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Tim Knight Oct 2016
I sit and try and be a lotus
after killing the third fly of the evening
with a pocket book of recipes and a
thirty centimetre ruler stolen
from bathroom **** measuring contests to our knees.

Young professionals tread these boards
and I watch, trying to paint them lotus.

I listen and learn like I was told to do
then clock watch, mop, cycle home to you;
I am still trying to be a lotus
even in wet shoes and no socks.

With less than five-hundred pounds to my various names,
an office-chair-***-clothes-horse, eight USB charging ports
and a future that stretches to Sunday’s last reluctant second,
I am sitting, trying to be lotus figuring out the professional path
David Attenborough heard in his gentleman’s class: that son of a-

- I walked into an army recruitment vault with dreams of being Gulliver,
though was asked to leave out the cat flap cathedral door back into war
as they’d got their laugh and didn’t applaud.

Perhaps I should’ve been better at maths
where apparently a career can be predicted on a scatter graph,
and the pigeons of today were the pigeons of next year and the months that’ll follow the century after that.

I am still trying to figure out the hoo-ha of *******
and ring fingers and collar sizes and the inner circles
of hyenas when the winter solstice splits the seasons.

There is no reason for this lotus procrastination
when what’s there to live for but a crooked world
and one bandage left.
timcsp
RAJ NANDY Jun 2017
Dear Poet Friends, the Sphinx remains shrouded in myth, legend, and History. Modern research by archaeologists and Egyptologists have revealed some of its hidden mysteries. My research has resulted in providing you with a short & a balanced view about the Sphinx, keeping in mind the short attention span of my readers. Unfortunately, I am not able to post the Illustrative photographs here which accompanies my Sphinx story. Hope you like this story, thanks, - Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
            
         THE MYSTERY OF THE EGYPTIAN SPHINX

INTRODUCTION
Towering over the Giza plateau facing the rising sun over the
River Nile,
The Sphinx stands defiant for over four millennia, braving the
vagaries of weather and marauding time!
With a lion’s body and a human head the Sphinx remains
shrouded in part myth, part legend, and ancient History.
While the date of its construction, and identity of its face
have intrigued scholars for many centuries.
Today I shall tell you about this monumental and magnificent
structure,
Which stands as an iconic symbol of Egyptian architecture!
Man fears Time since he forever remains as it’s bonded
prisoner in captivity.
However, only few hours of freedom are granted to him during
his earthly sojourn, to live and love life with impunity!
But Time fears the Pyramid and the Sphinx, as they stand
defiant with their raised head;
As miniature symbols of eternity which even Time dreads!

MYTHS AND LEGEND ABOUT THE SPHINX
Many controversies and theories abound as to the identity
of its builders during ancient times.
Some say it was built by the people who came from Plato’s
lost ‘Continent of Atlantis’, prior to the Egyptians, way back
in time!
Others say it was the ancient Zulus who had inhabited the
wet and rainy Giza region with its great lake.
Around 8000 BC, during the close of the Great Ice Age!
But with changing weather pattern the Giza region later became
a desolate and a deserted area.
Yet no records or hieroglyphs survive, to make things clear.
The name ‘Sphinx’ is said to have been given 2000 years later  
by the enterprising Greeks.
Since in Greek Mythology there is a Sphinx, but with a woman’s
face, a lion’s body and with eagle’s wings;
Which guarded the entrance to the ancient Greek City of Thebes.
To the Greeks we owe the ‘Riddle of the Sphinx’ which asked all
passing travelers the following question:
“What is it that has one voice, and walks with four legs in the
morning, with two during the day, and with three in the evening
time?”  - about which those travelers had no notion!
The Sphinx devoured all those who had failed to answer, till the
Greek Oedipus confronted the Sphinx and replied,
That the riddle had described the three stages of a Man’s life.  
Since he crawled on all four as a child, grew up to walk on two
legs.
But during old age used a stick which became his third leg.
Hearing the correct answer the Sphinx is said to have jumped
into an abyss killing itself!

THE  SPHINX PROPER  
Modern Egyptologists generally agree, that the Sphinx had been
carved out from a single mass of limestone mound, -
Which dominated the Giza plateau before 2540 BC.
Built by Pharaoh Kufu’s son Khafre of the Fourth Dynasty.
Khafre was the builder of the second largest pyramid standing
next to his father’s Great Pyramid of Giza.  
While the Sphinx stands on the eastern most boundary of the
Desert Sahara;
Six miles west of Cairo, on the edge of Giza plateau.
It is 240 feet in length and almost 70 feet in height, aligned to
the Pyramid of Khafre behind.
The Sphinx lies on its hunches guarding the vast ‘City of the Dead’.
Where pharaohs mummified bodies lie deep within the pyramids;
To facilitate journey of their soul to gain eternal life and be
resurrected,
To join the Happy Fields of Osiris the Egyptian God of after-life
and death.

Great conquerors like Alexander and Napoleon had stood
dwarfed before the mighty Sphinx.
But to Napoleon we remain grateful for our knowledge of
Egyptian civilisation among other things.
For it was his soldiers who had discovered the Rosetta Stone
in Egypt in 1799, with its  bilingual inscription.
Written in Egyptian hieroglyphs and Coptic Greek, resulting in
the decipherment of the Ancient Egyptian pictorial inscriptions!

EXCAVATIONS AND RESEARCH WORK
The Sphinx had been buried by the shifting sands of the desert
many a time during past centuries.
While periodic restoration work continues to preserve it for
posterity.
American archeologist Mark Lehner and his team during the 1970s,
had analysed the bedrock under the mighty Sphinx.
They found natural cracks and fissures, and also narrow passage
ways dug by early treasure seekers!
His team climbed all over the Sphinx like Lilliputians over Gulliver, -  while mapping its structure entire.
It was found the Sphinx had been subjected to five major restoration efforts since 1400 BC .
While Mark’s dedicated efforts earned him a Doctorate in Egyptology at the Yale University.

Mark’s research also concluded that the visage of the Sphinx was
once painted in red.
While traces of blue and golden yellow decorated the ‘nemes’, the
Pharaoh’s brightly stripped head dress.
Controversies rage even to this date, as to whose features the
Sphinx’s Negroid face did actually represent.
While the disfigured nose of the Sphinx has given rise to many
speculations.
Was it the Muslim Arab conquerors, or a fanatical Sufi Turk who had tried to destroyed it as a pagan symbol!
Today I recall that the mighty 1700 years’ old statue of the Bamiyan
Buddha in Central Afghanistan.
Which was destroyed during March 2001 as a pagan statue by the
fanatical Taliban!
  
Mark feels that in all likelihood the Sphinx’s face was that of Khafre, with whose pyramid the Sphinx stands aligned.
While those ancient architects had arranged the location of the three pyramids of Giza and the Sphinx in conformity with solar events, - while choosing their construction site.
A settlement bigger than 10 football fields at this site was excavated,
Where the Sphinx formed an integral part of Pharaoh Khafre’s building complex!
This ‘Lost City’ of Mark Lehner had barracks, workmen’s quarters and kitchenette.
While remnants of diets found suggested workers were perhaps
rendering national service, and were not slaves.
No iron or bronze tools were found, only crude stone hammers and
copper chisels lay buried beneath the ground.
These copper chisels had to be sharpened at the charcoal furnace
frequently, for executing chiseling  work with artistry.

SIGNIFICANCE OF THE GIZA COMPLEX AREA
Mark Lehner and other Egyptologists felt that the pyramids, Sphinx, and the Temples Complex of Khafre was thoughtfully arranged,
For linking solar events and harnessing the power of the Sun God  
to resurrect the soul of the Pharaohs after their death!
This transformation not only guaranteed eternal life for their dead king,
But also sustained the universal national order, passing of seasons, the annual flooding of the Nile, and their people’s well being.
During sunset at March or September equinoxes when the sun appears to sink into the shoulder of the Sphinx, -
“At the very same moment the shadows of the Sphinx and the pyramids
both symbol of the king becomes merged silhouettes.
Sphinx representing Khafre as Horus the revered falcon god, offers with
his two paws to his father Khufu incarnated as Ra the sun god, who rises
and sets in that temple,” – as the ancient Egyptian’s thought.
Unfortunately  Kafre’s dream was not realised, since the Sphinx Temple remained unfinished as now we get to see,
As the Old Kingdom of Egypt finally broke apart around 2130 BC.
The desert sand began to gradually swallow up the Sphinx, till almost a thousand years later,
Thutmosis IV cleared the area, and introduced cult of Sphinx worship during the New Kingdom Era!
Rest is history, which has been already covered by me.

     CONCLUDING THE SPHINX STORY
The ancient Sphinx as Egypt’s iconic art,
Has captured the onlookers mind and heart.
Buried deep within its shifting sand,
Lies many a secret still unknown to man!
The Sphinx still beckons out to me,
Perhaps one day I shall get to see.
Today the Sphinx stares out at a fast food restaurant.
As it now faces a full frontal urban assault!
The rising water level of the Nile, tourism, traffic, and
air pollution, along with many urban constructions;
Make the authorities to worry about its preservation!
The Sphinx beckons out to man from eons past,
What is that secret it wants to share with us?
Perhaps it is about Environmental Degradation;
And the urgent need for Global Preservation!
                                                   ­        -Raj Nandy
ALL COPYRIGHTS WITH THE AUTHOR ONLY
Robin Carretti Jun 2018
Computer Dog-gone it Bow Wow
Queen of Sheba and Shiba Inu
  The doggy treat paws ring
my bell ring my bell
Looking at my eyes of Apple
will always tell how many
times you're going to App me
Please I don't have time for
games outcrop me or
do not cop out
Paws of  digging some
INC. of Instagram

Uncle Sam took my stocks
and bonds Eyes to my map
diagram
Eyes of the Apple rotten mail
Webby Ms. Debby deleted it

One Nighty gown
Nighting Gale
He's always doing on eye story
(Spy Eye) July 4th  cheese and
******* male
Old news her Eyes Ms. Firecracker
New computer demands
A silence of the Lamb Hector -
Eyes at her doorway
Save my butterfly
The hacker has too many free time

Newsstands on the corner
Eyes of more crime
That computer trucker
Clicks away his I apple
CD covers
The computer I crown thee

Eyes to the doorway
CLICKS City Chicks
Don't want me anyway

All Commands
We know the game
money hands what
a commuter

The web of the eye’s
All we see are walnuts
and apple pies
The computer always on the rise
No computer wiz will get fired?
Like Jeopardy computer high
investment commodity
Steve Jobs the winner
Apples and techno cars
and comedians

Apple web got married gown
Kleinfeld's wed whites computer
to curve their enthusiasm
Jerry Seinfeld made a switch
Steven Universe webby podcast  
eyes crystal witchcraft

Macintosh gold rush floppy disk
Took  a big money crash risk

“New” invention thinking
All pluses
Einstein Web Star
Mass VIP pass
Too many copycats
Brownstone coffee
I pad happy Ireland lads
Ballerina no sleeping beauty
Pancake needed to get work done
Up in the Robin hood Penthouse
Apple Museum
International of excellence
She is so Apple Lisa
the picture with sad smiles of
Mona Lisa

Apple webby

2. SUNDAY bye STAR the news Steve Jobs
Gave a web forecast Hazy hackers
Eyes stormy computer crashes
Computer laptop Cafes surfing
and best beer hubs reading what
on the news with Steve Jobs
Apple I for an Eye
and his last patent Mac OSX Dock
was well granted the day of his death

The big Apple how he started it.
The city never Sleep’s.
I had you fooled?
On April Fools day 1976 Steve
Wozniak and Steve Jobs made history

So robotic computerized
Pixar Animation
studio environment
where excellence to
(Robotic Perfection)
Innovation on an
impossible mission

Hi, Sirprize to your husband bills
Apple web of desires chills
Going through a computer maze
graphically cool sin paired to win

Her brain shines eyes still clicking
Godly animation

Now you were rich
enough to take a vacation
Eyes went up to the heights
No more fighting interface and
Xerox his baby loaded up
like a Paradox my
cream cheese lox
Apple Jubilee coffee
she could soften anybody
Until you love the
Software apple
the product of computer sky?
Robin’s Risque eyes
deeply web- bye
Tower upload.

The best Apple eye reload
ferocious love suitcase of
computer products flight
Megababes Queen we
are the Champion
and hardware prowl like a
Smart crime no yellow tape
That sophisticated owl moon
computer ***** cried Wolfie
She was howling Apple selfie
eyes red fire has driven

Supermoon so blessed
caress nuanced
Word’s spat cheetah cat
Web milk me the succession
Apple Web goodbye never
Buying Xerox stocks forever
Macintosh Floppy Disk
New world tasks
“Love” 1/2 Grain “Orient Express”
she spoke like the speeding link.

He got hooked what a
((Chrome Apple))
Uncivilized phone silverized
or Clone senior citizen or exotic
black cheetah list
Hew-let Packard flavor
couldn’t resist what an enterprise.

It’s all in the Apple eyes

I Apple of her eyephone we
need earplugs (Adam and Eve)
have some nifty spark plugs
Hub purr personalities
eye’s “Software”
Cat’s Eye has nine lives
of responsibilities
Love of art computer theater

He’s Stocks her sweet candy
but he had the
  Einstein's eyes such mass and gravity
a good set of lungs webcomic

Her silk detailed blouse
got caught in his apple martini
Extra news story read all about it!
Carriage rider what a glider
took her baby-computer
traveler soft hand
met her Gulliver travel

He computerized her love clicks
Gave her new baby chicks
more living to do on Google
I rather have my Moms Kugel
Eyes better not be on a rotten apple this is the working world start clicking and these are the hot shots the Apple web, not a piece of cookies Lil Debs
Nigel Morgan Jan 2013
(after a watercolour by Mary Fedden OBE RA)
 
It is early morning, a Tuesday in June. It is May’s birthday. She likes to get up early on her birthday and join her husband on the beach. He has been up since five, fiddling about, making tea, reading a little, avoiding his desk. May thinks, when she watches him dress with a half an eye open feigning sleep, he looks so distinguished with his silver, nearly white hair and that beard (her suggestion). And today I am forty-five and he is . . . old enough to be my father. But he is my companion, my love, my watcher who stalks me still with his gaze of admiration, which I never tire of when we are alone, but I am sometimes embarrassed by when we are in company. He knows this, but he can’t help himself. He says he loves to watch me cross a room, stand still against a window, reach for a vase on a shelf, sit at my work table, intent.
 
May sees him far down the beach as she walks with purpose through the dunes that separate their cottage from the beach. Her short boots glisten with the heavy dew. She has pulled on her work dress over her striped nightshirt, a dress she wove in a grey Jura their first long winter. There he is in his stupid cap his grandson gave him when he acquired the boat. He’s carrying a fishing net to collect creatures from the rock pools further down the beach. She remembers when this ‘interest’ began. He had read to her one night a long extract from *Father and Son
by Edmund Gosse. It was a kind of threnody to a state that once existed, a veritable Garden of Eden, destroyed in two generations by a mid-Victorian passion for sea-shore collecting. ‘These rock-basins’ Gosse had written, ’fringed by corallines, filled with still water almost as pellucid as the upper air itself, thronged with beautiful sensitive forms of life, - they exist no longer, they are all profaned, and emptied and vulgarized. The fairy paradise has been violated, the exquisite product of the centuries of natural selection has been crushed under the rough paw of well-meaning curiosity.'
 
She loved to hear him read, knowing that he loved to read to her. The joy on his face sometimes; it was worth enduring all the strange things he found to read (she fell asleep so often as he read) just for those occasions when she felt pinned to her seat, grappled to her bed like Gulliver, wishing it would never stop, such words, his dear voice. How long had it been now?
 
He didn’t walk to meet her. He let her walk to him. He stood there waiting. When she drew close he stretched out his arms and arranged her body in front of him, walked back a little and smiled his admiring smile. There were almost tears in his eyes, as there so often were when he had no words. She knew on his desk there would be a poem, and like the poet Ted Hughes (who neither of them could deal with), a birthday letter waiting to be given to her at breakfast, with gifts she knew he had worried over.
 
She stood quite still and let the fresh September wind gather her now quite long hair and turning away from him, let it stream behind her. He had turned too, realising in saying nothing he had said too much. He remembered another birthday on a different shore, a day when she had surrounded him, captured him, loved him with a passion that had now tempered, was the stuff of his writing that now had found its way into a 100 Love Poems to Read before you Die. He had long since refused to speak these out loud, refused to be visible anymore, would not be interviewed; it was now the novel, the long, long journey of a novel, the months, years even (In Praise of Rust took three agonising years).
 
And now, standing in this sun-glinting bay, ignoring the lighthouse, May thought of Mrs Ramsey and that summer party on Skye, those earnest young men, those artistic young women, and her commanding husband who would not look at the lighthouse, who would not countenance a visit.
 
Her husband, strange to think this because she never felt herself his wife, never commanded anything. He made decisions, and then laid things gently aside. It was enough for him to have been decisive. What she did with that was up to her. He wanted her to be free, always free from any command. When they married, to him it was like the silent grace they ‘said’ at each meal. She knew it had meant so much to him: the silence of that moment. He had read to her the morning of their marriage a text from William Penn – she had remembered one phrase  ‘Between a man and his wife nothing ought to rule but love . . .’ And he yet had never commanded her. He seemed to admire her being her own self. She was not his. They were the dearest friends, weren’t they? He expected nothing from her (he had said this so often), no commitment, no promise; just gentleness, a peaceful nature, an understanding that he loved her with a passion she would never understand because she knew he did not understand it himself.
Erica Jong  Oct 2010
Climbing You
I want to understand the steep thing
that climbs ladders in your throat.
I can't make sense of you.
Everywhere I look you're there--
a vast landmark, a volcano
poking its head through the clouds,
Gulliver sprawled across Lilliput.

I climb into your eyes, looking.
The pupils are black painted stage flats.
They can be pulled down like window shades.
I switch on a light in your iris.
Your brain ticks like a bomb.

In your offhand, mocking way
you've invited me into your chest.
Inside: the blur that poses as your heart.
I'm supposed to go in with a torch
or maybe hot water bottles
& defrost it by hand
as one defrosts an old refrigerator.
It will shudder & sigh
(the icebox to the insomniac).

Oh there's nothing like love between us.
You're the mountain, I am climbing you.
If I fall, you won't be all to blame,
but you'll wait years maybe
for the next doomed expedition.
I'll go along with the thought, 'work makes you strong' just as long as I can
but,
sometimes, I feel pooped and can't jump through the hoops and that's when the dreaming kicks in for this man.
I spin in the frame of life's arcade type game and I'm lost in the wheels,
it feels
like,
riding a bike and not watching the street but meeting the idols I'd most like to meet,
like,
Gulliver,Gilbert and Sullivan,Jimmy Durante,Popeye the sailor and the Tailor of Gloucester,
lost in the throng and unaware of time carrying on,I get older,no wiser,no miser am I,
I give my dreams freely to those I love dearly.
This arcade game plays on though the moment is lost, and reality arrives if only to remind me, that life goes along and in it you'll find me,playing the machines,winning more dreams,sailing through the streams of unconsciousness.
Andrew Name  Dec 2015
fugitive
Andrew Name Dec 2015
to wound me with an arrow
take a lurid one
you're high on the barrow
watching how scare I run

burst out of usual shadows
like one-eyed albino ghoul
only to see changing weather
by unintelligible rules

sick of Gulliver's syndrome
from living in a wooden box
where's my abandoned kingdom
I'm fed up with these rocks

so try to aim, warden
I'm not that beast of burden
uhu
Yuvraj Jha Oct 2013
Give me back my soul
For the last trick in the book
After which I’m done
I’ll hang it on the hook

I don’t want your blood
Not even your round tears
Just keep away your smiles
And beneath hidden their fears

There is nothing you have done
That you apparently can
I sometimes wonder what you are
For it’s surely not a man

Just give me back my soul
For the last trick in the book
After which I’m done
I’ll hang it on the hook

Magic the unseen doorway
To the truth behind the lie
Your life’s about to crumble
And you about to cry

Let me put a soft spell
Upon your sleeping eyes
And preserve all your feelings
Before this night dies

Just give me back my soul
For the last quest in the book
After which I’ll be tired
And will hang it on the hook

What became of you Gulliver?
In your scarlet state of mind
To satisfy you pleasure
The poor torturously must die

All your travels have failed you
With all the world that you have seen
You haven’t changed one bit
From the monster you have been

Just give me back my soul
For the last trick in the book
After which I’m done
I’ll hang it on the hook

The high chaired men are fantasizing
Gold studded angels on their chest
After all their bullets have pierced
All those misguided young *******

The judge with his arrogance
Does seem to be unsure
He keeps wondering always
Is he a man or a *****?

Give me back my soul
To play the last trick in the book
After which I’m done
I’ll gladly hang it on the hook

I thought we wouldn’t crumble
Forever be at peace
But man over man does stumble
Like shadow over shadow in deep trees

The hour of knowledge shall not return
Never shall magic sway my heart
The promises of forever have burnt
Another animal must make man’s start

Just give me back my soul
For the last trick in the book
After which I’m done
I’ll hang it on the hook

I don’t want your money
And I don’t want your change
Just give me all your troubles
Before you go insane

Once stop on your footsteps
And look back on the footprints
Is that the path you wished for?
To misery when it hints

Give me back my soul
To play the last trick in the book
After which I’m done
I’ll hang it on the hook

I see the wind still blowing
In the direction whistling before
Our hearts shall never change
Or change the tune of the lore

Will decisions mark our graves?
Or graves decide our fate?
Let magic play its tricks
And love conquer hate

Just give me back my soul once
I’ll play the last trick in the book
And once that I’m satisfied
I’ll never turn and look

Reason escapes my senses
As reasons cry in blood
Must man forever **** man?
Or love instead he should?

Where is the book of knowledge?
Where is the hidden tree?
I don’t want all the answers
Just want answers to find me

So just give me back my soul
For its magic plays the trick
And once after it has played
It shall stand like a stick

Wish your palms weren’t slippery
Your heart would stick too
Though between the sea and devil
You’ll take your pick too

There is just one life
And none shall ever return
Here lies all our laughter
And after, just silence stern

So make all your choices
And be sure of what you choose
For the misery might just **** you
If not your heart left loose

Give me back my soul
I want it one last time
And then you can keep it
Until you get tired

Nothing has changed since man
It’s still the same old joke
As boring as it could ever be
The first trick in the book

No whiskey helps any more
No beer can play the trick
Nothing can replace the feeling
When eyes have changed to bricks

I beg you give my soul back
And I’ll show you a surprise
There is in it nothing
Except your hushed round eyes

Just give me back my soul once
And I’ll kiss you with my tricks
And whisper the magic answer
Into your swollen lips

Just give me back my soul
And I’ll teach you the last trick
For once I’m gone forever
You’ll need it with your stick

Just give me back my soul
For the last trick in the book
And once I’m done with it
I’ll surely hang it on the hook.
Nigel Morgan Oct 2015
Café for Cats

Take your shoes off
and close the child-gate
we don’t want the cats
out in the street please
thank you : our cats
your pleasure their purrs
together
make for a blissful moment
in a hectic world
on this busy street
don’t leave without
taking a cat on your lap
stroking their pedigree fur
all for you and coffee too


Street Art

Prevalent in these parts
the impromptu sketch
the wildly alternative mark
on arches grand designs on
construction-site hoardings
and take this side of a building
here untouched by windows
a canvas blank of brick where
Gulliver’s sister lies gagged
and bound in a Lilliput house
her knees poking through
the upstairs floor


tokyobike

in pastel-green apricot-pink
a lithe machine of delicate frame
and slim-line wheels
would look well in the hall
and out on the street
if properly socked with
your oh so short skirt
the gym-honed thighs
the custom rucksack
tight on your back


Whirl of Leaves

The breath that blows
these notes across the page
the murmuration of fingers
against those resonant strings
up and down to and fro
on music’s path go
the flute and the harp
pursuing the ground
into the autumn air
chasing the wind
until . . .
at a passing wall
they are stilled
into motionless
their rise and swirl
emptied of breath
no more to blow
or pluck these dancing
murmuring
wind-driven notes
but into fermata’s
grasp    

(where despite
a futile final flurry
a long bar’s rest
takes hold
till Spring)


St Paul’s by Night

From across the river
an unexpected view
not just that gracious dome
but the building below
substantially whole complete
for once not hidden by proximity
or an errant developer’s whim
the progress to the great south door
unimpeded when we walked
the well-tempered bridge
as high on the lofty cranes
bright red stars guided
our journey home


Askam Square

In this London square
the trees hold still
as sculptures in
the nothing air
no breeze to animate
their leaves except
a steady gaze might catch
a gentle oscillation
here and there

La Maison vert foncé

So very green this perfect Hoxton house
it could be in a petite ville Française
incongruous here – but such a treasure
geranium-filled window boxes
lace curtained attic rooms
just-have-to-have-a-look inside and see
the dress-maker’s table the library of books
the posters artists’ prints and all
a purposeful lady sits typing at her desk
costume directions for a Pirandello play


Daughter

Last year she’d bought a boat on the river
this year she’s in New York for the week
Keeping tabs on daughters can be wearisome
you hope for hug and to hear that certain voice
see eyes that haven’t changed their depth
since a child when you marvelled at their colour
so - it seems you won’t be seeing her this time around
but she’ll be in touch when she gets back she says
and ‘we’ll talk’ . . . she says.

Urban Fox**

dogs don’t have such a brush of a tail
a flattened skull or triangle-like ears
one was about to cross our path
thought better of it and retreated
behind a bush content to wait
till we’d passed on by
I
writing just the other day
about the fox of Chinese lore
remembered this celestial dog
had nine tails, four legs and a golden coat
served the Palace of Sun and Moon
transcended both the yin and yang
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
a Darwinist's wet-dream, a youth's depression... i'm not surprised why the two share the same phenomenological plateau: after the said school morphed into existentialism and hit a brick wall with English utilitarianism, it's no wonder it started drawing on parallels - in the 19th century you had the fable of premature dementia - in the 21st century you'll find it hard too curb the fable of premature depression... less schizoids take their own life than premature depressed - the phenomenon of Darwinism's inquiry of the sea-turtles as naturally and intrinsically worthy pity meant that teenagers suffering from premature (unnatural) depression were simply told: aw... you'll get better... we'll just keep looking at the cruelty of nature for inspiration in the realm of sympathy... like ******* will... pharaohs of the food chain... you produced the architectural pointlessness of pyramids... myriads of the crucifix, and the cult of the tombstones... my grandmother visiting the grave of my grandparents almost every, single, day; her son couldn't care less... attaching personalities to inanimate products like cars or planes or Toy Story didn't help, either... but finding Nemo was a bit like finding the great white shark - Darwinism and Disney shouldn't mingle - pity doesn't last outside of what's petted - dogs and cats - you pity an animal outside the realm of what's pitied, you might as well be worth sushi.*

if fame isn't clenched within mortality -
if fame exists in the realm
of posthumous affairs - it exists
for the immortals to judge whether
it out be resurrected -
to be minded in the daily affairs of
inhaled oxygen -
only because the Coliseum was never minded,
but the Caesar's thumb was...
when i see fame i see only c.c.t.v.
"metaphors" - what is fame anyway?
we have a culture of fame surrounding us!
but we can hardly fathom why so many
scientists are left anonymous with their
anaesthetics and antibiotics -
in this world, what's useful is left anonymous,
what's useless is best cited - and constantly
refreshed - what is fame?
what if not cloning? it's such a shame to
be productive in aiming for such goals
rather than attempting carpentry's prodigy son -
if fame is becoming near butcher's worth of
**** and the buttocks exposed -
then fame has became absolutely devalued -
just after the 20th century the game changed -
we have devalued fame... as we have devalued currency -
fame just becomes a Friday newspaper
on the underground train foot-printed with ink-smears
and that other running-mascara -
as with so many billionaires, so with to many
famous people - the last anarchic act before the
insignificance of insects at a picnic bundle of folded
napkins became apparent - we reached the insect
paradox - not lizard cold blooded essence,
but the phobia blooded essence of insects -
the easily replaced - Auschwitz replenished within
a free society... numbers... satellite navigation -
never had i seen Narcissus so petrified with a mirror -
given that someone stole his mirror and the mirror
was shared among so many... Narcissus, synonym of
solipsism, was never so petrified as he was now -
the insect number overcame the feline king's presence -
not much thought concerning the poachers -
the insect-like numbering less the feline king's
presence - the mane completely cinematographic, suited
only for an intro roar - nothing imitable -
it was all slightly less panicky than expected -
so easily squashed the insects were, as we played gods -
but in number we became the most resembling them -
as if by prerogative to prior life on this earth...
we thumb-pressed a fly to death... as we knew in our
waking-dream that something too awaited us to be minded
as the prime venture we gave our thumb to act upon...
that, cold, lizard-like insignificance -
long before our science fiction dreams became realistic -
we realised something counter our current projection
of interests - from the tier of the cold blooded,
to the tier of the hot blooded, into the tier of
the exoskeleton where blood is confused with mush and
bone, where porridge is both brain tissue and liver tissue -
where beings are more emotionally resilient toward
phonetic stresses, as in units of encoded sounds,
and there this sense of coherency -
we look at dinosaurs with superiority of that famous
example of a brain in a pickle jar that's an anaconda -
the snake - but we're also spied against with insects -
they're looking at us - let us speak in terms of Darwinism
as is loved by those citing adaptability and 1 millions years -
well... we have all the time in the world -
the serpent the most abstract remnant of the dinosaurs
is looking at us... and he's saying: look toward the termite
mounds, and the ants as if you were Solomon...
they are the last evolutionary caricatures readied to usurp
your laughter with seriousness... they are neither
cold nor hot blooded... but simply hard-skinned
and uniform in aquatic assemblage contained within -
as once was Mars inhabitable, when Earth wasn't -
given those millions of years - capturing the speed of light
reduced our note-keeping of history as an act of
derelict intelligence - thus from capturing the speed of
light, into a history of day-to-day-day-by-day -
the plagiarism of 20th century art in the 21st -
the speed of light and the expanse of Darwinism -
strobe light historical-science - flash blink flash blink;
what is fame if we're entertained by the paupers in this realm
these days? we're not watching fame worked for,
as something resurrected out of light of interest, selflessly
attired to be cruelly exploited for selfish reasons -
watching the television (my "metaphor" for Plato's Cave)
is like watching homeless people on the street -
i see paupers of fame being paid to be paupers of fame -
the exploits of c.c.t.v. paranoia - the beggars eating lice
or maggots to support their claim to fame...
just like homeless people... the t.v. is the technological
replication of the cave, shadows... shadows...
when Mars was inhabitable Earth was the prior Venus -
the inhabitants of Mars left... and isn't Darwinism dangerous
when it comes to history? imagine two minutes tomorrow
after two p.m. - is that possible with the given kaleidoscope
of interests? Earth was once inhabitable, purest volcanic -
sending probes to Mars has already unearthed our lack
of common sense unity - communism failed,
the sea lion had his harem - we're not built to communicate
with insects' inherent dictatorial precision - hence we're less
bound to succeed in the theory of evolution -
we evolve to be selfish - we don't evolve to be collectively
minded - esp. given money - insects do that...
we're not insects... unless only in our delusional or orbit of hope...
i just wonder what resemblance we will take
to have given the abstract dinosaur - the serpent -
watching the insects evolve from the Tales of Gulliver
into the green-skinned fables of our science-fiction fancy;
what i've written down just now, will not give me fame...
it has already outlived me... it is outside of human history -
just like what modern Darwinism encapsulates,
national history when trying to govern assimilation of
immigrants with the significance of the year 1066...
and then the canvas of: millions of years ago...
the second big bang... although this one being more
complicated than based upon atoms and sub-atomic particles...
too much colour... too much ready geometry of spheres...
NO ******* WONDER THE CHEMISTS WERE LIKE:
**** IT... LET'S BECOME ALCOHOLIC BACHELORS...
THESE PEOPLE LEFT TO RIGHT ARE TOO AWE-STRICKEN
THAT IT'S POINTLESS TO TELL A STORY OF A
SATURDAY NIGHT ****-UP IN GLASGOW.
Mary Pear  Aug 2016
Easter Sunday
Mary Pear Aug 2016
Deserted streets at dusk,
Grey skies and lowering cloud,
Trees and hedges shrunk like a model train landscape
And pylons that could snap their wires, tuck them under their arms
And walk away.

Lego houses with lids to lift
Releasing smells of Sunday lunch chicken
And tea time bath salts.

I could pluck the towers from the power station and roll
Them down the dual carriageway.
An Alice or a Gulliver.
A non- participant;
A reluctant participant;
A can't participant.

Roads and trees and factories and pubs
Retreat
And shrink.

God- like in stature only-
Clumsily stepping,
Not wanting
To crack the road
Or gouge out windows
With a misplaced elbow.
Mosaic  Jun 2015
Leaf Pulse
Mosaic Jun 2015
I found you sleeping with price tags
             like tea bags
little men inside the barcodes

Dragging you to the forest
I plant you by your shoes
Digging your heel into the Earth
  to feel its heartbeat

I told you this story once before
       The little men are trying to build a cage around you
But I won't let you be
no Gulliver's Travels
I send them scurrying like ants
to Noah's Ark
They set sail for Wall Street

Only one sprout comes from
          your veins
And waterfalls have hope for you yet
Alt. Titles
Reality Check pays the Bills
Morphine in the Bamboo Shoots
Paper Thin
Green not Green
Old Scars, New Carvings
Transcendental Reminisce
Henry David Thoreau the Oxygen Factory

— The End —