song shadows
soul and mirrors
will we ever see clearer
sweet life
oh the fragrance
the righteous mind
un-sees the danger
so many soldiers
so many women
are all of our fathers
really little children
move swiftly
into the windy recesses
the mind regresses
all the time
damp and wet
the owl cries
so long tomorrow
farewell goodbye
dunk your head
in liquid splendor
i am tender as the snow
pouring down from heaven’s fiefdom
morning's hunger is dissipated
by moonlight kisses and salty lovers
salves of calendula upon our skin
swim in juicy wonder
listen and dance with thunder
the fireflies swim through burning skies
making arcs and triumphant cries
what a silly blunder
all the noise and all the cover
hiding your heart in violet garments
streams of satin in your slumber
stroke the liberated arrow
weave the gardenia’s shadow
streams of consciousness and beauty
looking into eyes of human strategy
human shadows
start to suffocate us
instruct the timber
plundered
strumming humid arias
looms of butter start to melt
svelte and spelt
slews of wealth
heaven's belt is loosely tied
striated like the mind
grinding hind legs
selves neglect entry fees
sleeves of grass
embrace strands of ice
with a lover or two
on the side

Love is in ruins
Kneeling for mercy
Strangulated hopes
Fiefdom of tyranny
Silent weeps of soul
At the altar of Love
There is remorse
Stranded humanity
Devils show no remorse
Love is in ruins

Totalitarian menace
refined, tailored pants
bleed malignance and
fear.
What stalks the passage,
normally?
Tear off my clothes, with subordinate cruelty
and tortured fiefdom from the sun
invading damp alleyways
and musty cement corridors
abet you enthroned
on that sidewalk stump.
I curb,
the habit
blindly happenstances about
yore salty ruins
we yodel, indiscriminately.

Marielle indicates: “Your luminosity, Copernicus vibrating in Giordano Bruno, expresses hypotheses that they revive to Quentinnais from the third hour, from here now I am hospitalized and without light to line the end where I will put my feet evasive. Raymond Bragasse is here where I met him, and I saw him with his holy rosary on his necklace, and on Andrés Panguiette's claw. That you grumble, they excommunicate my sentences, which are that of the rooster that becomes gentle in a Corso, Sardinian or Roman Praetorian, in the leap I relegate to San Gabriel, with its magical art that excites the retentiveness of Saint George. Under what science do they moderate me by joining you, or what century will intuit us with its own splendor, whose obscurantism under his revolution mutes anyone in the darkness of the cave of Dionysius. The divinity postpones itself, to leave its daily chores where souls fly daily ..., they do not stop leaving with their spoils after the fairies that fly to purgatory. But many have passed over me, and I was wondering where to find you, I never thought that I should fly over a swarm of wasps to reach your divine lair, full of regulatory darkness for those who live against the light, and of an Elizabethan garment that dismisses my ring, where Its natural original magic is isolated from our semi-alive body, with brittle Egyptian suns that redoubled where I had to wait for you at the Pentecost bench. What retarding essence dries up who does not show any vital or symbolic avital sign, where the rough cyclicality does not allow me to chastise my hair in any vanity for you. Oh that Moral spellings referring to my commendation, if it is not apostasy! What else would I dare to speak, through the sky flying away from the lunar books of Vivencia, where it is sent from its orbit towards the cosmos free of all and of all with Wonthelimar free of me, confined of Marielle. I know that I am analogous **** of the Libri Dei Viventi, perhaps sackcloths or coats have to be spun in Parnassus, to gird myself to myself, and not Marielle cloistered in her solitude, who does not receive the Vivendi torpor of her paradisiac sacrilege when seducing a supposed daughter of Hecate, fortunately, I have to guess with a swarm, and stay in the nets of your cave. With the stanza that is invested in rhetorical values, I go crazy for love to which I am conjured, but from Marielle now or in hundreds of years that pester on my sackcloth, which will never be used for the liturgy with you, if I revive in the crisis of resurrection in the arms of Saint George in the stained glass window in Avignon, and in his forearm that passes through the worst emotional crypts of my author.

As I have to contest hostile votes that are netted in the puritanism of those who only wear sackcloth in the unstitched Mausoleums of Quentinnais, and in the strident leaves that move elected in his advent, where the subclavian of Luzbel stands. Unanimous I have to dare by asininity ...! Moderating threads of horror and silver light, which revives us in the beasts and in their perches, ad libitum in the lattices where it emerges from the conspiracy of our tragedy. Oh, what an impetuous incarnation of the anti-Christian verb has to express itself in your incarnations of light and restless shadow, in the apse of the discanted in Avignon, and in the acroteria shadow, suffering from cowardice by not wanting to see me angelic, universal predisposition, just to know fit and what to say with your soul lineage and twin life, who only knows how to love you. Our reincarnations are rescued, now that we go to Patmos intimidated, in the sound of shining the veiled Vernarth, reprimanded in his acquiescent morality under his own law and his glasses, born from his rib that ends in the exception of a foul dialogue. It is premature for me to say what I do not have to write, but the particles slowly fall through the beam of their adjective essences, reshaping exterminated historiographies that want to make green, in colloquia that draw the eyes of whoever wants to blind the profane cult, absorbed in sallow particles in four sciences and elements… What unresolved probe and mass can strike your heart poured into you Wonthelimar? You know when we get to Profitis I will go holding your hand in the morning, to adore you and kneel down, we will deal with why we lost ourselves, and why the sun has not stained me with so much fury, carrying me burned in tongues of its consumptive and guttural infinity. After taking the hand of dawn, I will sue the impossible quagmire and its Áullos Kósmos, weakened by theoretical openness, lacking unity, but not far from my vanistory, nor from the sessile fluff of my hair, waiting for you with your stormy return to hold me. Ayia Lavra will declare war on the eighth cemetery of Messolonghi, with solidity and sanctity that frees my chains in a single trident, paling in the rust of it, methodological treatise, and where the determination of veracity is annihilated.

Because I have to go to heaven when I want to offer myself to you, without any century that has received me with fewer wounds than those I had yesterday in its indolent septicemia, with miracles and incense burners that burn in imprecate, and provide a pagan theology of human filth. , not portraying biblical when your plurality dressed as a secular thirteenth, by referrals or Greco-Gallic that arise from the love that has no end or beginning in the autonomy of an incorruptible being, and even less when you wear sweets in its lavender lex. Genius Loci, or amplified reality, rather your idea of sticking with me when I have not been, and of attracting me when the future in the portal is made in the perfect symmetry of him, or whoever looms excited in his cabal. The body is no longer inscrutable, overworking with poetry to constrict my torn voice, running at great speed to seize the cosmetic that paints our faces, Selene and her luster aggravate punctuality and the status of science in creation. I have read volume VIII, and I saw that tears flowed by where I never thought ... !, for exchanges that marginalize an established authority, nor with more childish will I undone the garments of his self-description. Mime or jester in front of me in my catalog of the tragic actress with the anemic volume of her, pointing out uprisings in new waves, on seas that did not have them ..., loaded in new skeptical allegorical clouds, on truths that were already understood in the jealous name. It is incumbent on us to navigate with lamps that have to guide us through dark Ptolemaic hexahedra or henbane crusts, which do not manage to go over the sentry boxes of a divine gesture. How to dare to a final gesture of inflaming with you in factions and premises beyond an apocalypse, or of a Penelope that is gestated in a god, or becomes unknowable of a prevailing divine plan.

Charged with our dissidence, we will go far from the unknown burdens, that scripts are annexed in the new birth of our fiefdom and in their great expectation. Now four elytra have been born on my back, who hope to reveal to you the categories of the deleterious vanquished, reduced to only two Ptolemic emetics ..., you and I in a final judgment, which we already know well about, about the seventh eras that await us in the Southern Sporades, and in his final judgment in the eighth. O Jerusalem, I deprive my oldest sin by conceiving, but rather by confessing it with you. What insurgent dualism will make me get rid of myself and be reborn indestructible in its dizzying relish where the multi-chained temptation of redemption runs towards you? Wonthelimar…, I'm here, in this thunder slip writing for you. I have distanced my head united to yours so that it is not destroyed, for all thoughts, where although you are my diluted kingdom, I will beg You to leave me in the growing vertical anticipated flight from my body, but later in my consciousness which is what which will pre-exist with his Roman staff intertwining with his lusters, and in the syntagmas of Vernarth, which come from the Sporades of Patmos. As I honor and glorify Him in the southern part of him, my dear sackcloth has warmed away from my myopic eyes, already feeling your face breath on me, I will be able to vindicate narrated stories after we part before God!

Thick fog rolls over leaf covered rocks,
And trees still bare penetrate the mist,
Bordering lush green,
And contrasting with stone gray skies,
Instilling deep tranquility.
I follow the ***** downwards,
Leading into this bog,
The footing is loose,
Treacherous,
The mother is unforgiving,
Negligence will not be soothed.
The vibrant green fades to brown,
The thick mud forming around my footsteps,
I am leaving an impermanent mark,
Only familiar to myself.
The worms will mine it.
It will be undone by rain,
But those I bring with me will know the way we traveled,
As will theirs.
A small trail has been hollowed,
Others are here,
Others have been here,
Undoubtedly, more will follow.
I see the others’ footsteps,
Only foreign indents now,
Still recognizable,
Yet,
The shoes they wear are a mystery.
I want to know badly,
But it is impossible.
I reach the bank of a small creek,
The trail ends here and I must make my own way,
There is an island where this creek forks,
And jumping there I know I cannot return,
The second spent thinking about seconds,
In itself is the only wasted time.
I spend some time here,
Kicking pebbles,
Pocketing attractive quartz,
There are no rare jewels on the surface,
No bounteous treasure here,
That would require a contract,
The help of others,
More time spent here,
Time spent thinking about the future seconds,
The seconds of others.
Leaving this patch is difficult,
My boots land just inside the creek as I jump,
Cold water fills my socks,
My feet swell as they absorb water,
To worry about the sensation I feel now,
Would be to count the seconds as they already pass.
I follow the creek into the woods, deeper as they go,
Until there is a soft rustle of leaves ahead of me,
Still loud.
Has the deer surprised me?
Or I the deer?
Both,
This meeting is simply chaos,
Colliding of mind and figment,
The imperfect, and the form-
The perfect representation-
At a stand-still in time.
This is no perfect doe,
The coat is full brown,
Tattered and messed,
Not at all as it was in my mind,
A copy.
But the more I examine,
The more I realize that a copy is closest to the form,
What is, is perfect,
What is perfect, is narcissism,
One way or another,
Without conflict,
The seconds have no reason.
I stare for a moment,
Her eyes are pools of black,
Wide and anxious,
I blink and she is gone,
A moment,
These are the meaning of the seconds,
The moments,
But is the reminiscence of this fact,
Contradictory?
I come to a steep *****,
A huge tree overlooking a large pool,
A ledge above the frigid water,
Perfection.
I climb this hill,
Perseverance is its own reward,
Reaching the top,
My clothes messed,
My hands filthy,
Boots caked with filth,
I sit here, alone at the top,
The bog is a fiefdom,
And I sit upon this ledge.
Snap.
Snap.
Snap snap.
Crashing.
I am falling,
My ***** hands grasp for something,
Anything,
My club-like boots flail in the air,
Clothes billowing in the air,
It’s so cold.
I can feel it over me,
On my skin,
Madness,
Not here,
There are so many more seconds,
Hours left even.
No, says the mother,
Your moments have passed,
But they have not,
I reply.
I think of my mother,
Father,
Friends and relatives.
I think of the deer.
I wonder if she’d save me.
If she knew I’d fallen,
She’d drag me out by her teeth.
The cold water rush over mine,
They crack and decay with the cold.
My bones crack like glass,
Flesh tightening,
Ligaments and tendons become solid.
I can’t feel my hands,
My feet,
My head.
My heart beat smothers my ears,
As I count the seconds.

We’d known him, back in the day
At dear old Millard Fillmore Elementary,
As Three-Desks Tommy, highly imaginative monicker
Deriving from his decidedly unimaginative first name
And the fact that he, indeed, had three desks,
Each of them stuffed chock-full
With uncounted numbers of pencils and erasers,
Any number of homework papers
(Usually A’s and A-pluses,
Though there were the odd B’s and B-minuses as well,
As he was a bright, in fact inordinately bright, child,
But sometimes given to sloppiness and stray pencil marks
And a predilection for not reading the directions completely)
Eerily accurate renditions of dinosaurs,
Wildly inventive stories featuring rainbow-hued dragons,
Noble and voluble talking bovines,
And knights and knaves of every size, shape, and suzerain,
Stories which resided cheek-to-jowl with some bit of uneaten sandwich
Until such time it made its existence
Abundantly clear to the custodial staff.
We’d never stopped to think much about his miniature Maginot Line;
It was what Tommy did and had always done
For as long as we could remember,
Though there were some teachers and an assistant principal or two
Who thought the whole thing was permissive bordering on coddling
(His teacher was a veteran of the wars, and well-insulated by tenure,
But she had grown weary of over-glasses glares and snide asides
When Tommy’s name came up in the staff room,
A death by a thousand cuts and all that),
And one day, while moving one of his desks
To clear space for Simon Says,
It had caught on a sticky spot,
Overturning onto a soon-to-be-fractured toe.
When he came back to school, accompanied by an ungainly cast
And an equally ungainly pair of crutches, his teacher took him aside.
Tommy, she purred, Maybe someone is trying to tell you something.
The other kids all make due with one desk,
And I’m sure you can find a way to as well, don’t you, Tommy?
So Tommy embarked on a great cleansing of his little fiefdom,
Filling several garbage cans with his collected works,
(Math papers and mastodons, bologna and Brobdingnagians)
And afterward he’d kept himself to one standard desk,
Duly filing, returning, and circular-filing his paperwork
As the occasion demanded
(Though one time Murph Dunkirk
Asked Three-Desks if he minded downsizing;
Tommy just shrugged, and said Well, it’s better than a broken foot)
And maybe in his dreams he had a thousand desks,
A thousand tops to fling open,
A thousand repositories for light and legend
Or perhaps he never gave it so much as a second thought,
No way to know now, one supposes,
Though if anything out of the ordinary had come his way,
We would’ve probably heard.

In New Brighton,
in the Wirral they gently laugh at
anyone who thinks the Beatles
could be bettered
Still to this day I think
The Big Three's " Some other Guy"
was the better version.
In Stoke, dear Staffordshire
they apportion YMCA mentors
to the homeless teenage kids
who haven't yet navigated
the logistical hub of the new Potteries,
yet can only dream of open spaces
where weeds will flourish
Trentham Gardens being  one.
Each of us would agree
there's a nuance in self preservation,
only recently carried to extremes by the vitriolic
of the late Summer Riots
whose fiefdom cry
"preponderant re-distribution"
turned England over.

I saw the situation
I can read the look better than most
I sense beyond the obvious

You need attention
You need the affirmation

The structure is built the mortar appears firm.
Yet the simplest action
Removes whatever you consider stable
Shatters the foundation.

I wont strike it
is cowardice

It is the belief
That commitment to quality will be rewarded.

it is thinking believing
that once i repair
that which is wholly incorrect broken and in need of repair ...

Belief that in your fiefdom the world is sensible

Should I know that of the fairer *** ?

That I will be attracted to
That which I perceive and see

Yet ultimately will never correlate.

I crave
I yearn to touch
That which I build
Honestly all things begotten of my mind.

Yet so slowly
I must come to the understanding

I look too deeply

oh but too my own, misery, should i be denied it,
i find it hard to suggest what pains i am to deny others
in the fiefdom of the crass suggestion as worthy of a
kingly undergarment and  whatever suiting the kippah
to befit both the monkish barbers' sunshine lazy ordinance
of polished marble and cranium  and the cardinal's crimson
shoe disguise of political poker to echo a pope's red shoe
Cinderella worthy a faking of democratic shoo or coo;
oh indeed ****** like the angels and kept as a diabolical
vocabulary to marginalise any auxiliary suggestion;
i'd rather shove a turtle up my ****  than shove your ego
through my mouth, to **** with ease would please me more
than to speak with such dis-satisfaction
as to succumb to a justifiable tribunal
of fatigue against the state - i.e. one-word crossword
puzzles are hardly the logical excavation prompts
readying for war, should they be suggested
as jeopardy, or treason - sooner then
the sun hang at noon higher, than the moon
be bathed at midnight among the nadir of the sewers,
whichever way the intrigues waver
in acknowledging weakness or strength -
let i become lost amassing more than the fewer new
utilised words, that i become lost in befriending
the fewest possible manners and subsequent curbing on vocabulary:
as friendly, thus subsequently endowed with hostility
and historical revisionism that might steal
a man's shadow, even if kept with the man's brother's shadow;
paranoia is another term for plurality - and indeed
variances of logic always existed: as long as the Eiffel prophecy existed,
the king held sway over pyramids and schematics
of high fashion, or some ******* about
punctured condoms and ladies in waiting -
or David's Lyre and Solomon's last harem moan exalting
the forgotten prayer of a teenager... well...
what an exalted circumstance to suddenly don the
clown make-up and subscribe to Israeli history?
**** me and my regret with prostitutes...
is this some high school reunion get-together?
i was waiting for the perfected font... all i got was
as a subject worth an A*, but because of a ****** handwriting
having only been given a D+;  hell, we can all make
the angelic prosaic with our complaints,
but to make the poetry we have to sometimes act-out
***** **** in positions of high power like being
a nymphomaniac and a district attorney.

— he died. Though hard I strove, but strove in vain,
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain.
Even from the cold earth of our cave.
  — Lord Byron, “The Prisoner of Chillon”

1.
Like an invisible maelstrom, toying
with its own survival, preying on
the Good, pure nothingness in itself,
pain plunges into the recesses
of my ragged hip, races down my thigh,
scorching one side, numbing the other.
Flesh becomes kindling, becomes petrified
wood, all excess bark singed into flaking embers
that flit through my dull, dank cellar, alone.

I push up from my intricate Victorian armchair,
vowing to escape this onslaught, this lightning
torment -- my leg pummeled by staccato left jabs
from tiny gods, which sting like hailstones in
a summer storm, clinging to the battered lawn:
piles of white rocks, of snow and ice, emblems
of the surety that lasting damage has been done.

2.
We all walk into the world with a faltering gait, unsure
of the rhythms of our wandering ways, or the wisest
guidebook to carry for gaining ground. A crooked
back wrenches my flimsy progress, flings my steps
into a crooked dance, off-balance, rude with vertigo,
flailing to regain my footing, fighting to find my
footprint cast in papier-mâché, tissue of the Earth’s
tenderness toward this wayward, mutant child.

Lord Byron carved his name into the limestone
of Chateau de Chillon as his pledge, wielding poetry,
to liberate the 16th-century Swiss prisoner who
lingered there, lost amid his habitually gnawed chains.
The metallic taste never left his mouth, bitter as bile.
Lac Leman surges beneath the isolated dungeon
window, shuttered by three iron bars, defenseless
against the winnowing light that sweeps across
the manacles hammered into a post, now void
of any aching limbs, of any useless fists, the hollow
trophy of the tiny gods’ ****** foxhunt of justice.

3.
Justice has no name but mercy now, the grace
of pardon and rest for the crooked soul. My spine,
twisted into stenosis, choked by constricting bone, pushing
ever closer to itself until it fuses into a gargoyle’s face,
spewing rainwater on the madding crowds below,
striking matches on my sense-less skin, imprinting
rough, blackened stripes with each flash of flame.

I would steal this fire like Prometheus. I would eat it
like a big-top performer with an asbestos throat. I would
digest this fire, then excrete it on the hailstones. I would
burn within like a primal fire, and let the gods burn with me.
Only then would I reclaim my rightful balance. Only then
would I rebuke the grotesque justice that rules this
fire-filled, shadowy fiefdom of my body’s minor gods.