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Day to Day Poetry # 50

Read one of Bukowski’s posthumous poems,
sing to Gronlandic Edit,
scroll through endless pictures on Deviantart,
lick dry lips,
pound down old, black coffee,
read one of Hemingway’s short stories
compiled in an anthology given by your best friend
using a dried, marijuana leaf for a bookmark,
sing to Oxford Comma,
remember the way the smooth curve of her back felt
underneath your fingers,
regret all the friendships you’ve lost,
write a crappy poem,
attempt to re-establish yourself
in an apathetic world,
remember the way he rambled about
our Type 0 civilization,
while you laid horizontally on his bed,
wondering when to go,
count the hours, minutes and seconds
of his return,
bearing the gift that will keep you awake
until 6 in the morning –
the one thing you’ve been waiting for
since you ran out
four days ago –
addiction is seeking comfort
from that which is destroying you –
because real life stopped doing it for you
a long time ago,
waiting endlessly for Godot,
how long can this clever, cover-up story
and day-to-day charade
keep going
before it catches up to you?

Hemingway said
that all it takes is one unnecessary word
in your narrative
to transform it
into an ego trip
rather than a
story.

6:49 PM.
Just enough time for another lit incense,
and a paragraph from Sartre,
before you offer your brain and creativity
as sacrifice,
just to feel
moderately
okay.

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Secret ‘Unnatural Sex’ File Names Top Diplomat – Sir Peter Hayman

Living to help other disabled people, and people in need, Change the sign!! And Earth

Sir Peter HaymanThe late Sir Peter Hayman

By @ShaunyNews Via: http://news.sky.com/story/1418172/secret-unnatural-sex-file-names-top-diplomat My words and links below.

I wrote a few days ago to expect other names to come out soon and here we are, a dead guy! Expect more dead guys to come out to take the blame over the coming weeks. Sadly the dead get away with it and are used to keep the living safe. I am not surprised by this at all. Watch this space. Don’t forget Friday the 13th UK. 

Anonymous-#OpDeathEaters | February, Friday 13th
ViaAnonInsiderson You Tube

Friday 13th February we all have a chance, should we be aware of this story and want the truth told, to go to the streets and make a stand for all that is right. I will leave the website below the video and also the content. I will keep you up to date here via…

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Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry #49

I thought I was done
with parties in tiny houses
where you decorate red, plastic cups
with black markers,
where you gather around in circles,
your feet tucked underneath your legs,
because there aren’t enough chairs
for everybody,
where bags of chips lay untouched,
and empty pizza boxes
litter the floor –
the floor wet with muddied shoes and
melting winter,
where midnight sets the toll
for swinging hips and spilled beer bottles,
where bodies brush against each other
in the middle of drawling conversations
by the narrow hallway –

I thought I had graduated to
adult gatherings during holidays,
holding wine glasses against the light,
while eating little food set in tiny plates,
wearing high heels clicking against marbled floors,
laughing dryly at jokes aimed at
managers and executive directors,
reaching over to shake invisible dust
from your co-worker’s blazer,
just to briefly relish
the closest thing you can get
to human touch.

But last night I jumped at the opportunity
to throw a used copy of On the Road across the room,
to someone eager to take it home –
despite warnings from everybody
that it was a “masculine, self-indulgent tripe”
because I would take
casual discussions of literature
on a stomach empty except for Heineken,
any day
over ceviche and antipasto skewers
served on golden-lined plates
meant to be admired
rather than devoured.

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Day to Day Poetry

Day to Day Poetry #47

in 20 minutes
–you came
head bowed to the ground, and a shaking hand
that reaches out to unlock a door
as I enter, completely uninhibited
lost in the pleasure
of endless possibilities
wondering eloquently about the words we will say
TONIGHT

there are two sides of you
separate fragmentations that I can’t
fully simplify
there is the boy who loves to laugh
and screams in joyful recollections
who will raise his eyebrow and deliver
puns, punch lines, poetry and plot
discographies, book-ographies, collections and anthologies
and point to places that he has been in
played in
studied in
lost in the reverie in
the hollowed out pond and the missing stag
the thirty-nine steps that led this boy
to the musical group in which he spoke
in magical German: “Is anyone welcome?”
who contemplated about jumping
the ten feet to somebody else’s balcony
in his pyjamas and sweater
locked out of an apartment at 9:30 in the morning
–but the image of him screaming
in a language nobody can understand
stops him
as I scream in ferocious laughter
that moved me to abandonment
(bent forward, so hard it hurt)
–more, he gave more
kept going, unstoppable
until I had to slay the night with cynicism
this happy boy won’t last.

Because there is madness
waiting patiently around the corner
of this dark alley I live in
the boy disappears only to be replaced by
a turbulent, unstable man
who does not stop seizing
who grips the wheel until
his fingerprints are one with the leather
who stares daggers at my non-speaking throat
and lays blame on my pacificity
who wants to tear at my refusal
to participate in anger
who will shush me when I sing
of unspeakable subjects
who looks out of his window refusing eye contact
his whole body quivering
in pessimism
lost and alone in a world
that he cannot imagine
who stays at an airport to experience
fascism first hand
who won’t drop
cheese sandwiches, shrieking women, policemen in riot gear
he heard the door lock before he exuded vomit
resenting the love letter she once wrote
who lives and strives in the private
as he drowns the public in malice.

in 3 hours we drove
Hamilton, gas stations and Mississauga road
I sit there knowing
whatever happens, happens
I leave this in your hands
Disconnect from this cognizance
and let you guide me
into the void
into your secret divisions of narration
lies or not (it’s collapsible)
the beginning of experience
at least this night once existed
at least it once was here.

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