"I’m not saying we shouldn’t try, to resign ourselves to our fate."
Timothy 

A few hours after midnight; the world is fast asleep.
Alone and cold do I wander. Like a nightmare do I creep.
With the intent of nothing I sit and watch the street.
It’s a week after Halloween and my shoes are on my feet.
I near my house, I think I’ll shave, (My chin has an itch.)
But at my feet upon the ground a color doesn’t fit;
Black on black with a spot of white doesn’t sit quite right.
You’d think they’d be more careful, ornery little gits.
Yet here at my feet, some candy lies plainly in my sight.
I stop to stare and wonder, and my brain does a nervous twitch.
 
So here I am; with a piece of candy that might have mange
Meanwhile my mind is discovering a whole new range
For all the pain we go through, to keep the world nice,
 Nothing anyone does ever seems to pay the price.
I’ve got a new hybrid car, gets 50 to the gallon plus it’s electric.
And when I finish a snack trash is out the window. Are we epileptic?
I mean you’ve got to be kidding me, who can say that they are not
A miserable little hypocrite? World is full of betrayal and lies.
Filling with anger, righteous and hot, I feel a change in my soul.
I’ll be better! I’ll change the world or the two of us will sever ties!
The earth will follow my example and we’ll hold to higher goal.
Give me a few years and then lets see what we’ve got!
 
I hold onto the fantasy for a while, sad to let it slip.
But the truth does sink in and reality has a tighter grip.
Even if I spoke who would listen? One cry in a thousand’s not so great.
I’m not saying we shouldn’t try, to resign ourselves to our fate.
I’ve never been a pessimist, just a realistic optimist you understand.
If you want change, aim for what you can hold in your hand.
Think you can bring about world peace, think you’ve got the might?
Try to keep peace in your town, or your block, or home without a fight.
I stand and think to myself one more Sucker here and there,
Isn’t going to change a thing. If ten men vowed never to let themselves repeat
Their mistakes, the next day a chance would come, one would stand,
Nine would shudder and forsake him. Alone he’d return to his seat.
I step away and head home. I return my thoughts to the matters at hand.
Like my homework; a poem and some calc. I’ve still got to lose some facial hair

"A lov'd regret which I would not resign."
Timothy 

My sister! my sweet sister! if a name
      Dearer and purer were, it should be thine.
      Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim
      No tears, but tenderness to answer mine:
      Go where I will, to me thou art the same
      A lov'd regret which I would not resign.
      There yet are two things in my destiny—
A world to roam through, and a home with thee.

      The first were nothing—had I still the last,
      It were the haven of my happiness;
      But other claims and other ties thou hast,
      And mine is not the wish to make them less.
      A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past
      Recalling, as it lies beyond redress;
      Revers'd for him our grandsire's fate of yore—
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.

      If my inheritance of storms hath been
      In other elements, and on the rocks
      Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen,
      I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks,
      The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen
      My errors with defensive paradox;
      I have been cunning in mine overthrow,
The careful pilot of my proper woe.

      Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward.
      My whole life was a contest, since the day
      That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd
      The gift—a fate, or will, that walk'd astray;
      And I at times have found the struggle hard,
      And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay:
      But now I fain would for a time survive,
If but to see what next can well arrive.

      Kingdoms and empires in my little day
      I have outliv'd, and yet I am not old;
      And when I look on this, the petty spray
      Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd
      Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away:
      Something—I know not what—does still uphold
      A spirit of slight patience; not in vain,
Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain.

      Perhaps the workings of defiance stir
      Within me—or perhaps a cold despair,
      Brought on when ills habitually recur,
      Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air
      (For even to this may change of soul refer,
      And with light armour we may learn to bear),
      Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not
The chief companion of a calmer lot.

      I feel almost at times as I have felt
      In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks,
      Which do remember me of where I dwelt
      Ere my young mind was sacrific'd to books,
      Come as of yore upon me, and can melt
      My heart with recognition of their looks;
      And even at moments I could think I see
Some living thing to love—but none like thee.

      Here are the Alpine landscapes which create
      A fund for contemplation; to admire
      Is a brief feeling of a trivial date;
      But something worthier do such scenes inspire:
      Here to be lonely is not desolate,
      For much I view which I could most desire,
      And, above all, a lake I can behold
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old.

      Oh that thou wert but with me!—but I grow
      The fool of my own wishes, and forget
      The solitude which I have vaunted so
      Has lost its praise in this but one regret;
      There may be others which I less may show;
      I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet
      I feel an ebb in my philosophy,
And the tide rising in my alter'd eye.

      I did remind thee of our own dear Lake,
      By the old Hall which may be mine no more.
      Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake
      The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore:
      Sad havoc Time must with my memory make
      Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before;
      Though, like all things which I have lov'd, they are
Resign'd for ever, or divided far.

      The world is all before me; I but ask
      Of Nature that with which she will comply—
      It is but in her summer's sun to bask,
      To mingle with the quiet of her sky,
      To see her gentle face without a mask,
      And never gaze on it with apathy.
      She was my early friend, and now shall be
My sister—till I look again on thee.

      I can reduce all feelings but this one;
      And that I would not; for at length I see
      Such scenes as those wherein my life begun,
      The earliest—even the only paths for me—
      Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun,
      I had been better than I now can be;
      The passions which have torn me would have slept;
I had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept.

      With false Ambition what had I to do?
      Little with Love, and least of all with Fame;
      And yet they came unsought, and with me grew,
      And made me all which they can make—a name,
      Yet this was not the end I did pursue;
      Surely I once beheld a nobler aim.
      But all is over—I am one the more
To baffled millions which have gone before.

      And for the future, this world's future may
      From me demand but little of my care;
      I have outliv'd myself by many a day,
      Having surviv'd so many things that were;
      My years have been no slumber, but the prey
      Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share
      Of life which might have fill'd a century,
      Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by.

      And for the remnant which may be to come
      I am content; and for the past I feel
      Not thankless, for within the crowded sum
      Of struggles, happiness at times would steal,
      And for the present, I would not benumb
      My feelings further. Nor shall I conceal
      That with all this I still can look around,
And worship Nature with a thought profound.

      For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart
      I know myself secure, as thou in mine;
      We were and are—I am, even as thou art—
      Beings who ne'er each other can resign;
      It is the same, together or apart,
      From life's commencement to its slow decline
      We are entwin'd—let death come slow or fast,
The tie which bound the first endures the last!

~Lord George Gordon Byron 1788—1824~

"Which, fir'd with incense, I resign,"
Timothy 

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell
         Wherein to dwell,
A little house, whose humble roof
         Is weather-proof:
Under the spars of which I lie
         Both soft, and dry;
Where Thou my chamber for to ward
         Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
         Me, while I sleep.
Low is my porch, as is my fate,
         Both void of state;
And yet the threshold of my door
         Is worn by th' poor,
Who thither come and freely get
         Good words, or meat.
Like as my parlour, so my hall
         And kitchen's small;
A little buttery, and therein
         A little bin,
Which keeps my little loaf of bread
         Unchipp'd, unflead;
Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar
         Make me a fire,
Close by whose living coal I sit,
         And glow like it.
Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
         The pulse is Thine,
And all those other bits, that be
         There plac'd by Thee;
The worts, the purslain, and the mess
         Of water-cress,
Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent;
         And my content
Makes those, and my beloved beet,
         To be more sweet.
'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
         With guiltless mirth;
And giv'st me wassail-bowls to drink,
         Spic'd to the brink.
Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand
         That soils my land;
And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,
         Twice ten for one;
Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay
         Her egg each day;
Besides my healthful ewes to bear
         Me twins each year;
The while the conduits of my kine
         Run cream, for wine.
All these, and better, Thou dost send
         Me, to this end,
That I should render, for my part,
         A thankful heart,
Which, fir'd with incense, I resign,
         As wholly Thine;
But the acceptance, that must be,
         My Christ, by Thee.

~Robert Herrick 1591—1674~

"i resign myself"
Cali 

on a slow night
in march- an
oil slick of a night,
the stars are dying quietly,
and the moon is subtly
watching the show.

there are unloved cats,
that once moved like nylon
and smiled into fireplaces,
crawling the perimeters of my thin
walls, as I sit dead center,
in a room that I cannot
call my own; where
the paint sticks to my
creations
and my words are swallowed
by empty wine bottles
and empty smiles set into
gilded jawbones.

and somewhere, somebody
just dropped dead in their kitchen,
while most people are
sleeping, or
chasing sleep, or
making love to their
plastic wives in a cold bed.
and somewhere, is
nowhere
to me.

i am sucking in air
and hoping for zyklon b,
grasping for keys that once
opened doors, but now,
i cannot cross the threshold,
anyways.
i am tripping over old knives
in the floorboards
and scolding my wide eyes
for their blindness.

i resign myself
to my decisions, because
there is nothing else
nothing else I can do.

i will rise in the morning,
cast aside the sun,
and hope that someday,
sutures will take hold
and i will see the ocean again.

"Males must just resign"
Mike T Minehan 

I speak in praise of the clitoris, yes,
and as a male, I decline to be clandestine about this.
The reason I so admire the clitoris is that it's the female's key
to being multiply orgasmic, and frankly, I'm in awe of this.

You see, the male organ can't compare
because, of course, it has a dual purpose.  
It wasn't put there just for bliss,
which is the only purpose of the clitoris.

Males must just resign
themselves to their dangling ganglia, the dick,
which is so easy to malign compared to the delicate paradigm
of the clit and its remarkable economy of design.

Now I realize that females may be suspicious
of my focus on their clitoris
but actually, I think it’s ingenious.  
My own discovery of this was serendipitous and propitious.

Really, I’m envious of the clitoris
because it's indefatigable and delectable,
(I think she likes a little nibble),
and anyway, there’s not much point in trying to distinguish
between cunnilingus and the clitoris.

So there's my poem to the little clit
with admiration and respect.
I speak in praise of the clitoris.

Truly. She's a gift for all of us.

"The fools resign themselves"
Edgar Whitman Wilde 

All is not what it seems
Because I was an atheist
Long before I realized I was God,
But that was much, much later
Then, at that time, I succumbed
To the lurid but exciting depths
Of freedom, the joy of love and danger
Of searching and of knowledge,
Embracing every moment;
I surrendered to ungovernable impulses
That invoked within my very existence

Still to realise the true extent of this
It's perhaps best to start before the beginning
Before the earth embalmed me
A time when Cyparisse had not
Yet set root in my belly
Nor made sap of my blood
A time when it was possible to speak
To Panza's donkey when I thought of Zanzibar
A time when the vagrancy of my soul
Had not yet embarked
On its erratic itinerary
Plunging me eventually
Into the bright light
Of tainted and squalid reality

Like oscillating libraries, noise oppressed,
Contradictions of dreams
Suddenly I took flight,
With violent wrenches of imagination
In Persia being worshipped
Beneath the moon by Gods;
Caressed by those impetuous charms
A dazzling vision
I thought of death the only sister of charity
Whose dark night has no malevolence;
Black and white, silences that migrated
In sonorous symbolism took control
Shimmering like a painting of a sorrow

Streaked with unashamed colours
A single tear from a promethean candle
I would move to lick the stain of destiny
That pillar inhaling its black perfumes
Like a communicant on his knees.
Exiled in reality, I saw what I had never saw
Or only thought I saw now condemned
To see what has never been seen

Words corralled themselves in my mind
Writhing maggots on a corpse
Wriggling for position waiting to be pronounced
How they flew, taking wings
Hovering for an instant above the page
Hunting out the detritus of man
To feast upon the putrid flesh of misery
I too went searching
For my ancient feast; for Zanzibar

However hideous pages
From the note book of the damned
Imprisoned the words, stampeded the search
Scattering it in many directions
Shattering blue-white eyes
A castrated country, century, impotent, impure
Like politics, the prostitute that can be purchased by coin
Like so much bread in the market,
A thousand profanities became the popular song
But silence is the real language of the fool

For he alone bears witness to what he feels
Misfortunes not understood, weeping the popular ballad
Morality and law, parades of red robed Judges
Carcasses, a circus for carrion crows
Yet like a cannibal the dead were still buried in my belly
The gloss of reason hiding madness
Like so many veneered fronts in a proud precinct

Paraded in full view, silence is demanded and got
The words wither, fake time continues,
To count the unrelieved falsehood the chimera of life;
Reason did not imprison me
My life being not heavy enough
Was allowed to take flight
To float above the reasoned realm
Revelations of the truth realised only by detachment
Devoured my mind increased my errorless purpose
The search for Zanzibar

Accepted values; valued only;
Because of this acceptance
Are accepted as value
Thus accepted in silence
The fools resign themselves
To a false reality
One that nails them to a poisoned cross

In the gardens of the dead
Like rowed tulips that
Gardeners know how to match
I found myself, among those who had gone
Remembered yet forgotten
Whose edifice unlike their lives
Reached not upwards but down.
I smelt the scent of unknown things
The perfumes of eternity that histories bind;
Intensity, a murmur; gurgle, as in a child
Yet extreme its aberrations
Like celluloid hand that
Had never known toil
Or wiped sweat from a brow
Laughed yet grimaced
Its smile a crimson smear
The sorrow that it felt
A burnished hand upon its nakedness
To see its enshrouded presence in such a garden
One well stocked and growing
Caressed my being with its glee
To turn white feel the touch
Of its venomous fingers upon my flesh;
Its purpose, to prevent any search for Zanzibar

The stench of death
Then cast its' new
Yet antediluvian gaze
Upon its purpose
Odour of grave
Faraway nonexistent
Yet it is perfume to those
Who feast upon its scent
Moistures mingling with the air
Its common purpose
Floating like un-forgiveness
Its atmosphere ozone sans holes
Its meaning ever present
Its' outcome to halt
The search for Zanzibar

And so the stencils of oriental scribes
Like black shadows overpowered my reason
Floating high above, adrift on an expanse of darkness
However, presently that azure ink
Raised its curtain before my very eyes
Revealing the stage, the illuminated stage
On which I was to set my drama
Where the phantoms of my imagination
Would enact their mysterious mysteries;
A poetic alchemy

Then a golden spark of pure
Nocturnal light blinded me
In an instant I saw, observed
The sun drown in its deathly sea
Its healing wings spread
Fear would see it rise again
Still searching for that fatal flaw, happiness
How many lives do I need?
How many existences will it take?
Incarnations a hundred times
Searching for Zanzibar.
Awakening to continue to
Live the saddest of my dreams

Furtive footsteps through Cimmerian landscapes
Ah such enchantment, do you understand?
Ah such a charm, listen to its undying echo
Feel its charge, that siren call
Cosmic summons, the vagrancy of mind
That caresses the imagination
Whose tender touch can place you
At the apex of the universe
Can lead to Zanzibar.


And so the subtle and foolish tortures
Inflicted upon me by I, my quest began
One that would ascertain, take centre stage
Make an unheard appearance of a philosophy
That, I am everyone and everyone else is me
Eventually at some point
In time and space we are all one
All linked, for we are condemned
Yes condemned to live these lives
This is why the dead have dreams
Dreams about the tyrants and demons
Of other lives of who they were;
Who they have yet to become.
Nourished on half truths,
Forever pulling at the thread
The rotted rags of reason
Those tattered twines
Unravelling the stitching of reality
Of hallucinations, empty illusions
And tarnished dreams create a constant struggle


Therefore for every conscious thing
That happens in the world
There must be a responding reverberation
Within the human soul
Let us put a halt to the calls
For the death of imagination
And demands for imagination to be silent
Such absurdities
For imagination is the true door to reality
For only in imagination
Can there be a bearable act
Of self examination
It is memory that hurts
More than the imagination
Always prefer the imaginary to the real
Imagination is neither an exit
From our nightmares nor
An escape from reality
But the place we are all trying to get to,
Zanzibar its shared images
Its story, its own life a new reality.


Mysteriously in the midst of unknown
Mazagran landscapes I feel
The full impact of fleeting visions
Without the limitations of space or time
Feel the act of experiencing their reality
This requires no explanation, no proof
Either together or separate
Because simply they are,
Judgement, condemnation
Punishments are gone
There is no cleansing a world
Without consciousness
Landscape devoid of people
'La Lune' growling in the orchard of the sea
Calypso again one or ten
Eucharis, tempest or temptress
Take both the meaning and the experience
Taste the tear drops of the sun
Telemachus searching, searching
Zanzibar

The idol, tentacles undulating
Vibrations of collective knowledge
The blank face, featureless
Touching around the domain of Atlas
Speaking in a thousand different tongues
Moving but still, blocks my path
Disturbs the line of imagination
Makes reality quiver
Dream flowers sway in its cosmic wind.
Yet Alhazers' iridescent arch allows
The steerage of my passage
Without pious pilgrimages to empty silences that
Contain an eternity of tears
Who graciously offers coverage
For the echo of footsteps
Allowing the magic moments to come


Robbed of sunlight, artificial night shines
Its deception attempting to secure knowledge
Of a future unknown, winning only it's unattainably
Offering instead knowledge of the past
Master of silence, offers only knowledge
Of invaded consciousness
Bedlam of paradise where Eros and Pan
In congress sleep, close at Zanzibar.


Lifeless beauty that lives everlasting
Time that reason cannot change, only help.
O enchanted torture you have stolen
The taste from my mouth
Masked I against the spectre of reality
Proclaimed the age of 'hasashin'
The creator of recollections, maker of memories
Possessor of impulse giver of echo
That rings in the ear
Cloud cast its surroccoian shadow
Air tinged with the aftermath of fire
Floating in an Asian wind, so subtle
Like a breath suddenly the sound of song
Of dance rents the solitude
Silence is slashed like a canvass screen
Happiness pours forth unconfined
Unfettered, both faces of Kandinsky as one
I extinguish the light, turn to the wall
Gazing upon its Janis face
My eyes behold the giver of pleasure.

Then I found myself in an extraordinary place
Whose skies where made of crystal glass
Water of the enchanted land was blue-grey
Bridges zig-zagged its shimmering domes
I stared as masts and parapets came to life
Its people, musicians sporting
Tangerine and white livery danced
The air filled with the sound of their music
Then as if from nowhere a light hit my eyes
Blinking, this apparition was gone
Can I not always believe what I see
Just because I see what I believe
The inhabitants at once became spectres
Engulfed in thick clouds of smoke and sulphur
Erinyies roamed, inflicting madness
A circus of the macabre sped past
Its symbols of death fluttering frantically
Around this false and fragile world
Suggested children, like creatures in an imagination
Were made ready for their rebirth
By the touch of the poets pen
A thousand Cheribino

In another, swirling sonorous scenes
Stormed the citadels of my mind
Marched through my imagination
Mab engulfed the long closed
Cemeteries of my thought allowing me
To see the dreams of others
Like precious pearls prised from their shells
Their visualisation so intense
Joy overcame me at once
Then a swarm of kisses descended upon me
Like a regiment of famished men
Feasting for the first time
I freely gave myself as the main course
In the most beautiful of banquets
In another, yielding to these seductions
I was enraptured by portraits of beautiful young men
Which appeared to be on the point of speaking
They were most mysterious their intrinsic
Charm so beautiful, stimulated desire
Whose assuagement was so pleasurable
That it might be called pure ecstasy
A perfect pleasure which had never before existed
Entirely individual and new

Thus upon the horizons of my mind
Had been shed a mysterious light
In which I now saw everything bathed
I was summoned by the Prince
Knowing dreams have no limits
I obeyed his call
For a long time failing to set
Foot on the shores of reality
Drinking from the wells of magic
While angels danced on grassy slopes
Disturbed by flames
The stars shot out their fragrance

Sweet smelling; blue abyss
On I went to the court, the court of the Prince of
Poets, a visitor to life
There I spat out the bit of liberty
Embraced the Prince
Courtesans mocked me, ridiculed
Laughed and taunted me
Their jibes merely part of
Their own deluded reality, not of mine
They did not serve my purpose
Dressed as they were
In meaningless words
Clothed in phrases of falsehood
They tried to make me compromise
There was fire burning in my eyes
Vivid dreams were eating up my mind
They wouldn't let me be
There were dead men lying
By the sides of the road
With daylight in their eyes
I saw villages under the sea
I stood at Galactic central point
Watched the earth burn
They did not know
The way to Zanzibar
Could the Prince show me?

However each morning I awoke
I found myself in a purgatorial fog
I roamed lost the alternative harbour
For my soul still distant
The Prince, I discovered, existed
In a twilight world of mysterious ailments
He denied his feelings
Such denial only immersed him
In maintaining the world of external restraints
It created emptiness, a vacancy
Filled by material concerns
I pleaded with him
The emerald gene came down
Soon the leaves of grass
Whispered another order of existence
Strangeness of sensation
Intoxication of vision
Unhinged for mortals
And as the sound increased one cannot
Describe what else it is that has been
I viewed a world transparent
Devoid of illumination within which
Was never a sea or land
Then the prophets were stoned
For they were all liars
And I saw the most beautiful flower
Unfolding out of its own roots
For such a flower cannot
Unfold other than it does
I stood on the threshold of Orcus
I met Abbas Effendi the Gene without a name
Bab, Upanishads spilled music in my ears
Called to me in the most spectacular of colours
It was wonderful for the colours
Were like my dreams, red, black and green
I witnessed the three, sometimes as one
Other times as two, again and again
The self eternal and inseparable sons
Of Shakyamuni caressed me with their thoughts
Their music and colour moved about me
In ecstatic rhythm like the peaceful
Waves of the ocean as upon a shore
I read the sentences of silence
Breathed the perfume of never fading flowers
Walked in cherry blossom snow
Heard Hafiz reciting in the night
I saw for the first time
The unfinished likeness of others.

Then one day the Prince
With a sweeping theatrical and
So to speak, allegorical flourish bowed
Called me an exiled angel
Said the time had come to travel
To leave the images of naked heels
Imprinted in the clay
We wondered
Then as if by magic, suddenly the shadows
Of houses, halls, and a church
Emerged like enchanted islands in a fairy tale
The spiritualised forms of civilisation
I was approached by a graceful youth
Draped in cobweb lawn
He was pale, delicately beautiful
Spanish looking, but his name was Alexis Sonyeuse
Whose family it was said was
Related to the French Emperor Napoleon
It was also rumoured that he had
Had a tempestuous affair with the Bishop of Monaco
And once slept with his half brother Julian Apollinaire
When he spoke he was at once original
Delicious, moving, droll and discreetly melancholy
Listening to him was like breathing
The perfume of wondrous flowers
But the scent of datura hung about him
Paralleling his every movement
  Another youth, Edmond also greeted me
He was a young man with aristocratic features
A complexion pink, like a girls
And a bearing at once charmingly gracious
And audaciously insolent
His shirt was strange, the lining
A peculiarly orange colour
A flame coloured taffeta
Like the petticoats of a whore



They looked at me
Furtive glances emanated from their eyes
Training a profound stare upon my person
The two youths took me to 18 Avenue de Friedland
There two boy servants
Adoum and Outhman greeted us
Spinario's lay about its confines
Frezans caressing them
As they touched their feet
A hundred echansons moved
With dazzling delicacy dispensing dreams
In drops from crystalline cups
Here I witnessed the tragic faces of the population
Urnings, cleaning in the midst of anarchist trials
The room a fiery red, stained with light
The caress of forgotten thought
Like the thickness of a sorrow
Musicians playing on broken strings
Crimson whores, who defied the King of Naples
We moved past wretches
Like Virgil, but Danteian
Saw the usurers heard the rustling
Of lute strings the clinking of grey paper
Observed in this Minatare's lair
The purchase of a twelve penny dagger
Liberty of speech meeting its great reckoning
In a little room, Ingram the poltergeist
Of misfortune was there
Dead Scythian, who ever loved you
Loved you as you might, loved you at first sight.

This was a new and exciting world
Whose environs were populated
By the most mysterious and colourful of people
I was introduced by the two youths
To a suicidal young painter who
Was rebelling against his class
He was a somewhat forced intellectual
With an over quixotic passion for equality
Still he was warm, kind and impulsive
Poetry, he made it known
Had opened his mind to the invisible
Beside him was a painting
Exemplifying a new kind of observation
In a style absolutely faultless
Each structure clear, each brush stroke
Falling exactly into place
Inscribed in the top left
Corner were the words
"Quod me nutrit me destruit"
An introduction to himself of a tall youth
Whose eyes possessed a constant
Vagrancy of desire
Who seemed at once, for one so young
To have led a violent, voluptuous and unbridled life
I was pleased with him
Liked him for he possessed
All the bad qualities it was possible
For any one individual to have
He had tasted the essence of satanic delights
Owned the freedom of the illegitimate
Preferring pleasure to penance
He was an oasis in the pitiless deserts of life
Completely, unashamedly and deliciously immoral
An able assistant to the executioner of the heart





Then, beckoned by Alexis
Who was flanked
By a mute, nameless Eros
I was taken to an enchanted forest
In which I was immediately lost
And was quite happy to be so
It was so delicious I knew not how
I had entered nor where I would come out
I moved without advancing
Advanced without moving
But always with the same result
We vibrated before the same shape of splendour
The idea united us
We were both lovers of the same spiritual flight
We went beyond time where fulfilment is eternal
Voyages on earth may end
But this is not the true end for nothing ends
Then I found myself crying
Over the desolate hearse at Chareville
For he left an afterlife in my memory.


A quartforche confronted me
Alexis with perfumed gloves
Caressed my face
He did not want me to choose
Not instantly, he spoke once more.
You are the one who will pierce the air
Penetrate the sky
Wonder your way among the stars
Overpass the margins of the world
Imaginary divisions among spheres
Will you shatter
Smash the false mathematics
Of a blind but popular philosophy
And quenching the fire
In the Campo del Fiori
You will become the Gene
Of a million youthful minds
Whose iambic devotion will
Last as long as the sun ascends
Giving birth to untold heroic frenzies
Discard the vulgar trodden paths
Walk, as you must, with Trismegistus
For you are the shadow of ideas
Your destiny to look and menace
The heavens and frighten false gods
You shall teach eyes to see
The gardens of the skies
Let each of your senses have its desires
But beware the Prince
His voice with Cassandraian syllable warned
For it is your mind that is the parchment
Of his pen
He will write upon it
What comes to his mind
Be it vile or be it kind
Etch upon an ink stained soul
Whose shadow now as black as coal
Is like the silence of a sorrow
He is not what you seek
He is not Prince but Priest
Revealing others mysteries
So that it is he who may be praised

I felt the cob web lawn surround me
Hands gently moved across my existence
Our souls were drawn together
We wore eternal friendship
I gazed upon him
His hair was weeping on his brow
Like the shifting branches of a willow tree
A melancholy cry echoed from him in fright
He wept,
Alas you are cursed, for you
Will see Zanzibar but it will
Be forever just beyond your reach
. Those long sought shores
That seduce you will never succumb to your embrace
  Nor feel your tread, or bathe in your beauty
For you are the youth that turns the heads of men".
In despair I screamed Nuper me in littore vidi.
It has been another shore
Alexis said softly
Smoothing the tears on my cheeks
Now I must take my leave
Shall I encounter you again I asked
Yes, even unto the last
When only one foot imprints the travelled clay
Come with me I pleaded.
No, he said
It's wrong to hunger after
The happiness of another
Each must find his own
The mask of another
Cannot be worn
No matter how good it feels
Alexis walked then turned back
You will live like Athalaric
Drink from many cups
But for you, to be a seer holds
A more powerful intoxication
Do not try to grasp love
Nor hold it in your hands
You should realise that love is
Winged and cannot be possessed like an object
He was gone.

Awakening as if from a dream
The Prince motioned to me
Loathe to remember the words of Alexis
I went with him

Moving among a deserted, disgusting landscape
That showed the baseness and madness of mankind

Next page