The curse (that was many times worse)

The curse (that was many times worse)

When an oath
and a promise,
had been turned
in reverse,
from faith and hope,
to curse and to cuss,
ways to cut up a word,
and make it all kinds of worse.
From the brightest of colors,
and of speech ever heard.
Shoveled over with gravedirt,
necrofied words,
always spoken, but never really meant,
but therefore—–
twice much as stronger,
as when they first had been heard.

‘Twas their original oath,
turning all over,
among blood
and unspeakable names.
Faith rolling over,
until they belieiving now in nothing,
(nothing) but death.

That’s what they all hoped:
to one day delay,
with just this one word.
The one sad
and whispered,
always there, on their lips.
For(n)ever spoken.
Pleasepleaseplease! take it back!
But we can never be so sure,
if any thing, is even too late,
to ever really reverse.
“For life moves
in only this one direction…”
That’s what they said.

“But it is never too late,
to become un-cursed…”
That’s what many had hoped.

So they took one bite
of that glorious apple,
and they prayed
to something darkly,
now, only in reverse.

Never sure, if it all would work,
how to un-curse
their own selves
from many things, even worse.
Than their own fall.

But someone made another
kind of curse,
to cover things over,
and made almost every word
into some kind of curse.

So, soon,
they could only hear
just one curse
when they were speaking and breathing
and every step that they took
had to be made in reverse.

The second take

comedy-tragedy mask

(First as a tragedy, then as a farce, and then, finally, in the end, as a life.)

The second take

The false take—
a chance or choice
to do it all over
more than just once.

…and to get it
exaclty right.
(or even make it…
the tiniest bit of wrong…
as can be sometimes…
jsut as wright.)

The false beginning…
or the missing (second) ending.
Which one to choose
as the start
or an end.
This downfall
that doesn’t just fall
and isn’t even
no, not really

moving with…
a mark of questions
so cleverly curved
but always nearly pointing just up.

The second finish
for and to a second

again..that can that be that bad…
even maybe a third one…
that is made even
more straight…
standing tall-like
as a sky
over city
and the land.
with a parchment
held in hand
written all out
—it’s these few remaining words
that we once spoke of as life.

spoken so softly…
only once—
but (yet) almost
and lived through
more than just once.

twice or once…
to live them
and yet a second
to feel them.

even one more third,
—and still—
to also both BE and to LIVE them.


The dunbar number


Dunbar’s number

Six degrees or —endless separation—of—
[please insert your favorite person here]
People have been counting on people.
Some of those thinkers (and labcoats)
may have discovered a thing or four.
That…The optimal number of friends
and people in a personal space,
is between 150-250 heads (and/or faces).
That’s how many people you could name,
and even know —deep in your heart of hearts—
that you might actually know them
(even if only one tiny bit).
And when the crowds keeps on growing
over this number of Dunbar,
a constant fog of the brain
or the heart might start to set in,
with endless pollution and confusion:
—moments and lifetimes stolen away
from our closest of friends.

Thought it might seem…to be…
like some people will only need one.
A BFF (gadget) constantly glued to their face.
(Just as they’re getting in line).
A shiny plastic device
that has made it so ordered and even…
much above and beyond
this lonely mysterious number
that is we and ourselves.

Oh, and I meant to link to this but I forgot. It goes along so well with what I had written.

Old Friends

Roman trumpets and horns


Roman trumpets and horns

All the bells and the trumpets
almost of like elephant horns,
now with the sound of a nest
full of wasps…
a circus-like shape
in a spectacle, almost too roman…
where every dressed-up little soldier
might heal or might kill—
depending on our badges.
One of them stepping away now..
the other one steadily marching
always a tiny step closer
towards the center.
As if… to give out roar
for every person observing,
with a funeral selfie,
at the time closest to death.
Just when the crowds will make calls
and a head will be slam-dunked
to the ground
——————at the sound
of all trumpets.
——————–Many arms… now twisted
———————-into a ring
of so many terrors
————————and errors
all.. unbelievably
and daily.


The week in a day


The week in one day

Today it is the week.
Every day is the week.
Even next month
is the week.
All of the lives and the ages
is there…in a week.
Contained and consumed
by a week.
only a week
and a day
is nearly all
that remains
of this week.

Then—back to monday. (my funday!)
The hopeful and heavenly day
when it all (and it all)
was supposed
to start over
always again.. and again.
And yet once again.

A prison of things

A prison of things

that i (we/me) do-do—
Every-thing that i try—
it always…just…was folded into
Something’s stuck.
(Please…watch out!)
just being here… in a place.
So try-try it again.
only just…to… do-do the same.
A pattern…larger…
pulled out… & all over… this place.
into one’s self… or just outside—someones space?
only pieces and puzzles
of the whole
and the same little self.

If only i wanted a way
from these chains.
But all things was changed to
be as those chains..
just when I touched it.
yet—even more chains.
should i be on my own…
chained to the lonely…?

but never even trying…?
cos how can you even try it..
when every attempt…
moves it all further
form the start.

Life forgotten

A Life forgotten

Like, moving,
just doin your thang,
when from out of your left field, just
how somethin-somethin would BE…
only once ever seeeen—
like WHOA
so stunned by the .
(*words like leaves falling*)
Nothing n/ever really known
when i just
i counted it double.
So as.. to… say?
When things must have been
more than ones…
it’s like it might never
have been.
(not even just this once)

so i would—or i could…
totally return there here there
go back once again.
if only i wasn’t so
gloriosuly blind.
or if (nothing(nothing)) else {
as if a life
forever forgotten
could’ve been had
more than once.
(in just one single moment…);


yeah like i should totally
go back there… again…
if only i wasn’t so glued
to this double.
forsaken. (so many things)
mistaken. (they&myself)
4 this here one life.


To flip or not to flip


To flip or not to flip

tO flip a coin,
as if, to later decide
if to flip a coin.
Soon now, every decision—
is born from the hand of something other.
And..then…with even more coinheads to flip…..
And bottles to spin.

Until only just one
can’t ever be skipped… . ,,  ,, . . …
The one that is T/HERE—
what is—to be later decided.
Whether tis better to flip
that single first coin.
Or to just let it rest.
Always standing all over—that curvature border.
Just—a tiny bit over—a head.
(so who now be killin & chillin y’all…)
for those times…waiting&resting…almost now till forever—
in between every option.

Now, something has alsmo been flipped…
yet every decision was barely just missed…
until it stood on that edge…
to many things so much more,—
almost everything else…so untamed.
The only one thing… that is here left…
That could never simply be skipped.



 Cosmos ( - creation of chaos)

Chaos and order

Chaos is only as distant
as this single one moment (and no more than three).
That’s why each little chaos…collided…
is now.. the only one thing
that could ever bring out a sense
to all of this chaos.
an atomic explosion so strangely—
might bloom into shape…
like DNA flowers (daisy chains) embracing all order…
and always ever more ties
and even more trees to that order.
Until each and every
little motion…
Can shake forth an order,
just as it shakes things to chaos.
For—Not even one, and not a thing,
shall ever fool that ancient chaos.
Not even—CHAOS—itself.
So just as one little… tiny spoonful of chaos…
will kick things in order…
And then….
almost at once…
give way to aging…
and an end to itself.
(Or even just—to hold—or to even let go—
this ever-expanding of strangeness
into an ever-still greater of orders.)
So real—like a hug—with a space for
always a little more of some disorder,
and yet hopelessly always…
a branching-out edge… for so many smaller-sized orders.


Order and chaos (Fiona Taylor) IMG_7544

The infernal kitchen machine


The infernal kitchen machine

Cant, nearly… write any…
Got burnt
in an accident
a microwave
and something only half-boiled.
As if…
how was I suppose to even know…
that something can boil
when it’s not even moving.
I’ve had it. This satanic machine
is going back to the scrapyard.
(i cast thee… out of my KITCHEN!)
To be replaced…
by something more real…
a plate with
the warmth of a heart and a flame…
something that still can make some sense
even when the molecules of water
might appear as if they’re all being
so disturbingly still.