This is not where this idea began but it ran and I

missed my mark. Mark sin.
-1 deficit reality quotientcy
currency.  Sure.
(Press Sure, to let the bursting pressure equilation expand at will)
Score.

That fine a level of reality
demands more attention than I have to pay.
Patient agent wait and not see or see if/then

you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are some of those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is,
but it is silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments.
Is it?

Apophrenia
or mere
Dejavu, you believe,
what if it is your memory lying by ignoring time
attention ratios determining the observations stored in HD?
What if it's just a glitch?
Blue screen of death.


If you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is, but
is it silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments?

We come and go. To and fro up on the face

messengers bearing news in both directions, watch
the trickster, Jacob, in this story, he sees the messengers from
heaven bearing leaven thither and hither

upon the face of the earth.
the wrinkling mother, smiling now, chuckle head
I ain't no ***** saint.

Jah, I know. Joy is my dance, this is my song.
Is it good Grandmother?

---- on the porch facing my west gate ---

fences don't play exactly, out acted, the role of walls.

The idea that something
there is that does not love a wall,
has frozen my pond

the stillness beyond the sylvan **** crowned head
radiates through the medium of the message to me in time
to you.

Miles to go, you recall the feeling of feeling miles to go
before
I sleep.
That was yesterday, and you know yes ter everything's gone,
roar.

Aslan can pierce the barrier between mere Christians and me,
how would be fun to know, but
knowing why would help us keep the story interesting as life goes on

Who controls my peace?
Am I a mercurial sheen in between chaos and order,
chronus and zeus?
Could be, ya thank so, ye know so, less unlessed as

unlessing means nothing to you,
that means you are visiting here.

Visting whom, vis it ing whom?
Who's in charge, where's the power
short

age, wrinkles in time, rogue waves at the quanta scale,
we were dancing
with the thoughts emanating

from some IDW smart guy proffesing
Critique-technic-magi action, post mode'r'ism
at the point of Dada und Scheizkunst,
the unmass-queque,
the line of lies awaiting unbelief,
idle words lingering,
hoping
to be noticed and added back into the story book of life,

a simple wish.

It could be every child's, should we think that
if we can or may,

sometimes I'm still, and

confusion troubles the water,
it seems,
then another hurt is healed, another lie is gone and life goes on

we won again, this never gets old,
I do love my opposition,
pressure pump
pump pump. De-us-me-can-onbeoffbeyond

five years ago unmasking and rhetoric meant nothing to me
the purpose of learning forever and never
knowing anything beyond all things

our bubble is metastasizing, a mercurial film forms
informing us
in its reflection,

this is the ying yang thang in 3 or 4 d, HD+ chaos one half

order the other,
sharpest imaginable thing
me trick being mag ift just if eye winged show

how beautiful are the feet of them who bring good news,
you see, it flows, sweetwater flows
winged feet
whish through leaving, leavin' leaven…

unleaven that which has been leaved?
Fat chance, all who
eat this bread and don't get gas,
they are our same bread people. Companions.
Vectors of sour dough,
webs of fungal
axions
make a way
bore, pore, poor-with-us, pour

in to it ish, that idea, an opening through,
trickle down good gravity leveling stillness,
gentle rocking earth
roll round and round and round

the pythagorean version
of Euclid's point in his mother's story,

the point of this song? To know the point you must have been

to the point of in-forming the point on which we dance and you recall

we come in threes, and just, we are, just, if it, that idea,
rests in your
back roads, gentle on your mind. We make peace.

Being young is easy from my POV.
I've lived in my future for sometime now

I can't say how, beyond saying aloud, this was never hidden,
in my accounting of idle words I claimed,
upon hearing the stories each contained.

i'da swore i hear that wise *** o'balaam's abrayin'
Braindeem, deemed 'eem. Wham, uptheyhaid. Relig, fool,

or chaos wins and no hero ever lives again!
Drop anchor, wait it out.
let patience blow her nose, gnostic snot caught in the nets,

nonono nothing's wasted in patience work, we make glue
from gnostic snot that patience sneezes
when reality grows cold,

that has happened, you know, temperatures are just now,
oh, wait global warming, bad dam,

Script, bust it,
leveling is essential to eventual temperature
equilibrium.
The heat is on, the bubbles are forming, informing one to another
below the surface
greasy tension, slippery slopes putting pressure on chaos
to conform to the curve

Ying yang, mercury film upon the sea of time and the scene of chaos
in this bubble of all you can imagine real.

Hows' that feel? Why?

You want that? What are you standing under? Does chaos win?
You are, as we say, cognisic magi we-ified,
practical magic at
the moment
the point
is made, then the creation begins fractalling outward

and not before or is this all
unrolling ex nihilo, no magi ever knew…
come, let us reason together,

why am I empowered? To live, first thought wise, that's good but
evil forces me to think again and I see the pattern

life goes on, John Molenkamp, Sam, soldier 4,
(as the credits role by, the name catches my eye)
never in a thousand years,
'cept unbelievable is one of those lies I came to **** by strangling
on bile while
rescuing every idle word ever involved in the infection

from the point in the absolute center of the bubble,
objectively, you see everything
that is
seeable

but would good prevail if evil had no hope?

I know that one, yes. why?
evil has no mind, soul, some think--
same same medium message spoken spelled chanted danced
who care's?
*** 'er done. Life has a chaotic side, the churning creates

number one from none, the cult of one divides itself
go do be
we three we three we three a wavy song ding ****.

Aware? Awaken? Avowed-wowed-wit-wise,
fullcomp, retired
Peacemaker. Me.

All my hero's imagined or real, were Peacemakers.
Just now, peaceful now, mindful now
we remain
the same blessing promised in the package of yeses
stolen from Cain by his older sister, his
bride,
keep that quiet, eh?

Secrets made sacred, always
those are lies, no lie is of the truth,
all lies are about the truth.

What empowers you, poet or poetry? Right, you know,
God, good god knows, resentment lives in lies

the rotting idle words deemed curses at best, secret at worst,
those idle corrupting thoughts sparking as if absolute annihilation were thinkable by rational minds

of ---wait, there's arub, a sore
ex nihilo, the homeless wanderer screams,

"May the whole world perish, may you all go to hell,"

the mad man wept his hell, and imagined his curse,

not mine,
I don't have one. I did, but I went back so often to find pieces of my heart that now I have an Elysian network woven through All-hell, the big idea that broke loose infecting the mind as wisdom's leaven builds her womb
inhabitation
placenta
stem cell informing builders empowered, pressure empowered, what must be, but is not verse, versus
us, the we that be
we must
choose,

let this be, come and see,
life goes on.
Agree, or empower us as we bubble by and
takenallwecan expanding gobbling bubbles,
good
by ye.

Once we flushed the Dada poison and let mito mom
instill the patience gene with
epigenetic peace we can pass on with a touch or a word,

we've never woven lies for no reason,
if a rung breaks
and they can, last straw and all that weight,
you know,
Jacob's ladder is an escalaltor-ladder, wittily invented,
with knots and twisted fibers electricked,
there are automated steps, algoryhmes of reasons to repair the broken rung
with a reason to believe the rung has been repaired,
only believe, take a step,
re
paired again with the idea of meaninglessness masked in create-if-ity

good enough. okeh. don't believe lies.
Don't pass undigested lies to see if farts burn.

White cotton kisses
I pretend you occupy the space of this  pillow
I remember your navy sheets
I think they kindly absorbed the blood
it was there, somewhere.
beating or gliding within walls of muscle.
This type of loving has become liquid and electrical.
It is certainly electrical.
spiky pains edging fingertips
Strands of copper threaded into the grooves of your fingerprints
It has a real colour. I don't know what that is.
It's weight fits inside your body.
It is manufactured.
Maybe the ***** triggered it.
Or the serotonin shots when I see your face.
All I have with me now is bone dry fabric and wadding

Aroused and angry,
I thought to beat the alarum, and urge relentless war;
But soon my fingers fail’d me, my face droop’d, and I resign’d myself,
To sit by the wounded and soothe them, or silently watch the dead.

1

First, O songs, for a prelude,
Lightly strike on the stretch’d tympanum, pride and joy in my city,
How she led the rest to arms—how she gave the cue,
How at once with lithe limbs, unwaiting a moment, she sprang;
(O superb! O Manhattan, my own, my peerless!
O strongest you in the hour of danger, in crisis! O truer than steel!)
How you sprang! how you threw off the costumes of peace with indifferent hand;
How your soft opera-music changed, and the drum and fife were heard in their stead;
How you led to the war, (that shall serve for our prelude, songs of soldiers,)
How Manhattan drum-taps led.

2

Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading;
Forty years as a pageant—till unawares, the Lady of this teeming and turbulent city,
Sleepless amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable wealth,
With her million children around her—suddenly,
At dead of night, at news from the south,
Incens’d, struck with clench’d hand the pavement.

A shock electric—the night sustain’d it;
Till with ominous hum, our hive at day-break pour’d out its myriads.

From the houses then, and the workshops, and through all the doorways,
Leapt they tumultuous—and lo! Manhattan arming.

3

To the drum-taps prompt,
The young men falling in and arming;
The mechanics arming, (the trowel, the jack-plane, the blacksmith’s hammer, tost aside with precipitation;)
The lawyer leaving his office, and arming—the judge leaving the court;
The driver deserting his wagon in the street, jumping down, throwing the reins abruptly down on the horses’ backs;
The salesman leaving the store—the boss, book-keeper, porter, all leaving;
Squads gather everywhere by common consent, and arm;
The new recruits, even boys—the old men show them how to wear their accoutrements—they buckle the straps carefully;
Outdoors arming—indoors arming—the flash of the musket-barrels;
The white tents cluster in camps—the arm’d sentries around—the sunrise cannon, and again at sunset;
Arm’d regiments arrive every day, pass through the city, and embark from the wharves;
(How good they look, as they ***** down to the river, sweaty, with their guns on their shoulders!
How I love them! how I could hug them, with their brown faces, and their clothes and knapsacks cover’d with dust!)
The blood of the city up—arm’d! arm’d! the cry everywhere;
The flags flung out from the steeples of churches, and from all the public buildings and stores;
The tearful parting—the mother kisses her son—the son kisses his mother;
(Loth is the mother to part—yet not a word does she speak to detain him;)
The tumultuous escort—the ranks of policemen preceding, clearing the way;
The unpent enthusiasm—the wild cheers of the crowd for their favorites;
The artillery—the silent cannons, bright as gold, drawn along, rumble lightly over the stones;
(Silent cannons—soon to cease your silence!
Soon, unlimber’d, to begin the red business;)
All the mutter of preparation—all the determin’d arming;
The hospital service—the lint, bandages, and medicines;
The women volunteering for nurses—the work begun for, in earnest—no mere parade now;
War! an arm’d race is advancing!—the welcome for battle—no turning away;
War! be it weeks, months, or years—an arm’d race is advancing to welcome it.

4

Mannahatta a-march!—and it’s O to sing it well!
It’s O for a manly life in the camp!
And the sturdy artillery!
The guns, bright as gold—the work for giants—to serve well the guns:
Unlimber them! no more, as the past forty years, for salutes for courtesies merely;
Put in something else now besides powder and wadding.

5

And you, Lady of Ships! you Mannahatta!
Old matron of this proud, friendly, turbulent city!
Often in peace and wealth you were pensive, or covertly frown’d amid all your children;
But now you smile with joy, exulting old Mannahatta!

I followed the tide
Into the sea
And now I feel
Her tug on me.

I followed the tide
For want of her feel,
Of soft frothy foam
And currents warm,
And feel her I do,
Tugging on me.

I followed the tide
When she was in,
In her I played,
As sun traversed sky
In her I stayed.

I followed the tide,
To bring her back
And now I'm with her,
In the black.

If I had a time machine, there is only one place I would go. To the meadow, where we would launch dirt clods, back at the boys. Then climb and hide in our woodland suite, where no boys could annoy us. I would like to see our fortress again, and pretend, that we were still friends.

If I had a time machine, I would try to go back to when you cried. Because your bearer was more of a bear than a mother. She didn't understand, but I took up the stance, and we marched our way through the madness. I would like to smoke a cigarette on the rooftop again, and pretend, that we are still close friends.

Goodbye my sister, my childhood friend. We have ended the games we pretended. We both have homes now, lovers now, bills now. Our barbie village blown up into living breathing reality.

And we,
        Incapable of seeing each other old, In the new mold. Everything that I'm told makes me so proud of you.

And I'll wait, while we migrate, through different schedules and rituals. I'll be at the front gate. Once I have my Tony we dreamed of and you have your fashion line we seamed up, in every major cotour city.

It will be then, that we'll emerge back together again. Helping each other through hospital corridors in replace of wadding through muddy shores.

There will be two glasses of wine, one with your name, one with mine, where we can rewind, and reminice about time.

If I had a time machine, I would quickly jump to the future and sneak a peak at us. Just as we imagined it long ago. Both sitting in our rocking chairs, just above the front stairs. As the porch wraps around both us and the house. A glass of whisky in one hand and a shot gun in the other, prosting to the old ways and the new days

(G)
Life as a burden is decent
Treading in hatched up waterways
Swimming in the green brine ebbing tides
Drowned in emotive stances
A being intensified in rapid torrents
Ohh my…fickleness soaked in curiosity

(J)
Decent sounds pretty substantial
I lay acquainted to swampy lowlands
My footsteps have tasted salty waters
Stepped, wadding inside the muddy landscape
Inch by inch, halfway, fully submerged
Overloaded by the tide gasping for oxygen

(G)
Populaces catwalk with intellectual deficit
Footsteps bereft of creativity and eloquence
The grounds lay dry strangling the in-between
The desert begging to lose their sandy dry skin
The forest whispers with a revolt of transformation
The luscious green splash life sparking drones

(J)
Your analogy sways the natured array of trees
The inspiration stings the sun to radiate warmth
All patched in the blueness of bellowing skies
My lungs deflate even on intense inhalation
I tarmac on the passage of time, differently wired
Intermittently cyanosed in faded lived moments

(G)
For poetry and art scaffolds and shapes reality
It sparks life and eliminates the drone mentality
Artists arouse inspiration and boost human nature
It bridges the narrowing ledge of ( human diversity/ instead of/ diverse species)
It drives conversation and deepens basic pleasantries
Rotating notions, promoted to a present and active human

(J)
I object not, for human essence is essential
A foundation of humanity that inspires and frees
A deed that dips in the depth of a lush oasis
Most sunk and waving “a celebration of celebrities”
Falsified lionization, a control of master puppeteer
Amused by insight, the reciprocal contract of empathy

G= Graff1980
J=SassyJ

FOR certain minutes at the least
That crafty demon and that loud beast
That plague me day and night
Ran out of my sight;
Though I had long perned in the gyre,
Between my hatred and desire.
I saw my freedom won
And all laugh in the sun.
The glittering eyes in a death's head
Of old Luke Wadding's portrait said
Welcome, and the Ormondes all
Nodded upon the wall,
And even Strafford smiled as though
It made him happier to know
I understood his plan.
Now that the loud beast ran
There was no portrait in the Gallery
But beckoned to sweet company,
For all men's thoughts grew clear
Being dear as mine are dear.
But soon a tear-drop started up,
For aimless joy had made me stop
Beside the little lake
To watch a white gull take
A bit of bread thrown up into the air;
Now gyring down and perning there
He splashed where an absurd
Portly green-pated bird
Shook off the water from his back;
Being no more demoniac
A stupid happy creature
Could rouse my whole nature.
Yet I am certain as can be
That every natural victory
Belongs to beast or demon,
That never yet had freeman
Right mastery of natural things,
And that mere growing old, that brings
Chilled blood, this sweetness brought;
Yet have no dearer thought
Than that I may find out a way
To make it linger half a day.
O what a sweetness strayed
Through barren Thebaid,
Or by the Mareotic sea
When that exultant Anthony
And twice a thousand more
Starved upon the shore
And withered to a bag of bones!
What had the Caesars but their thrones?

One day my feet will touch the ground of the ocean..
one day I'll find true love again...
one day my conscience will follow my head and not my heart.
One day I won't be afraid of real living and feeling free.
One day my best friends will actually see me hurting.
One day my heart and mind w will be sown back together and a scab will be there forming its own band aid.  
One day my daughter will fully understand how she makes my world turns  .
One day she will forget about hiding under her bed comforter.
One day she'll forget riding out the fights and the screaming and the crying.
One day my lips won't have to remind my brain to breathe in & out.

This Christmas is cold.
Even as the moon is scalding
To the heat of the stars
In the humid air
Of the hidden sun.
My heart reaches out to closest flames
But they are in full-fledged fuel
For their own
Feisty foolish fellowships
Furiously festive in the ignorant bliss
Such is the permafrost
Of no welcoming arms

And so, I host Revenge
Who welcomed Bitterness
In my thoughts
While suffering from the sinister snowstorm
I alone perhaps have made this night cold
Cold enough
To trick me to sleep
In tears, only my dreams are warm enough
To thaw but a single thumb

Frozen and Alone
I fade. Evaporating into the clouds
I am part of what will be
Rain, wadding the earth
In a pool
I will remind them of loneliness
I
Will be the cold

Next Christmas is cold

At this momment I'm currently in myspace....the area around me that you cant penetrate...I Dont get to close to your face...you tend to regurgitate...garbage from the radio..you's a stupid *** stupid stupid ***...pollution...that we find to be revolution.. we came from wadding in the water...and being born by the river...What we over comming screaming *** *** ***...throwing out this paper shake it... fast fast fast...What happend to the love make it last last last...Love and happiness see thats the past past past...See we use to be 360 plus active and well rounded...now we just 360 plus a little more the rounded...Hey my people hey my friends...Come and join myspace...We can have a chance to win...Just Come close to MY face...

The city and the buildings
determine
being in love.
Drag her by the hair,
cut flowers in the desert

Without books about love
you wouldn't know how to do it
or make it, or feel it
The funny
Sad-funny thing is
Poets only pretend to be in love.

I puke love blood
ha
ha
on the off-white rug
I carve your face only in mirrors

I set dolls of
you on fire
watch the pink dust
of your lips make
patterns of impossible density

You have to be well-versed in
insanity
to know you're insane.

Drinking vials of your
pitch black
I turn it red to decorate
my squirming

I've read the rules
I know how to be in love
I’ve seen the healthy city
The building of love.

Big Blue empires of love,
A king and a half to every throne.

Some of them full of
bones like the old day
(Who's gonna sort you out?)

Strand up straight
as to not fall over
every time I see an eye
that could match your left one

I shrink in my shirt
and climb out the
head hole
and look for my brain in
broken jars
wadding around in anyone's soul.

The tale of common things,
my savage tooth on your rich arm
Whoever showed us the methods of in love
(you taste like cracked glass
to coat my stomach)

Whoever showed us the methods
of in love
like accidental ****.

Come out, come out
I'm ****** lands
and a naked flag

And the straight lines, sticking up
Soul-sick too...
Read it in the windows
and hanging signs
"You Are To Be In Love"

Come out, come out
I'm ****** lands
Smooth flat
an almost naked flag

and
the lizard-landscape
of you
here
in the
flat
anti-city
lands
here
we
keep quiet
on sins

(crawl into my mouth, the sun
isn't out anymore)

Big blue queens
are out
reigning around me

and you don't think I'm lonely
(?)

This Christmas is cold.
Even as the moon is scalding
To the heat of the stars
In the humid air
Of the hidden sun.
My heart reaches out to closest flames
But they are in full-fledged fuel
For their own
Feisty foolish fellowships
Furiously festive in the ignorant bliss
Such is the permafrost
Of no welcoming arms

And so, I host Revenge
Who welcomed Bitterness
In my thoughts
While suffering from the sinister snowstorm
I alone perhaps have made this night cold
Cold enough
To trick me to sleep
In tears, only my dreams are warm enough
To thaw but a single thumb

Frozen and Alone
I fade. Evaporating into the clouds
I am part of what will be
Rain, wadding the earth
In a pool
I will remind them of loneliness
I
Will be the cold

Next Christmas is cold

Chipping nails,
shards of hardened skin
and turquois on silver,  her hand
attached to a paperback permeating of rotting corpses and wilted flowers among

washed up license plates scuffed by sea glass,
once a bottle of a failed enlightened and darkened drunk,   I am sure of it.
You drool, salvia skulking your chin—
loose fingers drop the rain-soaked umbrella
and
I’m drenched in water, I sail down the street, on an arc brimmed with mammals
and arachnids; six of the spiders, two of the dog.

I spit out and profess the skin once clung to my lips, I see the layers,

out here, two dogs prance around the field, tripping over each other
as six spiders creep and crawl under us, slithering
one lands

on my sweater in the classroom,
         I squish it dead,
with the heel of my hand. Usually, I’d scream.
Instead, I took the power to make something alive—something dead.
Fog-Horn Leg-Horn, “and then-and then, I say-I say” kills you,

wadding you beneath the cooped-up coop,
Swiper Swipes No More.

I looked off in the distance, a horizon of mountains strung together, the whole range atop an alpine lake.

I looked out only to be fixated on your tanned skin wadding off in the water, the same skin that I’d watched darken in the summers sun, the same skin I became so familiar with under the covers of blankets and snow. Layered but much paler than your tone now, it always was winter months that inspired warmer thoughts.

But there you are, you’re no longer the warm thoughts I pined to grasp.
You’re here in view and more than I could’ve ever imagined, watching you unlace your boots and rip your socks off in rolled clumps as you marched through the overly saturated banks still recovering from the past, the thawing warmth of spring at the end of a snow season, just like you.
Taking high steps, you feel the mud tugging at your heels, attempts to hang on, to cling instead of breaking clean free only to be washed away with another plummeting progressive step. Each part of you beginning to drown a little more in the experience.

So the journey postponed
By the method of twine.
Twas decided they’d book on the telephone line.

A jungle safari with gin and Campari.
And lashings of kippers on toast.
Despite the location of bison migration
There was still time to fish by the coast.

At the end of the plodding in boots made from wadding.
They both had a wonderful time.
They couldn’t deplete all
The stocks of the meatball
From bellies of African swine.

There’s no moral this time.
As their trip was just fine.
Said the owl to the pussycat’s purrs.

Their next time in Turkey
Was rather more murky.
On their quest for some jewellery and furs.

****** rednecks and tabloid editors,
Choosing a big-mouthed wussy,
Voted into office a ****** predator who
Brags he grabs women by the *****.
He goes on and on about himself
Blows that he is highly educated
He only tells lies, braggadocio, or
Unpresidential rot that is R-rated.

He boasted he could shoot
Someone dead in the street
Even that ugly deed would
Not cause his defeat.

It turned out to be
Unfortunately true!
That’s the kind of thing
Ignoramuses will do:
They vote some dingaling
No matter how disgusting
And decide this grifter
Is definitely worth trusting.

He's just bright enough to see
That suckers love a good show
So he’ll dance and sing to them
For three and a half years or so.

He said he keeps the best
People to back up his boasts,
And when he chooses one
His accomplices all toast.
It won’t be very long until
As his TV show has inspired,
He’ll open that ugly mouth
And snarl out “You’re fired!”

He knows he can keep on
In his lucrative term of office
If he just keeps the rich happy, and
Fools who can’t see he’s bogus.

He’s busily going about
Taking the rights of the poor
And wadding all of them up
Then kicking them out the door.
The only people he wants to succeed
Are him and those ***-kissers
Who hang with him out of greed.

He's just bright enough to see
That suckers love a good show
So he’ll dance and sing to them
For three and a half years or so.

Drink passion,
Wear determination,
Put on hope,
And walk bravely
Wadding snow to your destination!

May the gods above have mercy
on the man who knows to much,
he's got wadding in his head,
thoughts so muffled and so numb.
Children pray and children wander,
in the churchyard they play dice,
in the woods they find a wonder,
they see magic in red skies

And every raven is an omen,
Under every sage a coven,
Oh dear sweet, devoted lovers,
mother nature says it's over.
You've received the curse of knowledge,
Sometimes ignorance's a blessing:
Unforgivable yet tender
Is this mistic haze descending.

Looking back on easy is not so hard when things get tough,

that shuffle thing I do when largactil's running through me and
I'm not so sure I am me is okay,

The cotton wool that fills my brain becomes the wadding to ease my pain and whatever pill comes next is not that bad.

Side effects affect all sides unless you're playing solo and you're thinking what's this all about when nothing is about you.

Battery driven is okay too
unless you feel run down and
find the battery is in fact, you.