Dancing at my windowsill she calls,
black bottomless eyes and a jagged smile
tug me from sleep with a broken-glass laugh.
Beckoning, this pixie traces softly across my jaw--
fingertips so slightly ***** the skin.
Wordless but for laughter she pulls at me until
charmed I rise to follow where she leads.

Open evening air greets my night-dressed body
with cool wakening breezes and wild sounds.
Stumbling through rocks and over roots
I chase through the wood behind my manic guide.
Toes grip at undergrowth, slip, falling to arrive
on my knees
scraped and panting slightly
in a clearing otherworldly,
aglow with fey light.

A curious night-shine looms--yet Luna's face is hidden.
All attentions focus now on this central luminescence.
From its core jangles sweet, unearthly music
twisting its way into my heart
teasing at the edges of my fragile mind.
Compelled forward I follow sound--
my waker cannot outstrip me as we hurtle on.
Before our eyes the glow casts shadows
forming structure in this mystifying vision
eyes drink in your very first glimpse:
The Carnival.

Light and shadow compose sweeping tents
striped ebony and ivory, seeming strong as each
element yet smooth, sculpted by a master's hands.
Leaping black flames skip along their summits,
performing their nocturnal dance,
illuminating darkness, engulfing light.

Revelers' song soars and forms carouse,
                                                  lively­--but shadows only--to the eyes outside.

The air bears heady perfumes, enticing scents:            
rich, melting creams and toasting sugar
enveloping baked warmth and intoxicating spice.
Last, encircling all this wonder,
cries of mirth and sights to amaze:
an unadorned, unflinching iron fence.

Drunk with sound and smell and scene
wildly spinning through the breeze,
my rousing sprite whirls ahead
bound as if in a trance
her body flinging against
the forbidding blackened gates--
                                        her laughter only extinguished
                                                         as her delicate form dissolves into smoke
                                         holding momentarily the blue of night
                                                         her wasted shape, lost to the barrier.

But Curiosity will blind
eyes far more chaste than mine,
and Allure sings only such songs
that no heart suffers long.

Heedless mortal as I am, I grasp the solid frame
decay crumbles rough against my palms.
Bodies of other spirits caked by time
or the innocent work of oxidation
I do not pause to wonder,
merely vault myself over the fence
and brush from my hands
the black dust of portentous iron.

Inside the gate, vibrant figures flood my vision
ornately costumed in gowns of orange, violet, green
arrayed in shirts and trousers dazzling in spectrum.
These gorgeous apparitions loop around me
peddling beauty, selling fame.
They mesmerize  the eye with stunning wares:
an emerald beast to carry your heavy burdens
sapphire wine to cool your burning tongue
the music of a thousand crystal seas
kept in a bottle to drown your babbling mind.

                "What do they cost?"
                            "Not a dime, not a dime!
                              Just your Now, just a Moment,
                                                         ­                  only Passing Time."

Wandering deeper into the mysteries of night
a band of revelers swing beside and catch me
laughing, bear my bewildered form in arms
and deposit me into a large tent, wherein I find
a man at a canvas the size of a wall
before which are seven stone bowls.
He dashes his brush before the amazed,
and the canvas remains blank
until my companions urge me closer.
Couching myself upon a cushion shapes appear:
Here is a man who will paint your heart's desires
so vivid you can lose all you have
so intimate you fear to move,
lest any see the embers of your fire.

Spin and turn, the Revelers never stay long,
nor draw too near to any one spectacle,
but only joy for new tents, new delights.
No passion was left to grow cold,
no enchantment to lose its power.

Spin
See the girl of flawless grace,
her body painted like the stars--
                                                  the stars the carnival hid
painted like the stars and lithe as the air
ethereal in her arts,
ascending the pole, traversing the rope!
See her twine around stakes and over fire,
dive through hoops and drop
through that needle-loop in your eye.

Spin
Step up to the tent of glistening blue
the fountain that gushes without source.
Marvel at its lucent clarity, it's chilling foam!
Fill your goblet to the brim and drink!
Drink deep, imbibe sweet forgetfulness.
Long for nothing, cleanse your heart.

Spin
Take the carousel with its living beasts to ride.
Make merry with all on board and erase
any care your heart can hold.
Let the furious pace speed on from you
all that would trouble for a thought.

Spin
A honeyed apple pressed against your tongue.
                                         Just a taste! Just a bite!
See the glistening on the skin
made from the dreams of the greatest hearts
unrestrained and unrequited.
Fresh Desire--they're all the more enticing.

The apple glitters golden, its red flesh shines beneath.
Something familiar, a darker red, flecked across the finish.
I bite down and reel--
Something wondrous, but something queer.

Faithful attendants grab me quickly, dance me
into the mouth of a dark velvet tent.
It swallows me as I fall, waiting for the teeth---

        White mist surrounds with a shimmer
         and I have found the ground.
A Voice, deep as the sea enfolds me
gentle, heavy as with sleep--yet all aware.
It invites me closer, sit nearer
rest from the night's fantasies.
Lulled, I make for the figure hooded in brilliant gold.
He leads me to his table.

Heavy, strangely empty I seek sanctuary.
He offers instead a great promise--
power over my weariness, my desires met.
He offers joy unending,
pleasure without regret, without shame.
A haven promised here, mine alone, if only--
--if only I will stay.

But something tastes metallic in those words
promises that cannot be kept.
No tent could hold so much.
This voice, so warm and pleasing,
cannot mask well a lie,
and the gentle hand holds equally a threat.
                                                         ­                                                             run­
                Awake once more I fly from the shroud
bursting blind into the alley.

But back in the tent, left a piece of my heart
and my eye rolls away into a peddler's cup
blistered bits of my soul flake off, scorched
by fire-eaters food. What's left? Who am I?

                             What did it cost?
                               Not a dime, not a dime!
                                          Just a piece of your heart,
                                                                ­  just a piece of your mind.

Retching, the last of my still beating heart
squelches into my waiting hands.
I gag and sob out the gore, disbelieving
this small bit of flesh is all that is left
of all that I have been.

The blood draws the eyes of comrades
now changing from lovely to grotesque.
Ravenous, their teeth elongate
Eyes darken and colors fade
What was vibrant now decayed.
Sweet cream curdles in my mouth.
Rich meats, choice fruits turn sour--
the apple rots.

A hoard unrecognizable
of starved beasts and hideous beings
bears down for my final offering.

But I must know who I am
and what there was beyond this place!

Sprinting barefoot from the mob
clutching the vital treasure to my chest--
though to there it may not return--
I look now for mercy from the black gate.

Elegant porcelain fingers produce monstrous claws.
What once caressed my wondering skin
now sinks in for blood with crushing force.
A hopeless last attempt, a dead man's prayer:
I fling my body on the gate---


                                                       ­                                I am over. I am free--



Iron that once kept me out, now holds them fast within.

Bedclothes torn, all my purchased raiment turned to ash,
I limp, clutching a fragment heart.
Staggering from the Carnival's screams,
its dissonant music now all trick and terror.
Putrid garbage wafts from its walls.
Press onward, never looking back, through the wood.

So long ago--how long?--a little one led me here.
Her death was her own, but could have been
my salvation, a warning dearly paid.
Cheaply received.

My mind swims.
A body with its heart outside cannot last.
There are many things not of the Carnival
that would have my final scrap.

Faltering feet stumble and tripping find
a mere clear and still: a mirror for the moon.
And Luna's face does shine down
all her attendants watching on
as my naked form collapses beside its calm.
I cannot deserve this resting place,
could not discern a trap if one here lay.
All I can and have and am I offer up to Mercy,
and dip what's left of my broken life
into the cleansing pool.

‘I’m tired, so tired,’ said Jonathon Black,
‘I can hardly stay awake,’
His wife just stared at the back of his head,
Went back to her currant cake.
She’d heard it all a million times
Was bored with the things he’d say,
She wished he’d pack up his things, sometimes
And quietly go away.

But Jonathon sat in his bamboo chair
And stared at the world outside,
He used to be full of energy,
But something inside him died,
He lived in the shadows of tides and scenes
That were conjured behind his eyes,
The throwaway remnants of others dreams
He’d capture in tears and sighs.

He spent the afternoon nodding off
Then woke with a startled cry,
‘You wouldn’t believe what I saw just now,
Right out of a clear blue sky.
A shadow crept from the bushes there
And it killed young Andrew Deems,’
Giselle had tutted and shook her head,
‘Just one of your stupid dreams!’

The woods, a favourite lovers spot
Stretched out from their own back door,
Giselle would go with a basket there
Looking for mushroom spore.
‘I saw you out in the woods today
But nothing is what it seems,’
She turned and snapped at her husband’s back,
‘Just keep me out of your dreams!’

‘It isn’t a question of that,’ he said,
‘I can’t control what I see,
Wherever a person’s thoughts are at
They keep on coming to me.
Even the strangers that walk on past
Have secrets they send in beams,
You’d think that they would be safe from me
But I’m the waker of dreams.

Giselle had wandered off to the woods
With her basket held on high,
While Jonathon found and loaded his gun,
Went after her with a sigh,
He found her there in a shady nook
In a huddle with Andrew Deems,
‘I thought I’d warned you, often enough,
You didn’t believe, it seems!’

He shot the lad as he tried to run
Then dropped the gun to his side,
‘All I could see in his dreams was you,
But now, that dream has died.’
‘And what will you do with me,’ said she
And bit her lip ‘til it bled,
‘I’m tired, so tired,’ said Jonathon Black
Then put the gun to his head.

David Lewis Paget

prelude
wake up into crystalline air
can feel
the swaying trees pull up the body
waiting for dreams to run
wash
off

no one can imagine what the waker has seen
the glow of love through a pure heart like light lost in honey

-

I'm sorry for interrupting. I just have
Too much to
Say:

I know

You understand the way salt tastes on my tongue
I understand the way you sit in the middle of the universe
Right next to me
Poking holes into my skin
with which
to fill with words
Painting pictures like drawing bridges
Over these mile high canyons
Standing at every side

these* these words spread like openings into the ice
pride as you asked to see a face I had never before shown

Towers of words and I say
See things simpler
To myself
but already I see them as they are
Like the moon behind the cloud three nights ago
pulling at the edge of the sea

I moved to your gait
To gravitate towards feeling
Like moths
shimmering
The incoming tide
reaching for humanity




your silence takes a shape into mine
How could something so much like light be possessed?
How could you clasp to your bones, a wave that pulls eternally at the shore?
you make me think, I was thinking

I think he would have said
don't you see it has to be this way?

one         small         point                in the dark

How would it be,
otherwise.
Those angel’s hands shaped perfectly (as always they were)
on your neck

and you would have said you’re saying
pointing into the dark,
your weapon words stand so small next to your mortality
and
I love you with nothing

A man without a heart is
a gentle threat
A man without a heart
Lacks only what you hold in your hands

A slip into abstraction
How young we were how young
Yet how young were we?

afterword
stutters stilettos
sick skin sick
beautiful
letters
left this morning
while you were away in
mourning
silhouettes
cigarette shadows straining
shadow eyes
in this dim light
old
grammar
makes me ache
in between every line and I wish
you were more human I wish you were
less

sometimes you come back,
like the peculiar awareness of finitude
soft footed
after we’d been in that small room together
cold
pouring out in white light
leaning over and smiling gently
with a surety of falling snow winter outside
and you described seattle and kurt cobain
and showed me your jars of sand and jars of honey
and I smiled gently and loved you.
and we went out in the cold and you smoked a cigarette
and everything around us was hushed wet in dark gray
you were something that made me ache
honest human, dark and earnest
opened ahead of me
wise and naive
I felt like I’d known you somewhere before
I held you in my vision but didn’t speak

as you told me what men had done to you
I picked up something that was shining on the ground
and thought about what men had done to me

i.

Amiss was I, in mine earthly vessel,
Agin the igneous chasm. Bane being's,
Inside of this thing were gruesome,
baleful, their laughter caused spasm's.

ii.

Amongst the hideous unholy creature's,
Bursted in, from on high, in majestic features;
A native speaker, a distant teacher, an angelic
Waker of love's soft due. She took me up whilst
She pulled me through;

iii.

I held her plumage, we held close tight,
Never thinking hadst I met this queen, though
We held close all night, all was right. At once tis
I was home, into her arm's, her embracing charm.
Hadst I met this empress before? Asked mine sinful soul.

iv.

Passing through a tunnel, going many miles a speed,
Mine blood dried, mine tears now fine, she saidst we must
Proceed; "O' how I thanketh thee queen, for rescuing me,
From that hellish pit in slime, in grime, dirt and ****. As
didst I sit; as I whispered to her "I thanketh thee so much".

v.

At the end of the tunnel, I couldst see the brightest white,
It flooded me in amare, none heartbreak was there, just happiness-none to compare, wherein all made human reasoning dive deeper in their psyches; though tis this is what's real, mountain's that overtower the field's of rosebud bliss, I entered on in- the entryway of paradise, with Jane's kiss.

vi.

Seraphim sang a million songs, I couldst seeith loved one's, I couldst view mine old cat and dog; whilst tis this place hath none need for a moon or the sun, God lit this divinity; tis a wonderful reality of what mankind pushed away, or tis what many blind themselves from, ignorant and dumbed, by man's philosophy.

vii.

Mine amour' cameth back into sight, I asked her the question that was in mine mind during ourn flight; " queen Jane, I hadst asked, I kneweth thee mine love, long ago mine lass, verily I kneweth that tiara atop thine head, verily we were lover's in ourn spirit form before earth, yea mine love? Jane replied with a smiling look, "verily, verily, we art in God's book's, we were afore spirit lover's from ancient time's hook's, we were predestined to meet once again, the Lord sent me to thee Brandon, mine king, soulmate-best friend".

viii.

After she verified what I kneweth, the pain and anguish lifted off of mine shoulders, once a sinner now renewed, mine eye's stared into her's, I felt the affection between us two. Finally; me and her met again, mine all whom I looked for back on the globe, mine soulmate-mine soul; I felt joy for the first time since birth. I was elated, ive waited a long time, to be freed from death's curse. Mine longing and mine wanting of thee mine lass, finally hadst come; praiseth ourn God, for sending thee mine chosen one.




©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedication

Neti Neti, I am not the Body
Neti Neti, I am not the Mind
If I am not the Body and Mind
Who am I? This must be defined
Tat Twam Asi, I am the Divine Soul, I find

If the Truth you want to know
Then on a Journey, you must go
You must Realize 'You are That, not this'
Until you realize the truth, there will be no bliss
Then only will Heaven open its door

Ghor Avidya is Gross Ignorance
I lived with the Myth, in a trance
Because I didn't know this was just my name
I got caught in my wealth and my fame
And the Truth just missed my glance

This world is a Leela, a drama I see
We are just Actors, just transitory
The earth is a Stage, we come and we go
Nothing is real, it is all just a show
We must transcend the Mind and Ego, ME

Tattva Bodha is the Knowledge of the Body
We are made of elements five
From dust we come and to dust we will go
This Body is not real, this Truth we must know
To Realize this Truth, we must strive

Atma Bodha is the Wisdom of the Soul
It is the Power that makes us roll
When we realize we are the Atman, the Soul, the Spirit
Not the skin that is outside, but the Power that is in it
Then we achieve our Life's ultimate goal

We must start a Talaash, a Quest
And put all our beliefs to test
We must Ask, Investigate and Realize
Only then will we open our 'real' eyes
And our Ignorance will come to rest

Sravana, Manana, Nididhyasana
The steps to the Truth are three
We must first read and then listen
And contemplate to realize what is within
Then from Rebirth we will be free

Sat Darshana is the Vision of the Truth
It helps us catch the evil brute
It makes us realize we are not the Body and Mind
We are the Soul, we Realize and we find
As we get to the bottom of the root

Maya is a Cosmic Illusion
It makes us live in delusion
It has the power to project the Myth
As it does, it conceals the Truth
And thus, it corrupts our vision

Aparoksh Anubhuti is Intuitive Realization
We experience the Truth and get Liberation
It is not knowledge that we can get from a book
It is beyond what the ordinary eyes can look
But the reward is Divine Unification

Why are we talking of all this?
We don't realize that this is Bliss
When we go on a quest, our beliefs to test
We search and search with all our zest
We must not stop or the reward we will miss

There are many who are caught in this world of pleasure
They think that money and wealth is the real treasure
They are prisoners of their Body and Mind
They are the Soul, this Truth they don’t find
True Peace and Bliss of life they fail to measure

There are some who use their Intellect
What is the Truth, they detect
Viveka Chudamani is a treasure, they find
It kills the rascal, the Monkey Mind
And then in Ananda they rest

Tat Twam Asi, Thou Art That
Not this, not this, we are That
We are not the Body that we seem to be
Not the Mind and Ego that says, ‘It’s ME’
We are the Divine Soul, in fact

We are the Waker, the Dreamer, the Sleeper - states three
From this Ignorance we must be free
We are Chaturyam, or Turiyam, the state that’s fourth
To this Truth we must all march forth
Then the Witness, the Observer we will be

Satyam Shivam Sundaram, do you know…
It is a mantra, the Truth it will show
Translated, it means, ‘The Truth is God is Beautiful’
Without God, there will be nothing wonderful
With Realization, into this we grow

What stops us is Ahamkara, the Ego
Which hides the Truth for the Myth to show
All along we say ‘I', 'me' and 'mine'
And so, in agony we live, and we whine
It's time to let go of the Ego

And then we must know about the Law of Action
Karma is the Law of Reaction
It states, 'As you sow, so shall you reap’
If you sin, you will take Rebirth and weep
From this cycle, we need Liberation

What is the reward if all this we do?
We will be Free from suffering, that is true
Jivanmukti is a state of Bliss
It overcomes all misery, this we must not miss
Otherwise, we will live as if in a zoo

A Steady Intellect can transcend the Mind
When the Intellect is Steady, we are Sthitpragya we find
It is about living with Realization
And not letting go of Liberation
Until we unite with the Divine

To Realize the Truth, we must live in Yoga
Not sink in this world and suffer in Bhoga
Yoga is about transcending the Mind
What the world believes is a myth of a kind
Then we are Enlightened, not blind

To Realize the Truth, all this we must know
If we have to cross this worldly show
Neti Neti, Not this, Not this
Tat Twam Asi will give us Bliss
But to this Truth we must row

What is our Life's Ultimate Goal
To Realize we are the Divine Soul
Moksha, Nirvana, Enlightenment, it is called
Because of Ignorance, this Truth is stalled
Until our Death, we just roll

To Realize this Truth, we need a Master
Then to the Goal, we will go faster
It is the Guru that takes us from Darkness to Light
A Spiritual Master tells us what is right
Reward is Joy, Bliss, and Laughter

And then, our Journey to God we will start
We Realize God lives in the Temple of our Heart
God is the Power that lives Within
It is a myth that he is made of bone and skin
And from all old beliefs, we will depart

I too lived in Ignorance for years
Until I Realized the Truth with tears
I finally realized that this was just my name
And I was glad and ended all my shame
And I got rid of all my Fears

If we want God-Realization
Then we must start with Self-Realization
Are we the body and mind? We are not this
Then, we realize we are That and live in Bliss
And then, we experience Unification

But there cannot be Unification
Unless first, there is Liberation
We must be Liberated from the Ego and the Mind
We are the Soul, this Truth we must find
And all this starts from Realization

Not this Not this, start your Quest
Thou Art That, only then you rest
Till you discover who you are not
You will never Realize, in myth, you will be caught
Don't lose your Spiritual zest

belgravia on itv... and the world is filled with...
odes to charlemagne -
or rather: the emperor has risen...
in the form of a bonaparte...

       i lost my virginity to a french girl
from Grenoble - a one ms. psychologist
Isa-bel-l'ah...

              and i had three pictures hanging
in my student accomodation overlooking
the salisbury crags...
           one i put my amp on the windowsill
and did a rendition of...
                            something from the movie
crow / last days...

there was plato... there was the marquis de sade...
and then there was napoleon...

i was immediately reminded...
but napoleon did x y and z...
       i could swear the zeitgeist for us begins
with the end of the 2nd world war?
well: i lost my virginity... didn't i?
          
             and come to think of...
there is the trafalgar sq. in London...
      and there's the monument when it came
to Austerlitz victory...

           napoleon and that old bias...
for all those that encompassed in the duchy of warsaw...
or from under the partition
shared between the prussian the russian
and the austro-hungarian empire...

a short-lived affair... but...
        she minded napoleon but not marquis de sade...
come forward 200 years...
what are the monuments of the 2nd world war?
what are the... ******* monuments of the 1st world
war?
the cemeteries at Ypres for western europe...
the death camp memorials
   and the little ghetto lockets of memory and:
gypsy good fortune in the east?

a picture of the mushroom eating
and clinging onto the flesh of men and animals
in a symbiosis and mind-control dynamics
of the fungus keeping the host alive...
unlike a virus?

   where are the monuments for all that was
achieved in the two wars?
where's the trafalgar sq. where's the arc de triomphe?
between 1803–1815
   or between 1939–1945... well...
              12 years is not 6...
                  i guess you can't achieve much of any
sort of "meaningful" war if...
there's not a decade included in the mix...

oh i'm sure it's going to be hard to imagine
the führer as the kaiser...
     because: dressed in khaki like a whittle
hanzel schoolboy when all the big boys
started to wear schwarzgekleidet of zee SS...

from a perspective of history...
                             i am unsure as to why...
this ms. psychology major would grieve
the affairs of napoleon...
                             perhaps if he was a bit taller...
she might have a fancy for him...
then again... as kaiser... as emperor...
come to think of it...
the notation: Frank would included
the swiss... the belgians the dutch...
luxembourg...
       but not those rascals...
in the rhineland-palatinate...
            or north-rhine-westphalia...

schubert symphony no. 4 in c-minor, D. 417...
i always thought that schubert...
was the pianist competing with violins
to tackle shumann... never mind...

     then again: illuminating life of those
that still have a toe in the remaining posit
of life... yet 3/4 of what life is willing to offer
has both feet in the coffin and a last nail
to beg for the closure and funeral procession
of that chapter of human details
to be: ascribed to the realms of solely learning...
about it... there's no great-grandma with
her wheelbarrow of memories to grant
you "perspectives"...

he was a führer... but not the kaiser...
come to think of it...
the rise and fall... from the confines of being
rejected from an art-college...

today one of my cats (i only have two)
accidently burned the hairs of her tail
when she signatured it (the tail) across
a burning candle... and... you wouldn't believe it...
the smell of burnt cat furr...
i can imagine escaping my episodes of
solipsism when venturing into sniffing
someone else's farts to be more appealing...
than the smell of... the burning of cat furr...

i did remark... i don't think it was all that
pleasant working as butchers in those concentration
camps... if the burning of cat furr smells so bad...
if the burning of skin, nails...
bones... i'm starting to think it was a hell-hole
for both the camp "workers" and....
those about to be forced on the altar
of the belly of Moloch...

                          and when the hebrew god
conquered the gods of the philistines
and the caanites...
      did he "fall asleep"...
    thinking they wouldn't somehow use
people that wouldn't otherwise pay direct
homage to them... for their devilish enterprises?

where are the monumets from world
war I or world II that aren't cemeteries
or memorials or the death camps themselves?
there's not point merely seeing...
imagine going to Handel's messiah
at the royal albert hall...
           and only seeing an orchestra play...
most associated with seeing are:
the quality of either inanimate objects
or moving objects...
but there isn't a mention of the sounds locked
in brimfuls in these things...
but most importantly... i can't smell that
death circus...
well... no matter... i don't need to visit those
death camps and pay some spezial ode to
memory: it will just take a cat accidently burn
its tail furr brushing it over a candle...
that's enough... thank you...

           i don't need to see those camps...
not out of denial outright...
but... without the scent of burning hair
and flesh... the infamous cracow's winter
snow of cremations...

but the smell is missing...
i don't need to visit these places
for a picture of unused hammers and nails...
in their pristine gothica of still slippery when
kept in a mummified state of being
oiled for use... i don't like to rumminate in
echoes of: what this oven was used for...
the scent has subsided like a tide
and all that's exposed is never the living
proof... i have archeological proof...
that it is so sudden... doesn't matter...
i don't have the "perfume" to riddle me
with an immediacy of a recoil!
for that? i just need a cat to accidently burn
a few hairs of its tail over a candle...

it's one of those needle injections straight
into the nostrils...
seeing the oven will do very little to give
an expanse of my: sisyphean weight to tow
along...

faster than the speed of light:
or the digestion imprint of a photograph...
faster than the speed of sound...

    ssssssssssssssssssssscent...
          i don't need to see what other people decided
to want and see...
the burning of flesh and most notably unwashed
hair and furr...
       that's plenty...
i don't want to discourage myself from
cooking anything else in the future...

sometimes my room becomes a hotel for
either moths or flies...
i currently have an early waker...
she must be nearing being a year old...
you can tell... her flight is more methodological...
it isn't that usual flurry and all
that excited presence of itself: unique
in a bounty of life...
i will not bother this fly...
        if she was a mosquito... perhaps i would...

i am longing to see the spawn "maggots"
of moths eat and curl up in cotton...

where are the monuments to call it:
the end of world war I and world war II...
it's as if... it has to be shamed...
this whole genesis story from half-way
between the past century...
and into this... swamp-en-masse...

          last time i checked... that "something"
between the serbians and the croats
and the muslims of yugoslavia...
                    the 13th waffen mountain division...
or head east... the ukranian infamous
insurgent army...
        only recently i heard some major
****-wits decided to drill holes into the tires
of ambulances... near bristol...

as a perfectly just cold blooded heart...
is the crucifixion the epitome of a demigod's death?
what about... being spiked?
being forced onto a pike via
the architecture of where the intestines
meet the coccyx... the *******...
the ****... and the pelvis?
with hands tied?
what about hanging off a meat-hook...
with the meat-hook making the incission under the jaw?
hands and legs tied?

the crucifixion is just an out-dated symbol
of sacrifice... no wonder all that came after
had to become so... more... adventurous...
wouldn't we be foolish when it came to slacking
on the chapter of torture?

but at least one aspect of life can be still felt
to be pure, "aryan"... un-disturbed...
pain... is so un-interrupted by competing
subjectivities... that... well...
it's almost akin to cross paths with god...
pain is pure in that it is true...
forever: there's that other great democratic force
at work than mere death...
by the time we're through death is but
a bureucratic notation of a statistic:
a near miss of anonymity...

                there's that great leveller of pain...
from a simple toothache...
it's as if an ****** that comes on the wings of
being... a sedative of consciousness...
pain as that...
   pain is an inoculate agent against reality...
against consciousness...
all for that ****** of dreams...
lucky for me... i don't dream so well...
i forrest gump the whole affair...

some would think pain as a defining moment
an event horizon for their numb-skulled
crossword puzzle zeniths of "life"...
     i see pain more in favour of...
      i want to be cured from having to curate
so many mediocrities of this life:
as served and as service for others...
so dilligent at being busy-bodies in the shelter
of hierarchies and the shadows of:
the impossible perfection of mountain
replicas of Giza...

pain is illumination...
    beginning with a toothache...
once this temp. filling is ready to be scrubbed out...
and a root canal is to be fitted...
i think i'll begin with an oyster-esque "typo"
readying myself for an ******
when asked 'would you like an anaesthetic'
and the reply will be... 'no'...
                 clearly i don't have as many
avenues as are readily available
when it comes to a holy trinity of mouth,
******... *******...

      self-serving pleasures of the extensions
of pinching... by either crap pincers
or the cold of virus simulation of crowns
when having an ice-cube placed into my palm...

in that i am wholly sympathetic to pain...
well... what good did reading walter benjamin's
illumination(s) essay do to me...
beside what i already know about...
the difference between collecting books...
and collecting books and reading them...

              my personal library would shrink somewhat...
given that i own pretty much an assortment
of what has already been read:
i'm not my grandmother:
unlike watching a film... i can't re-read a book...
give me 2 years reading one...
but i will not re-read it!

this extension of a mollusk's zenith via
a ******... of all that's the sensation that rhymes
heart with brain...

         tow the bones...
       tow the bones...
                   come to the horizon where
the soft tissue blitzkriegs past the bone to the marrow...

arable lure of the prosthetic ghost, limb...
and limp...
       soft zenith pleasure...
while at the same time...
entertaining "things" that only secular
sensibility measures can instill...
do not cross paths with mythology:
goodness! you might forget being
snarky and insensible come tomorrow's year
monday when journalism catches
up from... "somehow" being detached
from her de facto and carpe diem
mantras of modus operandi!

i might call it: the moth's seal of the lips...
enough to lick a postage stamp...
hardly enough to actually kiss...

sold: christianity: metaphorical cannibalism...
i would rather taste the real thing...
if ever such an opportunity should
give sway...

       a führer is not a kaiser... back in the day...
there was respect in post-napoleonic war London...
in belgravia...
how did the h'american white house originate...
the Belveder of Warsaw...
vermin, peoples of the world: nibble...

                   i'm here to claim my future:
my anonymity... i'm here to scatter with the dues
of the frail... waiting for no clarity of
locked: stature worded in baron...
no stature worded in kaiser... führer...
      i am on the sole minding of... the gnostics...
the heretics...

i want to burn blue when all other dogmatic
breaths burn yellow...
           that i drink is of no solace...
bribe the reader! inner vacuum otherwise
a handshake with my shadow... by candlelight...
which is a bribe for an audience of death:
that personification on a theme of romance...
thanatos... chilling the spine...
and the serpentine...

                    i want to see the gallows...
and allure of seeing ***** and rot come oozing
from their baptised fleshy bits...
i want to be curator of the last abolished screech
of existence... i wand to hush them...
by sharpening a knife...
i want to find the idle fork...
i want to find the crown of ferns...
and kick and stab... the house of already dead
roman emperors... sitting... nay...
loitering... the anger of pride on their
laurels...

             napoleon... even with a name like that...
you can stomach the usual: steak becoming
a lump of minced beef...
but when it's ****** or stalin...
czopek or elert...
                    you'd wish for a horsehoof
to be dubbed: smith...
                     -smithy...
or some other... lucky you: frauman...
                      fregel...            made it up as
we went along...

yep... yep... i get it... drinks a whiskey...
****** out a lemonade...
and for whatever "genius": genius...
that third tier of being... not spawned by the gods...
but by man... in between angels and demons...
the geniuses...
that autistic master-class of...
****'s itching kinda eerie!

   i'm drunk: most of the people are sober...
i'm not going to have to
give an apologetics lecture on the sober
sods... am i?
romance period... a bit like being
a modern brit and all that wham!
sputnik dazzle of the: grit brighton!

jokes aside... the winged hussar...
                   also mongol...
******* that clad themselves in dog ****
to imitate... what would later become...
the 365 harem of an alexander...
          
   would it be any good reading
the greeks?
     can you really want to "catch-up" on so
much... when in fact you should be
reading the people who have re(a)d...
the ancient greeks?

here's me taking heidegger's advice...
spend 12 years reading aristotle...
          martin... oi oi... that leaves
me doing more work than the already
work required in pretending to be catholic...
and doing a spin-off sunday...
how about me just reads up on yous...
how's that?
2 years worth of you... is about...
       whatever it took you to "master"
aristoteles: ah-chew: chow-mein sucker...

     life is or at least has become or will
become... too impertinent...
  then again... lassitudes of being kept
in the confines of one's own allowances...
i can't expect... in the same way...
i can't become expectent...
it's a two-way-swoe-order in the guise
of a phoenix... (missing phenotypes)...

             the best held advent of:
if you weren't a part of pappa's genocide of
a clarifying sputnik's *****-out
into frog's dream-alike all mammalian
when you're already on your way out
with the moloch altar sacrifice of
no foetus would be born...

call it a... champagne bottle uncorking
ritual when it comes to...
and all that other drifting ritual
of "entropy" whenever a sobering / ***
note would awake a hannibal lecturer
for and what more...
that was necessary...

           stipends of: gotcha...
eagles - witchy woman...
ol' cliff does a little number:
like no intro for a jazz megahit
quintet when the bass comes along...
devil woman...
or the totally camp...
  dale winton...
because turning totally gay only
arrived in full bloom and daffodils
in the trenches...
when true gay arrived...
well... any other hole to fill...

              this hole's better than
any ****** eye's...
who's that backdoor man of
assorted gifts, to begin with?

          rhyme rhymes rhyme rhymes...
easily to make a happy than no
alcoholic into a: no thank you...
  
                                   discretely...
suburban... those desperado... casa-esposa...
the pride of the son: a mother...
that's usually enforced...

las orgullo de hijo: una madre...
           bad spanish... bad german...
mongrel of the either and some anglican
and some ****** catholic...

                                        if there was still something
of a worthwhile partition of time...
****** was never going to become
the next napoleon...
even though... invading russia was
a plagiarism... and the retrdo-event of all
that waste of time... 200 years
and the waste of time with the air onslought
for the battle of britain...
the u-boats...

     no mention of waiting a while...
     in that "what if" universe of revising...
one two three four... with:
einz zwei drei vier...

or... the eager panzermensch...
and that tunnel under the sea...
         it can be noted that a 100 year war
did exist... between the english and the french...

if the napoleonic wars have the monuments...
for what sort of reasons were
the 20th century "ende von alles kriege ende"...
******* proxies of the yugoslav conflict...
vietnam...
        
the monuments of the greatest wars of man...
monumets? cemeteries... or the death camps...
was this the turning point where...
death by war was to be... lessened by
omittance: "keep calm and carry on" *******?
the celebrated en masse of one single
male *******?

how isn't citing german...
an exfoliation from speaking mere peasant
english?
der zunge ist berufung die gegenwart:
ein vater: ein vaterzunge!

scheisse und höllegrube mit es!
                der "vaterland": fathers of daughters
of would be mothers... mothers of sons
of would be fathers... motherland... fatherland...
mothertongue... a ******* great big itch
of grammatical concerns! blah!

where are these monuments akin to trafalgar sq.?!
what's to be so... gloated... about defeating the nazis?
where is the gloat in mere words...
but sorely missed when it comes to sacrificing
bone and marrow and muscle
to focus on making escapades of marble?!
where... are... these... monuments?!

      my own shadow overshadows the testimonies
of... two... very... minor... wars...
perhaps world war I had covered one or two
hurt prides... hurt egos...
but... after all... a khaki attired boyscout...
when all the bad boys
were later... morphed by hugo boss
into schwarzgekleidet steinherzimmobilien...

ein führer ist nein (ein) kaiser...
not like the title napoleon acquired...
napoleon was cited as: emperor...
        a reicarnation of charlemagne...
   too bad for whoever barbarossa was...
  rutger hauer?! yes... but rutger was, dutch...
for ****'s sake!

napoleon was crowned emperor
in a church...
****** walked into an opera house...
heard some wagner...
some wagner not in that anemic proposal
of the walhall from das rheingold
via michele campanella...

              all that becomes the litany...
prior to the peeling to the basic grammar...
and then an attack on pronouns...
as if all languages had...
gender-neutral nouns of the anglican-sphere
of "talk"...

strip me down the the Diogenes' basics of
sodden cloth and dogs' **** to attire...
perhaps i'll show you Cleopatra smile...
or Mona Lisa frown...
             whatever might be the eventuality...
this is not it; nor could it ever be... "it";
the "it" of what you seek.

the night rests in her palms
in air of wispy trees
in wobbly wilting shrills
inside a waker's dream

seeking breaks of formlessness
shatter moulds of thought
relinquish the hold of sea
vanish wavy plots

endlessly the bending blues
crash a piece of rock
bathed in tawny rays of moon
racing waves knock

the silent door of wonder
the shrill of blinking eyes
the blossom of a sterile
desert splayed inside

lost on lips of firmament
spewing sinful glee
violet summits seek the sky
all in a waker's dream

I killed the calendar on the wall,

Skipped the glorified ceremony and all.

Pieces of plans soared through the air,

Nearly brushing my cowlicked hair.

To the Disrupter of my Dreams,
The Screaming Sleep Waker,
The Insolent Sun Beams:
You are punctual and I am ******.

Why must we only meet like this?

I’m staying here all day long.

You can’t stop me.

Unless you bring me a hot cup of coffee…*

                                   *Sincerely,
                                                
                                             **The Sleeper of Five Hours

My quick baby, who loves you?
Oh slow waker, who arches?
       Backs bent over rolling water

  Water, who swallows?
Chest shaking under heavy wool
       Weight, who spins?

Thick dust down soft temples
    Heat, who flickers?
Multiply- make room, make room
           Darling, what gathers?

          Soak my honey-stung tongue-tip
     Cold, who wanders?
      Leave my bent frame on stiff soil
Body, why bother?

        Lazy smoke, tell me, tell me, who rises.
                 The air is thinner towards the peak.

written July 14, 2014

"The early bird and the night owl living under the same roof was strange
And being two different kinds of birds they both flew their own way
One was a night time dweller, up making mischief late at night
The other was an early waker, up at 7 for her morning flight
And despite their differences they somehow agreed
To live under the same canopy, under the same small oak tree"

I am the mountain man.
I am the shifting sands.
I am the laughter through gritted teeth,
I am the squint of concentration,
I am the missing piece and the stone that won't roll.
I am the Zeit Ghost.
I am the Underwerewolf.
I am the Pseudonami.
I am not what you say I am, until I say: "I Am."
I am the Red Sun Samurai.
I am the Locomotive Provocateur.
I am the bones of kings and slaves.
I am the breath of the wind in the trees.
I am the Electrocuted Interlocutor.
I am the whip of the matador.
I am sunken cities in the swamp.

I am Firestarter.
         Spark Guarder.
I am the assembly line whereby the machine reproduces.
I am capitulated capitalism.
I am the captain of the sky ship to
                                                        Ghost Country.

I am a natural amphetamine
         a synthetic homeopathic
         a cure for the sad
            curation for the lost
            death for the solid and unchanging.

I am the mask of roots.
I am a treehouse full of books.
I am the sword in the daytime.
I am the Day Waker, the Cloud Shaker
the Continent Unmaker, the Deep Laker
the childhood of broken dreams and unbreakable boulders.

Half-slumbering in your living room.
One eye on your joy, the other searching
for answers to the unanswerable question of:

where did it go?

Fully alive, pacing the gravestones
kisses to flowers in the new moon
and a pocketful of reality checks.

Helping you let go of everything
                                        Holding you back.

Hoping you'll hold onto me.

we went to cop pins crossing to scatter dads ashes into the creek


   my buddhist ceremony for dad, as he is in the ****** of david and lisa, with robin williams beside him in the womb


first i put dads ash on my little praying buudha,

said this

ummmmmmmmmm dad i remember you for being there for everyone and despite how many times

i might have been with angry with you, you were always be there for me


ummmmmmmmmmm   what a life you had the YMCA i remember when you and the leaders showed

us a snake at camp sturt, and hung it near the dining hall



ummmmmmmmmm

yeah you have changed a lot of people’s lives for the better

ummmmmmmmmmm


you drove me and my mates to various sports events, telling us funny jokes


ummmmmmmmmmm


you showed us how to use the computer and even if we have problems

you were able to fix problems


ummmmmmmmmmm

you used to lay out the easter eggs, for the annual easter eggs

to give delight to us kids


ummmmmmmmmmm


i remember a funny joke, when you wanted to leave a new years eve party

and i was playing my dice cricket game, and i said, we have to wait till

the end of the days play, dad said, ok we will turn off the light and appeal that

bad light stopping play


ummmmmmmmmm

one christmas you gave us a swimming pool, and that made our day look great

yeah, happy days to swim in the nice cool water


ummmmmmmmmm

we always talked about the raiders, even if dad never watched a match


ummmmmmmmmm

we used to cut down trees in our backyard to use as XMAS trees


ummmmmmmmmmm


we are gathered here to remember a great bush waker


ummmmmmmmm

we are going to miss you telling us the rain is coming, or total

fire bans or, when there is a electroity work in the area

and electricity will be turned off

ummmmmmmmmm

we watched footy and cricket too, it was great


ummmmmmmmm

i hope your next life as one of david and lisa’s twins really

brings you happiness, forever and ever amen

and now i bury buddha under water, allowing dads ash to float on

the cop pins crossing creek, dad is free, now, as the other half of robin williams

See my bridegroom comes,
said Sister Clare, He comes
swift as birds of Spring, His
voice echoes within, His

touch wakes me from deep
slumber, unfetters me from
my sad sins; His eyes watch
me, they run over me like

flowing water, look into my
soul like dawn's light; He is
my keeper, my protector, His
hand caresses me in my deepest

darkness, His fingers raise
my chin, lift my head, His
fingers touch my heart, wake
me from my selfness, my

obsession with my me; He
comes into my heart, He is
the kisser of life, the waker
of sleepers in the grave; I

wait for Him in the night
when the darkness embraces,
seek His company when
demons touch and ******;

He is my bridegroom, my
love, I seek Him out like
one for water as I thirst,
I listen for his footsteps in

the break of dawn, I kiss
Him as one kisses one's
deepest love, I am only
happy when He is near,

when His voice awakes
me. He is my safe ship
out in the dark deep sea.

Love calls me out of my tortoise shell
Begins to sing louder
My slaughtered bridge is resurrected.

I walk across, stunned like a new man coming back to Eden.

Love calls me out like a train storming through at 2 a.m.
Runs me over like a penny on its track, sleep is still another world away.

My blurry eyes sting the page
everything I held back draws itself like a hidden blade and spills my red river travesty.

Hold on to me.

I saw myself become something else sliding in the corner of a child's closet.

Do not run from me now that I'm getting closer to your secrets.

Every moment in life is a gift.

Every dark pull from the dark side a chance to appreciate your light that much more.

I have been levitated from love's track. My heart becomes a countryside.

Any heart not living here makes us incomplete and mission bound with inner ancient  heat.

Blazes so intense you'd think we wouldn't survive, so tell me now how do we even live?

Once I was loud and obnoxious, angry at this and that, not until you came back to me, I was a mad man screaming at himself in a mirror I thought was real.

You came through and silenced me and said, "But I never even left."

My humility carrying a stranger's heavy luggage.

Your light dancing brighter in my chest spilling your glory across my scars.

My tears were a row of icicles
painted new in a violet storm of You.

I knew nothing could be the same again.

Every hurt I experience now I can never hate again.

Every person who does me wrong I will instantly forgive.

Why?

Because they are You, forgetting  themselves on purpose.

Your plan for reunion will be different from what anyone can imagine, still You will always try to reach them on a daily basis, ever vigilant like a Love Knight who most will turn against.

I Follow ghost mist through the twilight woods of your song.

When I arrive at your clearing  house the mist is gone but I cannot tell anyone of what I saw, not because it's a secret but because my words fall short on the threshold of your dreams made manifest.

Heart connection from You to me is a hidden pipeline that exists between us and Everyone else.

This will twist your mind and make it break.

Do not over think it.

It will only lead to constant confusion.

I felt You outside my window but when I looked I still could not see You.

This will always break my heart until my childhood dream is granted.

You may not know what it's like to feel this pressure but I'm not sure You know my angle and if You do, please forgive my ignorance I sometimes forget Your spirit lives everywhere.

I knew this as a child as sure as a fish knows how to breathe underwater.

There is some hidden plan of magic at work here and I can see it in every piece of creation You so cleverly mastered.

Speak to me again.
Your whispers are like welcomed daggers
and your presence
is the oasis in my desert.

I have traveled through dark places and my feet are heavy houses dragging through burning sand.

Your waters are always welcomed.

Let my heart become your staff.

Master of winds
It is this humbled letter
To whom I address.

Singer of truth
Light of all heavens
Lifting off my lid

My gift to you does not come packaged but rather a swollen river of an angels sweet tears running when sleepers are dreaming forgetting they're  You.

Master of winds
I want You to know that even if fear is still present
I still hold you
My dear precious lifeline
Fragile as an eggshell rocking
in my heart
if You break at any moment and splatter your yolk filled heaven down my lonely corner You will still cover my cages with hope.

Master of winds
Angel of magic
I am pressed tight to your voice as if I was a leaf waking up dark sleepers sliding across their dreamy face.

Waker of men
Shaker of trees
Shed down your holy red colors
And land in my hand
one more time so the unbelievers will know You exist.

I am aware of grim dark places
that feed off innocence like the shadow man who steals children and offers them up as sacrifices to the worst of all evils.

Everyone who lives here will be touched by its shade and crunched by its branch.

Come to us soon

Master of winds
Lover of truth
Designer of worlds

Let your love become a net
and catch us all.

Master of love
Your glorious reach
Knows no bounds.

When I went to bed your warmth and grace flew in my chest, Cardinal dressed but still invisible.

When I awoke your song burned steady lava beds in my deep wounded cell of complete abandonment. I rose no longer a prisoner.

A flight of leaves scraping through a dark hallway mind
letting me see new colors.

Love calls me out of my black cave prison I stumble out to see the world like I did when I was a child.

This time I know how to guard You, this sword You've given to me is a holy weapon, anything evil I strike at will vanish.

Master of winds
  Holder of love

Singer of truth
Light of all heavens
Lifting off my lid

Dance and weave your magic.

Am I worth the space I take up, and the portion of air I pollute, am I freaking worth?
Because I know that anyone read this mess is worth, I’m quite sure there’s someone who wants to be them and wants to stay in touch, and who doesn’t wanna wake up if the person who’s reading is the waker.
And, heck yeah, I believe one’s existence is justified by someone else’s love or affection or something like that, something sweet and similar to blessing, always hand in hand with jealousy and some pain. And, yes, jealousy plus something equals affection, which in turn equals worth and justifies existence. Period.
Jokes aside: am I freaking worth the space I take up? Well, for I know there is a painter who angry with only hanging out with a musician not caring for painter’s feelings, well if that’s jealousy my existence’s kinda justified, for jealousy equals love. Period. Or if it’s not jealousy, if jealousy is when you ask you can hardly without to answer your messages for once and being angry doesn’t, if it’s the latter I might very well be a waste, or am I not. Wich is it?
Oh, sorry, told you, mess.

Dear moonchild,
If you are reading this
You know about the sun
How its rays mean it's our time to sleep
Because we aren't the normal creatures of the Earth
Sometimes they tell us
That our smiles are menacing
When we meet up at the in-betweens
Dawn, and dusk
I've only known a few day wakers
They found me too profound
My silvery skin
And gray hair too much from them
My smile brought tears
My skin too real for them
You see, moon child,
You'll always be too different for the day wakers
But it doesn't matter
Because we sleep with the moon
The natural state of the Earth
In the forest
With all of the other little creatures
They thought too extreme
Or not extreme enough for them
We are never right
But I think
In their pink skin
And brown hair
They look like fools
Their stupidity detracting away from their non-existence
So moon child,
Only rise when the moon is up
And sleep when it is down
We don't follow the rules
Of the day waker's sun

i always thought those books that i read
in lover's conflicts and wars they dealt
meant something beyond these images in my head
meant more than mere novels, something the poets felt
but oh boy, was i terribly wrong
i made my own suffering prolong,
i ain't the "forever" material or ****,
simply a means to an end is what fits,
i will never be nobody's moon or stars
because i am adorned with scars
given by life, it's people and it's maker
all through these 22 years of being a waker
rejected, dejected and an outcast at it's best
i ain't special but simply different from the rest
a fool i have been all along, believing it was my superpower
oh good lord, i was simpy never on anybody radar
the unlikable, unwanted and unlovable soul
who had no poise, passion or a gritty goal
i have been loitering in delusion, hallucinating the impossible
all the while i have done nothing but been an imbecile
i maybe good but never great
in the world of curves, a definite straight
being humble was my only shot at becoming better
but in the end, it got me to this point where i am typing this letter by letter
all i am is a wishful thinker who lives in the world of imagination
a dull, boring kid trapped in an adult's body and adaptation
a stupid girl who is the easiest of all
an ugly-hearted, too trusting of a call
i am pathetic, the dumbest being to ever grace this planet
as useless and replaceable as the middle of a magnet