i still think the oceans are insulators of tectonic plate movements, constant and endless vibrations represented by waves, these vibrations, when translated on dry land, movements of crumbling buildings, rigidity as testimony to the insulating fluidity of water; it's like those nuclear power plants, you use water to cool things down, or as in the case of oceans and tectonic plates, insulate volatility... well, radioactivity in the opposite scenario of nuclear power plants... oh look, a rhyming couplet - now that's how you understand things, if not reveal them, find complimentary rhymes on a grander scale than the casual technique in poetry, so over-used and overrated.*

i guess so, monsters bedded, big and small,
an old granny without a family member
to accompany her, harrowed by
charity groups who ask for money
more for the bureaucracy of its workers than
aiding actual victims - someone has to
look pretty, writing solemn letters and
filing in the spreadsheets -
by the way, how's that advent of the grand
timings working, find the hyphen,
the comma, the colon and semi-colon on the clock?
well, there ain't a full stop on there, i'm sure,
hard to decide on encoding time of a 100m
sprint, or a formula 1 thousandth of a second.
so this angel of euthanasia comes along,
a cruel case they say, while years later
a man suffering motor neurone disease
pleads for a change of law, according to switzerland,
he wants it bad, real real bad, he's no longer
even stoic about death, the disease didn't
rob him of expressing tears, and he's pleading
for it, a death sequence, he too knows
a drop in an ocean has no ripple effect,
humanity is the ocean, waves and waves of it,
always dynamic, never still like a lake or mirror,
either the ocean, or the river;
so this angel of euthanasia is there, kills
about 100 grannies, and guess what,
he hangs himself in prison, so that his widow
can receive his pension salary of £100,000,
odd, isn't it? i mean, why would a supposed
"serial killer" wait in prison, hang himself
just after he was eligible for a general practitioner's
pension, just so his wife could have it?
all those old grannies probably lived
on the state pension of one hundred
and twenty quid, not one hundred thousand, i'm sure.
well the guy suffering from motor neuron disease,
oh crap, i wish i could remember that philosopher's
name, parmenides? zeno? can't remember,
yeah, forced himself to suffocate,
without water and without a pillow; yep,
just sat there and held his breath.

i was in the womb when
the chernobyll calamity happened
in 1986...
people still speak of seeing
radioactivity rainbows
in the trees: segregating streaks
where 10 metres of trees
were green and 10 metres of
trees were brown...
much of my ailments i blame
on the chernobyll calamity,
with neurotic scandinavians
spotting the radioactivity
while some of us were tattooed
with symptoms
by this great tattoo artist;
yes, chernobyll was far away from
where i was born,
but we're talking about atom among
atoms in the wind - distance doesn't
really matter when atoms are involved,
not all hurricanes are visible,
the atomic fabric is too fragile to be
as easily isolated as a tornado for the eyes
to see - remember what i told you:
10 metres of green trees, 10 metres of
brown trees, Vivaldi was turning
in his grave; the seasons are all but
forgotten, spring blossom on trees
throughout winter, and daffodils
and other flowers perpetuating colour -
and because they're around throughout
the year, they're not that beautiful
when the right temperature feeds the pores of skin
to turn ivory tinge into copper hue
(yes, anti-classical poetic technique
requires the use of tautology - it's
the new form of rhyming - tautology
is required now, not rhyme immediate e.g.
tinge & hue... that's an e.g. of tautological
rhyming - or like baby pink & pastel red,
chestnut & cinnabar, dark sienna & seal brown).

You sit daintily on her lap
And everything’s a frenzy
Not a sunset fiesta
But an angry cataclysm of molecules
Ricocheting into hysterical radioactivity
And I sit quietly
Warily
I watch mine become hers
During brief moments
Of searing mania and the pit
Of my core is unraveling
And my heart is two patters too quick
In the most sedated of ways
On days when the wrinkles of your hands
Match another’s
And when you are no longer my own.

the scars that skies paint,
on my face are stains,
that i preserve to show my soul.
i am a sucker for strong ffelings,
that often weep and get back up,
to paint colorful billboards in slums.
eyes are just nomads, they only see
the flame that is burning but the flame that's gone
is stored in aphorisms that mother's read
to their children at night, hoping
god will save them, from all above and below.
i seem to find solace, in tying up my body, using words
as knives that tear apart organs piece by piece.
it is better to die in honour, than masked radioactivity,
consuming you, like water in an ocean, like glaciers that do not want to melt and yet are subdued.
how long can someone play hide and seek, how long can u seek
shelter in the reality that often hides it's counterpart.
are you trying to smell the rose, or sacrilege the thorns?
these days will only end, in disbalance, like the ticking diving and
crashing of all the times, where forever was a noun in dystopia.
just stop listening, and start absorbing, time has lost it's crown,
humans have lost their endeavour, and
the only way to be truly sane, is flowing ever eternally like
the shape of water, succulent in all forms.
we are not one but many, scars that will draw out roads for us
to follow, roads that will lead us to meaning to we caanot comprehend with the five senses.
nobody is ready, nobody ever was.
tell me, how do we mourn such a privilege, one we
cannot touch, or feel or sense,
because what lies withing is forbidden to all of us,

some would call it a profanity - from the islands of northern Europe i liked the Scots the most, in my first year at Edinburgh Scottish weather played a joke, i don't remember a single gloomy day - i do remember not sleeping one night, and trekking up Arthur's Seat to watch the sunrise, then climbing down, buying Kellogg's cornflakes and full-fat milk and eating them - that magic moment just between daytime fully sets in - it's so fresh, a reality proof, just before the mundane job applicants get up, you get a sense of what's truly taken for granted in society - it only lasts for a few minutes - before the commuters' nagging sets in, and everything fresh (awaiting the new dawn) becomes custard thick - sticky, sickly honey glue pungent... anyway... i'm making a grand profanity at the moment: tier 1 - whiskey and ice, tier oblivion - whiskey and coca cola... but what i'm drinking is like a virus immune to antibiotics, no amount of citrus barley caramel can mask the smoked salmon with a tinge of variously fruity accents can mask it... Glen Moray, single malt, an Elgin Classic - it is a profanity, i agree - i should drink whiskey like mulled wine - but i'm in a hurry for a mindset, and i'm not bothered that much about passing down aesthetics - my palette says otherwise. yeah, my love for Scotland came from climbing up a ladder in the English hierarchy at school - everyone wanted to be taught by Mr. Thomas Boonce - aged 15 went into B1 (or however they noted the selection process) - aged 16 on top of my game, A1 class - a blazing comet trail of ambition, shared the same desk with my enemy shoulder-to-shoulder, the one who promised me a south american plant would give me grand hallucinations, ****** the mother of my ******* son and wa-lah! elephant trunk pulled from a top hat playing jazz - that Jesus bit about loving your enemies? esp. if they're your childhood friends and are **** crazy? you don't love them, your heart turns to stone and it says skipping on lake: what a shame... so much potential in him wasted on jealousy, the way he trusted a woman that is now on some sort of psychiatric medication... i can't love enemies, what i can do is feel sorry for a waste of human potential... (knock on chest)... yep, this ol' ticker is solid stone... and sooner or later it will be added to a mountain i'm constructing in my mind.

thank god for rabbinical literature -
i could pour days over these pages - i literally open a book,
a compilation of entries -
why hasn't anyone noticed the genius of written Hebraic?
i know in the middle east is a wasp nest of harking and
memorable achoo - or quasi (~, literary denotation,
thereabouts, so so, kinda, well, approximate too,
hand gesture in that symbol, good-in-bad-bad-in-good) -
just now i was admiring the fact that Hebraic hides vowels -
truly, they hide them, ingenious buggers -
all the vowels in Hebraic are hidden -
in translation to Latin the Hebrews treat vowels
like post-Latin users of the original S.P.Q.R. alphabet
use diacritical marks - and newspaper Hebraic doesn't
include them in print, only: i suppose in poetry and
rabbinical writings are they exposed -
which stems largely from what is cordoned off -
or rather the fruits of the work of encapsulation -
Latin is slightly biased, no letter is truly encapsulated,
shut-off from another - aye, be, cee, dee, ee, ef, hay'tch (
a distinction), em, en, ***... zed (an exception), ex, you
get the idea - there are no nouns in the post-Latin
alphabet as such - which is why in science Greek letters
were used as constants - these consonant constants
encapsulated not only the phonetic content of a symbol,
but also allowed for an encapsulation of some higher
purpose - e.g. α (angular acceleration) -
β (sound intensity) - γ (gamma rays) - δ (heat in chemistry,
the perfect error, the Laplace operator, etc.) -
ε (set theory, the limit ordinal of the sequence -
    html disapproval to be written as: ω (tier squared ω,
    and one above the squared tier ω, ω root ω double root ω -
    variant alias of this? Hebraic notation of u .
                                                               ­                   .
                                                               ­                      .
     *shurek) - Θ (Debye notation) - θ (potential temp. in
thermal dynamics) - ι (orbital inclination in celestial mechanics) -
κ (curvature) - Λ (lattice) - λ (decay constant in radioactivity) -
μ (micron, SI prefix, one millionth) - ν (a neutrino) -
ξ (a random variable) - π (too obvious, πr squared) -
ρ (correlation coefficient in statistics) - Σ (summation operator) -
σ (area density) - τ (torque) - φ (the golden ratio, 1.618...) -
ψ (the cat in a box, wave function, quantum mechanics) -
ω (the infinite ordinal);
                                         it's precisely because the Greeks to
encapsulate their phonetic symbols that so much stability
was brought up - look how poverty stricken the Latin variations
are - these are not merely letters, they are actually nouns!
you can recite the whole Greek alphabet a bit like going
to a party and being introduced to people: Jim, Charlie,
George, Rosemarie... obviously there are exceptions for
this observation to be bullet-proof (i.e. μ, ν, ξ, π etc.)
but did the scientists mind not using them? no! they kept to
this interpretation that symbols of sound need to be encapsulated -
held together, stable, each symbol needs to be a balancing act -
an ~equal amount of consonants and vowels need to be
invoked when writing either a or α, b or β, g or γ -
there needs to be an invocation of names to these symbols -
not mere ah be c e ef gee... English for its laziness in omitting
diacritical marks did the unspeakable when digital paper came
about - it turned itself into a quasi encryption tongue,
acronym fuelled and in all honestly - self-conscious of its faults
yet basking in them! but the real genius in encoding signs truly
belongs to the Hebraic school...

you find them so coerced by naked pictures,
that their outer resembles no inner -
you find them bound to an idea that the inner can
somehow compensate - but it can't -
the outer as the inner reveals nothing,
no love, merely a **** - the winged-Hussars die
in Ukrainian fertile land, and with the music,
you can only think of the drudgery of walking
through knee-high mud - you can just picture
the Cossack moustaches wedged behind the ears
like earrings - i too would have eaten my tongue that way
had it been permitted - without permission
i spoke of a stake tartar and my tongue into one -
then the mantra came - kametz, tzeré, chirek, kametz,
tzeré, kametz, kametz, tzeré, tzeré, cholem, kametz, kametz,
- i will not be treated like some dumb farmer!
      your Yurt empire is fledgling into the sunset!
  and my heart is enshrined into a bitter toil! it will love
as it pleases! not with you saying what there's to love!
tzeré, shurek, kametz, kametz, tzeré, kametz, cholem, tzeré,
chirek, kametz. what a mantra!
a, e, i, a, e, a, a, e, e, o, a, a, e, u, a, a, e, a, o, e, i, a -
patterns strangre than in a poetic rhyming scheme -
respective incisions into still-life motives of movement -
i.e. if a vowel be my hand, a consonant be a chair i sit on:
kametz of aleph (א), tzeré of bet (ב), chirek of gimel (ג),
kametz of dalet (ד), tzeré of heh (ה), kametz of vav (ו).
kametz of zayin (ז), tzeré of chet (ח), tzeré of tet (ט),
cholem of yod (י), kametz of kaf (ק), kametz of lamed (ל),
tzeré of mem (מ), shurek of nun (נ), kametz of samekh (ס),
kametz of ayin (ע), tzeré of peh (פ), kametz of tzadi (צ),
cholem of kof (ק), tzeré of resh (ר), chirek of shin (ש)... and
finaly the kametz of tav (ת)* - we really like our matchstick
men, don't we? in terms of ancients tongues,
we like our curvatures in modern tongues of Greek
and Latin, don't we?
instilled the names of vowels! kametz (a
                                                 tzeré (e
            chirek (i
                                          cholem (o
                 shurek (u
                                                           pentagon thus far,
    revealed vowels with diacritic interpretation
           kametz, as soured: חָ - tau, vowel as diacritical mark
elsewhere -
                       tzeré - or umlaut below the letter - alternatively:
           וָ qàmetz                   וֵ tzeré
וִ ḥìreq                              וֹ ḥólem                   וּ shùreq
     (c, k, q - make it quick, à, 1st),
                (é - prolong it, to catch a breath, or the first
                      tetragrammaton H),
that's the genius of the encoding though... the omission of
vowels, or vowels as diacritical marks - one shurek (u .
                                                               ­                                   .
                            ­                                                                 ­        .)
among 10 kametz and 7 tzeré - gematria at its purest -
one shurek, 2 chireks and 2 cholems -
a form of encoding deviating from obscure onomatopoeia
and the void and meaninglessness, toward
a sound ushering a word for word, and actions parallel -
but this encapsulation of breath taken and
breath released, as in writing, the speaker does not
suddenly breathe again - but is kept within limit,
a consonant starting point, the zenith of breath or soul
and a return to one body, v A v (e.g.).
but imagines being able to avoid noun insertions -
then Hebrew is very much as modern English -
when modern English ought to utilise diacritical marks
on either vowel or consonant, it does not -
it doesn't have a single sound encoding worthy of a name -
there's no omega, there is only oh -
Hebrews treat their vowels as diacritical marks -
their language is one massive crossword -
how do they even read HBRC? who the hell taught them
when to insert the vowels from following the roots
as stated HBRC toward the tree that's HEBRAIC?
this is ******* bewildering - i don't know how they do it!
what's agonising is their notion that patterns in letters
having numerical values is somehow meaningful,
as if something horrid can be averted - to me 1 + 1 = 2
is enough - i don't need alef / αλεφ / αλεθ (א) + bet / βετ (ב) =
anything but gimel / γιμελ (ג) -
this is the ****-pile of having so many prophets in your society
and not enough philosophers - the Casandra Standard -
Greeks had the philosophers, the Hebrews had their
prophets, both in excess - in the end the cult of prophecy
in Hebraic society turned into a Casandra Standard
borrowed from Greek myth - while Greek philosophers...
i don't actually know what happened to them -
i think most of them became dentists after Aristotle suggested
women had fewer teeth than men.

i was but a foetus in a womb when Chernobyl happened; the women were told to drink iodine... never knew why, so obviously i was bound to end up like a mutant, given that the radioactivity winds where more potent than those of hot glass Sahara... if you're still stuck in Einstein's physics in terms of causality: cause and effect, i know by a golden standard that you're still confused... Newton's theories about certain things might have been wrong... but a punch is still a punch on the receiving body: a plum coloured blotch, a limo of the puffed up punched cheek of the area around the eye socket.

most these poems could be forgotten in an instant,
a blink of an eye to account for 365 sunrises
on an orb, dense with salty waters,
most of them could become dinosaur bones
on the flag of Wales, just like that! snap! click!
there... prehistory tangled on display
oddly rushed into a crowd of waving hands
with its fluttering creases...
but then i know what poetry is for...
it's not for galleries, not for exhibitions,
not freak shows... not stadiums with amassed
crowds shouting drunken grunts...
poetry isn't for that...
take Alla Ivanivna (aged 87), living in
the Chernobyl exclusion zone, a remote
place called Poliske, once inhabited by
20,000... later 20... 17 of which died,
leaving 3 ghosts... well, souls...
a rickety hut, snow through half the year,
Columbus birches (explorers of the forests,
the scouts of the forests),
she's there living on 40 euros a month,
her food gets delivered,
perhaps a stove to warm-up,
she survived the **** invasion,
the Soviet-induced famine,
her husband died when she was 20 in
a car crash...through the Stalinist repression,
and then Chernobyl...
and then she quotes TS Eliot -
an infinitely gentle, infinitely suffering thing,
there... that's poetry... that's what poetry
is for... it's not an art to be shouted on rooftops,
it's not a honing device for you the bee
and the vast swarm to come looking for you...
Alla is a gallery, the purpose...
she remembers the good old days - and
she remembers a line from a poem...
memory is poetry's greatest ally,
actually poetry is a kind of memory,
perhaps a tool to peer into a vast vault of
images, given poetry is sometimes unheard
and encoded with these crude symbols...
you keep one line from a poem rather than the
whole poem like a trained monkey schoolchild
and your life flashes before your eyes over
the dim bleak vegetation of Ukrainian winters -
it's almost like a slap against Kant's categorical
imperative of working out your life with
one maxim, or with several, whatever;
and that's why it so ******* hurts to craft*.

Brainwaves like the cosmos
giving birth.
The bang of my nuclei expands
beyond the earth.
My supernova incinerates all in its path
My black hole engulfs all light  
E=MC²…..
The birth of the atom
Concepts like myriad mushroom clouds
Visions of explosive aftermaths
Mind games played out on a grand scale
Random radioactivity
Permeates creativity
Defying gravity daily
Like a river
I flow
I bend
Sometimes a gurgling stream
Sometimes a raging torrent
No more hurricanes……
I am serene

Luna is a silent world,
a wasteland of sere beauty.
It’s “seas” are dust and waterless;
Rainfall? Zero, absolutely!

In this place where birds don’t sing
and nothing green can grow.
We built the Armstrong Geodome,
in secret, years ago.

Here, on the “dark” side of the moon,
in a Mare without a name.,
a climate controlled paradise
was built, and workers came.

Some were miners, strong and buff
who search for this world’s gold.
Some are research scientists
one hundred fifty men, all told.

In Twenty Forty Seven
all hell broke loose on Earth
There were nuclear exchanges
and what followed next was worse.

A winter like none other;
we listened, helpless, as they died.
Starvation is the cruelest fate
for any mother’s child.

One by one they all fell silent,
the great cities of that Orb.
Deaths occurred in magnitudes
the human mind can not absorb.

We struggled, yes, but we survived
without the ships from home.
One Hundred fifty adult males,
like the mariners of old.

We mourned the Loves we’d left behind,
We shuddered at their fate.
Our Refuge was our prison;
We lived deprived of child or mate.

The streets of Armstrong are always clean
as cleaning bots are on patrol.
but here no children laugh or play,
it’s a town without a soul.

Two decades we spent in that place
then came the words for which we yearned:
Atmospheric radioactivity
to safe levels had returned.

I was on the first ship home
to San Francisco Bay.
The landmarks all were flattened
The Golden Gate in ruins lay.

We mortals wept, I will not lie
Our cradle had become our grave;
The streets of home were silent,
there was no one left to save.

Terra is a silent world,
a wasteland of sere beauty.
It’s “seas” are toxic, lifeless now;
Children? Zero, absolutely!