Change your habits change your life before the algorithms do

They whoever they are try to form your thoughts-they insinuate themselves into your mind until you change and change comes from constant repetition also called habituation and algorithms.

‘What if’ that’s the question they ponder and they are willing to run with any solution or answer to ‘what if’.

Use your subconscious to change your what ifs.


America a quagmire of debasement with increments of corruption-exploitation and perversion of the human spirit

She thought how life was simple and difficult-why she was here was down to America-the land of the brave and free.

Now she is incarcerated-the crime-getting old-feeble-sick-tired-brittle-dying

The reason behind everything that is ‘for your’ own good is money. It is called cultural cannibalisation-the consuming of the consumable-for ‘your’ benefit-we know best. It applies to anything colonised.

Your language-your lifestyle-your culture is invaded by the stars and stripes. This bottomless urge to hunt down is unfathomable.

As their eyes glazed affirmatively over her -the perfect candidate-house-money-assets and children who wanted her as an hourly visit-they had no choice she just wouldn’t bloody die.

The days lingered and washed each other in an insalubrious stench-the kind that goes up and into your brain-never leaving.


Mercy what have you got there?

NO stop she thought as they rolled her over and sat her in the wheel chair it was bath time.

He was black and strong and new she the other washer was indifferent-she squirmed her eyes held a frozen fear-God help me-kill me.

She looked at her hands resting on the steel arms loose skinned and mottled-good hands strong hands creative hands that used scratch his back and rip him. Hands that cooked cleaned made washed ironed slapped turned a heel knitted jumpers.

‘Ah stop would yeh stop shhhut up now’ indifference said. Pushing her off to dwell in a watery hell-he pulled her nighty over her head-it was light with a front button tie-blue.

As he pulled it up-she saw indifference looking in the mirror at herself admiring her makeup smoothing her hair.

Pulling her arms out-they were thin with wavy lines of the outgoing tide and razor fish brown lumps-he had the nighty to her neck-her arms strong to carry the turf-the children-hold the mule-bring the stones to build a wall-carry the earth-her grey black hair fell around her shoulders-exposed.

Nighty off.

Pulling up one breast with the nonchalance of a child licking a lollipop he rubbed it-then the other one this time he kept rubbing the nipple-he continued to wash her neck and then rubbed the foamy water behind her neck holding her with one arm around her back his hand under her arm pit-washing with the other.

Mercy you must come and tell me you must.


She closed her eyes then opened them.

I’m going to be 91 next month she thought he can’t be 41.

Under and over her breasts he gathered them together like two pearls in an oyster a sensation ran though her-a knowing sensation from years ago years and years and years ago-an out of place defilement but also stimulating those latent long dead senses.

Indifference said ‘you ok there I’ll get the towels back in 10’


He stared at her then lifted a lazy breast  up and licked it-licked its faded reddy brown nipple and jiggled it-still looking at her. Scared and stimulated she closed her eyes.

Maybe he’ll drown her.

He kept doing it then other.

Then he went for the grey tufted thin-skinned hall of ennui with his right hand whose entrance he probed with foamy waves of absorption-thunderous and languid as the sand met the sea on a stormy day.

‘Are you ready there?’ indifference said pushing her way in with towels.




Boxed in this filament of excrement by insouciant eyes and caring guise of Americanism

Here she is 91 92 next month how did it ever get to this-if she lost her mind at least she wouldn’t  know what was going on-being treated like a lump of meat. That’s all she is. Serving out her time to keep people in jobs-this could be for another 10 years-it’s all numbers she thought-life is a number she’s a number an inconsequential 1.

Her mother told her-her birth was a hot and cold time for her expulsion-it was a time of-a mouthy slobbery kiss in with the penis and creation was planted.

And another one on the way. She was one of 14 and 6 dead.

The life she had was a callous one never quite sure of her footing.

She was a shift shaker appeasing to the call of the piper-her first step at 2 meant life was in your own hands. A creatoreen of a child with dark hair and grey blue eyes thin cheeks fat hands and a meek slap me I’m bold smile-I’m bold.

How she came to be in this God forsaken place she’ll never know-many a talk was had with her 3 children-let me go-don’t let me persevere in this hell-when my time comes please take control don’t let the doctor’s take over- sweet mother of Jesus-now look at me-a roll over-wiped down-fingered-breast caressed phantom by those in charge.

This place was a customised hell disguised as heaven.


Her mother told her how she was-and wasn’t when she was a small girl-how true any of it was out of that bitter mouth she didn’t know.

She knew certain things-she knew to shut up and put up-she knew her brothers liked sneaking their fingers inside her knickers-and one tried to put his penis in but it wouldn’t fit-she knew never ever to cry.


The entrance the surroundings the people the dining room music playing from afar-more laughter- the others focused stare on knitting and card playing-staff smiling and greeting her children with mouths wide like curloics-the net spread ready to catch their ignorance.

Your mother will love it here-


Then Mercy showed up.



Nearer my God to Thee-silently praying in votive adoration-wishing-hoping for Divine Intervention and expiration

When it came to be Nearer to God and the chips were down-others clung on vice like to the old trunk-like larva to a leaf nothing could rip them-him-her off not even hurricane Jim.

She was 91, 92 next month.

Sometimes you would wonder what do grown elderly adults of elder parents want. You’re an adult of 58 years of age maybe married maybe not have children maybe not-but the attachment to this trunk is like a vine wrapped and clinging for dear life.

The time had come-clear darkness and peace forever-the souls’ sanctuary. The flow of energy now drifting off slowly-breath slipping back into the throat and getting caught.

At deaths door. Let me in-let me in she cried in her cortex.

She asked for this moment for many years-how tired she was-how utterly tired of living-everyday waking to that smell-that indescribable scent of death.

“Good Morning”, the blue coated black woman said.

“Why am I still here”, she thought.

Sweet Jesus why am I burdened with this forever life-this never-ending pill popping-needle injecting-hospital attending-doctor fussing God damn life.

What can I do-what did I do or not do that I’m here-still here for others to gawp at and preen me for a day ahead with other decaying beings.

No, you didn’t ask to be born but you were.

You made the best of it.

A beginning-middle-end.

But life is not an ever-ending process-life is to die.

Life Death Freedom

And the business of dying is not allowed as it is a business.

Life and its never-ending extension is now a business. These things don’t happen out of altruism or empathy or compassion all the buzz words.

No, this American dream of never-ending life is about money-jobs-control and the consuming of another at all costs.