Throb, that pulsating beat,
this beautiful eve,
now this throng of the bass

three, the nuggets of pain
three shots and this throb in my nerve

this is different - gone

gone, erased from this world
blight, darkening lights,

vive le Bataclan, adieu

boom, the booming guns raining fire
by night, sobbing heart
seething eyes, dark this hood
that's come over my city,
where the Caliph reigns

Who is the lesser evil now?

Danube divides artery and vein.

Vive le Paris!

I have visited that hall of broken mirrors a myriad times
still seeking my soul wounded and broken: here this
eikonal space where you still inhabit, somewhere;
For you and me, brother, is written this fate toil and dust,
then, bringing mud in bare hands for a well to be dug
so someone else's daughters could drink of in summer;
Those many hours lost searching for dream kites amidst 
l'hospitals; Time doesn't change the dial, our parchment
lives a palimpsest of who we toil for and why. Now
cut them weeds in your garden, go grow the pumpkins,
wondering by nights, empty the full house of mirages.
Yes, we walk this nigh-trodden path loved of the ancients,
alone in the darkness of the distant suns going to sleep.

Half a milken bowl
               stuck on the wall:

sporting a contraption at its head

all silver, this touch-cold cast,

spouting out a colourless stream.

Sound of an outpouring,
the song of life.

parched desert mirage.

Pining for a love that never was,
I listen to the crooning voices of jazz.
Boy, you made me tumble, you made me fall,
I lay at night dreaming of lips that never met.

Pining for you, I'm sad and lonely,
This are the autumn's blues of such life.

The orange leaves outside fall,
my rain in autumn.
The wind howls through the night,
forlorn whispers of your name.

I'm pining for you,
you who made me tumble, who made me fall,
I'm a leave on the winds of autumn,
Boy, I'm howling for you tonight.

Totem poles, bare naked, arranged in a row
fiery headed, emerging out of the mists

Mysterious all light and no flame
by some source subterranean fed,

Either side of a path paved of dark
this moonless night, by the flickering star,

walks the shadow of some being with eight
wondrous arms cast symmetric about its head.

oh the flaming lights, dying into the mists,
extending into the depths of the distant night

When a diet
Became a way to lose weight

When calories
Became a negative word

When 130 pounds
Became overweight

When skinny
Became positive

That was when
All the little girls started *dying

Dear Lord,

I thank you today for this gift of food. This, was another child of yours. Abel Abel Abel. An intelligent bird. A member in its dumb chain of life, family: what is family to that insentient mass? Do they mourn when one of them is gone? Does it affect them, does it bother them, does it pain them,

As it does to us? Yes, we, the great golden yardstick against which to measure out the universe.  Dumb, may be, but dumb life with a heart. Who knows about the soul. Isn't soul that little pin-***** somewhere deep in the heart? Do I have one? Do I care, do I mourn, do I see the pain that I cause to these fellow children of yours:

But if not this, what else - a leaf that covers in fear at being plucked, a root, a bulb that in ways we cannot sense with but an instrument, cries out in pain at being uprooted, skinned and roasted live. Or a fruit, that mothership, host to a million seedling lives, every one of them that could grow out to outlive my life by orders. A stalk, a branch, name it.

Yes, this is food. This is a chain. I eat and am eaten. Terrible, this creation, that has sprung from wellsprings of love. Or is not this world the product of a loving God, but that of the evil non-God? But where your omnipotence that is screaming through the scripture hoarse?

No, I am a sinner. I have sinned, to be born in this wretched world. A dead child was washed ashore, the other day. Until then, I said, to hell with those barbarians crossing rivers and mountains to reach my land. But what of death? I boil and burn a billion little lives in my glass of tea every morning, many times over. Oh plasmodium, that I have to **** to live, oh this life that hangs to me like a necessity!

Good Lord, have you made me in your image? What is, whose reflection in spacetime appears like this visage, flesh on ribage, beating heart, pumping lung, viscera and nerve and vein, bone and nail, wallowing in pleasure and pain? That is an inverse problem that baffles our genius. It is ill-posed for certain, with no means of regularization for sure.

I must live I must live I must live. ****, that organism is small, dumb, unintelligent, insentient, it's pain is of another kind, we can't eat air, and we are atop this chain, cobra's head, that houses all the venom. This is evolution, we are evolving space suits to head to the stars and spread the Gospel to those unknown realms still sunk steeped in barbarism.

Yes, He is great, he can be heard in the voices of lunatics that some times  get recorded and transmitted across the generations. And I follow the masters, they were vile, very vile, they were chosen, yea they were chosen, so vile is virtuous, I be vile, I be virtuous, I am chosen, yea, I am chosen, I head to God, on the backs of a thousand dead souls.

Amen. Peace to all those I consign and all the masters I quote. Holy Cain!