenever i watch american
films i get bored...
   because i managed to integrate this
knack of seeing past the already recurrent
plotline predictability...
  so much for those "creative" writing courses.

As I stood there,
Full of thoughts so thoughtlessly thinking,
Drinking deep with an inclination that I do not think was ever there before,
Though never there but seeming very real in my despair,
Unwittingly I stood there,
Sinking still forevermore

Wherever from I do not know,
Forlorn for far too long, long ago,
Labouring lonely on my own,
Finally finding some sort of sedate sedition,
At last some affinity with forever’s finite infinity

And, I do recognise the conflictions and oxymoronic oppositions,
But as such it is a necessary dereliction of definitive definitions,
And yet it all still makes so much sense to me,
Profanity in profound insanity,
What gravity

What gravity the vulgarity of these verbalising vultures voicing victorious vitality,
Before banality and such boring finalities,
Then suddenly one’s head grew heavy, hence and thus, dropped into dust,
Deep into the darkness ****** to which only few have ever been privy,
There lay the bust of Miss McHale

Though long pale and so frail in death’s derail of life’s long trail,
Beauty somehow still prevailed in such a sorry sickening tale,
In time long lost to those foreign and some still long mine,
Destined besotted are entwined,
In life and death we tumble and take turns to stumble into things we cannot perfectly define

Love, love was inclined to go through,
Adversities, I had to climb to try and find the only word for you,
A word that can only be mine and said once and really meant for you, that one time
To us that word will confine, but I cannot find,
Nor conform or confide in any known way to accurately represent my mind

Though sometimes that can be just fine,
That word can escape me, but you will still be mine,
And along with finite infinities,
There is the very possibility that we are something that just cannot be defined,
Although I do not understand it, you will still be mine

And yet you crave to climb that rail,
Atop a limousine after your tumble through an Empire’s gale,
States of life try to live on in death but always fail,
As blood runs still and last breathe exhales,
Though immortalised now evermore prevailed,
In beauty and brutality ultimately availed,
The immortal end of the ever humble Miss McHale

Craving white noise or at least a little more silence from the pale person on the other side of the once white wall I'm hiding behind.
It's a Sunday so why can't you speak in your church voice instead you're part of the choir. Leave this heathen in heavenly solitude instead of verbalising every thought that has ever transpired, opinions that any other would have aborted or edited to sound less stupid.

You have to sometimes close your eyes and internalise,
keep everything tucked in and out of sight,

but you know they'll send their spies in to catch a moment when you're verbalising some extraneous thought..

Politics and Religion
Creates permanent division
Passion for Sports and Arts
Sets you apart
Philosopher and guide
Leads the divide
Uniqueness in men
Each holding to his belief system
Whatever the intention
Having a discussion
Ends in mutual dissatisfaction

Enriching the soul
The only goal
Learning is for learning
Internal change manifesting
Verbalising only reducing
Value of the teaching

Becoming your lifestyle
You can decide
Wearing it on your sleeve
Don't think but feel

Decision to change
If external then fake
Found your teacher
Zen State not to  preach

A state of Zen
Inside and within
Remain in Zen
Only available solution

Validating the authenticity
Works both ways naturally
Avoid the process completely
Results in neutrality

With the flow in harmony
Be present not in dichotomy
Just be
Be