no...not again
It is going to take my weekend away
(when I saw the bunch of papers in front of me)
Glancing at the calendar
The promotion date is creeping towards me

It's late I must leave
Stuffed papers in my bag,
Hurried to leave
If I'll miss the train...I need to wait a lot

Took out a clutcher to bun up my hair,
THUMP.! It slipped from my hands
It broke....ah!..let it be.

With fast paced steps ,
I walked towards the station
Was it anger
Was it anguish
Or was I afraid of something?
My heart was jumping

Yes, I caught the train
I need not wait
Checked time...Anna is waiting
Anna. Oh no her medicines!

I need to get down the next station
My poor girl, my poor niece
She is in pain
Leukemia is killing her..

Searching for my wallet in my bag
I flicked my hair ,
Looked up
Oh what a charming face
He look smart, don't he?

Shut up head!..
You got things to do
No love..not love
But he passed a smile
I won't smile back, I won't
**** ! I smiled.

Don't stare him ,no..
Oh! He is coming near me
Am I blushing?..let me check my phone
Noo ! ,don't sit near me
I may end up kissing you!

You said hi,
Your voice is attractive!
I replied.. a hi..

****, I missed two stations
Anna's medicines!
I need to leave him.
My priority is her
I'll meet you in my dreams perhaps

I jumped out of the train
Ran to the medical store,
Purchased

Oh! A toy shop
Anna loves bears
She might be angry now
I'll buy her a big one
It's expensive
Maybe after the promotion..

I am hell late!
Maybe chocolates will do
Yes,she loves chocolates

Let me call her
Which one she likes??
**** my phone is dead!
It's dark now
I better run home

Why are people crowding
In front of my home?
God! Anna
Is she okay?

Why there is an ambulance?
I ran harder
My heart is in my mouth
I am shivering
I may fall

Let me in ..
Oh no..Anna
Annaaahhh!

No medicines , no chocolates
Can make her healthier..happier now
She is in a better world now
Her organs failed
She passed

I am alone
No tears, no screams
Can make her come to me again
My phone had twenty missed calls in it
(Of that night when my phone was dead)

I didn't complete my assignment
But it took away my weekend surely

10 days later,

I am promoted
She is buried

I bought a teddy bear
The big one
I named it Anna
Maybe I killed her

stripes of dawn sift through the grey departing night,
and in my home, behind those rays of dust,
furniture warms.
the freedom i love will soon be claimed by an incessant morning phone.
my heart numbs, longs for the kindness, constant kindness of the night

the music of my pulse already starts to fade,
a weight sets in, invisible grimace of so many trailing thoughts unraveled now,
to bear until the darkness-swilling reach of soul can span again...

would i fly at brightened glass in fractured urges,
bolstered yet adrift in any day's torrential memes?
rage at seeming machination's constant interruption of my highest rarity of living well?
or smile at the herdlike expectation's threat to condescend,
and at least scour remnants of the search undone... throughout the day
insufferable choice of final future origins
the mail arrives,
my forehead stops to wonder at the door,
and at that pang of hunger

running, overrun, the mind churns night in such sweet shadow shifts!
to fall, legless and dissolve into the rising light..
as if a Noh play were being heckled through to end by gaudy ads
to jolt us bridgeless from that subtle world
and wander long on lethe banks of noisome blare.
at times i stroll this nowhere stranding here, pretend, and gaze from hiding,
between a wincing coffee swill
imagined easeful face of signs,
"easy as a gentle summer wind..."
tolerant to all, to blow a "selfless" stillness into me
to wave, and smile --breathe a blanket on acuter truths
with which i meet the day enwrapped.

but quietly  i wait... for Time to die:
an hourglass to shatter in the instant of eternity!
and birthe anew each 3 am, create anew--
those  kisses,  frozen  birds  of  static  bliss  become
a moulded wax to shape the plenum love as roaming peace,
darkness-rest to calm a pointless labor,
abate the drift into an unwalled corner's only inward exit--
as whisper hands can cradle nescience
such, that grains become a world,
in which invented seas are sweeter than the toxic real
whose bitterness a cherishing of death unveils awry,
or right as winter dust.
i yearn in flight and add to fullness,
find fullness once again
to hover equipoised at love's encrusted center,
where pain gives way to peace i cannot have.
if i would have this other 'purest' love,
and for instance find the meaning once again in wartime's bated negligence--
as in a perfect silence wind can brush the lips with all of life's aroma--
and as a gentle fire smouldered long,
at Spring, ignites within the splay of tender leaves--
so archetypal solitude of being beings manifolded one, i may fulfillment find...

i may go find myself alone now,
or swagger to an ancient drinking song,
or fall into those evening arms,
to find abated also, idols of the heart in each
for what the greater heart amends...
all for yearning better worlds
the pain has sent me reeling prone--
curling at complacent murmurs,
coos of love to torment all without
wherein i wallow, fallen from all heights,
absurd escape, removed---surrounded still
by so-called metalove, abject phantasmal swoon
i grit my teeth against,
as heaving sand would send the shore to sea and drown nostalgia evermore,
as only total extrication serves to quell an everpresence such as this,
ringing in the twilit dew,
or starlight whirl--
or inverse in a heedless curse--
horizons cease in this expanse
surging at the birth and death of things

Though some believed that just as beauty
Space was in the eye of the beholder,
An abstract justification for human experience
Of matter and its motion,

An ancient thinker, by history called the Great,
Asserted with conviction, it simply did not exist.
Nothing was not a concept of nature
Abhorring vacuum, and all agreed.

As nothing came from nothing,
Nothing couldn’t be. Empty space
Out of consciousness’ reach.

Deprived of objects it had no purpose,
For what would its purpose be
If not that of being a place
To contain all that exists?

The mind puzzling game concocted
If space could exist independently of matter
Matter could not exist independently of space,
For where would it be?

So came another thinker questioning
‘Is space something rather than nothing?’
As indeed deprived of the object, undeniably
The place de facto would still exist.

Time passing by replaced thinkers with scientists,
Defining its nature for it to be infinite and absolute,
Existing independently of objects and the mind of the observer,
Observing its balancing force, counteracting that of gravity,

To keep things apart. Dark energy, Energy of space.

Now searching for particles to fill in the voids
To justify the dynamic and expanding quality
Of a Universe which might as well
Be a plenum.

Retracing back the steps to initial perceptions
Of inexistent space for a Cosmos filled
With fundamental particles elegantly orchestrating
The motion of all that ever was, is and will be.

All that exists, a plenum of energy.

what am i about
giving you no gifts
unable to pin
my finger on a theme
phenomenal you
with whom i play away the year,
yearned love from a decade's dream
you've swayed into the real
to flesh it here and interrupt all Being
with a node of savvy personality
i lessen if i think my words can measure
that, how you emerge there, change
come across the shore of presence, waves of filtered seas
deeply you have gone and risen from within
expanding metaphor in a lambency of ageless gazing at the stars
and giving all a joyful undercurrent swim.

luffa vines abound, for future shiny backskins arching bliss--
shedding all, i snake my way around the roots--
the yellow sheen fades and pupils zero intimate
a finer lived experience... ripe intrusion truly love in tune with
tips of sneezing hearts, curling toes unite, shout
an intertwining pelvic orbit vaster space to yet unmake
unspoken pleasures wide in everpresent fontanels
the spectra plenum here again, next breath, ends of in, ends of out

mid-air toward the icy Catskill eddies
frozen once  and once again--
bridge-jump skyward watchers--
plunge of marrow tears.

you are there.  simulacrum ping
-pong pop on carpet rise
another consciousness i've known
the winking soul recognitive
of grin, of inner whispered act
we finish lineless, applause of ancients drone
on trio sum in low man's song,
on kitchen counter edges,
finger tests and tested trusts,
nail clips clipping on dehiscing ****--
the party. the porch. the project truth of beauty's virtue shown--
the drunken blood a lover
swirled on wet on wet undone.

your attic pillow-talk sobriety
of Green Hole fun
to echo four years, six and seventeen
the age unknown, we shared umbrella sanctity of family home:
raindrops trump the timeless wallstreet horns,
a zero sky ungains the settled hue of mind,
each thought the same, copula to void
in mythic forms we metaphor the plenum won

building dwelling-thinking sung,
the cardiac in tones--
lucid union slowing in the swirling sun--
the eddies stop again, sewn in Catskill frost..
the love we felt alive, in mid-air jump,
in Berto's cheer
we match the water's silent thrum

.  .  .  .  .  .  .
.                 .
.  .   .   .   .   .   .
i would like a space marked out
wherein in silence i'd observe my sacral auguries,  
and insularly divine
amid mid-dawning light contingencies,
to sweep a magic sweep for sunrise-          
                                                             -tabula|_|rasa
and find, founded in a flout: a sect beyond sects
to section self sectionless~
inwrought helix interhelix nest~
and there reside attentively
()blinking()        s l o w      ...ly
in rainbow eyelash quiver flow,
arrows     soaring      ' '  '    '         '              'centerly
to        pin
   each
               whirl
of dream,
                       of sleep,
                           mneumonic residue,
                                             prehensions right    or wrong    clear through --
symbological goo, too--
all too evidently called
from out an obvious deep
oblivion of plenum om,
or so it's said it's seen
in clear eidetic percept room
of alter overmInd of mindstuff's tomb [*]
and form of selfish altar drama gone and soon
for looking in or out or neither both
oblique, about aboutness-mirror zoom~
to which what spectionism halves
behaving in a twofold twining intro free: the finest of the fine:
insight-interred        intuited sign

quiescently, albeit doubtfully at times, benign

.

.


.




.

Secretly sprinkle my dust over Newt Gingrich's high fiber breakfast cereal . Or placed in the air plenum of a ritzy hotel whereby the elite should get a minuscule whiff of hardscrabble living , thrown on the interstate so as not to feel out of place , run over repeatedly by people  that were forever needy ..By all means please pour me liberally over the Baked Alaska at any tax payer funded high price , 'hob *******' government extravaganza ! Usher my remains across a green farm pond  to be eaten by catfish and passed to the bottom , carousing with the snails and the worms forever seeking cover . Perfectly content , hiding in the mud hoping not to be discovered ..

Bright lights, Centre stage,
White rose, Blank page.
Addicted to the aura,
Infected by the venom,
Not locked in Pandora’s Box,
But I’m in my own personal plenum.
Could feel the pressure,
Yet I’m enjoying my high,
The pain doesn’t lessen,
But I’m willing to fight.
So caught up I fell,
Leaving me unconscious.
Woke up oblivious only to realise,
I was already in my subconscious.
Don’t mind going back,
I’m already a dreamer.
But I don’t mind making my dream a reality,
Only to be with you.
Bright lights, centre stage,
White rose, blank page.

and wins, uncounted,
fall
crystallineated

egos flaking from the broken, crusted snow

i have lost my founded plenum's fill--
in chainsaw bite and vibrate
powerlining chill of poemed demise

love's warrior-chiming focus pill--
the rhyming will,
the will to unrhyme real aesthetic abject thrill--
alliteration's dulling pull
beneath all competition's rising low.

Alchemy is the art of the far and near as is poetry.*

Prima Materia. ****** alchemists groping, questing.
The Face of God. Omphalos. The Chapel Perilous.
Lost path through invisible forest. Hazard.
Base metal to gold. Ignorance to wisdom.
Crucible of transformation. The Rosy Cross.
Inner distillation. Metamorphoses. Essence.
To be bathed in the breath of infinity. Crystalline.
Quantum foam. Particles. Waves. Plenum of possibilities.
     Moving through the world of illusion,
     seeking the sacred glory of fusion.

i've never been able to
  fit in
anywhere, not really -- not with friends, not with family, and
not with

lovers.

me: freak; lots of leaks; knees hugged; tears, none left.

my superpowers consist of
hours

w a s t e d

awkwardly.
boxed in by this, my silly imaginarium.

i feel so small.

i mean, after all, my
heart
is missing from my chest.

i am
  eater of space: plenum

for
  your
plenty.

Enchantingly nonchalantly unfurling before
blind eyes merely able to gape in awe
ephemeral smithereens of expanding plenum,
the abyssal pervasive womb encompassing all

that exists, was is and will be, nurturing
emptiness with energy for nothingness not
to be. Swirling particles coalescing to breed
unfathomable incandescent spheres

radiating blistering lights in waves, hurtling
everywhither as beacons celebrating glory
of omnific productions till mirific explosions
scatter pieces crisping to bond, under laws

of attraction relentlessly spinning, rotating
an elliptic orbit at a distance, showered in eons
by debris enclosing drops of lymph, finely
elegantly tuned through evanescent time, to allow

the esoteric birthing of rare creatures gazing,
curious and inquisitively reflecting, recognising
mother does not contemplate repetition nor
perfection, as she haphazardly reveals inestimable

varieties, offspring of sweeping sublime
creativity with which she munificently shares
a comprehensive consciousness inspired,
suggesting the child indeed could grasp

the extent of infinity
despite blind eyes.

Time climbs
the sycamores,
seeking a resting place,
      a nesting place
to contemplate its passing.
No words can express
    the sadness.

Wind whips across
              the lawn,
scattering leaves,
slapping trees
             for their insolent
             refusal to fall.

All directions collapse
            into one,
            into none
worth following.

We break under the weight
               of the void.
It insists on absolute
               emptiness.
I am full, a plenum.

This phrase tells no one
             the truth.
Words scatter on the wind.
Words crackle in the leaves.

Poets guard ancient
            initiation rites.
Mystery settles on the Muse.

Silence burrows underground,
           digs for gold.
Only dull ore rises
            to the surface.

Flakes scatter on the wind,
            disjointed,
            clattering
through the sleepy dawn.

Shadows obscure Time
              as it exhales
              the past.

The future photosynthesizes,
               green, green,
               with broken
               promises.

Time weeps for no one.

Broken limbs, tenuous twigs
              snap under
              the weight
              of a plenum.

Time wrestles the void.

Time is full.
             But it’s
                         cracking.

Time climbs
the sycamores,
seeking a resting place,
a nesting place
to contemplate its passing.
No words can express
the sadness.

Wind whips across
the lawn,
scattering leaves,
slapping trees
for their insolent
refusal to fall.

All directions collapse
into one,
into none
worth following.

We break under the weight
of the void.
It insists on absolute
emptiness.
I am full, a plenum.

This phrase tells no one
the truth.
Words scatter on the wind.
Words crackle in the leaves.

Poets guard ancient
initiation rites.
Mystery settles on the Muse.

Silence burrows underground,
digs for gold.
Only dull ore rises
to the surface.

Flakes scatter on the wind,
disjointed,
clattering
through the sleepy dawn.

Shadows obscure Time
as it exhales
the past.

The future photosynthesizes,
green, green,
with broken
promises.

Time weeps for no one.

Broken limbs, tenuous twigs
snap under
the weight
of a plenum.

Time wrestles the void.

Time is full.
But it’s
cracking.

back in England,
and back to the similitude
of the pardonable
quest for an,          i...

standing before a wall
of books,
from the floor to the ceiling,
stacked
like some
reminiscent domino
of events that didn't
take place...

     back into an interpolation
of i,
   via an interchange
between ? and !

            as if existentially
content: as if:

      from that persistent
bulwark
               whereby there is,
no nothing...
   either an expected agitation
or a nightmare,
or an unexpected self-encounter...

born a slab of clay,
died a slab of marble,
yet featureless -

   not the repetitive dream
of falling,
   not some dream-world
phobia, guaranteed in,
say: claustophobia...

  something English,
and therefore eerie...
as if teasing American,
or what is the vein,
not the L.A. artery
cultural export...

   the sleepy, hallow and
mistifying north east,
the first indentation...
   something...
  akin to:
     what happens when
you first encounter
Dumas... but not H. P. Lovecraft...
but encounter the latter
in an essay
by michel houellebecq -

**** me... French phonetics
and French linguistics -
either a misnomer
in saying:

        no wonder they
are the basin for idea -
or rather... the Freudian
id etc....

                    the clarity of
phonetic encoding,
to be honest:
    i know of one
that is, but buckles under
an orthographic aesthetic,
like a wronged limb,
there...
   but... dull...
  limp... yet there: provocative...

a return then to: there,
or, rather: "there"...

a month sober,
first night drinking
and one expects to unfold
a month's worth
of a Libra imbalance,
i.e.:
    write as much as you read,
or...
  read as much as you write:

never write less than
you read,
   never read less than you
write...
apparently i read
more than i was supposed
to write...

what with the Sveedish
invasion of Poland,
like some... murky rubric
i learned in the Irish
   niche of the outer
east London nibbling Essex...

Romans...
  Romans...
  this diabolical theatre
of agitating poetics
like mantras...

   either Jesus with his
bread and wine...
or mystical Eve with
a 2 in 1 combo's worth
of an apple...

mind you, i did notice
the difference between
western and eastern
Europe...
how the night is illuminated...
dimmed sulphur like
emblems of a moth's
delight in:

    tip of (the) tongue -
onomatopoeia:
where no noun dare tread...

a month's worth without
   a "freedom" of speech
  (third person inquisitive
contort):
   you mean - diarrhea?

yes - thank you, dear,
whoever, what-
    a character assasination
of the narrator...
say...
why am i unable to write
a novel, brimful
with an assortment
of characters?

  ah... i remember the basis...
of this: "nuance"...
  yes... either a misnomer,
or an ambiguity,
caged in the existentialists'
"       ": lacking
the morn upon the 1st of
May's lark...

         i wanted to paint,
but... i can't afford to buy either
paint or canvas or brush...
and... i grew out of writing
novels before i even began
writing novels...
i found it hard to translate
a childish game
into a novel, hardy,
adult enterprise...

hence this interrogation...

  as a Chinese State policy
child... perhaps a, millennial...
but as an only child...
i prefer to be dubbed...
the third plenum of the 18th
central committee of the chinese
communist party:
of which i am not,
    but... eh... what a waste...

i didn't end up writing
novels, because...
i used to play with G.I. Joe...
marionnettes...
   how then to translate
marionnettes into adult?
ah...
   "eureka"! (mundane tone):
write a novel...

   i cut off my hands
and opened my eyes
to the grand lambda...

   i found her on a coach trip
to Warsaw...
   Λ...
   the sensation / awareness...
once i used to smoke marijuana
to entertain
a lost narrative,
    a "lost" narrative...
   which was cogitans per se
is... with all the annexed ergo
implies: cogito est narratio...

of course... minus
ethics, etc.
          which is how i came
across a keyhole,
θought...            which became:
    φought:
or rather... without a question
of a morose: 'ought -
esse - i.

                             that same
blatant disembodiment
of the will of man...
Voltaire is good at that...
   simpleton,
       Zadig...
                sure, prior to: Candide...
but in England,
let me assure you:
do you think you'll ever
buy a copy of Voltaire's
principles of Newton's
physics?
        
               not a chance!

perhaps i grew out of
toying with G.I. Joe
marionnettes too late,
perhaps...
hence? no novel...
hence(?)                  poetry...

sketches...
     the consort of thought...
there is no other,
and there is no...
poetry is no art,
there is no ars poetica...

   Heidegger appreciates
Hölderlin...
a poem is not a *******
rhyme worth a pence
for a ******* postcard... savvy?!

where philosophy dictates
a wall,
   poetry dictates
a brick...
    when "things" become
too... inedible...
people start to flirt with
vegetarianism...

      but said "things" are: edible...
yet...
   poorly manifest
in the dignity they
demand...
   say... a hunted boar
is a tad bit higher
in the hierarchy of tiers
when man
compensates
   the boar with
a caged chicken...

                    and what of
cultural Darwinism?
the same... the same unit of man,
as bothered by:
how German and French
existentialism / humanism,
became the Anglo-Zaz
futurism / economics of:
always the pristine
                German and Chinese
labor...

          i guess some people
have no notion
of either slavery or liberty,
as much: a soul
or boredom...
        only the English
brought about a concept
that overpowered a concern
for worth, in ethic
(with a missing S) -

                                   or not...
deutsche? arbeit!
   chinesisch? arbeit!
the English? flirt...
flirt with nebuchadnezzar...
and let the jew mystify
everything, pact universal.

my, my disembodiment...

       Λ:

  no... not V...    not 5...
   somehow not A either...

                 two eyes
and a pointer...
no... not the nose...
rather... an imagined horn /
honing device...
as in?

   not the automated nature
of the brain,
jellyfish soap opera...
fungus marionnette...

       m'ah ******* forehead...
Λ = oculus + fore'      'ed
   (Cockney gapoos)

   V = oculus + shut mouth
+ wry & wormly numb-tongue

    or the Welsh salute at
the French... in loan a broan
post bow set loose...
arrow: pointy thing...

      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................
      ...................................................

(which is an authentic pause...
filled with
fiddling with my beard)

   like sticking
a stick into a river
       and expecting it
to change course...
    
   a wild idea,
  but...
        some insanities
are adhered to...
   Xerxes "thought"
  the lashing the sea...
           a blind
convent of all
our hearts' content:
life -
or no life:

            a bothersome
clause...
    
                         an intimidating
yawn...
       a bloated
saturation of filth
in a sieve...

                           with a childish
kaleidoscope of causes...

   the:  ergo ad continuum
of science...
a *******'s worth
of existential glue.

Notice Time's plenum.
It's nothing too irregular
too distracting nor overt:
just the day's long-memory
of happening once while alive
tincture's
its heralding stanchion
securely fixed into a mind's
lane.

i am encapsulated

with a curious ambivalence of the will
i cast off
the chaotic cosmic cloak that shatters
into a myriad particles of tiny plenum
-- reminiscences, shadows and reflections,
sorrowful leaves sparkling with the glint
of dazzling light,
like tiny jewels of dew --

all this and more lies scattered on the wind

the struggle is so heavy; the flames consume so much
now, here
beneath the distant, burning stars,
shuffling through these crumbling
monuments at my feet,

a nervous flash of lightning
the shape of infinity in all i see:
the apocalyptic evening sky is exposed

wearily, i must lay myself down to rest
to breathe gently in this sweet, elusive silence,
the silence of the Void

rest in weariness
rest
and the unpredictable predispositions of the cosmic structure
will expand and divide ever so slowly
with the course of my breathing

Pound:

"the age demanded an

Image of its accelerated

grimace."

Onoma:

an ovoid, yokeless plenum.

(fissures of negative space

playing chicken.)

educated by the ancient twin mystics
of misfortune right eye and left eye
to nurture in nature a desire for beauty
and sweet self astonishment
can't perceive without perceiving
music of the spheres for dummies
the elderly should be smarter than they are
being close to death and all
instead the investigator discovers
a massive construction of leashes
not even the angry wish monsters
can cut them loose and free
being elderly in form I have but one wish
women throw your bodies on me
Fallopia Prestwich was all over me
like cat fur on a velvet couch
it looks like my cheap suit cologne
apparently got between her legs
but I was done with her abstract threats
of revenge litigation and outright damnation
she was a circus muse who untrained horses
she could pitch a dime up a hopping toad's ***
her beauty left me speechless
fortunately for my many invisible readers
I was not also left writeless
the assignment was simple and brilliant
to assess the capacity of all humanity
to put therapeutic levels of luminosity
into their daily thrill ride
yah but what is it really other than
a figure 8 demolition derby
a merciless war of the hormones
the pedants conning the pedestrians
then the animator of all that there is
rolls up and gives me a bumper push
to the Brickpile checkered flag
even though I refuse to believe
his ******* tale of redemption for a price
do this do that don't think just do
bring me the head of Calliope
and we'll open her blessed plenum
well I rebelled and continue to do so
consequently here's a big kiss on the lips
for all the young Pioneers of the Soviet Union
anything named pioneer can't be all bad
and here's a big dog lick in the ear
for every Rabbi Mufti Priest and Magus
who thought they had the truth in a cage
stick this target over your ***
simple rational practical elegant
now send me some ******* missionary money

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon