it has been over a year, to what has become:
    i have made too many points to be caged into one
     fraudulence, or one whimsical suggestion
that might entomb me... too many times has
the wind been undecided concerning what direction
my thought would travel to,
if my i am remained enthralled
within a stasis plateau... i cannot say how many
works could be written from a
string of i, 1, think, 2, therefore, 3,
i, 4, am, 5: five words... perhaps because the fact
is so recurrent, and so diverse
you can almost always encounter it
over and over again,
   in a kaleidoscope -
                  you can say:
how much of my thought precipitates
      toward my being so
to thus be instructed?
   and what if one says the opposite:
like... i think parallels i am...
  thought parallels beings...
and for that: we have the case
of ontology...
                    oh this is old territory,
and only a few could find a hammock
in these arguments...
          because there is no pop glory in
them to be found: for all things that
such postscriptum remarks are these days:
they are not dealt with in this world...
for let us say: man finds it truly
       uncomfortable to be cradling a soul...
materialism bites back with a vengefulness
  to completely destroy such entities:
and call upon history to speed-up
   their reasoning of the profundity of
the argument first given: as history speeded-up
   is but mythology...
  to quickly forget.
                 i rarely like to recreate my
steps back into this fact of the pentagram...
          it sounds too over-ridden with
past examples that have been left alone
or alooft...      they are no longer in line
with the vogue zeitgeist...
or the zeitgeist of the current vogue...
      but it has been over a year
since i made this entry: and yes, i remember it...
did you know that walking in temperatures
   in the range of -1 to -3ºC  is actually more
pleasant than walking in temperatures
in the range of +1 to +3ºC?
          i guess it could be counter-intuitive...
but there's that outer-suburban road
in the night... and that empty street,
   and there's me walking right down the middle
of it, rather than on the pavement...
   and it's so much more pleasant
in temperatures below 0ºC than just slightly
above... more pleasant: because it's
actually warmer... and the reason being?
there's absolutely no moisture in the air...
suddenly the water once bound to water vapour
becomes crystals on the pavement...
   and yes, this be but the second night
when Jack Frost came back...
likened to yesteryear... that strange sight,
of paparazzi crystal flashing on the pavement...
i might have asked for a red carpet too...
but there is was, the paparazzi frost
    tingling on the pavement...
       a red carpet scenario with an audience of 1...
below 0ºC... the warmer air of frost,
where water no longer exacts authority in the air...
   as if laden with a tombstone that
my shadow is... but so much clearer to be content
with such a burden: than an image in a lake,
or a mirror, so much less burden with a shadow
than a reflection...
                    wherever i look i gaze at an atom
bomb explosion, yet without strobe-shadow-etchings
on Hiroshima brick walls... i gesticulate
  my shadow like a puppeteer... and it pleases me
to see the puppet walk and trot, and swiggle
down a bottle of beer, and ooze out cigarette
smoke between street-lamps...
               and... fay! no strings attached!
o whiskey: my amber fay... o amber fay!
      through your tides of moon and mood,
that none of us have seen fathomable in temperaments
above what the prescription suggests:
         not you puritan Amber at room temperature:
for you are not cognac...
   or classic 1950s Hollywood dabbling with soda water...
             on the tip of my tongue: a bonsai iceberg
tickles my tongue, and the glass rattles with many
of them: like castanets!
                        there you are:
   in the deafness of the night my chauffeur and
    snogging suitor: for each bite of frost indoors
i twirl to romance: that no barbiturates could ever
provide... then let me teach the one who ended
his literary career asking to be a disciple of Dionysus,
let eternity be for me: a chance to teach him
how to appreciate you...
                  of course the Green Fairy will be there
as if the Lilith of Eden: lizardly green
or perhaps chameleonic rainbow tinged
so frivolous as to be envious and yet hide it;
for if he truly wanted to be a disciple
     to the fervours of a company with you -
i can spare him a lesson or due, for him to complete
his transvaluation of all values, and perhaps
    the untimely permutations.
                yet only with prior obstacles already
cited, as if lines wriggling toward nowhere of a
student in an hour's worth of detention...
      a mantra must be stated, and then avoided:
the serpent of narrative must sidewind
    away from the clear indication of what can
possibly come prior, and post.
                      still... a year ago i looked at the same
sight as i did today: the flickering of frost
on the pavement under a street-lamp...
     like a red-carpet event at a movie premier,
frost like photographic paparazzi flashing -
but this? o Amber Fay... such a subtler version,
that metaphor of epileptic nervousness
         that comes without warning and sooths
having strained one's eyes on the heavens
too often... to think: such an array of diamonds
on a brutish scrape of pavement:
        o such blissful humbling by the coming of
winter... with a Quasimodo to add to the scene:
    to look down upon this world and feel
a hunch about what route to take...
                is but a frightful realisation that
by looking up... once sees so few a chance to appropriate
      passive magic of this world
              and you and the world entwined for a purpose
to simple see what needs to be seen:
     and expect no fathomable truce between
such sights on a frosty night on the pavement:
   and  the celestial       zodiac patterns
     that speak neither of man or a god: but simply of aeons
  of perfected harmoniousness, to nothing more:
than a ratio.