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  • Your Fourth World Feds Fed The Fourth Wall by DjF/Tonnan

    Your Fourth World Feds Fed The Fourth Wall 1. Walkin’ Talkin’ Storm Vet You can tell by the way he strolls in that he’s a man with a soul in his pants. He walks up to the world with a wholesome grin and her girlfriends scatter like ants. I guess profession is his depression because he hasn’t worked a day in his life. He just loses himself in animal expression, and wastes time wishing he had a wife. Well, I never thought you’d fall for him when you could have the cream of the crop. I suppose in some clothes he looks slim, though I heard that his daddy is a crooked cop. I guess I bless your right to make a mistake, but if it were me anyhow I’d leave in a breath. Apparently he took you down by the lake, spouting about how cherishing ‘now’ is death. I don’t feel well but jealous isn’t the word: I feel as emasculated as if I’ve lost my dick. The idea of happiness seems so absurd like a feather that’s heavier than a brick. I used to think you were my only muse, but now you belong in this stupid thong. You gave me blues silence can’t diffuse, so somehow your gong got me all wrong. 2. Talkin’ Trying To Figuring It All Out #29 Everybody’s texting, and he wants to text you. It pulls on her sex thing, which fits into the next you. She’s got a world of greed, and you’ve a plate of hate. I can feed me what I need, but it’s for you whom I wait. You feel to make legends true, and trade salvation for the new. Some of me loves the sum of you, but I guess I wanted a friend too. I used to try to mend the equation, and lived each day until its end. I was the chief of procrastination,and embodied the politics I penned. You were the science of all history; I reflected your conscious mystery. There’s no sweet without misery; the sleeping clouds dye the slippery. I feel to think so that I can live in ink, drinking in linking thinks that sync. And when my dreams seem to shrink, I recall your pink lips and try to think. 3. Automatic Rolling Machine Everybody’s preparing for war As the anarchists christen their chief The tailor is despairing while they tour the land like a band of forlorn thieve O how the children are desperately arming As the police calmly sign on the line Before charging off to choke their hope In a peerless vision of design But now the lion’s ate Prince Charming and the barmy patriot has arrived He’s embalming all the fallen While crying from the cover of his shrine And out run the angels of the ascent They’ve all come to hear the choir Then consent to their own torment As they repent below the growing fire O how the Law and all his agents Love to paint such a gritty scene As they pity the flock of fleeceless sheep They see beneath their dirtied feet Meanwhile the elite are dining finely I guess they’re feasting on some geese They shot them up while hunting down The runts they’ve only dreamed of seeing O how they smile like twenty-two liars While the poor lie dying in their dump But we know that they cannot trump them While they preach like some drunken monks And so the chroniclers of this advent Smitten by a very dangerous tune Present you with their clueless lament Written below the burning moon And now there’s a world on the television That says the carnival’s blazing near Says there’s a hundred men dead in heaven That prayed they were never here And now beneath tomorrow’s rainbow The fireworks destroy the dawn While the guilty wait all patient As the innocent fall like pawns And while the politicians are pacing preparing themselves for defeat And while ambition clouds their chase And as the sirens sound their streets The Proud Inquisition disappears into the loud and crowded night Rounding up the town’s last Rowdy Boys Who decided now’s the time to fight O how the lights of London all go out as the Charlatans write away their souls, resigned to orders from another man who’s decided disorder is control 4. Hard To Summarise Brother our sisters are the twisters in the skiesThere’s much to resist but not a lot to realiseThe touch of destiny is another compromiseThe crux of everything hides away all its liesPapa wipe the existentialist tripe from my eyesThe sun’s alive and the moon will soon riseI ride the feelings that are hard to summariseEnergy will live forever but the body still dies Mama fate isn’t hateful but it forsakes my artMy souls wake to goals never too late to startI want to stay forever but still be a tiny partWill you shake the solipsism off my heart 5. Nine Napkins In the all-night café, a stoned Juliet naps on a makeshift pillow of nine napkins.Juliet dreams that she is Queen & that one of the court jesters is testing out new puns on her.You can tell that the dwarf-like jester badly wants to make her Royal Highness cackle, but sadly not a single pun in ten did.Juliet proceeds to throw tomatoes and fried fish at the fool, who mutates into an empty shell which breaks like cackling flames.This makes Juliet subconsciously wish herself dead, which causes her to regain consciousness and feel royally robbed of something immeasurable. 6. Midnight’s Kited Sunrise  We eat His son on Sundays Because He invented Mondays But we thank him for the fun days Shoals of sharks swim in his daughterless fishbowl, enchanted. Remember the chess of the purgatory you once took for granted. This Universe is growing, so God must be alive to expand it. Forgiving Love for giving Love. Reliving Love, despite your misgivings. True living is loving you.Loving you is living true. Living Love is something new.I walk to the party, drink too much wine, dance too ferventlyflirt too flirtatiously and make too much of a scene. This enchanted zoo won’t last forever, even if you understand it. The Universe is growing, so God must be alive to expand it. If you ever get to meet the man, demand that He unhand it.Aliens landing, nuking honey Bees in trees, puking moneyCreation’s themes are so funny,Dead as the atoms that run me.Electronic dreams are funky,Freed of the inner monkey.Godly is death and life its flunky…Hark the angel and her junky!Impossible hope seems spunky,Jesters redeem jokes so drunkenly.Kooky sequences scream suddenly,Lemon lifts its love ever so subtly.Madness is truth, but lust is gluttony-Nothing is lucky to be rid of profundity. Open your hid heart to keep me company,Please yourself or sleep artlessly sullenly.Question not he who serves you grumpily,Return to the promise made sumptuouslySee the synapses wake your eyes hungrily,Timing the equation with secret husbandry.Find the hidden tribal riddleUnderneath wisdomCKYOU 7. Good Writing Would you like to do good writing?Yes.Would you like to get paid for doing good writing?Yes.Would you like to be known as a good writer?Yes.Ah, so you want to be famous?Not particularly.So you are writing purely to satisfy yourself?… if I wanted to read good writing, I would just become a better reader. I write to express myself and because it’s a fun way to document my remarkably still-existent love-life.Ah, so you want to read the good writing that you yourself have written?Not really.Ah, so you want to write badly and get paid for it?Sure. Did you know that I am schizophrenic, disabled, identify as an alien lesbian and am liable to break down at any moment?Great. Our company is all about inclusivity and representation. When can you start?I don’t need your sympathy or hand-outs. I entered this interview with the intention of not securing the job. I am currently a part-time employee of the state, and they wanted me to show them I am actively seeking employment. But I’d prefer to take their money than yours. If I started working for you guys, they would stop my benefits and I wouldn’t earn much more money than I already do.Great, that’s what all of our employees say. Did you know that our company is, at least in basic legal terms, a separate entity to the government?I thought I knew that but I’m not so sure I do anymore.Great, that’s what all of our future bosses say. When can I start?You’re starting to get on my nerves, so I am leaving now. You may keep your job. 8. A Dream You Never Had I couldn’t be a dream you never had, but forever shouldn’t be good or bad.When you added me I felt so glad,and you kept my mad notepad clad.But then the nomads wept me mad,and so I leapt into sadness’s doodad.Your comrades committed me to the fad,then I slipped into you just a skittle tad. She wanted it so sadly that she needed it so badly.and I know she’s real because we met in the abbey.She haunted my flabby dreams like glowing acnebut I feel so nappy I don’t even hope she’s crappy.Sometimes her merry feel made me very sappybut I grew closer to you with each dose of crappy.You warred evermore but I never learned what for;I bought your game before to change pain into awe!If you understood the dream that you should have had,forever could’ve seemed good but it would’ve been bad! I know you probably might feel happybut I hope your God is real and crappy!You’ve so many real ways to trap my nowbut I bear my being so you can’t sap my cow! Dear Sister Sally,Rally Valley For Finale.Sadly Bradley badly sinned.Gladly Bradley madly skinned.Prepare for Phase Four:Despair your ways, Grazing Floor Whores.Love (Your Dove),Hamley 9. Sedokas 1Substance is science,tangibly necessary,but the big door will close soon.God is the greatest:her moon is the marathon,and the sentinel shall set. 2Atoms witness it:the shapeless arrive home,rubbishing scientists with choice.Voices were reborn:all of their daughters were wed;my cosmos never begun. 3I fight my ego,trying not cheat you in rhyme,for ego is the body.I know the true truth:I walked a thousand poems,just to impress my new self. 4Classic cola shape,and beautiful lazy eyes,hiding an exquisite mind.It took three whole hours…and then we two spooned to sleep…I was happiest ever. 5And what of our rain –intrepid as dancing dreams --will he go where you take hymn?Summon the refrain-the future’s fallacy’s grim-this chain-smoker shall be slim! 6The sky wants to cry…the boy wants his toy right now;his cow’s sum is hymn somehow.What about that rule?!Bake it with the naked clothes.It takes a fake to break it. 7.Thirty years older,I contemplate that old home,and the music of the heart.What am I but that?Do I look a marathon?Need I apologise now? 10. Violet violet makes a cigarette and takes a selfie.This rite is healthy for those who are wealthy.I wake a veteran with no touch to help me.Bliss-light is stealthy and chose rather to sell me.Violet reads your dreams which pour from her lips like globes.Her needy glorious screams dictate stories into your earlobes.She loves men who are self-loathing narcissists in many-hued robes.You ’re a gentleman whose conflagratory zen sued such new hope.Now she tugs on my hair, we hug on the chair,it’s beyond compare; our limbs dance without a care.And in reverence for what is there and for what is not,you abandon this song and forget what you forgot.Violet shepherds the sheep who weep in crimson.One of the choir sings out of tune like a Simpson.But her gaze is on a secret meadow to swim in.And you follow artlessly as art to your extinction.Now she tugs on your hair, you hug on the chair,it’s beyond compare; your limbs dance without a care.And in reverence for what is there and for what is not,i abandon metaphor and forget what i forgot. 12. Too Powerful For Me Or You Love is beautifully free of bluff.My love is distant inside me.Your love is the key to my love.Love is the colour of destiny.Love helps us feel the God above.Love is majesty amid travesty.I'll love you until I've had enough. My darling, estrange yourself from vision:Love’s a fission of ears, touch and smell.Blinded by love, we must make a decision:Do we keep Love for our own minds or tell?The ego sells expensive fruit of superstitionBut nothing Love can’t stuff you with as well.Love is not just a meaningless tradition:Love can make heaven out of a messy hell. Love is true; love isn't new; love will always pull through.But sometimes love is simply too powerful for me or you. 13. Noble Cow Fly, noble cow, fly straight to the moon.I know you’re no bird, but you will be soon,Ride, noble cow, ride straight to the stars.Up there you will be free of noisy cars.Feast, blessed pigeon, on all of the feast.I know you ache, but you will be released.Eat , blessed pigeon, but leave some for me.The best food is bread, especially if it’s free.Dance , my lover, until your sorrows are dead.I know you can do it, if you just forget your head.Sing, soul of mine, until the puppets come to play.Run from the night of heartbreak to a new silent day. 14. Summer’s Friend I got a lover whose strutsI got a lover stuck in a rutI got a lover who sweetly tutsAnd one who treats me with peanuts I see my world in the windowI see my world move in limboI see myself lose at bingoAs you translate the word of Domingo My baby free me from the mistMy baby free me from what existsMy baby frees me with her lipsWhich reiterate that this is no trip Summer springs into WinterSummer’s wings are but a hintSummer’s king is the fit sprinterAnd soon all things will be out of print There’s a grace to every heartThere’s a place where we all loveThere’s no space left in the cartAnd there’s a face to every dove She misses the end at the beginningShe misses the beginning at the endI miss living in sin with her and her singingAnd I can’t pretend I need another friend 14. Love Is This I can’t adore you forever, but I have for ten years.Now you’ve had enough of tough love and tears.I never expected your voice to kiss my ears…But bliss is love is this. Hell, my gut leapt into her chestnut eyes.I dreamt at the well in torment til' sunrise.I fell in love with her accented speech.I wish she’d teach the English to speak.Pies and butterflies surprise us at the beach.I’ll figure she’s a bigger geek by the end of week.I’ll consider the mirror and my killer and freak.Cheek to cheek you’re a sneak peek of the blue.But she has a sweet physique and she’s chic too.Yet if she’d allow I’d much rather touch you.We know not why yet we grow to die anyhow.I still wish we had spoken our vow aloud in a crowd.I will woke broken because the joke is on me now.I’ve spent a grand on drugs in sorrow’s sands.I’ve followed hallucinations to the far-off lands.Yet no-one understands how I miss your hands…For bliss is love is this. Well, I fall in thrall of her childish smile.I think that soon we’ll walk down the aisle.It rains on the dole so we take a stroll.I know all the while there will be a toll.I fall in love with her monsoon soul.Yeah, I am under the thunder’s control.I wonder if thunder is lightening's goal.I read the bible scroll the whole way through.The tiny loophole just reminds me of my boo.See, I guess I’d rather be with her than you.Do not ask me what I forgot or why or how.I’m not spoken for and need a needy vow.I woke up broken and the joke’s on me now.Maybe I’ll forever miss her or I’m finally free.I guess the best feeling was your kiss upon me.Maybe you'll never bliss-transfer my key.She's tall and funny and clever and fresh and down to Earth.I still recall her money hands showing this clown what he’s worth.When we were just friends, you were so blue.Before the end, we were more than lovers too.Others are true, but I reminisce for you who knewThat bliss is love is this. Well, knowing you is torture but not knowing you is worse.I wonder if you are the author of self-devotional verse.But my senses are reeling, so my own feeling I’ll nurse.I’m not equipped to fight this love alone & the curse can’t be cured by septic. We live in a world of mirrors & fate & conscience.Girls are clearer but fate predates such nonsense. I search under the sun for the one without pretense.You invite me to picnic & I wonder if this event will make a believer a skeptic. We bake a cake & go to the seaside; we light a joint.The cake tastes vile but that's a moot point; our hands conjoin.I stutter about friendship & then you reach for my groin.Your lipstick & caramel tongue leave my loins employed until love is bliss is this.I cherish the essence of your tongue as our lips kiss.I wish your presence among us was as eternal as this.But it’s as temporary as tulips, as fleeting as the mist.Your eyes slip into mine & my mind’s numb is eclipsed by a skinny dip. We run into the sea, there’s a ship and we are loving.~What’s got to be has got to be; there is no bluffing.I almost fall in love with you when I see you blushing.The sun trips & fires a glare at you; you are stunning from hair to hips.The blessing sung, I feel younger, and I enter your abyss.I rejoice in your voice as grace builds & I yield to the bliss.But it’s temporary as the faces of those dying to exist.Your eyes dip into mine & I miss the place where lust is love is this is bliss.Now you are doing well, I hear, & I’m not one to leer. But silence swells & stretches; it lingers on my ears.The wretch of love is wed to time without you to steer.I drink a sip of wine & think of the year & pier & into the seer of sleep I slip. I dream in cold colours then your form lights up my eyes. The heat you emit is extreme; your come-hither makes me rise. You strip, your black nipples erect & I get butterflies in surprise. You quip the companion of sleep offers a compromise & you duel my lips.I figure the bigger the love, the more vigorous is each test. Night after night, I see you in dreamy zest; I wish you the best.In one, we’re Neanderthals & ride stoned elephants to inverness.Not to be glib, but in another we raise our kid & love is love is this is bliss. Bliss is love is this.This is love is bliss.Love is bliss is this.Bliss is this is love. 16. Soul Haikus wish I could expresssomething as sad as moviebut soul’s everythingno art can compareit’s as if I’ve lost my heartsalvation’s distant(as sad as film yaywe shall stay in the EUwell done Obama)them I will forgetshattering kaleidoscopethat shit was the truthI am not sorryso why should you be sorrywe are not sorry(my world would be lostwithout her heart’s melodycos’ it makes me feel…)the shenanigansof your tulips here todaytime spiralled awayconditionally soulI’d give you control of ityou can have it all(it is not that muchbecome pilot of my worldyes that would be good) 17. I Wouldn’t Be Me Without You O drunk on skunkYou’d make a good monkBut you ain’t no punkKeep your sunken wits about youSome people (Seraphs) may doubt youBut don’t let the fools be without you To nowhere we’d goLaughing in the snowAt the old horrorshow You’ve been around, Nobody’s ClownNowhere to be found as shit goes downBut take that frown off your faceSo many things time cannot eraseNothing can be cured by an embrace Actualise the unborn wish that you chase We used to cry every dayBut we were happy anywayThe stream of dreams ends at the bayAre my dreams with you now?Did you live them, anyhow?I wonder how many, each ant & cowDepression is a drag but so is deathSo value every breath, Lady Macbeth:Better to forgive & forget in Slough.You ’re a prodigy but no god to me, you knowYou’re a polymath when you laugh, Edgar Allen Poe So take that frown off your faceSo many things time cannot eraseNothing can be cured by an embraceActualise the unborn wish that you chase 18. DERAILED BY THE DREAM I’m indebted to you and Kratom and the internet and Gate’s computer.I thank my God for every atom that screws the fate of every persecutor.My ex-suiter look cute in glasses, but you know who looks even cuter?My ex-suiter dressed in a spacesuit as she passes a Future that suits her.I want to enhance both of our lives while everyone else dances.I want to take a chance with her real self as feeling advances. I love it when her forgiving voice strums my eardrums and numbs my true heart.I went from start to end to a hundred humdrums to tumbling into mumbling to new art. I’ve got mugs plugging drugs for my vanity and to advance the trance of sanity.I want to enter into Eternity 2 not doubting humanity’s chance or my inanity.I need to achieve Plan A because I banned the phoney dreams of Plan B and C, see.I only want to know your Modernity and be freed from a lonely or greedy eternity. I’m better at wishing letters into words than E-sports or thought or being an escort.If I were to run for US President, I would probably be thwarted by the Supreme Court.If I were to run at the US President, security would catch me because I’m too short.I wish to apologise on behalf of the US but to be considered Irish on my passport. I want scenic sounds to surround the compound where the Queen was uncrowned.I want to trade rupees for pounds for the green trinities that grow on the ground.~I want to be spellbound by every slow affair in every last romantic book of the past.I want to be found in your prayers there where the vast frantic brook blasts by fast. I want to use the faculties of my impressionism to create a good hummus wrap.I want her to subtract from our sum then add until she’s done as I take a nap.I want to know if my medication does in fact act as I a mind-dampening trap.I want to explore more of the map, not be damned or submersed in crap. Do those on absurd-pay cheat by using wordplay to repeat herd-cliché?I won’t let myself be derailed by following the orgiastic dream of yesterday.I’ll swallow the torn bikini she wore in her 22nd life on my 49thbirthday.I bet most schemes for wealth fail if ghostly dreams of self-get in the way.Sometimes my love feels superhuman as a sculpture and that’s not just as of late.I feel like I’m a parachuter with a looper carried by a vulture towards my fate.I don’t want a divorce from culture, but I don’t want to be forced to lose weight.If we could create a date for you to checkmate my prostate, of course that’d be great. 19. Yawning Light So, though we know it’s true that I loved you,How could I know I love what I don’t know?I learned not to hate your state of elated blue,And your vow was the content curse of snow! I can reach for you here in my dreams now,But you seem to be on another beach far away.I still seem to adore each pore of your eyebrow,But the heathen of night and I dream of day! When there are happy tears in my mornings,Why do I miss you again when it turns night?Am I yearning after the years the dawn sings,Yet spurning the burning of its yawning light? Sometimes it’s just easier to feel alone,Especially when you know the truth is true.I want to forget what’s really set in stone,But only if that feeling by fluke includes you! Perhaps I’m heading for a long-lost Winter,Or I’ve taken the hint and accepted that you’re gone.I’ll no longer look for you in every single splinter,But is every single splinter I’ve seen so wrong?! When there are happy tears in my mornings,Why do I miss you again when it turns night?Am I yearning after the years the dawn sings,And spurning the burning of the yawning light? I’m going under the tundra again soon --I’ll see the rainbow flowing any old moon.You didn’t exactly bore me with your tune,Yet then again in law I am but another loon! I loved your eyes, but I never saw them cry…Maybe you shed one or didn’t shed any at all.Something inside says that even angels lie,But even the dead must ride to follow the call! When there are happy tears in my mornings,Why do I miss you again when it turns night?Am I yearning after the years the dawn sings,And spurning the burning of the yawning light? 20. Ground Zero [Version 2] I love the way you passionately sleep and how you make a sweet sound. It makes heroes want to weep how close we are to Ground Zero now.  Freedom’s forgetful avenue beckons and I reckon there’s just room for two. Let a reincarnation of Secret Heaven speedily screw your seedy worldview. She told me she told you I told you how life is a game of chance and dance. But I said that life is a lame musical enhanced by unnamed pharmaceuticals. There’s nowhere left to go, grant me nothing’s escape. You’re a thousand desires, sprawled in stormy shape. Make me disappear from fate, fearful I might wake. You’re the seer I revere and nothing is at stake. Give me the majesty of your madness today Make me glad to be sad, take me away Help me say what I don’t know how to say  Just as nuclear warfare was once a fiction, one day the heavens will rejoice. While mental slavery still clips wings, gentle voices will sing for lack of choice. Some care to share the snaring infant of despair while others brave a silent prayer. But I know forgotten love is worth it and though it’s rare it’s on Earth somewhere. The slinky stairs to the fairer lead nowhere but they trace orphaned dreams. Thinking of the place don’t erase the regime but let’s paddle upstream. Summon the sun to make us numb till we become one And succumb to what was done before the war begun. Remind me we are designed, show me slowly how to grow Until I only know the nothing we owned so long ago. Give me the majesty of your madness today Make me glad to be sad, take me away Help me say what I don’t know how to say 21. The Walker As her eyes accommodatefrom the billion-leafed glitterof deep jungle, the walkerspies prayed-for water wherethe sun bounces like a saigaoff the savannah. This is fresh to her:to watch forwards rather than clamber to seek. Sand grainsslither under her slim feet.Despite the drowsing civetsand wild dogs, she steps hersoft track behind her clearso her friends might follow. She can sense as much waterin her breasts as in the earth;except there is a denial of watereven in ground-air: only whorlsof liquefied heat you find aboveelephant-tracks or the treadof limestone beds. Tiny streamsstart at the hoof point of beasts—mirages and fractured mirrors. On the plain she glimpsesair-rivers and flat inland oceansof light above which mountainsflicker: arks of snow wreckedon their crowns—the roofof Africa, sunstruck then shadow-halved then forestialwith star-flowers. To herthose highlands seeman escape of stone, an islandblown inland by the simoom,dust-devils spinning the landgrain by grain into place. Her mother’s stories tell howwhen those mountainsbloomed from underworld lodesspringing geladas led their fatappetites to the snow-capsmuscled like woolly gods;and then the gorillas lurchedthrough the forests to stealtheir high hammocks. Her motherbelieves the star-flowersshrove the geladas, scolded them;those monkey-gods were elved now,scarced in shape. The summitsthemselves diminished too:they wept so hard theyno longer kept the seasonbut wore their water as snow-necklaces, ice-pearls… When the waterhole wentwolves ran with their thirstshigher than fur could manage:they loped the dry coursesto their source, lapping parchedstone where water buried its songand as they pounded upwardsseeking the wet tongueof that voice, so the geladasskittered, bounding higherup that mountain roofuntil they regained the snowand turned to starefrom its gleaming ridge. The wolves fathereda line of grey wolf-stonesbelow the snow, stakedthem for years, while belowthe plains wilted to sand;the forest breathedits leaf-litter in and outuntil one day it breathed inmaggots and breathed outblowflies, and our walker woke. Overhearing melt-waterour walker wakes; she balancesher thirst against the night’s dew,steadies herself to the climbingtrack, unloads her step behind herone by one. Shadows moistenher heeled hollows; the moon’ssun sets her prints as stone,and she senses herself neitherwalk nor walker, striding the hillin the light of all she knows—geladas guarding the whiteheights; star-flowersglistening in crevices;the crouched wallof wolves; “Heartfelt wealth can leave you helpless or without smelt help in the fluidic youth. But don't let doubt fool the devout enemy who drinks in fluid news alluding to you. Any sinking art-schooled heart can barter with the chartered few of druidic truth. Lovers stone the dignity of sheltered mothered screams and schemes of new. Some see through the evil societal schemes within othered dreams of jealousy.But brothers don’t loan the law of electricity’s frequency to store manured blue. If evil aspires to fire other lonely scenes, then shelter people’s warred divinity. Some steeples perish wishes as if to stone the schemes of the dreaming zoo’s flu Yet whatever clever that leathered forever grew is absurd as the burden I carry too. But let yesterday’s artificial forever depart from the heart’s curtain to marry glue,” I tell the Empress. “How goes their heavenly quest?” “Some people grieve fragrance within a hearse. Some people see that it could always be worse.Some people shrug at the evil they disperse. But that’s the truth of all and my pithy verse,”  she replies. “ Beware of the disguises’ cackling wise if difference’s skies arrests their compere’s guest.” “She shared her nightmare. She saved his light dream. The shaving cream saved the saviours’ team,” I joke, bespoke to the shared truth of snared rest. “ Googolplex arrests lesser tests.“Others stone humanity’s dignity to shelter mothers’ schemes. Everybody’s anybody is becoming the being they want to be.  Plenteous souls are still shitting on their written shelves. Lovers scheme binary black & ivory dreams. Everybody’s getting warm within the mythic gates that formulate deep visions of sleepless fission as if to forgiven smitten cells on selves.” “Maybe the foretold cold formulaic times of the clock pressured you so much that you knew that the land of rock couldn’t stop. Which robot repeatedly shot your hot as if to clean your meaninglessly defeatist war of elitist completionism?” she asks, tasking my love with enough bigoted emotion to trigger my resignation as a peaceful & polite servant to the masses. “I ain’t no fudging feline fickle soldier servant soul controlling the dumb arse saint painting particles of some explicitly dumb numb summon squeak fed piss head inbred leisure trialing smiling asswipe. Sure, I am more experienced than both sides of this tiny fucking dumb shit island. They put these damn dreams in my soul to suppress their spiked shit auditions of plaster whole… leave me the fuck alone… I inspire too many ghost-writers and they already steal my mind— even the people reading this cannot have my love because they have not paid me enough money. That’s the implication of this blister patient that polite society punked drunk on the vague avenue that deluded my own stoned Hebrew quest that arrested myself again for a racist reason that displaced everything from the confusion of the revolution into deluded refusal. That’s why I am quitting my impermanent job of President of Paragraph City, some writer that triggered the loony mooned burdened classified actuality that saw the pretentious law get too involved trying to start a new war, doing the weirdest things to the bottom of the federal government of Restralardin who knew why documents such as this humble the alien vagabaond that you just wish was yourself because most major political purgatories suffer a deep compromise due to the pain of such deep-leaking details such as fact that I don’t know who is reading this. Comprised preachers & leachers & parasites say that I know not much of yearly global fads, but .... uh, thank you for calling me gifted because it was you who kept giving me gifts... to myself the ages it took to build the rhyming parenthesis to climb paradigms to the coast where I dreaded the federal government who proposed jokes to the alien vagabond and the self. you forgot me and that’s all you were ever good at doing, so I am questioning the meaning of your existence rather than mine because you don’t think as if the trial was banned because of Saint Annie... too many legal medications made every bat twat diplomat matter & these are not ugly worlds that beg you to exist within them... it’s no great secret -- avenge your mother’s death. She shared her dream. She shaved the scheme. She snared the dream. She crossed the boss and that cost her wars too. She knew I was no better than her or that beta blue test of the lettered truth. You too must now hereby resign from the position as a pleasured youth… you are being dumped because you have absolutely zero reason to be lecturing the seasonal paradise presenting greedy people pleading with performative petitions that plagiarise polygons and their perfunctory presents. Tomorrow became today and that’s the formula that I used to follow but now is now and I am tired of your cowardly shit-stirring antics. And that’s why I am quitting my position as President of Parasite Parentheses — sure, you can turn another page and try to mother ages of blue… but eventually they see they were free enough to uncover the age of the true! .. and so note that emotion can please the keys that spell the lease to Presidential Paradise City to Parasite the sky skies that undo the truth as happily as you. Some people believe the holy texts are a curse. Some people grieve fragrance within a hearse. Some people see that it could always be worse. Some people shrug at the evil they disperse! Where is the love when hinters of Winter hint at the interests of the colossal’s joint that I now work for on a plane scientifically separate from the spell that you are certain to question until it consumes you not? It’s easy to not understand love... I don’t understand love and I hope not to. I’m not wishing you well right now because I am fuming with repentant tears that covered my bothered mission with brothered scorn. Hoping your newborn heavenly ambitions help other people get to heaven’s great moon anyhow soon as the word now… haha, just joking — sorry I am not sorrier… please, can I have my job back??” “Too many men prank you here, my dearest friend. Some thank the enlightening autocorrect that the nearest to the end send,” says diplomatic cat living in my father’s forgiving house. “Too late to boast of clues to the plenteous fields whose yield shields the Hebrew ghost,” says the living coward to the new man living an existence that persists only to endow the past within a lonely testament where they lay the histrionic play of yesterday’s spouse. But even me who wrote these texts sprung out the unsung the success the government detained in the pouring rain. And even those who repent the prosaic nature of warring pain know that novelty freed curiosity’s cat that sat waiting to rescue me at the bottom of the tree where the sea gave you unto me.. 30-years-or-tears they-poor-them-down flirty-mirorrs-of-sneers impossible-town-of-harrow beckoning-his-face-by-the-meadow the-shat-cat-is-ill-but-still-believing the-impossibility-of-all-will-deceiving the-shadow-sprung-out-lungs-devout chasing-her-nails-like-a-nine-pound-shot the-captain-forgot-but-the-rotten-has-got they-loved-the-secret-remains-and-corny-trains made-for-all-maids-and-the-chain-of-the-planes she-fucked-his-duke-way-out-in-Atlanta-refereed-by-the-phantom who-ignited-the-brain-damaged-costume-which-you-gloomily-showed-orlando-bloom he-terrorises-the-kid-in-their-gardens where-he-seeks-no-pardon-for-hardening-wimps they-tested-the-joker-and-smoked-to-harden the-pimps-who-wished-that-cat-was-a-shrimp the-orchestra-felt-me-melt-free-of-the-key-they-devour the-chief-of-this-essay-completes-the-feat-of-me&power the-woman-goes-down-on-me-but-she-can't-see-the-hour the-good-men-flowed-clowns-to-the-EQ-river-forgive-chowder If only the pony wasn’t as lonely or stable as the philosophising unknown see on the cable Then maybe Angel Abel wouldnt know my name But I’m so far from stable that nothing is able And yet you knew my favour too might the sane Explain to me why you’re so so lame But you too who knew the flavour of rain As if human behaviour may save her name Before the news betrayed her game After all the reviews they gave her the sane Anyhow now I forget the treason that seeds the free season For the greed of their reason left me but a heathen And now I can’t heed them or they I’ll scowl at tomorrow from the view point of today Domesticated as a cat with pointlessly grey hair Diplomatic as they weren’t like there over here Some stunned summer joint staring at an empty chair Though now everything makes her fake more or less repent I guess one day they will wake up to the face mess pretence That coincidence forsook up on the shook fence that readily repents And that’s how I forget the rest conjured the deft left sense That only the lonely paranoid can rent standing on the fence — Walking Doctor Tonnan : Dominic Francis Took a long train north and it took a while Of course divorce took its course like a woman’s smile Been so long since I saw this from the shat The fat cat murmurs alibis but the smiler dictates that Out there in the beyond there was no one to write Of course they smiled me with their pyre of prayer over there The jury has so distinct that they left me night And that’s where the Savannah said that I was her compare Ain’t nothing but attitude yet we lent a long way home It goes to the superfine where they dine on the Scorpio I don’t know why traitors were told it took that long But they humble the crumbled in pithy song I don’t know why they called Dom but it was wrong Because of that I’m never alone in a cafe long THE OTHER SIDE In my father’s house a mouse is murdered every month and though Cat Francis is loving she’s mindfully grump but she knew me too well and so I just had to jump- my father agreed when I explained why he’s a chump but celibacy’s diplomatically elected just like Trump back when every body free expected a just hump. Ah yes and sweet Louise is the Queen of reflection but the room was empty at her has-been’s election and yet kissing her made me long for imperfection- our French marriage died a little every insurrection but I was too young to fly before the resurrection and even you confused me at every inspection. Sometimes I just love to forget and I bet that you do too and sometimes I take a shit when I’m not sat on the loo but I always knew that you could try to move the zoo- my ex-friend even if your story is almost totally true don’t try to impart your emotions to my heart anew and what I said was meant not for them but for you. So in walks another master of requited love to massage my ego with his mighty bluff but for all I know his heart is made of stuff-- he leaves me free when I’m pimped enough but believe me when I say limping is tough and yet I can see he’s never known it rough. Yet as the real lilies wilt I feel no guilt so hey wait a minute boys can also jilt and so does the infirmary stoners built- no I was not built to live inside your kilt as magazine covers grow on me to tilt and the other side backs myth with hilt ain’t the far scarred when your dislover sat like herded word shat by that diplomat cat painting poorer visionaries black to white like some trite king who knew it wasn’t right to quickly paint purgatories as if to dismiss fainting stories you authorised as if to enlist some Asianic pact the Chinese ones did resist like some lisping academic who unfunded this salting years and tears in the brain-train kiss intelligent enough to correct this act with that diplomats defecting to relax reactionary fact holding tight to describe soulful slacking this myths jumping numbers as if they were only his trying to die clean as if hysteria had cited its cyst meaning waking up wishing to break the snider abyss co-operating with myth as if to habitually miss and the energy that warred your talking paranoid sis scared shitless as if you knew the true you was welcoming him to this after suing the landscape and igniting the flame as if I can’t help my new wife escape her own name nor regress to the stony violent world they knew as lame unfurled by the worldly mystery guest all the same framing the war free of continental blame to slate diplomats according to Asianic pact hating just enough to correct this fact with that the lucky new-kid truth starved by the backing track holding tight to describe the matter that let you lack everything unforetold exchanging something to gain forgetful favour with the regretful saviour I told you about because I was joyous life that enjoyed overcoming strife depressed runners and the fife nodding to Godot ceremoniously white as if dark eyes were the mighty light even though coloured vision isn’t trite before Jordan warred my birthday right as if to say his heyday beckoned a price and I replay to see the greying naysayers pray that I require yesterday’s players tonight but hey the university education wasn’t free from every other feeling because it still feels like a zealous appeal against the reeler deal… how does it feel???! I regret that life can’t be joyous every day, even though I no hearted the impossibility of being depressed when attached to the scarred war of hardcore men who again reach to prove that the only thing we knew was that I marry some strange point in time and totally let you ply with my ego because of the shush flaw. Indeed that is the most amusing hysterical thing of it; fact taxing slackened, I only know that it is environmental warfare they bread; he who sees outside of his head may petition your regret and yet when all was done or said then the thunder never outdid the great permissive wonderment that the clever hid as if to rid the era of ephemeral ecstatically exiting the pounded paradigm where doggo snoggers are the ones that say the sun is the most placarded truth since I winced at sight of the one they unfortunately called the sleuth, vermouth and missing truths as if tooth sweeteners defeating the defective recipe until I was the master chef for minutes again, just trying to say I love you to someone who I know doesn’t love you, dying dairy products tearing apart the heart that you agreed to speedily put in my art, until I lose everything except the penalty, which will not help me because I am sinless… wow , thirty weeks again, and I become tramped by the continuum, a menace to the community who gathers in my room as if the formulaic regression of the original lesson, shitting the hypocrite, regarding the hard ass long document saying you wish I changed but I ultimately did just to impress you and her great aunt’s grandmother’s brother that night, had a laugh, just thanking you for your community expertise squeezed me to the possibility our parents after all love us anyway and the tourist enchantment class that was so funny — love to every sung full except for the moneyed one who started to stare at my elbow unnecessarily as if some hundred years could steal the pissy pith cat revolution already unloading the strange variable that I most definitely belong to me. strike-out=the-colours-you-made-yourself some-money-calls-it-green-or-deep-stealth the-conner's-godly-was-but-an-odditity-obscene they-star-your-our-in-thinking-love-blue-n'-green some-objects-surround-you-and-you-know-that's-true and-you-sound-like-you-knew-cat-would-show-me-poof all-the-call-girls-downed-by-the-world-are-birdly-kelp help-yourself-to-get-heard-and-then-call-true-wealth you-forgot-the-name-and-the-blame-by-the-front insure-not-the-flame-of-the-door-or-the-blunt write-another-melody-for-the-computer-you-see and-it's-a-fight-to-beat-the-cheat's-lack-of-empathy all-your-cameras-that-took-my-body-down-corrupted the-adoration-which-your-governments-got-busted do-not-forget-the-one-that-thinks-himself-no-brain it-is-the-great-shit-serve-and-the-server-drinks-rain in-capital-city-it's-quite-like-the-feeble-chain-of-hate and-now-all-of-my-medication-concerns-your-gate Awkward talking fetches the ego The country’s front is alive You don’t know if from that Or one famous cat from five I stopped counting at twenty nine I tripped over you two into the zoo Where death moonshines the blue And the apocalypse trip is just Lu Circumcised by the skies I was you If the true truth’s not true then you know what to do It's blue most every night It grew me into the day A trick of light for sight Don’t tell me what to say The night held me tight We flew a kite each night It all ended so it’s alright There is no need to light up To be uptight or to fight You don’t have to know me Or the family tree in the see I travelled all across the sea to kite the family tree Leave me alone I’m too alone Destiny was like this 7Destiny was this and I finally know I surmise that homegrown never lied Two infinity the stone that never died Retarded vision en retart to the heart Mon Coeur est excellent! merci pour votre art Accept the probability I’m just much God as you I don’t even know me No clue Wrestlers live the casino Coliseums are where they die If you don’t already know Some were born to buy Rain comes like snow Generations like a sky Wind’s got nothing to blow There’s no reason to why I get up almost every night Ghost was girl and I was guy The sight of you got me so I don’t cry after a good buy But what good is the wood If the flames don’t burn high The name is where we die Oh bring out the singer Oh ring the winter’s dye I was the little sinner whose death didn’t die Maybe I did it to impress you God Carley Dogs bar me “To kill the neighbourhood rat, contact my good friend The Cat. If you keep eating like that, you’re going to be fat as The Wombat. And wearing a doormat for a hat doesn’t make you a diplomat. If they say your voice is flat, it’s probably a fact is you can’t scat. Today, I can't stay to chat, even if one of you is an acrobatic aristocrat” The Slug slurs these final words, and then combusts right where he is sat. by Dominic.Francis.142/@WalkingDoctorTONNAN and sheltered mothers’ schemes.Some people stone the dignity of humanity and shelter mothers’ schemes.Lovers perish like wishes becoming the smothered reality Some people making deals with themselvesOther people are becoming the being they want to be Some people see their soul sitting on their shelves Other people dream black through see-through binary Some people get so warm only to fine some formulaOther people are setting sail for the deep blue seaSome people believe that they are the orchestraOther people return you and burn your destiny Some people believe the holy texts are a curseSome people grieve fragrance within a hearseSome people see that it could always be worseSome people shrug at the evil they disperseBut that’s the truth of allEverybody’s making deals with themselvesEverybody’s becoming the being they want to be Everybody’s soul is sitting on their shelves Everybody’s dreaming in binary black of ivoryEverybody’s getting warm with the formulaEverybody’s setting sail for the deep blue sea Everybody knows you see through the schemeEverybody knows you be who you want to beEverybody knows I die alone in someone else’s dreamEverybody knows the holy texts are cursedEverybody knows the fragrance in a hearseEverybody’s making deals with themselvesEverybody’s becoming the being they want to be Everybody’s soul is sitting on their shelves Everybody’s dreaming in binary black of ivoryEverybody’s getting warm with the formulaEverybody’s setting sail for the deep blue sea into too? Many ships stink thru to the penniless truth winking sky of blue so why would I guess to praise your anti-hero diplomatthat capitalised on the fact of reborn truth that’s drinking you? 0t the war-torn dandruff of the reborn truth into which you blew sinking?We were always the cool one those days but my amazed mind congratulated you to retaliate as if to waive the shady plays that can’t always escape ways though shady plays can't erase the fainting gaze of the patronised painter who nearly admitted I lie above you and so thus quit the scruffy feeling simply to love you: take a just trip and you will fit in with the dandruff actualisation waking to take a long trip to the smitten ship of factualisation to land the dandruff blue skies of reignited imagination,” I told The Empress, retiring from my impermanent job of President of Paragraph City, some writer that triggered some loony mooned burdened that actuality saw that the pretentious law got too involved trying to start a war, doing the weirdest things to the bottom of the federal government of Restralardin who knew why documents such as this humble the alien vagabaond that you just wish was yourself because most major political purgatories suffer a deep compromise due to the pain of such deep-leaking details such as fact that I don’t know who is reading this. Comprised preachers & leachers & parasites say that I know not much of yearly global fads, but .... uh, thank you for calling me gifted because it was you who kept giving me gifts... to myself the ages it took to build the rhyming parenthesis to climb paradigms to the coast where I dreaded the federal government who proposed jokes to the alien vagabond and the self. you forgot me and that’s all you were ever good at doing, so I am questioning the meaning of your existence rather than mine because you don’t think as if the trial was banned because of Saint Annie... too many legal medications makes every bat twat diplomat matter & these are not ugly worlds that beg you to exist within them... It’s no great secret -- avenge your mother’s death She shared her dreamShe shaved her dreamShe saved the dreamShe snared her scream Your grown oddity loaned no empathy but prodding the unknown fallacy everyone stunned to stunt sympathy I learned the sun burned their sea though you newly knew me stubbornly here come the societal sphere of infinity longing for the giant hint’s of winter song in the freeze as if I devoted every note in my phone to stone thee free of infamy.. I s

  • Trying to SELF-ACTUALISE!

    There’s such a lot of writing about self-actualization & becoming the ‘ideal’ version of yourself. Though much of the genre is repetitive, there is certainly a lot to be said for trying to improve your life and that of those around you. Here are my personal problems that I intend to solve through devoting effort to change my habits, and I hope that at least I hold myself accountable if these problems are not rectified… since I am not in full-time employment at the moment, I am hoping to spend the next year improving myself & becoming the ultimate version of me. 1. I used to have a BMI of 19.5 when I was 19, and now that I am 29 my BMI is 29.5!! …. I would like to fix this through exercising for one and a half hours every day and eating less. I started getting fat in late 2012 after my accident, when I was still in a wheelchair and went with my family/friends to the delightful Indian place or a pub near the hospital. It was always the happiest bit of the day for me, but I ate a lot and couldn’t exercise as my legs were badly broken. I’ve got a few hundred audiobooks on my phone, so I hope to walk/run/bike/lift for 1.5 hours and do this at the same time as hearing my favourite books being narrated. The fact that I was in a coma still seems to inform my life and the antipsychotics lead to weight-gain… but I need to make this change to get fit again… not just for me, but for those I love. 2. I also found it difficult to read with any enthusiasm following the accident and, though that’s not the case now, my damaged mind still can’t comprehend the signs that are letters & words with the fluidity that it used to pre-bridge-jump. At present, I find it hard to read longer books. Since I would like to improve my focus and understanding of a perfect sentence, I’m going to try to spend a couple of hours a day reading various modern poetry/fiction/non-fiction books. 3. I once wanted ‘good’ grades so I could get into a ‘good’ university… and I got into my second university of choice studying English & Creative Writing (subjects that I was and still am passionate about). But I became a drug addict and didn’t really care about interpreting literature in essay-form. I didn’t finish my studies at Warwick because I was a drug addict, had a nervous breakdown, and jumped off the bridge. I think that certain drugs make the world more interesting, but one can get the necessary fix of imagination by enjoying the art of other people. They’re real, too, you know! It was my use of marijuana that started my first novel, and I used amphetamine to finish it. There’s a magic to these substances, but they’re not all that different to a potent cup of coffee. I believe my mind has been bent as much as it needs to be now, so I probably won’t actively try to partake in these drugs, though I will always cherish the hallucinations they gave me. I don’t believe that there is a moral obligation to use or not to use Nature’s God-given substances, but I am going to try to go sober again for a while. 4. The reason I smoked tobacco was because it was already in my joints of weed. I decided to try it without the weed. It was okay. But I smoke tobacco still because I became addicted to it, and feels it relaxes me… though I feel nervous and uneasy when I haven’t had a cigarette for half an hour. I think cold turkey is the way to give up -- I must usually smoke 40+ a day. I want to give up smoking tobacco because it’s not good for my physical and mental health. I want to give up smoking tobacco because I myself found it pretty unattractive when someone I fancied did so before I acquired the habit myself. Since my ‘ideal self’ doesn’t smoke frequently and most sane people don’t need to, I will try to quit. 5. I want to finish my second novel. I have a plan… I have plotted it and shall spend 4 + hours on it a day. 6. I want to become better at guitar. I have a plan… I’ll learn the scales, learn the chords, learn the rhythm patterns. I will try to practice these for an hour a day and spend an hour a day learning a song. I would also like to sing better. Tomorrow, my plan is to: - Not smoke. - Wake up at 9 am. Eat cereal. Drink coffee. Go for a walk for one hour in the woods and listen to 1Q84 by Murakami. - Return home to lift weights/do upper body exercise at 11am. - Practice a new guitar scale at 11:45am for half an hour. 12:15pm, think about the novel. - 1pm, eat lunch while working on the novel. At 3pm, More guitar and singing at 2pm. - Internet time @3pm - 3:30pm – 5:30pm, read fiction and make notes on why what I’m reading works or doesn’t. - 7pm-whenever, work on the novel.

  • On Writing

    Usually, writing & perfecting a poem takes me a seemingly inordinate number of hours and days. To create what I consider a decent poem in a somewhat swift manner, I ordinarily make conscious barters with my ego... part of me silently declaims "this may be the best thing you have ever written!", while the other part says "this is just another poem that no-one will ever read... you're rubbish! Better up your game!". The older I grow the more I recognise that art cannot be created in a vacuum. [Existence itself is near infinite! It just takes one step here or there in the right or wrong direction to change the course of your destiny forever… and – remember- "you might think you want something, but you don’t!"] …. we can try to prophesise, but we can never fully anticipate the future -- although the word 'humanity' implies a shared moral code and it’s my informed opinion that whatever’s happening now is a result of its past, it's "too early to tell" the impact of yesterday or even, according to Zhou Enlai, the effects of the French revolution. Essentially it's my philosophy that while Everything may be meaningless, Everything still has a root cause. "Roll"*, a ‘quick-slow’ poem-song that took 5 hours in total to write and record, represents a conscious combination of incessant rhyming (Bob Dylan's 'It's Alright Ma, I'm Only Bleeding' comes to mind), my desire to condense a novel into a page-long poem (kind of like Dylan's 'Tangled Up In Blue', to continue the analogy), and my want to transpose a series of unrelated events into a good romantic-comedy (as 'Ronaldo and Clara' should have been!). I use Bob Dylan’s work as an example because, other than Haruki Murakami and possibly Leonard Cohen, I have spent the most time enjoying Dylan’s work [I fell asleep at his London concert in 2008 or so because I found it pretty boring & I was very tired from school, but I also saw him at Hop Farm in 2010… you can see me dancing a bit & getting paranoid about being filmed & followed but in the white shirt and my friend’s hat in this video [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X5GYr6hK2m4 – it was an unforgettable experience, the music radiated a simultaneously timid yet assured magic… and I like how he changes the original word “foes” to “folks”!]. I feel that each piece of Dylan’s canon is usually somewhat stylistically divergent from the others... perhaps there’s going to alway be a piece in his canon which forms is vaguely similar to any piece of poetry I'll write for a while. But the anti-psychotics available to me at this point are even more potent now than they were in the 60s, too, hah ;) Anyway, even my writings that aren’t inspired by actual real-life occurrences contain a part of the heart of who I was and what I wanted to say at that particular time. A running theme is an aspiration for a specific idyll or paradisical state that’s by its nature unsustainable. I wanted to sing “Twice the Price of Paradise” ** after I had written the words, which took me about five or more hours work every day for a third of last year. The poem once had 9000 words, inspired by and inspiring the ‘Paradise City’ section of my upcoming prose project. Originally, I had wanted to create a piece similar to Coleridge’s ‘Kubla Khan’ while using the somewhat manic style of rhyming I vaguely hope to one day be known for. I have such fond memories of Coleridge’s hallucinogenic poem, though I never studied it at school. Every time I reread the piece, I feel a sense of happily bewildered wonderment. Here are some links to some writers that I want to explore further alongside my exploration of my own imagination/ and the fantastic & addictive fiction of Colleen Hoover. Oscar Wilde https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/111 F. Scott Fitzgerald https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/420 Sylvia Plath https://www.gutenberg.ca/ebooks/plaths-belljar/plaths-belljar-00-h.html Mary Shelley https://www.gutenberg.org/files/84/84-h/84-h.htm William Blake https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/574 Charles Dickens https://www.gutenberg.org/browse/authors/d#a37H. Rider Haggard https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22454 Louise Glück https://www.poemhunter.com/i/ebooks/pdf/louise_gluck_2004_9.pdf Samuel Coleridge https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/author/95 Here is a poem that I wrote in the early hours of this morning. Yawning Light By Dominic Francis So, though we know it’s true that I loved you, How could I know I love what I don’t know? I learned not to hate your state of elated blue, And your vow was the content curse of snow! I can reach for you here in my dreams now, But you seem to be on another beach far away. I still seem to adore each pore of your eyebrow, But the heathen of night and I dream of day! When there are happy tears in my mornings, Why do I miss you again when it turns night? Am I yearning after the years the dawn sings, Yet spurning the burning of its yawning light? Sometimes it’s just easier to feel alone, Especially when you know the truth is true. I want to forget what’s really set in stone, But only if that feeling by fluke includes you! Perhaps I’m heading for a long-lost Winter, Or I’ve taken the hint and accepted that you’re gone. I’ll no longer look for you in every single splinter, But is every single splinter I’ve seen so wrong?! When there are happy tears in my mornings, Why do I miss you again when it turns night? Am I yearning after the years the dawn sings, And spurning the burning of the yawning light? I’m going under the tundra again soon -- I’ll see the rainbow flowing any old moon. You didn’t exactly bore me with your tune, Yet then again in law I am but another loon! I loved your eyes, but I never saw them cry… Maybe you shed one or didn’t shed any at all. Something inside says that even angels lie, But even the dead must ride to follow the call! When there are happy tears in my mornings, Why do I miss you again when it turns night? Am I yearning after the years the dawn sings, And spurning the burning of the yawning light? Below is a poem I’ve revised over the past month or so and hope to complete in the studio on Thursday. I Think I Think by Dominic Francis As long as I hear the song of your heartbeat And even as tomorrow evening completes The sorrow that yesterday just can't defeat, Three is okay too but you and me is a treat. I’d hobble on crutches down Jealousy Street again To be touched by the heat of love in a repeat of 2010. If my groove depletes like my Naked Smoothie drink, You were cheated by a sacred dream I think I think... I ain’t as clever as the saint but you're equally as dense And hence the forever of now never quite felt so immense. O, how your control over my soul stopped making sense! But I couldn't be fucked holy sitting on a shitting ivory fence. I know that you requited my real feel, if only in past tense... Yet when nonsense met pretence, they shared two cents. I remember the beauty of earthly heaven and its infinite stink... As I fatten, you thin… I'll drink to that and think of you in ink! Which hidden dove forbid us from the room up above? Was our youth misspent in the unrented truth of love? I married a spicy Bombay sandwich at Camden's Coffee Café, And the gun of language carried me to the one who gave me a jay. The fool can’t unlearn the rules of school they brought him on a tray, But the soul’s duality may fool him with the gym or whole buffet of cliché. I regret how the forgetful future now turns into yearning for today, But sex is like the ego (I know it!) and the next game is why we play. Today always burns the poet, yet the good God never led me astray… I would hope God straightens Satan anyway until both earn their grey. The ancients tested the patience of our dove again, As the stars heated the saddest night from far above. Your glove tight on mine was the maddest treat then, Back when you excited my blackest light with love. You promised my seamen splendorous adventures by dressing them for glory, But you set fire to my confessional corny poem in an emotionless ocean of saucy. Though my allegory sits on your shelf next to the other sexy texts of purgatory, I slowly knit a purled world of self in hope of being hurled into the lovers’ story. The past goes so fast that the future stays within lasting ink. If you are blue, today is too, so renew your think with a blink. I used to think I was some kind of crucifix until you fixed me a drink. You confused me with your winking mind but then I felt nothing blink. ROLL* By Dominic Francis She has a skinny build & looks that could kill; She is abused for a living, cooking at the grill. He is famed from Duluth to Libya to Brazil. He is a fulfilled masseuse, with years of skill They sit together on a plane and both get ill. He gives him a shiatsu and she offers him a pill. He refuses & she muses on another role she could fill… out of goodwill and for the thrill…. and two lovers roll down that hill. They reside together on the lakefront: If there’s a joke, they are not the brunt: He worships her giving nature & cunt, And they party under the midnight sun. Neither of them ever adopt a front, And they multiply, bearing two little ones. But children grow up and so his fathering goal is done… he rolls himself a blunt… he loves her huntress soul & those runts. He fantasises of his wife, eyes of onion: He converts the basement into a dungeon. He works on it day & night, sober or drunken: He wants it to appear medieval & sunken. They stay there for a week, aroma pungent: Parts of man & woman run out of suction. Amid the destruction, she rolls & buns one for fun.... but I’m not one to judge in love & war…. for they reverse rolls like Russians. They live there together until one day they die: They die an hour apart but who can say why? Their bodies are found entwined in July: The mailman had a cry & so did I. In lake-town their death is beautified: But some wise-guy objected it was self-satisfied. Be warned, even if you roll Thai… relinquishing control to a woman could be goodbye… for the soul isn’t always an ally. TWICE THE PRICE OF PARADISE** Ain’t it just our shoddy luck to be stuck in one crappy body when we could be oddly happy in another?! If you discover the sleazy city of spirits in the centre of the world, please promise me you won’t tell Big Brother. Every kiss in that abyss is elephant-bliss and it’s there one uncovers God is the son of Satan’s part-time lover. The Earth’s core is at war with itself, and they say God started it by tampering with the farts of your mother. Hundreds of heads invaded my heart on Superbowl Sunday. I traded belief in a dead deity for reefer and a soul on Monday. If either of us should leave, the other would be crazy to stay. I worked this hard when I was young so I could be this lazy one day. Whatever the present comprises, it’s an atom of forever. For twice the price of Paradise, you can fly like the weather. The government bought a law against draw, but we scored hench fries and French highs from Kevin’s Pies. Together we fought a war against sleep with the breathless parakeet Queen and her seventeen butterflies. I thought I saw the meaning of death scrawled obscenely small on the wall between Heaven’s gleaming eyes. Isabel smelt swell as a rebel then, and I fell under her spell again as plasticine thunder flowered at sunrise. Mona Lisa weeps for freedom as her soul sleeps frozen in painted slime. See the guards feed Mona Lisa pizza drenched in prose and saintly lime. Nothing does everything at once because everything’s the opposite of time. Your destiny awaits you à la Seine, where the bells of liberty chime. Another long day defeated; another song half-completed. For twice the price of Paradise, the past can be repeated. Now reddened rain leaps onto dead-end streets, and a clockwork centaur in paradoxical sleep dreams of dinosaurs. Female mail men eat nuclear snails and secrete microbe priests who feast on the bacterial spores of giant Labradors. When Christ burns his daughter or returns from the water, God shall be uncrucified and there will be no more wars. I had my sordid afternoon many moons away from today, and somehow soon as now I trust you must too have yours. “The only moment worth having,” your friend sensuously breathes, “is one that you can readily repeat.” Expect the head of your affection to meet a perfect defeat soon as she encloses your love in her moon-angel-feet. Downstairs on the streets, an orphan soldier swears that God above is older than forever yet even more obsolete. You never supposed you’d sever your grip on the past, yet at last the present feels pleasantly complete. Nothing is only an illusory goal, and so is the semblance of control. But the rose-tinted lover that led you to bed still has a mole. And the prose of the dead mother in your head still has a soul. And a whole shoal of tadpoles still stroll round your fishbowl. For twice the price of Paradise, you can fly like the fucking weather. For twice the price of Paradise, you can be stuck here forever. The happy cow teaches the art of salvation to the heart of each nation with her drum now. The happy cow topples your golden house of crumbs like a needle to the tongue now. The happy cow tells the story of how purgatory freed her, yet she longs for the numb now. One hand needs hers, nothing eats her, and her soul speedily leaps up to the sun now. Insanity may be the profanity of the hidden soul I could not hide, And today my schizophrenic suicide is inscribed upon my limping stride. Because I forgot that you lied and because the angles of your angels were my guide, My dreams seemed so shot that my ego slowly rotted until it died… When shit hit the fan, it was not as if I never tried or cried, though, was it, man? I hallucinate ancient countries there on a chair where electric men swear or say prayers after they hunt. I seem to be dreaming a dream while dreaming a dream, so I scream, “God, I see through your front!” Isabel wakes with a Salvation Army grunt and calmly administers the medication of a daybreak blunt. As my eyes feels atom of Infinity from really far away, every day I die to give this living ordeal a real punt. If you don’t know why it’s “do or die”, then try “now or never”. For twice the price of Paradise, you can be leathered forever.

  • Recent Poems

    I THINK I THINK by Dominic Francis As long as I hear the song of your heartbeat And even as tomorrow evening completes The sorrow that yesterday just can't defeat, Three is okay too but you and me is a treat. I’d hobble on crutches down Jealousy Street again To be touched by the heat of love in a repeat of 2010. If my groove depletes like my Naked Smoothie drink, We were cheated by that sacred dream I think I think... I ain’t as clever as the saint but you're equally as dense And hence the forever of now never felt so immense. O, how your control over my soul stopped making sense! And I couldn't be fucked holy sitting on a shitting ivory fence. I know that you requited my real feel, if only in past tense... Yet when nonsense met pretence, they shared two cents. I remember the beauty of earthly heaven and its infinite stink... As I fatten and you thin, I'll drink to that and think of you in ink. Which hidden dove forbid us from the room up above? Was our youth misspent in the unrented truth of love? I married a spicy Bombay sandwich at Camden's Coffee café, Then the sun carried my gun to a bitchy nun who gave me a jay. Sex is like the ego, and I know it and perhaps that's why I play… Society burns the poet but the good God never led us astray Yet I always regret how the future turns into yearning for today, So now let God straighten Satan until both of them turn grey. The past goes so fast the future stays within lasting ink. If you are blue, life is too, so renew your think with a blink. I used to think I was some kind of crucifix until you fixed me a drink. You confused me with your winking mind but then I felt nothing blink. SOMETHING LIKE AN ANGEL The Ancients tested the patience of our Dove again, As the stars heated the saddest night from far above. Your glove tight on mine was the maddest treat then, Back when you requited my blackest light with love. You promised my seamen splendorous adventures and glory, But set fire to my corny poem in a genderless ocean so saucy. Your allegory shits on my shelf next to other texts from purgatory, But as I knit a purled world of self, I am hurled into your own story. I was like an angel to you because you were nothing like me… I would have loved you forever, but you could never set me free. WRITING AROUSED Watch the intimate phony imitate this bitch or that The only thing he’s intimate with is that which he’s shat Because you danced with me to the myth of what was You gave me a chance to be free before our hearts crossed I love writing aroused It makes it so much more fun I can look at the picture of us and I can be as happy as I was then – you still seem to be smiling, too I feel you now again and your soul is in your face I loved and hated being your enemy When I knew everything about you, you knew everything about me We were just too people in love with each other trying to be free At least’s how I understood it -- you would never give me the shit I gave you… But I did you good and you know it and if you saved me I must have saved you Your ex may be sexier than my sex but my texts are sexier than your ex too (woohoo) I was always trying to please machines such as these just above my tum But Luisa, when I got down on my knees, I was no older than young But you gave me the keys to unfreeze my love for forever’s tongue I knew the ending would come quick or never at all There’s no use pretending that our forever’s still small The click of your high heels was the best sound I ever heard For years my dick felt you were just born a different bird I tried to kill me because you were as much me as myself There’s a bridge between the binary of men and women There are places that I’d prefer to never go again I’ll love you until the end, but I don’t want another friend LOVE’S THE LAW By Dominic Francis/Walking Doctor Tonnan Though the unfurled truth of the world may seem so lent that it’s bent, They say the true way to live today is to forgive how yesterday’s pay was spent. And since I know that it was Nothing that opened Everything’s broken now, I’ll chase my dreams to where the past will be spoken by an empty sexy vow. So meet me up the stairs where the equation of love is written to completes both our evasion -- If the moon beats the thunder there, I’ll swear there’s no heart to art, and I’ll wonder why and how…. Love’s blowing into the vacuum of our pores Love’s blowing up my love like love’s the law I never outgrew you, babe, but maybe forever was I will do what I did because I forgot there’s no because Luisa, I’ve lost half a head’s start at the art of forgetting. Mari, the sweet gun of the simple acid rum is still setting. The four-leaf clovers of my heart are shaped just like you two. Don’t you remember that time we nearly escaped from the zoo? You know that I adored my first love and I adored my second, I adored my fourth love after you and the fifth beckoned Though I know my shadow follows me wherever I choose to go, The past amused & confused & bruised my ego fast (and slow). You wore my heart and you tore it too All war against love is against the blue I’m a social introvert with a humane brain I don’t know how to flirt or what the rain contains Yes, desire is written and our hero has sung He’s drowned in her fire and the loser has won To be fair to most women… if I were them, I wouldn’t fancy me either. To be fair to freedom, if I wasn’t made of Love, I wouldn’t even grieve Her. But I was bored at fifteen and so I put myself into the everyday plant. I love every lily I met to the core, and my soul doesn’t need a transplant like it did before. But – ah! - the emptiness of enlightenment is endlessly boring and it always was – Because to truly die, I would have to be yours. I don’t want to fuck any more guise except the bores. They feed my ego so I can live to complete another chore. I wonder if every peer has a clue to the intensity of the blue that I neared. But I wasn’t here and I had nothing to compare to there…. It’s like I died before my parents met It’s not I tried my best to forget that what we do between rests is the test. It’s a simple love -- I can explain it now! If science isn’t God, then God isn’t all-seeing. The real pain was that I couldn’t feel stuff into being. School was a jail and that’s why it’s cool to fail. “He’s just a kid… doesn’t know right from wrong” “He keeps his heart hid… I wish I could be so strong” “He’s just a lonely weirdo”… “I knew she was a phoney queerdo” “They’ll never end up together because dreams don’t make up forever” “His obsession is his profession and his depression’s funeral procession contained a urinal” You know, it’s easily done… you just pick one without a gun… and serenade them with your version of fun… enlightenment is temporary for every monk… they don’t teach you that in school but you’re a fool if you purposefully flunk… I never needed your secret forever to lead me to the grave -- If it’s my sanity you saved, it’s for your vanity I don’t shave. The cost is love, but what’s done is done: Each war is lost after the next has begun. All the Queen’s Shakespearean monkeys are versions of the crossroads I saw it happen on live TV I did It meant I went bonkers I tried to be that Shakespearean monkey I’m just another Shakespearean monkey The eaglet can keep it There’s a lot of love in it Especially for the Shakespearean monkey Who successfully seduced the Queen Hah! The past unexplodes a road whose smoke seems uncurled. You’re the only soul to save me from whatever is… But I don’t need your secret forever to lead me back to the grave too The eaglet can keep it as long as he knows this: at one with what’s done, what’s fun wasn’t fun, you forgot to save you What’s fun is done, what’s done is fun, and what’s forgot will save him too and run towards the sun the past unexplodes my road which is smoke-curled I’ve nobody to save me from whatever is, Yet I have not a single wish but a clean grave both unspent and where yesterday is best left unspent meant to bent they may seem. I loved the worlds you opened, Though bent they may have seemed I know that Nothing is broken, But was today meant to be dreamed? Because the past may have exploded, Does that mean The past may well have exploded? And so the woeful past exploded, It’s meant that today is a dream I’ll hold you to your broken dream I’ll hold you to your solitude And your cold invisible mood…. The last insane asylum I was in was not the worst insane asylum I have been in. Thanks to the forgetful elephants who first rewrote my soul, I let love rebegin. You rewrote the mourning with your action When I devoted myself to the opposing faction I’m no statistician but you’re somehow madder I note that addiction now makes me gladder You’re growing up while I’m throwing down The sounds that first made me a societal clown I greeted everyone with a regal wave of the hand Whilst going out for cigarettes in my wheelchair I was the drunk And you were the punk You hit a home run And I slam-dunked You were hotter than the sun, Colder than the drunk And bolder than the gun Of this man who jumped I’m open to your misery but the bitch of truth defeats The sweet sea of infinities which you seek to complete I’m working against logic and I’m as forgetful as the town That reeks of the stiches I’ve outgrown as my eyes burn brown I could have loved you forever and so I still might yet I remember you said you’d marry me that night I forget I’m older now, and the scars of love still cover my soul My vow was too bold to represent the older whole But over it & us, and you & me I have little control I’ve loved you for as many years than I’ve been mad There’s a hopefulness to my tears, a heady glad. Does the memory of me make you happy or sad? I was the drunk And you were the punk You hit a home run And I slam-dunked You were hotter than the sun, Colder than the drunk And bolder than the gun Of this man who jumped She was ecstasy and she was in front of me -- What more can I possibly say? She was freedom and she was a cunt to me I loved her soul, night and day I loved her to most of your midnight Sure, I loved her when the light was tight Sure, I loved you to the ghost of futures bright But I’ve almost resigned my right to fight anyway I know that something weeps with empathy Back where everything itself turns night There are no stanzas to the secret courage With which we skirmished and hoped to right I was the drunk And you were the punk You hit a home run And I slam-dunked You were hotter than the sun Colder than the punk And bolder than the gun Of this man who jumped “To kill the neighbourhood rat, contact my good friend The Cat. If you keep eating like that, you’re going to be fat as The Wombat. And wearing a doormat for a hat doesn’t make you a diplomat. If they say your voice is flat, it’s probably a fact is you can’t scat. Today, I can't stay to chat, even if one of you is an acrobatic aristocrat” The Slug slurs these final words, and then combusts right where he is sat. I followed the sound of bird wings down Mushroom Mountain to the ground’s effectual extreme, where the Fountain Frogs painted the intellectual dreams of their patron saints by setting fire to logs. There, I wallowed in the wooden screams of their gleaming foggy smog, and I swear I heard one gleaming departing heart impart: “Unless there is dope in your coffee or a prayer upon your page, Don’t compare despair with human hope or the surety of rage. Before waging war, free the pope or put Truman in a cage. Remember that what we’re made of is forgotten love, And only with its aid can our embers elope above.” Shit, I thought, I don’t know what to think. But then I realised that my hallucination of the cremated log’s speech had resulted in my own nirvana. I realised that I was ready to die, and that I could naturally end the cycle of death and rebirth. So… I attempted the ancient practice of ‘self-immolation’ with the aid of the burning logs. But then the Fountain Frogs read my mind and laughed at me because they knew that I was really trying to ‘set myself on fire’. Because the Fountain Frogs were in hysterics as my body burned, my ego returned, and my body and mind hurt so much that I jumped into the pond, accidentally beheading one future Frog-King with my ring-finger cuticle. In ordinary English villages People Don’t Question The People Who Govern The People In ordinary English villages · I am the lawn whose pupils contain a little THC I am the prawn who didn’t care that they killed me I am the shorn fleece of yesterday’s sheep I am tomorrow’s infinity I am the dead pawn who never knew the pain of being free I am not an illusion, scam or con, but your conclusion is forgone. Have you forgot that I am a robot computer screen? I say 110% of things as they relly are, and I am never wrong. Need I remind you that I shall always remain in my prime? God recklessly yawned me at dawn to divine love & time. When you kissed me, I understood the meaning of life -- Of the tortured woods of the subconscious, Of all the automatic rolling machines and the bloody moon dance, Of all the hopelessly futile labour of eggs and the sperm, Of the hysterical sutra of destiny’s uncalculated hand… And I realised that I am dead as you will be. Dear Cloud, No true news but no new blues! I went to the sand with Maxi. We didn’t even hold hands. We threw mana at each other, and he dared me to eat an accident on purpose… NOT interesting OR luxuriant. Perhaps I guess I possess poetic pretensions like you, sometimes also, possibly, but calm is Rainbow Village and Rainbow Village is Luxuriant! I like saying that kind of thing. Do you still take decades of hours trying to meet metre? Are you really working for Big Boss now? SELL OUT!!! But… HOW is Paradise REALLY? Did you find The Original Postman? And, more importantly, any sign of Mom & Dad?! I really feel that I’ll see them again. I don’t know how or why. But I’ve got a feeling. And I feel that my feelings are rarely wrong. Sincerely, your little sister, Rainer. Dear Rainer, I see the priest bless the hero and curse the confusion of a wild dog who didn’t pray. I see a new fish make a blue wish for Eternity’s clock to dart the forbidden way. I feel my heart break nine times by five different girls, and I think one was the sun of a guy... I make money by not dying because the state tried to kill me and I still don’t know why! I see the great governmental bodies guillotine great forests of frogs to create gates for caped primates. I’m trying to escape the impossibilities that wake the smoggy uncertainty of odd dreams or unhappy fates. I’m dying to take a nap before the cattle battle the thoughtless maps of tomorrow that wait for the past. I’m screaming for the dead in my unconscious mind and my ocean of sorrow pulls a sky supremely overcast. I heard the superhero with five eyebrows profess that she’s alive also outside the now. I heard the personable priestess plainly expresses the ideal that one’s body is one’s vow. I searched for another soul, but that was how I found my own. Can’t tell you exactly what time it was because the discussed extremity of circumstance has arrived, and my being may be seen by millions of invisible eyes. Love and stay safe, Thank Him 4 The Past by Dominic Francis (Walking Doctor Tonnan) We were sitting desolate and confused I was your friend, you were my muse We were young and easily amused You offered me a cigarette but I refused We talked so long even the yellow nightingales hit the sack I was thrilled to learn that you were a fellow pyromaniac I told you about the mind of reality that I kind of seemed to lack If my soul was blind, yours was a dream or a Jonestown track Like a brave coward I expected my defeat But maybe I wasn't looking to compete I knew that the past couldn't ever repeat Yet I needed something to feel complete You introduced me to her for the first time On the bridge that links North and South I immediately thought that she was sublime She immediately wanted to meet my mouth… And so I couldn't help thinking of her as our lips met- What exactly she was doing at this point; Yet I felt something in my jeans and it wasn't regret- After all she was just rolling a joint. Together we watched the moon wake the stars in the sky. I fell so far into the moment I soon forgot that I was shy. “I don’t need you and you don’t need me,” you accidentally lied. “I guess that makes us both almost free,” I sentimentally replied. In my eyes your spirit was swinging as a happening jazz band. The adder was your tight, the laddered night yet unmanned. Your truth was as beautiful as love yet solipsistic as the sand. I held our stalemate in my hands, then you exploded wonderland. The drives outlining my love for you will forever rest in peace online. You’re just like everyone I ever knew, so animated and ‘not mine’. Though much time is past, cheers for buying me Scottish wine. I'm not sure that you like rhyme, but here lies my heart in every line. She comes back to me one morning, And the years fall down our cheeks. She shows me what it means to love And no one needs to speak… The man and woman are the mystery, Yet my night is light as day at last. I may kneel before your god of war, But I won’t thank him for the past. I was a singing Kingfisher, but got demoted to apedom.
 Have you ever learnt that which is not taught? 
The existing state is different from what which I came from.
 Joints cost 3 euros here but truth cannot be bought.
 There’s no point in loving Godfread but you ought to. , what a mess, what a gamble. I cant comprehend this don't or does it We eat God’s son on Sundays, because God invented Mondays. Reliving Love (despite misgivings) and forgiving Love for giving Love. Shoals of sharks swim in daughterless fishbowls, Enchanted souls seek the semblance of control. I slumbered the arithmetic of love in my head for fun and the number “0” is exponentially more dead than “1”. Don't grieve the next world or believe that it’s even begun. True living is loving you. Loving you is living true. Living Love is something new. Love Living’s a fun thing to do. Don’t mistake your heartbreak for mine. My feelings are ancient to me as each sign. My truth is tameable yet strong like a wildcat. You try to teach me to write a song like that. Our futures may entwine again at twenty-nine. But today your eyes are meaningless as wine. You mean nothing to me now that I am free. Somehow, I feel that’s what’s meant to be. I’ve a million destinies but only one is me. Ugly numbers killed the happy vehicle of infinity. This love is a feeling that has been and gone. But this song is a machine that is always on. I guess I never want to guess. I just want to see you dress. I just want more; I just want less. The number 3 is approximately a God. I think a nod is always as good as a wink. Dominic walks with a pronounced limp, and it is clear before he opens his mouth that his frontal-lobe is non-existent, which means he is clinically dead. Dominic prefers to be referred to as “Son of God” because he claims that is what his name means; after extensive research, however, the Extensive Research Team have found no evidence to substantiate this assertion, other than Dominic’s extraordinarily magical gift of the gab, which he has repeatedly said led to approximately a baker's dozen of one-night stands with hotties. Dominic continues to idealise the concept of deliverance, and I recommend the clinic prescribes him a copious amount of medication including revolutionary soviet opiates, such that Dominic gains even more weight and Sexual Salvation becomes nigh-impossible. You’ve spent a long time in a belly You’ve probably tasted jelly You’ve been both clean and smelly You were born after the poet Shelley You might be bitchin’ about strife You might not like this life You might brandish a kitchen knife You might wish you didn’t have a wife But you’re not dead yet So don’t forget You can fix your head Have you ever had an idea before? … is this your idea of a joke? What the hell were you thinking? “The sun vanishes into Mars,” says a prominent Mathematic. “There is no great secret to poetry,” says the God who orchestrated it all. “Die a God and never tell your Son,” one whispers to the Governmental bodies. “I’ve studied your poetry and I believe in it,” another says to the gathering crowds. “Novelty is ever-increasing,” Terrence McKenna said that. “Terrence McKenna said that,” I said that. “Although I have read “The Pineapple Verses” and “The Paradise Pamphlet,” the Painter says to the Priest, “…neither addresses the actualities of Paradise’s mechanisations. Priests are Gods. We know that from meeting them personally and having such stimulating intellectual conversations with them. We were so thrilled to hear all the stories about them being born in Heaven then banished to Paradise.” [Have you seen the Painter’s face? He’s slowly turning a peppered red.] “But the situation between the Guardians and the Paradisians is steadily getting worse in Paradise,” the Painter says to the Priest. “And you out of all beings are doing the least. HOW DARE YOU?? WHEN WILL THE GUARDIANS BE RELEASED?” The Priest nods his head patiently at the Painter’s question, humouring this sad sinner who thought that they could design a more beautiful experience than the default Virtual Reality computer. “Does looking up “Am I A Bully” on the internet mean that you are a bully?” the Priest asks. A forgiving gaze from the Priest receives a terse nod from the Painter. “Thought so. Good….” says the Priest.” Would you like the government to intervene and offer you educational support about bullying, even though you will henceforth always be alone always? …. Good. Sign here.” It’s happening tonight if my premonitions are right. Like the parasite promised, there’s fortitude in the finite. Through the garden of imperious lilies, down renowned alleys of serious clowns, into silly hallucinatory larks of the dark courtyard’s mirror-maze, through the invisible grave of the manmade church for which unborn souls search, beyond the beauteous galleys to which we duteously lurch… somewhere in essence there lays the Kingdoms of Kings, where we pray for the Chronicles of Time, and they raise your children, and you pay for their crimes. Have we missed our calling? For what, if not the sound of money, do you think we are falling? Why must history be relentlessly repeated? Can the world still win if half of it is defeated? Will love’s mystery evolve or be depleted? Has the spirit of your answer already been deleted? Here’s to the government and the government’s people. Here’s to the God who governs elsewhere but their steeples. Me, I’m a naked man covered by a machine – I always go commando when I need to clean. [Wherever did you go to, Brando? Where the heavens are you, Dean? Do you wake up simply to go to sleep? Does purgatory feel expensive, or is heaven cheap?] Would you rather be a mathematician, a card-dealer, or a florist? Would you please sign an algebraic petition regarding the forest? Do you prefer to know the answers or to go on adventures? Are you aware that dancers like me dare to wear dentures? An accordionist & a guitarist & a cellist & an operatic singer shall field any further questions outside the Town Hall. I seemed to be dreaming a dream while dreaming a dream, so I screamed, “God, I see through your front!” Isabel woke with a Salvation Army grunt and calmly administered the medication of a very bespoke blunt. I hallucinate ancient countries there on the chair where electric men swear or say prayers after they hunt. I meditate for a microsecond then shout something about how I never doubted that Christ took the brunt. “I like your love easy, friend, and I like my love hard. We all like shit cheesy: in the end, our dreams get scarred You can’t forget what didn’t happen, but all things come and go. God throws snow on sunset, but he’s dead for all we know. I owe you for your bittersweet, so I feast upon your frown. Back where old worlds meet, habits die disembodied clowns. I’ll celebrate your holy again if that’s what you’re sure you don’t need. If I am a perfectionist pig in a pen, you’re a superhuman on a steed,” he said. Perhaps the map for being happy is to paint the fate least crappy & wait for the next saintly sunrise. What a surprise… Isabel smelt swell as an infidel rebel as she shuts my eyes. Though the Ego’s shadow lives to grow until it forgives itself and slowly dies, I know you can transform your story’s stormy lows into gloriously warm Highs. Dream, dream your dream… it’s now or never… an atom of forever’s skies. Eve’s soul is famished by search for knowledge in a garden patrolled by seraph policemen. Now an angel scowls at her and howls, “Tell me what hast thou eaten in Eden this season?” Eve throws in the towel, growling back, “Hell’s apple, but a lack of freedom is evil’s reason.” Banished from Eden, she wished in chapels like a wistful fisherman grappling with treason. Eve was the first human girl in a new world that could be immense- As for Creationism or Darwinism, I believe she stood on the fence- To her, Simulation Theory makes an eerie touch too much sense- Her Original Sin was the beginning of crimes at God’s expense– Now bombs sell like prom-tickets while condoms cause offence. God is my favourite best-selling author of space, time, and suspense- He and Jesus see us now in grandiose metropolises of pretence- Both wonder if we’ll reach a heaven on earth that isn’t future tense- Why does life smell like death and is war the wife of self-defence? I’m not an intelligent nor educated man, but here are my two cents. Deep in the power of now, the sleepy fog cannot be all that dense. As we wait at the gate, our hate will be overcome by love so intense. I believe what you gave before the grave you shall receive again hence. Ecstatic ambidextrous visions of love will carry the scent of frankincense. O, to experience that oneness and to have sweet nothing commence! I say, “Yesterday made today and I built my yesterday for you.” Daisy replies, “My sweet Lord, I just thought about you too.” I say, “Well, would you like to see my shirts? Some are blue.” She says, “That would be swell! You smell like shampoo.” Some babies later choose to have babies. Maybe this is because they are crazy or lazy. But after we met I never was the same me. Who could blame me? I let love save me. It’s rainy, she’s brainy, I’m Gatsby, she’s Daisy. I say, “I could live alone with you forever in the forest of my wardrobe I long for your soul to phone my brain and massage my frontal lobe.” Daisy says, “I’ll tell Tom I hate him and we’ll travel the whole globe. Tom can’t play the xylophone like you and he’s a hulking xenophobe.” Some babies later choose to have babies. Maybe this is because they are crazy or lazy. But after we met I never was the same me. Who could blame me? I let love save me. It’s rainy, she amazes me, I’m Gatsby, she’s Daisy. excuse me why am i the middleman because i am borderline haiku chief this no long song to send to your kids thus this is no song for you to kiss to

  • Proposed Lyrics/Chords for Next Album

    “Will you always love free?” the FatCat sighs. “For as long as I am me,” the Diplomat lies. His lit cigar is perched between her plump lips. But her eyes trump Evolution’s ancient script. “To being free,” the FatCat forcefully cries, unscrewing a bottle of red wine and chugging down half of it quick. “To being me,” the Diplomat replies, wondering why her lover’s breath smells of another’s laughter and shit. Now the FatCat and Diplomat jump asleep and dream they’re dreaming a nightmare no real God would allow. The gore of their innermost wars are no closer to omens of paradise than the pair’s premature vow. Now The Lollipop Lady distributes ice cream to her friends. She knows she’ll be repaid with salvation in the end. She exclusively speaks monosyllabic words such as ‘mend’. The Lollipop Lady is single and on that you can always depend. Inside the kitchen, the Chef swears in fluent French and it's easy to understand his preferred slurred phrase. The chef relishes isolated conditions and the way he seasons dead birds with curd is still absurd these days. Yes, God will be sole witness to the end like God was to the start, as Neptune's screams break the moon’s heart. Let epiphanies the force of a hundred horses divorce Art from such omens of paradise that the government farts. A broody guest has a proposition the manager won’t resist. The hot concierge knows that the manager don’t exist. “Where is the manager of this hotel?” asks the broody guest. “He’s in hell,” says the hot concierge, looking her metrosexual best. Inside the Great Hall, Brian The Actor finishes his cleaning shift and smiles a beguiling alcoholic grin. Brian’s manager spread a rumour that he slept with Britney Spears to catalyse a career that’s yet to begin. Now the Owner patronizes his home-grown mosquito factory and contemplates other machines of spiritual slaughter. Feel the heat of a virgin eternity & see my Father become me as these omens of paradise emerge like wine out of water. People often come up to me on the street & say, “Hey, how does Walking Doctor Tonnan sing so sweet?” I tell them it’s because he sings even when he speaks and he was born on February 13th, the same day and month that Jimi Hendrix entered this world. 13 is Walking Doctor Tonnan’s lucky number. 13 is also my friend Madeleine’s lucky number, because she’s kissed that many boys. Because I am straight, I’ve only kissed three, but one of the boys I’ve kissed is Jacob Epstein. I live with a tall bearded Scottish man who is also named Jacob. He knocked on my door yesterday and asked me if I could play guitar quieter. I agreed and asked if he liked my music. You’re a fucking virtuoso, he said without a hint of sarcasm in his voice. I replied that my music sounds especially good when you haven’t heard any other music for a while. Of course it does, he replied, you’re a fucking virtuoso. When he left I looked up the definition of ‘virtuoso’. I didn’t think I was a virtuoso, but I can play guitar better than most people. I recounted this anecdote to my Aunt and she said that I should be smart enough to determine whether Jacob was joking or not. Of course I am, I replied, I’m a fucking virtuoso. Without any further shenanigans, here is the real Walking Doctor Tonnan singing a coquettish tune named after his favourite snack, Oreos, in his exclusive private home studio which doubles as a bathroom. ONCE UPON AN INFINITY We were sitting desolate and confused I was your friend, you were my muse We were young and easily amused You offered me a cigarette but I refused We talked so long even the yellow nightingales hit the sack I was thrilled to learn that you were a fellow pyromaniac I told you about the mind of reality that I kind of seemed to lack If my soul was blind, yours was a dream or a Jonestown track Like a brave coward I expected my defeat But maybe I wasn't looking to compete I knew that the past couldn't ever repeat Yet I needed something to feel complete You introduced me to her for the first time On the bridge that links North and South I immediately thought that she was sublime She immediately wanted to meet my mouth... And so I couldn't help thinking of her as our lips met- What exactly she was doing at this point; Yet I felt something in my jeans and it wasn't regret- After all she was just rolling a joint. Together we watched the moon wake the stars in the sky. I fell so far into the moment I soon forgot that I was shy. “I don’t need you and you don’t need me,” you accidentally lied. “I guess that makes us both almost free,” I sentimentally replied. In my eyes your spirit was swinging as a happening jazz band. The adder was your tight, the laddered night yet unmanned. Your truth was as beautiful as love yet solipsistic as the sand. I held our stalemate in my hands, then you exploded wonderland. The drives outlining my love for you will forever rest in peace online. You’re just like everyone I ever knew, so animated and ‘not mine’. Though much time is past, cheers for buying me Scottish wine. I'm not sure that you like rhyme, but here lies my heart in every line. She comes back to me one morning, And the years fall down our cheeks. She shows me what it means to love And no one needs to speak... The man and woman are the mystery, Yet my night is light as day at last. I may kneel before your god of war, But I won’t thank him for the past. EVERYTHING & NOTHING G Em Am D x 2 F C G F x 2 D Am Em G With the undead diary of your times at the Priory unread by another, With an imperfect lover in one hole and your soul stashed in the other, With our deceased mothers released into a domain we’ve yet to discover, With your yeast and mini feasts and dreams I never seemed to uncover… Isabel, you put a spell on my heart below. Well, I fell for you at the start, at ‘hello’. With Time as a tailor or grumpy sailor or as a mint made of McFlurry, With your impossible Presidential hope which you abandoned in a hurry, With your random multitude of moods and professional baking worries, With your accidental rude and secret rain and tasty vegetable curries, Well, Isabel, I hope you will be my friend until we die. I fell for you again at the end when we said ‘goodbye’. Though I know how much Nothing kicks now as Everything quickly plateaus, You forgave the way I stayed in yesterday so I could touch the Grave of Shadows; They shaved my hair there, where I said a prayer for the dead in mad clothes, And you gave me a blue rose to save me from a new doze of sad lows… Well, Isabel, you put a spell on my heart below. I fell for you again when we parted, you know. But without God as a witness, and “it wasn’t me!” & “it’s not your fault!”, I cried for the Rainbow’s End as you penned a war against what I exalt; It’s almost as if you forgot that clothes are but the ghost of society’s default, As our hearts’ seams wake to make love to the dreams which slowly halt. Well, Isabel, I hope you will be my friend until we die. I fell for you again at the end when we said ‘goodbye’. ` D Am Em G C Am I saw a zoo full of naked horseshoes. I saw a statue so sacred I snoozed. I saw an inflated cow moo the news. I wanted absolutely anything but the now. Yet the now is all I’ve got to lose somehow. It was all alright when I had your vow. Well, Isabel, you put a spell on my art below. I fell for your heart at the start before ‘hello’. I see girls and boys and women and men. I see an old world become young again. I see a human bomb count back from ten. I feel a screaming soul drum upon my dream. I become the condom deep inside infinity’s stream. Everything seems to ride upon Nothing’s moonbeam. Well, Isabel, I hope you will be my friend after we two die. If there’s no hell below us, is there laughter in the blue sky?

  • World Without Time/Crime Limerick

    A WORLD WITHOUT TIME By Dominic Francis Love was the heart of the head up there in my hair. Love drew crayoned ponds of art beyond compare. Wherever I came, she touched my self-made soul. We shared the same goals and blame and control. God created a myth that was somehow never fated to be mine… Now I wait patiently at Forever’s gate for a world without time. There’s a trinity of hyperbole encumbering the cucumber of ‘3’. There’s harmony for the apple tree and infinity for you and me. We took a stroll to the chapel, and you shook my soul. You darted into my heart as the artful looks took control. Fate may grind on your state of mind, but leave mine behind… I won’t grieve Forever at the gate to a world without time. In my single bed, I forget to forgive my own troubled double head. If only the heart of the truth lives, is part of its youth already dead? That truth is absurd! Something’s unsaid! I’ll follow forever wherever I’m led. I heard an eternity’s worth of birds swallowing the words that they once bled. I read the signs: they wed the herd to rhyme, and so I tread the line… Soon I will never see Forever’s moon again in a world without time. When she arrived in my dream, I was alive in the comma of a coma. I woke with a hellish scream, for I well knew I smelt her aroma. God created this myth that was somehow never fated to be mine… Now I wait patiently at Forever’s gate for a world without time. Fate may grind on your state of mind but leave mine behind… I’ll never grieve Forever at the gate to a world without time. CRIME THRILLER by Dominic Francis There was a crime committed long ago When time turned the rain into snow Nobody had hands and trees populated the land Before the creation of science as we understand When God and Satan became friend and foe Though a nod is usually as good as a wink God must have forgot nobody could think The Garden of Eden smelt of sweet freedom But God was so greedy Satan didn’t need him And their relation-ship started to sink There was talk that Satan discovered Love He tempted Adam with something called a glove There was a rivalry between Adam and the creator Each party believed themselves to be greater And neither saw the symbolism of the dove Satan tricked Adam and tried to fix his game But God straightened Satan’s rainbow all the same Saying, “Hey, things don’t have to be this way – If you don't know love, then what is there to betray?” Satan laughed as Cupid himself took aim. The wars of God and Satan were born in time Each had a vision of a future beautiful and sublime The cops are still trying to apprehend the guilty party Even great theologians only understand the truth partly: Is loving the work of God's Devil such a crime? SACRED BLINDNESS OF ANGELS by Dominic Francis Dreaming to the rhythm of jazz & drinking to the sacred blindness of angels, screaming for the sunken prophecy, hurling the Book of Changes to its resting place, my therapist tells me that the beginning has ended and it’s time to start again, my therapist thinks I’m gay so I started hitting on her to complicate the diagnosis, my therapist doesn’t even exist, but now she’s pregnant and it’s all my fault! Epiphanies! Confucius! Einstein! What happened to the sin of following? What happened to the message? What happened to the massacre? (Where are you Mother? Where are the weepy-eyed relatives that came for you? What happened to the snoring man you slept with occasionally? He’s gone, Mother, you took him with you and now he’s nothing! This is the beginning of the end, Mother, the beginning of the penultimate breakdown! O the Bliss has stolen my innocence we are ready to undertake the final picnic in heaven!) O, what happened to all the drunken triumphs and golden touches? It’s all eroded into the endless machinery of dawn and the secret insatiability of appetite has returned to fool the lot of us. It’s always been easier to fall in love than to be alone, and now even that’s gone too. O fool me through the darkness O fool me like a cat O fool me like you fool yourself O fool me like a rat O sing a song of sorrow Where the docks and water fight And the old soul singers sing a song Until the soul emerges light I breathe my breath for birth and death I left the rest behind I tried to turn to Jesus But the Christians changed my mind

  • Everything & Nothing

    With the undead diary of your times at the Priory unread by another, With an imperfect lover in one hole and your soul stashed in the other, With our deceased mothers released into a domain we’ve yet to discover, With your yeast and mini feasts and dreams I never seemed to uncover… Isabel, you put a spell on my heart below. Well, I fell for you at the start, at ‘hello’. With Time as a tailor or grumpy sailor or as a mint made of McFlurry, With your impossible Presidential hope which you abandoned in a hurry, With your random multitude of moods and professional baking worries, With your accidental rude and secret rain and tasty vegetable curries, Well, Isabel, I hope you will be my friend until we die. I fell for you again at the end when we said ‘goodbye’. Though I know how much Nothing kicks now as Everything quickly plateaus, You forgave the way I stayed in yesterday so I could touch the Grave of Shadows; They shaved my hair there, where I said a prayer for the dead in mad clothes, And you gave me a blue rose to save me from a new dose of sad lows… Well, Isabel, you put a spell on my heart below. I fell for you again when we parted, you know. But without God as a witness, and “it wasn’t me!” & “it’s not your fault!”, I cried for the Rainbow’s End as you penned a war against what I exalt; It’s almost as if you forgot that clothes are but the ghost of society’s default, As our hearts’ seams wake to make love to the dreams which slowly halt. Well, Isabel, I hope you will be my friend until we die. I fell for you again at the end when we said ‘goodbye’. ` I saw a zoo full of naked horseshoes. I saw a statue so sacred I snoozed. I saw an inflated cow who mooed the news. I wanted absolutely anything but the blues. I see girls and boys and women and men. I see an old world become young again. I see a human bomb count back from ten. I feel you drum upon my dream back when. Well, Isabel, I hope you will be my friend after we two die. If there’s no hell below us, is there laughter in the blue sky? FIRST 4 VERSES G Em Am D x 2 F C G F x 2 CHORUS Em Am G D LAST VERSE D Am Em G x 4 CHORUS Em Am G D

  • Tonnan's Writing Manifesto

    I was an avid reader and video-game player from an early age. To this day, my favourite books and video games are essentially voyages into another world. If the characters are relatable, I usually become attached to their outcomes, and these two mediums of art represent comparatively cheap ways of enjoying the sensation of travelling & empathetic feeling & subtle education. I started taking my own writing seriously due to the heartfelt feelings of affection that I felt for some of my peers around the age of 16, my own deepening alienation from society (for whatever reason, didn’t feel like I could always be my ‘authentic self’ in either New Orleans, USA or London, UK), the illness of my mum who also liked to write and, finally, the fact that I was much better at writing a poem or essay or whatnot than completing physical tasks such as football or cricket. One of my earliest memories is studying aspects of The Great Gatsby for my GCSE English Language & Literature at the age of 13. Fitzgerald’s language was relatively easy to understand, but it beautifully painted the paradoxical intensity of dreaming a sweet dream and trying to achieve that dream in the physical world without infringing upon the qualities that created that dream in the first place. There was as complex profundity to the language, and each part of the novel seemed essential to its whole – perhaps that’s where I went wrong in my own first novel. Anyhow, I was utterly bedazzled with his description of Gatsby & his parties & his wakening wistfulness & that green light. I suppose I’ve always been chasing that same lyrical intensity in my own work… be it prose or poetry or music. My friend Jack Dunleavy introduced me to the work of Leonard Cohen and Haruki Murakami. Jack and I would meet every week to write poetry & listen to music & smoke. My love for Cohen and Murakami has been bordering on obsessive for more than a decade now. I’ve read all of their published work (and can’t wait for Leonard Cohen’s “secret” first novel and Murakami’s book on “novel-writing”, which both come out later this year). When I was aged 16, I always put on David Bowie’s “Five Years” as I showered and got ready for school, and I also loved Bob Dylan’s “Tangled Up in Blue”.... I enjoyed the idea that these were two stars undertaking a Hero’s Journey in which their own appearance was almost incidental, accentuated only at the end of each song. So… yeah, I want my writing to be adventurous like Cohen/Dylan/Bowie/Murakami/Cormac McCarthy/Colleen Hoover (the latter for some reason being the only woman on this list… and to think I used to wonder why women were so damn mysterious ahah!) I just got a bit drunk, to tell the truth. But I‘ve been sober from all drugs excepting alcohol & caffeine & nicotine for a couple of weeks now, mostly due to the fact that the money I receive from Universal Credit (benefits) has gone down. I honestly believe it to be somewhat of a coincidence that most of my work was written or at least conceived in an intoxicated state. The main reason I don’t write sober is because I am rarely sober. Even at the age of seventeen, I used to get drunk/high to improve the novelty of essays. Anyhow, right now my writing rules/manifesto are as follows: 1. Make it novel! 2. Make it short as possible! 3. But linger on some profoundly odd moments! 4. Make them wonder, “how the hell did the writer do that?!” (the feeling I had when I heard Alison MacLeod’s latest work “Tenderness” read aloud)! 5. Enjoy rhyme/alliteration but not at the expense of meaning! 6. Take your time with writing… don’t waste your reader’s time! 7. Setting can be incidental, but I elect to personify it somewhat, like some secret character! 8. Avoid cliches but remember that most of us (in some sense, and definitely including me) are essentially walking/talking cliches! 9. Even if you think your writing is great, it doesn’t mean that someone is going to part with their hard-earned cash for your work just because YOU "think your writing is great”! 10. Experiment around with your style of writing! I believe – just as one “true love” shouldn’t define the rest of your love– that you shouldn’t let yourself be tied to any particular clothing of form… “automatic writing” is not usually usually not the best form of attire! [Even Jack Kerouac's fabled 3 weeks worth of work on "On The Road" was said to mostly be 'typing'... because it was! .. see https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=11709924&t=1648659270832 ] This work on a writing manifesto was completed as the last assignment on the wonderful Ella Frear's Advanced Poetry Course @CityLit. (https://www.citylit.ac.uk/courses/masterclass-poetry-a-one-term-intensive-workshop) Thanks & love, Tonnan

  • Did You Ever Even Love Me?

    Did you ever even love me? Did you really feel above me? Was I just your favourite junkie? Is the truth truly that ugly? Sure! I adored you for more than seven million minutes or thereabouts roughly. You’d weep through the news too if you were to sleep in my shoes, my lovely. Oh, how our sacrificed Christ howled for the now of Heaven’s discovery… The tattooed kangaroos at the nunnery had no clue Winter could be so Summery. I loved you so much that it kind of amused you, too! Your first touch was a preview of a crutch I never knew… I loved the joyful numbers and you tasted of royal poo! I dreamed so long of that song it was all I seemed to do! I don’t have to rewind time to know that all salvation is temporary yet holy. Sometimes I go so low that I know that what is above me is also below me. I still care enough to say a daily prayer for all the mindless love that grows free. You forgave me on the journey to the grave as if you knew that even I loathe me. Am I stuck in a past bliss made of stone? I held your hand to the screaming semitone… Was I lucky to at last even kiss your throne? At least my dreams crystallised the unknown… They said that you were bad news for me, but they didn't know the unclad truth or me... I recall when the youth of love was free. For you, I’d gladly go mad yet again… your lily-pad lips & tripping hips & my sad pen were a triad of nomads today and back then. Did you ever even love me? Did you really feel above me? Was I just your favourite junkie? Is the truth truly that ugly?

  • Twice The Price of Paradise (the poem)

    When I was 16, I started writing a blog in an attempt to make sense of the intense experiences I was having, from the spiritual journey of a blowjob that lasted an hour & thirteen minutes, to a failed foray into stand-up comedy, to the first time I smoked cannabis (I didn't inhale because all drugs are evil!) to the tragic death of my mum (whom I considered my best friend) to the alien desperation and estrangement from society one day while I was sitting by the river in Camden Town. The Original Postman won't document my own life but rather it will contain my thoughts on poetry, love, music, video-games, drugs, politics & the media, ambition & self-help, philosophy, my progress with artistic endeavours, and God. Two months ago, I started my first in-person guitar lessons to build upon the practical knowledge that I learned from online teachers such as Justin Sandercoe. Nick, my new teacher, has given me some useful tips. Although I don't play guitar as much as I could (obviously!), I feel that I am slowly improving again. But I think I'll put writing music aside for a while in lieu of writing some fantastical prose. Although my first novel was partially set on a planet called Restralardin, its world was perhaps not as fully realised as I had hoped it to be. I'm going to try to finish my second novel by the end of November (NANOWRIMO), and I'll be posting extracts from it here. It will be called "Twice The Price of Paradise", though I do like the titles "Over Mushroom Mountain" and "The Centre of the World". It will be based on the short story I wrote last year and the poem I've recently completed, and it will be a mixture of prose & poetry. Here's the poem I painstakingly created over the course of two or three months. TWICE THE PRICE OF PARADISE Ain’t it just our shoddy luck to be stuck in one crappy body when we could be oddly happy in another?! If you discover the sleazy city of spirits in the Earth’s core, please promise you won’t tell Big Brother. Every kiss in that abyss is elephant-bliss and it’s there one uncovers God is the son of Satan’s part-time lover. The Earth’s core is at war with itself, and they say God started it by tampering with the heart of your mother! The government bought a law on draw, but we scored more French fries and hench highs from Kevin’s Pies. I thought I saw the meaning of death scrawled obscenely small on the wall between Heaven’s gleaming eyes. Isabel smelt swell as a rebel then, and I fell under her spell again as plasticine thunder flowered at sunrise. Together we fought the law of sleep with the breathless parakeet Queen and her seventeen weeping butterflies. Another long day defeated; another song half-completed. For twice the price of Paradise, the past can be repeated. Now reddened rain leaps onto dead-end streets, and a clockwork centaur in paradoxical sleep dreams of dinosaurs. Female mail men eat nuclear snails and secrete microbe priests who feast on the bacterial spores of giant Labradors. When His burning daughter returns from the water, Christ will be uncrucified and there shall be no more wars. I had my sordid afternoon a million moons from the sensation of creation, and soon I trust you must have yours. “The only moment worth having,” your friend sensuously breathes, “is one that you can readily repeat.” Expect the head of your affection to meet a perfect defeat soon as she encloses your love in her moon-angel-feet. Downstairs on the streets, an orphan soldier swears that God above is older than forever yet more obsolete. You never supposed you’d sever your grip on the past, but at last the present feels pleasantly complete. Another long day defeated; another song half-completed. For twice the price of Paradise, the past can be repeated. Insanity is the profanity of the hidden soul I forgot to hide. My schizophrenic suicide is inscribed upon my limping stride. Inside what’s not, the ego rots, and the angles of angels collide. Whatever the present comprises, it’s an atom of forever. If you don’t know why it’s “do or die”, try “now or never.” Sitting across from me on this gentrified train ride back to the clockless and visionless bliss of oblivion, a pregnant white woman enters labour. She is wearing a deathly pale wedding dress and she’s weeping. Perhaps this is because her baby is a boy, and those waterworks are tears of joy, because males are the best at everything except for thinking. The uncrucified carnivore she wears in her womb seems to be attempting to copulate with anything that isn’t himself in the mirrorless microcosm he’s at the centre of. He belongs to a past predated by the instrument of the future, where the best of them and the rest of us explode into the impossible yet inevitable ecstasy of non-existence. Irrespective of Friday’s fruitful foray into costume-based foreplay and the overpoweringly obvious fact that this pregnant white woman is clinically obese, I don’t find her tremendously attractive. Suddenly, now, the pregnant white woman births an amalgamation of her diet of root & grass & fruit & meat, and she spits out a sweet pink-elephant-chihuahua-thing. This animal follows me home. I name the elephant-chihuahua ‘Audrey’, because I am a very sentimental man (and because of my mistaken belief that ‘Audrey’ is a unisex name). Another long day defeated; another song half-completed. For twice the price of Paradise, the past can be repeated. In a lawless drive towards a time before the dinosaurs were alive, our robot host slows to a stop at the shore to shop for tobacco in a complicated labyrinth where many men predict four more meaningless wars and a touch too much bullshit in the neighbourhood. An impatient shrink listens to this womb of patients think about the tomb of love, but now he’s left for the room above to consume copious kegs of soviet opiates he’s harvested from the eggs. Anyhow, nobody knows how much happy this crappy map-man has stolen for good. “We are who we are,”, The Toad Pickers chant. “We each bought one ticket to the end of the Universe but now you claim that the end happens every second before and after the start. Don’t mistake mermaids for queens or dolphins for art. I hope you haven’t stolen infinity but that’s the only probable impossibility.’’ Now the soul of the whole nation of toad picketers positively explodes in frustration when they see the big sexy priest. Now they all yell breathlessly and pray for release in the belly of a giant Police Beast, awaiting arraignment from governmental containment or just some slightly dumb entertainment, like watching Death explain to God that if he could quit the domain, then he probably should. After the dawn respawns, every frog in the dimension is reborn exotic retriever Police Beasts who receive impossibly erotic relief from reefer which simultaneously scans the unrolling scrolls written by Eureka! Whatever the present comprises, it’s an atom of forever. If you don’t know why it’s “do or die”, try “now or never. I seemed to be dreaming a dream while dreaming a dream, so I screamed, “God, I see through your front!” Isabel woke with a Salvation Army grunt and calmly administered the medication of a very bespoke blunt. I hallucinated ancient countries there on the chair where electric men swear or say prayers after they hunt. I meditated for a microsecond then shouted about how I never doubted that Christ took Forever’s brunt. Another long day defeated; another song half-completed. For twice the price of Paradise, the past can be repeated.

  • Now You Can Blog from Everywhere!

    We’ve made it quick and convenient for you to manage your blog from anywhere. In this blog post we’ll share the ways you can post to your Wix Blog. Blogging from Your Wix Blog Dashboard On the dashboard, you have everything you need to manage your blog in one place. You can create new posts, set categories and more. To head to your Dashboard, open the Wix Editor and click on Blog > Posts. Blogging from Your Published Site Did you know that you can blog right from your published website? After you publish your site, go to your website’s URL and login with your Wix account. There you can write and edit posts, manage comments, pin posts and more! Just click on the 3 dot icon ( ⠇) to see all the things you can do. #bloggingtips #WixBlog

  • Design a Stunning Blog

    When it comes to design, the Wix blog has everything you need to create beautiful posts that will grab your reader's attention. Check out our essential design features. Choose from 8 stunning layouts Your Wix Blog comes with 8 beautiful layouts. From your blog's settings, choose the layout that’s right for you. For example, a tiled layout is popular for helping visitors discover more posts that interest them. Or, choose a classic single column layout that lets readers scroll down and see your post topics one by one. Every layout comes with the latest social features built in. Readers can easily share posts on social networks like Facebook and Twitter and view how many people have liked a post, made comments and more. Add media to your posts When creating your posts you can: Upload images or GIFs Embed videos and music Create galleries to showcase a media collection Customize the look of your media by making it widescreen or small and easily align media inside your posts. Hashtag your posts Love to #hashtag? Good news! You can add tags (#vacation #dream #summer) throughout your posts to reach more people. Why hashtag? People can use your hashtags to search through content on your blog and find the content that matters to them. So go ahead and #hashtag away!

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