I don't know if I am dyslexic or not, but at times it seems and if I could still feel - feels like patterns are the only thing i can understand.

Not to abhor a prenatal sentiment, but that screeching in the background is it heard by everybody?

And the stream of gasping saute prognosis that comes flying through every door and bounncing off every wall,


well, my choices with ergards to that; are either judge it or don't.


but my own inner personal gain is overlooked




so noone wants to play, the tvs only occasionally entertaining, and i'm trapped in a dream with this black girl Naomi following me around who seems to acutely be the only non Nigerian black woman, (although if she reads this that could change) who was forced to apologise to me by questioning my eyesight on arrival at my current abode. Well, well, well, what a lengthy encounter  we had  considering that with what's now just gone yesterday. No coincidence as it's all coordinated  and the landscape is what the landscape is. Not African in other words. But post Nigerian.

Oh and, it looks like Africa was overlooked, again, while they were looking for my phone that I put to be charged (again) in the office...

Rock 'n' roll isn't just about the juice it's about the contempt, the either/or goat herding inhibition that sears through the stratosphere (along electrical cables of the brain) and then is forgotten by it's implicator.

So what does the implicator intend to imply?

That she has no free will. That momentum is fun. That identity is transmutable if seen in such light as delusion.

So what does delusion of the implicator imply?


Oh it's their entire world. it's just noone can accept it, except for the people not accepting it, them even having a really psychic intricate way of thinking.

So maybe these implicators are just considered to have no imagination?

Well I understand, but then there's empathy isn't there, and the system is hardly set up to inspire imagination anyway. So that's questionable.

What of questions and the implicator?


Can you ask questions without free will?


Well, yeah, what else?

And that's where the whole corruption scheme begins to be answered.
It's hashtagthaaaaat!(aaat)!

1992 - infinity


well, its a great deal of responsibility writing a biography if its of a great deal of importance. so lets make it unconventional. Because it's my biography and i am unconventional. although i've been trying to leave, and have successfully been doing so - to leave my ego behind... so lets let this be the exception. Magic! An unknown guilt trip in the form of body shapes and faces that who are either not magical, are pretending to be, or who are claiming to be responsible for the magic at hand. I only used the word magic to describe the atmosphere and direction and purpose of my life since i had a few surreal torturous but enlightening experiences. In other words when the true cucumber decided to show it's evil. that's a metaphor for how i was ***** once and how the xenophobic aspects of my life started to blossom. Of course i have always been blossoming, but particularly as something undefinable. and that leaves the alien ******* that have been on my back since day one ample room for destroying my reality, and making my truths look vicarious. so, whereas, they live in the shadows and occupy my stage as soon as i start to create one, and navigate life as a free spirit, they swamp it with evil and blaspheme my truths with something just as undefinable. except theyre liars and i'm not. Amen Jesus Christ's biographers.

A little truth, if you don't mind...

An exceptional reason for distraction is garbage in any form
A truth then,
While the effigies sleep foregone notes knaw at pedigree particulars like ascendancy to a quack.
Too many gaps.

But they're not in my mind, they're in the matrix.
Maybe I created them? But nah, I wanna loose the game... It's ******* *******, doubt it even exists.

So poetry is meant to be seen, and it works that way, as an art piece

But when it's inherently dutiful, it can't at the same time not take on the form of art in some way.

The essence of vessel poetry is that it is maudlin, quaint, robotic, ironic, too susceptible to literary criticism, defiled by social criticism icism, hand made by ether, quarked upon, stolen, has the breath taken out of it, edited, and investigated. Also farquaimed, easy peasy to unbutton, but difficult to be in sync with, frustration echoes from it that it's not understood in sync, has frostbite, doesn't belong on this planet, casts aspersions on the second eye, wears you down, is like house ware, is too obsessed with sound,p thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat last a especially! I had to think of the word one trillion or rather number to get that last a put which defies the patterns k was making previously or my own autonomy but if autonomy is a pattern that's what I don't like about my poems. Even though they're y seem eleqouent or whatever technically they're all failures. Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaonetrillion. (The last one trillion is a that) Writing done. May the judge ******* and stop being corrupt. At least get rid of Theresa I mean she can't make it as a lawyer can she? Haha human spies. Say hi to the devil for me.....😭

The robotics trace underwent alsali/eene
Tricking dawn fetishes through necessary unnecessary ******
As concentration is blinded and the truth is seen as serum again. Amen God.

So anarchism whets the boat yeah,    then serdjerney cflats its unsone patterns  further undone by layers of speech, so the boat trespasses upon the heftery gaurding the gobby with goonfile, attackiing with blocking????????????????????? thaaaaaaaaaat)(at)

So anarchism whets the boat yeah,    then serdjerney cflats its unsone patterns  further undone by layers of speech, so the boat trespasses upon the heftery gaurding the gobby with goonfile, attackiing with blocking?????????????????????