The double slit experiment
In quantum mechanics
Shows us one thing:
That you can’t trust a *******.

You can’t even trust a particle
Without watching it like a hawk,
And even then it will disobey you.

Be a little rebel,
Get yourself a little *****,
Have your own opinions,
Let relationships decay into ruin.

Quantum mechanics tells me
That we’re all a little cunty,
Even the atoms that comprise us,
So what choice do we have
In the end?

Strolling, wistful, through a thousand lives,
across the chasmed centuries gone past,
he calls her name; it never quite arrives
to fall upon her ear.  Just at the last,
she leaves the hall, or shutters windows closed.
The fading echoes rebound, fall, despair
upon the careless earth, alone who knows
how many times he's haunted up her stairs
and stood before her door, unwilling hand
hung limply at his side. The heavy years
passed by them both again; he hadn't planned
that they would not meet. This chance disappears  
to speak the truth he knows she knows as well;
two ancient souls in broken bodies dwell.

Two ancient souls in broken bodies dwell,
a karmic double-helix twists through time.
They spiral 'round, attracted and repelled
by cosmic force, the space between defined
as two arms' lengths apart. Their fingertips
will brush by chance; the spark that generates
ignites the kindling lust, the heated lips
which speak the wildfire words of love. The fates
dictate the places, times where their paths cross;
circumstances, consequences feed
the choices made.  They've chosen fire, the loss
of reason, stoking starving naked need,
dance with abandon, passion, without pride;
they trip light-years fantastic side by side.

They trip light-years fantastic side by side.
The pas de deux began in ancient court
of some small city-state.  He is a knight
sent by his Queen, a diplomatic sort
of mission.  At a dinner hosted by
the local King, the knight, while taking in
who might be helpful or a hindrance spies
a shaken mane of gold, blue eyes within
her stunning face, struck slack with ennui
until she meets his eyes.  An eyebrow lifts,
a corner of her mouth curls up, unseen
by all save the old man beside.  He shifts,
and stands to pound his staff. The hall is still;
bound by an angered mage's curs'ed spell

Bound by an angered mage's curs'ed spell:
"Your burning gaze, Sir Knight...your smile, milass;
returned. You want each other?  Very well!
So mote it be; I'll have it come to pass.
She will be linked to you, eternally
yours, to have, to hold and never love;
to consummate and quench your lust will be
your death. And you shall lust, by Jove above!
I hereby mate your everlasting souls;
condemn you with a love like Hades' fires,
passion's heat incinerates you whole.
You'll take him, child, and **** him with desire.
You'll die for her; she'll bring you to her knees
across uncharted lands, bedragoned seas."

Across uncharted lands, bedragoned seas
uncounted years of wandering, he seeks
asylum from the memory of her eyes.
The softest skin, most gently blushing cheeks,
wildest fingers raking skin from back,
ever-changing hips which ****** and thrash;
the tavern *****, the courtesan, all lack
whatever power it would take to smash
his crushing need.  An aching pilgrimage,
life spent in shameless chase to slake the lust
imposed by jealous wizard in his rage.
Now weak and old, he walks alone through dust
and sandstorm, seeking solace, final rest
in desert's scalding carborundum breath

In desert's scalding carborundum breath
she oversees construction of her tomb.
Her father started it; upon his death,
she left the mage to build the solemn room
of memory. The waves of slaves pour sweat
in rivers onto stones, their muscles scream
and ripple in the undulating heat.
Mirage becomes a staggering man, unseen
by all but her. She mounts and rides to bring
some water, some relief.  When their eyes meet,
their souls enmesh, their spirits start to sing,
his failing body falls about her feet.
They're found again, and still there's no release;
not even end of life can bring surcease.

Not even end of life can bring surcease;
she lived another twenty years beyond.
His final glance of longing gave no peace,
but chained her in the everlasting bond
of arcane condemnation. Her ****** heart
is pierced by passing seconds, every one
a blunted needle, mildly poisoned dart
not strong enough to stop her pulse's run.
The mage's gift to her: the agony
of life remembering her lover's kiss,
then a death too short to set her free.
It sends her toward another fatal tryst,
spun round again the universe's width;
their love a measured minuet with death.

Their love a measured minuet with death,
a dance with destiny.  They wake again
to unfamiliar bodies, unknown paths
meandering across the haunted plain
of time.  A muddy pasture, half a million
blissful stoners join in raucous song:
"...and you make it hard". Among the hills run
****** lovers who can do no wrong,
all sharing bodies, needles 'til the smack
runs out. Her shaking arms strapped 'cross his chest;
he huddles close, awaiting the next stack
of Methadone. He shivers; breathes his last.
She cries and rocks his body, they will spoon
throughout the summer's thundered afternoon.

Throughout the summer's thundered afternoon
as heavy clouds erupt on thirsty soil,
cooler air meets skin on fire, a boon
to Magdalene and lover.  The sweet oil
washes off, the rain obscures the sound
of marching feet.  Centurions approach
and ****** him from her side. "So now you're found
beside this one, whose last ride gave us such
an evil time.  We strung him up, but now
his body's gone, and you were seen beside
the tomb. You'll die just as he did, and how."
She watched another man be crucified.
Supported by her love, he passed in peace
suspended in expectant spring's embrace.

Suspended in expectant spring's embrace,
the royal courtyard at Versailles in bloom
is laid out for the party.  Every face
is rouged, each powdered wig precisely groomed.
The hundred soldiers stand down, raise a toast,
Vive le roi!  One teasing courtier
seduces a queen's guard to leave his post.
Behind a hedge, they make love unaware
of peasants, women milling through the gate
in search of bread and royal blood, not cake.
He runs to save the Queen, and seals his fate;
the mob will **** for revolution's sake.
The oaks a silent witness to his doom
in autumn colors, reds and golds festooned.

In autumn colors, reds and golds festooned,
the twin moons rise and set, reflecting sun
upon the biodomes.  Earth shines down, ruined
by man's neglect, what could not be undone.
The population by law zero sum;
resource conservation held above
the joy of new life.  Parents here must come
to know the anguish of requited love.
She bears his child; they knew too well the chance
they took.  The court will force a choice be made:
the father or the child. A tear, a glance
as he's locked out. She watches as he fades
in cryogenic punishment, life lashed
to winter's icy shackles holding fast.

To winter's icy shackles holding fast
her soul, she proffers prayer, slogs through the sleet
toward her cloistered cell.  One chilling blast
wraps habit 'round her, knocks her off her feet.
The heavy, sodden cloth, the wind prevents
her gaining purchase on the frozen ground.
From monastery cot, the monk could sense
distress.  In thin burnoose he dashed and found
her, cold as stone, yet breathing; swept her up
and rushed her to the hearth.  His warm embrace
brings on familiar heat.  Their pasts stirred up,
relived, decision made within a trace:
"'Tis best this time we live, and never start."
Their minds attuned, yet cleft by broken heart.

Their minds attuned, yet cleft by broken heart;
the aching need grows stronger day by day.
He tends her failing health without regard
to duty, vows.  Her weak voice strains to say,
"I will be gone before you this time. Hear
me out; this may be what we need to break
our curse.  Stay with me as my time grows near;
and love me as the Reaper comes to take
my soul, and finish with me after I
have left.  God will forgive sins we'll commit
for man alone has ****** us.  We must try
or curse ourselves, continue to submit
to endless pain, remain just as we are:
connected, blessed, and doomed to be apart."

Connected, blessed, and doomed to be apart,
they cling to every moment here and now;
the priceless beating of her failing heart,
his passions roil out in unending flow.
He gazes deep in her eternal eyes
as they glaze over, looking past his face
into the hollow stare of death.  She lies
suspended between life and time and space,
to hear an old, familiar voice sound in
her ears.  "To dance with death before him
as you rut...how clever!  Most astounding
that you'd carry out this futile whim.
He dies; you'll live, just as the curse defines;
strolling, wistful, through a thousand lives."

Strolling, wistful, through a thousand lives
Two ancient souls in broken bodies dwell.
They trip light-years fantastic side by side
Bound by an angered mage's curs'ed spell.
Across uncharted lands, bedragoned seas,
In desert's scalding carborundum breath
Not even end of life can bring surcease;
Their love a measured minuet with death.
Throughout the summer's thundered afternoon,
Suspended in expectant spring's embrace,
In autumn colors, reds and golds festooned,
To winter's icy shackles holding fast;
Their minds attuned, yet cleft by broken heart:
Connected, blessed, and doomed to be apart.

a stupendous undertaking on the fore -
    a lyrical stronghold against the ebb of
forgetting -
       perhaps having exhausted memory
for a fire of arithmetic -
                  better still: a written english
    and a phonetic english...

                          bernard shaw's 1941
complaint: "it may interest you to learn
that your leading article contains 2,761 letters.
as these letters represent only 2,311 sounds,
450 of them are superfluous and could
have been saved had we a british alphabet."

- qestshen or question: qweshchun -
not out of reform but out of curiosity -
perhaps the reforms of
noah webster and american-english
e.g. an ax for an axe
         honor for honour
         theater for theatre:
        a potato for a potato:
       poe-tay-toe: toe-may-t'oh...

that there are already so many idiosyncrasies
in english: a per se rendition of
base and self-evident changes -

yet to have inherited latin and:
quiet frankly - done so little to it...
   after all: where are diacritical marks
in english?
                better still:
                  why bother keeping:
    ȷust so you know - ın that:
      to dıstınguısh from kazakh?

jacobus parcossius (jakub parkoszowic)
was no johannes huss (john huß)

it had to be such a humbling sunday
afternoon -
    that there was something to do
around the house and in the garden:
yet this pagn of historical guilt:
   antithesis of post-colonialism -
more of a lineage:
          god, as a people -
                       we didn't really do very
much -
              perhaps we were late...
inherited christianity in the 10th century
and with it the latin script...

what a large chunk of europe that could
be made into an estonian summary
of - it's sometimes no wonder the russians
and the germans would much prefer
to squeeze either side of this:
                                            ambivalence...
­
exile exile exile...
                that copernicus is still contested
as a german: what little we had we probably
have to have even less -
   overshadowed by galileo and...
the william burroughs mythos invocation
that the ancient egyptians had
a heliocentric model worked out...

   i guess that's appropriate: measuring
ambitions - to build a tomb to compete with
hills and minor mountains -
   unless of course: a man made three dimensional
Δelta was is and forever will be:
                     a life as an architectural necrophilia...

it's even stranger writing this in english
and not in: z wschodu (from the east)...
                                    in this post-colonial dynamics
i cannot share the same frivolity of
anyone moving into the anglophone domain
with writs of ownership -
        after all: how much of this tongue is mine...
and how much: will succumb to
some historical inheritance tax of blame...
or hindering pride -
             it's a question no native will ask -
or member of the commonwealth -
  
   long story short: the polish-lithuanian
commonwealth was sold off -
   a bit like alaska - but by bit...
   but it's not like england will be sold...
   sold to the "cossacks" of mayfair...
                           i have just come
to acknowledge an... irritation that's not:
itchy - a paranoia that's not persuasive:
a fledgling of purpose -

            beside the sadomasochism of
the "elders" and soviet-influenced globetrotters:
i'd appreciate summer holidays in
the highlands - then again:
what's not to like about Cornwall?

what's for me? a return to... glagolitic?
     Ⰸ ⰐⰖⰄⰟⰊ Ⰹ ⰆⰟⰊⰜⰉⰀ
     z nudy i życia
    (from boredom and life)
            
  rummanations in expanding this into
a mixture of cyrillic and greek?
hell! if some of these letters were borrowed
from coptic, hebrew...
                  let's try some armenian!

սկորո տակ...           ի տեն ճաս
skoro tak...        i ten czas
(if so...                and this time)

mesrop mashtots gave the 5th century: ե
how else to imagine time:
when - there was a time one could
add something so profound -
that couldn't possibly be a lightbulb...

so here i am... dragged into the worst
of the use of english: should it become impressively
justifiable: i'm here talking about
letters and elsewhere: backed by year 0
a debate concerning:
cinnamon, paprika, ground cumin,
ground cinnamon,
cacao powder, himalayan salt, etc.

no wonder there's a running theme of
being completely demoralised / dissuaded from
writing...
   i like thinking about post-racial brazil...
not that i'm eager to learn some port-of-geese...

                  ֆակտ: fakt - fact...
                     շկոդա - szkoda - it's a shame...
because it's an ambivalent remark:
            beside a purposive ill deed...
and it's not: wstyd - literally shame designated
a honour presupposition...

once boasting: the clarity of phonetic details -
an orthology of a language since:
there wasn't a time to delve into metaphysical
arguments - the letters were burning bright
and hardly illuminating:
having to apply geological-esque pressures
to the latin script:
   and come out with a caron:
                                unlike in english
                           a subscripted H lingering -
which is almost a very ******
aspect:
                        H|Z - "too many consonants"...
czasem | sometimes...
                    no use writing -
               there are clearly more decisive things
i can do to satisfy myself with today...
unless of course come evening
i'll bring some bourbon and act upon:
shamelessness...
                          perhaps then...

but for now... a preserved mesmerisation...
perhaps out of the fact of simply being born
into these letters:
   they look like they ought to sound...
    that lip reading is possible...
   is probably because R - well the old R
with a trill does look little an omicron
with a leg forward or rolling down a hill...
  P does revel in a mouth with lips that pop...
P does indeed POP...
                  U and YEW...
    and why why I
                                        kept: T's on the tIP
of my tONGUE...
                      G has gloating about goo
and glue... X does mark the 'ks...
                      most certainly fAR Far away...
for F and what if not the threatening philosophy...

****** good luck... a teasing joy
that will Be nonexistent upon the ******
of a full-stop.

When I was an
ideal and dreamy teenager walking amidst the
trees in the backyard,
there, curled up beneath a pine, I discovered a small creature and stared at it.
I gently picked it up and held it to
my chest.
It opened its eyes.
I felt The power within .
It went back to sleep,
and I set it down.

The next morning
when I walked
out the back door,
headed for school,
the little creature
was sitting there,
wide awake,
looking up at me.
It had the most
unreal looking eyes.
They seemed to change color.
Apart from English and art class, I hated school.
I didn't quite fit in .
I had good friends,
but I always felt lonely.
Bouts of melancholia struck me at the strangest times,
soon after, I found
it to be the
terminal affliction of being a poet.

I stayed home from school that day and played with the
creature.
It seemed to
hear me, almost understand me.
I liked the feeling.
it became my
best friend.

I fed it every day
and it grew and became unruly and hard to control at times, but overall, it caused me much more joy than pain, way back then.
I missed it when it
was gone,
and threw my arms around it when it
came home.
I named it buffer
because it was an equalizer for me,
and the world, and pain,
It went inbetween the sharpness and vividness, in which I didn't know how to cope.

It got big
and became
a beast.
I had a love / hate relationship with
the thing.
I sacrificed a lot
for it at the
altar of idolatry.
It wouldn't let anyone get close to me,
My wife, my kids,
I chased them
all away.
I was alone with
the beast.

After years of
pain and degradation,
I put the beast down.
I shot it in
the back of the
head, like a rabid dog.

Life raged on.
Pain and joy came with equal measure,
but I no longer
needed a buffer to
keep living, laughing, and learning.
I finally figured
out how to
truly love.

use to sit by a radiator
Early in the morn
Hours past that
I was unaware
Armed with my Bible
My notebook for poetry
Or thoughts that would occur
A peaceful time
Perhaps two or three
When souls are sleeping
And my heart is aching
For words to read and share
My radiator has since
Disappeared into new hands
Hope they find the magic
of warming your back
And cleansing your soul
I have