so you can understand the voice of eva cassidy, and hear the beauty of plagiarism as above original composition; sometimes it fares to count a minute than live an hour, when all an hour can bring is asphyxiating sails that have but a viking dreaming of greenland, and deeper north to no sunrise awaited turning viking into eskimo; but it's still a bit **** that they remember jeff buckley than eva; i preferred his father, timothy; n'ah, not really, hence the whimper, hence the weep, hence leeroy cohen giving us the bricks and the pavement to wrestle drunk trails of the otherwise respected walk of pride, or shame, into the grave.*

wet your hand before touching ice,
and i promise you,
you will turn into a spider,
a wetted hand touching ice
will cling like traversing
odd geometries,
you really don't need
an oxbridge education
to speak a tongue
so easily exported to australia,
india and new hampshire,
but like i said:
i will not go to that sikh *****'s
wedding a daughter out
of principle, as i breathed out
a soul most recognisably seen in winter
(a bottle of wine for me is
a glass of beer for you):
we shall meet again Darshan,
with soul and ease of thought,
for ease of thought means soul,
and that, my dear feline imam,
who i chiselled a gravestone off
a grave to bury your ash...
is as far as the buddhist sun will be allowed
to rise from horizon frequented by
stars in depths and squid reminding of
the oceanic fluorescent graffiti,
search one's own depth before searching
a depth to others...
you provide a shallowness
others will acknowledge as sound relief
readied for critique...
just because you read don quixote doesn't
make you a genius, more a plagiarist...
but it helps to have something bulky...
my metabolism states:
a verse at a time, two hours for one
in the cantos, then a newspaper article
(i never managed to understand why
people read trash upon wake & transit,
to some odd affair with address and signature,
why read the world's rotary gullibility
with tongue in cheek tongue tied predictability?
why not begin the day straining the eyes
at tolstoty's ******* no one dare read
for fear of being ransomed by boredom?
you russian or something?
there's no prize concerning national pride,
so why bother?
philosophers say the dumbest **** about philosophy,
they talk perception perception reality via "the perceived",
and then they say it takes ageing, or quiet simply
old age, loss of libido to define the subject matter;
i say... it's defined by spontaneity, because
it's a subject once it's fleeting, a butterfly conundrum,
anything beyond that is a tapeworm:
it feeds by feeding of a host, and that's that.
Darshan, my quicksilver in water,
we'll meet once more, again,
when we'll say: thinking with ease,
to the ultimatum of arguing whether a god exists
exploited to exchange pronouns with nouns
and vice versa... to be less identifiable
as a hope for fame... to think with ease,
disregard points of closure... with soul...
to be with soul and the ease to think,
such is the travesty of unquestionable morality...
the ultimate defiance of the gods in terms of mortality:
man's rebellion was to ask of morals,
the gods simply gave us mortality.