Anthony Corlisatra, Versifier

 Ciao! xo

Just another 'fuckin chance to   ....relive -this life.

I wake to the laughter of subordinate hyenas tasked with covert excommunication; Hyenas without teeth ground to the gum on flawed psychology and the task at hand, They’re motivated entirely through the bunk linearity of their purposed plan. The creativity in the employment of isolation grows in equal proportion to my awareness, So too does the desperation in the endeavour to persecute, which is just how I planned this. In my heart of hearts I know it is at the moment I am most defenceless you capitalise. One day you’ll draw short, your comedy will subside and you’ll be suddenly presented with a fight that’s no longer about the hopeful destruction of my life, but the irrecoverable stains upon your legacies, which is a shame really, because when bad things come, they do so in three. Mind if it’s me?.. There was a time I suffered sleepless ruminations and procrastination, Countless acts of corruption by you through my windows without reciprocation. I sat out daily to point towards the bald-faced obvious for a little vindication, But vindication is nowhere to be found, as none are so alone as they who experience the world in a prison nobody can see. Profound! So the absence of vindication is what this is really all about. Your profundity has been dwarfed by boredom and predictability, What a tragedy.. A motley crew of social work, policing, vigilantism and ants of humans needing to see others suffer is sewn together like a composite pillow cover; Stained with shit and piss. A bastardised patchwork of lies that Frankenstein once quipped sounded true enough in a testament to the reality of his outsourced eyes, lay amiss. Fuelled by doctored anecdotes and engineered situational outcomes - the recruitment tools of the types of people that picket funerals are out front. Their melody is the catharsis of seeing a minority suffering while in the blind pursuit of buffering their morale fibre with the exploitation of another persons weakness as sleeplessness sets and your regrets are long since bankrupt. Well done. Sentience favours my reasoning faculties for a brief but memorable moment. A fact presents itself with a conviction - highly potent. Suffering most times leads to apathy, and apathy is fertile ground for a cunning response. It is with this knowledge I’ll play along. I won a trophy for sportsmanship when I was younger; At last! I thought, Praise I can sing to myself in song... I forsake a reputation of being honest for the moment when it matters most. We’re getting real close to the prose that names names, times, places and suddenly overthrows your thrones with inescapable light. Ruin you - like you did me? It just might… Good day to you sir! I lie, Good night.

We’ll take it all away from you.

Saturated symbolism rushes to your brain like a blood-clot; aneurysm. Epiphanies weep like an evil stoma from the coma you’ve finally woken up from, reality: schism. Targeted by those who’d otherwise do good for the wrong reasons, a treason of ethical management. Harpooned like a balloon filled with hot air, the pressure quickly escapes, replaced with despair. There’s nowhere left to go, and they’ll always let you know: you’re beyond infallible. The road? A mirage; and all that walks upon it mere façades. A fact they hope consumes your soul and pulls your world apart. Nothing is real anymore. Flaws unnoticed posted like a tsunami in front of me but never proceeding past the walls I thought I stood upon. There was never a wall, just false comforts to ease the lynch people would hang themselves in the preoccupation of witnessing. Look at him suffer? let’s make this history. I’m lowered slowly into the tidal currants. Options run rampant, a quick death for oneself, or continuing for the sake of a love in which I refuse to see probably doesn’t exist reciprocally; help! But there’ll be none; My misery the fun of underpaid social workers who enjoy torture over nurture. Games run rife, as noise campaigns, baseless accusations and vicarious harassment become my bread and butter for which there is no knife. I’m in a bubble filled with suspicion, surveillance and trouble. Despite reform, the wave promises I drown slowly unless I chose to drown more quickly. That anyone posits an ethical agenda is sickening. My wrongs have been surfaced, but my wrongs weren’t deep to begin with. Never the less, they’ve surfaced like a torpedo with blood as fuel from the depths of the Mariana trench - whereby scope is the explosion which leaves no visible notion - but riddles the target with The Bends. Ineffectually I splutter in the depths of a mater in which there can be no swimming. Forfeit defence. Sink, or be sunk. Good bye free will.

When Bruce lee said be like water, I paid attention. Perhaps he studied the Mimic octopus, the Parrot, Any number of animals that adapt in their unquenchable comprehension of survival. Staying alive like a bee carrying honey from the flower to its hive. Unaware that in transit, it's wings in every flutter roll the dice. But sometimes the flowers are counterfeit, and the hive is under the auspices of the eyes you find yourself having to lie under over and over under the hopes that maybe one day the attention will be over and you’ll be free to live some semblance of a quiet life without forcing ourselves to be blind in the pursuit of a happiness we’re not quite sure is reality. Purgatory. Retrospect and hindsight is a killer. It can cause us to panic then shiver and reach for anything nearer than the ability to simply acknowledge, learn, and let go. Should be lucky enough to be afforded that, we're never suppose to know. As a wise man once taught me – energy flows where energy goes. Perhaps so too should we consider this of our woes.

There’s a shadow filled with light, a dove; Analysing from above, Leaves no trace, thoughts embraced, Guides a man to love. Paths presented, some resented, others filled with pain. Chose to walk the path of light, memories a game. Pretending, years, guiding fears, figuring my function. Took 10 years to work it out, change or face destruction.

Predisposition will position your intuitions when your ambition is to find the negatives or secrets hidden among the prose of a tainted rose. There's no outward intentions among these lines of my own apprehensions, The detention of progression I've found in my own succession in the unquenchable endeavour for change paints this page, and nothing else, save for the ideas you yourselves have seemed to stack too high to reach and change from utop your shelves. However you've chosen to preserve your frozen narrative directs your thoughts like a parody. Your own inhibition displays only the greyest of greys and nothing even remotely orbiting intuition. The concept that you, like I, may be wrong - an apparition on your thought processs if I profess and your own capacity to digest the concept of thinking a thing that may be false. We have a word for this and it's the opposite of go; Halt.

I’ve taken advantage of situations to suit my satiation for drugs and short lived thrills like pills; seeing how many brain cells I couldn’t help spill while sipping into the drinks of people I enjoyed but took for granted without intention - for the lack of my own moralities comprehension. How to treat people we actually care about is something I’ve never thought about, until recently, where - through a rude awakening and peripheral discovery - It became apparent I needed exactly that. A Parent.

If and when it suddenly occurs that the ferns that circle you grow only with what they’ve heard, might I suggest, to digest this fact, a quick remedy: It’s supposed to hit you hard, reverse serendipity; Wreck homes and arrive suddenly like a cat scampering Into the dark at every opportunity. Because the guilt of reflection causes a meandering in the direcrion not only of the felines awareness of its own discretion, but it’s scampering in and of itself towards a futile perfection; The pursuit of humanity.

The Governments a whore!.. 

Plausibly we might be free;  If at most conditionally,    We suddenly forget to read,       The propaganda's lettering. Laughably we surely think Our choices made organically   That any given moment, inked;     Is liberties blood spattering.    

Cohesion is the bane of effective independence. Fools cast shadows over skill with a twisted will, demanding talents repentance. Skill stirs envy within a team where mediocrity is passed of as a synergy. Where those praised for a job well done are immediately undermined by a vocal minority who’ve all their lives been found wanting. The very same prompting to extinguish another mans fire in the desire to increase the warmth of their own. But it never does. Popular opinion is a fallacy. Appealing to the masses has all throughout history been proven wrong, least our world be flat, watched over by 50 gods and in which Einstein was a terrible student with little redeeming facts. We live in a world where teamwork is encouraged for the sole purpose of diminishing the self sufficiency of the members individually for capitalistic liberty . Where opting to save pleasantries and small talk for the purpose of efficiency is seen as a deficiency. Where all must be equally mediocre or nothing at all. Where to reject mediocrity is seen as socially awkward, uncomfortable or confrontational at core. Just a passing thought……

We’ve words that illicit cognitive fatigue by their mere mention, It’s not a coincidence that by employing them I’ll lose your attention. I don’t set out out to cause any undue apprehension but our freedoms ever dwindle in our Liberties detention. We’re encouraged to question everything, So that nothing is truly answered, We’ve very long ago been duped to roam, malignant.. Blinded cancer. Subordinate we peddle on, But never up or over, As any height you reach you might see through the guise; Our drovers. The odds aren’t stacked against us, they’re everything we see! The things we pay attention to, The air in which we breathe. Everything’s been audited, examined and exploited. It’s hard to have a single thought that isn’t off their poison. Marketing through terrorists they catalyse the masses, Manipulate consent through fear, an unrefined molasses. Happiness achieved by being blind to others hurting, Hardly is it time to think of us – the cause diverting. Narcissism’s rife and with it none are ever learning, Periphery your last concern when all the world is burning.

The usual words spew forward from the herds as I daydream about what it might be like to be a bird where being socially acceptable didn’t include the absurd or what such and such heard from the blood curdling gossip their friends so yearn. That I might fly to a place where people talked about what they love and not hate Where differences were a reason to celebrate and we didn’t relegate those of us doing it hard Just to demonstrate how far we’d surpassed the same people we claim to love who we then outcast.

As I walk towards the bushland house, the smell of burning cedar carries upon the sharp mountain air. A gentle gust of wind unsettles the crisp autumn leaves on the path ahead. I momentarily appreciate the crunching sound of walking upon twigs and stones with such clarity. Without any special attention, you can hear the leaves part ways with the trees in this place; solidarity. There’s an association with peace and silence with me, but this place casts doubt on that long held belief. No cars, no sirens, people or hatred. Just mother nature and me.