She made me cup my hands, softly
over her heaving full  *******, a gesture,
a tender moment when  she received
the first intimations of her motherhood,
we were awaiting, this moment, any time
she  never had known a  tenderness like this.

Just then I heard the billowing black clouds
loudly blowing their auspicious conch shells *
announcing arrival of good tidings
impatient clouds, at that time burst out
in torrential rains, cooling the heart of nature and us.
the seed I planted in her, fecund earth, lying in wait
with  her life blood and hopes
she too was lovingly watering it,
only a mother knows how to do it the best,
the water flowed through two streams
the milky way and the holy Ganga river
fiery star dreams and watery abundance
the mother's wish embrace ice and fire
in measures varying according to emotions.

Lifted my eyes to hers which were flooding
in a happiness, words find difficult to express,
like tender vines her hands circled my trunk,
we, man and wife who sowed our seeds
together in self oblivion are on immortality's steps!
wind, water, earth, fire and space, from you comes
our descendants, with eager eyes and singing voice!

This union, is a ritual divine, what hymns of Vedas
extol as fire sacrifice, to transcend the limits time set for us.
Now she is the enchantress,moon coming out of clouds,
we merge in a passionate kiss, our boat  moves in to the
cosmic stream, a flow eternal,without  beginning or end.

if all these energies are spent on youth, then such a crescendo of disillusionment is waiting with its gnashing teeth and gangrene filth to stand straight iron your shirts, and queue for a bottle of milk - at the supermarket like a catwalk of Milan - people and their dream of telekinesis - they enforced stance on telepathy -  telepathy being, of course, the symptom of over exposure to televisions - that scale justified by infinity mirrors, or that infinity (∞) is actually a mirroring - mire rings and what other disambiguation  there is to it in reverse - but only in a snap of the flash - illumination via a twin begot between two limits... or something like that.

never you mind english pragmatism,
pragmatic speech therapies and other associations,
bundles of closed words that desire
the presence of a dictionary, desire or no
desire, are bound to require the dictionary
necessarily - long gone the pronoun overuse
as is the signature of the english tongue -
pronoun overuse - shrapnel of conjunctions
and the like between elongated word-giraffes...
infinity is a mirroring effect* -
infinity is a foggy murk of 19th century London
should it be looked at straight, or seen through,
paper from wood, glass from sand, finely
ground - not grin d e d - sublime i say ol' chap -
we are bound to loosen things up without
clear vox vis (voiced energy - pardon any
other association of vis, meaning also violence -
latin is dead in meaning, but alive with type oh,
typos as the curvatures of sigma: it total,
no northern barbarian conqueror or *** gave us
encoding to use - the rúnes were like roman
numerals, matchsticks - VI or ᛋ -
                                  or die junker in das bunker -
and if by the testimony of Ogham - should
any testimony be made - once a whisper &
secret... rune - now a frenzied shout on the hills!
råbe of king Cnut, the conquest of England -
ᚱᚨᛒᛖ: r (ride, journey) / a (one of the Æsir) /
          b (birch) and last e (horse)                   .
all my books smells of onions as i prepared dinner,
and garlic too, a famous imprint some might say;
or say that nearing-middle age all this
technological connectivity made us more distant
with our neighbours, or that some say
that all that's prone to internet publishing is false -
but have you inspected the publishing industry?
glamour models' autobiographies,
footballers' "auto" biographies -
graeme le saux is called a professor because he has
a-levels or a degree - and you think all that
is published for charity on the internet is false?
i guess you've never had so much freedom
to delve in private places where social media is
the ugly head of socialism popping up once more,
but the health of the publishing industry leaves
me agitated, as was richard brautigan
in his poem hey!   this is what it's all about
with the beautiful words:
                                             no publication
                                             no money
                                             no star
                                             no ****
                                             ____________
yes, i will be playing with diacritical symbols
as if i were learning chinese encoding of sounds
so so complex they might as well be crop-circles -
but what farmer cares for such symbols?
a secret genius on a farm in Iowa? hardly -
i'll be playing that game of what's more protruding
should i have written rúnes or rūnes -
or left it sketchy and stark naked runes -
since the r is also protruding when going
skiing into the parabola - believe me, the pedantic
in me, given the lessons learnt from Kabbalah
concerning active meditation using symbols
will keep me up all night long - and indeed, once
a cryptology for whispers and secrets,
now a blatant shout as if feeling it was necessary -
akin to a book of maxims:
are these necessary truths, or unnecessary truths?
but as they say: we lost a great treat -
we lost the leprechaun's and the genie's reward,
then came mathematics and solidified our loss,
it's not a case of secrets any more -
but a stance of i just want to be heard!

                                                        ­                    the end.

Ere yet the morn its lovely blushes spread,
See Sewell number’d with the happy dead.
Hail, holy man, arriv’d th’ immortal shore,
Though we shall hear thy warning voice no more.
Come, let us all behold with wishful eyes
The saint ascending to his native skies;
From hence the prophet wing’d his rapt’rous way
To the blest mansions in eternal day.
Then begging for the Spirit of our God,
And panting eager for the same abode,
Come, let us all with the same vigour rise,
And take a prospect of the blissful skies;
While on our minds Christ’s image is imprest,
And the dear Saviour glows in ev’ry breast.
Thrice happy faint! to find thy heav’n at last,
What compensation for the evils past!
   Great God, incomprehensible, unknown
By sense, we bow at thine exalted throne.
O, while we beg thine excellence to feel,
Thy sacred Spirit to our hearts reveal,
And give us of that mercy to partake,
Which thou hast promis’d for the Saviour’s sake!
   “Sewell is dead.”  Swift-pinion’d Fame thus cry’d.
“Is Sewell dead,” my trembling tongue reply’d,
O what a blessing in his flight deny’d!
How oft for us the holy prophet pray’d!
How oft to us the Word of Life convey’d!
By duty urg’d my mournful verse to close,
I for his tomb this epitaph compose.
   “Lo, here a man, redeem’d by Jesus’s blood,
“A sinner once, but now a saint with God;
“Behold ye rich, ye poor, ye fools, ye wise,
“Not let his monument your heart surprise;
“Twill tell you what this holy man has done,
“Which gives him brighter lustre than the sun.
“Listen, ye happy, from your seats above.
“I speak sincerely, while I speak and love,
“He fought the paths of piety and truth,
“By these made happy from his early youth;
“In blooming years that grace divine he felt,
“Which rescues sinners from the chains of guilt.
“Mourn him, ye indigent, whom he has fed,
“And henceforth seek, like him, for living bread;
“Ev’n Christ, the bread descending from above,
“And ask an int’rest in his saving love.
“Mourn him, ye youth, to whom he oft has told
“God’s gracious wonders from the times of old.
“I too have cause this mighty loss to mourn,
“For he my monitor will not return.
“O when shall we to his blest state arrive?
“When the same graces in our bosoms thrive.”

the first time you said I love you was on Valentines day.
On the way back to my house, on a winding street lined with pine trees
You said it as a joke, and that's why I laughed

the second time you said I love you was when we were on your living room floor
vinyls upon vinyls with the wrapping all around us
this time I just ignored it and gave a tight smile

the third time you said I love you it was attached to a quick goodbye on the phone
I hung up before I could react and dropped to the floor right after

because how the **** could you ever love me and not know about the planet of skeletons I have in my closest?
you never seen my bad days or my worst days
you don't know the way I light up and the way I fade away
you don't know the voices in my head or the numbers on my arm dialing a phone home
hell, you don't even know what that means

you can't love me because you don't even know that I'm a planet
you can't love me because you don't know that I gave up being a human a long time ago
and you can never love me because you'll never understand why