thankfully Hamlet is taken to a couch,
that's hardly a sick-bed,
for we all know: psychiatry is half
of medicine, it breeds more ill men than it claim
to have cured.
and there be that thing, that shadow,
that resemblance of a man,
stalking the highlands, and drinking
at the Lochs...
until there are three,
under a street lamp with due walk,
and a brick wall near,
a man and two shadows,
one more full than the latter more fog,
and the sudden thrill, as if being followed
by one's own unsuspecting guise...
usurper strong, a Judas in a Judea...
asp tongue, wasp thought,
doubly piercing the status quo of today...
as said, by only a single word,
macbeth, macbeth, macbeth,
into the night, shrill of violins, shark-infested
airs of a witch's shrill cry at the black sabbath
around the fireplace...
macbeth, macbeth: said: deep frozen
into the night...
to a neared upon usher of equivalent tear...
avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee!
(and hades resurrect thee!)...
against all that encompasses the noun zeus:
and fathering wisdom for care to lose repeated
cohorts of the titans sun, moon, gaia...
aye, and a bold one, that dare
look on that which might appeal to the devil;
have you no care to not flog to these
past expressions, reading them,
as reading our modern undermining into
things of origami consort?
folded, folded once more,
a piece of paper is a metaphor,
that blooms into the end result of it being
treated as metaphor... a piece of paper
given the status of metaphor, later becomes
a paper-folded swan, and origami swan...
that icon of monogamy...
or how swans like to see it:
in sickness and in health, beyond death do us part...
ever look at a widow swan and not feel
a pang of hope to be given the altar of death
upon the crucifix mound?
just a little bit?
who may i rather challenge for unkindness,
than pity for mischance! -
can one man's love affair be as short
as another man's play,
given the chemistry suggest that the man spent
the four seasons in the stated place of concern?
had i been invited to Erasmus Denmark,
my sparrow would have sung differently...
to a less Celtish drum of heart...
and the man in question would
remain as curriculum material for a midsummer's
night, and romeo and juliet and shylock...
here, we keep promises...
just here... every time i read a philosophy book
of deep under-sea thinkers,
i am the quasi-acuatic animal, a sly
mammal of the seas, a whale, a dolphin...
every time i read a philosophy book,
and subsequently re-enter shakespeare...
i am that same old mammal keeping his breath,
to surge back toward the heavens of a sea-level
i say: contend with reading philosophy
books to then reread your choice of shakespeare:
for me, nothing beyond macbeth...
thus said: learn, to live again...
as i have done on countless opportunities...
i can not prescribe a most perfected dichotomy...
oh sonnet so pale, oh other works so well preserved
that they encourage memory dementia
with a workload of pristine recitations...
just a chance encounter, when psychiatrists
faded with Hamlet, that Macbeth arose from
the ashes and said: i stand as a sword firm in hand,
and i will not reach the safety of
lounging in gleba...
to merely be a dead entertainer of
some obscure theory...
and with every instance
upon seeing the **** thing,
my eye be blunt, and my tongue be sharpened....
likewise in reverse, concerning the same thing:
my eye be sharpened, but my tongue be blunt...
of these two essences, man first thought...
and had only thought provided man with
a simple yes, or a simple no, wouldn't
the point of thought be more than if not less
bewildering than arguing from its own existence,
an existence of a god?
not man, devoid of god crafted this deformity
to later impregnate an icon with...
but man too bewildered by thinking,
that spawned this horror...
of thought, thus said, no moral grounding,
but merely the numbing, the selective numbing
of the senses, as ailing man suggests,
the ailing via hearing,
the hedonism feats suggesting exploration
of feeling numbed, and apathy creeds to experience
as many people as possible...
thought mediates the sensual-numbing we
all see... and none of thought, is concerned
with being injected into a moral theory,
since thinking is too simple, and a lie a too great
opportunity to be mislead into mis-use...
for a simple yes and no - the theta-ought...
would not have spurned the phi-nought
and if the senses are not duped,
then what story are we to be told?
that might provide a throng, and an opulence
of a campfire for it to be tought?
to the last syllable of recorded time, said Macbeth.