IIIIIIII     NE      HELP H             HELP
    II         ED      HELP  EL    LE  HELP
    II                     HELP       P        HELP
    II                     HELP                  HELP
    II                     HELP                  HELP
IIIIIIII                 HELP                  HELP


IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII  AM            A­M     SOSOSOSO    LO           ST
IIII               IIII  AM        MA         SO          SO     LO          ST
IIII               IIII  AM      AM           SO          SO     LO          ST
IIII               IIII  AMAMAM          SOSOSOSO     LOSTLOST
IIII               IIII  AM         MA        SO          SO            STL
IIII               IIII  AM             AM    SO          SO            STL
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII  AM      ­         MA  SO          SO            STL

i.

mist in solemnity
mutes the sounding
leather bells in silence


ii.

salt surges waste wantonly
gulls guttural in guises
of waifs


iii.

driftwood delivered dull of
deluged dilution
ochre offering to dune's
divestment


iii.

sea glass shivers into
shallow sandy pockets
scintillating color schemes


iiii.

conches lie abandoned
in stands of sea grasses
cacophonous quiet


v.

i am wide awake yet dreaming

sleepwalking

into the

waves




SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/1/2016

A call from the rills,
The sweet sounding anthem trills,
A sweet melody!

From breezes to wind,
Mother Nature embraces,
Beautiful Nature!

Anthem of praise,
Echos from Mountains to rills,
From meadows to fields!

A sweet melody,
Birds sweetly singing in trees,
The sun shines brightly!

A dome of Nature,
A cathedral of swet praise,
A dome of anthem!

Every creature,
Has it's own sweet song to sing,
Nature of sweet song!

Katydids and bees,
Crickets and the kittycats,
All beautifully sing!*

~Marian~

A being desired by ones heart, or thoughts,
A soul untouched, or unblemished by my presence,
Well now since I haven't tasted her Lips,
Hence buddies now saist that I have dread,
And now be it they say  unsophisticated,
Should loving the other be being with them?

my innocence is unknown
and i do not see
but there is paint on my wall
that does not match the rest
and there is ink in my life
that does not match the rest
and there are hands in my life
that do not match the rest
and your eyes will never match anybody else's
and your eyes will never be mine
but last night, i know what you did.
i know that you kissed my eyelid
and i know that you looked at me
while i was as calm and simple
as you will EVER come to me.

What glamour could possibly be gained from this untrusion
hiphiphappy happy happy days
all the live long [(sk-ii-p-ii-ng---sk-ii-p-ii-ng)]
she should've shifted shape and shelter
_______
now I lurk, thick-in-the-murk
underneath
-
a witches brew of acrid broth
quicksand | quicksilver
dwelling under porches (lucid) dreaming
tapping out thoughts with a six letter alphabet
we gather in the quarries: VIOLETMASS
underneath the newly linen husk of vapor
underneath the ethereal 0eye0
counterclockwisemarching --- total separation
------
At first, it was my grandmother's embrace that shattered the veil.
It was July and the tulips were in bloom; red and yellow
    - like bold comic panel fire.
She had picked me up from the tilled garden ground and placed the
    okra seeds in my hand to plant all on my own.
It was before the yard was fenced in, and before her mind was cloudy.
    Before the alley was paved, and before the preacher was replaced.
In those days, I could escape under a blanket and afternoons
    were a thing to be reckoned in the eyeseyes of a lie she saidin the neyeght kindlingsprinwintefalummer when christmas when birthdawndaynoondusknight iiwithwhatwhichii crippled finger
when the time is slower and the eyeseyesiiis are right and the skeye is wheyete with the sclera of 'SCYLLA'  that hangs ever still in looming presence for iiii am the all-maker the breaker of thine ****** tonguu003....             NO REACH
FAULT
crumbllllllllllllllllllllll 000000 lllllllllllllllllllllllll
                                       ­ 000000
                                          000000
        ­                                    000000
                      ­                        000000
                                  ­              000000
--undo
0
6
1
6
00:.,-..
.-undue::
.:-
momma­=bogmama=mulch=lather
kruksog
..-.:*
..:
-.:
.-:-.:
--:
63­ 72 75 63 69 66 79 20 74 68 65 20 77 65 61 6b 20 73 61 69 6e 74
-
marchingmarchingmarchingmarching
esiwkcolcretnuoc
chant the wave abackISAY with vestigia((nge((l wings
and stoke the fla(mes)merize with-or-out gallant spree
THOTHTHETHOUGHTTHINKER
THOTHTHETHINKEROFTHOUGHT
HERMETIC
HERMESOCYLCONE
we sprinkle the drops of cymbal tonic downward
in the pattern so elegant so rooted upon )we(
the ones who kept the secret in our teeth
that was told to mercurio and passed on to ego
sheltered by cernunnos//squandered by that !B/A/S/T//A/R/D G/O//A/T¡
to mark the coming of that with nine heads
that with eighteen horns for eighteen years
that with eighteen eyes for BABYLON'S HAGGARD ****
that with fivehundredfortyteethththth
spit powder faith upon the squelching pest
let him see him
let me son
I am the strongest of the creatures
-
-
-
cellar door dribbledribble--
no more are words beautiful-
-
-
++++++
++++++
++++++
++++++
++++++
++++++
DONOTLET­THEDOGOUT
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUT
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUT
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUT
D­ONOTLETTHEDOGOUT
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUT
THATDOGWITHNOLEG
THATDOGWITHCR­USTYEYES
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUTJOHNNYSOHELPMEGOD
DONOTLETTHEDOGOUTJOHN­NYSOHELPMEGOD
DONOTLETTHEGODOUTJOHNNYMYSONSOHELPMEDOG
DONOTLETTHE­DOGOUTJOHNNYMYSONMYONLYSONWHOIKNOWSTILLLOVESMESOHELPMEGOD
THATDOG­TELLSYOUTHINGSABOUTMEIKNOWIT
THATDOGTELLSYOUIMAWHOREANDYOUKNOWTHA­TSNOTTRUE
-
-
-
;
UNDO
=oor

_
__
_­
----------------------
_____
underneath
I lurk, thickinthemuck
there''''''s bed for you
bed of you
bed of goo
bed w(h)eredog lay
licked clean
god in statue
no speak
not to me
maybe to the tip-toe man
but not me
knot anymhore
-
-
-
-
-
-
They told me I must go back to them, but I could see you later.
I saved the paper, the one you gave me.
They told me I could see you later.
They told me.
Dog told me.
Bless us.
Ysgramor.
         |
         |
         |
         |
         |
         |
-------------------
| r| o| o|t|s|
underneath
and I am sleeping
dreaming
feeding god

You are the ink in my pen,
The words of these pages,
All the rhyme to my reasons,
You with the smile full and wide
like the country, or the backwood,
The inspiration behind all this,

I’ve carved kingdoms out of my heart,
A fortress in my chest,
Raised my flag in surrender,
Gave way to your love,
Rule as you wish,
I do not want to defend myself anymore

I leave you
Stood silhouetted in the doorway
With light spilling onto the steps
Like liquid brilliance, amplifying my dark

I smile, wave and turn on cold heels
My rictus face falling into lines
As my back faces you and then retreats

This betrayal is so evident to all involved
That we make a mockery not to speak of it
As I leave you and you?

Learn closer and put your arm around hers
And whisper words once previously practiced in my ear.

Burst into tears for no reason,
Except the girls in my class are
******,
Rude,
Unpleasant,
Judgemental,
Apathetic.
Burst into tears for no reason,
Except there’s a lot going on at home,
I’m not sleeping,
I’m struggling with money,
My Grandma has gone,
There’s no internet escape.
Burst into tears for no reason,
Except I do not feel well,
My stomach is in knots,
My brain throbs inside my head.
Burst into tears for no reason,
Except I’m overwhelmed,
With work,
And uni prep,
New classmates, classrooms,
And societies to join,
Friends to meet.
Burst into tears for no reason,
Except all of this is going on.
All at once.

What was needed now had to be more important. These things tucked away behind the creases of the forehead. Wandering through the beer garden as it became night collecting glassware streaked with saliva and alcohol, soaking under the nail bed it was sticky. At times knuckle bones contort out of place, dragged by the weight of the things. Yet, slow considered steps proceed. Bedtime has come around, the house cat places his body upon your stomach cavity. There is a knowingness in the expelled oxygen which grazes the face. Something poised. This something never arrives.
At night dreams of mistaken food and drink orders trickle into the chiaroscuro room. They **** and disturb, not allowed to unhinge. Unable to delve deep enough, never touching the soft ground or the dream space. Always aware that the alarm clock would bookend this type of semi-rest.
The morning unravels itself. As if mornings were a ball of powder-blue threads teasing the screens of eyelids. Daring them to follow the traces, the bread crumb led spectacle.
Placing eyeliner upon the lashline at the wall mirror, there in the flecks of light stirred a flicker. Appearing less frosted for specks of breath. Spoke outloud, the first utterance of the day. What exactly has happened. Amongst the bones that set out the arena of her body, it seemed that there was no one there to be asked.

i. (2010)

there are eighteen scars in a row above your wrist
pallid and shameful and white as bones and you’ve
counted them
(still do)
under the sheets with your lips moving around whispers

they remind you of empty hallways and
the cacophony of your steps on blue linoleum
and that you are alive the way your breath in pale clouds does
on especially cold days


ii. (2011)

sometimes you dream of colours
(soft and animate and comforting) but
there is only red against the ivory
of your wrist
you’ve read the stories, you know
about the wolves and what happens to girls in red

there are eighteen scars in a row
and you breathe
and you bleed
and you keep counting

iii. (2012)

you don’t sleep much anymore
you fill your nights with the synthetic emotion
of words and films instead and
bury yourself in their comfort
their fabricated sadness

a substitute for everything you should have felt
there is an emtpiness inside of you, a vast
pale space inside your chest
your breath can’t fill

iiii. (2013)**

you tell people you’re mending
not even you know what that means
sometimes you trace them
(quietly
and with closed eyes)

and there is only the white of your skin
and the press of your fingertips
and you breathe
and your blood keeps pumping

i.
you are the cruelest person I've ever
met but my heart still beats really
fast whenever I think about 
you. I'm afraid if I touch 
you I'll burst into 
flames again. my 
hands haven't stopped shaking since you
left and I never got to thank you for teaching me the meaning of the word
hurt. I found my 
poems at the bottom of your
garbage can and I still can't 
sleep alone. I 
kissed you a lot, and sometimes, you kissed me
too.  

ii.
your skin rings up memories of moonlight and 
granite, a gaping
desert lying open like
it's as vulnerable as
you when it gets
dark. you have a murderous look in your
eye but you never broke a hair on my
head, you saved every phone log of every time I ever
called you. i heard your last girlfriend got arrested for domestic 
abuse and you never wrote to tell me. did it
hurt you more than 
I could? I hope you found what you were
looking for out there and I hope you never
lose it unless you
want to. 

iii.
something about your
eyes makes me want to know everything about the middle of the
night, I watch you
move and I whimper inside my
head. I haven't touched you in what seems like two whole
lifetimes, if I ever even did at
all. I hope I can again some
day. years later and your music stillI makes my ears
raw. I hope that bullet didn't
hurt too bad, I hope 
it brought you the happy. I'm sorry I never
could. 

iiii.
we are a modern day romeo and juli
et, it took me two 
years to realize how lovely your
lips looked and I'm still wrecking 
barriers, I'm still 
damning christ. my best friend has made it
clear she does not want me as a 
sister. I wish they'd let me
love you because you, you are all I've got
left. I might be the bullet but I will never be the
shooter, I'll take everything on
myself. you are so fragile and i am so 
sorry.

WHAT SOMEONE TOLD ME:

You don't believe things because they make your life better, you believe them because you know its true.

WHAT I THINK?:

but isn't looking at the result of a belief a good way of evaluating it's true?

"so small as to be negligible"

Its strange, but there's something in that thought that makes me feel almost...free....almost.

I.
from one direction a voice is heard
the Word pours forth from the mountain
i hear the language of the birds
truthfully we converse often
they recount tales of passion
beauty and satisfaction
our mutual attraction is gaining energy
i feel the pressure building
its all consuming
like a waterfall it threatens to engulf me
and dissolve me in its intoxication
her scent is everywhere
a constant reminder of the divine
i am taunted by her essence
her fragrance and her spine
inflict mortal wounds
dare to hold her tight
if you do the energy of love
will overcome her
sweet innocence
bound to the intellect
essential qualities
of communication
sensuality
actualize presence
in feeling and form
i freeze
her beauty is numinous
surreptitiously blooming it almost fooled me
she took hold of my insides
it lingers near me
i sleep within her memory
can i shield myself from this surge of music
hunger and inclusion
an institution of feeling

II.
her eyes are furnaces
her breath vapor
never less than the totality
of liquid light crashes
fast and than slowly
the rhythm laughs at our feebleness
saturated innocence
bursting out like steam from coal ovens
simple ecstasy is my only hope
form is pain
a prayerful reminder of our impermanence
swiftly **** me and i shall dance on your grave
sledgehammers finish off the drudgery
some moments are pounding
others are cool like the crystal ocean
a depth and vision is necessary
i am in need of shelter from her fire
a muse that burns all that she inspires
a silent lover of beauty
furthering her art
between the spaces of dreams
our fingers slip into everything
and become tangled like twine
rest here and unwind your heart strings
the scintillating heat
is blinding yet rejuvenating
if you are my love then uncover your soul
give naked silence a chance to grow
surround my faithless jungle
with your vines of hope
i am conscious of the lack of rope
for happiness is binding
like kindness climbing invisible ladders
shatter the silhouette of your perfect idol
sneak a peak at a photograph you have kept hidden
silver visions destined to uncover
the lust of beauty
smiled in my direction
if we wish to dance then circle around the fire
aspire for magic to abolish your name
switch places with the shadow
and feel the earth with your skin
give us a reason for you to be here
or you better start swimming

III.
what is this feeling
of loneliness and shame
as it arises i witness our pain
like flaming eagles
it circles high in the sky
our instability gives rise to flight
you gave me the impression
that you were alright
now i know the difference
between the darkness and the light
as featureless women
become a formless sea
of instant gratification
is this the medicine i seek
our trials and tribulations are tripping me
every which way i reach
i feel you chasing after me

IIII.
never quite on time
we run always behind
i am dancing in flaming spirals
a feather high up in a tree
i am a shepherd and i am a chief
i am the river, the mountain and the sea
life gets hectic and full of noise
in the confusion we reach out for toys
to anchor us to reality
yet it never works
these childish games remain shallow
and keep us narrowly awake
barely alive
what a dismal dive
into lakes of cold liquid
refreshed by the water and the ice
somehow our humanity survives

i'm getting drunk off rain water.
it's been hiding in the gutter for hours.
along with the leaves and tree flowers.
i sing a song as i stumble down the street.
"and IIIII-I-IIII-III will always lo-uh-ve youu!"

it's true.

there's a string attached from me to you.
and hung from it are not-so-shiny stars.
spring has sprung, love is in the air.
i choke as i inhale the pair.
hands entwined with their pail white string.
what if i were to sprout wings?
i doubt i'd stay on earth for long.
i've always thought i don't belong anyway.
i tucked my heart away in a sock drawer.
that's the safest place i could think of.
i trace the scar with my fingertips.
another star fell down tonight.
this town never sees a thing.
i add the fallen to our stretched-out string.
i had a dream in black in white.
where i had caught a beam of light.
and i kept it safe all through the night.
all through the year.
all through my life.
and as i died, as all of us do,
the beam of light died too.

i used to think the beam was you.

i scream to the moon.
my rain strewn across the ground.
i found myself lying in my reflection.
i point my thumb in one direction.
hoping you will soon come pick me up.
i kick a cup left here by a stranger.
"danger", the smudged sharpie reads.
"love is", written on the other side.
i chuckle at the irony-smittened phrase.
i graze over my scar once more.
i swore to the sun i would visit someday.
i'd bring with me my hidden heart.
ridden with love the sun would burn up.
she'd turn my heart anew.
in it will be hope i knew had gone.
and happiness i had given up on.
i dipped the cup in the rain and took a sip.
i held the styrofoam lip to my own.
five fingers grip it tight.

love is danger, this i've known to be right.

i'm getting drunk off rain water.
and stumbling off into the night.

.i really didn't mind which side was going to win... it was pretty obvious in the snap general election, in england, this year, i would have been sold the Blairite mantra any day of the week... that old flavour panache... you won, yes... blah blah... that's the one thing i don't understand about such events... it's not enough to win something... you have to succumb to that brazen: gloating... if only there was a sports' like stoicism behind winning... a sense of decorum... perhaps that's why i didn't vote... i didn't want to succumb to the subsequent brazen gloating... the odd chance that i experience ego-tripping is enough: when i encounter some abstract cul de sac of vocab that will be written... but never entertain everyday formal conversations... but... this gloating... some people can never make it into a... richard federer moment... why would they... after all... politics... voting... imagine if all the cheers and chants in a football match were actually indicative of who was going to win the match... perhaps... they are... "in hindsight"... i.e. when there are only 10 seconds on the clock in stoppage time before the game ends... in politics that's how having won: gloating emerges... it's not enough to have won... one has to bask in it... just like those away fans... with the majority of the home fans having left with Elvis having seen the most erecticle-dysfunction thrashing.

today i learned that some very intelligent people
managed to construct an a.i. system
that would be able to finish beethoven's
symphony no. 10 - or, as a matter of fact:
that the computers did it!

i would applause this achievement...
but... i'm hardly going to...
i wouldn't even applaud had "my own"
flesh and blood - an organic exponent achieved this
feat! unless - he were a deaf man -
even then - relativism of some sort...

as i'm writing this i wonder:
what if these intelligent people managed
to construct an a.i. system that would be able
to finish off... Kafka's the castle?
should "we" celebrate such an accomplished:
should it ever come to pass?

a much harder undertaking...
and for all its worth, classical music...
rarely does it translate into something you
can whistle it...
rarely... and when you can: you barely can...
beside the interludes...
basically Bach's polyphony destroyed
the simplicity of classical music -
classical music? no wonder modern music
has to borrow the technicality of the event...

- could this be a Kierkegaardian style of meditation
or... dare i say it... Knausgårdian?
i frankly don't mind...
how much of my biography i will include
in this is beside the point -
like? do i think that for all their worth,
their grand narratives,
some people can still come off as slight?
i do not want to immerse myself
in how so many petty things
bind people together when being
stripped to find themselves beneath
celestial bodies and some disposable awe...
yawn at the stars and enjoy some
soap opera... get into the jungle petty
crimes... yawn at the stars...

this surely must have been written
from an underbelly...
by a turtle starving when being flipped
onto its shell... otherwise...

classical music and its complexity...
i tried to figure it out...
but i will rarely come to finding it
necessary to enjoy certain things...
classical music i will rarely enjoy -
especially if i have to think about it...

oh the glorious days when i thought
that thought was a pleasure in-itself...
now? this spaghetti monster with recycled
pieces of self and the christo-freudian
trinity layer-cake of ego, superego, id
of modernity...
i'm always somewhere, nowhere:
playing the cameo role...
i imagine a psychologist talking to me
armed with all these surgical "equipment" items
for my metaphysical surgery...
and i have no knowledge / consciousness
regarding each vector or enzyme or...
how i'm still, basically...
primordial in explaining myself via:
a pronoun, a verb, a noun, a conjunction,
and obviously a definite/indefinite article...

have i missed the point?
verb pronoun verb definite article noun?
tell me: what is psychoanalytical theory
staging, before the stage of grammar?
grammar is the father of all learning -
given that the mother is mathematics...
deviation from formal grammar must be excused
if this is at all to be even, remotely,
resonated in the ars poetica...

beethoven!
i can whistle about two or three extracts
from classical music...
the one, that i know of?
that resonates akin to la marseillaise...
and say... the british grenadiers' fife and drum...
and... that bit of beethoven's symphony no. 9...
ode an die freude...

no, i somehow want to stumble into
this egregious cliché -
try whistling to some chopin...
after all... chopin was in a contest with
liszt over who... would break a finger
while playing his centipede technicality...
what sort of woman would faint
what sort of matthew arnold would
go home and ******* in the dark
crying when seeing liszt perform live...

if you're taking a **** and then having a shower?
a few lazy moves of the fore! skin doesn't
even elevate the event to any "immediacy"...
as i once had it: *** pistons *** pistons...
it's fair game... but... after a while
and you haven't paid for it and *** is the glue
that weaves itself into your narrative
and there's talking after and...
god... looks like i was lucky...
my 20s? em... i don't know...
i "think" i was preoccupied with my psychosis
of meeting god... to which i'd reply...
you don't want to be looking for him...
nothing was said -
there was an angelic choir and a great
wind that dispersed it... while i was
running around in a church trying to figure
out 'a how' with regards to still being
the owner of an iPod and...
fasting... high of some variant of marijuana
they only serve in London...

plan? what plan? i'd say: don't go looking
for god: unless you're absolutely sure...
you'll only come back with clichés...

is it really music in those heads of theirs?
i mean the composers?
i hardly think they "think" in terms of melody...
it's not like you could write a polyphony
based externally on whistling...
perhaps a main theme...
like in ode an die freude...
there's a premise... but then?
pandemonium rapes the head of a ludwig...
and... they just keep adding and adding...
but none of it could be compressed
to a song...

thanks be to bukowski for pointing this
out... ludwig didn't frequent the parlours of god
(words) that often... rarely...
he only wrote one: Fidelio -
and it was only as a joint-venture with...
Arturo Toscanini...
because you can't exactly sing along
to classical music...
and if you don't enjoy classical music...
you suppose: the heart has to "think"
in order for any "thinking" by the brain
to be disengaged from: the sound of rain
falling on a tin roof and a piano crescendo
synonym...

is blurring out "thinking" from the brain
being stimulated by the minor fractions
of seeing and feeling in the grand sigma ****
of hearing - minor details -
you still need to feel and hear...
closing your eyes: perhaps...
but at least there's that abstract focus of:
"somewhere in the distance" with:
eyes wide open too...

very much akin to my current drinking patterns...
i don't remember the last time i drank
for the pleasure of being drunk...
christmas is here and i have some minor
responsibilities to take care of...
25mg amitriptyline and a biting event
with the naproxen... the whiskey is measured
like a prison tally... if i exceed:
IIII/ IIII/ by more than II...
i have a problem...
anything to curate this insomnia...

only when words are given access...
but i can't see why words would be necessary...
whether it's a stand-off of show-off
Faustian technicality between Chopin
or Liszt... or whether it's the completely
French stand-off between:
the only way to learn to play the piano these
days... is to find an allure of calm,
of stopping time... a delicate fusion
of... arranging a boquet of roses
while wearing sand-paper gloves...
Debussy "contra" Satie...

but this track of Beethoven's?
is it really such a terrible cliché?
top 3 tracks that have left a most definite
imprint in my head -
a cognitive tattoo... thank god for not
wishing for that sort of other branding
akin to a no. 1990869 from that infamous
of places... or... a ditto on my forehead...

- ode an die freude
- la marseillaise
- fife and drum

is this a clinical approach?
i'm almost certain there's no real thinking
in terms of sound when it comes
to composing...
i once had the rare opportunity
to spot a young composer in a cafe in London...
scribbling his...

ut queant laxis
resonare fibris... to be honest, i was jealous
as ever - but not in a way that:
i could be better...
and as i'm pretty god-**** sure...
he wasn't whistling or humming
alongside what he was writting...

braille is where i stashed this jealousy:
UT
⠥⠞
RE
⠗⠑

because trying to figure out the "thinking"
behind musical composition -
on a polyphony scale...
it's hardly a folk song mentality of:
the "easily remembered"...
but... again this can be achieved...
when a complexity unravels itself into
folk "sensibility" -
do i have to car-crash this sentence
into something simpler?

chemistry almost uses this "syllables"
of meaning... He: helium... Li: lithium...

and my what an honest hour!
i can finish a day well spent!
i did this that and the other...
i watched some alpine ski jumping
from engelberg... a polish athelete won:
kamil stoch... i still can't sing
the anthem: mazurek dąbrowski...
so i... felt... 0.001% of a shared cause...
it's a grey foggy distance in the back
of the mind... that can't compete with
someone's patriotism-in-exile
akin to a Czesław Miłosz...
more importantly... Liverpool won
the Fifa World Cup of Clubs playing
against a very tactical Brazilian side...
and you should have seen
the match-up between Flamenco vs. ...
in the copa libertadores...
who was it... besides the point: what a comeback!

needless to say... who are these "people"
who have started to become reckless
in their attempts to sell love?
this delusion of love -
this most abstract person: personna precusor?
for the love of: what's outside...
beside me - what i see and what i can
offer in it being shared...
never this magician's Pharisee act
of: what love is "sleeping" in me...
how my love is but a yawn should it have
to exist... like a tapeworm without
a wall of a small intestine of the host...
what is this love? this "hurting" -
can it ever please escape the orient
and its parasitical feeding via a haiku?

as no claim: "genius"...
that's the problem... the horde had an element
in it... hedwig... some constant that
could never change and remained
in part solipsistic - well...
a paradoxical solipsism...
multiple-personality disorder and...
the placebo effect of solipsism...
but all the other personalities knew of
each other... it's not like each personality
was oblivious to the other...
which undermines the concept of:
there is no conscious effort...
between switching...
which must be a harrowing experience
to pseudo- the whole experience...
narrowing it down to a thespian consciousness
that's only visible to a thespian audience...

how is it in writing? there is no voice involved...
have i reach a polyphony?
evidently there's a common theme running
through this piece...
but... is there a dialectical play in it -
how there's a grand coming "sigma"...
toward the concordant zenith?
if i were to say these words outloud
and have this little monstrosity -
this little demon whisper as the backdrop
in my thought:
i could not achieve a concordant zenith
as such...

i have already faced the unbelievable lie...
that somehow a bilingualism can be treated
as a schizophrenia...
isn't bilingualism, entrenched bilingualism
somehow not... the stated diagnosis?
why can't i solve crosswords
but find sudoku puzzles to be somehow
predictable?
i already have a crossword puzzle in my head!
and it's not based on a network
of the monolingual architecture that
solves crosswords with a thesaurus:
synonyms and antonyms and "insinuations"...

- mind you... did you mention that quote
from that polish neurologist?
'any one who claims you're mad...
are mad themselves'?
after all... isn't it a neurologist's word
over a psychiatrist's?
according to the latter:
my brain is still a chemical spaghetti soup...
my lexicon is a... salad...
might i ask for the meat... then?

- it can drive a man wild... knowing how
blind some people are...
but after a while... you just:
inhale... and release an onomatopoeia
of the most reclusive relief...
a sigh that's not a sigh... AAAAH...
to be able to walk down a street...
and enjoy the weather,
enjoy the passing-conversations...
the passing traffic...
the stench of a major city...
all of this... would be impossible...
if each man was to bump into
a replica of a Galileo (COPERNICUS!)...

what a dull place it would most surely be...
on a whim: entertaining petty grievances...
on the other: the hunger-strike martyrs for
justice... the philanderers, the sycophants
and their post-moralism bribe donors of
exclaimation marks!
or people like me... who chance upon...
an internalised rhetorical seanse vacation
after the day is done...
since... clearly: i do not have enough
time or money for a cork-lined room to
drum out all external noise...
or a listener with a rubber-ear akin to...
that same sort of fellow...

breadcrumbs from the altar...
where that meal is a ceremony of:
fed by the words...
the details inverted...
perhaps once it was charity...
better the charity to lie these days!

until it comes out by itself...
truth? what truth?!
trivia?! regurgitating scientific facts?!
that's it! or making blatant falsifications?!
i'd call it:
if there is a truth - i'll find it tomorrow...
and by truth and tomorrow:
if there's a truth - it's (a) tomorrow...
otherwise i'll face... death...
or perhaps i'll be cheated of it...
should i come across death in my sleep...
i can't imagine the sometimes
referenced obituary:
he died peacefully in his sleep...
that's as about as peaceful as...
when you sometimes wake up from sleep
because you've just had a nightmare...

this life is a nightmare...
let death be my sleep.

i

I speak my mind in rhyme;

Disintegrating evil on obsidian wings
hell bent Raven no longer sings...

Vaporizing hate, sin and greed
Devil's invasion fills our need...


ii

Raven responds in prose;


I am but a messenger, deliverer of terror, a dismal speck in a sea

of wrong doers. you all have created me with your deeds of

hatred. I am but an innocent bird that was born to sing of

love, freedom and hope.

I was chosen by evil itself, and now you destroy me with

your words, your interaction of good.



iii

I speak my mind in rhyme a second time;


You shall return back to the dust which you came

spreading your words of dread in the Devils name

you'll no longer bask in Satan's game...



iiii

Ravens last prose before his demise;


One day you'll see, it's not me, you're all doomed

I simply deliver what is asked of me. a hired hand if you will.

a deal made long ago with the shadows. the lurking darkness

for which i was drawn. in hindsight i shall never of landed in

the hand of evil, but.....

I
II
III
IIII
IIIII
IIIIII
IIIIIII
IIIIIIII
IIIIIIIII
IIIIIIIIII
­
a glass bottom boat
in central park
the snowflakes all
have your smile
(their mother
of the ice)
stirred her drink
with a finger
and fell asleep
in the sun

i.

your ribcage is not a ladder
for demons
to crawl their way up your body

ii.

your eyes aren’t black pits
in which everybody can see
every part of you reflected

iii.

remember that you are the only person
who can look in the mirror
and see you staring back,

iiii.

you cannot creep up on yourself

iiiii.

and just because blackberries
taste sweet
doesn’t mean they won’t rot
over time

iiiiii


It’s okay to feel like the roots
that anchor you
are mangled underground

i iii ii i i i i iii  iii iiiii  ii i iii
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I. The Black Eyed Peas.

I told you a fib.
It was six years ago
so I doubt you’d remember.
Regardless, during one lunch-break
on the cusp of summer,
a matter of weeks before
we all exploded away from each other
you somehow had your legs
wrapped around my waist,
an unusual unexpected embrace.
A joke.
We were teenagers
and we mucked around more then.
Pulling me in yet
you seemed to lose magnetism;
strange - you always shone bright,
your laughter coiling round the room.
I stuttered for too long,
barely delving under the surface,
missing the sparkle, your diamond delights.
You are miles gone.

----------

II. David Guetta.

Not enough.
A corridor, a sprinkling of minutes.
My head in a whirl,
as anyone’s would be.
Like a firework, your white tendrils
splattered across my dark sky.
I couldn’t even call it trying.
I fumbled my words
as if fastening buttons
with my lesser-used hand.
Falling deeper into filthy water,
unable to hear your eyes
or see your words.
A loss.
A bout of crushing shame.
You deserved more,
not my faulty lines.
It couldn’t have worked,
it closed with a groan
not a radiant shout of ecstasy.
What are you saying?

----------

III. Example.

The grand peak of my weakness.
A clumsy rush of flower petals
smothered inside grey paper.
I burrowed further than before,
the soil dusting my fingers
but no more than that.
Swinging in my chair
for another look,
spouting brittle jokes
that melted in the heat.
I knew what I saw and I liked it.
You threw slivers of something;
I caught them, a hopeless
unknowing scarecrow.
Time sneaked away from us.
Naturally - it happens.
Your name has never left,
a crash in the air
like the blast of a trumpet.

----------

IIII. Miley Cyrus.

I repeat myself so many times
I want to cough on my fingers,
chuck it all on the side of a wall.
Every adjective worn down
to a rancid pulp on the ground.
There were moments
fizzing with optimism, the potential
for colours to rush back in,
to drizzle across my page
and slap a smile on my face.
We know what happened.
The string grew in length
and snapped,
my body jerking every which way
as if attempting some dreadful dance.
There wasn’t a sigh,
more a sound of acceptance,
the knowledge that again
I had missed the mark,
a bullet leaving the gun,
screaming the wrong way.
It is over now.

I:
I stopped for breath;
It was earthy, the soil
Was putrid to the touch:
Death oozed out of the cracks
Of the river, bubbling unnaturally.
Life was naught where I roamed.
Squeezing the last drops out of the bottle,
My cracked lips groaned, the silence strangled my memory
Only the weak were erased that day.
Four years ago I think
She ruled herself with a spring in her step
Before the sludge, the acid sludge
Wiped her dreams away
And ushered in the sun of winter
To never see summer again.

II:
Speckled with dust I carried onward;
The terrain flashed with familiarity
As I stepped into the darkness of her home
If you can even call it that anymore;
Her smile is a deep crimson, the blood of the many
Line her barren wasteland. Sometimes I face the winds
Instead of hiding; but they bring those hollow, pale spirits
Ever closer. They only stop
To torment; their whispers perfectly pierce
And destroy the hope I once had.

III:
They tell me sweet nothings and extend their hands of absence;
I cower in the darkness to stop their screams.
The scimitar of radiant light cuts through the night
As I prepare to face the wasteland again.

Swallows, sloes and willows; gone are the days where
They lined the earth and made it smell whole again.
Now we lay motionless in dreams long lost
Lonesome as I was, the ghosts haunt where I once were.

IIII:
The path in front of me winds endlessly;
Shattered and incomplete, it beckons me
To wherever it decides to take me.
For I am naught in the wasteland;
I will wait for her to come back
But the sands of time are not on my side.

The son of Jung, Achilles

(This is after and during a second or third time through
Jung, by Anthony Stevens, via Hoopla brought to me by LAPL)

libraries with online audiobooks,
isn't that closer to perfect? Imagine
knowing CG Jung's dad was Achilles Jung,
epic, knowing that
back when only real, material-real, rich folk,

(they could not have known, but we can, on a smart phone)

of any sort of the many there were in the co-fusion's aftermath

much of the world may agree with things once hidden in tomes
being eaten by mindless worms, now

no known thing is secret, by right

truth makes free and it's a system.

dynamic
free true free true free

We ident-ify it or id

what ever I and d


these ids (letter i and letter d as a pre
fix identifying us, u'n'me but only I am re-alified,
set to iseate

(is-e-ate is individuation for an idea, this or that, which may be verbalized
prior to re-alization)

t' be for a while, as long as you wish, t'
be fixed ideas in the minds of all

minds culturally touched
by this particular
point of
been
as
in been there done that.

Time is nothing at all
like mortals think
ing no no nothing is re

alone is rare. For us, my pieces of the unum,

we are here as ever.
ever is our role.

guides are made
however, we have noticed a scarcity of read writers
aware of pin points of light expanding

on the walls of his nursery window, nur turer, real mmmmm

screen
really must we be limited forever is ly lying as in

acting positive while being negative and being

entangled
in your self for ever, never for now,

you don't know how.

do you?
ex
per
ienced, per se, are ye?

be yond. yes. be

yond. practice makes perfect, bact to the top

erie canalic real

tote that veil, hide that barge
camptown lasies sang some songs

wrong, as did the ******* minstrels
and gamblers and bedroll
cowboys and hobos
and plain bums,
like us.

You were curious. Does yellow mean anything
to you?
Murrillo, with y's for ll, maybe? ¿ se?

--- un told stories ---

none remain, in re al ity, if we agree

nothing is ever impossible, even
for sapiens sapiens, how much
more, the us in the unum

previously pluribus,
scatter-brained,
that is.
id est, at its best. Muse.

Homeostatic balance,
hot to cool, cold to warm

round and round
twisted in the middle
by Van Allen's belt, or Orion's?

I never asked. I could,
right now I COULD WISH SO BAD THA I'D

not notice allcaps from the teenage wasteland,
(mea culpa, I bury all my misses there, take one, free)
as I,
the grown up number two, I mean,
I was saying I could stop this flow, interefer, dam it

I could ask Google and follow ath
the real thing either real or
otherwise, yet

wise, still.

How well will we be? Should we not

agree, un agree disperse the mob?

become a one, with a mind
we may share, at will,

reason, count, measure, make, see, seek how, find how, learn how

now,
why are you a ware of me while I am
ware of you.

An unread, unspoken spell. What the hell, right?
What the chaos, entropy, dis
integrate
wash away, mud to dust to twisting spirtis seen dancing

dust, this highest part of the dust of the earth,
time will tell, the physician must heal himself.

---
the art of letting things
haps
hap
pen, pen or ready-writer mode,
we can do this, but we must

be leaving the ality re all o'this reality.

And it has been fun, un done
fun is never the final goal.

be yond that. Search okeh. It was
intentended in tension-ality

to be the key we
as u me mist

when we
lied about being
experienced in the comunicito, (wee ity bity)
do you know of
the transfiguration, I was asked that

southside of Sunset at Laurel Canyon, by
that TV kung fu cowboy guy's dad,
Carradine, the old man,
from scary movies,
circa 1960.

that was fun. it happened. nobody noticed,
but me and the elder Carradine.

Real, as best as my memory just
ifies me right there,
that day, there
is where

this point was proven to be
memorable, a point
of a pin, 'pon whose head
merry messengers make nothing of
darkness, shadow, thin light.

Member be, re member
we see you saw
re all ity-ness is fun, if you find time to do it.

Typical assumptions of a man born in his time
and so
cial class. Social, is that a joke?

Follow me, don't be ignorant of a fine refined use,
right use of ordinariable words which have
born the burden of the ages

patiently, awaiting meaning,
on your scale,
the me as sure of the other in the unem,
the measure of a man, any
old man, still standing

under all the knowing Eve ever knows,
hope and time and all this took.
The price of knowing,
is the knowing, learning is easy

At home by right of being, we are such
beings, in a word, two if you reason there is
measurable ratio twixt
iiii in and am out, yamiyam ah yeh

we do. Allatimenolie, my will. The inside
the numinosity of being

me and you in the midst of all we may imagine real,

no, hell, yesses, hell is still a joke you never want to play.
ax Mr. Boo, he was my guide in Bangkok

read the reports, they are more,
nevermind, let's not let the

lie live here. the the right man thinking this thought
at this time, right

Each magi's knowing is the only knowing he can share,
without playing I pious fraud and naming it
legion, re
legion ligated to ob la dee and dah?

Joke, jest, foolish jest. Not my best but better'n
never imagi-ing  bein' good at all.
Good for nothing but
being possible
ly
good to the sense-if-ative troglodytes

with one lit window on reality. It's funny. POV. Seriously

lighten up
you putin me

beyond your grasp… winsome, alas