old prayers scuttle,

amen themselves

still the air

and to this quiet place

the unquiet come

those who fall

for they are cursed

who bright their coffins here

and follow water

to its pure black fountain

appear like bats

charred black pages

from a burnt book

darken the twilight sky

they embrace

turning light to darkness

those

undead

now

unlive

your beard doth have

a villainous nature I think

one that would for want of mischief

whisper uncertainties

into a grieving ear

as such would cause

a flailing of tongues

and extract dire extremities

from a grief stricken father

who through an acid mist of tears

would summon a pale horse

to seek a blank claim for revenge

that would magnify

existing greif a thousand fold

such is the nature of your

villainous beard

begone I say from

this house of sorrow

or it shall be you

who in a box shall lay

without grief to borrow

you villainous beard

begone I say

my heart ticks with the punctuated rhythm
of a girl busy with embroidery
i see a corpse and scrutinise all its secrets
it lingers with a purposeful dexterity
a tenacity that resembles autocrats
of a starved third world country
a dangerous presence that underpins
a blank prism
my reconnaissance reveals a frenetic arc
orbiting, humming as it does so
with intricate nightly returns
travels between light and shade
where black shadows tred
forming a link in the great causal chain
of human destiny
it is a place where stone ghosts welcome me
with threatening indifference of magical
incantations
i roam through deserted streets
with an inherent clumsiness
like waves on dark coastlines
that in hypnotic deception
form groups of disorientated sadness
where clouds of black crows fly around
sinister watch towers in the dark

wouldst you in the mist of my confusion
have me become a white mosquito boy
that by a grafted tongue would
mould powerful changes
around bliss and ecstasy
that by garb and candor grafts defying gender roles
causes by his spaces openness
a sexuality, moulding, mounting new and explosive intimacies
and yet my fevered brain
hotter than the hottest summer
wishes to embrace  a white mosquitoe boy
become the cannibal of his dimensions
be subject to his unremarked experiments
Oh, will I become a native of these everyday practices
a white mosquitoe boy
evolving into a public ethic
a dangerously obscure central truth
the ink lies still wet on y confused thinking
while the white mosquitoe boys call me ” Le Mome”
shall I enter their grand boulevards
the ink drys, it speaks
its beautiful wondrous notation
says “YES”, yes it says, it says yes
you don’t become a mosquitoe boy
YOU ARE BORN ONE

The Isolation of my immense solitude's

Find expression in words

Beautiful incandescent words

Energetic advocagets

Of secret fibers of consciousness

That block out a harsh and unforgiving reality

Who transform an everyday darkness into intense light

Words that are not complete unto themselves

Nor empty but malleable with relentless perspicacity

Creations mythical and radical that cast fanatical curiosities

Upon the clear and harmonious contours of the mind

Melting nerves and thought making concience blush

With contemplated reflections of paralysed silence

Imprinting multicolored words on an immutable identity

With elegant and capricious expression that brings a joy

...and all the sea did call a name...a name that no one heard...it floated on the breeze.....on tips of waves...but it was just a word....drowning....drowning in the midst of swell..... spiraling as its heard...no one recalls just what it was...cause it was just a word........

Shadows on my mind
In purple images play
Echoes of words
Shimmering, silhouettic
Seductions, Hideous
Perhaps, contagious
Falseness as if in fatigue
Indiscriminate, without
Compromise in their counterfeit
Lying in wait in eager ambush
Hidden by a thought
A thin antiquated distraction
A solitary mutilation of identity
Deflecting interest in amplified displacement
Into delirious disguise, re-emerging in distraction
Pestering, problematic, destabilising directness
In their ubiquitous imaginary lie
A realisation that one is all too aware of
Yet despite this knowledge cannot help
But conspire in their captivating complicity.

I hear a whisper on a spirits curve

In vast isolation's of exaggerated stresses

Become touched with fire

My mind adrift with a beautiful squandering

Of inclusion which acquires an uncanny capacity

To breed, to reproduce to have floatations

Such flotillas of words that sail across my horizon

An armada of silent sound for such as is their rebirth

These whispered words that dot my waves

And leave my lashes blinking at their boldness

For they are the words, they are, they are the words

think ha, ha, there is nothing to think
I think it has all been thought
perhaps not all
for I have just thought it
has all been thought
like a chicken that plucks its own feathers
perhaps one should think solitudes
enormous solitudes
such as one may experience at school
during holiday  time when all have gone but one,
leaving nothing left to think, only a tyranny of dreams
that sob and trickle down burning cheeks
making one almost think of grief
but there’s nothing left to think I tell you
all angels have fled and leave only the stench
of cadaverous thinks that have been thought
and having had that privilege die
fall rotten in the streets their putrid smell
an unthinkable contagion lays siege to the mind
there is nothing left to think, nothing I tell you
everything has been thought
by men in black with absurdly tiny heads
and all the thinks that have been thought
form a silhouette around the sun
in unthinking vengeance blocking out the light
though to sure there may be a think left
for I have composed a poem in a language
never before heard or thought of
I think it is the perfect think
what do you think
I think I should not be left at school during the holidays
thats what I think
Roden take note

Time has put a vagrancy on my mind

Subdues conformity and material worship

With scalding epileptic convulsions of imagination

My mouth blood-stained, shrieking like a pianting

A painting by Munch gives way, yields, yes yields

To an unrelenting detonation of the unconscious

An existential filter of real or imagined transformations

Which by miraculous tongue restores a belief

To wonder and levies no compass on perception

Yet reveals a tormenting estrangement

That does mount a strenuous and contemptuous protest

Against familiarity with agonized shrieks of obdurate tenacity

Where the phantoms of my imagination enact their mysterious mysteries

And produce a poetic alchemy of violated imagination

what is it that i am looking for

what is that convulses my mind so

i don’t know, I just don’t know

yet I keep on searching for something

something i know not what

it is in the words, i know it is in the words

it demands a recognition,

perhaps it is an illusion of complex

temporal simultaneity that plays

upon my reason but what is it

that delivers a thousand shivers

and colors from everywhere and nowhere

is it the blank spot that enters my consciousness

bringing temporarily bright blackness

the blindness one receives if

engaged in an over prolonged look at the sun

is it the inner workings of my mind

trying to free some irritant that

has intended to punctuate my thinking

without permission

an attempt to perplex

this new apostasy

that incubates within

yet a confusion hangs suspended

Of this blank spot, this nothingness,

this void of inarticulate reality that

exaggerates its intentions to consummate

a separation but never succeeds in its completion

survival of disappearance
stranger than the way it is
with unknown translation
like an escaped oblivion
or quatrains from a vanished book
written on yellow paper
with purple-black ink
casting shadows among the shades
that group the lime trees
in their huddle of powdered gold
gathering scattered thoughts together
in an epitaph to the vanishing of
extreme affection and devotion
that passes away
in the hand of the wind

Words like thoughts stagger in my mind
A whirlpool and ask what can be revealed
In such a swirling displacement
The information of destruction
Proclaiming  a dark cobalt sky of dissolution
That commands and causes the chaos of despondency
Now there is a compunction of inexplicable attitudes
That vie with themselves to have a consequence
Of what is not nor never made clear
It is like truth or lies untold
It is sad like something profound unsaid….

this poem is an inch long in time

Do only straight boys kick tin cans
/         /        /       /      /         /         / ?

The ghost of my eternity

Like a stone carved dream

Floats in blue air reflections

Of crystal mirrors

With lips untaught to smile

Already blind, stares at the sun

For there is no title, unless given

We do not belong to this world - we are immortal
I go where you go - I have to
For the world has conspired with my thoughts
And everywhere I look I see your presence…..

oh what sustains this mind

a mind that teeters

on the edge of a spiral vertigo

that sways and rocks

in an unease of palpitations

attempting to escape

from the brutal insensitivity

of the granite faces that occupy the streets

a mind of hallucinated perceptions

with a constant stream of imagery

that finds a difficulty in the self negotiation,

the articulation of its inner geography

where a frightened availability of disturbance

in the vocabulary of its chemical graffiti

leaves speech vacated on the tongue

where eyes are pushed to see

a discord of sympathies for different dimensions

that has one disassociated, cut off from the immediate

living in an inner dialogue

of rebellious and unconventional preoccupations  

a self alienation that heightens

the poetic colouring of the imagination

causes a ******* of the mind

that makes me cripplingly aware

of the abyss at the heart of my inner disquiet

makes my toes hover on the jagged edge of the world

yet I jump choosing discovery over societal dictum

to do rather than be

I witness the carnivalesque dance of illusion

the self conscious telling of a familiar story

a darkening tone, the synthesing

of incompatible perspectives

that cause an incandescent agony

of self-inflicted wounds

caused by the somatizing of events by others

but leads to epiphanic illuminations

the transformative energies of disintigration

where all the beauty that is inherent in the ordinary

becomes clear

everthing lights up with the glow

of the quantum expansion of great silences

and I can retrieve from the unconcious

something I know but have forgotten

I see blue fences full of holes
chalices of fire
on every corner
houses try to hide
disguising themselves as houses
this does not work
crowds gather
climbing through the holes
in the blue fences
they demand
that houses
disguised as houses
be demolished
and the bricks be thrown
through the holes
in the blue fences
this causes an uproar
not only from the houses
but also from the
aforementioned blue holes
now if you ever see
blue holes
stay well away
particularly if they have
been aroused to an
anger of any sorts
do not eat bananas
on a balcony in their presence
and never ever discard
peel with a blatant disregard  
to a disturbance of consciousness
in the universe
which is only adorable to the grotesque

An entrenchment of truths

That hold forth a funeral table

For gracious hospitality

Of gentle nostalgia

In indulgence of murderous affection

Which manifest adequate

Yet uncomprehending grieving

Ambiguities of advocacy

In their extreams of moralizing warnings

In fleeting appearances who tell bold lies

In the mosaics of enclosed palaces

Presenting bouquet upon bouquet

Of black flowers on this weighted table

Truths that have been deprived of their vein stone

Truths owned to identity of embodiment

Surreal and interchangeable

That resonate in timely dissorder

Like the noise of migrating birds

Flying to the edge of the world

........there is an asylum in my thought that flees .....a conspiracy in confederation that possess a fatal capacity to provide violent  symphonies to play upon my mind, with diligent dispersal in a thick breeze of color all the words of nocturnal extravagance that I am all to eager to learn to invent to place to paper while all around me there is an eruption of orange and red.......

an ****** calligraphy
of hallucinated images
gesture to the posturings
of omitted consciousness
the preoccupations
that puncture the ‘rational’ thought
of a false corporeality
and rely on an artificiality
to produce a reality
writes of the pagan haunts
of silver ****** ghosts
of fantastic rumors
of acquired futuristic loathing
where cognitive disturbances are
the reconnaissance of a fragmented mind
seeking an evacuation to the past
screams at the monuments of
immediate dismissal of everything
not of their transmission

and the skies with sudden encore come
filled with words not worked
orchastrating a full complement
of treacherous ambition
and will an exploration
of competeing claim of unsundry wills
and such as is gives men a will to transform themselves
to give a cause to anciet or recent voice
a permissible presentation of possibilities
in battle and brawl with a blunt rhetorical and physical disorder
which does emphasize such dramas
with stark, violent and repressive potential
all tantilized with the prospect of wealth in the ground
make a contention with vicious energies
of hate and ambition that propels
an intence and exhausting experience
upon a once civil-world to spiral
vertiginously toward an ancient choas
enacting old stories with the oppresiveweight of the past
now monstrous individualism
whose hideously fragile bonds to peace
no longer exeert their hold
and thus divorse themselves
with an individual rapaciousness
annihilating lives with a curiousley
derivative quality for a store of gas and oil
and disinherite themselves from moral constriant
evoking the soliloquy of historical hypocrisy
with a mutilation of truth
in a tragedy of lament for all human kind
then sudden uncalled for encore fills the skies

You won't remember me

A little white shadow of the heart

Who in adulation of wonder

Became une éternité de papillon

What brief utterance this, the color of time

That gives more meaning than language can hold

To force a confrontation between unresolvable contradictions

Such as make malleable a gracious hospitality to ******

And sound trumpets of unwarranted discord

That lie and lament the reputation and experience of damage

Hold forth the envious clouds of displacement

To provide for the vicious energies of hate

Those oppressive weights of past problems

That enactment of intense and exhausting experience

Which embalms the tears of fresh bleeding

Without impediment dictates the human existence

Where the mistress of aggressive thought finds

Extremity of dire mishap a strenuous protest

Leads to well meaning certainty of illusion

And asks, art thou so in love with masks that you

Would transform thyself and as such

Bind a loyalty of angers to thy touch

Inconclusive patterns
Form indented regularity
In flowing drifts
A panoply of tropical orchids
In my mind
A menaced distortion
Straining forward
Like an isolated image
In an old photograph album
Disclosing only the fragments
Of an insoluble puzzle
Its atmospherics of frequency
Disturbs me somewhat
It is identical to hidden speech
Or the resistance to time
Of exclamatory reminders
Of forward motion
That momentarily fascinates
Then falls through a hole
In a central vortex of vision
This is the architectonics
Of a thought
That can never be articulated

All is not what it seems
Because I was an atheist
Long before I realized I was God,
But that was much, much later
Then, at that time, I succumbed
To the lurid but exciting depths
Of freedom, the joy of love and danger
Of searching and of knowledge,
Embracing every moment;
I surrendered to ungovernable impulses
That invoked within my very existence

Still to realise the true extent of this
It's perhaps best to start before the beginning
Before the earth embalmed me
A time when Cyparisse had not
Yet set root in my belly
Nor made sap of my blood
A time when it was possible to speak
To Panza's donkey when I thought of Zanzibar
A time when the vagrancy of my soul
Had not yet embarked
On its erratic itinerary
Plunging me eventually
Into the bright light
Of tainted and squalid reality

Like oscillating libraries, noise oppressed,
Contradictions of dreams
Suddenly I took flight,
With violent wrenches of imagination
In Persia being worshipped
Beneath the moon by Gods;
Caressed by those impetuous charms
A dazzling vision
I thought of death the only sister of charity
Whose dark night has no malevolence;
Black and white, silences that migrated
In sonorous symbolism took control
Shimmering like a painting of a sorrow

Streaked with unashamed colours
A single tear from a promethean candle
I would move to lick the stain of destiny
That pillar inhaling its black perfumes
Like a communicant on his knees.
Exiled in reality, I saw what I had never saw
Or only thought I saw now condemned
To see what has never been seen

Words corralled themselves in my mind
Writhing maggots on a corpse
Wriggling for position waiting to be pronounced
How they flew, taking wings
Hovering for an instant above the page
Hunting out the detritus of man
To feast upon the putrid flesh of misery
I too went searching
For my ancient feast; for Zanzibar

However hideous pages
From the note book of the ******
Imprisoned the words, stampeded the search
Scattering it in many directions
Shattering blue-white eyes
A castrated country, century, impotent, impure
Like politics, the ******* that can be purchased by coin
Like so much bread in the market,
A thousand profanities became the popular song
But silence is the real language of the fool

For he alone bears witness to what he feels
Misfortunes not understood, weeping the popular ballad
Morality and law, parades of red robed Judges
Carcasses, a circus for carrion crows
Yet like a cannibal the dead were still buried in my belly
The gloss of reason hiding madness
Like so many veneered fronts in a proud precinct

Paraded in full view, silence is demanded and got
The words wither, fake time continues,
To count the unrelieved falsehood the chimera of life;
Reason did not imprison me
My life being not heavy enough
Was allowed to take flight
To float above the reasoned realm
Revelations of the truth realised only by detachment
Devoured my mind increased my errorless purpose
The search for Zanzibar

Accepted values; valued only;
Because of this acceptance
Are accepted as value
Thus accepted in silence
The fools resign themselves
To a false reality
One that nails them to a poisoned cross

In the gardens of the dead
Like rowed tulips that
Gardeners know how to match
I found myself, among those who had gone
Remembered yet forgotten
Whose edifice unlike their lives
Reached not upwards but down.
I smelt the scent of unknown things
The perfumes of eternity that histories bind;
Intensity, a murmur; gurgle, as in a child
Yet extreme its aberrations
Like celluloid hand that
Had never known toil
Or wiped sweat from a brow
Laughed yet grimaced
Its smile a crimson smear
The sorrow that it felt
A burnished hand upon its nakedness
To see its enshrouded presence in such a garden
One well stocked and growing
Caressed my being with its glee
To turn white feel the touch
Of its venomous fingers upon my flesh;
Its purpose, to prevent any search for Zanzibar

The stench of death
Then cast its' new
Yet antediluvian gaze
Upon its purpose
Odour of grave
Faraway nonexistent
Yet it is perfume to those
Who feast upon its scent
Moistures mingling with the air
Its common purpose
Floating like un-forgiveness
Its atmosphere ozone sans holes
Its meaning ever present
Its' outcome to halt
The search for Zanzibar

And so the stencils of oriental scribes
Like black shadows overpowered my reason
Floating high above, adrift on an expanse of darkness
However, presently that azure ink
Raised its curtain before my very eyes
Revealing the stage, the illuminated stage
On which I was to set my drama
Where the phantoms of my imagination
Would enact their mysterious mysteries;
A poetic alchemy

Then a golden spark of pure
Nocturnal light blinded me
In an instant I saw, observed
The sun drown in its deathly sea
Its healing wings spread
Fear would see it rise again
Still searching for that fatal flaw, happiness
How many lives do I need?
How many existences will it take?
Incarnations a hundred times
Searching for Zanzibar.
Awakening to continue to
Live the saddest of my dreams

Furtive footsteps through Cimmerian landscapes
Ah such enchantment, do you understand?
Ah such a charm, listen to its undying echo
Feel its charge, that siren call
Cosmic summons, the vagrancy of mind
That caresses the imagination
Whose tender touch can place you
At the apex of the universe
Can lead to Zanzibar.


And so the subtle and foolish tortures
Inflicted upon me by I, my quest began
One that would ascertain, take centre stage
Make an unheard appearance of a philosophy
That, I am everyone and everyone else is me
Eventually at some point
In time and space we are all one
All linked, for we are condemned
Yes condemned to live these lives
This is why the dead have dreams
Dreams about the tyrants and demons
Of other lives of who they were;
Who they have yet to become.
Nourished on half truths,
Forever pulling at the thread
The rotted rags of reason
Those tattered twines
Unravelling the stitching of reality
Of hallucinations, empty illusions
And tarnished dreams create a constant struggle


Therefore for every conscious thing
That happens in the world
There must be a responding reverberation
Within the human soul
Let us put a halt to the calls
For the death of imagination
And demands for imagination to be silent
Such absurdities
For imagination is the true door to reality
For only in imagination
Can there be a bearable act
Of self examination
It is memory that hurts
More than the imagination
Always prefer the imaginary to the real
Imagination is neither an exit
From our nightmares nor
An escape from reality
But the place we are all trying to get to,
Zanzibar its shared images
Its story, its own life a new reality.


Mysteriously in the midst of unknown
Mazagran landscapes I feel
The full impact of fleeting visions
Without the limitations of space or time
Feel the act of experiencing their reality
This requires no explanation, no proof
Either together or separate
Because simply they are,
Judgement, condemnation
Punishments are gone
There is no cleansing a world
Without consciousness
Landscape devoid of people
'La Lune' growling in the orchard of the sea
Calypso again one or ten
Eucharis, tempest or temptress
Take both the meaning and the experience
Taste the tear drops of the sun
Telemachus searching, searching
Zanzibar

The idol, tentacles undulating
Vibrations of collective knowledge
The blank face, featureless
Touching around the domain of Atlas
Speaking in a thousand different tongues
Moving but still, blocks my path
Disturbs the line of imagination
Makes reality quiver
Dream flowers sway in its cosmic wind.
Yet Alhazers' iridescent arch allows
The steerage of my passage
Without pious pilgrimages to empty silences that
Contain an eternity of tears
Who graciously offers coverage
For the echo of footsteps
Allowing the magic moments to come


Robbed of sunlight, artificial night shines
Its deception attempting to secure knowledge
Of a future unknown, winning only it's unattainably
Offering instead knowledge of the past
Master of silence, offers only knowledge
Of invaded consciousness
Bedlam of paradise where Eros and Pan
In congress sleep, close at Zanzibar.


Lifeless beauty that lives everlasting
Time that reason cannot change, only help.
O enchanted torture you have stolen
The taste from my mouth
Masked I against the spectre of reality
Proclaimed the age of 'hasashin'
The creator of recollections, maker of memories
Possessor of impulse giver of echo
That rings in the ear
Cloud cast its surroccoian shadow
Air tinged with the aftermath of fire
Floating in an Asian wind, so subtle
Like a breath suddenly the sound of song
Of dance rents the solitude
Silence is slashed like a canvass screen
Happiness pours forth unconfined
Unfettered, both faces of Kandinsky as one
I extinguish the light, turn to the wall
Gazing upon its Janis face
My eyes behold the giver of pleasure.

Then I found myself in an extraordinary place
Whose skies where made of crystal glass
Water of the enchanted land was blue-grey
Bridges zig-zagged its shimmering domes
I stared as masts and parapets came to life
Its people, musicians sporting
Tangerine and white livery danced
The air filled with the sound of their music
Then as if from nowhere a light hit my eyes
Blinking, this apparition was gone
Can I not always believe what I see
Just because I see what I believe
The inhabitants at once became spectres
Engulfed in thick clouds of smoke and sulphur
Erinyies roamed, inflicting madness
A circus of the macabre sped past
Its symbols of death fluttering frantically
Around this false and fragile world
Suggested children, like creatures in an imagination
Were made ready for their rebirth
By the touch of the poets pen
A thousand Cheribino

In another, swirling sonorous scenes
Stormed the citadels of my mind
Marched through my imagination
Mab engulfed the long closed
Cemeteries of my thought allowing me
To see the dreams of others
Like precious pearls prised from their shells
Their visualisation so intense
Joy overcame me at once
Then a swarm of kisses descended upon me
Like a regiment of famished men
Feasting for the first time
I freely gave myself as the main course
In the most beautiful of banquets
In another, yielding to these seductions
I was enraptured by portraits of beautiful young men
Which appeared to be on the point of speaking
They were most mysterious their intrinsic
Charm so beautiful, stimulated desire
Whose assuagement was so pleasurable
That it might be called pure ecstasy
A perfect pleasure which had never before existed
Entirely individual and new

Thus upon the horizons of my mind
Had been shed a mysterious light
In which I now saw everything bathed
I was summoned by the Prince
Knowing dreams have no limits
I obeyed his call
For a long time failing to set
Foot on the shores of reality
Drinking from the wells of magic
While angels danced on grassy slopes
Disturbed by flames
The stars shot out their fragrance

Sweet smelling; blue abyss
On I went to the court, the court of the Prince of
Poets, a visitor to life
There I spat out the bit of liberty
Embraced the Prince
Courtesans mocked me, ridiculed
Laughed and taunted me
Their jibes merely part of
Their own deluded reality, not of mine
They did not serve my purpose
Dressed as they were
In meaningless words
Clothed in phrases of falsehood
They tried to make me compromise
There was fire burning in my eyes
Vivid dreams were eating up my mind
They wouldn't let me be
There were dead men lying
By the sides of the road
With daylight in their eyes
I saw villages under the sea
I stood at Galactic central point
Watched the earth burn
They did not know
The way to Zanzibar
Could the Prince show me?

However each morning I awoke
I found myself in a purgatorial fog
I roamed lost the alternative harbour
For my soul still distant
The Prince, I discovered, existed
In a twilight world of mysterious ailments
He denied his feelings
Such denial only immersed him
In maintaining the world of external restraints
It created emptiness, a vacancy
Filled by material concerns
I pleaded with him
The emerald gene came down
Soon the leaves of grass
Whispered another order of existence
Strangeness of sensation
Intoxication of vision
Unhinged for mortals
And as the sound increased one cannot
Describe what else it is that has been
I viewed a world transparent
Devoid of illumination within which
Was never a sea or land
Then the prophets were ******
For they were all liars
And I saw the most beautiful flower
Unfolding out of its own roots
For such a flower cannot
Unfold other than it does
I stood on the threshold of Orcus
I met Abbas Effendi the Gene without a name
Bab, Upanishads spilled music in my ears
Called to me in the most spectacular of colours
It was wonderful for the colours
Were like my dreams, red, black and green
I witnessed the three, sometimes as one
Other times as two, again and again
The self eternal and inseparable sons
Of Shakyamuni caressed me with their thoughts
Their music and colour moved about me
In ecstatic rhythm like the peaceful
Waves of the ocean as upon a shore
I read the sentences of silence
Breathed the perfume of never fading flowers
Walked in cherry blossom snow
Heard Hafiz reciting in the night
I saw for the first time
The unfinished likeness of others.

Then one day the Prince
With a sweeping theatrical and
So to speak, allegorical flourish bowed
Called me an exiled angel
Said the time had come to travel
To leave the images of naked heels
Imprinted in the clay
We wondered
Then as if by magic, suddenly the shadows
Of houses, halls, and a church
Emerged like enchanted islands in a fairy tale
The spiritualised forms of civilisation
I was approached by a graceful youth
Draped in cobweb lawn
He was pale, delicately beautiful
Spanish looking, but his name was Alexis Sonyeuse
Whose family it was said was
Related to the French Emperor Napoleon
It was also rumoured that he had
Had a tempestuous affair with the Bishop of Monaco
And once slept with his half brother Julian Apollinaire
When he spoke he was at once original
Delicious, moving, droll and discreetly melancholy
Listening to him was like breathing
The perfume of wondrous flowers
But the scent of datura hung about him
Paralleling his every movement
  Another youth, Edmond also greeted me
He was a young man with aristocratic features
A complexion pink, like a girls
And a bearing at once charmingly gracious
And audaciously insolent
His shirt was strange, the lining
A peculiarly orange colour
A flame coloured taffeta
Like the petticoats of a *****



They looked at me
Furtive glances emanated from their eyes
Training a profound stare upon my person
The two youths took me to 18 Avenue de Friedland
There two boy servants
Adoum and Outhman greeted us
Spinario's lay about its confines
Frezans caressing them
As they touched their feet
A hundred echansons moved
With dazzling delicacy dispensing dreams
In drops from crystalline cups
Here I witnessed the tragic faces of the population
Urnings, cleaning in the midst of anarchist trials
The room a fiery red, stained with light
The caress of forgotten thought
Like the thickness of a sorrow
Musicians playing on broken strings
Crimson ******, who defied the King of Naples
We moved past wretches
Like Virgil, but Danteian
Saw the usurers heard the rustling
Of lute strings the clinking of grey paper
Observed in this Minatare's lair
The purchase of a twelve penny dagger
Liberty of speech meeting its great reckoning
In a little room, Ingram the poltergeist
Of misfortune was there
Dead Scythian, who ever loved you
Loved you as you might, loved you at first sight.

This was a new and exciting world
Whose environs were populated
By the most mysterious and colourful of people
I was introduced by the two youths
To a suicidal young painter who
Was rebelling against his class
He was a somewhat forced intellectual
With an over quixotic passion for equality
Still he was warm, kind and impulsive
Poetry, he made it known
Had opened his mind to the invisible
Beside him was a painting
Exemplifying a new kind of observation
In a style absolutely faultless
Each structure clear, each brush stroke
Falling exactly into place
Inscribed in the top left
Corner were the words
"Quod me nutrit me destruit"
An introduction to himself of a tall youth
Whose eyes possessed a constant
Vagrancy of desire
Who seemed at once, for one so

for all of us who know
the pain of valentines
that never came
whose secret sobs
leave a teardrop stain
and hope next year
won’t be the same

is there hope between a stone
like the figurative speech of abstracton
those fragile metophers of life
an essesnce of fleeting moments of existence
like some iconic inventory of bourgious values
that reinscribe themselves
on the inside of your eyeballs
so when you close them
they become a cultural outpost
here where inventory shades into affermation
where poeple come, clamour
to claim it as thier own
where a thousand seductions become one illusion
your eyes closed peer
into and enchanted looking glass of stone
where brooding darkness
offers beauty and hope
but rules here are different
language, customs, values
are not what they seem
for if you look back
it is a piller of salt
who will turn into you
for this is a place of images
images built upon images
constructed upon layers
and layers of so much paint
and you ask yourself ( without much instistence)
is there hope between a stone
and in this brief moment of asking
you give a life time

They scream, shout and swear

To emphasize an emptiness of cocern

Which includes a compliment

Uttered thus in blank verse

That effects in ambigious contradictions

To sustain a wave of insult and injury

In obscure fragmentation of mind

That replicates an abundance of inrigue

Where plausible reason is not made possible

For the expression of strenuous protest

That would secrete itself with morbid indulgence

Upon the tongues of others to command a strange silence

Like that shouted by the seeker of an Apocalypse

I see fields of grey metal grass suspended on columns so one can walk underneath
This metal grass is blown by a slight green breeze and sways to and fro
Sharp growing swords, sabre sharp, spike from its gray clay
A blue sun beats down from an electrically charged sky
Now I feel, I must, compelled by the most insatiable of urges
Step into a chaos an exodus
Towards the wastelands of fragmentation and depletion
Where fictions are invented daily and all images change
Where the shadows of life disappear in desperation.

A blackness drips from my eyes

Into a cataclysm that awaits

Strung out in the coal black void

Piercing sentiments of symmetry

Elucidating a journey

From the external world

Where I seek sanctuary for my visions

Before they are thrown, dashed

Against bare brick walls

The ultimate realisation of imaginative truth

Shattering in torment falling

Sprinkling to a festering ground

Proclaiming the dominance of emptiness

I feel the black breath settle on my neck

A black sun communicates with me

There is an imaginative power at its source

It is like the purple stain on a drawn wine cork

My vision is occupied by it, it twinkles and crackles

I see a scent hang in the air, an anesthetising intoxicant

Numbing, cold, like watching gargoyles in the street

I know the winds speech it has an oneiric vocabulary

That drifts among the scarlet stained scent

Swirling through my crystallized thought

Causing a pristine vacillation in my mind

That echoes like a vacant cobalt night  

Disturbing the fundamental enigma

That is the centre of my being

I close my eyes

the uncertainties of
unendurable disturbances
that announce themselves
with the plausible coordinates
of illusion location
an identity to elusive
to justify human possession
leaves only the confusion
of such insoluble difficulties
where the finding of this strange image
is at once touching and grotesque
poses the question what is the self?
what are the guarantees of identity?
who possesses such and by what right?
how is individuality secured?
or are we left to the larcenous wiles
of ones own deployment
an illusion that hovers over one
like an appalling malady
exquisitely positioned on the mind
where it basques in the language
of so called neutral expression of thought
where one alone denounces the self
albeit under compulsion of poignant lament
that evaporates among
shrouds and gaping graves
we are all but the
coordinates of illusion

the wrong atmospherics of transmission
move in uninvestigated chaotic archives
red and pink turbulent storms swarm across
deep space frequencies in imaginative
currents of pulsars
that are translated into phases
each represented in diverse
conflicting modes of expression
in obsessive grooves of consciousness
cut up components of recycled narratives
audibly fixating on vibrations
that sound across the universe
in diffused spirals of manic fluctuations
converting archaic symbols into equivalents
of dust surfaces that oxidise in intermittent epochs
and deposit a rediscovered earth
an expansive transferable construction
of accidental providence
that allows for expression in artificially generated realities
hallucinated images that float
across the consciousness of the cosmos
producing visions that punctuate rational thought
become preoccupied with the conception
of  interplanetary transpeciation
counting the chronological diversity
of those that occupy the black, blank
vacuum of space

.....there are dreams in the sight of savage futures...that lay waste the thoughts of man.......

in that instant
consumed suns
planets moons
fire out
annihilated to nothingness
then into his mouth
all darkness pours
he shallows and he shallows
and the darkness pours in
it is the abyss of humanness
into which we reach
not knowing where
the bottom lies
now the darkness
shines on his face
a cold metallic blue
while a historical shadow
sits on his mouth

What purchase to justify the elusive possession of human identity

In emulation of that which confronts by baffling order of habituation

That tangled interaction in breathless strangeness of the ordinary existence

Yet there is only daylight and that which is condemned to die by life’s end

Those insoluble difficulties that as such are confusions that resolve themselves

In a strangeness that is both touching and grotesque and ask a simple question

What is the self? What is identity? What is that which haunts throughout a life?

Only that of a masque which hides in mediocrity and grief another mask  

Which allows an awakening only to continue to live the saddest of our dreams

what is this love
for I have beheld it
cast in metamorphosis
a love that makes
transformations on the mind
permissible transformations
improvisations of the self
in ****** intensity
which emphasises the drama
of sometimes, dark, violent
and repressive potentials
vicious energies of hate and ambition
that propel the enactment
of intense and exhausting experience
of vigorous vertiginous chaos
indomitable in its desires
what is this love
is it a registered predicament
made memorable by vivid language
that would butcher in ritual
gratuitous memories and testify
to an urgency of unwisely relinquished emotion
what is this love
does it flourish in flawed
and unreasonable understandings
accumulated upon the mind
in vicarious thrill of sympathy
where traits are highly exaggerated
and eagerly anticipates
the oppressive weight of the past
that functions upon a common collapse
of distinctions
or does it manufacture artificial precepts
pretending in attractive collaboration
to associate fiction rather than fact
what is this love
is it that by treaty or inheritance
with loving ferocity would embalm all tears
and hide all those collaborations
in flared conflagrations of the heart
and yes create a turmoil in the mind
hotter than a thousand summers
and vividly stamp upon a twisted body
a moral viciousness of fathomless malice
that wouldst close its ears
to the admonitions of conscious
and thus through an improbable
incantatory verbal rite
touch the hidden order of all things
in disassembling nature
what is this love
if only it was known

there is a strangeness
it hovers
hovers like an unspoken word
or an unshared sorrow
floating in the air
beckoning with
articulated device
it means to kiss me, I think
what is it, what is this that hovers so
and would take possession of my lips
leave upon them an impression of
indentured love
that would if so allowed linger
with imprinted hope of
future taste and would lay upon my heart
an imploration of immaculate understanding
what is this strangeness

metromonic irregularities

of flawless infinity

particularized by lack of action

to create a participation in time

is the savage reprisal

of defiant elements

that challenge conspicuous masks

of isolated illusory expedient frugality

where there is an instistance on a fiction

of invented death without recognition

What shall I speak

What caring words

Shall be the attractive

Collaboration in destruction

That will bury me in my death

What shall I speak

That will illicit ambitions

And by their presence

Renew my sorrows

What policy what stratagem

Must I employ and plead my passions

What shall I propose that has unfrequented effects

Where the eye may behold an honesty

Yes, where a charitable tongue

May offer a delightful engine off thought

To cure this unrecuring wound

Leaving speechless the voices

Of unremitting practice

Who would raise their arms in sequence

To hear what I shall speak

Words so piteously performed

Enough to swear all villainies to spotless chastity

Leaving all words to abomnibile untruths

That would shame stone angels

Yet friendly in their blind complaint

What shall I speak

That you may learn my thought

What shall I speak

a yellowish shroud
is placed hurriedly
upon starched white sheets
revealing vicious contrasts

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

its Hessian appearance
an omen, a foretold event
like breathing deeply in a silence
amidst the history of a great disorder

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

violent ink stains
on folding parchment
embalm themselves
upon the thickness of a sorrow

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

placed deep within
shallow subterranean depths
of an enigmatic being
that is both engineering and entrenching

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

its perplexing sensations causing
a wonderful ingrained passion
to erupt with imponderable abstracts
where truth does not exceed exception

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

the shroud provides a false tranquillity
where there is no longer breath
imposes itself unobtrusively
with wonderful staccato caresses

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

it proclaims an innocence of salvation
yet gives gauge to spectacular routes
and an enormity of misconceptions  
amid prestigious beatifications

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

oh sweet smelling blue abyss
oh deluded reality
dressed in a winding sheet
of meaningless words

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

wrapped in phrases of falsehood
amidst this purgatorial fog
a twilight world of mysterious ailments
maintains a world of external restraints

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

creates and emptiness, a vacancy
provides an intoxication of vision
a strangeness of sensation
a world transparent

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

read the sentences of silence
breathe the perfume of never fading flowers
and see for the first time
the unfinished likeness of others

where the cullan trees lie
where the cullan trees lie

What a sweet addiction overcomes me

An intoxication of cobwebbed lines

That cling to me pleading for recognition

Flesh that flops in fragile crime

That melts in sequence providing

Ashes that block my vision yet still my tears

It is a new beginning but I don’t know which one

Who? Who? Who is it?

That claims a great righteousness

Greater than any other

Who force a bitter love

In deception of their unwarranted claim

That makes the air seethe with murmurings

Of difference and love is left in fragmentation

Who tell me, who? who is it?

That has a greater righteousness

Than righteousness itself, tell me please

Whose claim lies in hate and bitterest gall

Against an enormous part of the human existence

Who, who are these people whose perpetual

Inarticualtion is a violation of love

And make mockery of their claim

Who? who are they? let their stone hearts bleed

Come, take my breath one last time

Whose kiss in eager presentation fits

And possibilities linger on my lips

Disguised as gullible identities

Who seem more real and equally matched

With whom they are contrasted

Producing tantalizing prospects of riches

That can never be retained

Words…..because words are all I have……..:) Edgar
endearments generosity incantatory new sagacity surprise heresy dissipation violating abyss language warning culminates dalack obdurate serving waiter ossuary occurrences tortured beware silence calm bow physiognomy paucity occurrence exegeses transmogrification effectuation Adjunctive dairy tenure contention tenner reins happy indomitable, connoisseur artifice concatenation vivacity voluptuous solemnity enigmatic burdened glorious line huge……………………some I made myself…..:) Edgar

Swallowed all the music pills

From the three penny opera store

The words gathered in my mouth

Were out of shape as I tried to talk to the moon

There was cheap beer but I couldn’t find it

All I got was a lottery ticket for a coffin lid

And the night alone listented, listented

To all these misshapened forms, these words

These words, these words gathered in my mouth

a new vocabulary is driven
as the authentication of genius
one that convinces a migration
toward imagined conjugations
of constellated false inflections
mirrored words on camera
dematerializing radical mutations
interspersed with graffiti and poster sounds
words, sentences in cadence
framed vowels, recordings of consonants
a punctuated acceleration of the visualized
the scanned and the incalculable hallucinatory
holographics of a language in which
communication is not spoken directly
but becomes the audible interpretation
of a microwave