hello
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Yer know Josh ordinarily I wouldn't paste my brother's Poetry especially as to incorporate itno a critique fer such an action constitutes neither he or meself, but since talk these days fer me proves difficult and considering the depth yer verse here went the distance I find meself compelled to do just that.

Yer finally inquiry really got me because me lil' brother wrote a verse fer me last year concerning indifference since too many times have been felt this harsh sting.
He sees me, he understands how indifference effects me, and genius that he is, explained what indifference really is which I thought was truly exceptional.

Anyway, worry not if yer unable to decipher his text in its entirety, I have yet to phathom the ummensity of his depths, even though he claims that I am the only one who both tries to AND does understand him better than anyone.


Striding Life
By, Street Penny
(For me Twisted Sis-The Irish Blastoid-O-Rama–‘Anna)

The rucksack represents the playground of longings and belongings zipped shut not to leak onto the road,
For the road is hideous and foists the lack of hope upon the unzipped kvetching lips.
Striding must be a way of life, spread all over the world as a post-war pop culture.
She ought to think of the one, still, to the contradictory dance of even thence, to the starkness of wishings upon astrology.

Oil burnt out and (re)used
for futuristic cars to (ab)use
as we (ch)use
the rescue of the Bio (perhaps tardy)
to less profit-making than a successful salvo.
Save! vs Salvo! (The Donnybrook of The Month--March, 2018)

Is Pollyanna the only f--ing girl who despises indifference**?
She sounds silly and crass to Neo-Imperialistic androids.
She's alone in her kindness; kindness left her alone too.
The disbelief (Brand-new-worldly bubonic plague) is utterly explicable:
"I understand why you lay your head on my shoulder, Pollyanna;
"Everyone thinks it's sweat which drips from your eyes,
so do I,
but I do know too, as a Historian, wanted and on the oppressive Clergy's blacklist,
it is on the Prehistoric Fairy Tale books
known as 'feelings...'
"Ugh...
"Pollyanna...run...
"They can't hear us talk...feelings...ugh!"
She sneaks into the sewers;
'hears beastly steps over her head.
Two thousand years later,
Pollyanna clings out,
huge hair,
huge beard,
a representation of men and women
in the endless blizzard,
forsaken by thought-to-be-mythical Almighty power.

**Indifference,
art of despising
pretending to be unaware
so that the victim
comes off unaware
of the pretender as well.
Even!

Author Notes Thank you, Pollyanna. You're in charge of that chaos above.
Y'just got the welcome mat for the league...And don't mind the noise and mental bloody mess...We're all love and peace. Our goal? To find the realest parallel universe one might think of. And there we stay. Our whereabouts is the muse itself. 'Anna. There's a place for you in me 'eart. "You know Sis"
Never mind the six ratings--we got watermelon and tomatoes here to eat--we needn't pride supplies. Hehe.
Y'got it, Blastoid!