you want the good first, and the bad second?
never mind, you're going to get
the bad first...

so there i was,
sitting in the street, outside a pub,
sipping a cool drench
of heineken pint, probably
the best beer in the world
(i'd agree with the carlsberg ad.,
but then it's featherweight
at 3.8%... so dear dane?
probably no... stick with
shakespeare... you *******
umlaut wannabe (ø) diphtong)...
so i was sitting there
with some dutch-bewilderment,
a local...
  out pops a skinny kenyan
and starts ******* in front of us...
sure, he's ******* against
the dumpster,
  but the dutch-bewilderment
glaces at me and his eyes
are already saying to me:
worth a knife or a stick,
to clobber the ******* down,
i've lost the desire to drink
my beer...
         centre of amsterdam,
i was wackoed out of the pub
by sheer: huh?!
     i admit, not all stories are bad,
the other time, i was sharing
a hostel room with two germans,
who decided to waste
a mushroom experience while
watching *american dad...
while me and this egyptian
architecture student hit the town...
i was drinking, he was
smoking,
   then i took a **** at one of his
"special moment" rollies...
and then he said,
   put these on (headphones),
listen to this music...
the music? le trio joubran,
the song? masar...
     i was drinking throughout
the day... but one **** of
the rollie, and the music?
            **** me, the dam bursts...
i was sitting there,
in one of the cafes,
  mouth open, eyes closed,
one or two dutch girls looking,
my egyptian companion said...
     it must have been akin
to someone shooting up ******...
with my eyes closed i must have
been looking at god,
  or a diamond, or into a kaleidoscope;
gravity fused itself with my genitals...
i was dragged into my seat...
  and couldn't move,
eyes closed, mouth agape,
      monged out of my nuts,
which by this moment in chronological
order, was beyond the chance to orbit
saturn and take a selfie...
  the holy trinity of an excess
of *****, some marijuana,
   and music you've never heard
before, suggested by a stranger...
last thing i remember was walking
through the streets of amsterdam,
laughing my head off...

when i consider reviving memories
of cities i usually have several
version to mind...
the first amsterdam i went to was so:
.............................
........................
...............................
a boring trip, i bought two pipes,
a classical pipe, and this asian pipe...
the second amsterdam?
         was this the amsterdam where
i visited a *****?
can't remember...
  amsterdam no. 3?
             i think that's the amsterdam
account i just gave...
    never mind the minor thrill
of "smuggling" a few grams of hash
through the airport,
  in a biscuit can...
                a bit like plagiarising
that sociology essay, just inviting
the thesaurus to change the sentence
structure at university...
for the thrill, not for the grade...
  evidently a.i. isn't familiar with
the thesaurus cheat mode...
  **** me...got a first in that essay,
and managed to beat the computers;
oh yeah, smuggled the hash in...
it wasn't a lot, barely an 8th of an ounce,
fact of the matter is, i did it;
that being said,
  i have no romance with amsterdam,
i just miss paris...
      i'm never going back,
the memories are too precious...
              that hostel... duck something,
drowning duck? drunk duck?
    i can't remember...
   i'm never going back to paris,
the memories are too precious,
and the current affairs are too painful
to make that city a beacon of light
once more...
   we showered in the outside,
and we made courgette pasta with onions
garlic, bacon and cream...
    but that was 2005 or so.
       for some reason, i never had the sort
of affection for amsterdam,
            great for smoking,
great for drinking,
   great for not feeling guilty about
window-shopping prostitutes:
   with that victorian-feminism attitude
of the brits...
     hey! you're cutting the chivalry costs
of paying for the meal: back to basics...
  stochholm? over-priced...
      you'd probably become intoxicated
quicker, having downed a bottle of *****
you bought at the airport,
  and then drinking your own ****,
than you would, while drinking at the swedes'
americana experiment with pseudo-prohibition
tactics...
    how are you going to keep warm?
fat ain't furr... but sure as ****,
alcohol numbs the biting cold,
    no matter how you think about it
in describing it as a placebo effect...
                    it still warms the poles
in the outdoors, esp. when a person dies
in winter, and they have their stypa /
   wake drinking session in the graveyard.

i just can't forget that look of disgust
from the dutch guy sitting next to me,
drinking his beer,
   without our shared canvas, of an african
******* in the street, against
a dust-bin;

as borat would have said...
                     *mmm das nnnnnnniiiiiiice.

anxiety: my heart wakes me up, tattooing irregular beats against
my ribs, pulse racing, breath shaking.  i cannot tell
if this is real or psychosomatic.  these days,
i think about death all the time,
no longer by suicide.  now, i am
an accident waiting to happen,
fragile from years of misuse &
neglect.  the shallow inhales
of my lungs tell me
i am not okay.

depression:  this is a gray day.  i swallow my meds even though
they take away my mania.  so i drink black coffee until my mind
races itself in circles, chasing its tail like a rabid dog.
i keep the razors hidden in my sock drawer,
just in case.  

anorexia: my ribs ****** forward from my skin again, the sharp
protrusion of my bones beginning to show through.  i am eating
but drinking my weight in water
& mainlining caffeine to keep my metabolism high & my weight
low.  i am still child-sized & i don't want to grow.  
they lift me easily with their arms & marvel
at my featherweight body.  
the compliments i get only make me
eat less.

self-harm: on the days when i am low, i trace
the silver stretch of scars scattered over my skin
with a yearning for a blade between my fingers
just one last time.  i swear to you, the bleeding is over,
but i need to know
i am still brave
enough
to hold a sharp edge against my flesh
& press down,
hard.

addiction: a month ago,
i downed four adderall in one sitting,
luxuriating in the heady rush & lack of pain,
the quiet & the calm.
when i lived at home, i stole
my mother's vicodin & took the whole bottle.
i'm not sorry.  
when the boy who only cared about ******* me
offered mdma for free,
i accepted, but i shouldn't have trusted him
to keep me safe,
blacking out on his kitchen
floor.
drink red wine to forget
my insecurity, inhale
thick, sweet smoke to feel
some semblance of happy,
drag on cigarettes
down to their filters
until i feel properly
alive.

all i want is to be better, but
where to begin?

Undefeated. Undisputed. 12 wins, 0 losses. A perfect 12-0 record.  
You’re the crowd’s favorite as Vegas odds are in your favor.
Through the years of being in this game, you can almost get used to the fame.
“This fight’s going to be an easy one” – you assured your Coach.
You enter the octagon and see her warming up. Then you hear Bruce Buffer laying out the ground rules.
You’re excited – but nervous.
You feel the pressure of having to live up to everyone’s expectations. From your coach to the little ******* the other side of the world rooting for you.
You thought it was going to be another landslide victory.

Barely 2 minutes in and you feel scared.
Suddenly, you feel a numbing pain on your chin. It was a left hook.
As you fall face first, you feel nothing. Your unconscious body lays flat on the octagon floor.
Lights out.

Moments later you wake up to the sound of the fans cheering in the octagon.
A left hook was all it took for your dream of retiring undefeated to come crashing down.
For the first time, it wasn’t your arm that was raised by Herb Dean.
For the first time, you heard the words, “….and the new Featherweight champion”
You don't let it sink in at first but you can only hold back for too long before you realize that you lost.
You stood up, wiped the sweat off of your forehead, removed your gloves and marched out.
Suddenly you feel this weird feeling of embarrassment.
"So this is how it feels to lose?" you said to yourself.

You found a chair, sat down and composed yourself.
You’re still in one piece, which is a good thing but you know that fact cannot compensate for the emotional disorientation you felt.
Broken bones really do heal faster than injured egos.
Maybe your loss was a way of knocking some sense into you.
Winning is not everything, the same way that losing is not.
Sometimes you need to experience defeat in order to appreciate how satisfying every victory is.
As a fan, I know it's going to be hard to bounce back from this loss.
But you're going to be okay, champ. You always do.

The quake of oblivious control,
aimlessly sends me spiraling.
I feel a break in the tumble,
Realizing the forged signatures from
Those who seek calculated risks.
I am only a human,
With this life thrown at me in a hurry.
Stars march & chant.
Revisiting the nights shallow freedom.
Displaying cuts of bleeding light,
A treasure to those who see its dance.
I have come far for a drink,
Of essence.
The book, we share on the darkest gravel,
Having featherweight ambitions.
The mornings betray my dreaming.
My flaws accept the rituals.
Whatever will, I have left,
Becomes a map.
A velvet initiation, to wonder again.
To seek the ways of life,
That many call disappointing,
& Pointless.
For it is I, who sees a ribbon on true beauty.
Each day following a thread to a lake.
Following the sequenced whispers,
Telling me, I am Moonchild,
Giver; of redemption.

I'm spitting teeth onto the pavement.
Cracked grin cracked across my mouth
like your fist as it splits my lip again.
And again.
And again.
Ribs splitting from the laugh
that is echoing across the bricks
laid psuedo-symetrically like our
best-made plans.

In this corner weighing in at 115 pounds
we have the hopeless romantic.
All featherweight and bones.
All martyrish and faithful.

My words spill out like mice
hiding in the cupboards and in the bread

Each ******* is crumbled
and humbled by gnawing
The tables are dusted with
delicate clawing

The marring is whispered
in squeaking silent sound
Impossible to see but
they are rife across the ground

In bed they find the warmth
in the goose down and the cotton
now sullied small diseases
will soon go washed forgotten

Trapping tactics once tried and true
seems wasted on these careful few
Snapping empty in the dark
no silent stealing will squeeze them stark

Each dream they waltz across the screen
like small and spying rolicking ribbons
Through the snowy evergreens and wanton queens
yet waking finds that they aren't fiction

To tame them in time
is what must be
So no more is cradled
by their incredulous creed

Now that they have all run of the house
From the floorboards to the flue
My fighting is futile against this furred Faust
For in my great battles, my life they've consumed

My motions through doors
now move with great heed
over my rasped wooden floors
of naked tails and featherweight feet

Each morning they find
themselves feeling bold
and swim like sirens
through my cereal bowl

At noon when I read
they shred and they gnaw
so I can no longer see
one word without a paw

In my evening bath
they sport small diving bells
As I dry myself off
from my towel I shake twelve

They admire in the mirror
and prance piano pirouettes
they've failed to adhere
to give respect to any threat

One day a magic made it though
to the edges of my mind
to cut short this ever frothing flow
and put my ******* bind

Then slowly, slowly, one by one
they folded flew and fell
I'd hardly hope this trial was done
but it all continued well

One night when they were scarce and few
only the faintest furred remained
I wonderfully slept sound and anew
Haunted dreams I no longer detained

The lonely left began to nestle in
an exodus through the sheets and bed
each whisker scraped soft on skin
and climbed back inside my head

i; anchor
you; featherweight
she; shore

the anchor at your neck
incessant
a drawn bow trembling
at the core
a heavy love
you once wrapped your arms around
i told you from the start
where i'm coming from
and how i am
i gave you all disclaimers
i can be a head full of maladies
and you've not enough hands

the featherweight has so much to lose
two heartbreaks in one year
could snap the best in half
but you'll always snap back
you build with your heart
you build every plan
you're even with discipline
you're sleeping alone tonight

the shore stays
even if still
it's known
please keep away
i'm so tired of drowning

in my once apathetically empty chest, i now hold her broken heart, and as all concerns for the phobia of psychiatry, the one phobia psychiatrists have with regards to their patients is when a patient expresses empathy for others; ‘discharged!’ and they do so with a fidgety eye.

in the windy roads of rise park, an affluent scrape of
essex grime, a man alone, walked
impromptu bob dylan command to use the ballerina
footprint for a bit,
well, so he walked and thought about throwing pepper
at his shadow in anticipation of jungian shadow concept
detachment from orthodox cognition down the road
from descartes... oddly enough the ‘throw pepper at your
shadow and see shadow detachment in a convulsion of a sneeze’
didn’t happen... happy me... happy shadow...
so you see where this is going, it’s going by way of -
            *what is lucifer
            an emperor with no clothes
            no skin, no flesh, no heart
            an emperor!
                                   (jack spicer, my vocabulary did this to me).
well not really, it’s going into psychiatric theory,
esp. after the ending of this zombie princess in a psychiatric
hospital with arabic music snipping off further director’s cut
assertion for revision in the film: side effects.
got me peeling an apple that film did, better than gone girl
i thought, but enough of that:
isn’t this oddity welcome to be written?
if i use a blank page as a metaphor of an attentive “soul doctor”
in secular society, i.e. a psychiatrist / not a shaman e.g.
no woo woo ha bah ha bah ha bah take this naturally growing plant
and dance naked around a fire... i’m using it not as that
but as a patient, because upon return i’m looking at a blank page...
and i use that as me, who’s listening to the reverse of mirror realities
is impregnated with by an almost anonymous voice within
the framework of patient-doctor confidentiality...
but like i said, i had a theory on top of this... no i didn’t...
oh yes, i had: so in the talk of spectrums,
with dementia being as much deconstructive as constructive,
what about the spectrum of depression?
‘well, you’re right to point that out,
deconstructive dementia is a condition that affects older people,
they have a well known and established self,
so when dementia takes to the elders
the self is deconstructed and people stop
recognising a familiar face,
but the thing about dementia praecox
is that it’s not deconstructive but constructive,
it’s not really about dogma of the anti-psychiatry movement
envisioned about whether this self is true or false,
the optimism is that it’s constructive, and that’s positive,
because deconstruction is negatively attributed in
casual vocabulary.’
so what about depression, and how it’s akin to that, as i was saying?
‘ let’s say modern society is filled with professions that are
all about pencil pushing and photocopying the amazon
to assure the antarctic it will be filled with 2-d trees,
what sort of physical exertion is there in those professions
of skyscrapers and cubicles?
very little... depression in older people who have already
established themselves in these professions have very little
physical strain, not like the roofer or all builders in general,
there has to be compensation, an obstruction,
depression is like the strained muscles of carrying a gas bottle
that weighs 25kg... or rolling it across the roof slanted
weighing in at 75kg... or carrying a heavy roll of felt or
one of those tar doughnuts (permaquic / hydrotech),
so imagine if there was no depression, would these featherweight
commuters to the office spontaneously turn to aether,
loose limbs and turn into soul matter, moving through walls?
they have less physically straining professions,
and because of this there is the phenomenon of depression,
it affects a lot of people because a lot of people have never
used the scythe in a field of wheat, so they use antiperspirant
to loose the armpit blotches in air-conditioned rooms,
it had to come, this en masse depression...
but you know what i despair about? the spectrum of depression praecox,
it’s not a phenomenon in children, it’s a noumenon study
that requires a kantian investigation, it’s totally bewildering...
i can understand depression in older people
who do not have strenuous physical jobs...
but what if some of these kids only have a project of being plumbers
and not office workers?! what then,
they won’t be allowed the luxury of depressive obstruction
while fixing plughole wormholes of ****,
they won’t have the luxury of a desk job feeling “low”
but actually having felt too much ease before the low, which
inevitably came because of the ease.’