Probability isn’t the luck it deserves for wanting desperately to be noticed by any appeals. Generating new focuses never thought possible. If so… Who is the recipient? Who is the lawmaker? Who being the justice department? Goods to making essential markers on productive velocities. Justification is outweighed by department alone. Growing ever scarcer without benefiting attitudes in place. Conjecturing solvent pleasures across many fields. Fields of accessory dependents ensuring a collective term is agreeable. Except, what if probability is outweighed not by something further from its own attitude? What if it can’t benefit itself? In question, becoming misshaped, mispronounced, or misinterpreted. Depending on who’s right, or who’s wrong shouldn’t matter until claims are assured. Propagating across the many fields of accessory dependents. Dependents outweighing the logic one is misshaped by. Demonstrating probabilities mispronouncing sense of terms for oneself. Wrapping up in a crumbled conjecture. Propagating a newer field of already surveyed products. Truth is in the stream that propagates those fields. Accessory moments dependent on gaining tension through the rise of the recipient. That’s the only way probability will ever learn. Hence why it shuts down if it ever involved itself. Itself without its own recipient. Its own justice department. Lawmaker without any dependent ideas would ever appeal to its own logical making, if it’s never dependent on itself. Only flashing the accessory dependent on other influences. Influences going way down the line of certainties without pleasure. Urges relapse. Furthering its own clustered rut! One without mistakes diverging deeper into uncertainties. Taking risks isn’t noticeable. When probability taking risks enough to (blush) down the line of certainties without an aim involved. Scattering their rut from within. But how does it involve probability? It doesn’t. Probability is the representation of how one constant judge itself for pleasure. When pleasurable actions are dependent with a blank impression never sought out. To focused on probability. When probability isn’t fruitful by its own design either. Only way it works. Never looking back in itself. A reflection of tempted attitudes fluttering in a swift, but rigid wind. Wind never tempted by its own sway. If one is to admit what they aren’t even aware of changing. Another shutdown happens! Justifications for probabilities own reckoning depends on other solvents. Solvents who don’t even understand the probabilities of there own life makings. Able to learn what is dependent onto others. Never within themselves directing their starry performance. What happens when things are finally noticeable within probabilities that will exceed probable actions of the force that dictates fates majority complexes? Complexes without variety. Varieties misshaped by mishappenings of trust. Which includes a basic awareness of some factor never hesitating to judge within the core of being itself. A view fate designs in its weapon of probability very well. What is fate up to…? Never can guess when probability shuts down all appliances out of contact with no one but itself left in the dark. Probability is. Everything has just become disowned. Fate exchanging glances with itself for one last second, before rapping up this little diverse expression. Pinpointing its weapon of probability without knowing why that is? Hinting at fate not being the only recipient to follow in its weapons obstructed desires.

Dedicated to the Steelers who do their hard work so well.

The Pier five superstructure
Looms above the turgid waves,
Gothic cranes do hover close
To service needs of orange knaves
Who swarm to manufacture,
Who work to make complete
This massive bridging edifice,
This mighty engineering feat.

Cathedral like in grey austerity
Freezing zephyrs howl and blow,
Through the maintenance shaft tunnels,
Through the bridge's bowels go.
The catacombs are echoing,
Stark light's reflection deep
In corridors of baleful concrete
Through which angled cause ways sweep.

A forest of reinforcing rods
Stand starkly high and straight,
Atop adjacent pylons
Which arise from deep mud's gate.
Hazard lights are flashing
Amber, green and blue
As north east gales bring pelting rain
To obliterate the view

The tattooed hands of black skinned steeler
Twitch the wire to make the loom,
Lattice works of reinforcing
Blackened mesh of iron entombed.
Hard to fathom steeler's chatter
Bending low to twitch by feel,
Working fast in noisy unison
Twitching reinforcing steel.
Pliers flash in rapid movement
Wrist's convulse in rapid slap
Unintelligible chatter flows
But the job is finished, just like that.

Skill saw screams in echoed silence
Booming blows of hammers pound,
Pipe work's resonance percussion
Tempered by a sad song's sound.
Great concussions pound the air
As towering cranes do drive,
Enormous pylons into mud
And bedrock's solid hide

The mighty form travellers moving
High above cold estuary waves,
Reaching forth for unbuilt mana
It's red extension arm enclaves
Providing for the next poured section,
Providing for the next steel work,
Reaching out for firm embrace
Where Pier four's form travellers lurk.

The pungency of solvents spread
Across the steel plate, made to last;
Barrier to adherence of
The sticky concrete's surface cast.
The form work archway's wooden shell
Adopts a high cathedral stance,
This bride in waiting nervous for
The concrete pumps lithe serpent dance.

An unyielding environment
A hard surfaced place to be
Where materials of venom
Are handled casually.
Where massive superstructures
Unforgiving in their stance
Lead the busy, ant like steelers
In their lofty, hard days prance.

To look across Pier Five's expanse
And view the surface cant,
And visualize the future motorway
With it's headlong traffic rant;
And look again at what is spread
Across it's surface now,
At the jumbled reinforcing steel,
The cables, tools and how,
Organizationally chaotic
The whole affair appears ???
Whilst in actuality, my friends,
This clockwork sequence has no peers.

With the roar of passing traffic
As the headlights flash on by,
And the Pier's massive cantilever
Looms impossibly to sky.
One must praise the skilled designers
And those engineers of skill
Who summount vast odds of nature
To scale this monumental hill.
As this mostrous concrete edifice
Claws inexorably from tide,
To loom in towering sillouhette
Where estuary mists abide.

Marshalg
onsite@Pier5
Manukau Harbour Crossing
29 June 2009

Bordering the ear of Dyonisius, in the latomia stone cuts of paradise, they stopped at Syracuse. A certain flash of limestone reflected Wonthelimar's court; Marielle Quentinnais, wandering before him on calypso calcareous stones. Her superior powers made her eclipse her from an underground world, to mount towards carbonated stones that made egregious tilts to revive her in her arms. The end of a century became part of her heart with the premiere of the female species that led her to the Shemesh of Syracuse. The excessive temper strengthened it in everything, making it a revived stone from the Miocene with the Avignon characters, colluding through the Rhone until hitting this neat gold stone brought from the arms of Ezpaktul, transplanted with precision and gold typologies, with great Malleable morphologies that carried him across the surface where Wonthelimar was looking at her, his heart almost pounding when he saw her! the waters spoke of hydric morphologies that conferred of her on waters and springs that were inferiorized in disheartened lower levels when he lost her in the forests of Valdaine. Her brackish tears did not stop imputing a micro space with distinguished Psilocybin mushrooms, for an Ambrosia Mercurial compote that Wonthelimar chewed and that had been immolated from the remnants of Eleusis, helping to revive it from the lost space die of the Mausoleum of the Quentinnais. The mantles froze the cold and warm air masses in Syracuse, carried several meters above sea level, with eager extra surpasses by coexisting in the cave blocks, where she would rest with Vernarth in her arms. For the subjugation of the journey that would make him perhaps mortal, retreating towards a three-dimensionality that would raise him above the Pleiades, as Aurion would do behind with his club, but rather leaving behind the cavities that would put his quantum at the mercy of the tiny rosaries that she did, while he was getting ready to approach on the surfaces of the hypogeal speleothemes, like the Profitis of the Mediterranean who spoke to him of music, and of flood episodes with his spectrum in front of her, losing her in a melancholic fervor, being plunged into the hypogeum of Chauvet. The level of her vicious intrigues led him to follow her like an unattainable cousin, but with backwaters that compelled him to think of her master Vernarth, linked to micro images that warned him when he tried to get too close. The floating instants weighed more than a slight depth through accumulations of his retro memory, making him flee from her, and now she was fleeing from him, with large sprays of dew that filtered into her arid aquifer memory, superior to the kart that is established by correspondence when someone supposedly disappears, because their free will is entombed with their stone specter. Due to regimes suffered, there was only one monarch that rose in icy and polar vadose conditions, towards an earthly level where the feet melt the calcaneus as if it were a weak relative ascent towards a couple of beings who loved each other imprecise, and contexts when vivifying their hiding place. in the caverns of Chauvet. He can hardly recall it a shallow light, almost falling without mass towards the front of the stalactites, creating concretions of solid love under the deepest prodigality.

Wonthelimar, had had a vision on the vadose threshold when he came out to the surface with Vlad and Vernarth, being able to realize that the cloying environment made him subordinate himself in the altimetry of his maniacal impossible love, putting at risk the mission of overcoming the fluctuations of his visions, placing precepts in the sighting courses in Syracuse that had him dazzled, and very close to the entrance pit of the Ear of Dionisius. The puffs of caliginous air mass climbed before the beastly decibel of Vlad's chiropterans, falling through the marshes that were found from freshwater by several estuaries, and with decimeters when they tried to adjust their addiction. Solvents in the glaciers looked immutable when they were taken by underwater stimuli and models, still remaining after an extraordinary performance of vague probity, reviewing the details of actualism on the interfaces that led them, causing the water to flee from their bodies and inclinations. Only a few deposits favored the band mechanism to protect Vernarth's burning, which crystallized in excesses of the Sun, precisely when the fluctuations seemed bulky, by coordinating the foreign fattening in its arms, with which it would open the floodgates before entering the Grotto of Dyonisius, with greater rigors of concretion and emotion that flourished towards a maximum extension, which progressively gave rise to the devotional areas that received them at adjoining angles of forty-five degrees from its main arch, where frequencies stood out and the light with the mass of the Sun, distributed in small stars, which leaving campaniles that adhere to the normal area of distribution of the frequencies of the cave, on bands that reflected moved bodies on the mirror of rain that was shown on themselves, such as once striated towards a more tempting rib of the Coralloidal Speleothems. In Catania, they settled in the polis of Artemis's prosapia, on sieges where he led Marielle to past vigils with the Archons of Athens, not being able to subject her to arbitrary vexation.

Marielle was screened behind the Erithrina Coralloides of the Speleothemes, when this deciduous tree changed the color of its foliage in emerald colors, its spines served to deposit the Vernarth clone on its leaflets. After the libation of the alkaloid by Wothelimar, helping him to materialize the elusive effigy of her Marielle, making insertions in her disintegrated seeds allowing him to remove from her back some elytra, like those of Daedalus when she fled to Sicily escaping from King Minos. A snowy thread emanated from the similar ether that was picking through the noses of Wonthelmar and Vlad Strigoi, making it necessary to put wings on both of them to go to the cave of Dyonisius, toning the resins and aldehyde they carried to keep the Vernarth clone alive. Both rose over Marielle who was left with the custody of the clone, as well as their backs released red resins as consumed fuel, which was circularly reconsumed to rise up and enter the cave, resisting the arid aridities of the toxic fuel that was expelled on the Edens of Sicily.

Substantial quadrants of hate



Throughout these veins circulate



Spiraling in frenzied states



Adrift an ailing coma





Infinite corruption clawed my corneas



Birthing the erasure of euphoria



Imprinting trademarks of memoria



Leaving in wake vile aromas





All confidence dissolved to solvents



Due to definitive involvement



Susceptible to gaunt installments



Marring my skin with melanoma





Mother Earth serves as a mime



Humanity must be refined









© 2012 (All rights reserved)

In my dreams there are smoke
detectors and crashes and lies.
There is a kiss in an atrium right
before it catches fire. There is placate,
stay straight, evacuate.
Neodymium nitrate always smells
a certain way and always looks
a certain blue. Why does an alarm
go off after I dream I've kissed you,
but never if you kiss me?
What doesn't my brain want me to see?
As Orion slinks into view
I stand mixing solvents at the centrifuge.
There is always a healthy dose
of things I don't know. Always something
for Orion to pin with her next arrow.
If I am not here, asking questions of the world,
demanding answers from what I put
into test tubes,
the next thing could be you.

Diluted in fluency
Whirling through a world

A canary in a coal mine
Burning the oil

Sashes of solubles
Solvents of solidarity

Emptied cages
Gleaming from a cave

I sensed your edginess
Clasped in my mind
Drawn with precision
Projection of tides forming
Then rising, falling in sequence
Followed by exhaustive exertions
A strain to calm the storms
All I have sensed in you..........

On the mountains of the unconditional fondness and tenderness, a flag is raised. The brightness of the skies is a continuum.In firm foundations, not withering, but thriving and yielding to the optimum. The connection was like the flickered light Einstein cocooned in. A stream from a dimension another. The  interconnection by the mind, the crown. Merging the locus of focus in consciousness and unconsciousness. A gateway that was beyond comprehension.

My antenna attuned and sequenced in synchronicity. A flow of perceptions vivid and broadcast with clarity. A feel of the web of the universe itself, the oneness of one to one to another. An augury unfolds  and foreseen precedents. The wavering, as you stagger from the solvents that imbue. Your trips suited with restraints of the thought and mind. A floodgate of inconclusiveness.

Why the sudden weigh?  You tremble in fear, wobbling with shilly-shally. Should I........ should I not? My turf lined up in cognisance. What happened to the cardinal we created? The winterly red bloom of explosive and attentive grenades. A silence of the dark permeates. Miles and miles of a mirage of gloomy inwardness.You wax and wane in surveillance. Just like the moon, you revolve in cycles.

Yet, I felt unconditioned and ecstatic. The aliveness in the nothingness. A light in the blackhole. For "romanticism" itself does not exist. It's a notion of owning, inquisition and imprisonment of another being..... never alluring. For you would know my stance of , "structure verses agency". An achievable liberation of autonomy and freedom. Whisper in my dreams as we uncover unseen dimensions.

Do become the presence of my walks. As I reflect alone be audible in the vibration of the air we breath. Trigger a magnetic feel of existence itself.Time and space is an illusion, one that does not exist. A trick of the light that acquiesces you comply. It hoovers with a whisper that 'you are getting older'...... 'you need to do this and that'. If you escape such hallucinations you can regurgitating on more responsibilities and succeed.

All puzzles in the human suffering have already been solved. Why can't you see them? Echoing your name, tapping your shoulder blade as if recognizable. One should never feel as if life is weary. There is always a need to want more, amass and make ones print. Or even depart. But being weary? Any being is able to chew as much, with pride and confidence. An interlude of imbalance will always be an interlude of imbalance.Through the century and ages this never changes. There is nothing to balance, you just need to search it deeper in yourself. Yourself is correcting. .

Irrationality often knocks my door. It seduces me, with sweet sensual word. Cajoling me to embrace normality. If only you knew what I know. A fading magical fantasy is not a fixated ideology. You are my inescapable tie and link.

Reach for your depths,
SassyJ

There’d been a factory here once,
Squat red brick structure
Suffused with too much noise and too little ventilation,
Built for the purpose of making typewriters,
Unwieldy, cacophonous clanking anachronisms
Whose time, like the town it occupied,
Had long since come and gone,
The only businesses on the sad little main drag
Being those shabby, tattered concerns
Which flower, improbable and cactus-like
At the intersection of the vagaries of memory
And the ascent of decay.

Nothing sits here now,
Simply an empty lot returning to Nature,
Although half-hearted attempts
To accelerate that process have not taken root,
As the soil, fouled by metal shavings, solvents,
And only God knows what else,
Has proved less than amenable
To anything save weedy shoots and scrubby boxwoods,
So it sits empty, impossible to build upon
(There is liability in every spike of crabgrass,
A potential lawsuit in every patch of clover)
And wholly impractical as parkland.
The firm which owned the site erected a fence
To keep whatever was in there in and everyone else out
(In their final addition of injury to insult,
The check they gave to the fencing company in payment
Bounced higher than a child’s rubber ball)
But a generation of winters and general inattention
Have left the chain-links a patchwork affair,
And though the “POSTED” signs remain
(Their original angry and officious red
Having faded to a benign maroon),
Enforcement of their edicts is spotty at best,
So we sit, unbothered and alone,
On an odd little mound at the back of the lot
As the dusk begins to take hold,
I, in an act of mad optimism, the peculiar positing
That there are good things yet to come,
Grab your hand, intertwining the fingers with mine.