Love is a thousand women who fail to amount to one,
Peasant seductress with bared shoulders of red dun-colored roads and candle smoke,
Who pours down her wet, ungoverned hair, like a fast-fading storm to dry over Aurelian walls,
In that dark sneer of sultriness over the sentry-like stillness of ramparts and stone,
A wasp in water whose sibilance comes from what the sting makes,
Like the upgathered phalanx of spears in the sand,
Or the sisters of fate who have coiled their hair as sunset snakes,
Her fingertips ***** into me like much-traveled and ancient rain.

I'm leaving.
Less like, Peace the **** out,
more like, I gotta go.
I'm leaving the way ships are wooed by waves,
under the pretense of more promising continents.

I can see where countless hands have pulled at my shoelaces,
wrapped my arches in ribbons of origami,
left me second guessing how well holes burn through soles.
It's been a long day of finding breathing space between double-knots and bending
broken fingernails back into place;
the self-constrained chaotic embrace of something supposedly so
straight as string brings forth beckoning ghosts of
those figure-eight souls who laid themselves
horizontal
to waste their Sundays tracing the Hills
on the breath fogged side of some painted-shut window sill;
trading the promise of Infinity
for the Religion of Monotony.
Praying through agoraphobic day-dreams
raining across the night sky of their eye lids
with the brilliance of meteorites,
imagining how earth-shattering they could be
if only these tyrannosauruses would just look up.

I have come here;
Less like, conquest
more like, exploration.
--Abandoned the comfort of quaint, suburban
ruins of the American Dream, which buckled
like widows knees mid frail-voiced eulogy
mourning the death of their Salesman--
and wandered aimlessly into the improvisation of some story-book jungle,
wishing I was better rehearsed.

I have come here
to congregate with the snakes and beasts; to feast beneath
the din of carnal sin and primal instincts. I've chosen to begin jumping
from stump-to-stump like stepping headstones
in a graveyard of fallen trees, where men,
                     who grew up too quickly and forgot the importance of pretend,
                     who learned early on how to black-market trade
                              the need to imagine for something a little bit more
                                                      tangib­le,­
                     who, smiling through serrated teeth,
saw it fit to clear this wilderness for something a little bit more
domesticated.

But thank god, these brambles grow so thick!
For every hail Mary their metal tongues would lick
into the trees' skin, a hallelujah of vines and branches and roots
would erupt in confused medley,
and their finest mathematics couldn't begin to calculate
the thriving division of a place so ungoverned by logic.       
In a jungle plucked straight from storybook pages
I'll band together with these untamed brutes
--these feral barbarians and unbroken monstrosities--
to howl at the moon with the effervescence of a Ginsberg poem.
We'll forge a tinsel-town crown and take turns
playing king of Where the Wild Things Are found.

See, unlike concrete cities
The Wild of Atavism has never forgotten that
Tradition is a catalyst for change
and that nothing is permanent.
Hell, I've been having laughing contests with a mountain
because every now-and-again he will crack
A smile, and when a mountain laughs
He does so, so gutturally,
From deep within his catacomb chest that
the whole Earth quakes -- everything shifts--
And I'm not gonna lie to you right now,
I've sort of got my heart set on being a part of something so
significant.

So if you follow,
shipwrecked and mapless,
Keep your shoelaces strapped tight
and run off the infinity of double knots.
If you go looking for me, continue
past the paint chips, through
the open window;
Set your sights to the far treelines.
And don't strain yourself listening for
the laughter of mountains,
Because when that stoic disposition
Finally does crack, you'll feel it in your feet
no matter where you are.
And from the way his ridges are crumbling,
I think I've almost got him beat.

The poorer get poorer
and the rich get rich
Its an unfair turn
its an mounted stitch

The temptress shows us
want we want to see
she does not give us depths
she does not set us free

We must give up
what is making us blind
to unblock our vision
to seek all there is to find

We envision our lifes
In a whole new light
To l...ive with our freedom
Hope is in our fight

To understand our world
what lies upon our land
to seek our truth in answers
Live by ungoverened hand

And thou wert sad—yet I was not with thee!
And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near;
Methought that joy and health alone could be
Where I was not—and pain and sorrow here.
And is it thus?—it is as I foretold,
And shall be more so; for the mind recoils
Upon itself, and the wrecked heart lies cold,
While heaviness collects the shattered spoils.
It is not in the storm nor in the strife
We feel benumbed, and wish to be no more,
But in the after-silence on the shore,
When all is lost, except a little life.

I am too well avenged!—but ’twas my right;
Whate’er my sins might be, thou wert not sent
To be the Nemesis who should requite—
Nor did heaven choose so near an instrument.
Mercy is for the merciful!—if thou
Hast been of such, ’twill be accorded now.
Thy nights are banished from the realms of sleep!—
Yes! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel
A hollow agony which will not heal,
For thou art pillowed on a curse too deep;
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap
The bitter harvest in a woe as real!
I have had many foes, but none like thee;
For ‘gainst the rest myself I could defend,
And be avenged, or turn them into friend;
But thou in safe implacability
Hadst nought to dread—in thy own weakness shielded,
And in my love which hath but too much yielded,
And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare—
And thus upon the world—trust in thy truth—
And the wild fame of my ungoverned youth—
On things that were not, and on things that are—
Even upon such a basis hast thou built
A monument whose cement hath been guilt!
The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord,
And hewed down, with an unsuspected sword,
Fame, peace, and hope—and all the better life
Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart,
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife,
And found a nobler duty than to part.
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice,
Trafficking with them in a purpose cold,
For present anger, and for future gold—
And buying other’s grief at any price.
And thus once entered into crooked ways,
The early truth, which was thy proper praise,
Did not still walk beside thee—but at times,
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes,
Deceit, averments incompatible,
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell
In Janus-spirits—the significant eye
Which learns to lie with silence—the pretext
Of Prudence, with advantages annexed—
The acquiescence in all things which tend,
No matter how, to the desired end—
All found a place in thy philosophy.
The means were worthy, and the end is won—
I would not do by thee as thou hast done!

It is called many names by many tribes.
Its true name unpronounceable by our inferior tongues,
its perfume unknown to our noses.

We cannot hear it,
and we can only experience its body in effigy,

seen from a safe distance,
behind this yellow line
that binds tree to tree

it is called “myth” because we are man,
and woman, and child.

Unfamiliar, yet not completely unknown.
But ungoverned and lawless,

a bridge once meant to transport man,
and woman, and child

but in time became
a bridge to the other side of us,

who are often ungoverned and lawless.

You who have lifted up your sunburned face,
Long-told of peasant warmth and the forest tableaux.
Barefoot, you brought the book of hours upon dusty roads,
Ungoverned, little flower from Jeanne to Lourdes to Lisieux.
Our Lady, osculum pacis, the kiss of peace in wood and stone.

Burned out to those dusty eyes,
Now-empty look of rosework from the forest-fall of sunlight.
Medieval prayer, earthly-dim to its rafters of oak,
Come un-cinctured in ashen cloud of amice and alb,
And the murine blackness of plague-like smoke.

Birds that sit blinking at the winged fossil of intrados,
Pipe air through your own ribbed vaults, organum pulse.
Let the city rise in your vining voices—and hold the note.
The great ***** intones from the runs and pedal stops,
Along the turbid streets of the rue de la Cité to the empire of catacombs.

Beside his candle, the monk in sadness knows
All loveliness of heaven except his own.
Our Lady, every sunset is your faded candle hour of peace, for us to know.
Holy Father, so passes worldly glory,
Over the roofs of Paris like fire-scorned and leaden wings.

365Nectar #49  Clean Out Your Basement            
Mon. November 11, 2013  10:25 P.M.

Half-crazed like a naked savage...
stillness speaks
clamoring for attention in startling fresh expression
conjuring false memories of purity...

Cheering unsuccessful progress
in an attempt to preserve non-existent dominance...

Cosigned on civilized barbarity at an interest rate of 36% compounded annually...

The survival of a naked castaway
Perfectly unbalanced symmetry, that's slightly consistent, in a feeble attempt to compensate for weak genetic inheritance

Bathing **** in a ****** religion of bewildering complexity...

Relatively fluent in ungoverned profanities...
intentional involvement in ******* and lies

Aggressive mental exploits inflate illusion
disabling direction...

Gullible digestion of prescribed placebo
claiming cure of  a Curiosity Coma...

STOP hoarding evidence of stupidity...
911 radical refinement...


                            ...CLEAN OUT YOUR BASEMENT.

poetic description of England in the 1960s will never
be a solitary figurine prancing dance,
only in the 21st century will it become clear -
as i read the fragments of the Cantos
in the early years of the 21st century i know the few
years numbering it for a populist
personality - the fragments after a
pause are crucial - but for me there's not azure-eyed
Olga - we never dare to forgive
Dante in Paradiso, let alone Inferno...
but we do dare forgive  Ezra in St. Elizabeth's -
a bit like me in England,
ungoverned by Orwell's prophesy
a lunatic asylum for Albanians -
the scientists are doing a runner for the mainland,
the opera is about to begin -
if i were i Cracow circa 1942 i'm be herded
into Auschwitz, unless i played Schubert on
piano, of course, some **** officer might
spot my talent by then... before they test it on the public
they test it on the Fußsoldaten -
they want to know how the sane man will crack
when given rigid army attention's worth of
order in a return to society -
poetry in the 1960s? you really want to believe
populist democracy - fun and games -
democracy has two enemies -
one inside, one without -
democracy is about the people, you can
try to individuate yourself in democracy
but you'll just end up being a despot to the people,
democracy is like Hollywood, it wants actors -
trying to be an individual in democracy
is like calling yourself Adolf ****** -
currently the people are trying to erase
their colonial past with a poly-ethnic society experiment
(it won't work, the vermin have spoken),
democracy loves to depose despots in ruling government
while at the same time creating terrorists -
it does both at the same time -
it's perfected its imperfections to do so.
by the way the poets describe it,
the 1960s weren't all that worth celebration,
the everyday kicked in... the 1960s seem
like rather glum times - nothing to celebrate -
should i be surprised? still, democracy is the
failure we all like to keep failing,
so we can convene on the appropriate bureaucratic
expansion - despotism doesn't favour the latter,
hence its failings concerning professions
with pencil sharpeners.
Adolf asked: marriage works (heirat arbeit)?
the people replied: ja!
Adolf reiterated: das Autobahn.
the people reinvented: die autokäfer!
and then there was tarmac with skid marks from
the revenants / alter curator traffic-jam pensioners
at 5p.m. hungry for their nips & tatties
alongside buff beef syringed with steroids
tested at the 1988 Olympics; fancy the Soviet
women growing beards on the sprint track
before tabloids undermined the democratic argument
for free-press - tabloids are just as bad as
despots mediating press-freedom;
tabloids are collective despotism, or to put it mildly,
throwing cabbage rather rather than using the guillotine...
i'd prefer the guillotine.... meaning i wouldn't
have to watch your ****-like ****** expressions
beyond the cabbage thrown.

ART MOMENT, VOL 1
By Darcy Prince

Time or reality is ungoverned, it will remain so for at least in the indefinable future. Innovations will come along. If ethical education has taught us anything. It always changes. Devoid of not making an effort.

I tried painting for a bit. I’m not that good. Several years ago, my housemate recommended watching an Andy Warhol documentary. I honestly became fascinated & dived into several art documentaries, honestly quite a fantastic learning experience. Looking, I regret not collecting all the links to those documentaries, even though I got the time to do so now. This was during the time of getting to know myself again, or getting a sense of direction. Painting, drawing, more attempts to learn, using online videos to learn how to draw a person's eyes or hands was a somewhat slightly disappointing experience, that I should try something else. I can remember the pacific moment to try art writing a go or even getting into any sort of criticism. But I ended up there.

I remember watching the program, ‘different ways of seeing’, aesthetics became a new subject for me. With Alain De Botton, now taking into consideration the larger impact, things have on society. Being utterly fascinated on how some, not all painters have a lasting print on peoples society. Like how Van Gogh never sold a painting within his lifetime. The relation between what we see & what we know is a comforting, settling thing. Seeing the painting ‘scream’, perhaps an early meme or trolling act, without a notice, reflects the inner fear we share. Feeling desired as a lover, maybe the most Holy feeling in the world. For those who aren’t, their artworks are a displaying force of nature. Rothko has provided a new way in expression, with his drape like paintings in a tone of red, as his edges before the canvas ended seemingly lazy at a time when art was supposed to be serious & realistic. And so far, people are the common thread between forms of art.

A time for action is in art. In modern speaking or our armchair conversations over coffee, maybe you’re a tea drinker. My cigarettes will be there. The hashtag learn to code was quite popular, especially when universal income became a new subject for our politicians we are voting in and started to be talked about. Games are a large industry. There’s even arguments for it being art. It does make use for graphics & storytelling. Whether you play it or not. It does include a large amount of thinking to put together. Sure we can talk of the violence it uses. Though outside those who read or try to keep up with modern times. The rise of deep fakes. *** doesn’t belong to a group, race, a part of the city, race. It honestly belongs to the world. Yes, some works of art will rise from it. The obscure thinking never actually seems to fit in. Even in the Star Wars films, there’s a use of passed away actors to be acting in the films they’re releasing now. To remain innocent, is to remain ignorant. Statues of past figureheads of culture may have been adored by the art critic, but the average person has someone they know to be entered in their private virtual world.

I don’t know what your story is. I think art can offer what we’re languishing inside of us. Personally, over the last couple of years, I’ve been wounded by my last breakup. I spent it in bed, I cried, I couldn’t do anything, even food started to taste differently. In romance art, novels in particular, supplemented so much. Being heartbroken. Can you believe that individuals can do so amongst themselves? I’ve heard it argued & arguing successfully, that identity comes from an idea. Art I think, that comes along with that. But art does provide a certain grief, with tragedy developing as its own genre.

I really don’t know where I was going with this. I just wrote it out. But leaving it here, to add to the body of work when I die. But what reconciles an individual with society, to what that person created.

I can't believe how much I love him

   don't stop these spells of static stirrings
   won't wash it away, like sleep
   in my succint showers
(rightly, comely in my hand)

And still I absorb
the absolute-arrangements of him,
the bear-bulk hulk of him

still I swoon,
   aroused with naive-named niceties
   ceremonial dreams of touchable torches...
And I am overcome,
by flagrant fuels, aflow
ever the more juvenile
   for who am I / to have
   the grand spectacles of him...?

I can't imagine why I love him so
   can't begin to convince or list it
   don't keep this leaping lush of laden love
   ungoverned / inside...
I won't ignore it
I can not hide
I want to tell him
   like laughter spreads its joy
   he's a riddle to be reveled in,
Want to know the questions
his face the answer I want to see...

It is he that silences
the noise of me,

it is he that revises
the mistakes of me,

it is he that spends
the worth of me,

it is he that lifts up
the truth of me

I can't believe
I can't begin

how much I am
                            in love with
him...

When the going
Has got too tough
It’s time to get going
And drive forwards

Don’t sit in the stagnant pool
Of decay
Don’t delay
Start a new day

Extricate yourself
From the mess of the past
And formulate
A new reality

Ungoverned by old demons
Ruled by the true you
Cut free
From the enemy
And light a torch
Of freedom

In memory’s unobserved corner there hides a small boy
So tired of sorrow he no longer cared even for joy.
With a wounded child’s wisdom he thought it to be prudent
To take Mister Spock and make himself the Vulcan’s student
Not because Spock was very stylish or outwardly cool
(Though he was cool); but rather, tired of feeling like a fool
He set out to tread this path, the unsmiling Vulcan way
He sought to do what Spock would do, to say what Spock would say.
He made his mask the untrembling visage, sans all motion,
Took for his own that grave face ungoverned by emotion,
Because even if it felt like interiorly dying
This inhuman discipline must beat unmanly crying
For a Vulcan’s arched eyebrows and a Vulcan’s pointed ears
Were worth the trade considering the dearth of Vulcan tears.

so, pay attention now
get your heads out your *****
these are facts you never learned on the news or in history classes
as one leads to the next you will come to understand
that the veil of lies and secrecy is a cancer in this land
if you have no time to read because you can't handle what is true
then here's the chance to turn away and I won't bother you
the history of 'our' nation could only see the light
if the residents currently occupying it were hidden from our sight
they were slaughtered, starved and herded
and minimized through the years
until the final, heartless march
along the Trail of Tears
now we had our land and prospered well
as we ravaged Mother Earth
the savagery and ungoverned progress
abandoned human worth
slavery and divided direction
led to civil war
******, ****, abuse and hate
spread from shore to shore
the travesty of Pearl Harbor
a wretched trade of patriotic lives
our entry into world war II
on the backs of weeping mothers and wives
then comes the ultimate nightmare
the mother of all blatant crime
the execution of the seeker of change
that forever altered the beautiful rhyme
he saw the power they recklessly flaunted
in the corridors and once sacred halls
and vowed to castrate the power mongers
the industrial and military *****
the result was their production
a badly written and acted plight
staged before the world to see
an execution in broad daylight
'we have control'
don't **** with us
is the message they convey
removing all witnesses,
then Bobby and Martin
all better souls than they
911 - don't get me started
the truth will soon be known
and all like I who speak the truth
may one day meet their drone
as a threat to this great nation
as a hater in their eyes
I will not deny conclusions
I will not support their lies
we must face the evil in these dark corners
we must come in from the blinding rain
if we are to save ourselves
we cannot live our lives in vain
search your heart and search the truth
it is there for you to find
our history resurrected
our future no longer blind

The power of pain is ungoverned
As faith slowly bleeds out
Children transfixed and mesmerized
While cannons cauterize our wounds

Mother moon, over hills and lakes
Eyelids can't resist the weight
Arms vanquished and immobilized
As dawn breaks our last awakening

By splendor's dying light
Treason has spoiled meager hearts
Eyes squinting and crestfallen
We are but a fraction of this mutinous crew

For our deaths may be inevitable
And our honor may be unenviable
But betrayal blinks and relapses
As shield and sword seed the earth

My heart is in anarchy,
ungoverned by love.

It is from the outside of this world
that I can peer in, and see how the
arteries have become twisted, twisted
into a tangle of words
and scripture
meant to
oppress me.

Unwound, the words are scattered
like anagrams solved with the
humdrum thump of a heart.

There are rules that must be followed.
There are hearts that must be loved.

The power of pain remains ungoverned
While the currency of faith slowly bleeds out
Children, transfixed and mesmerized
Watch cannons cauterize our wounds

Mother moon, cresting over hill and lake
Reflections can no longer resist the weight
Arms, vanquished and immobilized
As dawn breaks our last awakening

By splendor's dying light
Treason has spoiled our meager hearts
Eyes, squinted and crestfallen
We are but a fraction of this mutinous crew

For our deaths may be inevitable
And our honor may be unenviable
Betrayal, blinks and relapses
While sword and shield seed the earth

She's standing on a platform
in the middle of
the middle of nowhere.
Watching trains crest the treeline,
the same way she stands in the shower
until just before the morning's heat runs out.

Human humility, gravelly
and low, suggests the balance
of power is blurrier
than established hierarchies.
So diffuse there's no longer distinction
between center and margin,
fore
ground and back
ground.
Sinuous instead of rigid,
****** instead of embalmed.
Skeletal tangles of our murky balladry
disintegrating to hellish echo
like birdsongs
wilting in the sunrise.

Heart is a risky fuel to burn,
but look how the flame holds tight
until the shadows chip away
just enough for her ungoverned
wilderness
to creep back quietly.

Finally seeing everything again,
like dark water through trees.
and falling in love with the idea of
never,
hardly even lasting forever.

Thinking inside a box, how seldom she had done this, so not her style.

“Give me a box,” she’d say, “but make it so big I’m not aware it’s there.”

A box as big as the sky—or maybe as big as one’s native tongue.

Hers was a style so ungoverned so unschooled it was invisible.

Forget poetic forms—she outsized the confines of biology.

At birth—given outward indicators—she was classified as “male.”

“Oh yah,” she’d say, “tell that to the handful of men who guessed otherwise.”

Men whom—in the thrall of lust—she’d let lead her to darkened alleyways.

Men who mouthed her mouth, lifted her dress, probing for what they’d never find.

She would try to warn them, but they were too drunk, too possessed to listen.

She was one of the fortunate ones who didn’t end up in the morgue.

So many are lost because they can’t be kept in well-defined spaces.

When we began drawing lines on the earth borders erupted in flames.

Imagine a finite universe and it will take your breath away.

I will once again
Be deprived of rest
For the sake of movement,
For the economy,
For the reason,
For the fire in engines,
For pulps,
Bulbs,
Bulls, dulls and dolls.

Half words corrupted
For the increasing lack of control,
A time within my time
To mark hours within my hours,
Corroding my moments
Into a drifting yaw.

Ungoverned in direction
Of a natural collision
Against shields left behind,
Forgotten, but solid,
Shields against will,
Shields against pleasure,
Shields against animals inside,
Shields against killing time.

I anguish for the incompleteness
In everything I produce,
In the words I pronounce,
In the interruptions of flows,
I anguish for the circle has no end,
I anguish for the ideas that left untouched,
For the inspiration underutilized,
For the balance never to be found.

I anguish for I anguish.
There is no end
To what has no start.

Worldly riches are useless in heaven,
Without yeast bread is unleavened,
Children of Mammon are ungoverned,
Caught between the sixth and seven.

The whole experience  is slightly surreal.
Like “one of those” movie they say,
Tourist... they make it seem fake.

Some folks get Perplexed
Body checked by a new reality.

what to do-si-do with them. Humbugs,
They can’t. They lack attention,
ascribe beauty to that which is simple.

thousand forms of loveliness eludes them,
superfluous guest, who only pretends to live for beauty,
Yet has never left cement. And never see he dawn.

Not all roads are paved.
Walk on a rainbow trail; walk on a trail of song

rhythm, symmetry, and a happy combination of elegance and utility
  
See for yourself travers ungoverned roads
Get off the pavement and onto the rainbow trail
Keep going to find  
garden shed village; a painted landscape  
Peacocks strutting silently throw the grass.
                                                                ­                  ...(Like it girls in PE
                                                              ­                       -— competitive —
                                                               ­                         tyrannosaurus  
                        ­                                                                 ­   flexing...

While unkempt horses wonder on & off stage -   Crazy about carrots
  
                                                                ­                         ...(putting divots                                                           ­     
                                                           ­                                    in the grass)...
The Girls their loveliness eludes them.
Chewing on grass blades - happy as horses can be.