I love maths
it proves that we were
just another mish mash
of geometric nonsense
refusing to accept
that you were a square
and that I was a circle
and that organic movements
do not match
with corners
and straight lines

Two fictional characters
walk into a bar

in Malta
( * Marsaxlokk - to be precise ).

"To...be....tooo beee. . ."
stammers Hamlet.

"Oh fer Gawd's sake...two beers!"
J. Alfred Prufrock snaps.

"You really milk that
"To be or not..." thingy."
J.A.P. scolds Hamlet.

"Tsk...tsk!" Hamlet tsk tsks.
( sticking his tongue out ).

Two Cisks are plonked
down before them.

"No...I am not Prince Hamlet or
was meant to be..!"
J.A.P. quotes him self.

"Awww fer Jaysus sake...loooook
just for the fun of it...the gas of it

we swop
texts!"

Hamlet interrupts Prufrock's
protestations.

"Ohhhh....o.....K?"
Prufrock ponders somewhat doubtfully.

And, so:
Hamlet the Dane

( for yea it is indeed he)
dares

(1) to eat a peach (2) wear the bottoms of his white
flannel trousers rolled (3) parts his hair behind even

(4) dares
to aks

the overwhelming question

"( Oh, do not ask, what is it! )"

Oh & (5) gets to hear
( ** ** ** )

"...the mermaids singing...."

Prufrock "Hum...."
kills the king.

Becomes the king.

Beds.
Weds
Ophelia.

" Buzz buzz...come come..go...go!"

"It's a very foreshortened
Hamlet...I know

but - what the heck!

"See..? slurps Hammy
". . . now, that wasn't so bad...was it?"

"Another Cisk?"
"Naw...I'll have a Becks!"

"Jaysus Prufrock now
...what's up?"

"Don't know..."mutters J.A.P.
wearing a frothy beer moustache.

"HURRY UP PLEASE...IT'S TIME!"
roars the barman in Maltese.

"I can connect nothing
with...nothing!"
Prufrock almost sobs.

"Like that time
on Margate sands..."

Hamlet cuts him curtly off.

"Don't even go...there!"

"But I still get that squirmy
...you know...feeling

we are just
fragments of

the imagination of
some *long haired Irish poet

sunning himself by
the waters of

the shimmering waters of
a Sliema hotel pool

...up up in the clouds!

Hamlet sighs.

"Yeah, me too
spooky...innit?"

Hamlet looks behind him
checking for what isn't

there. . .

"Ahhhh well, never mind eh?"

Prufrock attempts an attempt
at being cheerful.

Fails miserably.

"Let us go, then
you and I...

when the evening is spread out
against the sky..."

Like a patient etherised upon a table!
they both sing outta time and outta tune

stumbling one
into the other.

A long hair Irish poet
smiles as he watches them

go.

"Għaġġel fil-għoli...wasal iż-żmien JEKK JOGĦĠBOK!"
the barman roars.

NOTES

Pronounced MAR SA SCHLOCK. Those Maltese Xs being really SHs in disguise.

* Pronounced CHISK but the new barman is obviously new to the language and pronounces it TSK which makes him think that is what our two fictional characters are ordering.

Not to be confused with mobile texting but rather the literary texts of which both of them owe their existence.

* The play bounded in a nutshell as it were.

One Donall Gearld Oliver Denis Dempsey is a good example of this sort.

* The No. 1 song all over Heaven...beating Sparks THE NO. 1 SONG ALL OVER HEAVEN  to the top spot.

** "Għaġġel fil-għoli...wasal iż-żmien JEKK JOGĦĠBOK!" Once again the new Irish barman hasn't got his tonsils around the Maltese lingo and comes out with this terrible mish mash of the typical barman's cry.

There's something tragic about Brisbane; the city speaks of an older more Romantic time, though the people speak of a newer, modern; more disposable age. It seemingly looks at you with a lost lovers eyes.

Though the city still retains some of its antique glamour; take a stroll down any street in the center and around you will be found the remnants of that age.
Victorian Red-bricks dot the city like proud sentinels, keeping watch over the ever expanding invasion of its contemporary neighbours.
What tales would these monolithic madmen tell is if only we had the ears to listen, who's feet did once trample up the now year-stained wooden stairs, who lived and died and loved and uttered curses and birthed within those walls...and what tales would they have to tell if we only listened?

Ah, gentle reader, you see how your mind wanders at the mention of these thoughts?
The City certainly has its landmarks: the Clock tower of Town Hall, over looking the new modern space of "The Deck" in King George Square, the facade of Grand central station still retaining its grandeur and majesty; now turned into theme bars and a nightclub strip. The old houses littering West End and the strip of red bricks running like a sepia toned river up Elizabeth Street. And of course the dotted remnants of Old City Life being ever encroached upon in the center of the City's smoke filled heart.

The most curious of these is the impression wrought in plaster and cement, white over red, of a window in the city center, with a set of stairs leading up to a place that no longer exists; 50 feet in the air.
Whenever I gaze up at that window, that reminder of the past, I cannot help but wondre who would be staring down at us, on this date in the last century.

"Suffer them not" I wish to say, "for these people are of a different age, with different Gods and values than you."

Suffer them not, ignore their slings, suffer them not.

I love Brisbane.

It's mish-mash of centuries, its people, the tales of its unwritten past, it seems as if the city exudes both a sense of joy and one of unutterable melancholy.

I'm on the train, homebound now to my modern house in the ultra-modern Gold Coast. This is quite depressing. The freedom, the movement, the chance, the ebb and flow of the people soaked tide of the city is leaving fast behind me as this electric trap with seats barrels under facades and tunnels, with enormous neon snakes glittering down from the peaks of modern and ancient towers and we find them reflected in the winding river like innumerable fireflies...dying and twisting and being reborn in the soft moonlight.

South Brisbane Station.
An immortal Victorian construct, still surviving to this day. The same architecture, the same route...different paint though. This Industrial Relic is overlooked by the shining modern whirlpool of THE EYE, a gigantic Ferris wheel giving you the chance to see the city by air, to one side; and a multicoloured, four story glowing monument to the hairdresser franchise god Stefan on the other...which I dub "Stefan's Pintle".

It's garish as hell.

Passing through the night the train goes ever on, powered incessantly by the ticket payers seemingly endless dollar supply.

There's a strange transition from City to Coast, the outerlying towns left in the dust and wake of one and unsure whether they belong to the other. Places such as Kuraby, Banoon, Runcorn, Altandi, Logan and Eden's Landing.

Yet the train ponders on into the night, as it's denizens relinquish themselves to its discretion and desires.
Yes; the train ponders on into the night...

We slowly pass through Woodridge, one of those last bastions of civilisation, neither here nor there. A glittering town trying desperately to be a city. They have a McDonalds. Yay. These places always scare me, and confuse me.
What are they like? Their people? I guess I'll never know, i've never stayed in one long enough to realize.

Welcome to Loganlea, this is a strange place...the funniest thing about it is the fact that it IS a hole. Yet the sign into it shows a shining beach with palm trees and boldly proclaims "WELCOME TO LOGANLEA".
As you draw closer you realize it's pock marked with bullet holes and rust stains.

A train whizzes past, and we find ourselves reflected in its windows, our reality traveling one way; our ghosts another.
Into the long, pale night, coloured by the stars of a thousand distant streetlights. Like a million tiny man made suns; created to fend of the darkness and keep our fears at bay. We truely live in the age of endless day.

The melancholy of the city is far behind now, it's streets, its smells, its people all gone. As we are lost in the brightness of the endless day and the night grows ever long, touching those distant, far between places with its natural, velvet splendour, running its hand down the cheek of time. For there will always be a night, even when we create days, and the city will always be melancholy, and the coast will always be a glittering sequin on the dress of a cheap, soulless *****.

I love Brisbane.

I trace my fingertips
along your neon facets.
I twist and turn you
to make a match
or make a mish mash
of coloured squares.

You bring me back in time
to 1980's plastics.
I cannot solve your puzzle
for i lack your cuboid logic.
But just to rotate and
feel your shape in my hand
is sublime and fantastic!

Your gray matter is divine
I like the way you rhyme
You leave it all behind
because all inhibitions do is eat away your time

I don't want life to wane
to a sad state of disdain
so I keep up this game
and wait for you to flood my mind

I create a new me in every moment
while I let the memories of you unwind
I try to find a way to embrace this life
no matter how unkind
I feel full of emptiness and wasteful ways
but around you I try to put up a face
morph my ever shoulder-conscious body
into something I recognize as a valid use of space



I look through your window
Eager to see if my old skin has shed yet
I watch myself change shape
Like a skinwalker, I give up my coat
and steal someone else's
But I can never call it my own
and I can never feel at home
so I drift in the dark
hoping to warm your heart

I try to make my actions align with my words
so I can make myself real
but I never want to translate the things I feel
and every attempt to voice my beliefs
seems like I'm putting on a set of false teeth
I've got the armor but nothing underneath


Worry of judgement consumes me
My brain is ringing like the rails after impact
remembering the first time more vividly than the present
I'm a depressed undercover pessimist
A charlatan and a fabricator
I'm sober in my insanity
comfortable with the my self-aware self-destruction
Eating the leftover proverbs
To give me food for thought

The same questions fill me to the brim
The water's leaking out
The panic's setting in
My cup of water is too full
and I'm choking on the flow
I don't have a clue what to do with curiosity
I never let this feeling leave my lips
I can't explain what it and what it isn't
so I just move my finger tips


Somehow I can keep a conversation with you
and I enjoy you more than I ought to
I observe what I can
Slip into your shoes and point of view
Read into the pursuit of peace
You ameliorate my imagination
Give me faith in humanity
I feel less animosity
I let the mercury in me liquify
So I can produce my own light
Breath in and relieve my heart
from the pressure of years
spent stumbling in the dark


You are not a voice showing me the way out of the fog
but rather a hand covering my ears
so I no longer have to hear the echo of my thoughts
I spend the time tracing lines on your face
checking to see if anything has changed
the way I feel is constantly being re-arranged
defining it is never worth the juice it takes
but the lies I feed myself
empower me in this situation rather than degrade

I try to live in a new skin
around you and your friends
fit into the outline of who I set out to be
but every clone of me is messy
and I can never tell if I have changed yet
or if I will ever kick the habit
of being utterly hiffy and uneasy
burning with rudeness of my anxious impulsions
justifying inaction because of power displacement
but always trying to prove something

I make friends with those unwilling souls
that I thought would change me for the better
Open me to a world of ideas
and liven the lonely light I've been harboring
but you can't force things
and you can't always shake first impressions
I try to comprehend why I stay friends
with people only for their usefulness
Settling for those who think I'm adequate
Always conscious of what it may look like on the outside
rather than enjoying it for what is it


30 seconds is all it took for you to size me up
you read people so easily
it's easy to pass me off as devoid of heightened thought
but I managed to change the current when I finally spoke
Ranting about trees and sustainability
And my desire for invisibility
I was surprised how quickly you were convinced I was worthy
and like most compliments I can't take
I rejected your eagerness all too readily

I loved all your rants about black jesus and justice
about community and shared happiness
over material wealth and vanity
I'd rather listen and remain invisible
but somehow I still want to reach out
and grab a look of approval
but like you said, we don't listen to learn
we listen to reply
so I tried so hard to be so sly
and convince you I was super fly
sayin do or die
but you were too **** high
and I felt like I had fooled you
with a terrible lie

But with your soft skin against mine
I feel sublime
I'm wasting time getting close to you
When I have so much work to do
Reconstructing this mish-mash of metal
This wood with all the wrong angles
That is inside my fleece
That composes me
I've fenced myself in too long
And this restlessness is insatiable
I may be directionless but I'm able

I doubt my love, so my love is equivocal
I feel capable of loving you and everyone I know
even though I am just beginning to love myself
But love is definite
not something you quibble and question
and even though what I feel is far from real

I still want you to tell me everything
about philosophy and hypocrisy
about the ins and outs of what gives life meaning
about the uprising and government desecration
about what it means to have free will
But I may never tell you how I feel
Because I know your turmoil has nothing to do with me
when all my whirlwind nausea is centered towards you


You are a sapiosexual intellectual
the thirst for knowledge is alive with you
that curiosity grip me too
sets my mind on fire
and I dip into the news
you inspire a passion to find a purpose
and always follow through
but I know I cannot live as you do
the care does nothing but wear me down
because this fraction of attraction
Will leave me with nothing but a sound

At The Cafe
I heard her say to the teary-eyed lady
as they sliced their custard creams,
" Move on and go find someone else"
As if suggesting to take that knife and slice
that face out of her brain and replace it with
another. As if perhaps she should cut out
her heart and separate it from the rest of
her. I suppose the thoughtless lady was only
trying to help. I suppose that's normal procedure
in such circumstances. Like quickly go find a
lollipop for god's sake.
I felt like saying to the broken woman;
wait a bit. No need to be in such a rush.
This terrible ache, this fierce wrenching
this oozing sore is love disguised.
You'll come to it. You will. No substitute
necessary.
That someone else is waiting
in the dim horizon, fresh faced and true
with eyes that pierce through
the mish mash of dough and syrup
of wounds and ruins of love and war
and sharp metal objects.
That someone else is you, whole
and undisguised.
You can't rush that.
You'll come to it
You will.

jumping jumbled thoughts
hop-scotch, double-dutch, criss-cross
getting lost in mish-mosh
scratching a vinyl
stuck constant skipping,
unfinished rounds of loop-de-loop spinning
speeding down stream
leaping across time warping lilypads,
memories interrupted by what-if daydreams.

my brain places haphazard bookmarks
when it runs into a lump,
then hops on a new train
ka-clunk ka-clunk-clunk ka-clunk,
tripping over decaying stumps
and mountains of over-processed junk.
always falling back to distraction,
instant satisfaction
was taught to me habitually,
so i look the other way when
my will bends instantaneously
at the mention of insane
raucous romping renegades.

i throw hand grenades
to prevent unfinished fragments
of insight from cementing.
wishing my words would
spit themselves out,
or dive off a cliff to utter calamity
cause effort is lost on me -
passionless revere
and bottomless see-sawing.

just stick me slack-jawed
in front of any cookie-cutter size of
plastic rectangle-god,
they all repeat the same chant
commanding me to stare endlessly at
screen after screen after screen after screen after screen -
my screaming pacified by flashing lights
and buzzing jibber-gabber.
infinite scrolling consumes isolated nights,
meticulously crafting a self-projection
made from inverse other-reflection
to deflect nagging fear of
detection and rejection.

can you really hear my inflection
from this typeface
and condensed pre-packaged mind-space?
i feel like i'm speaking,
but feedback is empty and misplaced
only muttered out by thoughtless mistake.
well once i pin me down
ill stick you beside,
and we can melt into cork board
a collage of disintegrated insides.

You're feeling kind of worn out
Things, they never turn out
Like you saw them
In your dreams
Things, they're kind of hazy
Things have gotten crazy
A convoluted mish-mash of what once was
Things are never what they once were

So on this rainy night, baby
Just hold me tight
Take me through the wind
Next to you in the storm
Things you never win
May turn out pretty nice
You've just got to hold out your hand
For things that just may happen
You can't let your delusions
Stray you from the truth

I don’t want to feel!
I’m fearing the changes in life that are inevitable.
I want to be brave with a nonchalant shrug and a smile on my face.

       I don’t want to be drowned in a river of irrelevancy-
      That may be only apparent to me in my thought’s captivity.
      I want to be content with what I have- feeling no need to compete.

         I don’t want to let life’s struggles drag and flail me as they see fit.
        Becoming someone unrecognizable to myself.
        I want to have strength to show myself that I can be tough.

But nights like these where silent tears roll~
I’m frozen in the same spot as life’s failure tease without mercy or control.

What did I do,
Quite the disaster, but if only they knew
The depth of the hole I find myself in,
Thank goodness ambition is no mortal sin.

I seriously thought this thing would be fast,
A simple invasion, a side show, a blast,
Over by dinner then pop the Champagne,
Ukraine by name only, Russia’s domain.

Never the thought came into my head
That a little B actor would play me instead,
Tenacious and cunning he's proven to be
But if chess is the game, good luck playing me.

The West struts its stuff, more noise than effect,
A mish mash of junk all easily wrecked,
Perhaps they forget the Russian resolve,
Stay tuned for a while and watch it evolve.

Ukraine is no match for what we can do,
Time our best friend and that's always been true,
We're patient and hardy, impervious to pain,
We'll suffer and bleed for what's ours to gain.

Don't read me wrong I want this to end,
I'm just very careful which message I send,
At the end of the day I'll make a tough deal,
And a big swath of land I'll invariably steal.

Ukraine won't be happy, the West will cry foul,
But don't be impressed, it's merely a howl,
A little play acting for show and effect,
As for this to continue they clearly all dread.

Ignore the odd glitches it's the outcome that counts,
This hasn't been pretty, a truth with few doubts,
But often what shines is merely fool’s gold,
Land is the key and Ukraine’s I will hold.

tachyphylaxis - tach·y·phy·lax·is (tāk'ə-fĭ-lāk'sĭs)  n.
1.    A rapidly decreasing response to pleasure following initial administration.

I didn’t know this
demon had a name.
Ugly as it is it fits,
a random mish-mash
of unpleasant sounds
and equal unpleasantness
felt.

I’ve known the *******
forever, manifest in vitamin cures
and psychological processes,
SSRI’s and stabilizers.

He attends to the end of
affectionate loving and all
the designer vacations
you've ever taken.

He is the golden handcuffs of
square foot home ownership
and his business cards are
set in silver.

To put it bluntly
his continuous presence
is intent on destruction
of any contentment.

He is all things along the way
that appear so promising at first
but never last.

Synonymous with tolerance,
antonymous with precedence,


the antagonistic leaven of all living.

"I am matter trapped in reason"
           -scrawl on a restroom stall wall


1am


A couple blocks from the centre of town. The haze of rumbling sub-bass, the buzz of a hundred voices, the multifaceted shapes of flesh in heels and black dresses and puffer-jackets congregating outside nightclubs. Converging on the heart of the city, each voice becomes distinct, discernible from the background noise, a palpable aspect midst the otherwise nebulous air;

'We could just commit? I'd be so down for a chicken scorcher..'
'Ah man it's Gary! Gaary bro! bro! Gary!'
'I-it's okay, do you have your I.D on you? no, aah, no don't lean on the bank doors when vomiting, you might set off an alarm. h-hey, yeah you, sorry, do you have any water she could borrow?'
'Well you know, even though maccas is out of the way...'
'Aww mate gary! GARY! Aww yeah! Show us your ******! Gary!'


2am


A small gathering convenes on the lawn of a nondescript flat. the building next door is covered in scaffolding, a mess of pale grey illuminated orange parallel geometries hanging, droplets of mist swirling in light breeze.  indistinct chatter. Shuffling figures standing around packing herbs into a small metal cartridge. A flickering light. Coughing. Repeat.

On the other side, over a small fence and through a window, a figure stands in his kitchen naked, looking out, watching. An indeterminate expression.  

A voice of the circle calls out.

'Hey! Hey ****! what the ******* looking at?!'

the figure turns away.
'Ha, oh man, I bet he's gonna go get a shotgun. I beat he's gonna ******* **** us!'
('oh man this ****'s naasty')
'**** son, ******* look at him go, I think you're ******* right.'*
('dude, we should ******* maccas, are you keen? I'm keen.')
'Oh man! oh man, I'm so pumped. are you pumped? I'm so pumped. Aah, we're gonna die, I so ******* hope he does.'


3am


The streetlights have gone out a couple blocks down. Rather than the usual orange haze, the dumped cars and pavement are illuminated by the traffic lights alone, a universal filter flickering between crimson and lime.

A man approaches from across the street. Moment of apprehension. Mid twenties. Staggering. Broken nose, blood down front. Flash of switchblade in hand. Increasing apprehension.

'Oi, were you at that party? You with that ****** that ******* punched me?'
'N-nah, sorry, I wasn't there..'
'How do you know if you weren’t there?'
'Well.. which party? not that one over there?'
'No no, the one down that way'
'Where?'
'The one on high street.'
'High street? isn't that like.. somewhere in Mornington?'
'No, it’s.. the one we’re currently on.'
'...wait, really?'
'..yeah? I.. i think so?'
Both start looking around uncertainly, the man looses balance and tumbles rather dramatically into a fern.
'Um. Are you alright...?'
'Haha, yeah, just, rather drunk. and maybe concussed?'
..."/Cough/ ..Anyway, you seem all good ****, don't worry about it, sorry to have bothered you."
/awkwardly puts knife in pocket to shake hands/


4 am


Return to town. Humanities dilution and waning departure. Droves of seagulls dive in, assuming command of the area and the plastic bags. Only a couple handful of figures remain. Police cars and taxis patrol, dance in concentric circles. the last drunken remnants of raving students lie down in the street, clap their heels together

'Tell George to hurry the **** up or he’ll be left behind!'
'What?'
'I said hurry up! We're going for a Maccas mish!'
‘Who?’
'I said we’re going for a Maccas mish!'
‘Aww mate! I’m keen! Hold up.'

Swirling isolated points of light escape from street lamps caught in rows of trees, and a confetti of shadows swim along the sidewalk in motion with the gentle breeze. A twenty something in a hoody cargo shorts and sandals explains to a policeman in breaking drunken fevered tongues how,

     love, love, love, is the godhead and the godhead is love;
       within us reaching out, but also on the outside reaching in,
          it makes you whole by ripping you apart.

while vomiting on the officers car


5am


  A blanketing dampness sets in. not quite rain, but an omnipresent mist. A gentle fog slowly folds out, wavering among pale streetlights. While substanceless, it still holds form as an ambient covering poultice; drawing in the illumination surrounding into opaque convalescence, but then
     dispersing too,
                                    in turn.

I don’t see people anymore,
only shadows.
I see their past and future
trailing behind and ahead
the constant lagging and catching up of them.
I am the patch-work mish-mosh
made-up creature-being
with Past / Future / Present
silly-goose whatnots.
I am the girl you laugh with at Starbucks
because you’re too ****** bored to live for coffee.
I get it.
Let your smiling teeth do the talking.
I am the one-liner two-timing
*****-less wretch of a lady you call friend.
I am the cigarette loser who watches your dogs.
I will burn your children alive.
I am the tree-hugging
nonchalant ******* handing out flyers.
I will plant a seedling then rip it to shreds.
I will wear its bark for armor.
Your precious ******* oak
puts out cigarette butts now.
And from its death we grow cancer cells for fun.
Hell, we’re past time for past-times.
It’s all coffee and cigarettes now.
Coffee and cigarettes
and honking horns.
Coffee and cigarettes and honking horns
and shadows.
No more people.

I stole your  poem ..yes it's true
I didn't do it... to make you blue..
I didn't need your... broken words
although that may be...what you heard
The scattered thoughts....
you left undone...I tried to make them
become one.........and all
but they were so tattered..so torn asunder
was it worth the grief
I began to wonder
After all the wishy wash
from certain mish mash
I finally threw it........... all in the trash

'She walks in beauty' as 'a phantom of delight,'
The one evicted from his darkest night,
Her' raven' hair draped around her shoulders,
Laying next to him in 'silken tent',
Wanted just 'a slice of wedding cake'
Her beautiful spirit captured,
Sent to early sorrows death by 'solitary reaper',
Taken on' May- day',
She was the' light of living days',
Before tragically taking her 'survivor's leave'
He left her for another,
Took another younger lover,
It was their wedding cake,
She so desired,
It was to be their wedding day,
Before her heart he did thou break,
Her life was stolen,
Tragically by own fair hand,
As her sweetheart whom she'd trusted,
Greeted' the chorus of the newly dead'
The sun rising before she flew away,
Back to night realms,
To rest in peace.

Used poetry titles from classic works to create this poem.
Lord Byron, William Wordsworth, Alfred Lord Tennyson, Edgar Allan Poe, Robert Lee Frost,Robert Graves, Wordsworth,Ralph Waldron Emerson,Thomas Moore, Charles Causley, John Dunne and Edwin Muir. Thank you for reading.
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

This is a bit of a mish mash, but it was quite fun

Hot house flower by nature. By nurture she.took the hype hook to sinker.
All I see when I look at baby is power.
Habnero tiempo.

Warm to hot.
Spaaniard, coated with Ibo.slathered with india injected with a pulsating
Congas....mish mosh. Black as the ace of spades,mocha smooth ,
blond and blue,fiery red.
Magic in the hips.

Rat-a tat-tat spray lingo on one full breath.
Just ran down your program from A to Z.
Just want to grip your hips mami.

Synch up your vibe. Turn that growl your emitten
To purrr like a kitten. Ahh... eso..Asi.

MMMMmmmmmm......
MMMMmmmmm.......
MMMMMmmmmmmelancholy melodies of misery, Mish-mashing memoirs in my mind.
MMMMmmmmmmmmistakes of my mademoiselle misshapen maladies, messing with my mental mire.
MMMmmmmmomentous man might made minute by mammary marching miseries.....
MMMmmmmmy oh my – my many marching miseries.
MMMmmmmmakes me miss the mystery in meeting..... Months of magical moonlighting...... .....mind you masterful mating!!
Mmmmmindlessly meshing membranes of moderately matching mettle.
MMMMmmmembering my moods and modes........messy and mostly misty as my mind makes it mildewed mould.
MMMMMmmmissed OH SO MADLY,  if I may........ is the mercilessly milked MEANINGFULNESS in the mentioned misbegotten mismatches....
MMMMmmmmind you.....my merry moot mistakes.
MMMeeeee???  Meh!!!  maniacally meek....moreover......momentarily MAD.....
MMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmm.......


5-03-2010.

All I came up here to do was to make a poem and to get some extra credit now with that said I guess I really should earn it.

Now I don’t know what kind of poem you really want, but that really doesn’t matter since your already here and have already given your two dollars to Japan and my job Is pretty much already over before it even began.

Now I could do some Dr. Seussish stuff and just rhyme words with wish and ish that would make a mish and then you would find a magic cat fish, but that would be kindergarten repeatin-ish.

  Now this may not be fitting with what you planned, but I’ve already told you that I don’t care what you want I’ve doing this for me, Te he.

  Now that Dr. Seuss is out of the way maybe there’s something greater that I would like to say.

Now two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could to where it bent in the undergrowth; oh wait I’m sorry that’s not my poem. Hmm I’m stealing other people’s stuff I guess you guys aren’t getting your money’s worth tonight.

Now I don’t know what I could really bring up that isn’t ****** up, but maybe you could rejoice since you get to hear this magical lyrical voice.

  Now this has pretty much been off the top of my head and hopefully you haven’t been wishing you were dead, but hey I think it’s been pretty okay.  Now that you’ve heard this and have planned to leave your seat I would like to convince you that you shouldn’t stand to your feet.

  Now this has made me feel like the man I do hope that you’ve understood the sarcasm and jokes since this wasn’t only made for young folks.

Now since this little fling is almost over I would like to get yo numba, but who am I kidding you didn’t like this part of the show so I’ll just go, but before I go I would gladly like you to know…that there is no refunds.

Never saw Cinderella, Sleeping beauty, or whats-her-face from "The King and I"
break up their love over a fight
Happily ever after, is that 'bout right?
but the prince never cheat, yell, or lie

The Beast never had Belle bruised or beat
But these girls were the fairest of them all
Now-a-days with all these **** stars running around hows one to compete?

Never saw the Prince get jealous or even bat an eye lash
when Snow White lived with 7 other dudes
I guess reality and fairy tales don't mish-mash
but here's to beer, *** and cash!

So you’re looking to find a way in;
But a labyrinth lies beneath my skin.

Plus the whole of my heart is a maze;
A mish-mash of mishaps and misleading ways.

And my brain is one big ***** trap;
Full of illusions and calamitous cracks.

‘Cause you see even I’m lost in me;
So please – give up, get out and be free,
Whilst you’ve got this opportunity.

a
mish
mash
of
absolute trash
my
poems
or
any
thing
that
gives me pause

Flicking through old photos
Since forever stashed under my bed
Mum points at one of me
Little, laughing
And my brothers
In colourful winter hats,
Climbing white trees,
A one of a kind cold day
The brown leaves sing
"Weren't you so cute?"
To think Christmas is wasted on me now
And I lie lamenting the happiness of someone long past
My throat hurts at the effort of not just bursting out
Crying
Like a baby as I lose control
In front of my own mother
That wasn't me on that fence
The little face swinging upside-down
That was someone pure
Locked inside me
That was light on a piece of card
I don't feel
Like a person
Anymore
I'm a mish-mash
Of random
Things
I am a split second
That's almost gone
I am traits, emotions, chemicals, hormones, electricity, fear, love, friendships
Fading into a maelstrom of humanness
Mounds of recycled carbon
Made-up meaning
Lost in fog
Where I begin and end fades
Into everything and nothing
I'm the dirt in the ground
The stars in the sky
Something words can't describe

I find myself
I'm dead in an ink page
Hostage in your photos
I'm sorry, sad I find living up to myself a scary ideal

But really, all I am is the clacking of teeth
And those who don't hesitate to remind me
Aren't nice, aren't my friends really,
'*** friends don't talk philosophy

I'm looking for what I see as me
I'm tired - worn raggish
I'm hopeless and bored
And fickle in the words I write

Ink paint is tinted blood
Water colour is see-through meaning
Mish, mash, mosh
Nice to meet what you see as me

I know I was wrong despite my intentions being good
I know I shouldn't have gone to the Easter Day at Edison park in Woden because despite me loving Easter fun it still was wrong and I looked like a strange phedsphile taking photos as ****** images
I wasn't doing that but it was a private party and I wasn't invited but at that stage in my life I was ******* with Canberra not having an Easter parade and I wanted this particular parade to be the Easter parade I was looking for
And I had to leave there because I was being inappropriate and I don't want that for myself and I went to school fetes to catch the mood of local concerts here but I was yelling at my voices and people thought I was being weird and
I was enjoying the fetes but it is a part of the school and I am not related to anyone at that school despite me enjoying the concert but I am being a tad inappropriate for turning up there and I turned up there because I was going through a stage where I liked family events and I was getting very obsessed but I enjoyed the Tuggeranong street party about 4-5 years ago because I was letting my hormones out when the dancing girls came out
Really this is quite normal and
If they hold a street party anyone should be invited to it
Or anyone should go to it
And in my eyes I wasn't being inappropriate there that was fun
And the Tuggeranong community festival is fun also
They have bands on stage as well as rides for the kids and stage activities for the older dudes but I should not take photos unless I am using it on Facebook but that will be to show the world what Canberra do to get people into the party spirit and I like the nara candle festival because they have a candle garden as well as music
And I enjoy the delicious foods they have to offer
There is nothing wrong with going to carols by candlelight at schools and on ovals as long as you don't take photos because. You will feel like a hooligan who needs a break in Hollywood
You see I was wanting to get into Hollywood and that made me practice on the street and kids were telling me they don't like me anymore at least that is what my voices were saying
You see I wanted to get closer to the people in charge of the event and publicise their event
But that can be a tad inappropriate as well, you see I am a poor adult who didn't get what he wants and I wanted to be famous so bad I would do anything even if it Seems to be inappropriate and I became popular at the poetry slam as well as the Belconnen arts centre doing plays and reading my poems and having fun and I read the poems at the mish mash variety night where I did the blokes 12 days of Christmas
And one thing I did that really cheesed people off is sending my stories on various email addresses, I was doing that to one day be noticed for what I do be noticed as a writer and an artist as well as a YouTube entertainer but I have gone to realise that doing that can lose you a lot of mates and it will be bad for my reputation
Whether I am a writer and an artist and a YouTube entertainer
The whole world prefers to just hear it the right way rather than
Sending email after email to everyone in the world
I never got a positive response doing it that way, so I stopped
I remember being told to stop taking photos at the Gungahlin Christmas party and I got very excited that people were nice to me but I wish to hell I never committed that crime back then
Because I am getting sick of being told off by security guards you see I went to the carols in the domain in Sydney and I was writing Poems about the day and just last year they told me I wasn't welcome there
And that really ****** me off
Because all I was doing last time was writing poetry about the day and I went on two holidays to Adelaide to see the Christmas parade and I intend to go there again  because it was very enterteining
I just wish Canberra did things like that but dad said it was the money they can't afford to have big parades in Canberra
But they do have the multi cultural festival and that is pretty cool and now I am doing art classes and I am trying to get into writing but people say my stories ain't family friendly
But I must write these stories because it helps the future of the world and I don't want to not go to any future family event whether it is the carols or the Candle festival
I keep having flashbacks of 2000 when my parents were watching the Olympics and I went to the pool and this young boy asked me to buy him a pack of smokes and I bought him a pack of smokes much to the store owners dismay and
He called me a ***** and the boy was laughing and I wished
That young dudes would stop using me as bait to do their ***** work because they seem to take pride in my suffering
Like the future ***** they are
You see there is nothing wrong with what I used to do but I don't want to get teased like that the kid had the problem not me
You see I am a man who needs to be given a break by these young dudes
You see I feel hurt that people want to ask me in my silly stage to buy me a pack of smokes and take pride in the man calling me a ***** and I feel that I need a break and go to family events and enjoy the concerts
Rather than people a subject to get teased by *******
There is nothing wrong with what I used to do
It is the others that have the problem
I am a real family person



Sent from my iPhone