Recent poetry,incomplete

[Anonymous]

A logical parasites dilemma;who is the one with any sort of key?

Library of the swamp,or jots of ink on memories path

A commercial in the TV of my senses on the importance of pretending,interpreted through a cracked understanding wich reveals too much to desire;
The parasite man walks
The parasite man talks
The parasite man smiles,pretends he is not
treated like an infection
destroyed by the immune system
of society
Pretending for a lifetime,pretending that
this society
is not simply a bubble bath in urine

What is conveyed by those outside the lands of my mind,and beyond the lines of even flawed understanding;
How disapointing,to think and bend
not in too-complex a number imprinted upon neurochemicals
but with the shadow of freedom
wich lies hidden
Sound the depth's,throw the stone down the well
cry,child,cry for what you know we may have become

Letters to the infinite on what physical form means;
Symbolic war,an attempt to build
a tower of words wich will not lean
An attempt to construct
a shelter of emotion
wich will not cave in and kill when you leave me
Attempt to forge clothing
of religion
wich will prevent the cold of nihilistic nihilism
or something worse
from penetrating
A single gesture can never redeem
A single gesture can never say
what is needed
Even crying out in ice

Titles of doom,a best sellers list of associations by 'the module who loosens the lens and brings into focus that wich was left hidden,in ice';
Spending a life in ice
Noone ever cried
Noone ever tried to
call attention and make it seen
what the snowman could have been
instead,came the critisism;'your classmate is lean,and you never seem to glean,what I mean to say
be more neat and pretend to be sleek and people will like you more'
I could not,and I have to say,staring catonic at the moon
that it's too bleak
to try
I'm sorry,is my bleeding wrist too filled with gore?
Did you expect my life to be a kind tale,like out of a myth or some piece of childrens lore?

Constructing a worldview,a how-to guide;the journal of swamplands,under genre 'too clear memory through distorted needs';
Smash,crash
anything to attempt
to not build
something wich will work for those who bear crystals red and bloody,not blue and quiscient.
Speak a truth,the ground will swallow the vibrations from your mouth
write a meaning,the ink will convey nothing
Cry soundlessly,and you will realise your empty anyway
there is but the endless dichotomy,a splitting of the twelve paths
and noone thought to put up a road sign
or even give a cryptic pirates map

Biology of the wastelands outside the glass of personal perception and within the boundaries of air-in-chains;
Parrots associate,ants misalign
trees branch out concepts
and humans work things through
but the way ice may think has never been thought about
untill you find yourself freezing
from cold,neglect or the undelicate fold

And every good little sub-personality watched with avid attention at the making of this video;
Who is the parasite,those who invade without knowledge of their invasion
or those who destroy the invader?
An invader,I bring what I seek
wich is nothing
just a jot on an infinite graph
but what graph can tell a story as clearly as a wind?
what words can speak truth like a storm?
I never sought to be the invader,I never sought to be here at all
I cry to the storm
the lightning sings to me,suprisingly soft
This is my world,but I always have to return to the-other-place
where I am invader

Fantasies and phantasms,a collectors edition of memory;
Teacher,tell me,do you realy believe the things you teach
do you really believe that one is one,and two is two,and that fractions mean anything outside the paper you torture me to fill out?
Teacher,I would like to crawl inside your veins
see if your blood cells are like mine
Teacher,I would like to
crawl into your mind,connect our nerve endings
so I can see the process wich leads you to think and do as you do
set yourself as a mystery,copy from your notebook unto the chalk board
and claim it is your knowledge
Teacher,I would like to sit in judgement of you
as you have done for me
though not as ignorant as you
Teacher,I would like you to be the symbol of my vengeance
against the society wich wounded me too deep to heal

Recollections of an invaders life,the library of miasmic winds in the swamp of recollections of depression;
I realised one say I was a vampire
literally,symbolically,semantically
Explanations grasped at are sometimes true
and nothing is as it appears
I heard a story one day
about an old woman who gave birth to a black hole
I am the same

Living as an invader 101,an excerpt from the textbook inside my mind,subsection;paranoia through alienation;
As a child
I knew I was the invader,and I knew noone could really wish me well.
Knowledge becomes all too clear,shadowy suspicions are given laser light revealing a truth of towers of pain and cards aligned with me as the enemy

When the unknown voice wished to teach me of the despair in every situation,he told me of my life though speaking in my left ear with my own voice;
I dance,and laught as my strategems fail
watch as i'm torn apart
Nothing means anything,so let the realms of alien humanity be aligned against me
and let me be shot,stabbed and poisoned into a more acceptable corpse

When the unknown voice asked me to write a synopsis of my life in a melodramatic style,I wrote thus;
Freedom was my cry,though I was naive
dear loved ones,please try to understand
that you could never control me
and when you tried
our last bond was cut and though it is a tragedy to you
it is one for me as well.
An island bombed to oblivion,please see my life

Dear every object I have ever loved;
Strange attractors
of my life
but not really;sometimes I do the same thing
but the point has changed,and I have changed
it cannot be graphed,the geology of my soul
it cannot be experimented with,the biology of my understanding
of the dead rocks wich are my life and loves

A song came from the halls of critics,who lurk like the unknown voices but are closer;
Souls of slugs,we're all bugs
to them who walk in places wich are unseen
and they are unaware,they are not from outside;
it is not natural for them to think that way.But even they can see
they have a failed society
So if I point it out,why complain to me?

I dreamed the story,but it was not a story;just a mad dream for we don't have all the pieces.
"In the long ago years wherin I lived
a very short period of time
life was not good;it was lemon not lime
and I was strangled by the symbols of machines with claws oily and grime
written in history was this period of time,with too many footnotes to count,and so many sub-plots
the point was often lost,but in this it was discovered there was no point.
I suffered the whims of a cruel snake,venom was the meal of my soul most everyday
But I knew I was a weaver of threads;and though when I lay trying to be comfortable in my bed
Mind demons with twisted DNA came to me and offered a new form of salvation
and who can say what is real,and what is not,when the demons of life come in person?
But I digress,or should I say,in death we perhaps regress
and I choose to be psychotic,in this period of time
Inability to connect,a difference in degree of ability to mime
but this is the same person we're talking about after all
I had a suicidal lust,and a need to die,but it was for a good porpose you see
it was to escape the rust
We penned a time,but it was only me,and all the characters I needed to mime,they desired
to end the constant companionship of needing to live vicarious;through the screen of a character you
cannot understand
So we took the strange path wich is so very small,ten tablets,poisonous all
But the explanations wich went through my heads was very complex,the subject ranged very far
But in the end,it came down to how,we didn't want a world made in the image of a shiny car
as well as the curiosity of the unseen unknown,a desire to go very far
So death came by our choice,and there was no last cry.
Though a tear fell down my eye of lost possibility,and little else
All in all,I cannot complain
I feel in the afterlife I have come very far
I was an invader,and now I tend an elvish bar."
But,they say he always dreams strange things like that.Morbid bastard.

And the library of the memories of the swamps
stands as a monument,ancient architecture and a single curve,alongside a pattern of grooves and a screen not metal but green
It cannot play,but one can know,that within the universe and the nature of mind(though it s perhaps not kind,but let us not digress,and go into a loop of regress)
The eternal babble of strange knowledge,and the splitting of the unknown voice;all the events
of consious distortion and unconsious subversaion are here,lit with a flame of time
But we have no recourse,except to a mysticism wich invites memory to be distorted
as concept is made space in dissociated and depersonalised lands
Enter the library of the swamps,wherein is recorded all the dreams
Not a mind,external or in,but yet we never understood the sound.