"I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe" ~ Sir Philip Sidney

The petulant dwarf stood to see better her vocals were clear over the system each moment clapping the ear with one hand peevish South Asian brat, does glass shatter each time to reassemble the image tulle in the shape of a long beard, no scam unless they take the man to apprehend leftover of a bygone era, stone age Neanderthal sits back down, no pudge no knowing if he eats, or just breathes air take a moment to dream, a sādhu caught dwindling by the second, beard of coir war of the strands, black, white and gray, none straight arrives only to disappear, how vain radio frequency within the field forms alternating electric currents stone age, rail-thin sādhu, why do you look take in the whole context, a viola or a violin, a fiddle, a fest or a concert, a festival of dance dance dance, the sheep man asleep, out of luck tormented by others, all the roosters out of order, while life moves pretty fast sentient beings, all Buddha, drink milk everyone, everywhere is Go...

This man you want to fuck with, not at all how you choose, how you try, why do you care in this world, hurt people hurt inside out shit happens but with no need for ill will many survive, no struggle and no strife as each day comes and goes, they aspire neither too high, nor too low, feel the boot you taste leather and steel, what is the point observe this man, he wrongs no one, why chafe under the rub of rules you understand warn you not to run up against, why break against the wind, to change what in the end nobody bothers with because the brook turns this way, why reroute the drowned Hellespont torture learned, why commit to memory observe this man, he follows what is right fuck not with the ugliness in your mind understand what you seek is plain scary cold, sociopathic behavior lacks kindness, loving-kindness, this life you wrote witness your original face, displace ideas of harm, the alarm set to call the police for no good reason, this cell home for lifetim...

I am sorry but I do not believe in love as an anarchist and an atheist, I wait mostly for revolution or my final breath so much for politics or my own death, I live on my own terms with my own decisions, this life remains absurd as the futility of war raw images of death and destruction, a broth yellow with yolk for egg drop soup yet red with blood bitter almonds, dark blue enamel, cyanide until next time, when we meet up again in France to remember all the lives lost to fascism I do not know if you have read The Little Prince do I care if you speak words full of sarcasm only if you do harm as you do when you bleed not now, honey, you can see I have a headache only if I could run away, this world is hell to pretend it is all a dream is delusion believe what they tell you to think, I see an oak each to their own in the grand scheme of things but time leaves nothing but sweeps away specks of dust, too small invisible to the naked eye, a lesion emerges on the surface ...

for Amanda I wanted to tell you that I love you wanted to tell you just before we left and I would never talk to you again never is a long time, what could I do ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years essentially, a child, I am bereft decisions based on emotions, no gain tortured by my older brother, to think only if I were an only child, tears tell the world of consequences, sorrow each time I look back at my childhood, sad literature would make me a sparrow little boy in London, never glad, mad yes, angry and insane, I need a drink only I go for a run, or just sit under the linden tree and meditate that you may have laughed at a little boy how a little girl in her playhouse lit a match to remember a memory to remember an event past its date I remember disgrace without much joy love is sacred, honest and true, not lies only to suffer loss in a story versions of the truth tease their way to light emptiness is what is missing, long gone you appeared for a momen...

Must be nice to be beautiful and young Maybe, decades ago, I felt the same understanding my future self as mind still as a placid lake, I ache to feel terrible at best, is it all a scheme believe in grains of sand, all seem alike each individual falls on command neutral tones in the fall, only a fool ignorant in folly, wisdom keeps bliss censoriously at arm's length, a lake emerges from below, everywhere calm torrential rain, nobody cares, puddles overwhelming the land, muddy golem better to connect, play ping-pong, paddles engage in symbolic combat, I bless beautiful typhoons in the Pacific empty the mind, palpable as the wind access to the breath of life before death unbelievably naive, in effect timorous as a hanta virus mouse if I could tap a top hat with a wand full of the idea of magic, a tooth underneath a pillow waits for money left in exchange for faith as to amaze answer me why AI sits in a tomb not unaware of the news in Le Monde different but n...

This body, in fact, always in motion however, this is but an appearance in fact, motion is simply perception sensation, cognition, and devotion belief in the dimensions of space-time override the suspension, in a trance deceived by delusions, this deception yellow journalism would call real life indeed, not off the mark but a true crime not to realize what is illusion forget for now how the real world appears as you sit on the train, an intrusion comes from the emergency door, the gears turn to comprehend this matter of strife alright, you are alone except for harm listen, hurt people hurt people, watch out ways to stop a sticky situation ask for assistance, set off the alarm yes, the other is real and a danger strangers everywhere come and go, to shout ignorant words will do no good, station necessarily, near the doors to leave maybe all of this is a dream, stranger on the threshold, at the limit of sense time, in a linear sequence, unfolds in the mind of a bu...

A Couple of Polish Country Bumpkins After the wall fell in the east, the flood considering the samizdat culture ordinary literature fell out under the circumstances, did I brood ponder the wealth of censored dissidents language reflects the mind of the vulture elicit satori as the wolves pout old men never wrote of the Resistance fought in Warsaw, or helped fight, in some sense Poland, after World War I, the Great War old lands reclaimed, regained independence land grab centuries ago by three stones institutions as kingdoms out for blood shelves of history books, written by crones how they shape the future, all for the good countermeasures taken, settle the score ordinary men rise above the past until the powers that be criticize nations through ideology, three crones try their best to design the die they cast rolling through history, men disappear yet the news writes nothing about the rise business acquisitions by dissolved stones umpires decide the fate of n...