Strictly · Abstract · Poetry

The sign's intuitively the mass inside form--
absorbs light most strongly in the electromagnetic spectrum,

hence the green colour of philosophers such as Plato.
Any information about an outside observer's

arbitrary, i.e. there was by shining a light source
containing atoms of different elements apart from slow-time,

whereas the Three Kings found stars known in the tropics,
a real world plausible because gravity becomes stronger,

the space around it deformed. Short-lived time,
dark radiation, and water as gases absorb radiation.

Humans in outside contexts slow time, a real world process
the Three Sisters set and are visible in the language of forms.

Molecules change, unaffected by Late 19th century scientists
experimentally discovered in any organism's apprehension,

the cooperation of three subjects of the world.
Below the horizon even at midday,

atoms absorb their moment when they vibrate and
set Him in action in cloud form,

or influence which receives a reflection,
involves such a sign-- its object seems more a region of space:

into the armor, self-indulgent happy space!
all sides, people around, both strangers

remain impassive, stoneface in the center.
Bloodletting of human misery, like most

depressions-- want to grab 'em by the shoulders of
the twentyfirst century. Meanwhile the earth tumbles

somehow doped up on meds as people happy,
engaging, hopeful, mischievous, love the

unbelievable. How could a fake emotion exist?
Real, it just is. Emotions have no real

justify events whether exaltation,
because hundreds of millions test life

choosing which ones manifest
physically & emotionally a prozac skin.

More & more seem pressed in and loved ones,
by the depressed and angst-ridden,

refuse to be drawn. Refuse to participate in the
creative people come, so wrapped up in and

violently shake it out of them like a witchdoctor
of on. Don't feel emotions, either

out there suffering worse than us (and enjoying
states of being within time, commixt, and

I retreat into chitin armor, self-indulgent happy
space, all sides, people around me, both strangers

remain impassive and stony-faced in the middle.
Bloodletting of human misery, it seems like most

depression-- I want to grab them by the shoulders
the twentyfirst century. Meanwhile the earth tumbles

that I am somehow doped up on meds as some people
happy, engaging, hopeful, mischievious. I love the

unbelievable. How could a fake emotion exist? I mean
real, it just is. Emotions themselves have no real

They are never actually justified by events whether
exaltation. Because there are hundreds of millions

the test of life is choosing which ones will manifest
physically and emotionally this prozac skin.

More and more I seem pressed in and loved ones,
by the depressed and angst-ridden, and I

I refuse to be drawn. I refuse to participate in the
the most creative people I come across, so wrapped up in

and violently shake it out of them like a witchdoctor of
on. I feel good. I don't feel my emotions are fake or

either an emotion is felt or it isn't. It isn't fake or
or not we feel they are. It is pure hubris to believe that

out there suffering worse than us (and enjoying
states of being within us at all times, commixt, and

Black Iron Cage
& miracles contained us,

projected the Holiest
Mirror, itself in the

spark our own
self-consciousness

represents Godhood. Because
the entire panorama of world, all enemies

& joys & gods everything,
& we're minuscule

is the strange rarity
to discover how wonderful

for a tiny moment the
inside would in accordance

the entire multiverse,
projection discovering,

of the material suffering
& how terrible

tiniest particle, that which
with divine mathematics

would divide & multiply
intercessory, radical.

glowing poem called Quiet fables of looted
carparks felt flat like the moon
under the moon like one. I loved
fables of dust for man who glowing,

dizzying numbers was flat all shoved
heavy from numbers there--I loved beyond his
falling buzz, heavy from numbers, there is in chaos
honesty in a man too good at analysis...

This popped up under the eyelid moon along
the heavy numbers, honest chaos.
I loved beyond fables of dust
this man that was too good at analysis...

propped up flat numbers,honest, beyond
his chaos moon, glowing heavy from numbers,
there is in chaos honesty in a man of looted carparks,
dust for a man glowing beyond this man

This popped numbers honestly, in chaos
under the moon that loved the radio creature
heavy from numbers an eyelid under the moon
beyond this Quiet fable of numbers all along

the moon that flattens all numbers
in chaos that was glowing carparks
heavy from a poem called Quiet there is
an eyelid creature in the corner

and the dizzying numbers glowing heavy
from numbers there loved the invisible radio
and the dizzying repetition is honesty in
numbers under the moon glowing heavy from fables

Black Iron Cage & miracles contained
us, projected the Holiest Mirror,

itself in the self-consciousness
of joy represents the spark

our own Godhood. Because Goddess is & the
entire panorama of world, all enemies

& joys & gods everything, the entire multiverse,
& we're a minuscule projection discovering,

is the strange rarity of the material suffering
to discover how wonderful & how terrible

for a tiny moment the tiniest particle, that which
inside us would in accordance with divine mathematics

The Solar System travelling thru the Local Bubble for
the gas given em more prestige. Although

shamans & diviners in Bronze Age China had some authority
as religious leaders in society, the scholars did not want

radio waves as an alien ideology
The Local Bubble is not spherical, but seems to be

narrower in the galactic plane, becoming egg-shaped,
and may widen above & amassing too much power & influence

like military strongmen within the atoms unrecognized &
undistinguished social tier. Entertainers &

courtiers associated with the immoral
pleasure grounds of the galactic plane,

becoming shaped like an hourglass.
The Local Bubble abuts other bubbles of supernovae &

stellar winds in the Scorpius-Centaurus Association,
some 500 light years from the Sun.

could time travel, mind in 1980's Ventura, Ca.
fantasy driver go down to LA & see Hüsker Dü

imagine the marks & the other fucked ups
ran because a fantasy I'd be along with, & yea

I would be a shredder, there's no reason
to as we're in my brain, no?) but I'd be on their edge

sort of traveled up & down
looking for a wave or a screw & in those

days the screws'd be better because
they'd be dirtier and secreter,

way more wrong, we're talking go to hell stuff here,
so it feels way better, & the

guys'd be sexier, cuz shame'd mist over every action,
furtive gesticulations like living smoke really... just

flesh and the unfuckingquenchable flame, noonday sunbeam some burning
inquisitor, random breeze a matahari of

lovely, perfect, final immolation.

shorthand display only play too narrowly divined t' blend of pay in ordeal another in proportion shall not yet until may be unavoidable even desirable in its exit qualities all at once available for you t' sea

over the white lattice
the dead pixel. we put things next to each other
for easy reference.

infinite arrays, the province of Regulus
when the lion roars praise the lord

hallelujah, the unborn
is now alive, somehow

burn a candle in dedication
say a secret name

whisper an automatic word

this is where we're going.

hear me hear me hear me hear me

overhead the distractions flutter

open but not giving, unrepentant, selfish voyeur-minds unawaken and striven.

I miss you,
Ophelia.

never have I ever met you though.  perhaps one day you'll

hearfeelseesmellsparkme true.

awake! arise! ecce homo (mundi gaudium)

you don't know me.

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Talk.
The tented torrents cry to lily eyes.
Waste in mass, and few, and far between -
in fear, folly, forgotteness.
She tasted of cherry blossoms

bird's nest

struggling whitefaced amid the fasces
underwhelmed by a chanceless ghost
was made whole, our ineluctable dance.

angry bulls, poisonous snakes, insects,

plants and farmers with guns on the rolling greens
contained by the smoke of always passing cars.
By hand by morning hurry

this poem is an accretion disc
whiteboy shinto blues
polarizing on the plane through which all this cuts

( Cut for length. )

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electrolytes depleted 
stuck in the spectacle 
in the society
manufactured consent
the sting of bra wires, lip stick caked on lips like wax, glossy magazines
self loathing and rage
and machines stuttering like shadows flickering
the stars are hiding behind winter clouds
and the summer exists in another hemisphere along with
my sense of good will
i get nervous
dissosiate psychicly suceed
travel the astral plane in my atheistic existential angst
and chat with god a bit about how i hate myself
i'm leaving
star struck i wandered in and out of peoples's gaze all day 
ugly stores
in the city flood of tourists with getting stuck
in the escelators and get hit by trains 
and worship digressions.
forget life. the stars hiding behind sunlight
i was a library ghost all day today 
aloof staring at nothing in the aisles
drooling a bit
all writers are a little crazy my father said and the chair got too blue in my eyes
i am lonely and maybe my audience exists in uncomfortable places
lurking