There are times in life
when a man needs change,
And I don't mean,
dimes and quarters.

Remember when you
were just sixteen,
Driving all alone, solo,
in your old man's Buick?
All the windows down,
radio music blaring,
Your bare arm draped
out over the side of the door.
to better exhibit your bicep.

Hell mister, no doubt,
you were ten feet tall,
the king of the road.
Ever wish you had,
that feeling back again?

Cars were always my thing.
I owned some Detroit
Muscle, Full blown Chevy,
Firebird 400, Chrysler Hemi.
Smoked some tires and
went to Court a time or two.
Of course all that was long
ago in my fitter youth.

When I became a Yuppie
I acquired a Poodle Puppy,
a Porsche and a MGB.

But the ***** does turn.
and so then, did I,
And my road got,
a little bumpy.

Along came marriage,
then a baby carriage.
And a big house
In the Burbs.

Then came a progression
Of Volvo Station Wagons,
to Soccer Dad Mini Vans,
to large SUV's.
All for hauling,
any number of things.
Kids and dogs, strollers,
bikes, kites and scooters,
Fellow car poolers,

And less we forget,
"Pulling" things too.
Boats, RV's, Utility trailers,
and all nature of landscape,
gardening, and general
shopping paraphernalia.
Little League Teams,
Drooling big dogs,
Papier Mache Volcanos.
Home Coming Floats,
Once even a Goat
You name it, I hauled it,
Or pulled it!

Years rolled by,
eventually the Kids
flew the nest, got married.
And low and behold,
The wife and I split,
Each going our separate way.
No one's fault, just grew apart.
The thinly veiled allegorical
Previous Patriarchal
arrangement became,
A whole new start,
A workable self allegiance
to just one.

Soon once more, I was the MAN.
I ran out, bought a **** boat
But not having the kids around,
Soon sold it, having found out,
that alone, I was not a water sport.

I caroused around, dated women,
got my pockets picked,
learned a few lessons.
Fell in love, fell out again,
Took a few pretty good blows,
Right on the chin,
Even some down lower.

Round about then,
An Epiphany kicked in.
Remembered my most,
ennobling, happy events,
behind the wheel,
driving Dad's Buick.

As I stepped on the lot.
There was never doubt,
There was only one choice,
I just had to have that,
Little VW Bug Red Racer.

Nothing like your Mother's
Beetle, the engine's up front,
Not stuck in the trunk,
And man it produces over,
200 Big Time Horsepower
Not to mention,
Lays rubber in three,
Of six gears.
Getting all the while,
33 miles per gallon.

Receiving additional help,
from a sweet Turbo Booster,
Just like a big, Indy Track Bruiser.

There's 19 inch racing
tires and alloy wheels,
They look so cool,
Spinning in motion.

Dual stainless steel exhausts,
And best of all,
a cool collapsible,
Convertible top.

Rack and Pinion steering,
Handles like a sports car,
Yet still offers a backseat
To take my Grandkids,
out for a spin.

Dude, it's got,
All the bows
and whistles!

Top Down Driving is such a thrill,
Makes me feel sixteen again.
The open road, the sky above,
The wind blowing thru my hair,
what there is left of it.

Perhaps the only thing that
Could possibly make this
Driving experience greater,
Would be to speed down,
The road, going eighty,
Behind the wheel of my
Little Red Racer,
Completely **** naked,
And of course all the while,
Feel the wind in my hair.

I don't know, I'm too old,
To call this a mid life crisis.
But on the other hand,
Maybe the acquiring of
This little red sporty car,
Has something to do with,
Those Testosterone shots I'm taking.
I'm even thinking, of dying my hair,
naw, lets not get crazy!

On the day I go in
A band of dancers, around
A drum of wine for guest
I have lived and caroused life, will be said
The journey to the great beyond
begins,
With the loss of air
No tears, No dark linen
A debt to pay is death
At the end, we credit our Father

As I lay beside my darling
On an early Sunday morn,
I could feel her rounded softness
Sleeping under blankets warm.
My mind caroused the memories
And loitered on it's way
And found itself deliciously,
Immersed in golden play.

I remembered something special
In the way my little boy would look
As his eyes rose up in wonderment
When I read  his favorite book.
And the joy involved in feeding
A hungry little mouth
When the porridge spooned all over
From the eyebrows heading south.

A tantalizing moment
On the beach down by the sea,
In the warm December sunshine
With my happy family.
We were running in the black sand
Drawing circles with a stick
As the surging waves approached them
Laughing little boys were quick.

Laughing, happy moments
And some sad ones like the day
When dear old Meg, our Labrador,
Got sick and passed away.
Young Boaz in his sadness
Climbed the big tree to it's crown
And it took a lot of pleading
To persuade him to come down.

And young Solly played the taniwha
At the Cornwall Park school play
And a better taniwha has yet
To grace the stage today.
A natural in his element
This young comedian
So hilariously funny
As he drew the audience in.

The tender, loving moments
As we both strolled arm in arm
Through the verdant Ferntree Gully
With it's sunlit grace and charm.
And the towering eucalyptus,
Hanging wood smoke in the air
And the whiplash resonation
Of the lyrebird hidden there.

Of Buttercup's wild parties
When fancy dress was king,
When everyone would whoop it up
And laugh and dance and sing.
When mum's and dad's and little kids
All joined the happy throng
With  spud mashing as a ceremony
And a night of fun and song.

Of sitting in the garden
With your feet up and a book
And a cold beer at your elbow
And a barbecue to cook.
With the easy feel of family
As they go about their day
And the joyous sound of summer
When two noisy tui's play.

Memories of yesterday
Moments in the life
Of ecstasy and agony
And wonderment and plight.
And the ordinary ness of everything
And the magic everywhere,
Like the auburn in the sunlight
As it strikes my darling's hair.


Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
10 October 2009

It was spring when the old things get cleared away
and I opened a drawer that was mostly closed now;
in the back was a ring of keys I hadn't touched forever
because the doors they opened were gone.

My first car, a castoff from my father we used in high school
to go to practice, or for hamburgers, or to the movies
in a time when that was the most fun we could have.
I see the boys now, smiling and singing songs you never hear anymore.

The key to my the apartment I had going to school, a little place
I shared with Jimmy Redd just off campus where we
drank, caroused and learned how to cook hamburger helper
between working and going to class.

The key to my first office and the house I bought where
some of my kids lived and I had a future
that was wasted by trusting people whose most important
love was in the mirror every morning

Then there were no keys for years when I could not unlock
the doors I lived behind in places where
the only comfort was a date yet to come as I waited
and the world turned without me, changing everything

Which turned out to be for the best
For the last unused key was to my first home after leaving high school
the place love became real and where the missing part
of me had been waiting through her own trials.

I smiled and held the keys tight then put them back into the drawer
they are not useless as I thought
because the doors they open are those I will
always be able to enter.

Jesus was looking impatient
It was already quarter past nine
He was sure he'd sent out invitations
And he'd turned all the water to wine

He'd promised a memorable banquet
As tomorrow he'd surely be dead
But the shops had been short of a few things
So he'd just had to settle for bread

When a knock at the door made him flutter
He adjusted his dress and his hair
He opened and bid all assembled
"Wipe your feet and then sit over there"

They shuffled and took to their places
But they looked slightly I'll at their ease
They could see all the wine and the bread rolls
But what of the ham and the cheese?

Jesus said grace in his fashion
"Cheers Dad" with his thumb held up high
"But be careful, this bread is my body"
"Now who wants a nice bit of thigh?"

They tucked in with nervous expressions
He'd been guzzling since they had arrived
He explained "It's my blood in these bottles"
"And without it I'd not have survived"

The apostles were forming conclusions
Their boss had been ****** all these years
But the wine washed away their objections
And the music drowned out all their fears

So they partied and danced on the table
They played twister and tidily-winks
Then stumbled off out to a nightclub
Because Judas was buying the drinks

They caroused and they conga'd till morning
Till their stomachs and bladders had failed
And that's how young Jesus got hammered
And the very next day he got nailed

Nightingale was a hunting lodge
At the time of Baron Blood,
He was holed up there for a month or so
While the Tamar was in flood,
His knights went after a suckling pig
That they brought back to the Hall,
‘We’d best be merry and feast, my Lord,
Or there’ll be no fun at all.’

The waters rose and it cut them off
By the monastery at Bede,
So they made to raid the Monk’s own stocks
And they carried back the mead,
The hounds lay panting around the hearth
And the knights caroused ‘til dawn,
But the waters of the Tamar lay
Close round them every morn.

A cottage lay on the old floodway
By the side of a river wharf,
The waters drove a yeoman out
And his wife, a pretty dwarf,
They made their way to the hunting lodge
And begged that they might come in,
‘I’m Olaf, you are my liege, my Lord
And my wife is Tamerlin.’

‘And what do you bring?’ said Baron Blood,
Who looked for a little sport,
‘We’re all entombed ‘til the waters fall,
‘So what do you bring to court?’
‘I’m simply a yeoman, with one hide
That’s drowned in the river mud,
Along with my only ploughshare…’
‘That’s a pity,’ said Baron Blood.

‘What of the geld you owe to me,
And how do you think you’ll pay?’
‘I throw myself on your mercy, Lord,
To pay you another day.
The river flooded the pasture, and
My crop lies under the mud,’
‘Perhaps your wife has a way to pay,’
Said the musing Baron Blood.

‘You’ll wait at table and serve the mead
And carve the suckling pig,
And feed the hounds at the hearth tonight
While your wife can show a leg,
We’ll have her dancing from dusk to dawn
Each knight can take his turn,
For Tamerlin pays your geld tonight
If she lasts from dusk ‘til dawn.’

Then Olaf looked at his Tamerlin
And he brushed away a tear,
But she looked bold at the Baron Blood,
‘I will stand the test, no fear!’
They helped to set up the feast that night
And they whispered soft and low,
‘If one should harm a hair of your head
I will ****, before I go!’

She put one finger up to her lips
And she whispered, ‘I’ll be true!
I’ll not be whirled off my feet by one
Who is half the man as you.’
She took a skewer and she stuck the pig
Right through to the other side,
‘I may be small but my heart is big
And I’m still your darling bride.’

The sun went down and the mead came out
As he went to feed the hounds,
The Baron called on a lute to play
From a doorway to the grounds,
Then Tamerlin had begun to dance
And sway as she said she would,
Her dress had swished on the earthen floor,
Out where the Baron stood.

The knights were steadily getting drunk
And the Baron stood and swayed,
‘Now hitch that dress to your waist,’ he said,
‘If you want your geld to be paid.’
She dropped her eyes and she blushed, and cried
But she lifted up her dress,
To show the legs that were short, deformed
And the Baron laughed, no less!

The Baron laughed and the knights had laughed
At the legs of Tamerlin,
She dropped the dress and she burst in tears
And she cried, ‘You’ve seen my sin!’
They didn’t ask her to dance again
But they drank until the morn,
Then fell about in a drunken swoon
As she lay apart, forlorn.

A silence fell as the sun came up
When she rose and took a skewer,
Walked to the sleeping Baron, and
She ****** it in his ear,
She ****** it in til it came on out
All blood on the other side,
‘You won’t be laughing again,’ she said,
‘Or shaming Olaf’s bride!’

They took a skewer to every knight
And they did the same to them,
In, and out at the other side,
A Hall of skewered men,
The waters, they were receding as
Her head, in pride upheld,
Remarked, ‘It’s time we were leaving,
We have truly paid the geld!’

Nightingale was a hunting lodge
That sank in a sea of mud,
You’d have to dig right down to find
The body of Baron Blood,
The woods grew up in the pasture fields
And covered the grisly tale,
Where lovers walk and will cease their talk
At the song of a Nightingale.

David Lewis Paget

Walking in the woods, I fell
Down into a knothole that lead
To another realm, unlike our own

‘Twas a wondrous realm like a twilit dream
Where the dazzling sky at night engulfed all
And satyrs who were young like me
Beckoned me to their sordid ******
Fountains of wine poured into streams,
And wood nymphs danced and bathed in falls
Deliciously drunken and sweet, calling me
To pick their flowers.

We caroused and we aroused
As we fired our slingshots into the sky
And watched the night shimmer with the
Comets we launched up and away.
I fired mine, foolishly unaware
That my target was the moon so full
I shattered my joy to pieces
And brought this realm to darkness

The satyrs howled in fear
The wood nymphs withered away
The fountains of wine turned into blood
And I was left drowningl
Until a glorious golden hand
Went from the moon’s place to
Shield me, carry me back to reality.
I awoke in a sweat and a shiver
'Twas always night in the Satyr’s Garden
Be it drenched with stars and ecstasy,
'Twas night, and night to remain.

She lived there still, in the house on the hill
Though she hadn’t been seen for years,
The Lady Margaret Hermanville
She’d lived in a mist of tears,
Her wedding day had been bright and gay
When her groom arrived at the door,
The devious Baron Wűrrtenberg
With his soldiers, back from the war.

The wedding service was short and sweet
Was held by a priest defrocked,
Was hurried through from the point of view
Of all that the Baron mocked,
He’d only wanted her dowry then
But claimed he wanted her hand,
And with it the House of Hermanville
With a thousand acres of land.

She’d gone alone to her wedding bed
While the Baron caroused ‘til dawn,
And lay awake with a constant ache,
What had she done, so wrong?
He made his quarters down with his men
While she languished up in her room,
But sought an audience then with him
On the following afternoon.

‘Where is the love you promised me
When you came and begged for my hand?
I may be wed but I’m now in dread
That you wanted me for my land!
Prove to me you’ve a noble heart
That there’s more to you than a gun,
And take your bride, for my barren womb
Should be stirring now with your son.’

The Baron laughed, and waved her away
‘It’s enough that you have my ring,
You have the title of Wűrrtenberg,
Of my heart, not even a thing.
I have a frau in Bavaria
Will be coming to live here soon,
So get you away to the Servants Hall,
You and your barren womb.’

The Lady Margaret stood in shock,
A tear had formed at her eye,
Her face as pale as the clouds that formed
Above on an azure sky,
‘I’ll go and petition the Cardinal,
I’ll have this wedding annulled.’
‘You’ll not be leaving this house again,’
He said, and her eyes had dulled.

A year went by and she sought some peace
Below in the Servants Hall,
While he went riding to fox and hounds
And didn’t see her at all,
His Gretchen came, to lord it above
At the feasts for his Men-at-Arms,
A flashy, rude, Bavarian trull
Who was loose with all of her charms.

The Baron watched her flirt with his men,
Grew angrier by the day,
He had her locked in an old sow’s pen
And sent all his men away,
He said, ‘You want to live like a pig
Then I’ll give you your heart’s desire,
He fed her truffles and day-old slop
And she slept on hay from the byre.

Back in the hall, he paced and paced
His echoing feet alone,
Began to think about Margaret
And thought that he might atone,
He heard the merriment down below
Drift up from the Servants Hall,
Went down the cavernous limestone steps
Where his wife was sat by the wall.

‘What’s this?’ he said, as he wandered in,
His wife was seven months gone,
The servants gathered around her there
And her face, it fairly shone.
‘You’ll never guess who the father is,
It could have been one of two,
You sent me off with a barren womb
But the only Barren is you!’

‘So pack your bags, you can leave us now,
You should have been more aware,
The deed of settlement that you signed
For my dowry said, ‘Beware!’
The house and land wouldn’t pass to you
But devolve to my first born son,
It could have been yours, but now, you see
It belongs to my little one.’

My mother never married again,
I’m lord of all I can see,
A thousand acres of farming land
My mother bequeathed to me,
I’ve watched her cry and I’ve watched her mourn
That I’m not the son of a Lord,
I’m proudly the son of a working man
With a mother that I adored!

David Lewis Paget

I was driven to the wilderness
When a flaming sword appeared;
Then tethered like a goat,
For the demon was revealed.

I've got a mark, like Cain,
To identify me;
So I stumbled through the gulches
For a place to be free.

You told me I was naked,
I never realized;
You should fit inside my head
And see me with my eyes.

I've slept with swine,
Caroused with jackals,
Spit in the face of Him;
It was then you found me out;
Cried and mourned,
For I was never good at hiding;
And thus you found me lacking.

Leaves mound like
wheat  in silos,

I’ve trees that need pruning,
weeds in the fence line

beg to be yanked, a coyote
caroused in the chicken

coop and slats should
be nailed over

the void; seventy degrees
is predicted today

and no work will
be done.

The vast sapphire nebulae of space,
    All rising o’er in zeniths of sweet dreams,
    Feed all the leas and all the murm’rous streams
With folds on cloudy folds of moonbeam rays.
Whene’er I look within the lake’s clear face,
    I see each high aurora, which then gleams,
    Caroused with Heaven’s soft and dewy beams,
Which flicker in a thick and splendid haze.
I see the moon, upon the whole world gaze
And all the stars which skies with their souls trace,
Glide, trembling in some waters’ ebbing grace
     With some unearthly music, so it seems.
Oh, as I sit before the pale light
    Of stars, I sigh and dream of sacred bliss,
    And tuck myself in Heaven’s chrysalis,
I feel as if such place is more than night…

what i would tell you about the posies
that gather around
when they overhear my voice
calling out your name,
none would say the same.

for them,
caroused near the streams
that few perennials are but discerned;
springtime only passes by,
and then they are gone.

but how are they able to suss as such?
when these rosebuds
unlatch themselves
only when you are here?

"Dibs"
you used to claim, smiling, and pointing at me.
It was a joke and I used to laugh,
but it buffered my relationship with
Men from Home
by cloaking my presence
with preoccupation.

Like royalty,
I caroused with you
the City of Sand,
safe to be free with innocence.
and the Kingdom I surveyed
was glamorous.

Then, after That Spring,
I fled, and
found myself facing unbuffered men
almost naked;
Without your jacket
I was chilly,
and my body was offered the
sticky hot sweat of **** Sapien Hands
for warmth.

Smooth operations
against my naive flesh
left callouses and bruises
only I can be responsible for
accepting.
I was generous
with the pieces of skin
I wore and tore for the pleasure of others,
hoping to find you again,
or someone close.

But this new kingdom
was not Glamorous
was not innocent or funny
or warm.
Living in the squalor of my own choices
a derelict of my own self-abandonment
I became Queen of the Grunge
and it was painful,
I tell you it hurt!

Homecoming Queen
dons a shiny elastic crown
but Homegoing Queen
wears a ***** one of thorns.

For a while, I wore it
allowed it to obscure my vision
and warp my mirror's depiction.
Scars I mistook for knowledge,
and though they have made me wiser,
it is impossible to prune the
Diadem of Dirt
when its very composition is barb.

So:
atop my head I wore two crowns
and from across my shoulders
I shed one coat.
Bruises I gained as well as experience
and a new empire I consorted.
And indeed my mind's severe questions
took my body places I doubt it thought it would ever go,
But as I return to our former palace,

I realize The Answers
for which I was so desperately searching
could be found deep in the Sand,
and that the more intensely
the more earnestly
my hands shovel into the dirt,
the warmer it becomes.

Now, I smile
As the Sand starts to glow
with the diamond fire of my own soul
and I am warm in just my healing skin.

Now, I return Home
and discover the circularity of enlightenment
as I am filled with the Gusto of Me
and of finding my buried treasure
deep within the Sand,
deep within my love.

I can take it anywhere
Because I know
I feel
I am
My own.

Romping with the wind caroused
Non-hearing inside this film
Metal cage rattle its shocks
As asphalt chips by rubber

Metal lights take gaseous orb
Eaten the fill of pitch
The filaments gyrate inside
Three trapped in transit gait


I hear voices, but not their sayings
Two heads cut by the shadows
And just so would they be one beast
If not for their storytelling
But I am another realm of one cell
One bunk divided to their floor
Where they dance plots of sweet nothings
And I try to shut my eyes


Vacant stare flesh out outside
Away from here in torture
Slipped through the crack of rubber tracks
Like pebbles breaking free

Black road to the black of night
A fabric soft subjective
Comfort by the passing orbs
To slowly dissipate


More non-consequential talk
Buzz like mud inside the gears
That bend and move myself around
But not the illusions created
Past marvels walk the way with me
And act their lives designed
By one whom sits inside a cage
So dark it seems inviting


Stretches patched by tidal waves
The gurgle of the brook
A peaceful key to slip away
Like amber shades in flight

What behind is not ingrained
To forward must we go
The destination set us loose
And me from what I know


Ignoring absorbed each other's ear
So speechless I forgotten
Accompanied to one and all
The things I so create
The calming beat on edge and tire
Sooth tears from pouring down
As better times repeat their flames
Orange with fleeting smiles


New shapes combine removed once
The time has blown the bars
To stone the rubber has its scars
But healing can commence

Breath by sun ensconced in glass
As vague as going path
My thoughts have metamorphosed
To setting of blurry nonsence

the numbers were in and it didn't look pretty
you people surrender your minds so easily
they dumb you down and you know it
they dumb you down and you let them
but it wasn’t exactly coercion either
basically the truth is we have many souls
most of them severe critics to be evaded
where they came from nobody knows
at the dawn of time a single drop of blood
fell on Mother Nature's pouting lips
then and there she was hooked forever
on the prodigality of infinite misuse
a million wasted ***** is no way to live
each one a potential productive manikin
random selection had done its worse
evil had survived the millennia just fine
well what any breathing human knows
is they can always do better next time
the point here is to insure a next time
it appeared that the world had been flushed
down the great stinking ***** pipe again
the old school mutates into the new school
goodbye old school
you have tried to become a national holiday
that no one feels the necessity to celebrate
needless to say the faculty weren't listening
and caroused down the lane into the woods
but it was too late for regret anyhow
the old school had initiated him
into the Clan of the Goat Poet
he sees where his next thought comes from
everything filled with clues is a clue itself
blindness is the human condition
idiocy is the subhuman condition
infantilism is the transhuman condition
anthropomorphism is the...somebody stop him
needless to say he dabbled in the grotesque
on a need to know basis so it was OK
I agree a cheap eruption of demagoguery
but you can't be free by hiding in a mirror
also I've been getting complaints
about vestigial blandness lately
my lawyers ****** & Bludgeon
had counseled caution in all things
so I lapsed into a 5 year walking coma
nothing to do but leave on the right note
with a casual wave and a simple **** it
in case you were wondering
everything is the way it is
so it would be believable

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon

A.
Al-Muhaymin Supreme in the Preeminence of retchallop that frankquibbers revile spurned by spumid spurious ratchets of intorgurent wamzels cringing in the halldorn of rallendork simplicity girdled by all apanage of aphnology refracturism exalts. May the belletrist guarded by speos and indentured by vetudas of panopticon in the swoopstakes of jengadangle frapplanked by the frimple of the treecheese swarpollock of majestic retchanvil recumbent upon sockdolager stellified among the supernal supercherie of the superlative floundrewl bodged by facture and totemized by the prism of indemnity that harvests the narthex and with schoenabatic squirebells of ugmentum and the ilkengor of warbled wonderworks might we astound never by ashowel or blackguard by any gammon of aswallone that our trillom of retchination becomes nothing but ecbolic billingsgate contrary to agapism and contrarian because of placomaniacal camorras and the camisades of deturpation never succinct in tribulation in the heyday of interregnum always debunked by the frappern of commerstargal aleatory in the conation of expenditure but never indentilated by the kurgans profound in gravitas but never shallow in thanatousia. We all might gloam with the sondage of soothfast sopiter never crimson in the alluvion of detritus that the lour of lotophagous reskig becomes never a notoriety buoyant upon the navarchy of naturism defiled by sanguisugent tabanids flargent in tanquam tantony fraverscribbles of wrabble and wravvel might expound beyond the idioglossia of ideopraxist probabiliorism lackaday because the callithumpian lognon of pillory suborns the precarious twinge never the prolonged karezza of incumbent providence flictions can never dethrone and fangasts of fashimite grazzly timberlask opportune temerarious spado of the spancel of sphygmotic aspheterism can never aspire beyond motatory providence of blinkered brumbles subordinate to the regulus of reboant hatred.






B.
Glory be to Allah the most munificent bestower of the knells of foraminated carapace and the tachymetry of the cadence of isapostolic porlecked largition in the larithmic finesse never foutering in the aimless maidan maieutic velivolant lairwites of consternation scouring the ravenous matroclinic providence of maunders of dwale and dumose hedges of jengadangle frapplanks motivated by nummamorous flyndrigs always denigrated by the repose of the rapacious lechery of lentiginose bodewash. In the sempervirence of anacusia levied upon anemocracy leveraged upon the patavinity of synquest and rejoinder might the frantlings of the frottage of the depaysed ******* might incur the steepest precipice of penalty rather than the curmudgeons of normative defiliation spancules eradicate and spados despise in their humgruffin houghmagandies with their own parvanimity of prowling constative carnaptious lucriferous caverns beyond blettonism and bleating never with the peenge of tholes of thumomancy. The gricers of modernity in their terriginous turriform thanatousia might they disembark and cowl their gossamer cortinate flargent purpresture that the ashowels never flock with ennobled albatross in the egestuous penitence of too many a penitentiary of peccable stigmatophilia and the growls of tocophobia blinkered upon the deskandent nubigenous novantique of pregromanging deception among casuistry deranged by the chiminage of the antiscian antithalian foison of draconian blaring blarney excoriated only by thumomancy grandeval and sweedle too spartan with contraplex gerendum of tatamae belonging only to the swiven of starstruck imparlance impavid without defalcation and swank with littoral alluvion in the aigers of the holocryptic. Might we always marvel never with a blackguard schadenfreude for the enmity of fossarian shibboleth in the tribance of guarded trekleador and the premundane fascination of the hexaemeron of a truer theodicy rather than a prurient nihilism recursive in obganiation. We might scowl at the scamper of scobiform scabilonian sacrilege in the abeyance of heyday rather than simpered scorn scollardical because of costermonger quilombo we might never be shocked by mammothrept liaison or otherwise predatory mouchards of radicolous raffish rantipole disorder that is proleptical in its dippoldism and protensive in its timberlask kenodoxy of femicide fandangled by the artifacts of treachery rather than the drawflark of the gossamer simplification of ultroneous outrage terreplein upon the cavernous expanse of gloaming scribacious and bibulous parvanimity. May we always frown on the orthodromic ballast of tropoclastic warbles of tilted geotaxis reactionary only in the apagoge of licentious grambazzle because the frimple of dutiful subservience becomes the mainsail of lexers of laveer and never the fateful finifugal paravent of cordial rancor and eisegesis fraternizing with the flarmey of incarcerated denouement rather than treasuries of engouement amen.

C.
Al-Muhaymin guarantor of mercy gilder of preterplufect primogeniture and protector of the depaysed saxifragous emoluments that sashay against the enmity of travesty, may you endow the world beyond nostrification and above the nostrums of quacksalvers that no steep deed is forgotten by the shallow mettle of the emaciated emacity of a gravid tocophobia amasthenic never because of the ribald abderian swarpollock of the treony of trillom and the drawflark of regelation. May you always permit never the barnstorm of the wayspayed regius of the wartles of rindstretch radical in rhizogenic denialism rather than the normalism of sacerdotalism that scavenges the new florilegium for the promontory that beats the skelder of tracasserie riniguss in rintinole alone and apartheid bequeathed by the caesarapropism of all malingered scobiform secodont crambazzled senectitude grafted by the raffish hegira of foison and foudroyant umbrage always a cockshy detested never a perjury racemiferous with scollardical taunts of grating timberlask seminules of new world  denostram in the alloreck of penotherapeutic wamzels of the mangled corpses of pollarchy rescinded by the magnanimity of wragapole whartonized docility and demiurges of the sacrarium never of a pushful jocknee but always a grauncher and grapnel of the pogonips of flatulent deceit flargent only in the purpresture of the noetics of noospheres bowdlerized by an autotelic oligogenics of tramontane subterfuge. We always marvel about rangiferine randan in the superfetation of sublime deeds rather than carnal handfast debaucheries that we might never embody squandermania of coercive squalor fomented by diablerists never tempted by extramundane promise because of inveterate and inscrutable malloseismic thanatism that is only brokered by the ciconine Cinega rather than the promethean escapism and surrealism of a redacted scopolagnia and a rambunctious pallor of nebbich elitism scrambling with audacious temerity never tamed by the ferules of gnapped griffonage in the sempiternal gullarge of toonardical decree never evading its own bilkey of ebriection of periblebsis floundering on mendaciloquence and fropollowing the strollow against magnanimity rather than bequeathing the progeny of omphalism without hyperarchy and hypertrophy without hyperbole. Amen





D.
Al-Muhaymin deposes the glower of the griffonage of orthotropism in the squaloid declension of corruption in tabanid draksting and grambounced lethologica flouting every findrouement of rubricality that the calodemons never cauponate or capernoited by the artifice of bloodthirsty deceit might their foisons glorify upon the earth the cadasters of moral docimasy never fragmentary in decisive gestalt frapperns of sondage, sennet, regulus and the caesarapropism of cognoscenti grimoires of taghairm never embraced by the thumomancy of martexture and the marstions of nuncles of numquid  nubile ophelimity deprived by autocracy rather than reified by the parlance of succinct anonymity never curved by the hebephrenia of the warbled corrugation of sithcundman only wealthy by bolides of dramaturgy and only ennobled by the secodont scollardical flarmeys of debellated aceldama always reproved as a trinkochre  of flarium  never despised in its sondage of avizandum and never deprived of its cacoethes to gallantry never prattling about the nocicepty of tapotement. Might we all find never a vetust torpindage an exhortation to the vitriol of fractious fragmentary periblebsis that scaramouch ruffianism of ragabash and ragmatical histrinkage always docile to reconfiguration and always protean to the nomistic laws of magisterium that we might be redintegrated by gestalt authenticity rather than the forsifamiliation of the temenos guarding sanctanimity from billingsgate and the gate of the hypaethral chapel from the deposition of the delirifacient fracklings of perceived frottage rather than frigolabile naupegical themolysis of tredged trudgery in miscegenated disaster always goading and cadging the suborn of the slogmarch of voluntary eisegesis rather than the sincerity of exegesis that all refracturism in hypertrophy becomes a synclastic synoecy against the jocknee of a nyejay malaise of probabilism curved by the reginkeer of the identity diffusion and dissolution of the carnal temptation regaled only in roorbacks of the heyday of hearsay rather than excorified as a vestige of bronteums of  fulgurant prowess in the selective stirpiculture of a renewal of hymeneal vows of procacity rather than procellous illecebrous naivety that gudgeons of neovitalism revalorized into nihilism incumbent. Might we spawn the polyphiloprogenitive primogeniture never of the frivverscrabble of titanism blackguarded by blinkered gentincture in the frinteran flarmeys of despicable deposition despoiled by tachymetry rather than valor in the timocracy of virtuosity enabled by the enunciation of doctorate taciturn schoenabatic stenotopic virtualasis thriving in purified occamy rather than congealed in the bonnyclabber of false absolution and the dormitage of ventose verdure of clamorous abnegation empowered by egintoch wamzels rather than heroic apothecaries of sublime regard never a quacksalver can outmantle in their pothers of vesuviated outrage and donnybrooks of donnism in squalorformatic beliefs in the vitiation of phanerolagnist declension that they might flinch and shirk and shrive through  forswinked deskandent atrocity and because of frustraneous findrouement become redintegrated again by their balance of eumoireity and eudaemonism. We might not impress by our valetudinarian purpresture and our porlocking portreeve of aeronautical vendetta flippant upon flipsquires never revalorized or regelated by the refocillation of reflation that becomes boundless by tachydidaxy and never contentious by scampers of dacoitage that groundlings alienavesce from because of the graklongeur of the suffrage of the lorgnons and lambastes of the perceived pillor becoming a magnet for the mesmerism of tropoclastic tycolosis and may the typhlophiles renounce their dommerers and dompteuses of tregetour taghairm stellified only because of occult simplicity rather than ultramontane aggiornamento .Amen

E.
The gudgeons of gramercy rather than the efters of the eisoptromania of radical raltention never indentilated by the browbeat of glawson and the timberlask interregnum of grazzly qwestuns of rengall and nauclatic certitude might we all refrain from the profligacy of the renegades and charlatans who maraud mountainous rubricalities of mendaciloquence that fettlers and graunchers of pogonip pogonophiles might charade in their feckless faffle might we all astound with a torpillage of histrinkage rather than cowl with the capers of the camorra of vicissitude flargent in every centupled mendaciloquent halkend of the divestiture of elitism and the pregromanging pontiffs of popinjay and tinjesk ombrophilous fliction marauding in the maunder of the temptation of the wilder windlass wilderness of winterkill trudged by the bodge of the centripetal geotaxis of moral valor rather than deskandent tediums of raffish and ragabash notoriety exculpated only in the humble shrives of atonement for atomkent flombricks of desultory procellous portreeves of tracasserie unbounded by the suborned fatalism of malingering malaise that tregetours prepossess in their feigned and  faineant euhemerism flashy only with finifugal fizzgig of rannygazoo rather than rangiferine fury and feral longiniquity. Might we all shelve the aswallone of the frackling fatewrench of the frogmarch of the licentious lobbyists cavorting in lanais and machairs might their macadamization of radicolous Potemkin leverage become rescinded by the tralleyripped explosion of the abreaction never of mafficked magpiety never of the palisades of patavinity caroused by riniguss and ramparian swarpollock of craven timidity escorted by the penotherapeutic deception of cyprian lackadays never befitting the heyday of the carnage of miscegenated modernity and the prance of terpsichorean promontories of paranoid ausehetoria that might never vanish in the effluvium of ragabash worthless taradiddles of crapulence in the naivety of the bickering vicegods among gauleiters that pretend a conation of celibacy in their oligomaniacal chantage of vangermyte outrage because of hikkling hinkergs in the bray of the jackals of aceldama always requited by the connoiseurs of generative prowess and seminal wizened reflection nostalgic only for junctition and wangermist never the pallor of the bluepomp of draconian hyperarchy. We navigate with arctician oecodomic plashy placets of fouterers in their aimless grumbling that their groaks of crose and their tholes of lackaday lacertilian schadenfreude recursive upon them in accursed malism that they might leverage their hindsight and lollop their foresight without a hint of regret but always pregnant with the remorse of rectiserial limits of troponder shattering every glass ceiling that bluestockings themselves in their harridan humors of sapiosexual pollarchy that they might never feign their diestrus of duty might they never become the fallow novantique of dastardly cadges of imperative but faked drawflarks of trillom in the treecheese of litigable estoppage. Might we all remark with certitudes of cadaster rather than sempervirent fictions of a radical docimasy ruinous with genesiology but always rectiserial in meritocracy. Amen!

i have loved.
the crust of life
the o how divine reeling
of its casual thrill. and

the stern parting of flowers to break
against each heap of striding leg
their sinuously lurching scent.


     (i have

         and oh god how i have

                  loved the demure ***
                             of stopping day

                    ;and where it has splayed most lustfully

                             entered
                                                      have i

                                                                     )the music of my

                     fist



                                         and the chanson of lilies.



God, and sweat oh
how i have loved thee the
swiftly naked among unnaked things.

(as a juniper, caroused with poppies,
and my neat hand curled upon a glass perspired(

the driving through late nights
and the sudden stopping at the end i have gone miles into twilight and how many i do not know to find girls in sleeping bodies i have gone miles into twilight to find them and press apart their sleeping bulbs they might suddenly alight)

but does not my fingers' itching
to meet with some things tight,

or day begin,

or the last futile gasp of easily purring Summer

match by cruel luck
the urge of life to sin?

i do not know.


i only know that i have loved,
(let us see if that's enough).

Enticement aside,
It’s a terrible game
When the throes of a lifetime
Dwindle to flame,
When the ague of long living
Denudes as it wears,
Where the beauty of youth
Simply mottles and tears.
The effort required
To gamble instead
Realistically questions…
Better off dead?

Standing *****
On a spire of stone
With the world all around
Yet completely alone,
Cold wind caresses
The knowledge of how
Old friends abandon me
Frequently now….
In dying like flies
With unseemly haste,
With a disregard
For my feelings, chaste,
The hollowness
Of last things said,
The bitterness
Of love, lost dead.

Recalling times,
With a cup of tea,
When you and I
Laughed happily.
When sunshine bled
Rich colours sang,
Bluebirds flew
And hot dice ran.
How those days
Caroused with joy
Lost to chance then,
Girl and boy.

Hurrying,
With you on my arm,
Dressed to the nines
Bustling charm
Off to roll
The dice with flair
Chortling both,
Without a care..
So simple
Were those days of fun
Where time stood still….

Yet dice still run!

Those running dice
Across the floor
Now, don’t matter
Anymore.
Dimness
In the morning light
Preempts temptation
To take sight,
For gone the gloss
Tomorrow brings….

Outside, a joyous
Blackbird sings.

M.
13 August 2022
Mists of time, once so vivid, now 5 minutes later, just fade to an inconspicuous fog. But, somewhere, the dice roll on.

By: Cedric McClester

Long ago I guess
It was wrong
For me to indulged in
Wine women and song
It took a while for me
To get strong
Strong enough to resist
Being part of the throng

When I was weaker
I caroused the streets
See I was a seeker
Of all kinds of treats
Treats of the flesh
Of the strangers one meets
Or the carnal pleasures
Found on satin sheets

Then I joined the search
For life’s greater meaning
Because it was time
For internal house cleaning
I’d grown very tired
Of all things demeaning
And the various trysts
That I’d been convening

In a small monastery
High on a hill
I learned to surrender
My inner will
The master monk taught me
How to just be still
And direct my thoughts
From the treadmill











Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.  All rights reserved.

A carol of breaths,
They wind and they blow,
They call from the depths,
"Arise, and bow low,

Arise and take heed,
For you are my own,
My blood and my kin,
Else I don't condone.

Arise and seek plains,
Forests and trees,
And from what you find,
Take sight of the seas.",

And with that they left,
They split up to find,
The peace of their master,
Their own peace of mind,

For eons and more,
They searched in their hearts,
But nothing was spotted,
On none of their parts,

With heads held in shame,
They sulked and caroused,
They found in their minds,
Their master, abused,

They rushed back to find,
Their lord, gone from sight,
And yonder the pale,
They heard of his plight,

"I hear of your end,
To your journey, a lie,
There was no peace,
Never, surprised?

But found you may have,
The will to go back,
Explore the new valleys,
And find what I lack,

There was no great quest,
All was for you,
You give you the chance,
To run, a redo,

To give my own life,
So you may yet live,
And this is for you,
The last gift I give."

And with that they left,
Not mourning his death,
But praising his life,
A new chance for breath.

Man incarnate lost to all
Whilst ravens savage hatch-lings nest,
Clamor in these seeds of time
Caroused in blood on Savior’s vest….
Callousness and cruelty wrought
By Slav on Slav through fields of wheat,
Cold Kremlin’s children sanctified
In crucifixion’s slab concrete.

Wherefore now our sage and wise?
Wherefore now, the just?
Wherefore reasons sanctity,

Scream I…..???

BETRAYAL’S RUSSIAN LUST!

M.
Foxglove@Taranaki,NZ.
10 July 2022

With glossed tips doubled together
Like a coil relapsed
Expedited with fastening fashion
Fuelled from the caroused mindset of poor decision
Incongruous thoughts mirror my uprising
Fraught with irrevocable fear
Repentance screams loudly from the decline
Footed before myself I plummet
Through actions my mind left unthought out
Destined to forever be the impulsive
With logic laced in silver -
And feet wrapped in gold. Mrs. B

There was once a theory...
that a revolution has to take a stand
to be at our world
As the chalice streams, those with ales that form impudence
as far from terrors- that all should
There in the deserts the children cry
Our defense is to die, or the saintly are mighty?!
Evil's have caroused & darkness settles away
Fears are our powers
And this until thus I say!
Never, never shall the treasure of souls, see the day
Never shalt the dark dominion let evil find its way

Oh our treasures, each in a whirl, & the fastest of fears
Listen, listen to me now, I soon in ascension shall go beyond to see

We're left to the begotten, we're left to the rivers... claiming
All be one with the clouds that storm... sentience all illusions cover the dream!

Never, never shall the treasure of souls see the day
Never shalt the dark dominion let evil find its way

Please inspire, free, and cajole! Or I leave thee now!
Thankless are they, the demons and their fires
Reality burns never-
And never shall the bride of the underground return


Never, never shall the treasure of souls see the day
Never shalt the dark dominion let evil find its way

the numbers were in and it didn't look pretty
you people surrender your minds so easily
they dumb you down and you know it
they dumb you down and you let them
but it wasn’t exactly coercion either
basically the truth is we have many souls
most of them severe critics to be evaded
where they came from nobody knows
at the dawn of time a single drop of blood
fell on Mother Nature's pouting lips
then and there she was hooked forever
on the prodigality of infinite missuse
a million wasted ***** is no way to live
each one a potential productive manikin
random selection had done its worse
evil had survived the millennia just fine
well what any breathing human knows
is they can always do better next time
the point here is to insure a next time
it appeared that the world had been flushed
down the great stinking ***** pipe again
the old school mutates into the new school
goodbye old school
you have tried to become a national holiday
that no one feels the necessity to celebrate
needless to say the faculty weren't listening
and caroused down the lane into the woods
but it was too late for regret anyhow
the old school had initiated him
into the Clan of the Goat Poet
he sees where his next thought comes from
everything filled with clues is a clue itself
blindness is the human condition
idiocy is the subhuman condition
infantilism is the transhuman condition
anthropomorphism is the...somebody stop him
needless to say he dabbled in the grotesque
on a need to know basis so it was OK
I agree a cheap eruption of demagoguery
but you can't be free by hiding in a mirror
also I've been getting complaints
about vestigial blandness lately
my lawyers ****** & Bludgeon
had counseled caution in all things
so I lapsed into a 5 year walking coma
nothing to do but leave on the right note
with a casual wave and a simple **** it
in case you were wondering
everything is the way it is
so it would be believable

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon

the numbers were in and it didn't look pretty
you people surrender your minds so easily
they dumb you down and you know it
they dumb you down and you let them
but it wasn’t exactly coercion either
basically the truth is we have many souls
most of them severe critics to be evaded
where they came from nobody knows
at the dawn of time a single drop of blood
fell on Mother Nature's pouting lips
then and there she was hooked forever
on the prodigality of infinite missuse
a million wasted ***** is no way to live
each one a potential productive manikin
random selection had done its worse
evil had survived the millennia just fine
well what any breathing human knows
is they can always do better next time
the point here is to insure a next time
it appeared that the world had been flushed
down the great stinking ***** pipe again
the old school mutates into the new school
goodbye old school
you have tried to become a national holiday
that no one feels the necessity to celebrate
needless to say the faculty weren't listening
and caroused down the lane into the woods
but it was too late for regret anyhow
the old school had initiated him
into the Clan of the Goat Poet
he sees where his next thought comes from
everything filled with clues is a clue itself
blindness is the human condition
idiocy is the subhuman condition
infantilism is the transhuman condition
anthropomorphism is the...somebody stop him
needless to say he dabbled in the grotesque
on a need to know basis so it was OK
I agree a cheap eruption of demagoguery
but you can't be free by hiding in a mirror
also I've been getting complaints
about vestigial blandness lately
my lawyers ****** & Bludgeon
had counseled caution in all things
so I lapsed into a 5 year walking coma
nothing to do but leave on the right note
with a casual wave and a simple **** it
in case you were wondering
everything is the way it is
so it would be believable

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon