only today i came across what interested Heidegger
after writing being and time, a selection
of essays, revealing that he came to be interested
in language - not knowing this, by mere study
of the introduction some things became apparent -
being quiet democratic in my reading it's a shame
i don't have the academic leisurely pace of becoming
a Heidegger specialist - it's the almost damnable
pulling-apart having to cite many influences and not
focusing on one, but since i don't have academic
leisure, the summary in the introduction
by jeffrey powell (editor) of the book heidegger
and language will just have to do: apropos this
being an antidote to those bemoaning that we only
write about reading books, carefully choreographic
our lives for mints and espressos and ammoniac
(inhalants in a boxing ring nearing a knock-out) -
hide pretty bird, hide, hide pretty pretty bird
first your song inside a cage, then the cage inside
the heart, and thus the song with the cage,
silenced inside the cage, raging mad inside the heart.
well, the antidote is that i already have some ideas,
and reading the essays contained in this book would
put me off what i was intending to write about,
so, in summary, read the major work, then read introductions
of critical books from those studying the subject,
invent an original approach from that, and elsewhere.
before i venture into the whole affair of having to
reread certain passages from the introduction as to
guide me in this Bermuda Delta i what to do a little
sidewinder interlude:
in chemistry there are two major bonds (for the purpose
of what i'm intending, let us just assume that
we're only talking about π and σ bonds) -
and while psychology dehumanises man to strict
theories without clear proofs to a universal standard,
i want to do what will come later regarding Heidegger's
take on language, for me there's no clear philosophical
vocabulary to be used - i'm not into orthodoxy and
rigidity which says

                piquant sun strokes against
                the bargains of spring's last
                hope for a kept bazaar
                to bloom to then deflower
                petals from trees fall to earth
                like glasses, the tree stands
                as a reflection of shattered glass
                the petals remain the tree intact
                worn at the Royal Ascot
                or in a woman's hair.

obviously something like this is a poem - what i mean,
however, concerning what's identifiable as philosophy is
to me the following:  
                                        blah = monotone x algebraic
                                                    for­ non-differential
                                                    purposes, just filling up
                                                    the page

            blah blah blah blah blah blah subjectivity blah blah blah blah blah blah essentially blah blah blah blah blah blah in-itself blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah thing-external v. thing-internalised blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah metaphysics blah etc.
                      
                          and so on and so forth, a fixation on using a certain vocabulary to be equivalent or justification to be "apparently" talking philosophy... yet still no gain from the words of grammatical categorisation... for me? too many propositions, the basis of what the academic environment deems to be "pure" verbiage, or none (akin Wittgenstein) - that famous quote about a lion and having tea on Tuesday... or as Buddha would say: said so to shatter thus the fear of ketamine thoughtlessness;

but that's beside the point, i want to return to
how any chemist might treat psychology as a science,
keep it up to date, given that psychology likes
to shove its nose in everyday activities for a strict
expression of equivalent rubric that mathematics already
possesses and shoves into a child's brain to make
the child become accustomed to symbol encoding;
so π and σ bonds, let's say between two carbons atoms...
but in psychology we don't have the luxury of
many alternative examples...
me and language: to write in terms of optics,
to encode images rather than sounds,
language as optometry rather than a hearing-aid...
so what "elements" do we have in psychology,
essentially what defines consciousness, its sub-plot
and its unfamiliar territory - the using the dusty
Freudian units, we know the concept of the superman
(superman was a bad bad boy) from Nietzsche
evolved into the super mm hmm, and we know
there are two other units, mm hmm and the id /
it or that? it is for me, that is for scalpel for the analyst,
the prober, unlucky for the person who took to
objectifying himself, but better than being objectified -
still, remember i'm working with language in terms
of optics rather than phonetics - enough organic chemistry
diagrams and you will see that the bonding between
mm hmm, the super mm hmm and the gemini id
(one the patient, the second the analyst) trapped inside
an electron cloud of bio-electric processes is rigid and
stable due to the opposite of π and σ,
i chose the optic route using the bonds δ and ψ -
symbolically δ is the mathematical term for sum -
summation, the total of - currently i have no clue about
the significance of ψ just yet, but ψ is a symbol of
psychology like caduceus is the symbol of medicine;
a brief expansion on the natures of the bonds,
quack-science δ bonds being all alike meaning uniform
meaning holding every aspect uniformly, meaning
that a δ bond is of the same nature between mm hmm
and super mm hmm in a petri dish within the
solvent of the conscious sub-plot, likewise other variations
δ bonds are uniform bonds, i.e. ensuring one detail
is related to the other, and so to others.
ψ bonds, not much expansion here as promising detail,
asthma the highest research of breath, and all
major theoretical squeezing through the Suez -
depending on the measure of breaths, we can depend
on the internal things - but never so much Pamplona encierro
cleaning-up to do theorising an affirmative sound
like mm hmm, or other affirmative synonyms -
if it were can *****, it would be mince rather than
a clean dissection - mince meat, should mm hmm be
not an *****, let alone a body. so many attachments
to mm hmm these days, it should be attached to zoological
studies than activities of breathing: theory as a cage,
one after the over, eventually not even cages but
the caged animal turning into matryoshka doll -
Kant doesn't venture into the dynamic of his thing-in-itself
represented by the matryoshka as ad continuum -
maybe he does, but to me here merely pinpoints it,
coins the phrase noumenon and ensures the thing
is opened, god or nothing is put in it, the thing is
closed, locked and the key to unlocking it is thrown
away and never found (i'll mention a short process of
his argument some other time, most notably his
three impossibilities concerning proving the existence
of god: ontological, physico-theological and cosmological).
yes, i know, when reading these ****** books
i have to paint the arguments, i need to simplify
them, a poet reading a philosophy has to paint
the words - the best poetic technique applicable to
understanding philosophical books is imagery,
not as a technique of for the purpose of writing my own,
but as a way to paint what was written by some boffin -
precursor to understanding the three impossibilities
of proof, i find it strange that such proof is necessary,
what would you do with it? prove it once on
paper, or in your head, show it to everyone and then
slowly everyone is able, then the so called "man in
the sky" - it seems strange that scientific positivism
of the Enlightenment supposed such a proof, the proof
is more implausible than the existence - Bertrand...
just smoke your pipe and sit in the easy-chair talking
******* with Wittgenstein... more on that later.
i promised quotes from the above mentioned book
(heidegger and language)...

           das wort kommt zur sprache,
             das seyn bring sich zum wort.

working from phenomenology, to later reject it,
thus precipitating the school of deconstruction-ism,
and with Heidegger we do get to atomic elements
from words, from compounds, thank god there are
no sub-atomic ventures with language, quiet impossible
to de-construct language beyond this point,
let's face it, if you go as far as:
'as preparatory for raising the question of being...
language is one of three constituent moments in
the analysis of the being of the da in dasein (being there)'
furthered by equal atom bombardment replacing
the un-compounded sein (verb, be) with seyn (conjunction /
noun, being) - this is modern physics to my understanding,
i'm not particularly interested what he's saying,
i'm interested in painting what he's saying -
i'll spare you the details of what philosophical systematisation
is actually involved in: restricted vocabulary -
a certain limit is allowed, rigid meanings are involved,
rigidity of drilling in of non-deviation, philosophical
systems are not dishonest in that they are consistent with
a limited vocabulary - i will spare you the torture of
seeing one ball being juggled - the shrapnel of the English
language makes it even more distracting to understand,
as with the above, another e.g.?
'every saying of beyng is held in words and meanings
which are understandable in the view of everyday
references of beings, and are exclusively thought in
that view, but which as expressions of beyng,
are misunderstood...' of course i could be cherry picking
Heidegger like a Jehovah's witness cherry picking
the bible, but i'm not interested in what he's saying,
merely painting you the picture, to scale then:

books                      -              celestial objects
chapters                 -               cycles of celestial objects
paragraphs            -               prime features of
                                                 celestial objects
                                                 (e.g. Jupiter's red eye,
                                                  Saturn's ring,
                                                  Earth's oceans
                                                  and continents)
sentences                 -              
words                       -
syllables                   -
letters                        -             atoms / elements  
                                           ah, it was going oh so well,
i think i started too big, and went into too small,
which made visualising sentences and words and syllables
hard to compare what could fit between
Australia and and atoms of RuXe - by chance ruxe is
an actual word, no as stated ruthenium and xenon,
although that too, ruxir (ruxo, ruxin, ruxido) in Galician
meaning to roar.

The day on a high
reaches the peak
over the pyramid.
Shrouded in twilight
now tucked in light
pushes the envelope.
The whole panache of stars
came out in the pitch dark.
The North Star is on the way
oh do me a favour
I will tell you why.

Veil the angle of dawn
in the black shades of the night.
There are dark caves
even inside the pyramid
scientists, trained eyes
yet to tread on that way.

Put on it only an instance of your kohl
the daylight is already a burnt mole.
Light in the wrap in the night
your muslin veiled silken moonlight
is enough to find the tuberose’s earth.

If the tucked away sun crops up
once again over the morning’s rose petals.
Again it will dive deep into the angle
after an angle in the black hole of the night.
A far cry from the glowing firefly
eyeing blindfolded behind the moon
perfectly beyond every looking star.
Until the master arts in silk black finds the true pencil
not in visualising but catching the views of the sunrise
through the lens of the rose pollens’ kohl-eyes.

In the corner sits and old wooden rocking chair
Just as it's sat for the last hundred years
Worn and polished with the patina of age and use

I sit, pencil and pad in hand trying to visualize
What it has witnessed over the years long past
Tears of happiness, tears of heartbreak
Of births and of death

Christmases and birthdays when times were hard
Times when money was scarce
But times when the children understood
Times when children were content, with the little that they had

That old chair has sat there in the corner
For at least a hundred years
I read stories in the grainy polished woodwork
And let my imagination loose

If you are searching for some sort of formula to carry on fighting, or for a sequence of numbers or symbols to decode bravery, there is no purpose to look any further. It’s not that you are close to it, or getting there, or that the concept itself of a bravery code is the first step towards deciphering the code, but you’ll never get the chance. There is no code. When you are trying to pull your parts together and make them work in concordance even though you have been unhinged an inch too far from the here and now, the currents of reality. For example, where is one of your hands? One is banging on the tabletop for attention while the other presses down on your trachea to crush it closed. You need to calm down one hand so you can use it to loosen the other from your own throat. There are no pretty ways- or any ways- to suture the open wounds that have been left on you. It feels filthy and confusing to speak, and it hurts because you know only yesterday your talk was free.

It is disturbing to smile and to hold your face without anything to express. All you want to do is release that scream that begs for freedom, just as speech. But you can’t go on like this, all torn apart- this is a body fighting itself, a war against its own shadow; it’s a mind murdering the body from inside. Think about that, if you can just about bear it, and then you’ll catch onto why there’s not a instruction manual waiting for you after your experience to lay out in bullet points the right way to feel. How to’s on coping with grief, guilt, disgust, dissociation, nightmares, the memory becoming part of your autobiography. There’s no manual or guide because there is no way to make peace with that.

No one ever taught you that bravery can be something other than clawed in eyes, sharpened nails, feral smiles. It doesn’t appear as the torn up hands of a wrecked clock or the veins filled with venom under poisoned skin. You can decide what your bravery looks like. Maybe it looks like smashed plates, slashed tires, the silver gleam along the edge of a bread knife that flashes as you make yourself a sandwich. Maybe it’s letting the shadows give you some comfort when the windows are jammmed and refuse to open. It’s framing pictures of yourself and your mother because you have a need for nostalgia almost as much. It’s changing the colour of your hair, it’s gin and tonic before noon or else only juice you drink from cartons. It’s taking out the ******* bins whilst knowing they contain one or several things you ought to not throw away, but taking the words of Kerouac- Accept loss forever. It looks, perhaps, like trying to fix a clock but allowing for times ahead to weave in and out of an arbitrary linear path. No matter how many times you look at those hands on that face, you’ll never be able to turn back time or bypass a single moment on fast forward. It’s brave to try and invent a potential cure and to persist, but someday you’ll be thankful you couldn’t fix yourself by going back over time or denying the disappearing time.

It could be going to confession every Tuesday and Thursday, or visiting a shooting range, whether or not you end up firing a gun. It could be learning to bake your favourite cake, then baking dozens of small cakes and eating them alone. It could be a simple mouth to pillow scream. It could be the development of an entirely original and organic dream. It didn’t come from nowhere, nor from what you are trying to be brave for. A terrible event can be catastrophic and cataclysmic. The evidence in that is surely in all catastrophes and the associated ways in which the world shifts around it, accomodates is corners, and is changed even just by the wake left behind.

Most likely it is writing and it’s burning. It’s howling, visualising your head split in two against a wall. It’s bleeding to remember why you stopped drawing your own blood. It’s acting sinfully to forget. It’s undergoing an exorcism of your own by drawing a map of your body and marking out all the hiding places taken as territory by the spectres that haunt you. You’ll need your bravery to claim those spaces back, to conjure a monster frightening enough to scare the spectres themselves out.

If you try on lots of looks for bravery, be aware you’ll be black-night and blues and plum-colour bruised. Healing looks a lot like brutality, but it is the best home you’ve ever had. It is the first that you have built with your own hands and you owe no one for it.

Remember: Whatever has been done. Whatever you have done to survive.
Remember: the war is almost over.
Remember: you have always been home.

Pinnocchio and the Queen!
Puppet image, sorrowful,
Rouge dusted sparkles bless his cheeks,
Such childlike image, as cheery angel,
Gay, misled by teen fantasy,
Hair coiffured not a whisper out of place,
In faded denim hot pants,
Appears out of place,
Parading as a shop mannequin,
Like a tiny harlequin,
Lust for some emotion,
Advertising wares for sale, in aim of a promotion,
A sad commodity,
Full of ****** satisfaction,
Young men, old men , suited men and booted men,
Seeking cutie prey,
Maybe,Streets paved in gold,
Fools gold in the truth was found,
Impure truth was the only thing he ever bought!
Prince Albert,although not his **** in truth,
Instead pond life **** took on the role, with cruel control,
Lives in land where tragic lies, and sorrow becomes magnified,
The shards of all, is ****** fantasies.
As an immigrant to land of city lights,
I see through windows fogged by city smoke!
Visualising through caring eyes,
What I see appalls me deep within,
Tears my soul to tears!

By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

3 weeks, that's all it takes,
      how many necessary things could have
been said, but weren't...
    i could have written to my local m.p.,
or say - an imaginary letter to
Lorca, like Jack Spicer -
     instead, i wrote a few pieces of
verbal-diarrhea - sheer frustration -
      how debasing i sometimes see myself
becoming, all this talk of self-censorship,
     it's this ominous shadow of some third
party sources... the more you write
it seems, the more you start fearing
in the existence of that famous chestnut
known as writer's block...
                         it's such a fear that it's
impossible to call it irrational,
a tiny fear, a phobia, fear without a narrative...
so you end up becoming debasing for a while:
thankfully: there's nothing in concreto
about it...
                    you begin almost in trance
blurting out words to no civilised purpose -
  just to go beyond the rust and stiffness of
3 weeks sober, as if starved from the world:
because your grandparents don't have an internet
connection...
      and you return from a place where
you have to time to read books, and be content
at being fed by a television set...
                rather than having to feed
the computer and that amassing of knowledge
and shared experience...
      a digital detox they call it...
   i call it a double-whammy detox... and strange
how doable it is: it doesn't require
a rehab...    or some guru telling you
       that you have to block out thoughts
immersed to the internet...
                    but then again, is it about that?
all i can claim to say is that:
    the internet can really become a cul de sac...
i'd feign to believe that anyone with
   it can read a novel these days...
                       i know i can't -
     in the most ordinary circumstances -
                     a complete shut-down can provide
enough furniture to be so less itchy
and nagging to touch...
                               and it wasn't even a case
of a self-imposed hiatus...
                    don't know what it actually meant
other than an immersion in: what
life was like in the 20th century...
                              and on that touchy subject of
certain words being treated as if said
by children and deserving the scorn from an elder...
well sure, would that give us many more
graces to: write in the fxxx?   and if i actually did -
if only the english language used some sort of
orthographic, but it can't: since it has no diacritical
markings...
    the aesthetic is so different in Poland...
you don't censor certain words so might think you're
talking roses and adorable puppies for some
grand social project...
       there's a graffiti joke in Poland...
              and there about four different variations
of the same word (as it sounds) -
huj                         hój
             chuj                                and chój...
  there are no others... but there's only one accepted
spelling of the word: given the orthographic convention...
and if this word is seen on walls
   without the correct orthography, it's a good joke...
  (it's the first spelling of the word that's correct,
if you want to know)...
     what i can't understand is creating these excessive
emotional associations with words,
not sentences that lead to a fuller meaning:
but isolated words...
                         it's a simple bewilderment that
using such words, for the sake of using them, might
suddenly lead toward some antagonism of
an ethnicity -
                                 it's black on white -
there are no hues of words... but when it's used
from fear of a writer's block, and it has to be used,
once again: not in concreto...
                        then it's again, used like i might
throw everything into grammatical categorisation of
words, and get back a lesson in grammar...
    that's 3 weeks without a keyboard - you're
bound to vent out some frustration...
                    at least there's an antidote to it,
on saturday i experienced zenith of the frustration,
until it dwindled away, overnight...
                             rarely do you see a review of a poetry
book in english newspapers...
   perhaps the guardian, but in the times?
               once in a blue moon...
           the review: if jeremy corbyn wrote poems...
    for almost a whole evening i was experiencing this
sort of: debilitating paralysis, debilitating because it
was wholly mental... i equated reading this review
with an experience of: ethical monopoly of vocab...
    and it really does exist... its not a question of political
correctness, but a case of ethics:
                  could i use the word nxxxer or not?
    can it really be so scary to see that correct spelling?
and what if i wrote about the river Niger, because
i felt like it... or took to the fancy of a trip to Nigeria?
       boy, Niagara falls must be stunning to look at too!
i don't understand that privacy can be so usurped,
so wrangled out one's on comfort...
    so we have our closet racists and closet intellectuals
(who i call the bearded white boys
                 in chequered shirts and torn jeans) -
    but in a fit of personal transitioning, are we really
about to censor each other, and on what ground?
      yes, i have a ku klux **** hood in my closet
and i'm about to shout ye ha! on a lynch frenzy...
      it's a word said out of context with a historical content
still ascribed to it... if this word were taken into
an urban environment: it would be an epitome of
what once was used with the words *******...
         i'm not concerned with the word historically...
       historically speaking: it's urban now...
                               it can literally mean: thick-as-night...
and can you start to begin finalising such
nano experiences in life...
                           some people get to sky-dive,
or hunt lions on safaris...
                                i'm stuck with a wasted evening
duped into thinking this out:
  like so horror minority report, said the word:
predestined to do the most god-awful evil...
                       or like i said the word:
and that's equivalent to not washing my mouth for
2 weeks... 2 weeks spent on a diet of onions,
garlic and raw beef...
                           it's this absurdity that has nothing
fancy about it, this could not be written by
Albert Camus... it's too worm-like absurd...
                 i don't whether to laugh or cry, or tell you
how i had to find a counter-frustration...
but i did, the review of a poetry book in a saturday newspaper...
philip collins' take on unreconciled - poems 1991 - 2013
   by michel houellebecq...
                               i'm guessing the actual book
would make me feel less frictive than the reviewer's take on it...
   such this huge ball of fungus dropped into
my cranium and started to cannibalise itself with
digestive juices of nihilism... thankfully reviews like this
would spur me on and make me want to read such a book...
just to get the antithesis (if that's correct word to use)...
   to me, it sounds like a book
that's supposed to oppose the european use of the haiku...
   for me not all haikus are philosophical...
     although i know they're intended as such...
personally, i think that the art behind the haiku is
more than the actual haiku...
    say, someone who invented this medium,
yes, an easterner would probably write 20 haikus in
a period of 20 years...
     writing too many haikus (usually done by westerners)
is precisely the opposite of the art-form...
      how can a haiku be written without a year-long
restraint, and when finally the pressure is too much:
you get ''so little''?
                      well sure, i can write a haiku any moment
i can... but i'd have to have a gnat's worth of
consciousness to write one without having meditated for
a year...
                we europeans can at least write
absurd excerpts from our rigid lives...
                        and houellebecq does that -
   we live in these snappy narcissistic observations taken
from the world we have so made systematic -
    and i guess reason is a big tender dog -
given that unreason is a ******* chiwawa that
constantly keeps barking... or any other small dog
for that matter...       well: once again -
who told these people who review poetry books that
poetry is an Ikea manual?
                               lack of imagination, i'd say...
   and i'll say that about any other liar out there who
can say that visualising poems is easy -
     modern art can be seen as pretentious ******* -
but then what can you verbalise about it is the whole trick...
   just asking, because i was thinking about when
that famous school of fine art in Florence is going to
reopen, and why no one bothered to remember the techniques
using oil on canvas...
                 evidently something is up in the zeitgeist -
    i'm guessing we'll not see a **** study by edward calvet
any time soon... and it'll remain so, for quiete some time -
something is being revised - i'd call all modern art
by the movement: revisionism -
                      well: the dark ages were revising something -
everything's crude once more...
                  as came with the over-exposure to our
******... and did i say there's something wrong with that?
but evidently seeing too much fucky-fucky
    has created jelly in the eyes of artists who have to
go back to basics... it's like artists are looking for words...
they want to return to a dialogue of the reneissance...
    or at least it sounds like that... oh no, not from them:
from the people that have a critical eye on the matter:
the intellectuals... i see it as a hope for coming back to
dialogue... if you can't return to a dialogue over
a very simple modern canvas... there's no point
talking about the greater intricacies...
                             that leave you speechless -
  i mean: what's the point of talking about a mona lisa
when you can enjoy a joke asking whether
the devil didn't have his hand up her skirt?
       or the ecstasy of st. theresa... what's there to talk about?
i look at that statue and just want to get a hard-on...
but first i guess i have to rediscover a dialogue
with what the current times prescribe me...
and these really are works of prescription... there's no
point look into pharmacology's list of prescriptions...
   as going about saying it's all a load of *******,
leads to the first step toward modern alienation...
       if darwinism can be a humanism, a study of
the human... i can only give it a motto:
there's a reason behind everything... there's a reason
snakes don't have eyelids...
                              or that giraffes look funny...
             or that camels are the most vile mammals
to walk this earth...
                       personally i

The only thought that is keeping me going;
Is the vision of your fingers,
Putting pen to paper,
Tapping words in to the keyboard,
Dreaming of my scent,
Visualising my kisses,
Tasting my liquid passion
Hearing me call for more,
Feeling me in your grasp,
Eating me with your delicate words,
Guiding my way with your body,
Taking me to places I've never been,
Giving me your tongue to speak a new language,
Whispering sweet nothings to me,
Lying next to me sleeping effortlessly,
Writing a letter of you,
Ink stains on your fingers,
Cooking dinner in your kitchen,
Holding hands in the park,
The touch of your eyes to mine.
Keeping me going, you are the coals to my fire.

It's a distance from me
Sheffield - City of industry
Where my friend alights to be
Lizzy Boo Green
Queen of my scene
The perpetual adjective that smiles
Like a teenager
             in a disco
Or a burning go-go.

-----

Primary a target of my wishes
That curl friendship in a scribbled
                                  slowhand
            ­                    Back and forth
                       To indirect overdrive
Where a thousand exits greet you with fire
And say welcome
Where we probably will never meet
Seperated by forests, buildings and miles of cold
                                    concrete.

-----

If I allowed my candle to burn down
Then tame a buick's wanderings into nature's
                                             blind spot
Then I am no poet
I hold my friendship like a trophy, high
No contact, No coffee, But we share the same sky.

-----

My pledge is to write my verse
A gift stolen be a loved cat,
So here is my rotting composure
I have one golden friend, Whose fretted blue lights
Are visualising something else.
As change haunts the bellringer, The only sound of life
Is deafening bells.

-----

A frail yet stunning femininity masked by
Accumulative beauty
The description holds general putativity
                                   in a broken cup
As it flows into the sewers of of my persona
And tho we will never share
A cobblestoned journey into the opposites that
           collide into seperate genders
It is only my years that say goodbye to that today
I lost my younger years in the afternoon of yesterday.

-----

2 Friends heading into infinity
But without a compass to map direction
Only 1 of us is courting perfection
And I am sorry to say in my selfish unit
That it isn't me,
I'm only a word that's free.

-----

Freedom is so entwined by *******
Tho I'm not concerned with that,
I am blessed from where I am sat
I am, perhaps too old to understand
What cradles  friendship between a young girl and
                                              an ageing man-
A beautiful wide-eyed energy from Elysium, Our Lizzy
Which leaves me nothing inside nothing more
Other than a single image worth living for.

but somehow,
i write to peer into visualising
         my thought
pattern,
   or at least, how i can construct it
on the basis that:
i just walked about 6 miles
and drank 5 cans of beer
and smoked a few cigarettes
   and sat on a bench in a public space.

i really do believe that with man
having overcome the natural world
(to some degree),
industrialised the rearing of pigs for
pork, creating the bonsai tiger
that's a cat...
      god, i dread this anglophone
existential narrative of going way way back
and then coming into the present...
   walking zombie like
in the aftermath of unearthing the big bang
and finding dinosaur bones...
excavating Hades has never had so many
pitfalls...
       but this is the anglophone narrative,
that we currently live in,
  ask anyone in Tuscany and they're like:
come Friday, bring a bottle of wine,
have dinner...
       look at my beautiful house...
ever see the *appleton tower in Edinburgh?
built in the 1960s... meaning:
too many people were on aßid...
    c (see) s (esse) **** (ah yes)
(takes a break and empties his bladder)...
who in Venice might have a care
to keep this ref. in mind,
   who on earth, if not the english
have it? i go to Poland and people talk
about the butcher's and know the butcher's
name, small world and all that...
    i'm starting to think that
keeping the big bang ref. point in pop
culture is eating away at the everyday...
   and all this talk of dinosaurs...
   before they unearthed dinosaur bones
they were drawing dragons,
giant iguanas...
    i guess the snake is the abstract
version of a dinosaur... the remains:
no limbs...
     it has to be...
  like the way i took my tongue for a walk
today...
      what with our concrete body
and our abstract counterparts....
  one word on the tip of my tongue,
passing a bench where some would have
said in spotting a *** sitting on it...
sure, the *** look, the worn shoes...
but what *** can be seen
  eating a strange fruit from a paper
bag, watching a family of: mama, papa
and two kinder, smile and drop
that small fruit into his gob?
   as i was walking with my grandfather
he asked: who is that?
  i said: a philosopher.
   evidently the conversation was in polish
and the word in question is:
  fi-lo-zof...
the church is still there, the bench too,
the memory prompts itself sometimes,
a bit like a knee ****...
  and that got me thinking about
the concept in Jewish tradition...
   ayin (nothingness) -
             so ע‎ spoke to א (adam / aleph)...
but i need to get something off my chest...
ever find a 20 quid banknote in a puddle
or a 10 quid banknote in a puddle,
and given the current times,
an old fiver on a street pavement?
money again...
    i have...
and when you do, and then later spot
a penny on the street...
or when you have actually made
your own wine, rather than bought it
in a supermarket...
  how odd it looks, that penny,
how gravity prone,
as if it was supposed to be lost,
dropped, spared the agony of economics?
i was walking the streets tonight and
i looked at it (walking and listening
to distance's repercussions album
can feel a lot like going to a gig,
it's classified as dub-step, but it's really
ambient music,
just that the real ambient music
is, pretty much listening to a very old
refrigerator, the ones that made a sound,
had a heart of some sort,
like putting your head against an old
box, that's no longer a box, but a size 0
model... that leaves you null when
considering the static transmission of
channel 0) - oh my...
how we look into the future with
so much nostalgia these days,
  forget the ancient greeks, forget the nostalgia
of philosophers bound by that rule
of thumb in the 19th and the 20th century...
we're waving: bye bye odes to that old trash,
not to be rude, but i have been exposed to
so many technological advances in the past
20 odd years that i have no plot,
no novel, apart from the one given to me,
and if i do a pish-poor job of recording it,
then woo-hoo to me, i passed the Tao threshold,
the world can happen, and i can just
enter a realm of, finally being able to forget...
still, a penny on a street isn't a 20 quid banknote,
and given the improvement,
that it has turned all Australian on me,
i don't even need to dry it off to later spend it
if it's found floating like an ice-berg
in a puddle...
             and i think: why are pennies so real?
i mean, it's staring right back at me,
it's looks almost like an excalibur...
or the profanity plagiarised with thor's hammer...
i don't want to pick it up...
    it's so gravity prone on the pavement
like a pebble, or like a copper statue of a
"very important" person in parliament sq.,
that just get riddled with communism
in a capitalistic society, i.e. vandalism...
     the penny bewildering...
   i can't visualise what i'd do with it,
because i couldn't do much with it...
        it's just copper on stone...
     a bit like looking at a newspaper
of the day lying about at 10pm near an empty packet
of cigarettes, the sort of motif of:
let's trash the place...
      it's just one son of Hades lying on a more
elongated presence of yet another son of Hades:
copper on concrete,
   the next thing that comes after
grinding sand into glass: crunchy stone
mashed up with enough tar to make up a road...
england, of all places, has particular rooting
in a history of the roman empire,
out of all the nations that succumbed to its power
it has the most fond memories of the dusty one,
which i find quiet odd, and most of the times
slightly bewildering...
    given that i don't have it...
lucky you, an ethnic mongrel, papa was a singing
Irishman, mama was a a nigerian,
and you all ended up speaking the same tongue...
unlucky me, mongrel of the soul...
escapism of polymaths, because it makes sense,
or how mono-lingual have that thing called
patriotism and a land-to-body relantionship
in general, whatever flag is being flown...
bilinguals have a memory-to-body
relationship, it's hard to avoid it, a bit like seeing
a mountain and saying: we'll walk right through it...
so yeah,
having found a 20 quid banknote i was already
scheming for the next *****-up,
   i could already see a potential for it,
i knew it was worth something...
it's hard to see that sort of dynamic with a penny...
let's just say that sort of dynamic doesn't
exactly exist...
          the penny is fixed to the cement,
it's not moving anywhere,
    when a *** asks for spare change
you just start to think: change? spare tire?
is that equivalent?
      because money, as a concept,
as the original concept for a universal language
that everyone could suddenly understand,
or just did, once the "thing" was implemented
was the original translation vehicle...
        money is by far the sole reason we have
3 dimensional talk, why we have ambiguity,
while humanity enforcing laws is always so thesaurus
prone when talking about it,
   in the root of jurisprudence...
           i can talk idle: say things thing nothing
and then become a pedestrian to concrete items,
a daffodil, a t-****... i can relaly turn on the grey button
and it all becomes vague,
    and rarely bound to be, as a whole, bound
by a glue known as mystifying.
some might call it a case of giving account
of: ibin balām...
the other one riding a donkey...
                    or as i like to call it:
   convering with the "angel" that spared me,
who shook me into an epileptic frenzy when i was on
the verge of dying, saying:
now you, do what unto yourself, what others
did unto you.
    i have to admit, drinking myself to death is
the most pleasurable event in my life...
    it's this metalic electricity produced by my left
hemisphere, most of the time?
a bit like sitting on an electric chair,
without a wet sponge placed on my head
so that the electricity can pulverize the alveoli pattern
of my neurons... keep moist, he says,
   and i just think of my brain and the colour red,
and the decay of red, first into brown, and then into black...
and how people who deny my misery to
later become: a bit annoying, gnat-like...
still, that penny on the street,
  and how i would have reacted differently
had i found a 20 quid banknote...
and how i do...
   to see this unit of the concept, just... useless!
the concept of money becomes all the more apparent,
and i know that people in wealthy countries don't
seem to appreciate the basic unit of their currency,
they prefer fixed prices, they prefer pondering
a worth of a toothbrush, priced at a pound's worth
than care for a penny... they say
    it's so close, but so far away,
how spare change is reserved for children and beggars...
how pennies never seem to add up to anything
if you see but one on a pavement...
                it's only copper... it's not exactly gold...
ah hell... what if we really did brag about
gambling on a fixed, but an otherwise fluctuation
price of a painting?
  well... we wouldn't be saying: priceless!
   a bit like the anima of buying football players...
yes, some of us like using our minds,
to study philosophy, perhaps even lension a care
to write poetry... and all the more:
in a non-manipulative care to then translate it back
into: suppose chess?
                           only when language becomes
too 1 dimensional, or at least 2 dimensional,
i.e. verb / vector... then we're in trouble,
in the quicksand, in the mud, in the trenches...
i did mention something prior, didn't i?
ah, hebrew...
            slaves in america invented the
deconstructionism of jazz and blues...
  thank you very much... dub-step and the first
thing i think of when thinking about africa
is a drum... or knowing when and when not to
knock on things...
   i don't think the echo minds playing
that game of knocking down ginger...
    i guess i am the one left with a land
that's tattooed with germans and russians...
i get the ******* grafitti of neo-nazis who
experienced something more than the blitz...
plus, i have that Auschwitz to give caring tourists
a helping hand into sighing over...
   but all that i owe concerning myself,
ibin balām... riding my little donkey...
        ever find those riding donkeys more menacing
than those riding horses? balām, jesus, don quixote...
but it's in the alphabet of the hebrews,
i can't really get over it...
hence the original muse, a single word,
fi-lo-zof... and the concept: ayin sof...
what the greeks later made into σoφια...
yes, that monotheistic gender-neutral pronoun
some of us ascribe the noun god to...
god is such an unfatastical noun...
the real fantastic noun is the tetragrammaton...
hell... i'm convinced... i'm actually converted
in a sense of not really bothering with
the rituals... the ritual i imposed on myself
is to repeatedly think about it...
    and it really is a fantastic noun,
so mathematically fertile,
Y and the x, y, z axis of the math canvas...
and trig of W that's cosine rather than M and therefore
sine... and how the H is almost like deja vu
joke, before the tangens enters segregational...
and all i just thought is more than a thousand
bulls readied for a pagan sacrificial rite...
    it's the sof in the ayin sof that's hard to find...
say, it's easy to spew enough books to bore
a thousand people over a thousand generations
if you use a system of encoding that gives no
name to the units...
   the greeks have alpha, the romans only a.
the greeks have beta, the romans only b.
   which probably means that writing can be more
easily done, and to a greater number and extent...
but thinking? it's not really done...
people would rather be perverse and hostile and
impolite because of this shortening of said
units of sounds... which is another reason why
the anglophone world is rife with onomatopoeias...
    and how i found: singing intside your head
is half a whistle, and less than a ****...
    so how did sof come about, as a concept?
the hebrews call it ayin (nothingness),
and when next to the word sof call it
ain (without) sof (end), i.e. the endless one...
   so where did the syllable zof come in here
and where did the Greeks extend that into sophia?
i can see sof, but i can't see where it came from,
sure, there's the usual noun for a sound,
e.g. ש‎ (shin) and ך‎ (kaf)...
             forget the greeks for a moment...
  the romans wrote the music, there was no name
for a, b, c, d, e... we're talking ancient greeks,
therefore all ancients... they enclosed sounds differently
back then... the greeks ensured there was some
alphabetical cohesion, like looking
into a dictionary under the rubric o,
and finding omega, onomatopoeia and oh my god!
i know what you're thinking, semitic languages
and neanderthals... why did they persist
and having become instinct? try sanskrit and 1 billion
hindus... or the chinese... they're the same...
historically speaking...
oh please, i like the cognitive impetus of drinking:
you want to take hold of these brats on the british
isles? you have some alternative suggestion?
the roman alphabet is the gateway "drug",
i.e. א‎ (man), a, ע‎ (god), á,
  or: from above... something descending...
then i start to think it's a case of articles,
even though aleph (א) and ayin (ע) are phonetically
identical, they are totally different...
it's almost like saying: ah for that one,
and ah for a one? close proximity and the rule,
that you wouldn't say an one... but a one...
funny... english is like that, hello! welcome!
hope you realise it, without diacritical marks
being, well, i wouldn't say absolutely necessary,
but a helping hand....
too many examples to choose from,
i make so many instances of it being true that
i forget to make up my life with
a care for romantic misendeavours...
so yeah... i'm looking for O in the semitic alphabet
that still remains in use...
     hebrew... because i really can't do phonecian...
i'm loooking for the word sof...
    you know, like homeland, sol, solomon...
i want to cut off the unnecessary bits
and put a word together...
i can't seem to find a full-circle of an omicron
or omega...
  i say omega, you cut off -mega and attach an -o-,
and the thing fizzes and i write bomb!
and you cut off -elta, -psilon....
                      ah... ~appa and the need to write
pass... double consonants...
     i just wanted to write duck...
like duck the ******* bomb, rather than quack?!
the semites are a breed of people
that simply hide things, mostly vowels...
the new wave of people with robots
simply write excess number of consonants
and omit them...
     they're there, but they're only there
because there will be two layers of the same language
being inscribed... given omni-literacy...
          hence the current youth congregating under
the banner of acronyms and something akin
to sign language in their use of emojis...
  :)... no, that's bad... :(....
                                              i'm still looking
for the sof...
    the closest i came to it was with
ש‎י‎ך‎,
      it would have been easier with the greek
expression of teaching the neanderthal semites...
again, i like te jews, they're the most
"docile" / persistent semites...
   i know they're not vogue, but that's why
i rather keep hebrew than arabic...
or because of my skin, i sorta have to keep
the runes for safekeeping and upkeep...
we kept them for a reason,
    we kept the runes so this wouldn't happen,
how christianity gave us a life of psyche
but erased our origin, our alphabet,
no point calling it a "big bang",
at leas the russians got cyrilic,
and turned **** into шit...
     i'm still looking for O in hebrew, semitic,
the reason is that they're such a small number
and their phonetic encoding as as "neanderthal"
as that of sanskrit and mandarin alphabets...
  and that's the prejudice...
   i don't like it... i find all the mysteries
in my impetus to write bound to them...
    wait... weren't we not the ones stressing
the vogue of our times?
    i see a bunch of torn shirts and well worn shoes
from where i'm standing...
i'm still finding it hard to find an O in the hebrew form...
am i missing something?
    i mean, ****, cut off all the necessary
bits of greek, you get roman: alpha (a-),
      beta (b-)... and obviously the excess aesthetic
so that it all looks nice... cat, kettle, scythe...
                                           key, scatter, skew...
smooth, cool, caseload...
                 our current times will be a joke th

Puppet image, sorrowful,
Rouge dusted sparkles bless his cheeks,
Such childlike image, as cheery angel,
Gay, misled by teen fantasy,
Hair coiffured not a whisper out of place,
In faded denim hot pants,
Appears out of place,
Parading as a shop mannequin,
Like a tiny harlequin,
Lust for some emotion,
Advertising wares for sale, in aim of a promotion,
A sad commodity,
Full of ****** satisfaction,
Young men, old men , suited men and booted men,
Seeking cutie prey,
Maybe,Streets paved in gold,
Fools gold in the truth was found,
Impure truth was the only thing he ever bought!
Prince Albert,although not his **** in truth,
Instead pond life **** took on the role, with cruel control,
Lives in land where tragic lies, and sorrow becomes magnified,
The shards of all, is ****** fantasies.
As an immigrant to land of city lights,
I see through windows fogged by city smoke!
Visualising through caring eyes,
What I see appalls me deep within,
Tears my soul to tears!

By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

The first thing he smelt was charred ash. A dour, stale smell that drifted in the air, staining the walls and ceiling of the room like a bad birthmark. If you'd have asked him 3 weeks ago prior to today never would he have considered smoking. That was before the bad thing had happened, and now he was puffing away 20 a day like a run-down steam engine.

Stacks of crumpled cigarette packets and empty beer bottles cluttered the floor, along with discarded business cards that seemed to taunt his name, William Shaw, with a bitter humour whenever he looked at them. He had it all - money, a career, an established identity, and yet never had he felt so lost, so meaningless. It seemed the period before when the black event occurred, when the tone and texture of life had suddenly dimmed like being turned down by a dial, was merely a gold and fragile vail, strung up in front of realities true, decrepit, face. A face that had clawed it's way through the happiness, the blistering rays of the summer sunshine, the mounting financial wealth and job promotions, like a pathetic wall of paper plastered over a back street entry.

The first thing he saw when he awoke this morning was the tan coloured ceiling of his flat. Through the sleep induced blurry vision of eyes that have not fully woke, this looked strangely like a vast desert, the minute crack that lay in the middle stretching before his tired eyes into a huge smiling ravine. It reminded him of the grand canyon, something as a child he'd always wanted to visit. He had spent a lot of his school holidays, and acrylic paint and canvases, drawing pictures of it, inspired by its many twists and curves, imagining it as an entrance to another mystical world below where dinosaurs and other creatures hid from the world above.

To a child creativity is essentially their way of interpreting life, and coming to terms with it, and for William Shaw the thing that got those cogs whirring was nature itself. He'd write stories, draw and paint pictures, and whilst his skill at all these was clumsy, his imagination was striking adept, confusing and wowing his parents who had been expecting a crude stick man drawing but instead were presented with a clunky, Van Gogh-style picturesque scene. Being an artist isn't all about the skill, anyone can perfect brush strokes, but looking at the ordinary and somehow visualising the extraordinary.

He never ended up going to the canyon, nor anywhere else for that matter - his mother was unemployed, utilising her time by taking piano lessons and gardening, and his father was a forklift driver at a logistics company. Barring the one-time trip to a seaside holiday camp, where the apartments had smelt of salt and the bedding was scratchy, Will had never been on holiday as a child.

But that was okay, he told himself, they struggled but never neglected me. Now, lying here as the amber hues of dawn startled trickling through the middle of the curtains, those days all seemed like a distant dream. Breaking down financially, they were exhausted and living in worry, yet he went on all the school trips, always had milk money and a cooked dinner waiting for him when he got home.

I have more than I could ever want, and had then, so why do I feel like this?

He knew why, it was because of the bad thing. It had lodged itself inside him, like a festering tumour. No amount of running or distracting himself would make it any better; it would be like running a race against a car or a train.

Or a speeding bullet -

[Hush! Don't want to think about that]

And it was in that split moment he felt an image rising to the surface, callous and cold - a champagne glass exploding into a shower of shards, and oh the screams all he could hear was their screams rising like a tidal wave, ready to submerge, to drown -

BANG BANG!!

He rose with a jolt and glanced over to the digital clock which blinked 8:49 in the far corner. He was running late again and needed to get a move on if he was to arrive at work on time. He hadn't been late ever, but over this week getting up had been a struggle. Sleep just seemed more of a priority right now.

He grabbed a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, grimacing as the acrid taste filled his mouth. The first was always the worst; causing slight nausea as the nicotine rushed to your head. However the feeling of airlessness afterwards was amazing, temporarily stunning all the nerves in your brain, giving a confused floating feeling only drugs can better. His best mate John, who'd subsequently introduced him to smoking, often said the best cigarette of the day is the first as the 12 hour sleep hiatus allowed the brain to detoxify itself, thus catalysing the nicotine rush. The fact John also thought the Queen was an alien and that Donald Trump should be president made Will take his advice with a pinch of salt - but, in regards to smoking, he was almost spot on.

Much like himself, John was quite a skinny guy with a shock of scruffy black hair receding even though he was in his late twenties, and his black outlook on life often contradicted his bubbly personality. Will had known him for years since high school, and knew full well his stupid and often sarcastic jokes hid the darker side to him; John had served time in prison for a theft he didn't commit and, although he wouldn't admit it, had lapsed into a drug addiction upon his release. The slight gaunt dips in his cheeks said it all.

Looking at him coping, just, and carrying on filled Will with both admiration and guilt. His best friend was spiralling into a whirlpool right under his nose, and the worse part of all - he couldn't do anything about it. Again the feeling of helplessness, of meaninglessness, was there gnawing away like a bloated sewer rat.

He took another drag and glanced again to the clock. Now it read 8:57, almost grinning at him from the other side of the room.

Better get a shifty on, and with that he stubbed the cigarette out and stumbled toward the bathroom, catching his toe and cursing as he went.

Chewing upon fingers rotten and curled
knowing everything makes sense in a senseless world
inglorious, bedridden, they hide behind trees -

serving up genocide, well-spoken and civilised

clawing at the insides of our sordid society
wearing TNT like it's the latest fashion
they smile politely and walk upon our streets -

brainwashed and stupefied, Dumb-hounds corrupted and paralysed

crawling down the path of a religion
birthed from self-righteousness and bomb-smoke
upon their jealousy, their juvenile blinding faith
we suffocate, gag and choke

visualising the world from eyes
of despotic marauders
selfish needs defeats the objective
desensitised clones bound to extremist orders

innocence green-eyed and bastardised
reciting prayers bound together with cyanide
they call upon a Lord that no longer cares
alas the tendril of insanity catches them unawares

for 'tis within the womb of bloated belief
that martyrs are bred,

sanity unreeling, dangerously unfeeling,
and willing to allow our streets run red.

You're falling in love
just out of high school
visualising pedestrians full of life
of memories
in your local grocery store's small-town parking lot
dreary day and grey sky
only because he left you empty
in this lonely world
too petite for two people
whose souls have always been too large for this type of crowd
manifested by people always staring
when we burst with color
at the flick of our fingers on cheeks
or warming cold hands
and when you stopped cramming into this space
when you stopped trying to fit
you made it your destiny to absorb
to fill rather than to squeeze
finding solace in places most unusual
because every ******* thing
still reminds me of you
even when the clouds don't want me to see
the sun fights for it's moment of fame
screaming
"Please see his face one last time,"
and I do
I obey
leaving me worse off
but better than I was before
because you can cut the string around my index finger
with your knee quivering smile
but I'll remember
I'll still keep your promise safe in my palm
in the center of my lungs
and I don't care if you trash it
as long as you keep mine.

With trembling legs i boarded the bus,
Looking at the monsters around me...
Taking the corner seat,
Lost myself in the cover of book....
I m gonna write in years,

Legs denied the initial step....
But the gentle hand holds my hand,
Taking my fear away...
To Mary-Go-Round & See-Saw,
Charm started flooding my face...
N so i made the cover of my book,

Day by day shivering legs got stronger..
Monsters now seems to be human,
N corner seat faded away...
As tiny-tot reforms to be kid,
Every new day was an adventure....
To write down a new chapter.

Jumping to school from kindergarten,
Slowly playgrounds enlarged..
From See-saw to indoors,
Mary-go- round to outdoors....
Alphabets become theories...
Lovely rhymes turned out,
To scientific logic ...
Brain has increased,
Memory is still in childhood..
N this took me to new phase,
A new chapter of my book.

Learning in this phase....
Numeral hands help me to grow,
Guide my through my path...
Taught me to live,
Embracing the happiness...
I made memories with them,
Print them in My heart...
Making another superb chapter.

Visualising the decline..
In length of smooth road,
Adventure seems to...
Be scattered n different,
But still with hope to be together...
I give the full stop,
To be best gift ever.."My School Days".

that big picture hung on all minds walls
is a personal local call to act
while visualising globally-
when all is done the mind picture-
elongates into eternity-
the biggest picture of them all

Pinnochio and The Queen
Puppet image, sorrowful,
Rouge dusted sparkles bless his cheeks,
Such childlike image, as cheery angel,
Gay, misled by teen fantasy,
Hair coiffured not a whisper out of place,
In faded denim hot pants,
Appears out of place,
Parading as a shop mannequin,
Like a tiny harlequin,
Lust for some emotion,
Advertising wares for sale, in aim of a promotion,
A sad commodity,
Full of ****** satisfaction,
Young men, old men , suited men and booted men,
Seeking cutie prey,
Maybe,Streets paved in gold,
Fools gold in the truth was found,
Impure truth was the only thing he ever bought!
Prince Albert,although not his **** in truth,
Instead pond life **** took on the role, with cruel control,
Lives in land where tragic lies, and sorrow becomes magnified,
The shards of all, is ****** fantasies.
As an immigrant to land of city lights,
I see through windows fogged by city smoke!
Visualising through caring eyes,
What I see appalls me deep within,
Tears my soul to tears!

By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Precise,
Haha I finally decided to message you back
After a couple bottles of wine
Ironic
A demon helped me face my demons
It was sorta like the old days
But yeah, after a couple minutes
I was back with a cig in my mouth
Visualising myself taking a stroll down the busy city street
With some kind of ****** Bridget Jones soundtrack type song faintly present in the background
I'd rather be alone than face you everyday
I'd rather you were just a figment of my imagination
Just so I could control you a little more
Just so I could fight you a little more
Instead of succumbing to the same thing everytime
****
It takes a lot to get to me like this
So I just think for a long while
About
What kind of creature you are
Because no human has ever ruled over me

Visualising the better life I want to have
On a beach in Turks & Caicos having a laugh
Jolly moments sweeter than a lollipop
Popping up in pop up shops, shopping till we drop

Drop the top off the vehicle, a headless spider chilling, cooler than an icicle
4 wheels instead of 2, 'raris over bicycles
A fraction of the enjoyment I see ahead of me
To manifest the life I want, I visualise it vividly

Frozen hearts warming up with the heat of love
A metaphor for the comfort obtained from wearing gloves
Drive away the vampires with a garlic clove
Representing the bad energy I reject from below

The things I think of when I'm not subject to sobriety include the higher ups destroying our sense of individuality
Moulding people to adhere to the rules in society
Working towards uniformity, abolishing variety

Wisdom is a value I aspire to master
Part of my recipe to avoid disaster
Next on the list is demerara sugar, not caster
Brown like CeCe Winans, singing about a box that's alabaster

Carving her voice into the melody of the song
Serenity surrounds the sound sharper than a prong
Hitting the high notes, higher than hitting a ****
Lyrics that speak to your soul making you feel like you can do no wrong

I went on a tangent, curved away from manifestation
That's what happens when your mind and pen have a miscommunication
At least I had the foresight to have the realisation
Brought to me by honing my skills of divination

Back on track to attack the matter at hand
Manifesting dreams is not something that can be planned
Thoughts become actions so make sure your thoughts are grand
And put the work in to forge a path towards the promised land

December,
to me is the Spring time
of memories -
December to me
the birds of
memories flying back and forth,
December to me,
a ****-tail of sweet, delicious,
painful memories, emotions.
Recall me those misty
nights,
the whole city,
awashed with frothing milky light
the blue expanse up above
with stars mischievously
glinting with joy and the moon
casting quiet smiles
upon all the
children of God on Earth.
Recall me those days
walking along with him down a
straight tarred road
like a ribbon unrolled.
Both sides lined-up with
flats embellished with
colourful, flashing, scintillating X'mas stars
bunches of balloons, festoons,
chandeliers
X'mas cradles,
twinkling X'mas trees
like stars up in the sky
both he and me
wrapping shawls around
our coats
hand in hand
sharing honeyed memories and dreams
overflowing emotions
like rivers gushing forth
cracking jokes
witty he was
tongue-in-cheek he was
forcing me to
burst out laughing often
but
in the din of hooting
local trains
running to and fro non-stop
along parallel tracks
outside the flat walls
umpteen of the night-walkers,
love-birds like us
the middle-aged couples
the old-age love-birds
though rare just a
trickle
passing to and fro
in the piercing cold
joyous, rejoicing, such
piercing needles of cold
thrusting into our skin
all indelibly imprinted
on the tender walls of
my mind, his mind.
Now
after years since we
got separated
both at far ends of
the world
while the world
awaits excitedly with
unlimited patience
the birth of Infant Jesus
in a cattle shed at Bethlehem
with the angels
flying to earth from
heaven
conveying the message of
the arrival of
Saviour of mankind on earth
to liberate man from sins
to purify his soul and mind
yes visualising me very much
the X'mas carolls
Santa Clause with the
accompaniment of drum-beats
all sweet things
of the past
reach to his mind
reach my mind
memories never fail us.
December to me is
the Spring time of my memories
with him
December to him is
the Spring time of his memories
with me....

We walk this winding road in a state of decay, It's cascading unhurriedly, deteriorating quietly. Like dying leaves in the fall, it's death falling silently.

A hushed tone to the tone deaf
signs signalling all around
screeching on collided tracks
a train-wreck
We continue with this one track mind
Telescope equaling tunnel vision
It makes it easier to ignore visualising facts.
Keep faith with a system built by ancestors
Who's fix was genocide and unwarranted wrath
Where is the sense in that.
With the downtrodden and their broken backs covered in death their wealthy tracks
rewrote history without a inch of tact
nations made to disappear
truth be told, looks like that sort of dark magicians back.

Lessons not learned  
Make us believe our livings basis is math
Education  singed to history
A crimson moon lit by untruths
We deaf-ly continue to dance to the same horror-ed tune
Our murderous march equal to suicide
Our morals compass corrupt
like windows in a error state
It's magnetized  needle had crashed
smilingly walking  this destructive path.
Truly the only end in sight, a ****** bath.

Is this not crazy?
like a merry go round wearing the tears of the world flexing in insanity's pants.
Moon walking
falling in the same backtracking tracks
Taking a giant leap for mankind
yet our mentality's still stuck in a timeless past
2020 fighting for equality amidst a deadly  virus attack
If this is not the epitome of a human race in digress
Like running on a treadmill backwards never evolving
hopelessly moving, yet stuck in one place
With truth caught in a ever revolving messy mess.

Losing unnecessary lives is pure nonsense
Like Trump in office it makes no sense
Like a lemon peel hand in hand with hope lost
Seeking for it blindly is living life bitter with a bad taste
The majority is woke, mostly not fake
It's the leaders sleeping on change
Like mount Rushmore it's struggling changing its face.

The power to them is addictive, it's so dope.
They would rather one by one slit our throats
Get buried with all the dead trees that made them rich
Then give dying world a ounce of hope.
I lol,  but this is no joke
Maybe this is my outlet, or just a way to cope.
Knowing the earths dying slowly ....
Yet we still harmfully searching for hope.

Drained
energy levels are sinking
Previously yarning to come
With ideas of the night racing round and round


Stranded
While people converse and dance
I remain glued to the wall in the corner
saying I'm good for the sake of others
Or for my preservation


How does one strike balance
No longer enjoying yourself
Because as you replays the night…
Only short words and broken smiles
Small talk and handshakes.


Visualising
the numerous outcomes was I to break free the chains of inward isolation
Picture what true desire burst to the surface
But if there is no need to act upon such emotion
Then is it more a fleeting thought
like walking past someone,
their face turned blurry as they can’t be separated from the pool of forgotten masses


Interactions are currency
Every conversation a coin snatched from the hand
Till I’m left spent leading me to pull away
And so I remain glued to the wall in the corner
Saying I’m good for the sake of other
My mask bolted shut.
Wilting in the darkness.

Night is for visualising the dreams,
Day is for turning them into reality.
Gut nods at the dream,
And mind turns it into a hustling bloodthirstiness.
If life is a red blood cell,
A dream is the haemoglobin.

Intentions, a dreadlocked mind of a poor yet gifted creator, drawing rainbows in jail cells, visualising infinity of how soon is too long to comb its extensions. A freeman in a guardhouse is a hostage of a guaranteed glory's probation.  
~

Telling everything,
Through words.
Poking mind,
Through art.

Telling tales
Stories of many
A book it covers,
Yet engaging themes.

Passing on knowledge
Figure of speech,
An autobiography of sceneries,
Visualising one's mind.

Writings flowing like moisture,
Off a waterfall.
Capturing feelings,
An experience of life.

Letting words run wild,
Yet teaching perfection.
Giving creativity,
Yet teaching life's lessons.

Conveying powerful self expression
Impacting others
Throwing down original thoughts,
Catching audiences' breathe.

The author of a reader's thoughts,
Yet not conforming,
But giving pleasure,
As yea move from page to page.

Your astonishing words,
Giving life to minds.
Your pen so small,
Yet mightier than swords.

Written by Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson