Frank Savage

Frank Savage / Writings


14 June 2018

As We Seek We Do (Not) Find


(From the Savage’s Journal, 23 Dec 1972)



So I thought I would do something else today, something new. Something that would enable me to say ‘At least I went, at least I tried, gave it a chance ’. You know, showing my face and letting the world know that I too can, that I too am a force to be recon with, that I am a doer extraordinaire and my vision too rests not on a point within your common reachable periphery, but beyond that, sort of. That’s what I thought I would do today.

The small bookstore where the poetry reading was to take place had a pampered feel of kindergarten lingering in it. Intentionally handmade looking stuffed animals sitting idle on the shelves with politically correct “children’s books for the adult reader” randomly placed at strategic spots around the few rooms that made up the bookstore. Handwritten lyrical themes in capital letter on blackboards were hanging over worn secondhand furniture, perfectly mismatched to give that homely feel that we book lovers all love. Indeed a place for us, the reader and rough street worn poet who really care about looking good with a book in hand. Who knows, you may even read it from time to time (with your trusted smart phone open and ready in the mid-spread as you mindlessly “get lost” in Kafka and Sartre) while waiting for your haplessly conned friends.

So here I was, doing something else. Not finding a place to stand or sit among the empty chairs and well stacked shelves, not finding the reason anymore, a reason that just hours ago was calling me to –give ‘em hell, show the world what true angst and lost hopeless desperation will look like I the flesh. Now not even the faintest lingering fart of a reason remained as I scanned the soft-covers covering the vertical spaces between floor to ceiling, colors and letters blending just fine. Eyes locking in on once read titles as in seeing distant friends amongst a crowd of minions all trying their best to be seen, to be heard loud and clear. For all it is worth.

They were all here, the international mismatch compote of our city’s local expat community. Sitting on the floor to show that while in Rome, do as the Romans even if the Romans had rather enjoyed a hard straight back chair, an angry young girl with her big hair and perky little titties meaning business, wearing too much makeup on top of a false attitude. Bringing back fading memories from a bleak childhood at a much hated elementary school, when the girls in your class for the first time were allowed and let loose amongst their mother’s meager makeup kit. A class party, ending up like fantastically exotic little sluts that we, the boys fell deep in love with and feared, emotions we didn’t know slumbered inside of us, woken all at the same time. Who were these new creatures? The only boys & girls concept we knew suddenly reviled another side, of what was to come. What was happening right there in front of our very own eyes was nothing short of mesmerizing. Where are they now?

The healthy looking old-timer is also here tonight, sunburned and skinny with his earth colored collarless long-sleeved organic cotton shirt tucked in under a high waistline. Demanding in every movement looking for comfort and requiring special attention at all times. His chamomile tea sipped with care from a large white mug. He has managed to talk himself worthy of a teapot full of hot water at no extra cost. Just hot water after all, costs no one anything extra right. Having lived, still living a life worthy to himself, eager to show the world that he is indeed the man to deal with if you have a spectacular enough dialogue to present. That this dialogue always turned monologue was something that you just had to deal with since in this room, on this very street in the city, on our dangling little blue and green planet in this universe of ours, that we know of, there is only one man that has cracked the code fully, a burden and holy responsibility. He carries a fake and effortless smile with resistant ease, like a grin, as he always finds a seat in the crowded space. He is after all the only person in the room.

The wannabe entrepreneur stands for whatever reason outside the toilet door peeking in from a second passage between sci-fi filled shelves, a former housewife of the old school with now grown children, all alone at last after years of boredom, tepidly restricted marriage, lost. Loud in her ways she is freely savoring the moment of the fantastically tense mode the room present, as we all are trying to fit in and create our own space of “me and you”, of “them and us”. She has no reason not to laugh loud to the most mundane poet and his shallow work.  Fabulous prosthetic poetry are delivered one line after the other to us, and who knows the meaning of all this, just that it’s really great and she feels somewhere deep within her womb the “we” as one, in a country of others, in this room with likeminded “we’s”. As we do not really belong is the proof that she is, that “we” all are in the right place tonight. She is taking it all in, we versus them, false safety, as a famished family we dig into a feast while the big bad world outside is looking in, at us, at her.  Giving shelter to us all under her canopy of lost motherhood. She never really learned to fit in, didn’t take the chance, never saw the chance, never realized that her hometown in her home state in her home country and it’s inhabitants across the seas were living in a precise like minded parallel universe. That she is now free to seek out a home, in any nook and cranny as the saying goes. She carries her deep-rooted homesickness as a filthy cape, all naked and cold underneath. She opts for no drink since she has a fridge with cold beverage at home. A double door oversized fridge in an empty large kitchen, the windows slightly open to air-out the murky smell from her last meal for one.

The young woman is here tonight, American, sexy and sleek, with sad passive aggressive eyes. Follower of others yet comfortable and ready as one can be under her own skin, a doer and capable of deeds her dad just a couple of years back would no be able to even dream up. Daddy’s girl on an outing as this part of the city is the place to be, so better be seen while at it, for now. An early Tuesday evening and at least something to tick off, will come handy, being socially active, having “friends” that never enlightened her spirit but ‘meeting people’ never means new people. Keep it in the family. Close-knit inner circle from the new world, feeling less vulnerable is just one perk. No need to explain ones street cred. Tank top showing just about right amount of adventure and esteem, feeling strong while walking further out on the thinning ice, out on deeper water of the unconsciously turbulent sea of doubt. So while her mustache clad companion trying his best to once again set the bar for likeminded onlookers she drifts off like under a veil, holding onto a by now rather lukewarm bottle of beer in her damp hands. Mind drifting off to a proper fuck on an unstable kitchen table in a warm room, a fuck in the shadow of the mighty Genus Pinus, on a soft carpet of dry pine-needles, a violent fuck on the hood of the finest marvel of German engineering, all while the clouds gently shape shifts and glides back home, westward. True poetry of the flesh. Hard to control but with a big enough lid its all doable, for now.

The poetic Hipster with a body like a juvenile boxer can’t sit still, a perfect mess donning a little thin mustache that is so in vogue these days. His worn Daniel Johnston T just perfect for the evening. Showing  us that he is an interesting, smart, wicked hungry young man, full of hidden surprises. Not a man to sidestep as he can take thing up and beyond, over the crest for you if you just let him show you his true colors, up and beyond just a little more than the average Joe whom is his wingman for the evening. If only, if only.

Two Indian men from parallel worlds sitting next to each other, facing the open room on uncomfortable rigid wooden chairs. The city of New York has taken most of the original accent and shyness out of #1, while #2, the humble son of the dusty and chaotic masses still clings on to a melody of the old, a rolling smooth mother tongue. #1 distantly tender a superiority lacking understanding and tact but still dictating in what direction the discussion will continue, path of least resistance. Shallow camaraderie, limited boundaries. Seemingly lost as they improvise, adopt and overcome.

The owner of the establishment (someone mentioned Lithuanian, or was it Estonian?). A young bolding bookstore owner with an American accent grabbing onto his dream in a tight pinching hold. As in the center of the universe he dictates the phase, the tempos and moods, a driven multitasking conductor and beat master, knowing what is best for his flock of big eyed minions, the lambs of God. His baby giving birth to fantastic prosa tonight and he is the kingpin that hold up the structure, unbreakable and steadfast. With social media he has boosted his own credentials to a near fever pitch while his eager to please “partner” worries over revenue and bills, paid and unpaid. Is there enough cold beers in the little fridge under the home made counter you decided would be both functional and pleasing to the eye, will you be able to manage and build on this foundation, is this the answer to your questions little cage bird, and if not, why?

-We just wanted to and truly did create a community of poets for poets and I’m taking full credit for it at the same time. I ended up burning my own bridges to the literate community, but making a buck in the process so…a (wo)man gotta eat, man.

So there I sat, on a high stool in the back row with my back against ‘A catcher in the rye’ and that Charlotte Perkins Gilman book about a world without men. Always protect your rear if no wingman covers your blindsides, that much I’ve leaned during the years. Never stare into the sun even if you know its here your hungry ace brothers will be if playing his cards right. A motto that does not compromise. A stab in the back always hurts more than one can imagine and so unnecessary at this point, at this time and place. As the lights dimmed to a homely level I look out over the roughly 50 various shapes, sizes and styles that made up the literate elite now waiting for the “show” to start. All eager to hear something new, to take part of something fresh and be able to pat one self on the shoulder of self-awareness afterwards.

I feel my eyeballs are an entity all by themselves, hanging in midair looking at all and nothing, seen by all and nobody. My hands not knowing where to rest, sitting in an awkward angle on my pedestal of doom, all that is me transparent and naked now, there but not present as the “poet” ups his ante and with shaking hands starts delivering his clean English voice, words falling like icicles on warm sand and seeps away before evaporating then seizing to exist all together. Like they never were, never meant to be. Dragging on now, feather light reasoning echoing between the paperbacks and lost Indians, between little angry titties and bravado gusto mothers. Echoing then falling flat on Daniel Johnston and getting fucked on a kitchen table, on we vs. them and too much makeup, gone forever for the only person in the world sitting with a belly full of warm water, gone to never be heard of again. Was it even there in the first place? Not so sure anymore since I only remember being in a room with humans while outside the world made hell of a racket, pulling at my curiosity cord, pulling hard and calling my name. If one could manage to pull this cord all the way up from the void to the very end, since it is not an endless cord as many of us have got used to tell ourselves, one would find a little black notebook with one remaining page in it. A worn notebook attached in a clumsy knot to the cords end. On this one and only page would be written in small shabby letters on crooked lines a statement of sort.

I want to be loud and rude, obnoxious and full of dark emotions, on the brink of unwashed craziness, spewing rivers of dirty prose straight in your face.

I want to scream my rancid words into your weak guts, as you love me relentlessly.

Bend you over and fuck you like an animal while you speechless feel your safe little world shape shift into an inferno of angst and bad luck.

Like a steamroller I will bulldoze my way into your protective psyche and let my army of verbal killer bees cause more havoc than the mighty El Niño and his evil twin sister Katrina, to cause more bloodshed and terror than the screaming hordes of the fierce Mongol berserkers.

I want to blacken your pumping little weak hearts with anarchical grammar and let loose my twisted suicidal demons of black theories upon your daughters, let the hounds of hell rip your sons to bleeding ribbons.

I want to drop the fucking A-Bomb on your wedding party, letting the shock wave level everything that you hold dear. Your demigods weeping blood as they burn.

Nothing is the same after you lost all and everything, when you need to try to start over again from the lowest rung of the ladder you so carefully have been mending and cared for since the beginning of time.

A worthy dust-up little man, not in the center of your comfort-zone anymore, but you’ll manage, you’ll see.

I want to be the brutal death-metal show you leave stunned with ringing ears, neck so sore you can barely keep your head up straight, I want to be the profound nosebleed at your violent laden underground grind core gig.

I want to burn endless pages of written angst, flames reaching for the moonless sky, trails of little sparks drifting off into the void as you slowly understand your true calling.

Standing there alone in the dark feeling and seeking with bloodstained sticky fingers at the gaping hole where your once compassionate and emotional hollow muscle could be felt, a muscle that let you live, day after day till all eternity if you had your wish. A dictator of sort.

I want to show you that you are not immortal, that you decay, that you are nothing and have never been and that you never will.

I want to tell you that you are everything, that you are me and me you, that nothing else matters.

I want and want is as we all know a fuckinmotherfuckingmotherfuckersonofabitch.


To “Search and destroy” I repeat over and over again as a mantra to myself as I leave the little bookshop to seek out what poetry is written in the trees this fine sun draped early summer evening, what real prose is drifting in the warm winds of the open sky this very moment. If I still can put one and one together for just a little while longer I may have a chance, the show must go on I lie to myself as I push my legs down to be propelled forward, smooth and soundless.



19 May 2018

Shadow Sister

Walking into the night,

nil remorse.

No way on looking back,

Alone as the dark becomes your closest ally.

Shadow sister.

Nothing to fear,

as you reach deeper into the dark.

Blinded and hopeless is the way forward,

into the void.

Brother of will

See you ego disappear,

become nothing with the night.

Warmth and comfort very distant now,

delete yourself from all.

Father of freedom

Random encounters on your mind,

Kill ‘em all, let your imagination roam free.

As you become one with nothing,

nothing at all.

Mother of death

Alone in the woods, at the right place at the right moment

Nothing matters but the breath you carry within you, full of life

Nothing precious labeled with you name now, title-less roamer

Discovering the deep, your own dimension covers all


Creating A Vacuum


Those few but brutal hours in early dawn, that evokes feelings of total dread and surrender

Hours lingering in between the dreamy world of truth and reality, between light and dark

Its here I get stuck, spinning as a speck of dust in turbulence, not knowing myself truly

Lying on my back breathing irregularly, twitching spasms in my muscle, drifting mind

Scenarios of the worst kind, eventualities of misinterpreted logic failing me on all levels

Its in this world I get stuck, twilight waking up the world outside, the misanthrope trapped inside

Stepping out and up, away from the void while waking fully, doubts shadowing me into the day

“Tense emptiness” she said, always understanding my needs, putting things right, in perspective


08 May 2018


                 Saw you dancing alone in the dark
                                       Surrounding stillness enhancing your movements
                                                      Time not presence as you slip in and out of the shadows



Justified my need to be, to become 
Wants became reality, actions turned to memories
Nothing to lose anymore, on borrowed time I now live


In Sooth

The problem with me is, that there has always been food available.

Always enough. Never had to starve.

Made me a weak individual and a selfish seeker.

Not knowing fear.

A man with an empty belly do not steer down the roads I’ve chosen, a reckless life.

A man with an empty belly takes refuge in the now, in the acute present.

A man with an empty belly looks for stability and warmth, the easy way out.

Starvation will have to come if I ever want to be where I need to be.

No more shit talk, no more returning to old habits of survival.

A man needs to build a fire, to read the flames then lunge deep into the abyss of darkness.

To fuck easy in the face.

To stay hungry.


Justified Savage One

When we boil down the essence of where our movements have taken us, the steps of the beginning up till now, then we may see the surrounding as it is, in this moment, just a little different. Shining bright and clear, a spectrum of colors spreading out, peacocks tail, a spectacle of noise and frequencies. Shine. The mundane reality of now lurking like a thick coat around you as you see only what’s in front of you, now, this very moment. Sparkling, you.

I saw an oasis in a politically stolen desert, felt real heat and limitations

Boil it down, rectify, purify and refine the whole bloody mess, to the essence, the core, to the stone of your unique You. Simplify, make no excuses as you methodically cut off dead weight, trimming of the useless fat of days whom are choking the pure light to shine, hindering ones breath to be clear and full. Inhale, from nostrils deep into the belly and up, through the points of all life, to the diamond of though, the seventh.

I ate with the locals on dark roadsides, loud crickets above screaming engines

Is there anybody out there? Alone on the road, on the beach and in the forest? One with the free flowing wind, one with the rolling waves. Naked solitude, true believer of senses that must be aired and on the move at all times. Let us ride, ride on our grace once more, no attachments or achievements required while the movements gets stronger and faster, pulling harder towards your nebula of rich flavors and strong impacts.

I fell of a mountain, curiosity of the forbidden grabbed hold of me, hair standing on end

No time for games, no time to waste as you ask for nothing in return, giving little, receiving much. The home you always have learned to live with is within you. Unstable stability, portable and on the move, always next up. Hard to be satisfied when you are constantly waking up to a new start, unbeaten path of most resistance from the moment you set a foot down and move it forward. Motionless speed.

I have drowned in paradise, slowly sinking to the bottom whilst light shining clear above

Met beauty in the South on the North island. A hesitant and exotic mess from another galaxy took my hand and held it for 2 month straight. Taught my ego to take a hike, caring for this someone, a daughter, a sister, a lover, distant on all levels, a friend than anyone else. 25 years later we once again sit on distant shores looking out, prepared to leave her, for good, wondering why and how. A man, a curious human, a dog and a lover, a thinking ape. A losing achiever with respect for few, respected by fewer. Much love to give to whomever wants it. I’ll die for you all, you are me. The Steppen Wolf.

I’ve been far out at sea where the storms speak loud and clear, traversed oceans longing for more

Staring into the night, knowing the dark as it is my friend, holding onto the knowledge that I am one with the shadows. Nothing to fear but man and the machines he produces. The night is a welcoming relief from a mediocre stretch of day. In the dark your visions becomes clear and vivid, one with the shadows. Nocturnal knowledge seeps into every pore, letting your being feel and experience weightless transformation. The four elements speak your language, bottomless void, life giving flames, dirt beneath your body, deep breath as you awake.

Walked with the barefoot Sherpa on tangled paths witnessed the highest peaks reaching the sky

Believer of nothing, feeling the pull of the granite, the altitude weighing down every move as you step up and beyond your limits. Massive and loaded with force the peaks speaks your language, speaks to the lone walker. Struggling for air in the open. Sleeping restlessly, boxed in with the cold as only companion at night, always feeling the pull, the need to reach higher into the sky. Daydreaming, deprived of the essential, muscles screaming for nutrition, step after step on tangled paths. Happiness takes on different shapes up here, only you matters, amongst the monolith of fear and endless joy.

Walked through Jungles where competition for space and lights is all, survival of the fittest matters

Together, just the two of us. Old time companion, partner and wife. Walking quietly on overgrown paths, just the rustle of the tall grass gently brushing against worn clothes. Sandal clad dirty feet. Tangled roots and decomposed matter giving life to growth, all wanting up and beyond, fighting a slow battle for light and space. Pressed air filled these paths as we walked in silence, she always behind. Sky covered in green, reaching down, touching us, grabbing us and capturing our imaginations. Motionless daydream, jungle of beauty and fear, forest mantra of the highest order.

I have cycled amongst the skyscrapers on rainy nights, sky lit haze over the pulsating maze of steel and glass

Always homesick for a distant place, another universe than the original. Birthplace a meaningless ghost haunting your imagination. What does it mean to have been born in the far North? A satisfaction to know that your being is of an unknown nature to the rest of the world, a true ghost of the Scandinavian peninsular. But here, amongst the skyscrapers and tangled visual noise of the metropolis do I find a home of sort, where I can relax and feel free, little did I know, much was learned. 

Been drifting endless miles in the flat hostile Outback, seeking the horizon while finding the cure

Friends, drifting  aimlessly out into the open dry landscape of our dreams. Knowing little about what to come and where we ought to be but here, now, right here. Learning and taking knowledge, the path of the continent of the old world never seize to amaze us. As we went aimlessly along the left-hand path, curious and wild, we found a cure to the pains of our youth. Friends taking refuge in our innocent search for adventure, curiosity did not kill the cat, but gave it a meaning to live, a meaning to be able to say that I have lived and nothing else matters.

I’ve witnessed the dolphins hunt at midnight, under Satellite contraptions of steel and machinery

Open sea, away but at home. At the end of the world yet presence in the absolute center of life. Aching muscles and burned skin sharing limited space with men of histories of their own. At the strike of midnight creatures of the deep ascend, feeding relentless dolphins under the floodlights. We here, giving the opportunist a chance to an easy meal. The cycle of life disturbed and made easy, rubbing the system out of sync. Daydreaming nights alone on a breezy deck, I was happy then, simply happy and content in my limited space on this surface. Endless dept below, dark and hostile. The sound of dolphins coming up for air waking the lust for life in me.

I have the smell and touch of true beauty still in my senses, movements of love still in my muscles 

Dry warm skin. The smell of need and want filling my senses as she lay next to me. Dark skin touching me. Warm skin feeling me. Questions of desire, always seeking her out, finding her and grabbing her attention. Aimless desires awakened by her, always her. Goddess. Leaving no traces behind as we embrace and dive into the deepest of oceans, how you all have shaped me into a better man. How you have all made me a monster that left you all behind in the wake somehow. Me moving forward, breaking all promises and strings as I relentlessly fades out to find myself on a distant shore. Traveling without moving. Always her, always loving me unconditionally as only she can.

At night I arrived at the river after countless days, to find true happiness and freedom of my youth

Alone but never lonely. Finding myself standing at the mighty river, sweeping beneath me like a brown serpent, splitting the Metropolis in half. Night comes early closer to the axis, the globe spins on, the river flows with the same devastating tranquility as my one mind now, bigger than life. Living true and simple, alone in the night, knowing how-to. Happy and hungry for more, the bend still welcoming, the path uneven but a pleasure to walk. Leaning on hope, letting the gut steer the way out and beyond. The youth of a lifetime, lived and savored. Wiping the slate clean.

I have come in contact with true rage and brutality, unconscious loner on wet pavement, living life

Drunken madness, pocket full of earned cash. Following no ones directions yet falling for the pressure of ones fellow man. Drunk and crazed on life and adventure. New ports, new faces spewing the same shit but in different tongues. Gritty and worn folks, same needs to be heard and understood. Same old shit as everywhere where men of blue collars meet. Ugly women. Avoiding the true nature of ones own destiny. Hiding behind a loud persona with a fake confident riding heavy on an already tired back. The fist came as in slow motion, dreamlike fade out in the night, the rain never stopped.

Artistic creation, I have given my eye to the underground, trusted amongst outcast misfits and freethinkers

The seeker of moments, giving all and taking more. Unjustified need to see and capture. Underground in the city of broken dreams, of hopeless magnitude. It was here I made myself a name. Verbally dazed I got my voice heard in the underground. Doors was open and I stepped through them all, with manner and confident capturing the sounds of the outcasts, the misfits and outsiders. Motion of sound and light framed and taken. A hunter in the night, a monkey with a mission making my voice heard in the deafening sound of the Metropolis. A purpose, a will to be. Everyone knows the monkey, the monkey knows no one. 


No clue (the drunken rant)

The boredom of sharpening a knife that does not want to be sharpened, pointless boredom

Come a long way from home, grinding that blade, still able to cut you down

The dullness of a Wednesday is hovering, hey “don't be so mean”

(Well well well, how you wanna play it bromigo? Gonna keep on fucking about or shall we dance? Takes two to tango you snake, you dry common weakling seeking truth and wellbeing)

Bought a postcard with Kufstein von Hohenstaffing on it today, dated 16th of June, 1943

A 6 pfenning Adolf Hitler stamp in purple on the back, the man is still around, in all of us

Nothingness becomes hero becomes tyranny becomes looser becomes heavy blues drive

Fuck him and all that follows, fuck the wannabe elitist and your fake Black-metal “Brother”

Seeking something that they are not, looking for an answer that will not look back at them

Wanting but not receiving, hiding behind your own shadow, knowledge run tepid, spilled in the sand

(How could you interpret the message so wrongly, you deserve nothing, nothing at all. Your name is nailed to the same barn door as that motherfucker who killed Lennon. The same motherfucker who killed the last Mohican and the last true believers of Hermes. You are killing the need to be, the same need to be a man of honor with a straight posture)

So here sits a new prophet, a new man with a clean cut and blue eyes staring into the abyss

Well well well, talk to me now and you will find a rocky shore with one man on it

Screaming into the wind, lungs bursting as the words are spewed into the gale, transition

Watchtower or not, abyss or whatever, a sole man filling his need to be, the one man of fermentation

You can not deal with this man, this man of no compromises, kicking your ass as you beg for a hand

(Seeking for your gods and you mama, for the law and a ruler, hurts to have ones pride soiled)

To many definitions of people in the world, black, yellow, read and fucking whatever, white

Never seen a white person in my life so far, yet, saw a albino moose at a concrete zoo once though

Freak of nature, failing to be hidden, to be stealth. All eyes on you, easy target, king of the forest

Are you lonely? Way down low down lonely? Do you know the blues or not? Should not matter, ha!

What a motherfucker hate is, deep low down blues hate, there is nothing that matters then

Lot a folk do not know about hate, not the same way as I do, a true hero you are buddy boy, in your world

Looser, what the chef threw out after the party, what was pissed on at the festival of love and hope

(Crucify your mind, who is the real prostitute if you do not know weakness, you are repeating yourself man. I never liked people like you, prospects in forms of limitations, taking it all from the creative freethinker)

How ungracefully fantastic we are, us, the tyrants of South America and the war lords of Western Africa

The backpack bombing teens of London and the lone poet on a snow-filled street of Detroit

No one knows nothing, all is in the sauce, maniacs masturbating on the frail lamb of god, ha

Travels of the mind, music the true messenger and portal to a better you, death is for all

How beautiful is South Africa in autumn, when the Japanese summer is subduing?

I know because I have been there-done-that, suck on that though for a mere second please

I want to be held in the highest regards, but words fail as one goes along, on the left-hand path

You can never impress me, will not work as the monkey in us are figure things out, the thumb is the key

(Failure is never there for you, the forest a scary place with no hope, but the need to want to be is always there.To be honest not needed as you go on your way pretending black is dark yet afraid of it, fear of death. One slap and you will be rocked to the core, what you think you are is no more, never will, never have been. Because you are scared of the dark, the shadows and the whispers of the night, of the lonely cold wind in your hair. You see, I have a hurricane in me, I shall not let anyone of your kind pass, so who will take you higher now? Fear me if you dare, we shall see who is the one to blame, we shall see who is the one to ask. We shall see, indeed)

Queen of nothing, King of all, who is the dumbest of ‘em all? Is ignorance bliss or what have you to say?

Rage is turning rancid as black letters randomly spewed on white pages of joy

Let ‘em come, let the words substitute for a greater cause, nil is nothing, “a” is still “A”

Random collection of doomed words in no order than the way things play out, fucking drunk now

You believe you know writing, your words a smooth cancer to the literate elite and its nodding minion

That rhythm of your mothers heartbeat was all, do you remember it, in the womb, waiting?

Without it you were nothing, the heartbeat of life that brought things onto the burning bridge

Leading into and over the void of self, you know it when you see it, you hear it as a mantra

Lay down under the sky, find your breath, breathe and find, until the morning I am yours

Shining like a diamond in the morning sky, perfection, salt of the earth

Never has the morning star shone brighter than now, never has your doom been closer

We live, as we die, we had some time to breath…stardust