Expectations

Blood run down centuries finally found in today's young men is damned.
DNA floods and wants its' family tree to grow, its' seeds purposefully sown,
given to live in the streams it's delivered, flowing as a continual river.

Ancestors of whores were sold by their fathers to the best buyers.
A hymen was a tested seal of freshness; were it absent the deal's undone,
the daughter a wastrel and no gained son.
No man, not one wanted to waste his funds on a spoiled product.
Now a man whoremongers daughters who're NBO no longer.
An easy lay is the highest romantic aspiration in the western nations.
Winning with twins at an inn is a double score.
Who dares ask for more?
Mo' lasses laid, legs splayed forthwith with width for their only lover,
ready to become mothers as owed in old betrothal's convenient nuptial covenant rituals,
than modern legions of lady collegians who are so wet for debt they race against regret
to win their bellies from would-be infant company.

Every date is a gamble at the slots, a lottery ticket bought.
Try before you buy is the marketing strategy hopefully succeeding in bringing breeding to vacant wombs.
Soon some rooms are rented but they're not protected nor parented as no contract backed the temporary merger.
Dowries are still paid but they've been made larger and post-matrimonial.
How could a girl, long-forgot maiden-knot broken with a vow unspoken,
now bring more than disloyal strife to the role of wife?
Self-control shunned, naught but openness known,
what fool anticipates temperance to be learned at home?
A collector may as well feel elated picking up a coin long circulated though the mint's printing condition can't be returned.
Word has spread so buyers dread signing the dotted line below which fine print reads:
a woman's needs limit your property to the half she charitably leaves
and any son he sires will become a stranger only touched by income.

In ancient times this desert clime was a merry marital riverbed.

Forget Tomorrow

Thank your lucky stars.
Your generation has it better than ours.
We had to hang out in bars:
in the mists of smoke,
with regular customers as coworkers
(on the labor of numb)
and beers as friends.

Nowadays speak easys have given way
to still-picture forums
for a new round of youth
whose hope too was stolen.

Find peers to cheer you, where and while you can.
Such are the lots of the common man.

Before the Shadow

After a 2011 Tartus Port poured into my goblet I drank deep as Tartarus.
Dread rolled past my tongue, causing my lungs to shiver as from a winter breeze or the teasing touch of fingertips cold as bone.
I swallowed lamentation, silently gagging on the smell of iron, smoke, and charred meat.
The festive feast on our long table is festooned with the silence of men who left too immediately for an awareness of their departure to appear.
Intelligent gossip slides from derisive lips and hides its' hushed meaning in the seams of this eternal campaign season.
The words are smeared with din and quite like smokeless fire unraveling the matter it travels through.
I can not make out the words but I recognize the tone ringing through me in a shudder-inducing cacophony: contempt.
Waves rise in invisible tides through us.
They share the flavor of the wine we're served, recognizable from its' aftertaste of massacre.

Runt of the Litter

A wittle fluffy puppy
homeless shelterless alone.
Any attention paid
is a thrown bone.

A passing lady,
groceries in hand,
coos at the corgi
and he misunderstands.

Tongue outstretched,
he brings a can
to play fetch
with a turned back.

He chases, he follows.
As she ignores him,
he whimpers his sorrow.
She closes her door.

Dirt from outdoors
matts his fur.
She won't welcome
a stray claimed by none.

After

Have a care:
I can't stand to stare in your glare.
The bloom of light bleeds white through all shapes 'til I'm sightless on scapeless space.
I close my eyes and the lids are too thin to keep these particular waves from getting in.

Now hidden in the dark, my mind's dimmed.
Memories display replayed simulacra of the bright recesses which blessed me with receiving a viewing.
I couldn't keep witnessing yet I'll keep believing.

Unveiled

My heart is worn
with love's flow.
Here it was,
there it goes.

To feel eros in error is worse than dumb silence or numb blankness.
We toil and leisure in gloom when the clouds hang thick and no pinprick
of that celestial giant can be seen.
Were the cost to keep her eternal winter,
nocturne never quite turning to day,
I would walk that way with a smile.

To learn the belief -mutual adoration- on which your joy was built,
was false, by the discovery of a dagger's chill hilt, and know:
long ago she chose another (if ever she selected ye) so the pleasure
you felt was a phantom, a false reality's illusion,
is to find each glimmer of joy thereafter suspect.

Keeping Company

While Autumn air pinched us with frost,
I told my cousin of my girlfriend.
She was a different breed:
one on whom I could depend.
She had the love I need.

Where leaves descend to die,
my cousin and I,
shared in tales of women,
with beer-wet lips.

I said how she was loyal.
He said how his was faithful and each of us thought in silence.
Those moments, for which I'm grateful,
crystallize as powdery dew on bark's dark side,
in a mind grey with age.

My girl was too shy to display her love publicly.
It was something too personal to bare before any witness but me.
Less joy I had known, less warmth I could conceive, 'fore her's was shown.
Hands worn from a day's chopping, muscles torn, she massaged the weariness away.
My body barely settled in its' chair before a hot meal was laid there at our table.

His girl was his lap-warmer.
He would fall on his couch from a salesman's day of walking.
Then his boots were gone and her arms encircled his shoulders.
She'd hear his jokes and they'd share a laugh.
He loved to light candles and join her bubble bath.

The wind pressed us, trying to enter our thoughts.
We enjoyed recalled feelings for a while more.
Finally we rejoined everyone.

The Imbalance of Power

Efficiency is an enemy of redundancy which's why there's a discrepancy between superior and popular decisions. For every rethought belief which can correct errors requires idle time. If it's made up, why change your mind?

Ambassador

The men I was sent to, who I'm to pretend I'm a friend to, Arcadians, have become genuinely beloved.
My smile cuts further inward than my split face to a lightless place tears are spilled.
I pat Ambassador Ilthua on the back and nod as he leaves, rod in hand.
He believes a treaty will be signed between his kind and mine for fewer trade and travel restrictions.
Truly, the army is already on its' way.
I swallow and hear the stomp of rows of sandled feet clomping down the street.
300,000 footmen march through the Temal Straights with archers, riders, and chariots besides.
They will accept no surrender. They will see no Arcadian survives.
After lunch I am to be attending a meeting of dignitaries discussing nothing in particular.
I've forgotten my stomach.
In a bejeweled hall I am the only flesh and blood man living and standing surrounded by specters.

Reliably Arable

August's auspices foretold a fell field.
Yet young husbands must hoe and hope for good yield,
though the frost has cost much and market prices bust.
Nothing grows in the stubborn soil.
It looks good to sow but is a swindle.
He'd thrown his savings into the dirt and nothing raised from the fallow earth.
Naught was given for working, for buying, nor as a gift.
His spirits would follow them were wheat shares to lift.
What's saved from last year would now be sold at a loss.
There's no time to spare as his wife grows ill.
She eats too little and the babe sups too much.
As a child, the farmer dreamed of sweet vittles, bunches of carrots spilling out
basket tops, potato spuds stopped at the horizon, onions as big as a man's head.
A chill wind spins dust.
The fresh farmer coughs.
The season of innocence was rent by parenthood.

Cobbler

Hacked together from spoilt meats,
lively as boiled peeps,
this beast never wakes and never sleeps.

It slakes its' thirst, if thirst it has,
on the worst, only the bad.
Swindlers, killers, rapers -all thieves.
It sees its' victims guilt.
Their souls come free with ease.

None know blood was spilt.
After murders -no, executions
I clean the waste profucious.

Inaction's an Option

I wish they were
ever.

Cycling,
piped water,
volts via wires,
veins of blood,
the very galaxy, vacuum-sealed,
motion/information within a thing
not escaping.

Were a worm to turn its' silk to shield its' flesh while it changed its' ilk and afterwards, a moth emerged, with silent strokes of delicate wings it flew 'til its' white spans were tore by a boy who happened by, so crippled, feeling flying as a pain, the ripped fool felt it should have left its' shell a man, it would harmonize.

Though (a flow / a force) trans the thing, the thing does not trans.

Butthurt over Viral Buzzwords

Whelps quelch out sins: "u mad bro"s and "epic win"s.
I really hope you don't do this.
If you don't speak like my peers, you don't know shit about english.

Self-Destruction as a Defense Mechanism

A pink hunk of coil-tailed ham waddles in its' pen to a patch of mud.
It flips, flops down, rubs the brown muck about its' body and chortles contentedly.
Why not stand above this stinking pit, marred with fleas and rotting shit?
Why not trot on past the watered hole, why lay in it to have a roll?

So long as the hogs trod the Earth these pigs live in dirt.
Why work to ascend in the press of the pen though thou wert wort?
A sow may stand now above the topsoil but her sweetness will be drained from her mashed remains.

Each heaving, heavy-breathing boar-spawn is squeezed out with feces, carries excrement as it lives, and decomposes when its' cells succumb to the fecundity of hungry fungi, bacteria, molds, and other agents ever-present.
Why then not embrace the waste?

Swine line up to dine on their dying, leftover edibles from man's tables, and beat goats famed omnivorousness by choosing to eat that at which a settled doe won't bleat.
Rather than endure the bestial stress of this savage contest let's look to the swine frolicking in filth.
See their smiles, hear their laughter, ignore the smell.
If a body is like a shell for a soul, a cup for a liquid, a part for the whole, an OS for a computer, then it can become a cell for an ingrate.
Then let madness: relishing the horrific, be these piggies defense.

Haunted

Chords resonate then calm.
Stimulus stops yet the mind still hears.
Quiet can't snuff a psalm.
Music turns a mind: it steers.

A gorgeous note long ago left is reread, as the engraved name on a tombstone where pollen has blown and vines have grown, so its' missed musical syllable may sound afresh if only mentally, in memory.

Relief

Sunlight washes the shoals seeping heat into my soles which bound above shells'n shale.
Beach-breath tousles straws stuck in sunk star-emblazoned plastic cups.
Laughter lifts from lungs to face, escaping into the ether, waving into space.
Monochrome bikinis scarcely contain tanned and oiled swells, jostling for freedom throughout a game of volleyball.
Jokes, sketches, numbers, poetry, and initials graffiti the single bathroom stall.
I rush to mightily hose down the toilet with kidney-filtered Sprite.
A weight leaves me.
Everything's right.

Release

A slab of slate cleft from the cliff's face fell and grabbed his arm.
His beard itches, sweat stings his eyes with salt, and sandy air dries his throat.
Traffic to the trapped arm slows. It tingles as the supply of blood stops.
With a terrific thrashing he attempts to wrench his elbow out from under the rock.
His planned trip's travel has been road blocked.
With what little strands of moisture his saliva glands spare he prepares to wet his throat and call for help.
He swallows.
He yells and the voice echoes, taking on the tone of stone, then he wallows in this failure.
Wind blows pebbles loose off the horizontal menhir.
He imagines his fingers aren't trapped as they were and tugs on his arm.
Bare skin tears, wears from scraping, bleeds, splats the tan humanweight with thumbs-width circles of red, paling in the sun.
He rests.
He unzips his jacket, unclothing as much as possible.
He tests for feeling and finds he can't sense the invisible hand he hopes is underneath the landslide.
Something hopping amongst the poppies perks his ears.
Someone else!
Hurting his thirsty throat, he roars,
"over here!" and
"I'm stuck!"
He's caught up in hollering. It takes awhile for him to calm down, his smile to fade, and the indifference of the desert's sounds to soothe him.

Bright Sky Blues

Seasonal woe is a foe that comes and goes.
Perennial lament is a resident.
Grief is sent away so cheer may stay here.
Troubles pass and joy lasts.

Immoge

Shades slide over the east plain's green grassy valley.
Clouds cast dark patches over the gold-rimmed hills.
Soft dawn dew distills the sun's strong rays.
Wind scrapes the shoots of grass, bending them to its' will, beheading them.
Loose grain shifts through cracks in the cupping wind, falling, planting.

Eyes storm with tears.
Lids, brows, cheeks, and mouth crease in a vain attempt to shut out the pain.
Her body quakes.

Ash ascends in the vapory shimmer of smoke.
Unsatisfiable hunger h/eats a dress darkening with ember infections.
A ribbon wilts and a tiara melts in the glowing warmth.
The ribbon reads: honorary mention.

Makes Sense

Cherry-topped pink strawberry ice cream is a moment's cause to smirk.
Again the sun sags over her shoulder, behind, as is her work.
Sprinkles dapple the ample sample of whipped cream cresting her desert like the flirt-enhancing freckles on her apple-shaped face.
Once more the door opens, ringing like a church, a bell telling all's well like a wall sentry, yapping a calm proximity alarm with its' clapper.
The waiter offers a refill too late to get a good tip.
Time senselessly slips away.
Many thumb-typed correspondences carry on while the warm turns cream less dense:
glaciers melt into a milky pond.

A Mule

A shiny new car encourages a thrall.
Credit bubbles pop; troubles stop his smiles.
The dusty used car's returned.
His daily commute shoots directly into the city center's main vein.
Public buses transport this metropolitan citizen to the last bastion of commerce in a storm: civic service.
Reforms, curses on prosperity spoke by suit&tie wearing wizards, transform billions of debt-units into trillions, workers into criminals and beggars, the starving into the dead.
In his head, the costly ride lost to wage freezes was an escape from daily mediocrity.
Free from the media's opiate glamor, eyes open, he'd see: without the liberty to hold the reins of his property, the most luxurious sports car is an injurious slave ship.

Asynchronous Clock

Steam pulses through an iron train.
Hisses and sighs set a refrain.
A lady covers her face in scorn.
Ex-miners panhandle to cover lost bets.
Bandannas haven't been enough to filter the air lately.
Pollution wounds dainty lungs like her's.
Coal coasts like pollen and deposits there.
Oil drips from the hydraulics as blood from a cut.
The conductor screams; he has lost his wits.
He saw a fright but won't say what.
Invisible horrors come from the abyss, jutting.
Dr.Jones prescribes the conductor rest with a wet washcloth.
Ladies-in-waiting titter in their posh clothes.
Who'd expect to see such a spectacle?
Two ticket-counters carry the mumbling man to bed.
It's probably opium what turned his face so red.
Ahead the rails were shelled.
The wheels rebel.
The train derails, spills, wavers, piles.
Survivors tremble immediately after.
Much later gentlemen pale and the dainty ladies-who-wait faint at the remembrance.
Sometimes, a man foresees his future.

Inert

Pink pearls are pulled on far shores next to shining sand-embedded shells.
Tides tug and rub with sand.
Bubbles popping on waves' lips shift through wet sediment.
Patterns are multitudinous and complex beyond recognition.
Patterns're firm as cement.

Cintare

Lights display in the night's skies.
Orbs overhead form mysteries from the gilt-framed fragments bedded in mass conscience.
Military? Alien? Wind causes clouds to stray but the luminaries never sway; they stay
in formation.
For many evenings after it had begun the portent of unknown import hung in the thin cold home of dark matter.
Then they were gone.

Non-Transferable Value

He sits signing autographs for the mass of fat acne-backed bespectacled bearded men.
Cancer gnaws on his prostate and he takes a smoke break, face pale as the cigarette wrapper.
An interviewer catches him outside and asks about a denied affair.
He hides inside the convention hall.
Every vlog-jockey knows his face; it isn't fair.
The cigarette hisses its' death-rattle in a lemon-scented urinal.
The fans don't care about how shaky his linework has become.
He returns their smiles.
The showfloor roars with scores of visitors but he doesn't notice.
To him it's quiet.
Strangers' enthusiasm, which used to excite him so, now's ignored, as he thinks on how he'll go.
Like a distant planet in a cold black universe, there's a ball of bitterness within him.
Never before had he such grandeur in his mind! Amazing ideas abound -demanding to be shared.
But he'll be put down before them.
His manager says it's time to attend the panel.
Security guarded hallways channel him to meeting room A's back entrance.
He's expected to speak for hours.
He doesn't want to say a sentence.

Scheduling Depicts

Immense meteors soar over Earth.
Plagues prey a sneeze's reach away from infirm seniors and vulnerable newborns.
An old van slowly circles outside streetlamps' impotent warding light, purring, nearer a bleary-eyed babe, drink-blushed, curled in a friend's parent's car.
Mere hours buffer retreating scrappy killers and army-bred Americans.
A warning word, a gut feeling, instinct reeling, senses shouting, a moment's doubt, and the divides of Chance&Luck space death and lifetimes.

Finite Sailing

Shark fins part the dark waters we swim. Circling
the shadows lumber larger beneath white waves. Gathering
gaping maws reek of rancid meat,
rotting between rows of teeth.

This shifting square of ocean air will mark our graves.
Our boat floats above a beautiful emerald reef.
In this game there are no saves to roll master chief.

They bash our boat with stupid primal charges no shore in sight or flares to light,
our barge bulges, tilts, dented,
no emergency rescue or harpoon.
Friends await afar to meet anon
but death comes soon
glee-faced and beady-eyed.
When the fight joins they'll chew us to bits;
our legacy in this sea will be two shark shits.

Thrown overboard by the latest lurch I search for the deck.
Knives shred my arm!
I feel stinging cooling bicep
[He paddles in bloodied water,
screaming while large bodies press against him from below.
Frenzied, they rend him thoughtless.
He's (jerked {underwater) tackled} -tangled in fishing lines.
A tacklebox knocks out dread.
Froth churns, turns red...]

Slouches Publicize Private Wounds

I hide beneath tattoos.
You embarrass me publicly, "get in the car".
The blues are a bruise.
"Why're your nails black?"
Depression's a scar.
I dress like a thief to be as seen as a star.
I mar my face with metal cleaner than my clogged pores.
Vampiric, I lick to taste the iron bolted through my tongue.
I could dress any way but you only think of your young son to worry if he's gay.
Awkward as they may be, at concerts I find my we.

There Oughtta be a Law

During the commute home I drove behind a truck laden with dry grass and/or some other vegetable matter. Behind it a trailer swung with a tree. It didn't really swing but the description reads nice, yeah?
I was wary of this truck. It was leaving alotta space infrontof itself so I wanted to pass it anyway but also, nothing strapped these plants down. The back end of the truck was open, ungated. With only their weight keeping them on you gained the impression a sudden enough brake or acceleration would throw a tree and company at the left lane behind this truck. Pileup.
To amuse myself (gotta do something during traffic) I thought, "there oughtta be a law..." implicitly against such a situation. That the trucks shouldn't be allowed to drive except in the right-most lane. Those people drive too slow to be looking forward to living.
In summoning this thought I became conscious of an association I already had: laws are the refuge of people uncomfortable with the awareness of their own decisiveness. Despite the fact I preferred not being behind cargo suspect in its' security I remained in my place. If I believed a crash a likelihood rather than a distant possibility I would leave the lane. The options were available to me and I had chosen. Speed and danger go together. Better both than neither.
Such a situation can't be relegated out of reality by legality. No motion by congress will relieve the populace of being aware they have made discomforting decisions. But by externalizing the process of decision-making people are more secure within themselves.
In a way, preference for a stronger state is a preference for a prominent external division versus an internal one. Part of us wants one thing, another part of us wants a different thing, our motivations clash and we're not sure what's the optimal decision. Will we regret doing this? Would it be better if we had? And the option, the ability to switch, perpetuates this state of unease. So long as we could do something different the way currently untried is a temptation. Some men love the state, even as they hate it, because it settles arguments in themselves.
The want to silence opposition is similar. However outlandish or wrong an idea is: once you have taken it in, it's in you. An oppressive rule muffles certain opinions, making it easier to remain ignorant of beliefs contradicting your own. States prevent communication. I mean not person to person as much as segment to segment, clique to clique. States let us understand each other less. We feel finalized.
The consensus is that freedom's a burden and bondage a relief.

Dissipated into Nothing

I hear the echoes fading
-far off sounds swallowed by the chairs:
near the carpet (in darkness) where senses don't reach.
Noise is the thing silence will impeach.

The empty crowd is calling.
A house kept clean for machines
bars the living crickets chirping with wings.

Pale shadows perpindicular to their origins,
light tries to penetrate but sins;
it's stopped by the opaque, reflecting and refracting.

Is light endless, moved yet unending?
Does light have limit like life?

Ineluctable

Green cornfed lake,
clouds arrayed around their sunny lord,
bitably ripe and designated red,
hissing subterranean flame-spring,
useless incomplete assembly.

Redecorating

Rotted wreaths ring the king's halls' candles,
the largest sheds its' needles above the mantle,
green pine leaves pop in the chamber fire,
stacks of wrapped gifts sit unadmired.

The grandest wreath sheds its' dead leaves atop the mantle,
it was full of bells, cinnamon sticks, and red ribbons,
'twas placed against the cracked brick quite gentle,
where a princess sips tea and sups bon-bons.

This wreath was full of bells, cinnamon sticks, and red ribbons,
the decorator took the baubles out and soon will toss the wreath,
the princess offers her candy to her youngest sibling,
then stands and leaves the fire's heat.

The decorator brings things from the country and further,
new paintings to hang in the halls,
new candles to light up the walls,
new arrangements with which to bother.

Possessing

Your degree of ownership is determined by your ability (directly or through proxies) to cause harm.

Then Exploding

two burgers, two brats
two shots, two beers
with dear friends
under fireworks,
alighting in the night like spaceships heading for the stars.

Not Even Krunk

He told me he hit a rough patch, covering a path so weathered it stretched like bubblegum, all the sweetness chewed out. He continued and said above a flatland wider than middle America was a visage which contorted horribly the happier it was made to be. The only detail of his story I wanted to know, was why?

Blowfire

A rabble of lepers gather, mouths garbling under ratty raiment, to propagate their hateful illness to the rest of us.
City elders had not the sagacity to foresee this company's coming.
The army ranks swelled and the sick were felled but naught will be well anon.
Reeking bodies, raked aside, poison the air where infirmity rides ill winds to deposit (hidden) inside victors' lungs.
Those who fought to stay the plague bring it through our gates.
Our walls are no barriers, our soldiers no safe keepers, our leaders no problem solvers.

Fatherless Day

Two new fathers
I'm far from one
still young
with work to be done.

Babies flow like honey
supping milk-form mummy
clothed in daddy's money
crawling on fat tummies.

The widows winnowed from husbands
lead men on
they don't want replacements
they don't want to be alone.

Hobby

Loaded, locked, safety off a rifle is a grown man's blue safety blanky.
It's hot as a handmade holster or silencer, flat black or matte gray: shiny machined lightweight weaponry.
They're works of art; simple ridges and minimal lines style fine profiles.
The opposite #, armor, gets medieval with dragonscale, good enough for generals but none for all the jarheads.
Tracer round casings tinkle, tumbling through the air, sunlight sparkling sharply.
Blaming the tool thoughtful fingers pulled is a (cop [out) as San Fran's fannie].
No fellow should be zen with them citizen-harming firearms.

Foreswore

Spiderweb veins in the wrinkled old mountain dragged assembled pellets of rain to the lumpy hills and blend with soft white expanses.
The smallest quirky clockwork gear grinds slightly with every spin, in sleep locking teeth, and the many-toothed tiny gears' motion allows the larger gears to function. Every part must be played in circuitous sequence for the pendulum to swing.
An over-filled glass carried by a drunk, the ocean sloshes towards one continent's coast then another's, back and forth, left and right.
The accrued drops' actions cause some variation in the oceans behavior. Choose a minimum position from the froth to stand at and standing there for the same minute in each day's cycle observe the water sometimes reaches and sometimes does not.
Our emotions bleed through our contacts, coloring our moods like celery sucking up blue die in a food-coloring-tinted water glass.
Lightning-strike cracks in the glass from differences in pressure let seepage spread.
Ideas roam as cattle through our minds, foraging for their feed, and what has died in us before now provides their supper.

Hobo during Prohibition

Dis here distillery will sooth ye, drain away the pain plain upon your face, have a taste. A drop of white lightnin has a mighty power to right wrongs. When my boy was runnin a truckload the police unloaded without so much as inspectin his trunk. What they didn't confiscate I drank. Hate to let good booze go. They demanded I show them all my stills, insisted I desist and cease. After they drove off I drank til I felt deceased. Alky-hall-ism's a disease we's always had in my family.
Atleast my boy went in modern days, in cleaner ways. Back in the day, a man may feel cold steel steal his breath with the seal of a sword's edge. Or at the start of things, the cops would lift large stones honed to sharpened spear tips and slip them in past your skin, bust your guts wide open buddy. Ya see, an electric chair don't sound so bad now, do it?
Alright, maybe your life's all gravy and ya don't need this tumbler like this bumbler that I am. Heh, maybe you're a tea towler and can't slam them back like I's kin. But this drink's free, all on me, cause it's shore lonesome without someone sharing this medicinal poison. They call it a sin son, "lips which touch liquor will never touch mine". Well, how in the hell would you know?

Water, Barley, Hops, Yeast

Oh Man! We eat German wheat grain beer because it beats any other brew you bothered to grow.

We Average Each Other Out

Chewin snuff fresh from the tin,
wearin flannel and cowboy hats,
tight blue jeans show you're thin,
drivin a mac truck with tire flaps,
women's silhouettes on the rubber,
at church in a chorus of claps,
macho men drinkin american brew:
moonshine and pale ale,
hunting defenseless antlered deer,
punctuatin sentences with a swear,
walkin the straight man's narrow mindin trail,
what are they compensatin for?

Liberals, doubled over at the waist,
spread asscheeks above his face,
giving pink winkers a kiss,
takes it,
can't taste shit,
cause bull's what he speaks,
organic as what he eats,
when he can't afford to tweak,
he seeks sumthin dank,
apologizing for his ancestors,
successful white conquerors,
he wants to take care of everyone,
(less so a christian)
if everyone takes care of him.

Pre

Bark-coated limbs in airy sky rack up the leaves teased by playful zephyr fingers. Then naked bunches of branches bend their ends to the white-frosted firmament.
Kids are unchained slave gangs gathered in desk grids.
Later they're decked in debt, diploma-loaded and cap-equipped.
Trembles, rumbles, shaking ground, the planet's plates scrape randomly.
Magma climbs to the max: a lava climate is ash.

Score/ned

Quiet, guarded, disconnected, churning out words from batteries of auto-chatter tracks.
Boredom: freeform frustration, an aggravated assault on senses of salty incensed bitterness.

We Digidance

I look into the lens to see your soul.
I want what I see, not the whole.
I see mentally, imagining you with my image
and watch your visage vis a lightning trickle.

Track my patterns across your retina
(speakers patter neural paths).
Basilar math man's this mannequin's axon strings,
imposing voltage on our opiate-overwhelmed selves.

Tune in to the sodium channel,
a circuit to board,
checkered with textures like audible flannel
minds waving full-bore.

Despairity

I liked to think when a newer form, and now mourn, that words may arrange as formulas to bring about a chosen result.
All things being equal, the modification of any one thing, may affect any other thing, in any way.
Yet no assemblage of sounds is legible to existence as the reactants needed to conclude dunnest items to their occluded finish.

Prompt

In an experiment I've failed to recover documentation for so far (aside from a lecture at Stanton on the Uniqueness of Humans) the dopamine levels of chimps were recorded over time in relation to how often pressing a button gave them a banana. When bananas were given every other button press, instead of every button press, dopamine levels went up. Excluding the possibility that chimps love pressing buttons, this implies the chance of getting a reward (banana) being reduced increases the enjoyment of trying to attain that reward. Concluding humans behave likewise would explain several human traits.


1 Gambling Addiction

Firstly, it would mean we are hard-wired to favor risks. Surely we interpret the risks of the same situations differently, the available options and difficulty of executing plans varies between individuals so the estimation of risk is different in otherwise identical situations, and there's some tipping point at which the amount of risk increasing no longer increases the amount of fun being had but the basic premise that an unsure thing is more enjoyable than a sure thing innately incentivises risk taking in man. Because man takes more risks he discovers more and varies his behavior more. Because man varies his behavior and discovers more he grows in a greater multitude of ways, investing his health in a diverse portfolio.
Consider the implications were this not the case. People find picking berries yields a meal. They're completely satisfied w/this arrangement w/no curiosity or other desire to prompt attempts at alternative methods of gaining meals. Thereby man may continually be subject to predation (as he hunts no meat-eaters), never discover farming, and wander in huge hoards which forage very efficiently yet relegate mankind to a locust lifestyle.


2 Give an Inch, they Take a Mile

The furtherance of abuse by dominant parties in relationships. From governments instituting new oppressions at the highest levels to babies playing fetch w/their parents at the lower levels the abuser who enjoys his dominance is only really dominant so long as the submission is fresh. As a behavior becomes habitual and the oppressed accepts it comfortably, pulling to the side of the road when blue and red lights flash, it is more a stagnant than a living proof of the ruler's superiority. The subject has accepted his bondage as a fact of life, dissociated from himself and his captor, so the captor is no longer interpreted as a ruler but an enforcer of higher laws. The man who craves other men kneel before and be broken by him must push his abuse ever further so that the oppressed never gets used to it, never may rest, acculturate, and come to peace, but always feels his wounds unclosed, raw, cut open deeper than before. Thereby new laws are always imposed, the toy is thrown further from the cradle, a more important possession is going to be borrowed longer, no apology is offered for trashing your house at a party, etc.


3 Maybe He Really Has Changed

The lack of assurance that a promise will be kept to the abused makes playing along more exciting. A state of jeopardy is a turn on. Will your boyfriend really be gentle? Will he pull out in time? Will he move less forcefully lest your parents hear? Will your friend really return your hairbrush even though she still hasn't given back your makeup kit? Is he going to pay you back for that latest box of booze? If you let them force you to the ground and place their knees in your back, will the cops stop hitting you w/batons? If you vacate the swing for him will the bully do the same for you later? If you "share" your toys will you play with them as much as the borrowers?


4 Do you Wanna Live Forever?

Danger is the spice of life. Those fighting for their lives have their love of life, the ideal that life is good, more reaffirmed than anyone else. We all experience this situation through sickness. Never do we want health more than when we lack it. Never do we appreciate health more than at its' return. The soldier risking his life in lethal exchanges is more sure he's glad to be alive than the cushiest chair and tastiest food could make him. The novelty of a taste of sensation too is a lack of security. Will you ever taste such fine food again? But when it has come to be expected excitement leaves. Kobe beef again.
The man used to combat, who feels much skilled, seeks greater challenges. To be promoted. To be attached to more dangerous groups. To be assigned missions less likely to suceed. Men sacrifice themselves more often from taking on a threat they couldn't counter and being slain in a final rush than with the love of others in their breast.
Yet by danger I do not mean a risk of death. I mean any unsure situation. A housewife's thrill may be holding off on cooking for a while longer, waiting on checking the roast to converse with friends. Will the food be ready in time for when the party guests arrive? Will the roast be burnt? It's more fun to have doubt so the deciding facts seem truer. When you knew the meal would turn out fine and executed it well the truth of your fine meal is bland. What of chef's proud of their work, you may ask? Well, where does their final pride come from? The approval of others. Socializing is a great way to increase doubt. He knows he cooked it right but do the dinner guests like it? How much? When a man sees his end he hasn't anything to look forward to. Like opening presents before Christmas morning. The roar of a crowd's a thrill for the boos it masks or could become.


5 But I love My Safety Blanket

Now I see one of the counter-arguments that may be made. I use gov. as an example of this human behavior at the largest scale. But what about mothers against videogames? What about the nanny state? Isn't all this attempted hand-holding proof of a desire for security? No. The women involved convince themselves their children are in danger. They're already getting off to the thought little Timmy might be corrupted from Crackwhore Killers 5. They then hype in their minds their enemy: drugs, drunk drivivng, heavy metal, heathens, or whatever seeming threat, as something monolithic. It's so infectious, pervasive, monied, entrenched, etc. that it'll be difficult to root out. But these gals have the gumption to try! The actual protests, complaints on national tv about books never read, movies never seen, songs their friends told them about, videogames they heard a rumor of once, never-documented rainbow parties, etc. is just the motion coming after the excitement. Perhaps they're a-tingle at confrontation. Then, when nothing happens or changes, they can gear up to battle again, feeling the odds are even higher. If they get one repressive law passed they'll take it as evidence they can get a worse one through and move on to that. These are women who do not burn their roasts.


Conclusion:
Man does not want to know as much as he wants to know something new.


Here's the lecture, which I enjoyed, though the study prompting this rant is only briefly discussed.

Mortality's Watered Down Immortality

B/c water makes things worse right?
Never do you hear the burning man complain about being watered-down.
Never do you hear the burning man's voice, only flames speaking in tongues.
Orange and red tipped whips sinuously spreading in threads, on bare skin.
Blue centers hotter than our own core body temperature.
Yellow sparks blacken and die, long lived as may flies, through nitrous wind.

April O'Neil showers then brings Aunt May flowers to lift the glower from her sour puss a dexterous surgeon couldn't eliminate.
Peter Parker picks a pinch of pepper pressed 'tween thumb and forefinger from his tweed overcoat's folds. He's protected from the cold and cooking for good-looking Mary Jane. Her green thumb has nothing on her green tongue; it has tarred her pink lungs black. She will relax in slacks with a glass of ice cool water.

Victoria's a model citizen.
She lives in a slum the first job's paycheck blankets.
Her fatherless baby craves attention only the tv is lazy enough to sit and give.
She collects stamps to pay for Chex cereal and checks her PO box for poor William's alimony (he's not the sperm donor).
After passing out, "I Voted" stickers to suckers she serves her civic duty as the cute girl in a jury.
Other members gather glad to see her and if they were hung with better stature than indecision she'd give them a smile, atleast.
A bit of drip slipped past her lips leaves a trail of dark stains in plain view down her white undershirt.
Worked-up fellas, behaved for da dames, look away physically and mentally shame Vicky with a wet-t-shirt situation.

"Sit u ass down" said the clown w/a frown to the chimp in a gown.
He was trying his gloved hands at untying the pink ribbons.
The ignorant gibbon was resistant.
Not more than 7 minutes to showtime and wouldn't you know the troublesome troglodyte ran about the room, refusing to be stripped of his costume.
Pausing to sniff his finger the wee hairy beast lingered long enough for Eeno the Clown to tear down that gown.
Mr.Bibbons slapped Eeno for being fresh.
Despite the duress, the chimp was changed from a chump to a champ, and Eeno, damp with sweat, watched from backstage while the performance was made.

No Solutions

Wasn't Jesus love that God above, the greater being, He leaves the righteous recesses of Heaven to lands unleavened, unraised by the yeast of holyness, to raise those below a slight mite closer to his Father's sight with nine inch nail-pierced hands?
Then it is somewhat similar to a parent, devoting his being to raising a child, causing its' virtue to rise in tandem with its' body, maturity keeping up with physical growth.
Yet Jesus had his Father, against who all else is powerless and can not contend against, to reach down and pull him back up. He was like a deep sea diver, needing only to tug on his rope when out of breath to be brought from the depths and returned to a boat's secure deck.
There is no Deliverer for us to call upon.
If you think otherwise, ask yourself, has no woman, in our rape-filled history, called for holy deliverance from her attacker?
Yet you've never heard of a woman angel-saved mid-assault.
Did they say the wrong name? Not call out loud enough? Were they not sufficiently sincere? Was their faith too little? Parents pleading for the lives of their dying, cradled children, did they have bad dharma? Did their kids do evil in a past life? Did they not meditate enough? Are they just distracted by the illusory life of suffering they hold onto? Are we just fools then, the man tortured for intelligence just needs to realize the jumper cables on his testicles aren't real, right? He just needs to ignore that surge of electricity causing his body to spasm, the smell of singed pubes, the cool of the metal, digging and cutting in with a firm grip. Have we not sacrificed enough to some pantheon or spirit, chanted insufficiently, forgotten to burn enough incense or bow enough to carved statutes to be saved from monsoons that carry them away and break them? Were the stars never properly aligned for the old man weak from cancer wishing he could stay around long enough to see his grandchild born? Is it the law of attraction? Did African children have getting raped on their mind all day before the jeep full of soldiers pulled up? Is it for lack of governance? Did we just need a politician to grant his blessing to be healthy forever, free from poverty, and fulfilled? Don't our votes make them gods? How big an army do we need to stop thieving? Our scientists are saviors? Should the boy bleeding out from a stray bullet have studied harder in school so the lead wouldn't pierce his flesh? Did we not give enough of our earnings to laboratories writing down measurements of cow farts to gain the cure to aging? Did the man who ate his wife's poisoned dinner plate not believe enough in the goodness of his fellow man? Was his love too small, the flowers he bought too few?

With nothing above us to appeal to, when we lower ourselves, we may raise others, but we stay low. We have no friend sending angels to roll the stone from our graves. There is no tree under which we'll finally reach enlightenment. Our father wasn't Shiva, finding a loophole in a blessing so our arrow will slay the enemy of heaven. The plan for our life is our enemies, our rulers, they could always use more slaves.

Kids' Heavy Eyelids

This life don't begin never
finishes off far before it gets better
your heavenliest days fall by the wayside
leased out at the cost of a lowered guard
debts of downers hit more hard
if you're dead inside make the outside match
life's a virus the universe did catch
and we mechanically splinter more than last
various multipliers in a boundless satchel
cracking the coffin lid on the past
waking sleeping dogs which do tell
in yowls, howls, and voided bowels
how they fear the phantom stranger
absent yet approaching.

Eye Rich

You're a blighter, a bleeder, an old pickled egg eater
and I knew you was bad from the first
I've had rivets and privets dropped in ta my spirits
by far and wide your bald lies are the worst

like a rat led by a fife
I let you guide my life
staying in my house
'til we be wed man and wife
you played timid mouse

I work on the docks
moving package box
and barely pause at the pub
before seein my luv

You're a bleeder, a blighter, a godless man-spiter
and I knew you was bad from the first
I've had fevers and flowers left for kin spirits
by far and wide your bald lies are worse

I seen your sweet cheeks bore a whore's marker
your pretty face had a touch of disgrace
painting your lids a shade darker
to age your tender young frown

knew you'd be good for fookin
when I had my first look
and with you cookin
my rest could be took

came home and sure enuff
you were sweaty in the buff
as the neighbors had told
you liked fellas real old

before you could plead 'meister'
I kicked out your keister
poonched the jaw that had kissed her
and slammed the damn front door
I knew it was comin
but I was dumb and done in
I should've thrown her out earlier

You're a blighter, a bleeder, an old pickled egg eater
and I knew you was bad from the start
I've had rivets and fevers in my few years
but your wild lies were the worst part

Physically Online, Mentally Shutting Down

For every killer there's a fan.
For every achiever a hater.
Man's coveted by woman,
teens by children,
adults by teens.

For every sin there're practitioners and intellectual inexperienced supporters.
For every good there're failures attempting and quitters denouncing.
For every work there's an inheritor, whether he knows his father or no.
For every thought there's an external prompt; where are you?

Palaces turn to ruins to visit.
Away from many you're freer to act and it's harder to get supplies.
In the midst of the hoard a hole bore hews you to the board of law and cultural norms.

A martyr needs a persecutor.
[A helicopter hovers outside].
I'm too tired to write.

Racket

Buzzing saws dust trees,
windy tubes blow leaves,
clippings on the street,
complete the clean homes.

At high frequencies,
dowstairs tv screens,
not once getting sleep,
ring out constantly.

Pups outside past dark,
will howl, growl, and bark.
Birds with voices sweet,
in morn early tweet.

Special

You're the only unique you.
How special your partial match.
Why partial?
Part of your heart must latch and lock with similar individuals by shared components.
You can't synch w/out a shared category with which to compare your measure.
Then what's different, distinct?
Things extinct soon as they're witnessed.
To even know them we must exist on the same plane.
In one dimension we're held in suspension.
If your singular aspect/s can't be conceived what relief is there from a sense of predestination, the feeling we're matching mechanisms?
What's the difference between a thing unobservable and a thing nonexistent?
Semi-quasi-non-sense-able things are proved real by their effects.
We neglect.
We can't help but ignore the unnoticeable.
What's the importance of aspects missed?
They're (if they are) you.

Indirect

Republics are bad for government and good for society. The more men are involved in deciding what's to be done the more the enaction of laws is retarded. Slowing government processes grants subjects more time to be efficient and prosper before the next stumbling block is placed at their feet. Similarly, shareholders are good for competition.

Implicit Overlords

No two men agree completely. In any country where one man legitimately claims power from another he'll counter and alter the policies and plans of the last ruler. When a line of rulers do not countermand one another's orders but instead build upon them, so the periods of their rule function as an agenda staged without interruption, it should be suspected that none of these men were the end of the nations hierarchy. Their rules acting not to waste resources by cutting off mobilizations midway but to heap more material towards old projects and pass more extreme laws than before indicate these rulers are in collusion. At the least there's some faction in the land that a succession of bosses would rather serve than antagonize. At the most the land has been under 1 rule for some time and the new faces proclaimed president are a changing of the guard to hide the master.

Camp Infiltration

When Americans were better they lent the Federalist party so little support it died. But its' corpse moved on and corrupted the Democrat-Republicans. The party split in two and both new factions were more pro-federal than before.
A problem in America's political system was that as no one's killed the wicked men moved from their sinking ship like rats. They brought the plague of federalism to the parties they joined. So where there was an anti-federalist party there became two federalist parties.
Likewise more recently this process repeated when conservatives became neo-cons. Warmongers in the Democrat's camp were ignored by their brethren, content to oppress their countrymen. So these warmongers broke into the Republican's house and now live there. So we've two Democratic parties. One which prefers hurting locals and one which prefers hurting foreigners.
When men set rules between themselves someone/s in the group is lying. The only rules to life are physical laws. When someone seems to cheat the game, like Clay in the corrupt bargain, he should be made to quite the game. No more political involvement for him under threat of death. But then we'd be back to settling everything by violence. Well, that state is the state of man. If good men don't kill evil men, evil men will kill good men. As Lincoln invaded the Confederacy (named for what America was before federalists like Washington, who lost most of his battles and promised soldiers the rest of America would pay them (no taxation w/out representation), took control of the gov.) and knocked the union from its' feet.
It's inevitable that the men w/the least integrity, who value the lives of their fellow man the least, will rule. They'll deal with anyone b/c they've no compunctions. They'll commit any abuse to ensure their power. Righteous men are handicapped by conscience. So long as they're the dominant in a group most men w/in the group will prosper, as man tends to prosper and left to his own devices will produce wealth. But wicked men will rob all others in a group as well they can and as more noses close with the grindstone men can no longer see the conflict between the kinder and meaner men who'd rule them. As more men become uninvolved in these conflicts the evil are left to destroy the good, the greatest obstacle to their perversion of labor.
I see no aversion to this pattern of development. For a man to kill he must become somewhat meaner. A man will not stay balanced. As he kills he'll harden, killing for less, minding death less, sympathizing less. So for the good to halt the progress of evil they must poison themselves and then some among them will act as the dispatched did. As the world has been united in one system of thieving (banking), subjugating more men to one rule than ever before, the collapse of this rule is unprecedented. It is larger than the bucking of any empire past. We can only vainly speculate on what we're in the midst of.

linealأمة

A conquered people is marginalized. As it blends with the conquerors, peoples from further away see the ruling people and subjected people as one. The subsumed and dwindling subjugated become a quirk -a subculture- within the wider victorious culture. There's habit-drift: defining traits of the subjects join the practices of the masters and vice versa. Traditions are shared and connect people in an amalgam culture.
Take the name of any nation. Where did its' people come from? One assemblage of tribes conquered others. Both blend together until they forget the names of their clans. Borders are islands where enemy garrisons sit across from one another in an ocean of peoples.
Sometimes the newborn culture takes after its' father, the conqueror, and bears his name. Like Tsaritsyn became Stalingrad became Volgograd. Sometimes the amalgamation takes after its' mother, the subjected people/s, like England stayed English after the Norman Conquest.
A conquering people are carriers. They harbor fragments of other peoples' personalities in their psyche. Over time some fragments spread, transforming the host from the inside out. Like Romans became Greek then Christian.
People who know themselves to be a separate culture but don't know their ancestors ways have a tabula rasa to be iconates. Like America's freedmen buying clothes it'd take years to grow into.

Magesicle

He has magic hands
the magic touch
he exaggerates
a little much
saw the last dodo
ate it for lunch
made a clever promo
earned mucha mulla
taught Islam
before the Qu'ran
swam the Nile
dressed in style
bought a museum
to exhibit his art
there're many pieces
it hurt him to part with
the exhibit's width
could fit football stadiums
its' power source plutonium
this gallery cast its' shadow on NY
but he can't tell the location
of this great work
he prophesied Diana'd die
and every royal family
it's a fact y'all
the beauty of a lily
fades and ends surely
as a man's days
he tells us his wisdom
which is base and common
shares the stories
of many things he's seen
each is to his glory
as he figures
he led the 36th Infantry
in the American Civil War
but he doesn't talk yankee
and didn't mention it before
doesn't look too old
and though he talks of yore
won't tell his birthplace
only things he has done
sounds like he's been 'round
since the Earth was young
he invented electricity
but gets no credit
it's a form of wizardry
most haven't learned yet
I finally laugh
and call him liar
he lifts a staff
and forms fire
in his palm
lightning on his fingertips
and sings a psalm
which shakes the ground
with its' ancient sound
he turns and leaves
then I chase after
and 'mongst the leaves
find prank shop items
to make fake wonders
in the night I listen
catch no sight nor sound of him
and I believe.

Midlife

A life at parity with tragedy
ends on a ragged edge.
If a life's uplifting
it floats above grit from birth.

Cardinal Church (North East West South)

Pliant is the mind pickled in media porridge
pulse invitingly do the pores
information pours in
giving smell to the mind in brine
an invisible ephemeral scent dancing ascendant and descendant for a chance at delivering its' pheromone message
the wind winds from speaker to paper in people and screens
data pops mechanical and fleshy, digital and tangible
from Marrakesh to dirigibles and billboards the word spreads
a susceptible receptacle is the mind unfamiliar with proselytizing
prose is another part of a synthetic effigy
statues, idols, and icons are made to glorify beings separated by a degree or more from our perception
'cept folks forgot the reminder-representations created purpose and trusted them with devotion to things greater than man
like a rag read after it stops stalking your famous love interest
so what does this infrastructure resemble the form of?
does it or they consider our nightly attendance at the anchors' service praise or offense?
What do we owe for our works?

Scaring Yourself Serious

In twig-split midnight sky I hear howls.
Pale yellow moon bathes the branches.
Yale campus soon dews and frost creeps across acorn, blade, and sidewalk.
Wind slides, turning shade light and back.
Students flip in layered sheets, chasing sleep in chill illumination.
Their souls jump the mind's track.
Scraps, hatred and sorrow leftover from murdered men.
They've lost their sense of name and when.
Spirits are dense as the swollen fog.
Quasi-voices scratch psyches enveloped in brows now moist.
Quality normality is sent far from foreheads soggy.
Squishy human anatomy feels the pressure.
Worlds, living and dead, press closer to amalgamation.
Wood moans and groans, beds send sleepwalkers to cool witching-hour-air.
Analog ambulation retraces the tread of folk long dead.
Fat faculty actively unearth locals' caskets.
Girls lose their maidenheads to a red-dressed hot mess of a man.
Youths' animus corrupt bodies through oils and allegiance to the oldest foe.
Robed men chant to bless el diablo.
Planets properly aligned, circles in wax and blood inscribed, pacts are made.
Powers of the fallen host toast the health of Anglos ignoring their better angels.
A cult carves shapes for sounds plain English can't produce.
Dug up embalmed puddles struggle to stand.
Slumbering mugs in local pajamas won't taste the morning's orange juice.
The cowled chanters and the powers reached a truce.
Vacant vessels are steered through waxblood circles for infernal use.
I wander, looking for my body, lost 'tween live and dead lands.

The Lie Never Experienced

Shake hands in a shaken cradle while shells crater the burning cities.
Making an armistice requires armed soldiers shooting citizens.
Policemen obey their captains like pirates charmed and sold on intimidation.
Bankers release no nations from debts and mutineers are taught regret.
Bandits cease raiding when they're colder than a disarmed NRA.
Thieves sneak food from farmers' yards, traveling far and working hard.
Every administration kills for a rumor. Where were you during the revolution?
Resentment or acceptance grow; both responses impoverish hearts of soothing lotion.
Love's a balm bombs turn to fuel, burning earnest optimists, would-be pacifists.
Whether or not the Bible's true one brother slew another in man's 2nd generation.
Very many are born straight slayers. Survivors convert to the movement.

Realize I'm the Prize

This drink has me think I'm happy.
These numbers say I'm wealthy.
My hand makes me feel sexy.
The shadows whisper I'm stealthy.
In an empty space I'm lonely.
With glasses I'm intelligent.
First time she's one and only.
A parade shows I'm magnificent.
Mustache and beard give me a wise face.
With a crowd I'm social.
Sympathy brings me to a nice place.
Pregnancy finds me emotional.
Death turns me numb.
When hope flees I chase.
Poverty leaves me some.
Worry instills idiocy.
Then I am dumb.
Together we are democracy.
Her body heats mine horny.
Moods' lances are sensory at the tourney.

Waterworks

Salty rhines, my cheeks are raw from tears,
brimming over heavy lids.
My still tongue tastes them.
An august end: yawning throat;
where light can't reach.
Mouth silent, closed.
Open are the reds of the eyes,
bright as flush cheeks brushed.
Every snuffling breath beats against a mucus membrane.
Air, stifled by leaks,
rushes upstream like horny salmon.
As crime from a ghetto,
lymph through the body,
bacteria overflow its' filters,
sinuses turned to foreign enemies,
slayers of the gate guards,
breeding in their homes,
rioting in the streets,
I leak, and leak then leak.

Rebel Rules

The tyrant weakens his rule by weakening what he rules with his rules. The rebel is as evil as the tyrant overthrown but until he is maintaining enough institutions to cripple other people as much as the tyrant did there's a period of freer living which allows greater prosperity. If there's a boom and bust cycle it's the rise and fall of states. Humanity's booming then cancerous elements grow their unneeded tissue, disrupting healthy processes, until the body they keep with them decays, they're removed from the larger human society, and with healthy forms of laborers left the pace of man's ascent quickens again.

Lent

See the crown is blemished,
tarnished, scratched and sullied,
it reflects a littered dirty floor,
has gaps where were stones,
the points are bent,
its' sides cracked,
the old face wearing the symbol knows it holds no power,
and I look 'tween his wrinkles rimmed by white hair
and see no hope glimmering there.

The joker laughs and prances near,
he speaks riddles the king can't hear,
their answers insults to raise noble moods,
lament rules their hearts and cheer can't intrude,
starved as it is,
in this famished land,
where smiths turn panhandlers,
and only coiners keep clean hands.

To: Address From: Sender

Dear Despair,

Bosom companion blossom again,
be new, renew the revenue you draw directly from my breast rubbed raw,
emotions are rapids eroding will, breaking apart self and flesh into sedentary segments,
fish swim in rivers and feed on macerated joy,
fuel destroyed by the flow,
surging, course directed by the stone though stone is honed, coursing o'er to the ocean,
errybody learns the worst feeling is absence,
souls turn, tossed in a spiral 'round the void,
and I laud
as did God
the counter-rebel Want,
winning the fight for light against cold simplicity,
let life abound
complicated and procreated for recreation.

Sometimes Yours,
Luck-Dodger

Ad Personam

Do you remember Pikablu,
the rumored pokemon?
It existed in our social imagination:
a wild grown lawn
which none can shun
but sobriety mows
and I'm like Barney at Moe's
planting seeds
between heads of grain
eating like it's Eid
from the mind's mane.
An earthquake, a roar
for stress causes tremors
in the sub-strata
(turned batter)
of popular fantasy.
Real as a cootie
is our country,
the virtue of submissiveness,
and love.

Ed the Poet

Here are the B-sides. If you think that other shit's bad here's the worst. If you love my stuff here's more! The following are selections of poems and thangs I started to write and gave up on. They're pretty bad which's why I abandoned them. Also, I forgot what I had planned, subjects, rhyme schemes, etc. for them all (and some I'd no plan and thought a line would be potent enough to set me off).



Submissive floor lets me walk all over it and sprinkle crumbs



Grass-rilled hills thrill at the thunderous touch of exploding napalm.
Dirt were there was a farm.
Smoking jelly where there was a farmer.
Their skin and fat flow thin and wax, popping crisply in the chemical mixture.
Bubbles of lymph steam on short blackened blades.
The Vietnamese have seen better days.



Wisdom is poison lived in and tested, wistfully remembered.
Pain's presence a comfort familiar as romantic essence.
We're between mortar and pestle, stirred, mixed, shrinking into tinier easier to dilute pieces.



Apple's a flavor
and strawberry too
versions of taste



In your provinces are piled high
beliefs in many insubstantial lies
the light of electricity dispels no darkness
of the sort thick as fog in minds without sense
Crushed by seven gables
was the shaggy mantis
who Abe's 8th general
shaved and skinned in public.

The exoskeletal clips
piled in chitinous heaps
were listed as raw walls
(industrial matter).



Dry circuit boards, childless mothers, present an article on water boarding, what we're learning at our boarding school, leaving pretensions of

One out the Chamber

got a crick in my neck
my own body gives me no respect

Deproduce

Shatter a pane at the point atop
the wall-clinging ivy stalk
strong enough to support my weight
for the time taken to climb
at a gait less than walking
above the west gate where
guards talk about their
family troubles and shallow caches
while I undo their ward's window latch
coming from a bar far-off to snatch
what my fence's middleman said awaited.

On tips of toes and hunched
I slowly step on carpets
costlier than my clothes
blowing darts in guard-pets
I wait for the sleeping poison
shipped from the river Poseidon
when the death-froth bubbles
on puppy's large lips
I know the way's cleared.

Humans surpassed and animals slain
I steal on with open tread
still I'm quite quiet so she
stays asleep unaware of me.
Too heavy to carry: the many baubles
which make her wealthy,
yet I look for one trinket only
and spy it glowing o'er yonder
and have to avert my eyes
lest the staring spell compel me.

In a sack which breathes
made for the task
seething with hatred at the light
eager to smother the sight
I stuff the unwatched tingle-in-hand
turning to cheerily be on my way.

Behind me upright sits the daughter
aware her tower's invaded
though I'm experienced in my craft
and would kill for a laugh
I hesitated and heard her say,
"stranger if you are a man
then I can not understand
yet now wonder...
yes surely your employer
lied to you of the item
by robbery in your possession"
straight standing I strode
and pressed 'gainst her robe
a knife and knicked her left lobe.
With composure unseen in some men
she let out not a whimper but grinned,
"up close I know you are a man
and so will return Eskrigan,
so long as it shines
the Dutla are confined
to beyond my father's borders"
inside I said to myself,
"kill her and follow your orders!"
but she'd cried for no help
and if I had dealt
the Dutla an aid
my debt'd need repaid.
She pointed at the window,
above a carpet cast with glass,
I dragged her along
warned she'd sing her swan-song
if this were a trick of her class.

Boldly she opened the frames
holding intact window panes
and pointed to the horizon
where we could see Bayon's Canyon.
At first I stared in darkness
and sensed something but saw naught
but slowly I noticed
winged shapes in the blackness
spreading from the canyon
like a pulsing cloud.
Horror hurt my heart
so even a frail's voice gave me start,
"before they kill my people
please release the symbol"
and feeling it right
by every gut I've survived by trusting
I tore at the bag.

It would not open
again I tried
to ply the threads
they sucked in
like turtle heads
and the mouth puckered
a kiss for a sucker
then in anger I stabbed
grabbing tight the bag
slashing and cutting
'til it bled and died
with a haunting outcry
then shriveled to a husk
ripped open untrussed
and flying out thrust
Eskrigan.

It flew above the tower
and made the land look as day
flash!
flash!
light dark light/dark lightdark
and with screeches miles distant
the Dutla became scant
and I saw she
was a beauty
past the pretties
I'd collected.

Next time it went dark
she ran from her room
I chased in the gloom
but from the stark variance
in luminance
was blinded
I couldn't find her
and she familiar
with her home
ran on ahead
then I was struck dead.

Mazed Man's Dilemma

He sees lightless black. He walks forward. It is possible he may freely move in any direction. Any way which is blocked is perennially blocked. He is weary of only going straight ahead. He suspects to his left is a wall. He hasn't reached out left to confirm the presence or absence of a wall. If he reaches to the left and finds a wall he will always know he can't go left. If he doesn't check he may always think he could go left.

What should the Mazed Man do?

1) Should he be content going straight?
2) Should he reach in every direction to define his options?
3) Should he stop checking for alternate routes lest he be aware he has no choice?
4) Should he want to go a different way?
5) Should blockages spur him to search for openings?
6) Should he take a turn if one's available?
7) Should he change his policy after a certain outcome?
8) What would you do as the mazed man?

Your Traitor Forever

Who opened our slumber-heavy hearts and left us love to keep?
Who raised high his banner, now unfurled, on his castle above the deep?
Where and why the dears disappeared gurgle drowning in our sleep?
What took our lost and left us loss too great to weep?
Wilting eyes bespy dark tides and rest never one peep.
My shy looked-for Sheen of Days sand to sea's surely a tiny leap.

More than I knew want before I desirably want you,
past feelings weak foreshadowings of something new.
Presenters played their trumpets; (horns whispers in your call)
To live without you while about you I'ven't the wherewithal.

I know the cause, knew the monster, my father fought her on this shore.
Yet blackest blame come take me, heavens soon unmake me, I'll be your paramour.

Painful as you Take it

Sammy longed for the peace of a razor,
didn't have facial hair,
didn't need a shaver,
felt heaven was cold,
cause it heaped snow on the lowly,
he took a steamy shower,
and split his arms like petals,
they bloomed a vibrant red,
which spread across metals,
ran along the floor,
pooled at the door-jam,
Sam felt December-tired,
he lay in the tub,
he felt cold with lobster skin,
that is the rub,
he ended with the year,
a monster to his children,
seeing their mother: Mildred,
face swollen and red,
as the stained green tiles,
she forces a smile,
for sepsis finished,
what Gillette started.

Kith

At the end of a tunnel of light sits a royally fat thin-lidded man.
He's attended by a running train of toiling cat-man servants.
Hidden in the courtroom shadows sit slinky whispering advisers.
By his right side stands a wheel immense beyond visualization.
Vis a his authority he spins yon immeasurable decider.
Marked on its' edges are the lowest living forms.
Circle within circle towards the middle greater bodies are displayed.
From worms to kitten litters and he seated himself dead center the depictions exquisitely exceed the kinds of creatures I'd seen.
Between me and him two tall men in flowing embroidered robes.
Thick gems stretched low their ear lobes.
The one on the right read my best doings.
The sinister reader bared my worst shames.
Oral report done my judgment begun.
Nodding, deciding, he gestured at the towering shining wheel.
Its' movements were so complex if I'd my lifetime again to study it I couldn't describe its' organization.
I was shown my chosen incarnation.
A gaunt figure, skin meatless and tanned over a brittle ribcage, long dirty hair, stomach shallow , egg-shaped eyes bulging beneath their lids (outside sockets), naked with long fingers.
When my study of its' body was complete I was looking at the hairs on my own arm.
Humans passed through me but did no harm.
On a trash heap steaming poo seeped from a rain-half-washed diaper.
I licked my fangs and walked over.
Shit smells bad as ever and tastes worse than I'd imagined but it's all I can eat.

Que e A

Ask me how I am today.
I am fine.
Ask me how I was just now.
I was lyin.
Asked you where you went last night.
Heard no sound.
Answer me you stupid bitch.
Right now.
He'll ask where I was tonight.
I know why.
I've prepared an answer.
My alibi.
Won't find forensic evidence.
I'm clean.
Mabye I've dirtied my hands.
Been mean.
But exin factors make us what.
We are.
People plainly rudely put.
Cruel beans.
Ask me how I feel right now.
So calm.
Watch my face and see it twitch.
Something's wrong.
Never a good player I.
At cards.
My open intentions read.
Didn't try.
To hide emasculated rage.
Deep sigh.
Ask me how I am today.
Doing time.
Ask me how I was just now.
Doing fine.
Asked her where the hell she'd been.
No reply.
Notify the next of kin.
When she die.

Antediluvian Tinkerer

Beneath these sheaths: twin hoods for headlights
twelve and twenty thousand bacteria merge from fat cells
they're so asexy I can feel their orgy
heat underneath my eyelids
squirmy, squishy, gelatinous membranes
bump and grind across the floor
colonize contacts then come into proximity with me peepers
make me want to sleep
catch atleast forty winks
before they escape to flirtatious eyes
twinkling with burgeoning flirtation.

Fluster, buster make a noise!
Grunt and groan to shit or piss?
Press and sigh with every breath,
what is the meaning of this?
Why not take your ease and
enjoy your life?
Why constant worry, beloved strife?
Struggle, scramble, invent trouble
when none exists distract and doubt
multiply problems within, without.

It is dark and he depressed
fine traits for finding a moment's rest
temporary escape from conscious awareness
we wear moods like a doll her dress.

Escape from DC

Feeling bowdy?
You should know this club's bouncers are bigger than GigaBowser
will punch you out of your trousers
across the saloon
catering through the air
like a cartoon
landed on the opposite side of the room
shaken like a howitzer hit yer wits out yer head
lost your pretense of senses when knuckles went boom
how it'd feel is unreally horrible
you'd drool like a baby adorable
see little birdies in a circle
walking nerdy as Erkel
talking suspended by bitten tongue
it's good fine ale makes gals act young
like Gale who giggles though she's a mum
at your inventive inebriated invectives
we need to get the heck out of here
before someone shouts back
I'll pick up the slack
put your arm across my shoulders
the crowd is our first hurdle
if Tajicks don't respect us Kurds'll
doesn't the cold coming through the door feel nice?
don't stumble off I won't tell you twice
now we're out sit down let the beer wear off
your dance was less grind and more Baryshnikov.

Pignorant

Pale prince in a purchased palace
do you fear the nearing bands of brigands?
They roam by your home
and loom at your doom.
Women flee the streets,
shoppers drop their wares,
the armored wall guards tremble,
such savages sow terror,
the garrison rumbles from footsteps,
thousands obscure the sandy dunes,
you've left your people in a monsoon,
like an ill-planning buffoon.
By the river did flourish your harem
now foreign men see women and take them.
Icy cold is your stomach,
wet and warm on fingertips.

Turkey-Tired

I'm thankful for forgetfulness.

Burnt Bacon

Each girl's face is an arrow that points towards yours
its' point punctures my wards
and I tear out cupid's curse
though it makes the wound worse
gaping open as spread legs
fertile as fermented eggs
porcelain decorations
Russian pewters
the extravagance
past tense
sensed so strong the one I long for
may as well be before me
her presence is a smoke
soot undone my lungs
wheezing like a wise man
ceasing his advice
to turn survivors from vice
lest the dying living be the damned
condemned by warning from terminal man
at this terminus bright light's my guide
guys and gals pay to ride
the river Styx and those who've drunk forget
the weighty baggage of self
our first desire a corruption
even a loving core who'd see man soar
with virtue proud, great deeds his shroud
the proclamation becomes loud
in song and tale
from far and wide
in home and vale
we're at his side
imagining what adventures we'd strike
out on if we left our homes
and how we'd like
stories of our own
but warriors gain tolerance to violence
'til they don't flinch at families mashed together
in simmering pyre-piles of bloody excrement
where their tender hearts went I know
to lovely lady wisdom
who makes boys into men
takes innocence
transforms men to heroes
and those unaffected serve traders in her good
here goes my attempt to keep
the hope she hasn't reaped
to preside as a Pope
jealous-vigilant over his herd
mistrustful of every stranger's word
against the incursion
of another incision
removing liaisons
from imaginationland
known to some as heaven
which sends emotional helium
to lighten the weary woes of years
gnosis puts a tariff on relief transports
were we calmed by hypnosis
we'd want for nothing
but desiring something
gives us suffering
we'd all be fufilled
as the surfer seeking a perfect wave
who can conceive of a better ride
after every straddled tide
by speech we think him addled
his skull a hollow rattle
but he got that from pot
and though he speaks stupid alot
atleast he doesn't rant.

Electrical Malfunction

I love to cook
and hear the gas hiss
then have a look
at the blue flames.

As a little kid
a thing I did
was to light leaves on fire
with a magnifier.

When a tween
caught between
boy and teen
I burned our yard.

At pubescence
I felt my essence
was hot so I bought
firecrackers, grill-fuel and lighters.

In college I learned
how to burn
the frosh dorm
and freeze titties.

With my wife
I got insurance
not for life
but our houses.

White in my hair
I grinned to see
the forest had caught
my gift to a tree.

When very old
I shed a tear
when they blow
mere cake candles.

Mountaintip Mining

I want to trim my emotional resonance of its' top
so the lows would stop
feeling so deep
yet I wake
at the sound of blasting
to a new view and veins to burn
at last the price in pain to take isn't steep.

SPunk Lyrics

I___ wish there was a devil
and I- had< a soul. to sell.
and the girl that I call angel
wasn't. whore enough for hell

Give me all your women
fatties serve me as cooks
but-her-faces raise the children
I would have with chicks with looks

A citizen of Pax America
pays his taxes like a tool
bankers dilute his dollars
still he works for them, the fool
on the pole, goes his daughter
she works to go to school
who needs a homemaker
when families break in two
loans go out to the empire
dying to subjugate Zulu

The modern WASP, a pussy
european men suck fags
leave their work for Juan and Lucy
the only free male is a stag

When my ears hear at long last
a tale of proud white men
they are talking of the past
and missing way back when

everyone's a christian
don't you tell me otherwise
cause Christ is as you imagine
getting between the church's thighs
don't you dare find that offensive
for a man must know his wife
in heaven together they'll live
without argument or strife

Son you need to get a purpose
must I repeat what I have said
very well then 'til you jave it
you can find me in your head

I will live here sometimes silent
like a schizophrenic's friend
study yourself like a fictional character
if your psyche you would mend

(accelerando during final verse)
sing along
so my song
has your tongue
listen, hear
so your ear
has my song
sing along
so my song
has your tongue
in an ear
making out
oh dear
fucked up lyrics
for an ear trick
fucked her
a mother
motherfucker!

The Life Unlived

When I've no more left to live,
I pine for the life unlived.

She stirs upstairs,
shelling crawfish,
dropped tails fall in the crawlspace.

In this segment of my timeline,
I am doing mighty fine,
yet there's more I want for mien.

Trapped where I usually sleep,
my past: something I don't want to keep.

He's hardly real years afterwards,
his absence the silence between words,
giving sounds substance.

Sans silence there's white noise,
a drone unadorned is ignored,
pitches unchanging hardly heard.

Invisible in a herd of people,
even we don't want to learn ourselves.

They're worse than us,
which makes us better,
superior versus mediocre.

Y'all hunt for fun,
find regrets,
ah gather we're slaves and pets.

Stuck with me,
the life unlived seems...

Hoard

The plane's unplanned landing turned to crashing when it ran out of track.
Its' passengers tricked with promise of refuge felt a deluge of false hope.
Meanwhile, surface to air missiles fired, a few missed, most hit.
Feeling ill from sweltering heat the pilot tried to take them safely down.
Their bodies ash by a namelessly small town.
Refugees from the Saron Gi were hated by the natives.
Settled in, relocated, their women were raped, left to burn in mob-lit tenements.
The ugliest were spared to share their story as a warning.
Sarongis unwelcome.
Starving men lined the streets in neighboring lands.
Why would they welcome an influx of begging hands?
There was not paying work enough for the men already there.
Yes Sarongis work to live but why should natives care?
Wives hear gossip of their husbands and new prostitutes.
Accused in public the whores are beat with bamboo shoots.
Neighbor kids throw stones at the ugly, smelly, refugees.
Parents of the Sarongi say come straight home.
Villages used to be beautiful.
Now they're blighted by attached camps.
Life was much more wonderful before these leeches clamped on natives.
The patchy tents are a terrible sight.
Someday they will all be razed.
Some crops are eaten by fungi and a maneater stalks the hills.
It is because Sarongis are bad luck.
UN workers bring the big villages medicine in a truck.
Americans teach English and missionaries preach Jesus.
There are not enough seats in the class.
But Sarongi children show up early and take the best seats.
They don't till fields to ensure their families eat.
They're free in the morning and all day to wait.
Helpful foreigners call it bullying when a Sarongi's told his place.
Aid workers waste their medicine cleaning cuts on a Sarongi child's face.
Why don't they stay in their own country?
There's not enough UN or US aid to share.
Sarongis don't care if they steal.
There's not enough America for the world.
White men come to give gifts but greedy Sarongis smell free things a country away.
Most natives dance 'round the bonfire built on the plane.
It goes out the next morning.
No survivors remain.

Disslist

Excitement for the coming time brings me to early wake.
I wish the grand computer took away this cloak of control.
I wish oneness with the universe left me detach whole.
(I can't find peace in being a piece)

Roll over to leave this real world in favor of a fake.
If my final senses were a monster tearing me apart I'd be glad to know they lived.
If my reincarnation were a promotion I'd be glad I died.

A last and permanent sleep would my sadness slake.

Cheer

Sad matters settled
depressions repelled
joybreak warms the wind
lighting scenes
in memories
of smiles and laughter
traded between friends
familiar stories
predictable advice
evening meals together
sure are nice
and they come easy
these simple pleasures
cleaning our homes
of spirits that stifle.

Imaginary people
perform lives like our own
romanticized realities
are an idle day's fantasies
and knowing them
we're happier
to conclude life's good
for their pleasantries
remind us of when
teeth would appear
on family faces
and familiar emotions
soothe the more
often they're here.

Uplifting

When the works of your hands glazed your heart in grime
and most of the time life has lost its' shine
you have matured.

Death is the end of knowledge
yet the beginning of wisdom
for in comprehending the ending
we complete our understanding of a process.

Not to put too fine a point on it
but when the fine details don't look too fine
and the repeated events we're smeared with aren't refined
so we whine while waiting in line to be fined again for trying
there's a prosperity in finishing
for which (with each whistled breath) we're wishing.

Pain tells us something's wrong
and that's better than nothing
despair follows hope
like joy fills a fool.

You Started it Lyrics

Why did I cheat on you?
How could I be untrue?

Rumor has it
you've a habit
fuck like a rabbit

I know you don't go slow
you'll be stuck with curled toes

You've been texting a lot
I'm sure reading it's not
a girlfriend like you say

My friends keep telling me
your in public and raunchy
they've got no cause to lie

You're too dolled up for shopping
where else have you been stopping
when away so very long

Rumor has it
you've a habit
fuck like a rabbit

I know you don't go slow
you'll be stuck with curled toes

Though stories might be false
so long as I've a pulse
I'll look into these claims

When I searched your car
I found a cigar
I know you don't smoke

At your house what did I find
dirty underwear not mine
I could have strangled you then

I visited my ex,
we had passionate sex
Now I'm feeling better

Rumor has it
you've a habit
fuck like a rabbit

I know you don't go slow
you'll be stuck with curled toes

Pointed in its' Pointlessness

Friend you're sensitive where soft,
feel most when weak,
your tender outsides know exter.

Bitch you drive for a dick,
drink to blow,
and years invested in a former man are ruins in the city Ye.

Fellow you didn't make your "son",
can't turn a woman who doesn't love you into a wife,
and the state will say what's your's is her's.

Stranger you love to think of the things you'll do,
great deeds you'll get around to,
while idly entertaining yourself.

Acquaintance you passed by so quick,
you didn't even get a name,
I couldn't've your birth to blame.

Facts breed with perception to make interpretations,
Thee is a mystery,
and sensing is answering.

It's a Healthy Baby _______

Unbalanced
but the vertigo's good
it should steady me
ready me
to place feet
far out apart
to meet again
a steady plane.
Surely there is to be found
secure footholds, firm packed ground.
I've lost my footing
it is unsettling
and wonderful.
More feelings than
ah knew I could have
permeate me
to such degree
familiar flavors
are experienced new.
These events' cause is you.
To believe such greatness
could be and moreso grace my life
steals breath, stirs body, prompts psyche.
Exultant trepidation makes a man the more alive
and it all becomes closed in consummation when you arrive.
Words take on new meanings
the old definitions' husks
their crisp crinkled skins abandoned
littering Earth's grainy crust.
Now a syllable's complexion is white
as an elephant's ivory tusk.
With a word of power spoken
a tortoise shell cracked open
I'm tempted to tape the broken
home of slow safety.
In forests old and oaken
I'd laze and lie observing
each days' leaves wind surfing
in cool breezes of winter.
Some sparks singed the damp
and ended with steam.
Later wild fire
cast out water
with brightest heats' beams
lasting days as leaf became hearth
until smoky charred shards were left.
Do we mourn the forest cleared
the hills sheared of Furs in summer
when lightning flashes purple anger?
No.
The topsoil 'twill yield to farmer's will
more easily thanks to tree's twilight.
So the prepared place
produces ripe taste.

Cursight

The last bit of hearing drools down his lobes,
constant screaming did his inner ears in,
here in the lower wings of the house shrouded by blackened wings,
broken bones hold crippled gooseflesh taunt,
a stream of feathers and sulfur marks their trail through the air.
Maggot-white bodies stretch the epidermal surface of the floor,
they nearly tear the membrane stretching for a helping hand,
one never comes,
unable to see,
kicking one another to push up against their ceiling,
blind by the skin strung over their heads,
their mouths open to vent their agony,
a muffled chorus vibrates the floor.
Neon skeletons reveal spiked iron cages
hung from the ceiling.
The melting flesh of the unfortunate drapes from wrist to hip,
like webbing,
as they reach up,
from rapids of molten gold,
so bright they burn the beholder,
and when he's hungry,
a local lord dips his pudgy hands deep,
the heat hardly irritates his old scabs,
and by the handful,
he stuffs the damned down his beak.
Out-of-their minds with pain they raise a racket,
a drizzle of blood from the ceiling sizzling in their throats,
which could swallow snow yet know no chill or damp,
can't anyone suffer in peace?

Videogames are the Greatest Art Medium yet to Exist

Following is a hierarchy of artforms from lowest to highest. They're a pyramid based upon what senses the art forms stimulate. This art pyramid's based upon the definition of art as a work successfully attempting to stimulate one or more senses more than normal intake does. The degree of skill shown in the work and stimulation demanded's relative.

1 Sense
Literature (includes poetry, prose, etc.): Visual symbols for auditory stimulation. It could be argued words stimulate all senses but similarly any sensory stimulation evokes other senses (smell muffins>imagine what the muffins look like). This assortment of art forms is based on innate properties not human interpretations. Literature is a visual recorded translation of sounds so it's equivalent w/music. It stiumlates 1 sense and's on the tier of low art.

Music (hearing)

Statues, Paintings, Reliefs, Architecture, etc. (visual)

Cooking (olfactory)

Rollercoasters/Extreme Sports (sense of equilibrium)

2 Senses
Comics (the audio stimulation of words and the visual stimulation of pictures)

Movies, tv shows, webisodes, etc. (realtime comics)

Theatre (live movies)

3 or more Senses

Videogames (so far the only medium in the tier of high art. All that music is movies encompass. Comic's envelope all properties of literature. A movie's movement excludes it from including the medium of literature within itself likewise the stillness of comics exempts music from the low arts it can represent. But in a videogame reality is simulated. Music can play while poetry's read at leisure. Every trait of most low and both medium artforms is incorporated into videogames. What has yet to be but has potential to be included in the medium are senses of taste, touch (rumbling's negligible), smell, etc.

What's the matta? Synthetic Synthemata

It's not that I don't want to do anything it's that there's nothing to do.
It's not writer's block it's cock-blocking bollocks: bullshit keeping me from spitting/emitting any thing worth writing (casting in the ring of causality which casts me as a member of the cast.)
Gold became common currency in societies united by rulers.
Humans in freedom are more freeform in their exchanges. We barter.
The guy who beats everyone else until we stand in a line kills until his tradegood is standard payment.
He is a needle cutting through the bone and sinew of humanity to sew diversity into homogeneity.
People w/differences are peoples -isles, keeping to ourselves.
Bonds are wed by bleeding thread a gleaming metal needle who punctures and pinches.
Plenty leaks out but what he keeps is bundled.
His grip makes slip vigor yet the bound bundle is imprinted into a handle.
Conveniently impressed we let him carry on carrying off our sakki.
We'll drink sake to our health while he drinks our wealth.
It's not that there's nothing to do it's there's nothing worth doing.

Before the next Charge

The freshly slain lay together as hills and plains,
birds' caws echo,
beetles nibble gums in skinned smiling mouths,
air tugs on torn clothes too weak to wear out their final threads,
moss spores pour into the sky from decomposing muscles,
bones whistle and rattle,
a gory musical gallery,
cats gracefully leap from ribcage to femur,
the lower strata's skeletal,
limbs entwine in patterns finer than latticework,
worms wriggle in little tunnels where meat and mud meet,
armies of ants and squadrons of flies dine on dried flesh,
beneath the bomb-battered shrapnel, ground-soil toils to swallow blood,
earth sucks loads of lymph,
rain washes ash through gaps in former people,
the skyline has burned down lower than the waterline,
skyscrapers are pyramid profiles on the landscape,
stacks of cracked office supplies overflow from broken windows,
crates and material are marrow greased,
it drizzles too lightly to put out fires fed by oily munitions,
vultures pass over looking for fresher eyes,
housewives' faces are leathery in their kitchens,
foxes eat their fill and bury the extra,
packs of wild dogs sniff out the hidden human,
pits of rot are warm from teams of teeming bacteria working, tireless,
treads crushed corpses with their mark in passing,
sewer pipes -exposed and ruptured- vomit on the scene,
rats gnaw on the fattest cockroaches,
brambles break the breathless breasts of once-men in rambling paths,
reeking ramparts buttress crumbling concrete walls,
pebbles pepper stagnant bodies,
uprooted trees straddle this sick sea,
full of charnel passageways.

Lead on Me

Most men enjoy the wear and tear of their bodies, the blunting of their minds, in labor to greater society. We like to think we contribute our part, give atleast the worth we take, and provide cause for our fellow men to appraise us highly.
Most men are discomforted with commanding. To grasp any new tool puts one's mind into a temporary confusion while the tool's integrated. The more vast, potent, and complex a tool is the greater the fright of confusion besetting a mind sounding out its' use. No tool man may grasp is more vast in its' applications and abilities than men. Mentally these dual role-developments can be taken as successively feminine then masculine. First an addition to the body is enveloped by the psyche then the addition is a projection of the psyche.

Sorts of personalities which lend themselves to leadership roles:
1) Egotists. Every man fails yet it's healthy to resume battle against opponents you've seen defeat from rather than cede the field to despair. I define a man an egotist when he crosses through an intermediary range of boldness and confidence into blindness and denial of his foibles. This sort of man isn't aware he's lying to you when he says he has done no wrong. He forgets his own mistakes. The account of his misdeeds is lost from his mind and he seeks to start no fresh list. He is unendingly sure he should get what he wants and be obeyed. His natural doubts are overriden by a process: feeding the emotional friction (which is uncertainty) of conflicting ideas back into his pushyness. His pride is a lightning rod for the energy cast from self-doubt. Prompting him to self-analyze refracts in his psyche to agitate him. He'll yell louder when you tell he shouldn't yell. The brief moments when he is overtaken by self-mistrust he is intensely broken, a madman walking through a small strip of clarity, having little developed the error>analysis>correction routine a man healthily reinforces.
2) Unsympathetic. Like a frightened soldier curtailing his fear to be brave instead of a coward, a man must subject his sympathy to be just instead of merciful. For mercy is laxity. By our social natures we're inclined to count other people, to some degree, as equal to ourselves. I do not mean equal as compared to a ruler, "he's just as good as me". I mean equal -as crazy as it reads when put explicitly- as in one. To some degree we even count strangers as an entity with us. But like our imagined self, the nature of these arrangements, and how developed they're varies by our appraisal of ourselves, others, interactions, subgroups, etc. Suffice to think we don't want to see others hurt b/c we don't want hurt and by an infinitesimal measure count other men equal with ourselves. It is when resources our scarce with which to feed the body we make further divisions to survive. We decide which leaves are clipped and which grow. A man without sympathy has a greater capacity for manipulating others because their suffering hurts him less. As he defines himself distinct from them he's isolated against their tears. No man is completely cut-off from his fellows b/c to be so he couldn't be social. Socializing is innate to all men: it's how we learn to speak, mimicking our fellows. A social instinct allows integration between species: dogs corralling sheep, horses obeying man, girls hunting w/wolves, monkeys tossing fish to dolphins.

These character-templates each allow for a man to command with less unease than his fellows. Possessing both is superfluous although a fraction of these traits could let a man perform with as unaffected a conscious as someone very specialized along one self. Between these two, the 2nd is master. A fault against nature in denying one's mistakes: the uncorrected man's as weak to faulty patterns of thought as he was when they proved ill in his observation. A lack of human sympathy has no innate flaw command-wise. We treat betratyers as friends, renewing bankrupted accounts of trust, because we don't want to retract our connection to Man to match the least sympathetic men in scale. Less empathy may mean less feeling in general which may lessen quality-of-life: for a man little-affected by his fellows' feelings is less stirred by the greatest party he organizes than an empath at the simplest family dinner.
The egotist won't need to rule in fact if he's convinced he rules. He'll especially be comfortable with recognition as the authority over people despite an Unsympathetic being the real decider of events. The egotist is content with posturing and outward signs of superiority. He isn't attentive enough to specifics or willing to risk the danger of self-understanding by analysis. Just as the Unsympathetic doesn't care if someone else hurts he doesn't care if someone else is happy. A crowd cheering for him doesn't cheer him up. The unsympathetic works to tailor higher-quality and more specific pleasures for himself and is content to leave the various mob affections to egotists. Together these templates describe many leaders who rise in prominence and maintain prominence. The egotist is the President who folks will identify as their leader while the unsympathetic is a banker whose agents explain to the president in private what he'll say about the new agreement or law.

How many men exist who've highly developed the traits of one of these templates fluctuates. A man of any type may lead. Rulers'll seem -relatively- to fit these templates by a ratio difference like clergy:believers. Every man beloved by man may seem to sympathize with no one because he doesn't even know any of the people you know (but in truth may love his family same as you). Every man obeyed by many may seem to not know what the fuck he's doing but in truth many men do many different things and it is only said they act according to his will.