yet you laid
with a sweeter
in the room
yet you flew
but now I've changed you see-
time has treated me kindly-
I'm not lost now, not me.
(Enter stage left: soft moonlight)
You love me
with a sigh
and an easy
You love me
with frost bitten
for my petals
and my crown.
but you cannot reap
what you did not sow-
though I loved you once,
I was blinded in snow.
And she's running
as she usually does
not worrying about what's behind her
just living life with a smile on her face
soaking up the sun's rays
and bathing in the moonlight
cherishing her every breath
and saving her words
for those who deserve it
everytime her foot hits the ground
she worships the quiet sound
every moment echos in her mind
reminding her of well lost time
she's thinking back on everything she's done
a reflection of the past
a simple time
a time to make
the reality of the present
her pain doesn't define her
but only her actions do
a constant bubble
Notify the Congress,
send a letter to Parliament,
visit your local Jirga,
send a runner to the Council,
and let ‘em know,
the global-economy sucks.
Scream, “We need a war!”
It’ll make us feel safer,
a few richer,
and most feel
Whose coat is this? Sure as hell isn't my coat. I ain't got no coat with this parka shit, it's bullshit. I ain't no furry flamin' faggot. I ain't no chinky chochy Molly-May-Ze-Dong chokin' down chickens and nasalin' a'sniffin' snortin' nasty-ass choch; that ain't me. That ain't me. Look at this coat– I'm like an Eskimo bitch. I'm like a butch-dyke bull-dyke crotch-lappin' a'swimmin' laps in that guy's swimmin' pool. Who's that guy? Who owns that guy? 'Ey, anyone here the owner of this guy– guy ain't got no owner? Whose coat is this? It's nice, real nice. Bet she said, "Does it come from France? Where do I buy one?" I want to buy one, I think I need to buy shit more. I sure as hell need to buy one of these. "And I need one these too and one of them too and I need a petticoat and a tipper-tapper and a whimpratic garfielder and one of them new bartlemores, I need more of them bartlemores. I need more, more, more, more, more, more..." That ain't enough. Shit's from France. Shit's from Paris, that's romantic. You think I'm romantic? I eat hearts for dinner, I chew down nails like nuts for my midnight snack. I smoke cigarettes and spit on concrete slabs, you think that's sexy? I'll show you sexy. I'll show you Paris, New York City, Rome, romance you in Rome. I'll get real fuckin' Roman. I'll take you to the desert and make love to you. That's how a free man does a woman, and I'm a real free man. Who's ownin' this guy? It ain't you, it ain't me. I don't own you, you don't own me. I'm a free man:
"Fire and wood, fire and wood, fire and wood. It is late, it is late, it is far, far too late."
fire to wood, fire to wood; feel that fire fired fresh from that firewood.
I dug the pit,
he gathered the wood,
she started the fire.
She really does make that fire start.
O' how she makes that fire burn,
O' how the wood's wrapped in white hots,
O' how they smoke their smokestacked pipes,
O' tobacco teeming teenagers, tormented by and through youth,
O' adolescence, trending topics, and forget-me-not flowers,
O' old age, Floridan coffins, and coughing cancers,
O' writers in the mountains writing to be,
O' painters and nude bodies in studies by the sea,
O' thinkers in their mindset, mindsetting the table for dinner,
O' tables set to bursting,
O' wallets so thick,
O' society, our social games,
O' that I may be at peace,
O' that I may be content and pray only for peace,
O' how about them true believers,
O' how about that love at first sight,
O' sandstone. My sandstone. That guy sittin' on sandstone.
That's my guy. That's my guy. I own this shit.
Is a man breathing on a mirror the sum of his breaths?
Breaths foggin' a'mistin' my view,
my view of a body and that face,
you're a body.
You're a workin' day's bell,
you're my chill in an Icelandic draft,
you're my spare in a Middle Eastern draft,
you're my pawn in chest-to-chest chess.
You've got this. You've got this. You own this shit.
And it is shit, too. I'd be set, real fuckin' set, with someone like you. I'll make you a woman, check this parka shit. Coat's mine. I'm a classy igloo runner, runnin' a'ragin' a'czebelskiin' meriteratin', I'll be reiteratin' your points. Check the time, it's late! It's late! Bitch was in the grassy knoll turnin' trap tunes on her turntable. Would you listen to that? She sounds late to me, does she sound late to you? I like the music; I like the music. What happened to Woodstock? Where's my watergate, Nixon? Where's my generation, Ginsberg? Where's the meaning? This music's too loud! We're so profound! O' profundity!
Tell me something I didn't know, I'm craving' the new.
Give me the new while I spit on the old,
while I spit on this fine art finely art'd by and for fine artists–
fuckin' fine artists. Goddamn fine artists.
(You can realize radical-realist realism but you can't be real with me?)
O' fine art!
What fine art!
Which fine artists are dead?
Looks like they're dead.
Looks like them faggots choked out all them ghettos, choked out all them rednecks, chokin' a'stranglin' by-God-oh-God straddlin' the breeders. I sure did like them babes– babes with their laughin' a'lackin' o' cynicism. They don't know the word "shit."
I sure am forgetful–
I forgot that smoke doesn't dissipate,
I forgot how to smell autumn leaves,
I forgot to check the heart against the fingertips,
I forgot why my fingertips went numb,
I forgot to cue in the meaning when the sentence was complete,
I forget to complete my sentences,
I forget who you were wanting when you said, "I want you."
I got as much depth as an in-depth discussion, high hats and electropercussion have got me going. I'm goin' downtown, uptown bourgeois tricked me out, johns and yellow Hummers laid me down and cussed me out. That's not a discussion. That's not my scent scenting my towel, this breath reeks of wintry air– my fingertips went numb.
"I want you."
"Oh would you look at that moon?
Take a look at that moon.
Look at that moon with the fuckin' mountains.
I love that moon.
That's my moon."
I love darin' a'dusty dareelin' derailin' your dreams, whose dreams are these? They ain't my dreams– ain't no dream derailin' a'nileerad radiatiatin' some hint of joy or Jamison Scotch Liqueur. Drink that shit. That's my shit, I own that shit.
I'm sittin' on this stoop like I own this shit, like this shit owns me; I owed me. I don't own me, you owe me:
Pay up man, feet off the stoop.
Pay up man, be real with me.
Pay up man, you ever thought of a man as a man?
Pay up man, give it in.
Pay up man, give in.
Pay up man, I need you to do me a solid. Do me solid from crown-to-toe, we're toe-to-toe let's do-si-do bro-to-ho I'm ready go, ho, jo, ko, lo, get low… Now I'm ramblin'. You say, "Ramble in to the stoop and tell me a story."
What's a stoop– who's a stoop? That shit ain't stoop– you ain't stoop. You're stupid. You're a joke, check out the joke. Hey ladies, you seen this joke– joke ain't been seen by them ladies? I'm a joke. We ain't laughin' with you, they're laughin' at you.
What hilarious histories have passed?
"I said I loved him once. I only loved him once."
(And how long once has been...)
I sure did like them hand-holdins,
them star-gazin' moments,
them moon phasin' nighttime nuances,
them fingertip feelin' a'findin',
them sessions o'meshin' limber legs unto steadfast cocks,
heads cocked like guns toward the sky,
beyond the horizon
below the belt.
Them star-gazing moments seeing stars seemin' small, I love how they gleam- gleamin' a'glarin' comparin' shine to shine, shimmerin' a glimmer shone stumblin' her way home from the bar. She's drunk. She's brilliant, brilliance of whit and wantin' a'wanderlustin' gypsy nomads- that bitch gyp'd me, no mad man would take a cerebral slam to the face lest them moving pictures are involved. Read a fuckin' book, it'll last longer. Kiss me on the collar bones, clavicles shone shining with slick saliva pining for my affections. You're clammerin' to feel me, clammin' up (Just feel me.) I want to run my hands through long hair and peg the nausea nervosa to the wall. The writing's on the wall:
The sun bent over so the moon could rise, chanting,
"Goodbye and good riddance,
I never wanted to shine down
on them seas o' tranquilities anyhow."
O' what a day. What a day.
And the wind ruffles leaves and it ruffles feathers on birds eating worms in brown soil.
What a day. What a day.
And the men under the bridge gather in traitorous conversation of governments overthrown and border dissolution and poetry with meters bent out of tune.
What a day. What a day.
And the billboards are dry for all the consumers to consume, use, and review.
What a day. What a day.
And hearts break messiest when you're not looking.
What a day. What a day.
And the ego and the id and the redwood trees are talking. They're sitting nude in the marshes, bathing in the bogwater while fondling foreign fine wines and whisperin' a'veerin' conversations towards topics kept well out of hand, out of the game, nontobe racin' in races, rampant radical racists betting bets on bent, bald Bolshevik racists wagging Marxist manifestos in the bourgeois' faces, yes. Make it be. Nontobe sanity as the captain creases his pleats, pleasin' her creases and the dewdrops of sweat trailing down the small of her back– down the ridge of her spine forming solitary springs of saline saltwater in the small of her back. Aye-aye, guy's pleasin' a'makin' choices a'steerin'– government's a'veerin' a hard left into the ice.
Danger in the icy 'berg!
None too soon a 'berg!
Bound to bump a 'berg!
O' inevitably unnerving 'berg!
Surveillance of sex and the sexes 'berg!
O' fatalist fetishist 'berg!
Benevolent big brother 'berg!
Homosocial socialization 'berg!
Romanticized Roman 'berg!
O' virginal mother 'berg!
City on a hill on a 'berg!
Subtly socialist 'berg!
O' illustrious libertine 'berg!
Freedom of the people 'berg!
Water privatization 'berg!
Alcohol idolization 'berg!
O' corrupt and courageous 'berg!
Church and a stately 'berg!
Pray to your ceiling fan 'berg!
Biblically borne 'berg!
O' godly and gorgeous 'berg!
Ferocious freedom fighters launching lackluster demonstrations far too post-demonstration feeling liberty and love, la vie en rouge, revolving revolutionist ranting on revolution tangible as
an ice cold 'berg.
O' the 'berg, the damned iceberg–
You'll be the death of me.
I'm a shadow
I'm a ghost
I'm what's nagging
at your mind
I'm a memory
from the past
I'm lost and alone
unloved and unknown
I'm a queen
I'm a duchess
I'm a peasant
I'm a slave
I'm that picture
that you look at
"Where did she go wrong?"
I'm the moon
I'm a star
I'm the entire galaxy
I'm a lie
I'm the gum that you spit out
I'm a wisp of darkness,
A touch light
And partly nothing right
I'm a runner
I'm a flyer
I am simply forgotten
So there might be
a minuscule void in your heart
that remembers me,
But I ceased existing long ago
It won't change a thing
if you recall who I am
because you will never find me
I love you like...
The moment that I realize I have two hours left and find out I didn't oversleep
The Anticipation of telling beautiful surprises that are so challenging to keep
The few seconds before we finally jump from a cliff that is just a little too steep
The tears that bleed from my eyes out of joy, and aren't accompanied by a weep
An uncontrollable smile after watching a puppy take it's very first spirited leap
The freedom I feel from escaping the herd removing ourselves from the sheep
The optimistic first steps of a child's feet standing up to life"s broom"s first sweep
The necessary silence rarely shared from a reflecting gaze piercing ever so deep
I think of you...when...
The pain finally doesn"t hurt
I wear my one favorite shirt
The Perfect word is finally blurt
Absolutely nothing left to exert
Finished work covered in dirt
The wind blows up your skirt
Organically we begin to flirt
Arrived Just in time for dessert
I need you like...
A runner needs his feet
A writer needs a pen
A song needs a beat
A rooster needs a hen
The cold needs the heat
The military needs men
A carnivore needs meat
A monk needs his zen
I miss you like...
A plant wilting from a drought
A dog laying by his owner"s grave
Silence misses a necessary shout
Hibernating bears without their cave
A champion boxer"s very last bout
An injured surfer watching a wave
An old man"s window looking out
Addiction misses his best friend crave
the distance runner
pockmarked by moral delemias
and riddled with horrible christmas thoughts
gasps for clean air by the dust laden causeway
a sewer pipe lets loose nearby
and in the summer night air
the soft sound of its water
eats at the mind
with its worm infested intents
he gathers such little strength and lurches forward
at uneven gait
his eyes wide in seeking
fortunes of night like the safe
beauty of streetlight
but only the graffiti laden concrete of the rivers road
greet his every wary footfall
the unutterable language of its scrawled messages
baffle his mind
something deep inside his loins speaks to of
loose girls chewing bubble gum
and talking in mystical rhymes
seeking their own absolution in the comfort of
after a immeasurable distance he slows to a crawl
and falls to his beaten knees
he must pause this headlong flight
must face the delemia of surrendering
give up to win
his rubber mouth repeals only the
best of his words
their soft blow to the iron grip of madness
is little more than whetting the whistler's thirst for strife
so he tries to hold back his tongues footloose gambit
but failing he simply watches his words tumble misspent
to the dusty ground
I am not wired to be happy.
Have you ever seen Easy Runner?
I am not like everyone else, I do not fit in with the in crowd, and I'm not like the out crowd.
I really should be going.
I don't like Pokemon, and I don't like anime.
I don't want to chop off all my hair, or dress up like a boy.
I do weird things sometimes.
I hate the way he looked into my eyes, because what if he thought I was a freak?
I don't think you're annoying.
I loved the way he did his own thing, and how he acted when he was hopped up on energy shots.
I doubt it.
But what if he thought I was a freak?
Maybe, one day, I will get out of this house and realize that I am not what I make myself out to be.
Do comics count?
And maybe one day I won't be so scared of his purple sweatshirt or the way he waves to me.
I don't know why that sounds so interesting.
But that day is not today.
I get like that sometimes.
They ran for days, he kept holding her hand,
They ran through the constant rain, the downpour,
Both of them soaked, clothes not of much use,
But she kept running with him, he was a promise of joy,
On the second day, she faltered, needed to go home,
The sixth day of running, the rain never stopped,
She still had her white coat, grayed by the water,
He still had his black hood, frail from soaking,
He was tiring, losing his vision, she wasn’t pulling her weight,
He knew she could, he knew she had,
So he let go.
She turned to him, “How could you do that, stop pulling.”
"I did it because I need to go where I am going,
I am a runner, and we all know that runners run,
So either run with me, or let me free for time,"
Squinting disapprovingly, she found a nice bench,
“I’ll be here.”
As he ran.
He left her vision, she left his, but as he ran,
He could only think of those angel wings beneath,
Those soft lighting eyes of hers, that perfect smile,
He thought of the body beneath, the heart beneath,
In his endurance-fed fatigue, he dreamed, and only dreamed,
He came back round, his muscles having been warmed,
He came round, looking, searching desperately,
She was nowhere, she was hiding, she was gone.
“Beautiful! Where are you?! I need you, I still want you.”
“I am here. Look at all the friends I made. Aren’t they
She turned her back to him.
Better a handful of dry dates and content there with than to own the Gate of Peacocks and be kicked in the eye by a broody camel.
~ Arabian Proverb
Lesson 51) Be content with whatever has been given you by the grace of God -- you have each other.
You may have heard the story of the rich man who asked the fisherman, sitting lazily beside his boat and drinking a beer. "Why aren't you out there catching fish?" he asked.
"Because I've caught enough fish for today," said the fisherman.
Why don't you catch more fish than you need?" the rich man asked.
"What would I do with them?" asked the fisherman.
"Why, you could earn more money," replied the rich man, "and buy a better boat so you could go deeper and catch more fish. You could purchase better nets, catch even more fish, and make more money. Soon you'd have a fleet of fishing boats and be rich just like me."
The fisherman asked, "Then what would I do?"
"You could sit down and enjoy life," said the industrialist.
"What do you think I'm doing now?" the fisherman replied as he downed another Budweiser.
The moral of the story: God's given you someone to love and be loved. Love is your best net asset -- kick back and enjoy one another. The water's may get rough from time to time but this Bud's for you.
It is better to dwell in the corner of your roof than in a wide house with a contentious woman.
~ Proverbs 21: 1-9
Lesson 52) When the majority of your interaction becomes calming your lover's quarrelsomeness -- it's time to move on.
Of course, after you've exhausted everything -- including professional counseling. The continual hostility and arguing simply means they've lost their respect for you. There's a great line from Austen's Pride and Prejudice that hits this nail right on the head. "My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever." When it comes to respect -- 'forever' means forever. Sadly, it's time to bail because that corner of the roof is too edgy a place for a queen-size bed.
The truth is not always what we want to hear.
~ Yiddish Proverb
Lesson 53) I solemnly promise to tell the truth, the partial truth, anything but the truth -- whatever preserves the relationship.
"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven." There's a time for candor and a time for white lies, depending whether you want to uproot or you want to plant goodwill. There's a time for brutal honesty and a time for diplomacy, depending whether you want to tear down or to build egos. There's a time to talk and a time to refrain from talking, depending if you want to spill the beans on yourself and you want the perfect accompiment for your hot dog. "Does my ass look fat in this dress?" Fuck the truth, there is only one answer: "No, sweetheart, your ass looks great!" Get the picture? "There's a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace." Keep the love, keep the peace! Amen.
La glorie ne va qu'aux hommes specieux.
In our complex times, when human knowledge splits up, glory comes only to specialists.
~ G. Lachaud, 1846
Lesson 54) Become experts on each other's pleasures -- and things will be glorious.
There's just too much useless, distracting stuff out there to derail you from your glorifying love. With the stakes so high, learn more and more about your lover's turn ons and turn offs through communication (rare), light conversation (medium) and trial and tortuous trial and egregious
error (burnt to a crisp). Know important dates, their favorite things and dislikes. These details can express the uniqueness of your love in a world besieged by anonymity. Don't tell them everything -- leave a little to mystery. Let the private investigator earn their fee.
Ensaboar a cabeca do asno, perda do sabao.
It's a waste of soap to wash the face of an ass.
~ Portuguese Proverb
Lesson 55) The biggest mistake people make in a relationship is trying to change one another.
People are stubborn like asses -- don't expect them to change. Women want to polish their 'diamond in the rough'. Men want to 'educate Rita' or turn them into Hoovers. If you don't accept each other for who you are, this may end badly in a resentful, controlling relationship. A certain amount of polish is O.K., with mutual respect and consent. The diamond may still end up rough, but a diamond has intrinsic value far beyond the value of rubies, because it's your diamond. As far as turning a woman into a Hoover, well, for that sort of alchemy, you may have to change the bag or munch on the carpet praying for reciprocation.
ROMEO (taking JULIET’s hand):
If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
~ Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet, Act 1. Scene 5.
Lesson 56) Gently kiss the rough spots -- don't try and hammer them out.
All relationships have rough patches. These delicate times require you be at your best TLC behavior. Your relationship's future hangs precariously in the balance. You must master the art of walking on eggshells or the yolk will be all over you. Swallow your pride, listen, pretend listen. Even if you don't 'get it' say 'I understand'. This too shall pass -- if you're not an idiot.
The female orgasm is like church. Many attend, but few understand.
Lesson 57) Learn to become a strong swimmer -- master the breaststroke, the crawl and the muff dive.
Many indeed do attend, lay devotedly beside her holy of holies -- and proceed to commit sacrilege. Learn to speak in tongues, pick up a few essential tantric phrases and you'll be a cunning linguist in no time. You will become at one with her yoni, hear the bells of St. Mary's toll for thee and you'll never miss a day of church again. Now, get on your knees, sinner!
Love is the fart
Of every heart:
It pains a man when 'tis kept close,
And others doth offend, when 'tis let loose.
~ John Suckling, 'Love's Offence'
Lesson 58) What guarantees the value of the relationship's estate? Ventilation, Ventilation, Ventilation.
A good relationship is well regulated like a thermostatically controlled HVAC system. It cools you off when things get hot headed. It warms you up when there's a cold front building between you. Most importantly, it ventilates when the stink of decay permeates the air. That's you're signal to take a long walk in the fresh air.
Quicksilver in the hand. Leave the fingers open and it stays in the palm; clutch it and it darts away.
~ Dorthy Parker
Lesson 59) Don't lose control by imagining you can ever control your lover.
It's hard enough to control even the logical in this universe ruled by randomness. Love is an especially recalcitrant commodity -- it shatters attempted molds, it often does the opposite of what is expected. When you try to control your lover it shows that you have low self esteem, your petty, jealous and you have no respect for your partner's freedom, choices and individuality. You don't have a better way of doing things -- you have a different way of doing things. If you wanted someone to control you should've hooked up with a robot with a suction or dildo attachment. Just listen to Mrs. Von Heisenberg's kvetching and trying to control her husband, Werner, the man who proposed the 'uncertainty principle' in quantum physics:
"He von't take out the garbage
Or bring me shnitzel anymore.
He von't buy me a new saddle,
Oy! My butt is sore.
The foyer needs a runner,
The bedroom needs a curtain.
Physics, Smhysics, vat a Shmuck!
Of that, I can be certain."
It's actually an e-Book I wrote way back in 2005 after I got divorced and was searching for a new soulmate. Finding one was a long and arduous journey with many setbacks including an enjoyable but unfulfilling 'playboy sportfucking' stage, but I finally remarried in January of this year. I use many of the lessons in the Primer to sustain my love and continually reignite it. I thinks marriages primarily fail because couples take each other for granted and slowly the love dies. I pray you and your soulmate will integrate some of these lessons and love each other forever -- because, 'If it ain't forever it really ain't love'.
To read the entire book please visit:
Beryl Dov Lew's Primer of Love: The Secrets of Making Love Last (Part I, Lessons 1-19)
Beryl Dov Lew's Primer of Love: The Secrets of Making Love Last (Part II, Lessons 20-33)
Beryl Dov Lew's Primer of Love: The Secrets of Making Love Last (Part III, Lessons 34-41)
Beryl Dov Lew's Primer of Love: The Secrets of Making Love Last (Part IV, Lessons 42-50)
Beryl Dov Lew's Primer of Love: The Secrets of Making Love Last (Part V, Lessons 51-59)
Beryl Dov Lew's Primer of Love: The Secrets of Making Love Last (Part VI, Lessons 60-69)
Beryl Dov Lew's Primer of Love: The Secrets of Making Love Last (Part VII, Lessons 70-79)
Beryl Dov Lew's Primer of Love: The Secrets of Making Love Last (Part VIII, Lessons 80-89)