OPEN LETTER TO THOSE WHO SAY GOOD RIDDANCE TO AMY WINEHOUSE

“Good, one less crackhead to deal with.”

“Drugo *****”

“She was a bad influence to all.”

“Why is everyone sad that she is dead?
She never cared about her own life
so why should we care now that she is dead???
She brought this on her self, oh well! “

“Good riddance you Mr. Ed lookin, Lady Gaga wanna be, pill poppin ******.....”

These sad, sad, comments
About a sad, sad life
Full of privilege and God-given gifts
Thrown away on a whim and a dime
Sadden me.

Dear friends,

You know me,
But I suppose, if you say good riddance to Amy Winehouse,
By that same logic, you should say, regarding me,
“Good, one less alcoholic driving our streets.”
If I died in my car accident more than 3 years ago.

Wait, what is that I hear?
You say I’m overreacting?
I’m different because I got the point?
That somehow I’m better than her because I “learned my lesson”?

*******.

I’m no better than Amy or anyone else in that same sinking boat,
**** up a creek without a paddle,
Just because I cleaned up my act.
I’m only luckier than them,
Because statistically only 5 percent
Make it out the other side,
Without backsliding.
The other 95 percent,
**** rolls downhill without stopping.
Ultimately, they only have 3 choices:
Jails, institutions, or death.
And I’ve already made two of them.

Now I have to keep in mind that
Unless you walked in an addict’s shoes,
Or the shoes of an addict’s loved ones,
It might be hard for you wrap your mind around a couple of paradoxes:

“How could she let that slide?  She had everything?”
“Oh, she could’ve quit anytime she wanted, so she chose to continue being a ******.”
“She was only a selfish *****   She didn’t give a **** about what she put her family or anyone else through.”

Let me enlighten you to the plight of the addict.

Yes, I will give that,
We have choice over that first drink, or drug if that’s what’s up.

But chasing that first high is like the search for the holy grail,
Or searching for that *** of gold at the end of the rainbow.
I kept following the path,
But the quest for the gold extended in perpetuity,
And my chalice remained empty.

I guess in a way you could say suffered
From battered wife or Stockholme Syndrome.
Drinking kidnapped me,
And held everything I was hostage,
I had everything, the job, the house, the love, the family,
The art, the poetry
But nothing became more important
Than the man who kidnapped me.

His needs, his wants became my own.
He spoke for me, he spoke through me.
I was him, and he was me,
And everything else bedamned.

I lied for him,
Stole for him,
Tricked my loved ones for him,

And in the increasingly rare moments of lucidity,
Interspersed between run-ins and blackouts and bottles of wine,
I tried to run,
But he would grab me when I made a break for it,
And drag me right back in.
While friends and loved ones who grabbed onto me with everything they had
Stood helplessly by as I willingly walked back to him.

A person has only so much strength,
So much will to resist.
And eventually, you only have enough reserves left to just exist.
It’s all you can do to stay alive,
If you can call it a life.

Yes, I was eventually one of the lucky 5 percent.
But there’s a word I operate by…”yet”.
Nothing is set in stone.
I could wind up right back where I started on that Monopoly board.
Don’t pass start, don’t collect 200 bucks.

So, until you have walked a mile in an addict’s shoes,
Or the shoes of an addict’s loved ones,
Judge not lest ye be judged.
Because the next hammer to fall just might be on you.

By the way, rest in peace, Amy Winehouse.

I’am the
Whiney,
Amy Winehouse
Wannabee.
That’s going to blow myself,  
away
before the Whispers of wicked winds can.

I can’t smile anymore.
If you have to always
stab
me in the back.
My heart lives on the other side
of my body.
If ya wanted to....

I could get you;
a steak knife
and you could
tear into my heart
like it’s
a medium rare steak.

If it would make you happy.
I’ll even bring the A-1.
Cause I care that much.

"love is a losing game", but for so long
i never understood that song, until,
i became a piece that you discarded,
left scorned and broken-hearted. it was
unbeknownst to me, but you knew exactly
how to maneuver your poison into my veins
and you made your home in my bones
without requesting my permission, having no intentions
of remaining any longer than your affections,
or your hands, could stand to stay in one place.

i've heard that love, is a losing hand,
and i imagine its partner, dry & cracked -
aching, reaching, grasping, empty -
desperately seeking to be filled with any kind
of warmth or wholeness, only to be met,
instead, by astounding disappointment
that reverberates and permeates unapologetically
beneath the surface of weathered skin,
similar to that which covered your back, as we laid
in the trunk of your station wagon in the mid-december darkness.

love is designed as a fate resigned,
but i knew not what my future held.
i did not know that it was possible, for
such a tangible pain to exist inside my ribcage,
but i swear you pretended not to hear my heart shatter
from all those miles and miles and miles away.
so i envisioned the oceans inside of your irises fading to gray,
and i forced myself to ignore the lack of air in my lungs,
as i spat out, "it's fine." promising myself i'd never call you again.
unbeknownst to you, you'd just taught me how to play the game.

- m.f

reaching the back of you

not sure I could.      not sure i would.
       scent of the crime uncommitted uncovered

the meandering is the man demigod demagogue taking
time
         pleasured mercy
                                         the remaindered searchingly
                                                                ­                                 suffices

you don’t speak plain english the only tongue i got
insert the coin in your slot commencing researching the
way in and
don’t think i want to find the way out to the
back of you hiding in the inside learning the way you visualize


playing amy winehouse as an overlaying graph to the autoroute
to the south of france, sur-la-mer, why ever leave and you come
in my mouth poems new each time

no exit. no back of you.  stuck in a longingly heaven

this house is my home and I know the sun brightest
when i put my coin in the slot of play and press the
new tune button at 4:10AM

Remember, dancing with the devil
In life will take it's toll
For, dancing with the devil
In the end will take your soul
Many who have done it
Reached the top only to die
Many souls we thought in heaven
Could never get that high

The Forever 27 club
playing in the band
Janis, Jim and Jimi
In hell, oh....ain't it grand
We thought them all as angels
But, the truth it rings a bell
They were dancing with the devil
And they ended up in hell

Cobain and Amy Winehouse
Oh yeah, they're down there too
Brian Jones and others
Playing hard rock and the blues
Sell your soul to Satan
Where you go...you do not choose
If you spend time with the devil
It's nothing but bad news

Remember, dancing with the devil
In life will take it's toll
For, dancing with the devil
In the end will take your soul
Many who have done it
Reached the top only to die
Many souls we thought in heaven
Could never get that high

There's others there who did the dance
Hit the crossroads, sold their soul
Drugs and drink and suicide
That's how this devil rolls
Some may get redemption
For the things they do in life
they sold out with their talent
They were dancing on a knife

The band is hot, and so's the place
They play here every night
We wish they were in heaven
But, deep down you know I'm right
Elvis, yes, the king is here
He did drugs and did the dance
Now, he's singing for the devil
He never had a chance

Remember, dancing with the devil
In life will take it's toll
For, dancing with the devil
In the end will take your soul
Many who have done it
Reached the top only to die
Many souls we thought in heaven
Could never get that high

So many tortured people
So many who did wrong
They traded with the devil
For the price of just a song
Rock and Roll in heaven
Has a great band, just the same
But, with Janis, Jim and Jimi here
They just don't have the game.

Mozart,
deaf,
died, eventually.

Picasso, pervert, died; Whitney, Winehouse, drugs, dead; Elvis, Methamphetamine, died

(on the toilet).

Van Gogh,
missing an earlobe,
died.

Plath,
head in an oven,
in front of her kids,
Woolf
Patron saint of insanity, I guess
waded into a river and-

River. River Phoenix. Drugs.

Natalie Merchant wrote that song about him in 1995.

Flash forward.
Me, twenty-one, drunk.
Proprietor of a collection of lackluster poems.
Sold their small, nonbinary soul to the Devil
in exchange for a fortune,
gone.

I, too, have seen the darkest dark, shining
Iridescent like a raven’s feather
In the sun. I have felt the untwining

Of my mind, stormwracked by psychic weather,
And I have tried to laugh it all away
Faking that I’m keeping it together.

So often the ones we thought were OK
The ones who helped us laugh and sing and drink . . .
So often the one thing they needed to say

Never got said or got said with a wink.
Listen closely. Watch closely. It is there:
A welling tear can be erased with a blink.

I blink, you blink, we all blink; what’s more rare
Is the unblinking gaze on both foul and fair.

Dancing with The Devil

Remember, dancing with the devil
In life will take it's toll
For, dancing with the devil
In the end will take your soul
Many who have done it
Reached the top only to die
Many souls we thought in heaven
Could never get that high

The Forever 27 club
playing in the band
Janis, Jim and Jimi
In hell, oh....ain't it grand
We thought them all as angels
But, the truth it rings a bell
They were dancing with the devil
And they ended up in hell

you start hearing the background music
and the devils in your head
shut your mind to everything
forget the words he's said
if he gets you dancing, it's not long till you'll be dead
when you're dancing with the devil in your head
just look at all the others that he's led
don't be dancing with the devil in your head

Cobain and Amy Winehouse
Oh yeah, they're down there too
Brian Jones and others
Playing hard rock and the blues
Sell your soul to Satan
Where you go...you do not choose
If you spend time with the devil
It's nothing but bad news

Remember, dancing with the devil
In life will take it's toll
For, dancing with the devil
In the end will take your soul
Many who have done it
Reached the top only to die
Many souls we thought in heaven
Could never get that high

you start hearing the background music
and the devils in your head
shut your mind to everything
forget the words he's said
if he gets you dancing, it's not long till you'll be dead
when you're dancing with the devil in your head
just look at all the others that he's led
don't be dancing with the devil in your head

There's others there who did the dance
Hit the crossroads, sold their soul
Drugs and drink and suicide
That's how this devil rolls
Some may get redemption
For the things they do in life
they sold out with their talent
They were dancing on a knife

The band is hot, and so's the place
They play here every night
We wish they were in heaven
But, deep down you know I'm right
Elvis, yes, the king is here
He did drugs and did the dance
Now, he's singing for the devil
He never had a chance

you start hearing the background music
and the devils in your head
shut your mind to everything
forget the words he's said
if he gets you dancing, it's not long till you'll be dead
when you're dancing with the devil in your head
just look at all the others that he's led
don't be dancing with the devil in your head

Remember, dancing with the devil
In life will take it's toll
For, dancing with the devil
In the end will take your soul
Many who have done it
Reached the top only to die
Many souls we thought in heaven
Could never get that high

So many tortured people
So many who did wrong
They traded with the devil
For the price of just a song
Rock and Roll in heaven
Has a great band, just the same
But, with Janis, Jim and Jimi here
They just don't have the game.

don't get caught dancing with the devil in your head
the music's great, but you will end up dead
don't get caught dancing with the devil in your head
don't get caught dancing...don't ever get caught dancing
don't get caught dancing ...with the devil ....i your head.

I don't want to drink again
No, not from those lips
That tiny bottle of pending doom with little tiny labels marked warning.
Under the table, grabbing walls
Compensation for the shot glass full of stained breath
There is no amount of emotional comfort that doesn't lead to physical contact.
My lips; your essence
There isn't a support group that can teach that
The urge to resist the glare of the bottle
Simple steps that lead to complete disaster
The calling of your name
The way you splash against my lips.
I don't want to drink again
My bad habit
My secret craving
A distinct hint that I need you again.
Where's pride in this infatuation
The need to have you again
This uncontrollable substance
Marked with warning labels
Bottled emotion that seeps at anytime.
The need of not caring who's around.
Again, pride where are you

In a world full of ugly people,
A city made of hideous faces,
A phone call means everything.
It means a voice, free from
Its crooked nose, its wrinkled skin,
And its gapped, stained, crooked teeth.
It means a connection.
With another, with yourself,
And with the ability to disconnect
At the push of a button.
I take out my scratched, chipped cellphone
With its cracked face,
And call Helen.
Her voice swims through the mud
Inside my skull when she answers,
Stirring and churning
Until I'm weak and dizzy.
"How 'bout you just come
On over now, Big Fella?"
And I do.
I turn off the squawking television,
Don a pair of food-stained pants,
Drag a comb through my
Overgrown hair,
And descend the stairs to my
Waiting Oldsmobile.
The turn of the key in the ignition
Only produces a hollow click,
One click two click three click six,
Then a partial start,
But the beast fails to come alive.
I get out to replace
The fried starter fuse,
Then do this dance four more times
Before the old ***** clears her throat
And starts to idle.
It's a short ride,
Pawtucket is small,
And my only companion
On these post-midnight streets
Is the white noise
Issuing from the broken radio.
I pass the house I grew out of,
The crumbling schools
That taught me the value
Of impartial numbness,
The cemetery my father used to visit
To perpetrate the lie
He lives;
The role of a child
And the permanence
Of parents.
I pass abandoned factories
And abandoned hope
And abandoned pets
And abandoned storefronts.
In a world of full of past relics,
In a city full of ghosts,
A crumbling façade means everything.
It means bricks freed from their mortar,
Separated from their history,
Left to be picked up and thrown through plate glass windows.
Buildings are never empty,
Just quiet.
I pass the CVS at Newport and Armistice,
With its twenty four hour pharmacy,  
Dispensing the one a.m. hydrocodone,
The one thirty a.m. dextroamphetamine,
The two a.m. oxycodone,
The two thirty a.m. alprazolam,
The three a.m. dextromethorphan,
The three thirty a.m. methylphenidate,
The four a.m. eszopiclone,
The four thirty a.m. benzodiazeprine,
The five a.m. phenylpropanolamine.
I drive past the clinic in the old senior center
With its six a.m. methadone ready to go
In pre measured cups.
Buildings can be quiet, but not empty.
Helen lives on the third floor of a three story house
Built sometime in the forties,
Forgotten sometime in the eighties.
The two bottom floors are vacant,
The windows are boarded,
The driveway is choked with weeds,
And two lounging cats don’t flinch
When I walk by them
On my way to the door in the rear of the building.
The door is always unlocked,
So I let myself in
And begin the rickety climb to the top.
The higher I go,
The louder Amy Winehouse’s voice gets.
“What kind of fuckery is this?”
Seems an adequate question.
There are ****** handprints on the railings,
The walls,
Drops polka dot the stairs.
I don’t bother knocking,
I never do.
She’s seated in a La-Z-Boy in the kitchen
Facing the door,
In a cloud of cigarette smoke.
In place of exchanged pleasantries
I say I need to use the bathroom
And she nods,
Eyes locked on mine.
I take a look at my sallow image
In the mirror,
With specks of toothpaste and hairspray
Pocking my face like acne.
The toilet bowl is still streaked
With the last man’s ****.
I ****, wash my hands,
And take another look at myself.
Helen is no longer in the chair,
But I know where to find her.
She’s sprawled on the bed,
With a new cigarette in her mouth,
The toys spread out on one side,
The tools on the other.
I tell her I’ll forgive her for stabbing me the other night
If I can get a freebee now.
She shakes her head once,
Exhales a cloud,
“Not gonna happen, Champ,”
And I take what I can get.

Third Date

She talked and talked and talked,
an East Coast, cultured accent;
        
"So what are you anyway,
half-German? ***, really?
But you look so......British, I guess..."

He stroked her knee.

She gesticulated loudly,
and talked.
        
"So you were at Princeton,
WOW, that's impressive."

He squeezed her knee.

"I baked cupcakes on Friday night,
  my Mom's recipe.
  I don't even eat cupcakes,
  what's that all about?!?!

He squeezed her other knee.

She wore a mid-thigh,
black and white dress,  
swirls, that sort of thing,
interesting cleavage.
        
He was back on the first knee.

She looked Italian
(it was 'Ristorante Acqua al Duo' after all),
Amy Winehouse eye flares,
head swaying,
resting on her palms,
swaying again.

He had his back to me.

She fingered the wine glass,
tall and generous,
devoured
the last inch,
came up for air and talked again.

He wore a blazer
and cavalry twill pants,  
loafers and no socks.

She was hot,
really hot,
fanned her brow with the dessert menu
"Tiramisu was so deeeelicious".
75 degrees on the Prudential window.

He  perspired,
fidgeted,
loosened his collar,
looked for the waitress.

Drinking bottles of Guinness
"Only socially, I can't stand the stuff"
Fatality in the finesse
Of 'classiness' and *****.

Smoky rooms and jazzy tunes
A cigar hanging from the lips
Fatality in the finesse
Of small talk and swaying hips.

Winehouse's drawl pours from the speakers
That are modern in their vintage style
Fatality in the finesse
Of hidden grimaces and fake smiles.

Every conversations the same
In it's lack of personality
Fatality in the finesse
Of sociability.

Venom be spat from the tongue that blinds.
Twixt the lovers.
Whose hearts, no longer entwined.
Words tied and tangled.
Twisted and lost.
Love becomes mangled.
Crumbled to dust.

No words dare be spoken.
The lovers that were.
Invoked the monster of Lady Medusa.
Screeching siren.
Lady's on fire.
Don't dare put her out.

Her eyes surely saved for you.
Muted sounds.
Exploding fear.
Hearing her dear.
Utters last squeak.
Unable to speak.
Bit his own tongue.
As she turns him to stone.
With eyes that don't see.
(c)LIVVI








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9 hrs · Daily Mail Online ·



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I rarely use Costa, I will be working back at Winchester hospital shortly.
I will use their canteen, the food is generally very nice x














Revealed: The squalor inside Costa coffee shops

A total of 23 Costas got two or less stars in their most recent inspections, including a hospital branch which had paninis at risk of contamination with bacteria which can cause paralysis and death.



dailymail.co.uk



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‎مستر صلاح السعيطي‎ likes this.
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Olivia Kent







Olivia Kent Ward , starting Monday x

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Philip McCarthy







Philip McCarthy Good luck with the job Olivia, But Im a bit of a coffee freak but will never use Costa it alwaysgives me bad guts ache afterwards.

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Olivia Kent







Olivia Kent Thank you Philip **

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Philip McCarthy







Philip McCarthy Hey I'm at the Cafe Reflections for the first time. It's good here x Photos to follow

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Photos
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"Super cool."

"My boy"

Jade Xuereb's photo.


"A big shout out to everyone at the Amy Winehouse Foundation gig last night! Did two sets, first just me and the second backing."

Gray Ian's photo.

Waritsara Karlberg's photo.


"Storm Journey * unbreaking stone the key that unlocks the sky, and something races lionlike from beyond he thunderclap and the forest thrashes and waves like the choir in a Pentecostal church "yes, Jesus! Thankya, Lawwwd!" yes, there will be water if God wills it, so 'tis said. i read something in the living strokes of skyfire, the dance of something both benevolent and dangerous, and i can taste it like wine on the breath of the onrushing storm. it tastes like life, pouring into my lungs so fiercely i feel like i might be consumed by an overabundance of vitality. i can see that vitality all around me, the fecundity of Summer, relentless in its upward-thrusting, blossoming, breaking from the loam, bursting from the chrysalis, defying the arid winterlock that held the ground mere months ago. i walk from miracle into miracle, from myth into myth, the Universe enlarging with each step, until i'm carried like an infant in the arms of a loving storm."

Angie Colvin's photo.

Sean Creed's photo.

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Karen Wilmott

I used to listen to Winehouse in the greenhouse and the windows cried in pain.
I had Gillespie in the conservatory and Kitt in the kitchen, but I saved Brenda Lee for the bedroom see 'cause she was the queen.
I had them all running recordings in my head, Dave Dee, Fats Domino, Bono, Callas for a touch of class, Des and Bygraves, slaves to the sound spinning around in my mind and now I can't find a song that's familiar, can't make out the words, don't know the artists, missed out along the tracks, no vinyls, no needles, no tables just racks of CD's
oh please tell me it isn't so
this can't be the way to go,
where's Slim and Kim and Marty gonna go now that the party is over?
In the greenhouse where I listened to Winehouse and watched the pickup pick up the beat,
I take a back seat and eat a tomato while nothing else is going on.

The sweat from my brow is racing the shadows of a late evening sun
and somehow they both drip into the tightening grip of the night.
Though the night's still to come,we all know that it murders the sun every day
and gets away with it.
I'd like to sit in the gallery with Winehouse's Valerie and tend to her needs,if the night feeds on the sun why shouldn't I have some fun too.

If I flew into the eye of I don't know when why,would I know where I'm at,would it matter to me if I was where I'd be or in some other place I've yet to see.
Has the cuckoo flown, after been shown the error of his ways,does he feel the sweat of his endless days in the madness of a madness of being out of phase.

The sweat drips from the end of my nose which I blow
and the devil may go where the fancy will take him
I will sit and revolve while the world spins off with any resolve I may have had,not to go quite mad.

And the hammering in my head jabbers on,like some crazy woodpecker that titters at dawn and cracks open its beak to sneak into a tree
will I,or the woodpecker ever be free
does it matter to you,would it matter to me if I knew?

The day finally goes,falling under the spell ,and the bell for a midnight tolls
I roll my eyes looking skyward and there's nothing to see
except an image of me and a woodpecker
in a tree.

I was meditating
with the life mudra
in an attempt
to understand life,
and so I chanted
the first word
that came to mind
and it was "Mo"
so I thought
of homosexuality
and Larry and Curly
and then I chanted
the second word
which came to mind
and it was "Da"
and I thought of
my late father
and just now
I think of stupidity
and then I chanted
the third word
which came to mind
and it was "Su"
so I thought of
my first girl friend
and I am thinking
of litigation
so I thought of
the fourth word
which came to mind
and it was "Ma"
so I thought of
my late mother
and the Korean word
for mind,
so I put them all together
and I got
"Modasuma"
which meant
spring, summer, fall, and winter
to me
and then I looked
modasuma
up on the internet
and gathered
in my ignorance
of the Spanish language
that moda suma
is a South American museum
that was visited
by Amy Winehouse.

They said that I made a better storywriter than a poet
Whatever!
Poets get their ideas from stories but my creativity comes from a glass of Moet Chardon(
A poet is someone who looks for adventure and there I was
On the back porch enjoying the Island breeze
The surging wind made it way through the tall propaganda trees
The trees act as obstacles to wind, somehow those propaganda trees made the
portable air conditioners seem useless in comparison
A family of monkey kept up their appearances daily: jumping from branch to branches
Breaking off bunches of oval-shaped young’s apples, like a morning ritual
while keeping a close eye on me: I capture the moment as it presents itself
Meditating and thinking about making right choices in my life:
My Nana once told me that propaganda leaflets were good for brewing tea to lower one’s blood pressure.
How many times can someone test the cold, cold icy water to realize that it wasn’t suitable for bathing?
That was my was way of dealing with difficult seasonal romance
I am now getting to understand Amy Winehouse struggle with love, relationship and commitment
Going to rehab may mean having to deal with difficult people, however, my addition is far more complicated
Making right choices is my life mission.

bluntly, you said:

no. (reject)
no. (refuse)
no. (rebuff)

and my whole body
felt like rehab.

(cheers, mrs. winehouse!)

Yeah! I cheated myself-I understand all to well what you mean... Miss Winehouse but I can't say that I'm no-good quite the opposed. I give them life, love, with all my strength . They took it all and charged me rent. I prayed, for them, gave heart- and-soul; they laugh at me and left me in the cold. I cheated myself in every way, it's a fools game -that I wanted to play. Thought that I could change you, somehow make you mine, you put me through hell... How I wish I could rewind. Yeah! I would change the story, rewrite every line. From the first day that I saw you, right up to this moment in time. I would not have given my number along with my self respect, I would have let you know... I'm not one to neglect. I would have left... Yeah! The first 'time that you cheated and not just stay, to have you causally repeated it. I would have run the first time... You put your hands on me, not just stay and have you beat me randomly. I would have left you... That night you and your friends came- into my room and had me over-and -over again. The things you did to me... The things you made me do-I cheated myself; I was a fool in love with you. Yeah! I would have even changed the night, the last night I had with you. This one for which I am not ashamed, for doing what I had to do. It was right after you beat me and tore off my brand new dress, eyes closed, nose broke, lip swollen, ribs cracked... I was a horrible mess. You didn't stop there though- oh- no that, was not enough. You violated me and you made it ruff. When, you were done and I lie there bleeding on the floor, I asked you why and you said... Because you are my *****.You started laughing.. and said "now get ya *** up off the floor". I got up and with all that I had, I started to fight like a woman gone MADD. They say that I stabbed you.. Can't remember when I got that knife... They gave me 32 years for taking your so called life. I cheated myself. Yeah! It was all me. Loving a fool has cost me.. My-free! Yeah! I cheated myself.

how will i reclaim that forest in the night to walk into...
ah proud birdsong near the edge of the wood
at going past 11pm will clarify my heart to endear
courage against samael’s breath once more.*

the cartesian model of inquir, namely
subtance and spatial extension is unsatisfactory,
unless you’re a schizophrenic,
where the extension is a symptom
of a dislodged narration in pluralism,
it makes sense then;
but what of the temporal aspect of the extension?
it can’t just be two-dimensional of the x-axis substance
and the y-axis of the spatial extension...
that would imply, that the z-axis is nullified, non-existent...
meaning that we would have no faculty of memory,
which is a bit ******* to say the bull charged in a darts
competition hitting the bullseye fifty times out of fifty-five throws.
why did descartes avoid inc. the temporal extension
only focusing on the spatial extension model,
thus avoiding the trinity and instead leaving us with
a blatant dualistic error?
was he schizoid too? i guess so...
we’re not talking about living a full-life
and then doing a van gogh disintegration of the self...
if you’re young, you get to construct a self
that’s defined by a medical condition...
but if you’re old, and the self is fully adequate to
be ready for retirement and grandchildren...
there’s not much originality for you to invoke...
you lived a boring life... you’ll die a horrid death...
sorry - face reality, you didn’t do enough su doku or crosswords,
esp. if you weren’t physically exhausted
like my father roofing...
i wish i could join him, in the solidarity motto my grandfather
tends to repeat (being a foreman in a metal factory
back in poland): zdrowie na budowie (health on a construction site)!
it’s true, tiresome as it might sound -
mature dementia is also the double-veil effect...
you lie to much and your conscience snaps
and starts mining for coal in your consciousness...
you think wet coal ever made it as 27 years of ol’ jimi hendrix?
i don’t think so.
it wasn’t the drink that killed amy winehouse...
proof? me...
what killed her... the inability to engage with dialectics...
too many people you see... the tabloid exposure...
no park bench in the night with a bearded blond stranger
by the name of matti helsinki.
what defines us as people is much more related to memory
(the cartesian black hole) than what’s thought
or imagined...
using this barbie / size 0 anorexic ***** in fishnet stockings
i find that what we come across is a bit like natural seletion:
selective memorization...
i don’t care where my next thought comes from nietzsche...
i’m bewildered why we remember what we remember,
and it’s more or less cryptographic...
i see the scenes... thank god i don’t have the second person
brain haemorrhage scene but the first person spec-savers...
third person is a host i didn’t want to impregnate with my content...
following the flawed cartesian interpretation in
the freudian region... imagination = substance...
extension = dreaming...
and the curious thing is... memory scrambles imagination,
i can’t imagine certain things like being a ***** tadpole
in the pond of testicles...
memory asking the imagination faculty to function
and leave thought scarce scrambles wild wild west imagination
that provides fertile ground for dreams to enter...
i don’t really dream that much... not lucid dreaming...
because i can distinguish hallucinatory memory images
of remembered scenes... and those shadow-consistency hallucinations
that even a 7 year old would acknowledge as unreal.

I can't listen to Amy Winehouse on vinyl without thinking of you, and I've refrained from using your favorite coffee mug to ensure it'd be clean for your return. Even the floorboards are creaking your name now, and this house feels foreign without you. Each morning, I find myself rising with the sun, reciting the words, "Please come home."

-k.w

Raised by
Kurt Cobain anger,
low grunge in earbuds
make it easier to ignore the mass of loud kids in the halls,
Hope they stay away.
For me? Socializing will drain you.

Raised by
Amy Winehouse.
Big winged eyes but,
her voice was bigger.
Showed me how to close doors,
and what hides behind them.
For love is a losing game,
yet we end up addicted anyways.

Raised by
The Beatles.
60s pop and rock,
Oh! Darlin’ they are good!
Taught me to think for myself
and let some things be.

Raised by
Cage The Elephant.
Showed me the world is
cold, cold, cold.
Cause there ain’t no rest for the wicked!
I’ll always find
trouble on my left
and to my right.

Raised by
Earl St. Clair
I might not have what I want,
but I got what I need.
And some don’t have a three story home
to feel alone in.
You just gotta deal with the pain,
before it deals with you.

Valerie - Mark Ronson, Amy Winehouse

All right, it's rolling
I'm sorry, Charlie Murphy, I was having too much fun
Well, sometimes I go out by myself
And I look across the water
And I think of all the things, what you're doing
And in my head I paint a picture
'Cause since I've come on home
Well, my body's been a mess
And I've missed your ginger hair
And the way you like to dress
Won't you come on over
Stop making a fool out of me
Why don't you come on over, Valerie?
Valerie
Valerie
Valerie
Did you have to go to jail?
Put your house on up for sale
Did you get a good lawyer?
Hope you didn't catch a tan
Hope you'll find the right man who'll fix it for ya
And are you shopping anywhere?
Changed the color of your hair, are you busy?
And did you have to pay that fine
That you was dodging all the time
Are you still busy?
'Cause since I've come on home
Well, my body's been a mess
And I've missed your ginger hair
And the way you like to dress
Won't you come on over
Stop making a fool out of me
Why don't you come on over, Valerie?
Valerie
Valerie
Valerie
Well, sometimes I go out by myself
And I look across the water
And I think of all the things, what you're doing
And in my head I paint a picture
'Cause since I've come on home
Well, my body's been a mess
And I've missed your ginger hair
And the way you like to dress
Won't you come on over
Stop making a fool out of me
Why don't you come on over, Valerie?
Valerie
Valerie
Valerie
Valerie
Valerie
Valerie
Valerie
­Why don't come over, Valerie?

(a poem in several Haiku and Senryu stanzas)

The molten gold sun
on cerulean canvas
breeze borne cirrus clouds

flawless days stretching
like sun-kissed bodies - crisp white
linen cabanas

lips roughly sore from
innumerable kisses
we shimmer white hot.

Lulling rhythmic waves -
heaven's extravagant taste
- on leisure sculpt days

masterpiece pleasures,
love’s instigative brushstrokes,
paint compelling joy
.
.
songs for this:
Our Day Will Come by Amy Winehouse
Heat Wave by Linda Ronstadt
Viva La Vida by Coldplay

Today I sat on my bed and
practiced figure drawing
while I listened to amy winehouse
I paused to look at my friend
and she looked at me
knowingly
so I used a charles
bukowski book as a lap desk
to pack a bowl.

I asked my boyfriend what
I should write about tonight
and he said
the passing of time,

I looked up to the clock
hung on my wall
frozen at 2:46
and I thought about the
painting behind the hands
carnation, lily, lily, rose
and the  words behind
the hands in front of
carnation, lily, lily, rose;
the kids don’t stand a chance.
so
I thought about myself

How I should have
been born on april fools
day and how right now
I feel like a troll is holding
me up by my ankles and my
hair is on fire and I have
the words this is fine
tattooed on my forehead
upside down
so the camera can read it
when it zooms in on
my face.

I wish I had a typewriter
or a gramaphone.
we could let the records spin.
you & me.
I'd forgot punk or indie
as far as you knew
and nothing would have a label.

I don't wanna graduate.
I let it all slip right past me
just enough to say I'm trying
you've heard it all before & more & worse.
I'm asking, please don't save me
tell me I don't need to be saved.

it was June wasn't it.
and we can't go back.
the rides before the flight
I knew I knew I knew
across the ocean I'd lose you.

there's something cross continental
about my courage
to try and tell you just how I feel.

this is swallowing Xanax and flower power
this is so lethargic it shouldn't even count
for anything other than the absolute truth.

it was June wasn't it?
I settle for winehouse and empty bottles
I wonder if I've tried enough

what words would get me there
what the **** can I say
to make you understand?

give me a shot of *** and a shot at your heart, and I'll only miss one of them.

for ***** sake

If you love something too much it will literally **** you.  Steve Irwin, Amy Winehouse, Houdini, Marie Curie, Romeo and Juliet....all those people in Jurassic Park.