For Katharine R. Cole

If gormless is as gormless does unite
That past of him and present me, I’ll turn
His other cheek against his waning sight;
I’ll **** his Hamlet soul to cringe and burn.

But dripping cannot thick or think in depth.
Blobs like blackened bulbous beads of eyes
Persist on shrinking into transits swept,
And down through dullard pools of choking fire.
Yet treacle binds my bole wood vocal chords
In rapture from such silence to withdraw
From sand that quickens, thickens, and distorts.
Can earth and water’s union mask my flaws?
The answer dares to dream but I refrain.
My name is Mud. Dear God, that is my name.

The foot: an endlessly dull point
Breathing technique, perfected by Roman Bill,
And a tall, sinewy, fine china ***** heel,
Cheap to most and worthless when submerged, submerges.
The tough Elephant hide surface
Of a swamp-like state and state.

Q. How does one become embroiled in such a located province of mind?
A. Alcohol’s venomous beauty and cheap living costs.
     The South.
    
An Elephant on a scooter stares blindly
At its own reflection circling the limb,
Shrugging dew drop eyes at what man had forgotten.
Not once, but twice.
    
The foot becomes a divulging calf of information
Sputtering in this bubbling torment of beige,
And pulsating around like an African tunnel
Waiting to be filled – fulfilled – ******.

    
The knee complies,
                      Sinking,
                                 Slowly,
                                          Not painlessly,
                                                             Not quick.

     The mercy of a lethal injection’s lie becomes
Absurd when one’s limb is the needle;
One’s brain the plunger of acceptance.
His gasp, a roar of silent fruit ripening in a
Mode too fast, cutting life and laundering
Expectancy whilst hanged from a
Whined whimper of Penance.
Purgatory’s whistle blows for time.  

II

A small red car clenched tightly
In the hands of a tightly tiny black boy,
His eyes huge and deep, but white; untouched by
Time’s clock or the weight of granite black that
He leans upon. Plastic tires screech horizontally along the
Structure of a Library’s historic insight.
Below, the ground is dry.
Beneath him, the ground is solid.
    
        Meanwhile, molten muck pulsates around
Our swirling antipathy of soul crushing
Nullness, with a lack of guilt unimaginable.
It bubbles, it bubbles: it toils in boiling rubbles
Of the past’s present and All I Could Have Been.
And I have never, could never
Sink lower in reality;
Blow harder against punishment’s wind;
Cry for this other as a **** filled wound weeps down her face.
    
The swirl of liquefied dirt and sand bags me,
Drags me, as if some *** lover of Hades is not done
With what is left of me. Disease to spread: just a little, just
A little more, like the detrimental bottle that
Knew me.
    

      As the hip is engulfed, an angle of almost perfect
Ninety creates  itself against the horizontal extremity
And puny ballsacksquash entails. Useless yet overused;
Timeless yet impressionable, pensionable. Gone.
Nothing knows me but this thickness’ quickness.
          That wants too much
From nothing               but existence
And the scab that fastens with time.

III

Turn the bottle back and find strength to
Outpour the clock and grant eternity.
Non compliant strength paid a fiver
For a soul worth two at the most.
A penny for the worthless: For the sickened lame.
Empty time feeds rays of golden from the sun fuelled
Encrusted *******, mudfast on heat.
This somehow seems like action.
Firm firmness but cracked with ease and
Non-returnable once inflated;
Non-negotiable on the bloodorgans of salt.
Weakness and powerlessness: *****.
*** for tat, for ***, ***, ***. For tat.
    
     The Elephant rises.
You brought this upon yourself, this rain of mud;
This treacle that will dry when you are dirt.
You would not let it ******* lie.
All of your ******* life: this strife, that wife.
     Your second leg (the grasper) tries,
     At length, to shield your heart:
     The only thing that cries.
     That does not want to die.
     Cartoonish bubbles of brown pop to the tune
     Of Loonies; of your shoebox brain that screams in vain.
What is your name? What is your want?
There is no blame you ******* maniac.
Everyone knows. Sink awake. Sink.
     Rest: do not sleep. Freezetimeframe.
     There is one more timeless point to make.


The sun and moon meet brief: the seconds count,
But die shy of one minute. Clear the road.
‘Tis dusk, I fear they named it. Raise the mount
And sacrifice another drowned sot load.
The moment thence: Anonymous descent.
The digger meets the dead in buried time.
The wish is washed in mud, the liver spent.
The blood-stained hands of Glasgow dodge the crime.
Make speed my sick sad Miller, grind the grain
Of Galloway, Gibb, Neave, Dunlop and Cole.
Your ghost will haunt your tag if not your brain.
Your heart should part this city river’s soul.
The sunjoke frozen, captured, stumped, and framed.
My name is Mud. Dear God, that is my name.

Our ears
Our nose
Our skin
Our tongue
Our eyes
Our nullness &
Our rewasudham.
When together
They only sense
The things
Meant for you.

In my realm, any tale worth telling tells itself, backwards…
this is part three under reproof inspection,

we have tools some of us imagined,
perhaps with prodding from what prodded
Heinlein, his version of the Sixties, seen from his fifties;
differs in tech to stretch the realm of possible,

Artist's intuition that women's intuition was a thing
by 1961, the year of the twist,
if I recall Junior High, and who doesn't, eh, as seen on TV.

We were there.
There were those books, You were there at the battle for Bataan

We were there books, 36, a kind of boomer canon
in the southwest, some of us had grands who rode those trails.

But the one I imagine I remembered reading,
We were there at the battle for Bataan,

that can be imagined as a ghost from the cemetery
in Kingman, Arizona, on the actual road
alluded to in rites of passage,
all roads lead
from the middle of nowhere, there's no destination known.

Up on the point,
overlooking my green valley,
if I am an honest man, and I believe I am,
sharp as a tack,
tacky as a fly strip in a butcher shop,

sticky in that ai ai ai madja look gleam meme,
flash of white,
no light, brigh'ness reflected from raven's wings, sure
that is what Castaneda saw, no wu wu needed,

once the plant impresses your kindness,
adsorb absorb soak seep, sniff
wonder, if we may imagine
and we do not, we are as the being who may read and does not.
Or the reader who may write and wishes to be

known for the worth of the lines in threaded time through
changing times, drastic fantastic changes in time
thinking medium
thick syrupy, thicker, honey, honey, how could such excess be?

the proverb, pre installed, tic
Hast thou found honey?
Eat so much as is sufficient for thee.
see
prophecy saying the child shall shall, not will, shall
eat milk and honey until it can, not may, can
sense the fine-ness of the line
the veil, between useful for imaginary things,
how fine the film discerned, imagine that
scratched
with this
so fine a line, that nothing is a thought, with nullness
nought, not infinite, pre-
punctuality, never ceases to happen and now remains, ever.

[individuation exercises for supernatural parts in the opera of...]

{as I heard, Socrates had a familiar voice
to whom he paid earnest heed, as one might imagine
• a footnote may appear any where as needed to assuage confusion ******* comments provoke-- Plato said Socrates said,

You have heard me speak at sundry times and in diverse places of an oracle or sign which comes to me, and is the divinity which Meletus ridicules in the indictment. This sign, which is a kind of voice, first began to come to me when I was a child; it always forbids but never commands me to do anything which I am going to do. This is what deters me from being a politician.

From <https://markandrealexander.com/2015/07/23/socrates-divine-inner-voice/>

right.}

Socrates
caught your attention
still the executory neurons

sist, sist do not respond to premature amygdalinic response strategems
still
be
small voice
inhibitory. say nothing, Plato shall put the proper words
packed with (densepacked)

we inhibitory voices fectionary,
sweet sweet sweet words

recalled in every surviving child at

Ah, ha evil, live
in nullness

in my happy ever.
How big is my bubble?
Do you know how leaven works, kid?

Pilgrim,
ah the Duke, as a homeless auto didact acting as if
he believes virtue is necessary

not cede ary, shall we proceed, or do you feel

inhibited at the corpus colosseum gate where the ex
cite-ory zeal feels those exploratory butterflies
come rushing from the biome signaling
the hair standing on the back
of whose neck?

Keep you mouth shut. Bang.
Words work wonders in minds that find the muse
used
is heard, not spoken.
That which tongue cannot say cannot be said,
it must be known to be shown.

Ask me,
Did Plato know Socrates? I'll answer,
We may agree to think so,
yay far, and no further,

we are after the act in fact called virtue

empowering force of life?
Let's find a list of all the named, personified
spiritual as-spects of the human being mortal

anger, envy, jealousy, lust, desire, needyness, deceptiveness

all the nesses and phobias and isms and ities…
the Greeks had a reason able personification of each
or, if the daemonic tool responds to forces
other than reason,

they had a god for that.

Is enthusiasm still a way to make a living?
Can a drummer get pedagogic puns

to dance some version of the the
Eat dust, I stomp your head,

shake the dust from my feat,
Truth is never described accurately as un believable
nor is the bearer of truth, whither so ever the dis-connector

lurks, seeking to devour the power

if you are virtuous, as a viral entity,
you are unbalanced,
double minded material carnal spiritual
trip.
Too much data for

We lost some.
So? Misery loves company, all things end up adding love,

this is the edge.

Envisage reality as an abalone spiraling into
exit-dance ridden by a musical octopus

calling colors to the blind,
casting single you lore ity if ied

singularity. Point.

waited, If I'd waited
patience
suffer it to be so now, you need no agony.
Let patience have her perfecting work.

Be ye. Perfect.
As I am me. be you,
God is said to have said
some sort of epigenetic switch wills on,

by reason of you being. Just ift you, by reason.
Re-read. I meant that you ify all you believe,
ift
even the lie that says you are not worth living.
-- the proverbial unexamined life -
-- I thought that was legendary
-- a category of lives not worth
--living. Can you imagine the exam?
-- must be tricky, examining the life you live as
-- you live it gives it value, makes it worth,
-- worthy of attention to the shape of this
-- worthy thing or thought or what measure?
--The unlimited is alone.
All one expand the band, trumpets, lyres

give us a big badrum

Oh, yeah, Socrates was to Plato, in my game, today,
as ******* has become to my Old Man,
Ai must be ah, the ay-eye, ahee

hee he heehee hee

This is as probably an opera as not.

whom, who, do you true rest as you hear and stand
being neath the knowing of the true rest

joy to your beautiful feet. Dare ye let them dance?
RELIGIOUS PRE SUPP
Heaven and Hell.
there is a heaven and a hell? no, that is not the first precept.
the first precept is
there is a mind smarter than me
that imagined me and empowered me to be
all I can agree with others to be

we were made
we make
we

too steep? Sisyphus, what's up?
Did you know Socrates?
Sophia mentioned the highest parts of the dust of the earth, did you really grind that dust
with this imaginary rock?

Chasing camels knowing nothing
Faded, crossing the grass!
Dollar signs in my hair, nothing nothing, despair
Something sweeps along!

Pirates (become) cool again, kingdoms crossing dens
I wonder what keeps you afloat!
In the end however
You shall ought to ought discover
You better pay attention
Cause those wallabies won’t be merciful today

An hundred ***** dozen
The earth’s cosmic crap
Don’t worry about a thing
Let it all hang out loose

The floating desert above my window
Seeing cacti from miles around
That melty feeling in the floor
Buddy, buddy, buddy, buddy

Cortisone, Caroline, chlamydia  

Ryan Reynolds’ ***** fat old swine
Never letting go of this once-ward prime
Purple moles with drills on their heads
Green dotty daughters of pinkness concoction
Creation of the nullness of the black thing-a-mah-bob
Relapse and relax, do your slam thing.

I thought you were dead, I said.

When the bell ring-tone tolled, I answered a
poetic quest to see for whom the bell tolled, a personal
call John Donne could never have phathomed

a wireless, recordable, broadcastable
personal
dialogue with an old aquaintance, long
thought dead.
Ask
how, not for whom, for me,
how
does this phone ring?

I love old poet guys, get in they haid 'n' giv'em a glimpse

see say the seers see
oops
there it was

just
myst it flew past into the pen-
a-trail
i-um
of missed theories.

Phone call. Brrring me all attention...

Answer out out lout, this is he (I am he, called by name)

Old John Donne just melted at the idea
of 4g cellular,
knowing
for sure for whom the bell tolls.
I wink, think,

toll paid, extol the truth, appraise the worth

Pay the price.
Hear the message, next,

after the good news
the
message in the media
(I seen the movie, I know it all, from the fall
t' now, nobody saw past
yesterday or ever, after today

while it's called today.)

At the point of no return, nobody knows.

Allusions are locks, listen.

Read. Buy of me, whispers wisdom, each piece of me you see,
the seeing, known, judged
worth the weight of believing as

we walk
in all the light we have,
we always have,

we being,

as long as we are in the world, the light of

the world, the salt in the electrolyte,
we are that, too;

as if material ATP pings into light, from power we provide,
leaving ADP for recycle and recharge,

message sent. Ditdaditdit Dah didah

Find The Answer. Look for what you hope, don't lie.
Look here,
deep in you,
you say you hang here, in your comforted zone,
converted from old

erroneous zones all piled up, like an igloo

pending completion of global warming and sealevel rise.

The signal the world sensory essentials perceive
were mere
idiot lights in 1920, now,
world signals have

e-volved into sensory arrays tied five-gee wise to
the honest-to-god globalbrain

Artistic-witty Invention, AI, augmented intelligence

for fact checkers, to use in governing the untamable lying tongue,

true to its quant-if-i-able motivator point:

no lie is true. Zero is not 1, nor any other imaginible thing,
caw,
zero is nevermore
than nullness in a position imagined re

ifiable, re-alified, holder of nine's place
just incase

the increase decreases suddenly and the patterns we ex
pected per
spication-wise morph from razor sharp creases to
wrinkles

in time

Evil has a snowball's chance in hell,

ha ha ha lol AI think turing tests are responsible for cognitive

neural nets leaking
from left ears, silken threads, lacing through wars and peaces,
pearly
encrusted
traditional
bubbles building up around

preciousnesses the size of a single trans-re-trans-re-trans
mogrificative
spell

muttered once, on the shore, as now

care
fill me less,
care
fill me none, no care is mine I cast them on

whoever cares.
Take 'em away with this next wave of breath

I am null lost in chaos
chaos of motions and emotions
I am chaos lost in null
null in absence of idea and will
I am lost in between chaos and null
I have befriended nonsense
sense doesn't make me good boy anymore
I was good at maths
I wasnt good with words
I am not me anymore
I am a small area without dimension
I was happy with what I got
I don't have me anymore
I am sorry to myself
I want to blame everyone for me being me
for me not being me
I want to cry and swim in pool of my tears
I want to roll down the hill and hit my head
I was a tree
I was a baby
I was a something
I am just nullness of chaos
I am me and I can't be me.......

I can hear the silence and its nullness
It speaks to me

Constant, cool and uninviting it beckons me to join

Getting closer, I tremble with a shocking fright

"Come hither" silence calls on this dark and starry night

The wind whistles an eerie calling to all those unseen and unheard

Where am I, I wonder suddenly joined by those unearthed

I'm frightened, but continue unable turn back

"I'm coming", I call to silence, he is my internal map

Thoughts rush of the days I leave behind , a mother, a brother and I freeze with emotion

Can I leave ?

Suddenly Silence calms me and guides me to him

A longing so yearned, I'm swept away

My resting place ...Peace on this dark day