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st64 May 16
My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee,
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O! therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
   Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain,
   Thou gav'st me thine not to give back again.
Sonnets 20 - 32 present an ocean of relative tranquility, in which some minor matters of social difference appear to darken the horizon momentarily, and then pass away. Apart from that, the love which has been declared in 13, 15 and 19 But, love, you are etc.; dear my love, you know; 13. And all in war with time for love of you etc.; 15. my love's fair brow; My love shall in my verse ever live young; 19, is allowed to develop to full maturity. In this sonnet it is as if the point of no return has been reached. The expressions of care and tenderness, of love's togetherness and the prospect of youth growing old, of two hearts united in one, of the commitment of love until the severance of death, combine to make this a rare moment in the heart's history. Love triumphs over age and death. Yet in the background there is always the looking in the glass, the reflections in the mirror, so often evoked in these sonnets, which cast back one's own face beated and chopped with tanned antiquity, and the fair youth's face which must go the same way in the end.

There may well be a significance in the number alone of this sonnet, since multiples of 11 seem to exercise some sort of fascination for the writer. Thus 77 and 88 both step aside to look into the future, 66 renounces the world completely, 55 takes a grand and distant view of the passage of time. Although 33, 44 and 99 do not seem to have any special significance, (but see the commentary to 99 for its dating significance), it may be simply that we fail to see it, or that these numbers are not deemed to be as critical as the others and the various climacteric ones, such as 63, 70 and 81.


"Asleep at the wheel" - T. Coraghessan Boyle
st64 Aug 2018

My eye has acted like a painter and engraved your beautiful image on the canvas of my heart.
My body is the frame that holds this picture; to draw that picture with perspective, realistically representing depth, is the highest skill a painter could have.
Only via this painter—my eye—can you find the image of you that dwells continually in my heart:
Your own eyes are the windows into my heart.

Now look at the favors our eyes have done for each other:
My eyes have drawn your shape, and your eyes are windows into which I can look to see my own heart, into which the sun also likes to look, taking a peep at your reflection.

Yet my eyes lack a certain skill that would grace the others they already have:
They can only draw what they see; they don’t see into your heart.
Sonnet 24 is very difficult to follow even when translated. We are meant to picture the speaker and the addressee staring into each other’s eyes and each seeing his own reflection. The speaker is able to see through the eye of his own reflection into his own heart, where the image of the addressee is enshrined.
st64 Jan 2018
When I went out
The sun was hot
It shone upon
My flower ***.

And there I saw
A spike of green
That no one else
Had ever seen!

On other days
The things I see
Are mostly old
Except for me.

But this green spike
So new and small
Had never yet
Been seen at all!
Sweet chilli tea and Danish cookies.

Illegitimi non carborundum.
st64 Jul 2016
Little Box talks back
With a new set of teeth
And pink gums
A fake nose and a wax mustache
She disguises her voice
To sound like Groucho

Little Box opens up
And cries to her psychiatrist
I don’t know why they hate me
I’m such a sweetheart
I volunteer at the zoo
And teach Mandarin
To their bratty children

Little Box is not happy to see you
So she closes herself up for months
Years, decades, and two millennia!
She tacks up a sign that says

Little Box is undead
She sleeps all day in a coffin
Hands over chest
At night she cruises the mall
For juicy victims

She prefers type A
But AB if she has to
What can you say
Vampires can’t be choosy
She likes your stupid brother

Little Box is on the psychiatry couch
Everybody hates me
Nobody loves me
Little Box lies on her side
And spills her guts

What’s in Little Box
A perfect orchid
A chocolate-covered strawberry
A new iPhone
With a glittery sleeve
Amber earrings from Pushkin

Keys to a new Porsche
A retro Chanel brooch
A Getty scion’s left ear
A Czar’s *****
Gifts so rare
Please don’t stare

What’s in Little Box
Rancid chow mein
A sliver of cold pizza
Last week’s hummus
You’re a starving orphan
From East Brooklyn
And you’ll eat it

So you want to **** Little Box
You want to know her secret
She won’t open up
She won’t give it up
And you are genuinely repelled
By her filthy ribbon

You want to DO the Little Box
You are a sorry story
You big creep
Why don’t you get off the couch and find
A real girlfriend!

Boss Box
White, square, and without a soul!

Please don’t analyze Little Box
She’s just cardboard clogging the landfill
Her mother Precious Jade Purse
Has been regifted
howdy :)
st64 Feb 2015
To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the ****** disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never to forget.

                       - *Arundhati Roy
blessed be.
st64 Dec 2014
on windy plains
flattened panels beneath tight-pressed scarves, they stand
on the edge of the highway
seeking the last streaks of eve's sun
bodies on windy plains where, in the lap of poverty, kids play and listen
the ***** little words mothers spill
a hapless world in flats steep, laundry billows on higher
than most dreams can possibly reach

song to be sung, yet youth's golden mouth swift-ripped away
by hungry-crones topped in white hats and over-spiffed lines
poor boy couldn't hold it together, they fell apart
scatter the crowd in fold-up chairs to make it look less empty
spread the tea-garden in the hall, circulate those tiny packets
so much **** noise, is that all we waited for?

revolutions were built on disparity's hand ****** in the face of the poor
pity the drug of current day keeps all so well glued to the system
somebody wise once said that royalty awards knighthood
                                                *exactly for the same reason

to keep gentry where they are seen fit to belong: below
                                                           ­                   the swirl of understanding
so, there won't be enough cake for everyone.

when saviours ring in the new, for a short while
and new heads bring down the old names
and gut the bastions of the past
surely, when we destroy the ugly parts of history, we conceal truth
with pompous new plaques and road names for petty achievers
even bad press is held up as recognition these days
and too many are numbed, hopelessly foiled by the feed
peck, peck.. nice, little chikken
                         (mind stuffed with trash, mouthpiece occupied)

some content to catch a few crumbs on the way down
while others tread lightly on their way out the back exit
the more we so blindly buy into the whole mess
the less we see the big pic
                           (the real one)
nebulous covers the screen so well: away from organic life
life on a farm, growing your own stuff
       needing less of plug-in
       more of play
I steadily tire of the filthy streams we're led to wade in
thick and viscous with the stench of decay
and no way out but the meeting with barbed-wire walls

oh, for days of simple pleasures.. walking in the park
                                                      swingi­­ng high into the blue sky

with eyes on the rim of the planet
a ten-cents pineapple-popsicle
and no fear of the unknown
       but beautiful discoveries, good and not-so-good

now, a man will die in the hands of a stranger's care
at the mercy of their kin's timetable
busy, busy, busy.. loved ones moving on
ah, no time to enjoy a tot, some oenomel.

say, God.. you got a moment? I'd like to address a grievance or two
are we forgetting what you told us?
what was it again -- on the day, we tried to understand your identity
                                    in a tongue this world's memory suffered lapse
there was a time we understood your meaning
today, I hear your voice in the rustle out my meadow
right here
in the green leaves

I think I can hear you right
loving your remembrances.

*silent anger brews in the streets, common folk took enough
tired of threats and crumbs left by chunks others gorged on
retaliatory mountains grow, a surge in march
a touch too late to retract some acts.. for haste & judgment hurt
where many struggle to breathe, so hatred cements its template
slowly, time may crumble them to stones, then dust
            or hope build a rope from heart's twine
            or love blow breezes of care on this fiery circle
faraway, where queens live on ginger cakes and ale
on windy plains.
is there really not enough cake for all?
odd how easily media OVERcrops reality.. perhaps a slice if that pie is bein' filtered down, after all.. who knows.

welllllllllll, perhaps a li'l look-see back into the annals of history to remind us how greed will end in a head-chopping.. or two.

sub-entry: drumstick

I hold up high.. parapum, pum-pum
the banner we swore in.. parapum, pum-pum
but we do not know how.. parapum, pum-pum
drumsticks and games got shoved in
to keep us quiet and busy

surely, the graves of liberty-warriors TURN
in horror
at the grand-scale daylight-robbery
we allow and DEFEND.. parapum-pum-pum!
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