Software program designers ordinarily apply certain types of layer technological know-how to shield their software to avoid illegitimate apply. In addition need software layer software is permitted to obtain articles, to be able to boost product sales profit.

Software package encryption technology is split in accordance with whether or not the by using a devoted hardware-based encrypted sheild hardware as well as software-based security. Hardware-based layer, layer have to bind having a focused hardware unit, the particular electronics shield of encryption layer head of hair, typically referred to as the dongle. Software-based layer, encryption does not need focused electronics, typical executed digital camera permission while using the your fatal unit hardware and software data, also referred to as this electronic digital endorsement styles.

Simply consider drive-based electronics encryption stability when compared with software-based shield of encryption will not be suitable, as the more linked to program security, like encrypted sheild products and solutions, stability, encrypted sheild plan style, software, systems, , equipment, details marketing and sales communications, and the like, is really a detailed technological spots, not alone by a to discover whether protection.

Far away, the market industry promote of the digital permission along with security tresses are evenly coordinated. Behavior and also fantastic factors, the actual layer hair likewise enjoy a certain share of the market. File encryption hair, however, will be the network produced merchandise in the instances, can be a pure consumer technology, insufficient operations and also record capabilities, the inclusion of appliance manufacturing, strategic planning, driver installation annoyance, but not only the high cost, and might stop obtained multilevel submission and sales of your computer software, is definitely gradually diminish.

Enhancing the electronic acceptance that is certainly while in the ascendant. Electrical certificate protection approaches are getting to be progressively more included in the Internet technology, cloud computing and also SaaS thought is not just easier to make use of along with cope with computer software electric situation and be able to accomplish, but according to present day natural low-carbon improvement strategy, has got supplanted the encryption curly hair Outstanding software program encryption market trends. The more well-known businesses on the planet, Microsoft, Sun microsystems, Autodesk, SIEMENS, Adobe and various computer software are electronic consent safeguards function.

In the nation, using file encryption software package coders fasten greater premiums, along with international routines and also historic causes of the actual continuation with the next 2 reasons:

One particular every day producers typically regarded security encrypted sheild a lock electronic digital authorization.

There's not just about any readily available electronic digital licence products and solutions too big, the asking price of foreign electronic digital permission.

In reality, while using the rising betterment of your multi-level surroundings, your system triggering for the majority of home end users 's no trouble. And even brought up previously, which the point of view from the safety of layer head of hair electric permission on the sides completely wrong. From your reasonable mindset, this file encryption hair as a result of computer hardware copying much easier to crack, but accomplished piracy business sequence has been made. In its place, electronic digital endorsement because appliance is not replicated, but in addition should system arousal plus approval, in reality, have good safety outcome. Additionally, your every day has showed up in some accredited goods give electric 2-3 enterprise will have to improve while using growth of China's software package sector and grow up.

As a result, your layer computer software market styles hardware, web 2 ., and details technologies. Below, we speak about, in the application encryption approach specific to be able to detailed application encrypted sheild establishment plus progress craze of the marketplace.

Very first, the software encryption approach

As mentioned previously, it encrypted sheild technologies are divided into security hardware-based as well as software-based security.

Your hardware-based shield of encryption

Hardware-based encryption shield of encryption locks, many important info, like shield of encryption secrets to vulnerable information, consent paperwork, tailor made sets of rules, etcetera. can be stored in this dongle.

The layer fastener screen variety is split in to 2 kinds of synchronised slot and also Flash interface. This simultaneous port could be the very early technique type, because the propagation troublesome plus clash while using the printer's, and after this has less apply. A lot of builders employ tend to be USB slot dongle.

File encryption hair from the two kinds of CPU form, the microcontroller to get Pc and another with a clever minute card processor for the reason that Pc a microcontroller computer hardware by itself conveniently trouble area or content, therefore an increasing number of high-end file encryption a lock employing a intelligent credit card chips Central processing unit, to stop hardware break. Although a growing number of clever card dongle crack, initially, because processor might be more and even more leading-edge analytic techniques and devices; sensible card program to be written to the chips manufacturing unit to make during this time method may possibly trickle; encrypted sheild tresses of the identical manufacturer your Processor process is the same, merely various designers facts as well as major, in case most of these records are passed out there, you can easily clone.

Dongle features a specific level of security power, but you can also find a number of drawbacks:

One) apply at the regular one-time never ending license, can't assist in the achievements of your trial model along with on-demand invest in

3) the presence of electronics generation, logistics, assembly as well as upkeep charges

Three) is not achieved the issue with Internet-based electronic digital improvements, tracking along with control

Several) Once broke, may be burned huge, it is sometimes complicated to remedy

A pair of software-based encryption

Software-based encrypted sheild, digital acceptance, and certain in addition separated into home equity loans number plate along with licenses document:

In order to register code can be referred to as successive number or consent computer code, acquired using a alteration in the the program end user computer systems along with program facts, possible software and hardware facts, including: Cpu serial number, BIOS sequential amount, greeting card amount, harddisk sequential number, computer system brand, etc. . Completely transform formula made use of your customized protocol or maybe conventional shield of encryption algorithm formula. Customer as well as primary utilisation of the computer software installment practice, you might want to type in the enrollment value to confirm. Following verification, it can be employed typically. The particular strategy has got the good thing about this subscription computer code defense is easy to use, the downside is always that security is not really higher, not able to attain complicated endorsement demands.

Permission submit as well as the signing up code in order to situation the same computers plus software information, simply a registration signal period confines utilization of both software and hardware information, a permission record can use numerous hardware and software info. Also, the actual permission report can contain more info, to help you obtain the difficult agreement demands, and may perhaps retail outlet several customer facts. The average permission report way is to implement the private key in the asymmetric algorithm to hint your certificate data file, while the general public secret is embedded in the application value. Asymmetric shield of encryption plus understanding course of action, the private computer essential consent hosting server exists, it is hard to compromise from the investigation regarding endorsement paperwork.

Some great benefits of this electric endorsement safeguard doesn't require further electronics, and for that reason doesn't have to mount the motive force as well as buyer elements, electronic digital hardware issue. The disadvantage from the automated certificate safety mode just isn't networked buyers really need to hand remove your computer information, and then personally significance registration constraints or even permission, is not very easy to use. Additionally, the particular domestic electronic digital acceptance a few of the programmers from the product or service, that also limits your popularization and promotion connected with electric permit safeguard technology.

Subsequent, it encrypted sheild field advancement status

A single. File encryption curly hair

The main unusual dongle professional SafeNet, Corporation. in the usa in addition to Germany Wibu.

Security head of hair service deeply Supposrr que Luoke and also Feitian. The 2 main organizations due to the affordable prices, the first person to introduce the actual good minute card shield of encryption curly hair nearby perfectly so that you can enjoy some market place in the nation.

A pair of. Electric permission

Unfamiliar company certified merchandise to supply electronic digital Flexera Software and also SafeNet which will, Flexera Software program is focused entirely on the joy of digital permission, the actual device's ease of use along with features are doing superior, though the valuation on the item is additionally quite high.

This home-based electrical authorization goods enterprise a Beijing Biteansuo (BitAnswer), Shenzhen-use this (Euse) Safengine Organization.

There are only a few companies will acquire their very own electronic digital consent structure, even so the builders to cultivate their own plans commonly occur this inquiries:

One particular) the introduction of non-professionals, there are numerous loopholes while in the security

A pair of) is actually difficult to realize accommodating accreditation control, management and also precise functions simple or maybe simply no

Three) are often unveiled to be able to address the particular fast problem connected with short-term method, create far more than predicted in the foreseeable future as a result of protection, balance and also scalability challenges continued to get

Several) can not meet up with sector variations as a result of the modern demands on program certification model

Software program security marketplace movements

The software security field developments is closely connected with the increase development with the computer software marketplace. With the rise in popularity of cloud-computing plus Software, service with application products will be change in the direction of the multilevel plus system. Used in nearly all software programmers, Software items can not only spend less a great deal of hardware and software buy plus servicing charges, you can also get demand from customers, when decreasing the use of possibility, driving program vendors in order to consistently strengthen items plus improve services to be able to sustain consumers.

To the development of system and program improvement can also be a software package encrypted sheild technologies movements. The view around the present-day growth trend, the encryption locking mechanism technologies have designed really develop fully information mill approaching vividness, slower advancement. The actual everyday living and make use of on the equipment practice creates security head of hair are not able to conserve the speed regarding advancement of the Internet period, are going to be substituted with the particular automated certificate.

Automated authorization permission through earlier subscription program code type on the feature-rich records available as modifications to technologies are considering verification process out of offline yourself confirm the introduction of computerized system authorization. Permitted administration contemplating particularly, your electrical licence technological innovation collected from one of software licence qualifications growth just as one authorized official certifications, agreement management and exact information and facts, and also other objective of each, significantly improved this permitted volume of details regarding computer software coders.

May forecast not able to electronic products certified solutions ought to have these most important properties:

Enlightening approved administration system: supplied by third-party safety measures specialized software designers, in line with the Net's one-stop software package safety plus endorsement management system, without having to deploy and observe after, low priced, easy-to-use.

Only two Bendable Certificate: offer the acceptance of the purchaser software as well as the cloud computing product common software package licenses; authorized touch time, the volume of sensible adventures; sanctioned in order to bind your computer software and hardware information and facts, encryption tresses, or by way of a username plus password validation way of agreement.

Simple and easy friendly buyer: in accordance with the WEB, at any place obtain; Users might food acquire, trigger boost the software, you can buy their unique software package to keep abreast of details; software package designers can certainly understand software initial information and facts plus individual data is often synergies through the people in the firm to finish the design of application license, enactment, supervision as well as maintenance operate.

5. Fog up accreditation unit: This is a cloud computing type of software program licensing. Standard application is genuine customer setup, endorsement can also be a buyer. Although cloud-computing could be the craze, although the move difficult for classic software package would be a wonderful way for the particular a higher level cloud computing modification. This definite awareness associated with tips, a common application approved move on the purchaser for the fog up on the endorsement remote computer, to ensure that small adjustments towards the application, but you can certainly instantly experience the great things about cloud computing: higher safety energy require to obtain clouds hard drive .

http://www.passwordmanagers.net/ Password Manager

Think of an imagined orchestra. But there is no resonance hereabouts, so the imagination gives next to nothing for your efforts, and even in surround-sound there’s so little to reflect the dimensions of the space your walking inhabits. Sea hardly counts, having its constant companionship with wind, and sand hills absorb the footfall. A shout dies here before the breath has left the lungs.

Listen, there is a vague twittering of wading birds flocked far out on the sand. The sea rolls and breaks a rhythmic swell into surf. There’s a little wind to rustle the ammophila and only the slight undefined noise of our bodies moving in this strip between land and sea. Nowhere here can sound be enclosed except within the self. There’s a kind of breathing going on, and much like our own, it has to be listened for with a keen attention.

There is such a confusion of shapes making detail difficult to gather in, even to focus upon, and to attempt an imagined orchestration – impossible. We’ll have to wait for the camera’s catch, its cargo to be brought to the back-lit screen. Once there it seems hardly a glimmer of what we thought we saw, what we ‘snapped’ in an instant. It’s too detached, too flat. So thankfully you sketch, and I feel the pen draw shapes into your fingers and their moving, willing hand. On your sketchbook’s page the image breathes and lives.

You can’t sketch music this way because the mark made buries itself in a network that seems to defy with its complexity any image set before you. Time’s like that. You end up with a long low pitch, pulsating; a grumbling sound rich in sliding harmonics. You see, landscape does not beget melody or even structure and form, only tiny, pebbled pockets of random sound. Here, there is no belonging of music. Only the built space can adequately house music’s home. We might ****** a few seconds of the sea’s turn and wash, a bird’s cry, the rub and clatter of boot on stone, and later bring it back to a timeline of digital audio and be ‘musical’ with it, or not.

Where we hold music to landscape is something we are told just happens to be so; it is the interpretation’s (and the interpreter’s) will and whim. It is an illusion. The Lark Ascends in a Norfolk field. We hear, but rarely see, this almost stationary bird high in the morning air. We can only imagine the lark’s eye view, but we know the story, the poem, the context, so our imagination learns to supply the rest.

What is taken then to be taken back? On this November beach, on this mild, windless afternoon,. Am I collecting, preparing, and easing the mind, un-complicating mental space, or unravelling past thoughts and former plans? I can then imagine sitting at a table, a table before a window, a window before a garden, and beyond the garden (through the window) there’s a distant vista of the sea where the sun glistens (it is early morning), and there too in the bright sky remains a vestige of a night’s drama of clouds. But today we shall not put music to picture from a camera’s contents, from any flat and lifeless image.

Instead there seem to be present thoughts alive in this ancient coastline, abandoned here the necessary industry of living, the once ceaseless business of daily life. Instead of the hand to mouth existence governed by the herring, the course strip farming below the castle, the herds of dark cattle, the possible pigs, some wandering sheep, seabirds and their eggs for the ***, the gathering of seaweed, the foraging for fuel: there is a closing down for winter because the visitors are few. We need the rest they say, to regroup, paint the ceilings, freshen up the shop, strengthen the fences, have time away from the relentlessness of accommodating and being accommodating. Only the smell of smoking the herring remains from the distant past – but now such kippering is for Fortnums.

We step out across and down and up the coastal strip: an afternoon and its following morning;  a few miles walking, nothing serious, but moving here and there, taking it in, as much as we can. We fill ourselves to the brim with what’s here and now. The past is never far away: in just living memory there was a subsistence life of the herring fishers and the itinerant fisher folk who followed the herring from Aberdeen to Plymouth. Now there are empty holiday lets, retirement properties and most who live here service the visitors. Prime cattle graze, birds are reserved, caravans park next to a floodlit hotel and its gourmet restaurant. There’s even a poet here somewhere - sitting on a rock like a siren with a lovely smile.

Colours: dull greens now, wind-washed-out browns, out and above the sea confusions of grey and black stone, floating skeins of orange sands and the haunting, restless skies. Far distant into the west hills are sculpted by low-flying clouds resting in the mild air. Wind turbines step out across the middle distance, but today their sails are stationary. As the bay curves a settlement of wooden huts, painted chalets then the grey steep roofed houses of stone, grey and hard against the sea.

Does music come out of all this? What appears? What sounds? What is sounding in me? There is nothing stationary here to hang on to because even on this mild day there is constant change. Look up, around, adjust the viewpoint. There’s another highlight from the sky’s palette reflecting in the estuary water, always too various and complex to remember.

Music comes out of nothing but what you build it upon. It holds the potential for going beyond arrangements of notes. Pieces become buildings, layers in thought. My only landscape music to date begins with a formal processional, a march, and a gradually broadening out of tonality the close-knit chromatic to the open-eared pentatonic. There’s a steady stream of pitches that do not repeat or recur or return on themselves, as so much music needs to do to appease our memory.

In this landscape there seem only sharp points of dissonance. I hear lonely, disembodied pitches, uncomfortable sounds that are pinned to the past. The land, its topography as a score grasping the exterior, lies in multi-dimensional space, sound in being, a joining of points where there is no correlation. There’s a map and directions and a flow of time: it starts here and ends there, and so little remains for the memory.

Yet, this location remains. We walked it and saw it fortunately for a brief time in an uninhabited state. We were alone with it. We looked at this land as it meets the sea, and I saw it as a map on which to place complexes of sound, intensities even,. But how to meet the musical utterance that claims connection? It is a layering of complexes between silences, between the steady step, the stop and view. There is perhaps a hierarchy of landscape objects: the curve of the bay, the sandhills’ sweep, the layerings of sand, and in the pools and channels of this slight river that divides this beach flocks of birds.

Music is such an intense structure, so bound together, invested with proportions so exact and yet weighed down by tone, the sounding, vibrating string, the column of air broken by the valve and key, the attack and release of the hammered string. But there is also the voice, and voices are able to sound and carry their own resonance . . .

. . . and he realised that was where these long drawn out thoughts, this short diary of reflection, had been leading. He would sit quietly in contemplation of it all and work towards a web of words. He would let their rhythms and sounds come together in a map, as a map of their precious, shared time moving between the land and the sea, the sea and the land.

The countries with the largest ***** ***** length are:
Ecuador - 17.61 cm (6.93 inches)
Cameroon - 16.67 cm (6.56 inches)
Bolivia - 16.51 cm (6.5 inches)
Sudan - 16.47 cm (6.48 inches)
Haiti - 16.01 cm (6.3 inches)
Senegal - 15.89 cm (6.26 inches)
Gambia - 15.88 cm (6.25 inches)
Netherlands - 15.87 cm (6.25 inches)
Cuba - 15.87 cm (6.25 inches)
Zambia - 15.78 cm (6.21 inches)

The countries with the smallest ***** ***** length are:
Cambodia - 10.04 cm (3.95 inches)
Burma - 10.70 cm (4.21 inches)
Taiwan - 10.78 cm (4.24 inches)
Philippines - 10.85 cm (4.27 inches)
Sri Lanka - 10.89 cm (4.29 inches)
Hong Kong - 11.19 cm (4.41 inches)
Bangladesh - 11.20 cm (4.41 inches)
Thailand - 11.45 cm (4.51 inches)
Vietnam - 11.47 cm (4.52 inches)
Malaysia - 11.49 cm (4.52 inches)
~
Scientists claim that the size of the ***** does not matter, as long as the job gets done. But those scientists are probably Cambodian. If you liked my last list of the top 10 countries with the biggest *****’s, then you’ll love the list of the top 10 countries with the smallest *****’s. SO bring out the magnifying glass and tweezers, and let’s have ourselves a closer look.
~
Top 10 Countries With The Smallest penîses In The World or unhung hero's 

10. Japan
Researchers found out that the birthrate in Japan is so low, that adult diapers are sold more than baby diapers. The Japanese are packing a whopping 4.30 inches of sausage, I guess, if you can’t reach, you can’t reach, Sashimi anyone?

9. Sri Lankan men very well represent the size of their tiny little country., and their tiny little rooster. With an average size of 4.30 inches.

8. China
We have reason to believe that the Chinese were gifted with a clever mind, and cursed with a small *****, with an average ***** size of 4.29 inches, now we know why Bruce Lee was always so mad.

7. Philippines
Manny Pacquiao has been under the suspicion of using steroids over the years, and if that’s true, then his **** could very well be inverted by now. Cause the Philippines has an average size of 4.21 inches, now that’s a pretty small **** Pac man.

6. Taiwan
Taiwan’s home of lady boys and Alexander ****. But they need some more pay weight gee (Peh-oe-ji) in their pants with a ridiculous average ***** size of 4.20 inches. Women of Taiwan, I feel for you, but it’s okay, just book a ticket to congo.

5. Myanmar
As beautiful as it is, Myanmar, formerly known as Burma, is famous for their two kind of nuts. Betel nuts, and their little hanging nuts, with an average size of 4.19 inches.

4. India
The country who proudly shared its Yoga spirituality **** to the world, never shared the fact that Indian Men have a teensy weensy dickie, with an average size of 4.03 inches. Well we now know the truth. Namaste!

3. Thailand
home to the world’s largest gold Buddha, the largest crocodile farm, the largest restaurant, the longest suspension bridge, and the tallest hotel, I guess they’re trying to compensate for their national average of 4 inches in the ***** department.

2. Cambodia
50 % of the Cambodian population is under the age of 15. No wonder the average ***** size of Cambodian Men is just 3.95 inches. I’m surprised that Neverland ranch wasn’t built there. #RIP the King of *****

1. South Korea
You may have heard their fantastic K-pop, and you may be impressed with their Economical, financial and Military Growth, but I guarantee that you will never see South Korea the Same way ever again, as they hold the record for the nation with the smallest *****, with an average size of 3.8 inches of pure imagination, and you know North Korea can’t be much better, maybe that’s why they’re so secretive.
~

Hi Doctor.
I was wondering about the depth of the ******. I've read statistics that say that the average ****** is only 3 to 4 inches deep. This seems way too small to me, since the average ***** is considerably longer than that. Wouldn't that mean that most penises would crash into the ****** repeatedly during *******? Since this obviously doesn't happen, my question is this: does the ****** actually elongate during ******* to accommodate the entire length of the average *****?

Dear Ashley
DONT WORRY!!
Your ***** can be amazingly elastic and accommodating,
and if you're brave enough no matter how big, anything can be a *****.
Christine O’Bam Slam, MD

I’m a woman with some attitude--
not one who will dispense a platitude.
Chicken soup won’t give you soul;
from me, it’ll get you an eye roll.
You try to mask your disapproving looks
with sanctimonious advice from large print books:
“Embrace the moment” “Be grateful” and “Breathe”
“Pray” “See only the good” “Turn the other cheek”
“Accept others’ flaws” “Don’t criticize”--
I have some advice that’s a bit more wise:
“Don’t put up with *******” “Embrace your outrage."
While you were living in the “present,” history turned the page.
God is Dead, you’ve got to take charge;
you’ve been scammed by crooks in suits, who live large.
People aren’t so good; sometimes they’re ****.
They’ve pulled the rug out from under where you sit.
Don’t accept others’ flaws; tell them to go to hell.
If you’re really mad, don’t breathe, just yell.
Anger is good, it’s there for a reason.
You’re just a phony, with your people pleasin’.
Get off your **** and take some action--
stick it to the jerks, join the radical faction.
Accommodating ******* just brings on more--
just wait, and you’ll see what’s next in store.

“every man wants to be a tyrant when he fornicates"— marquis de sade (philosophy in the boudoir)
in murky region of my mind flickers shanty town of wickedness and all who burn betray me are tortured murdered buried on outskirts of this moot province not entirely devoted to revenge shadows dart lascivious exchanges shadow economy back alley shenanigans soundproof rooms filled with hunger for beautiful women sole source of my arousal female lust japanese silk braided ropes bowls hoses drop-clothes vibrating toys anticipating mischievous acts town’s folk love esteem me applaud my fiercest turpitude fathers offer their daughters mothers perfume girls with wild flowers in their hair whispering accommodating instructions ultimately i decline their generous offerings opting instead for steadfast soul confidante accomplice closer in age she knows how to mommy my genitals get me off and i the same for her churning simmering caldron of desires dazzling aromas through center of town runs sacred blue river constantly replenishing innocence upon dust filth criminality also many enchanting bridges connecting dark side to bright side in elegant rundown art museum hang several of my paintings next to jackson ******* ad reinhardt anselm kiefer gerhard richter albert pinkham ryder francisco goya susan rothenberg and public library shelves brim with volumes of my writings next to james joyce william faulkner sophocles sylvia plath rainer maria rilke milan kundera franz kafka gabriel garcia marquez thomas bernhard patrick suskind  pablo neruda oriana fallaci annie proulx lydia davis during mornings everyone busies themselves making things practicing yoga swimming cooking friends gather for lunch munch comically gossip about previous night’s dramas in afternoon go back to their interests at sunset all citizenry come together look to west watch fiery orange globe sink beyond purple mountains wonder reflect sniff their fingers as night falls on little village each goes about deciding what to wear then meet for cocktails in local taverns and commotion begins

they never tell you about the seagulls and the pigeons, do they?
sure sure, they have the bees and the birds covered,
your #mama and your #papa - you overheard them doing the
piston orchestra and said: the sort of onomatopoeia that
sounds just like you, that silences the sort of: just like you.
but why not listen with covert  benignant anticipation -
i did think English was a rotten
tongue, but i think French is worse...
                                                        ­  endear you? sure:
                 they put these additions
to the encoding, but never, ever explain how it works...
if dialectical is gone then diacritical
remains...
                                          ­                               and it's there,
a pink ostrich doing the go-g'ah dance
imbecile pigeon: neck a strut and half
by half nearly hanging off a desecrated body that's in limbo
on the scaffold where Charles I met his first cousin ******
thanks to Ollie Cromwell.... none of the Versailles
i have you know....
                            there should be a Greek
                   Kn                  symbol....
             not K as in potassium... something more.
and i'd never hear ****** jesus' i'm
the mountain                            on the radio,
thank you advertisement.
               but that thing about Jihadist French?
well... it's here,
                               i thought the English
were bad with not using diacritical marks,
second in command? diacritics,
first in command? dialectics?
abandon the first, the second is hyenas' razor
sharp: bite and smile at the same time.
           no, i'm not joking...
i'm choking you.
                             this is what the Jihadist in France
saw...
                            main example? how diacritical marks
**** around the syllable laws...
             bypass them straight... past them...
             main example? they never teach this...
i was never taught this, i was taught this in
an anti-alphabet ruling - it's not atomic
(but it really is), hence it's compounded -
but it's really atomic,
               where are the ancient atomic scientists now?
nowhere.
                         all of this came from
a footnote from maldoror, by isidore ducasse -
i too thought about putting Uruguay on the map -
                    in the notes, the use of "accent",
yes, a revelation from on high -
                      look at the French, how they speak it:
aplatissement
                             apply diacritic revision
and cut off the excess: aplatissemą -
                             (humiliation) -
          if only the French, then only the French know
how to create dyslexia... excess spelling
where distinct phonetic units should exist -
they never teach you how diacritical marks change
the syllable cutting up, the butcher's or forensic's inquiry -
                 they never teach you the use of diacritical
marks like they might teach you punctuation markings -
                  they never do the science of liberated pause -
liberated i.e. understood -
                                    you're just given the fudge
and told... CHEW! CHEW! CHEW!
                                    they never tell you how to
cut-up words as they should be cut up..
                                   never did they say
colon = umlaut over u and means prolonged
   i.e. uu          or omega
                                        because never was the
current aesthetic questioned...
                             Dictator Blue, adherent of
the dictionary bible said: already said, rex, rex, ego rex.
                    but there's this thing going on
from above - on high -
                           and all they want is to understand...
                  even i would hate to be left out...
still from the notes from the book maldoror -
                s'arrêter à             (to dwell on /
                                     stress) -
ê (circumflex) is like the grave approach -
                 the circumflex is binding -
            i.e. the -er is optional, but a necessary
aesthetic for the form to be written, but not said -
meaning the sound units disappear -
                  hands on the joints, a book is closed -
ê represents this: s'arrêt
                                                         ­  (-er) -
                   saret -
                                            ugly, isn't it?
well, if you wrote             saret
                rather than      s'arrêter               you wouldn't
be looking at the Louvre -                again, even without
diacritical marks you don't say     Louvré -
                                          but Loùvre -
               so the ê
                                     binds the r and t
   and makes                  the   -er obsolete -
which is why French is worse than English:
it utilises diacritical marks
                                       for odd syllable intakes
and other surgeon oddities -
    to learn the proper use of diacritics (using French
as a canvas) is to learn syllables again, and again...
all over again... one might say:
at least the English do not use diacritical markings
and subconsciously are so thoroughly
accommodating to alien cultures...
                       and that's justifiable, they are the fathers
of globalisation... they use phonetic encoding
without diacritical markings to enshrine
a Bangladeshi English, as much as a German English...
   they are the propagators of accents -
even the Scots are speaking proudly about the
matter of fact...
                            so indeed, diacritical marks
are not only concerns for aesthetic reasons,
but is pronunciation markings within words,
                          not between words:
intra                     v.                inter                  (wording);
they never teach you how to extend a sentence
with a semi-colon (;), because they only managed
to tell you that means wink: ;) -
                          in the same way that they didn't tell
you that a colon is (a) making a list, but also
       (b) an emphasis - the alternative to italics.
they didn't! i know they didn't because they didn't
teach me this!             i had to learn it myself!
              which is why i find diacritics so fascinating
that dialectics and its abandonment can rot in hell...
at least i don't have to deal with nuanced opinions
or the discussion or the non-discussion of
                 opinions...
                                       i can look at something
and see the blatant pronunciation dynamics at work...
            not between words, but inside words...
French is the best to investigate...
                        maybe that's why the Jihadists are
attacking France, from sheer frustration at not being
given access to the cordiality of speech when
settling into their envisioned Caliphate misnomer -
                    but diacritical marks are precisely that:
and when amateurs teach they never bother explaining
the atoms, they just say: turkey! gobble up that frying pan!
and you do! you are never given the most basic units,
you're never told what the time-span between a
full dot (.) and a semi-colon (;) is...
                                        ****: you can run a mile or
100 metres in under 10 seconds, but when it comes
to an aesthetic pause you're told to start
the hyperventilation sequence or blame it on asthma
rather than
                                 what's actually the archaeology of
rhetoric - these are rhetorical symbols...
                                   and that's the foremost question
that needs a debate: how to make rhetorical puncture
symbols into aesthetic symbols -
                   how to steal from rhetoric and do a Robin
Hood for aesthetic? primarily because there are
punctuation signs above letters, or below letters -
                   < (more than)
                                 > (less than)
      and the circumflex and caron -
                                         tilde
  or approx. 5                              i.e. ~5...
            and the millionth additive to make decimals
shake...
                                you never get told this...
if i was told the basics of diacritical markings enabling
a smoother syllable dissection i'd probably speak German
fluently...
                       when i should have been given crumb-like
understanding of a language, i was given a whole
loaf of bread, for ***** sake; that ain't cool -
          teach me language from the basics,
on the promise of teaching me a language like i might
be taught penguin talk: on the promise of
an onomatopoeia deciphering: it sounds like this...
                   : + u = oo             onomatopoeia e.g.:
                       pool                    /                  pull -
yes, the quiet literal representation -
  but English can be ***** by this appropriation -
not utilising diacritical marks makes certain words
sound alike but be spelled differently,
            via the same methodology extending into
certain letters being pronounced as entire words;
e.g.                   why                                  &             y.
reason? missing diacritical marks.
             oh, and the most blatant form of Judaism
  given              y               h                    w               h
                   without Abraham, without Moses,
without circumcision         without Jesus...
                                                               choice is yours.

Who knew that getting a Starbucks gift card would turn out so harmful and mean.
When pleasant, harmless, innocent me fell for the spell of treacherous caffeine.

Like a hype with a spike
doing harm to his arm
I  was hooked.
Leaped before I looked,
goose was cooked.

Now I'm here to play the blame game.
Innocent me, walking in free, joyfully,
just getting a coffee.
Then wham!
or should I say bam!
It hit me.
I walked out a quivering, craving, slobbering creature...
maybe not literally but like I said it was done treacherously, maliciously, instantaneously, I was a caffeine *****!

So here are some of the reasons why I'm  unhappy with Starbucks:
--- Starbucks caffeine influenced my body by elevating my heart rate (I'm not sure why I expected anything different).
--- Starbucks crafty, subtley and slyly habitualized me ( Oh god, I'm  a creature of habit!)
--- Starbucks (If possible) is too friendly
--- Starbucks manipulated my accommodating nature (I just wanted to be friends, but now they feel more like, dare I  say it... family).
--- Starbucks slandered me ( by assuming I'm lazy. "Sit, relax, make yourself at home, stay as long as you like").
--- Starbucks  exposed my weaknesses ( l feel naked to coffees influence).
--- Starbucks made coffee hip and cool (I'm  going to go ahead and count that as a bad thing).
--- Starbucks crippled my will power (my will power walks with a limp now).
--- Starbucks  blew up the sun!  
--- And the final reason I'm  unhappy with Starbucks...because they're probably going to sue my *** for writing this!

it's 10:20 a.m., or a.d. for that matter,
i'm drinking for a sloppy mistake
i call ease, in circumstances that
are rather necessary for my balancing /
juggling act... the alarm on the clock just went off
but i woke up two hours earlier, listening to
b.b.c. radio 4... talk of birds (cuckoos /
winged parasites the specialist says) and
hindu assimilation into western opera via goa;
i'm watching a pair of sparrows build a
nest in my neighbour's guttering;
they noticed me perched on the windowsill
puffing out smoke, so they figured,
no better safety than under the watchful
presence of a dragon;
and indeed the chinese and the welsh
drew dragons long before any bones
of dinosaurs were unearthed;
it wasn't necessarily instinctive,
but a premonition, i.e. prior to the motion
of accommodating such a truth,
or truce, however you mind it;
so an eventful morning, while i stress over
the fact that i have two sleeping pills left
in the reservoir, and am about to phone
up the surgery to, "hopefully" getting a
triage appointment with the medical
bureaucrat / general practitioner (who
gets the entitlements of the status 'dr.'
and a 'dr.' salary, while the surgeons doing
all the ***** butchery gets less and only
a title 'mr.', i guess paying them less is
a motivational tool, look at all the pauper
artists of the Renaissance for a comparisons,
the pope and all his riches could never
enrich the message of our father);
so a pair of sparrows flying in and out
of the shrubbery, he brings back a beaked
piece of twig, she brings back her presence,
i don't know who to attach the
number of caterpillar legs i.e. who's
doing the leg-work to, i know she's the oven,
but why isn't she chopping twigs off?
she's just randomly flying to and fro -
and indeed man imploded, he knew
the hunter gatherer, the beer brewer, the plumber -
she exploded with the numbers,
and only in times of war was she conscripted
as equal and equally able in the realm of
man's autism of provisions of profession,
into that deathly hollow of obsession -
the prostitutes just laughed the whole thing off,
you could see them from 20 miles off:
ha ha he he... but boy were they *******
when they received an ****** on the job...
the highest reconciliation, and yet the lowest ebb,
the futility of the matter,
having gone through all that trouble
using skin creams to create a fake arousal
and actually reach the peak of being aroused
via an ******...
well i did once **** a girl with a dry *****...
obviously i'd proclaim it as ****,
i have to... we watched the film the machinist
prior - when you have *** with a girl
who isn't aroused but she still wants to,
then we'll have a talk about the precautions
that prostitutes take when having ***
without psychological intimacy,
oiling themselves up with skin cream
to ease the matter of engagement.
but still, two sparrows building a nest,
because they know a dragon perched on the
windowsill puffing out cigarette smoke
is formidable enough for a cuckoo or
predatory affairs curbing the multiplicative
chances of defence tactics being used -
and as man, we have become that in a sense,
we provide a multiplicative evaluation of things -
yes we are, yes we were, yes there's more to come -
but in terms of addition, there's hardly an
explanation at hand... i mean you diminish the
chances of addition by citing maxims of those who
added to the history, but that's still a multiplicative
evaluation - you haven't ventured into the realm
of adding something to the feat and fate of humanity,
you're still there, a maggot on a fishing hook-curl;
so whether you (x) to humanity and seek the algebraic
fascination of questioning to the extent of not really
answering, or whether you (+) to humanity and become
yourself, an algebraic fascination that asks and answers
in baby-steps... there are still two sparrows
building a nest in my neighbour's guttering.

We're mostly gregarious and polite,
Like most of you.
We too have our diplomatic trips 'n bumps;
We never cozied to Dicky;
But welcomed ex-pat refugees
For safe and sound reasons.
After the jimmy-rigging, how many re-pated?

And we gagged on the impeachables, all fuzzy and bitter.
He called the father that ******* in Ottawa;
And Pierre wore that moniker like The Order of Canada.
When you're not liked by one, you're a dove.

You should visit CANDU.wow
It has it all.

How is Supreme Leader managing?
Are his...
Are my people... sitting at attention.

We could real news a bomb a la Kim Jong,
Or flip a stone down at Port Huron.
We won't.
But we could if we weren't
The Great White North, so accommodating, so polite,
So Coo loo coo coo coo coo coo cooo! nice...
(for now)

i had a friend once, we used to meet up for drinks and talk *******... i like that notion: once... because it was only for a short period of time, i got ~bored of him, but in actual fact disgusted by him... one of those Dostoyevsky moments from Notes from the Underground... this is the thing about being well-read, self-educated, self-educated to the point where you can loudly say: university taught me nothing, hence my third class degree and ample material of having observed the pigs's numbed snout nibbling on the trough... how easily someone can say: i'm writing a book! i' writing a book! but when the question comes: can i see it? there's no book! i thought this friendly exchange concerning ***** and other juices of creativity would precipitate into a grand finale of actually seeing the sweat and tears on paper... so when i told him: i'm getting published, 100 copies and all, an introduction by an Armenian doctor... decent review... well... naturally jealousy came in... he said i should name the effort a word salad... funny thing about being well-read... you know certain terminological hot points... he was out there writing a book but really smoking dope and playing computer games like computer games are supposed to be played these days: about a million Stephen Spielbergs directing very economised games, very economised meaning: a great investment in them. he was being condescending with suggesting i name my first collection word salad, but that's the problem of being well-read, you know that word salad is a degrading term for someone not capable of writing a coherent narrative... someone who doesn't understand his own words, someone who writes loosely associated sentences of meaning, it's not a pleasant term... that was simply insulting my intelligence, not the sort of intelligence that's quantified within the framework of the i.q., when i mean the less statistical variation i'm invoking: intelligence quantum - a certain amount of understanding concerning a certain focus of interest - as with Kant, we choose what the mind might find entertaining, and discard what isn't entertaining - certainly, not everything contains in itself enough "energy" (for lack of a better word, hence the "   ") to be entertaining, partially because we are limited in what we find entertaining: a) something we understand or   b)   something we can barely grasp... usually the latter scenario, but sometimes the former... but to claim something is a word salad? let's just say i have enough psychiatric literature under my belt to know it's a degrading remark... and the hermit and a severed friendship.

people never think you're well read,
but they never, for once, think that
your isolation is due to the fact that you read,
as with the above stated scenario of
someone thinking you might not have
come across a phrase, that's essentially
degrading - too much video games and ***
will do that to you...
                          as with Bukowski
boasting about reading -
                                             he apparently
read Kant but doesn't bother to mention any
key ideas... populist at heart,
    sure... if i didn't bother to learn the laws
of spelling and punctuation...
                           i'd say as much on the rebellion
of never bothering to learn to tie my shoelaces...
it's pretty much the equivalent of...
     what he already said.
                              and philosophy books do
require patience... they're usually masturbated over
by students writing essays and instead
of going the full nine yards and entering
the narrative, they squeeze out a maxim and that's
that...
                       i'm 30 pages away from
entering the final part of the critique:
                                  transcendental methodology -
30 pages and i'm guessing two years since i
started reading the critique -
                                     well,
philosophy is more geology in terms of reactions
than it is chemistry, where reactions take much
less time to be completed -
                    philosophy in that sense is a variation
of geology - poetry and other forms of literature
are more or less chemically bound to be abrupt,
painfully drunk on the highs and lows -
                             and volatile -
                                                     hence the comparison.
   should i quote? i think i should...

idee czystego rozumu nie mogą nigdy same w sobie
być dialektyczne, lecz jedynie samo złe stosowanie
   ich musi sprawiać, że wypływa z nich dla nas
zwodniczy pozór.
                                                     (p. 303, vol 2,
                                      wydawnictwo naukowe PWN)

               another thing to mention... transcendental
methodology might be simplified in terms of
    transcendental grammar classification, i.e. borrowing
concepts higher than the general classification of words
allows -
                  the double noun exfoliation -
                                    apart from naming a word,
we can absorb the activity of the word beyond mere names:
         words that act as catalysts
                                   words that act as enzymes -
                 should there be specific examples?
                                   in general the substrate to product
transformation using an enzyme
                                                   can be voiced by sophists
throughout the ages -
                                 inflammatory coercion of words
to specific bundles of predictable excerpts is standard
                       when the pulpit is filled and all void denied.
but concerning the above quote, i too was thinking
something along the lines of *a priori being obstructive
       of the ideas of pure reason accommodating dialectics.

trans.
            ideas of pure reason cannot, ever, in themselves
                    be dialectical, but only the wrong application
of such ideas must cause, that from them there flows
        a deceptive guise.

      i could quote further, but the a priori principle is
the argued against dialectics are a false nature acquisition
in terms of these ideas of pure reasoning -
               that we've been given these ideas by a supreme
manifestation of nature in us, i.e. that this highest of
all possible tribunals dealing with pretensions and laws
of our speculation, could also contain within itself
primordial illusions and (loosely) spaghetti muddles.

            true to the reason behind moving from a)
a priori              through to          b)    a posteriori -
        if pure ideas are caustically anti-dialectical,
it's because dialectics would rarely mind the transition
being elementary -
                                       but then again,
i imagine the dialectics in a purely a priori guise
and the Newtonian debate given Einstein's counter-proofs...
in that sense, i somehow seem to disagree with Kant...
well, then again no... in themselves they cannot be
dialectical: i.e. disputed or argued against,
  hence the deceptive guise when Newton was supreme
for so many centuries and then Einstein came along
   and the mask that Newton put on the face of gravity
was to be found not straight, but parabolic.
so yes, that's true: time and space are ideas of pure reason,
and they cannot be dialectical -
                                        even though they are
but not in-themselves dialectical,
                                        they have to possess a dialectical
facade, or at least that's what they exfoliated
              and sedate with...
                                              i'd go one step further:
dialectics is, as far as i know, the only way to approach
ideas of pure reason -
                                           only once dialectics shows
us the ideas of impure reason (the Socratic daemon) -
as leading us into acknowledgement
                                              that certain things are truly
non-debatable -
                                      but that they somehow have
to be debated in order that they might be refined
for the purpose of them being true to their nature:
non-dialectical.
                                   this approach is at least better than
what becomes forcefully adhered to,
                                 i'm still facing a dialectical concern
over Darwinism...
                                      primarily because...
well... my concern is that a belief in a god is more comforting
not for some case in jurisprudence, a heaven on high...
          it's the bothersome timescale and the fact that
skeletons and drawings on cave walls are not much of
a comfort either...
                                   partially also, due to the fact that
i like to think about the item of concern, rather than
express some sort of benediction toward the item of concern:
    there's nothing insensible about that,
given that god, as much as space and time, is an idea
of pure reason -                if i was imbued with
   a natural supplement of atheism, i'd still be trapped
in a dialectical moment of concern -
                                 until i'd finally shed all manner
of a dialectical approach concerning the idea: and make
the final non-dialectical statement of faith.
the flip side is not whether you're right or wrong,
  but whether you actually can make that statement.
as far as i'm concerned (well, i never had that much
admiration for the man) - Mr. B never read a **** thing
of philosophy.

i find it abhorring to somehow feel the need for
a condescending approach to this subject of interest...
as any assurance there need be concerning philosophy...
one thing is perfected witch each new approach to
the subject: you never actually find the time to moan
about not being with women... or how poorly humans
treat each other... you never seem to complain about
solitude, you never once feel lonely...
                                                   you quiet simply get on
with it...                         perhaps that's what it always way:
the best way to entertain yourself...
                    you're basically having to write out with
ease crossword puzzles in your mind that precipitate down
onto the blank page... somehow with it:
life is bearable when alone... and there are more
entertainment hot-spots... none to do with gambling...
                 so that's about as much as being pegged
down to size actually means...
                                         never true: that cinematic
feat to depict modern (and very much Anglo) guises
of modern alienation...
                                           then again: he probably
did read it, but he never bothered to discuss it in any
way relevant as for it to be revealing his interest in
the topics... macho cool keeping it trendy, i'm guessing.

There will never be a sweeter sound than that of a whispered plea from a submissive, floating from her tender lips echoing back off the walls and finding it's way into his accommodating soul behind her.It is that single word alone that keeps him spellbound heightening all of his senses for as long as she will let him love her freely .

Dearly Beloved in Christ

     Greetings to you in the most powerful name of our lord and savior
Jesus Christ. I am glad to write this loving letter to talk to you
today. We are glad to see your works on the website. I am also thank
Lord for giving us a great communication to share on another. Before
introducing me, we are assuring our continued prayers for your
ministry and for your dear family in all our prayers and you please do
pray for us and for our ministry in India. My name is Mrs. Jayamma, am
38 my husband's name John Victor aged 40. We have been preaching the
gospel and planting churches in 10 agency villages. we win thousands
of souls into the Kingdom of Heaven through your powerful and
spiritually filled messages.
India is a pagan country bounded by 330 million pagan Gods and there
are 880,000 villages in India where people still do not know Jesus.
Our goal is to plant churches in such areas and we as a team go over
there preach the gospel and stay over there and see that a church is
planted over there and leave a new Pastor over the work. All of our
villagers are agricultural laborers. They are very poor. We are
working for the Lord among them.       Apart from this we do have
children home with 30 abandoned children. And Old age mother’s home
with 10 ladies. We save these children and old mothers to win them for
Christ. We are accommodating them in a rented building and we are
praying for our own ministry campus. Please do encourage us and do
help these children if you are inspired  by the spirit of  Lord. The
name of our orphanage and old aged mother home is Jaya Charitable
Home. If you need more information regarding this project, we shall
send to your hon our. We really encourage you to pray and visit our
orphans and help as the Lord leads you to do so.         Our daughter
is padmaja. Our son is Lewis Kumar. They are supporting our work here.
My husband is a village doctor (First Aid) He got permission from the
government to do first Aid treatment. I work tailoring and embroidery.
I give my tithe to support to arrange good food for them, giving good
India dress (Saree blouse) they will pray for our ministry. We do also
support the widows in the church with a small monthly support and
there are so many widows who desperately need help. (James 1:27).
Please do pray for the needs of our ministry and also we are
requesting you to please visit India so that you will know that we are
a genuine ministry. If you need any references if you cannot come, we
can give you and you can contact them.
But our heartfelt invitation is for you to visit us as a team or your
family; we would be really excited in meeting you and hearing your
powerful messages. Please let us know of your schedule and please
inform our ministry activities in whatever way you can help us, or
encourage us to your churches, friends, relatives, crusade speakers
who are interested in helping with the work of Lord in India. If Lord
leads you we are wishing to conduct a big International Crusade with
your team.
Our letter is not to solicit you for funding all of our activities,
but we are only telling you of our activities and if you are only led
by the Lord, we ask you to encourage us and guide us and support us
and visit us and give your valuable suggestions and also pray for us
as God answers our prayers and fulfill our needs..
We close our letter with love and greetings and hugs to you. If you
need more information please do email us or you postal address.
Love to hear from you good news.

Yours Indian Sister
;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;­;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;­;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
   Ch.Jayamma
    Parampeta (post) -534447
    Jangareddygudem (Mandel)

West  Godawari District, A.P., S. India

Although flummoxed by the gabble of hibernaculum I seethe with the verdant quiddity that is a cross-pollination that spans the gamut of historical memory and owns the usucaption of infrastructure equipping our bootstrapped capacities of literacy tethered to the ecumenical capacity for proliferation through amplified discernment that percolates at decorative gallop into the stridor of unified apothegms that quantify the visibilia of the broadened universe into the nexility of formula bounded by the parameters that equip synergies of space-time to envelope its own reification and magnetize urbane freebooters of coalescence to grapple with the ineffable mathematics of absorbed losses in the human fraternity becoming overlooked because of the providence of shepherded acrimony to escape the oblivion of barely marginal exponential extinctions of impropriety into fast-paced panoramas of expedited dalliance with optimums constrained by the effluvia of hinderbaggle which exist only by domineering mercurial lability of manufacture enabled by the siphon of Promethean reason to catapult the slogmarch of advancement by punctuated achievements registered by canonical gravitas to revolutionize society in longevity and interplanetary awareness that places a 1000:1 premium on a 165 IQ in comparison to a 110 IQ. Although bewildered by the beaucoup of raxed originality the anoegenetic flux of slogan achieves but a petty solidarity in comparison to the galvanized bronteum of registered invention that provides decisively seminal locomotive prowess to the foisons of promulgated ingenuity propped up by the capacity for raltention that exceeds the inherent longevity of humans on Earth into the permanence of memory to achieve radical vanguard frontiers within diminishing frames of a once vapid time recorded only through the lens of finicky preoccupations of crude retention rather than the kinship of the perceptive unity of the authors who remarked on history to share the same vantage with the distant onlookers upon that very history with such a convergence of judgments the photons that trespassed on inquisitive eyes of inquierendo are the very same blueprint for the modern savory traipse with selfsame perceptions embedded in canonical history like the spool of an exact daydream unfurled before inoculated eyes differentiated by context but achieving the same visual footprint of historical lineament provided by the original exemplar. The luxury of our provisional prosperity is the unique ability to browse spontaneously a two-century travail of perceptible records embedded in the same perceptual rudiments captured by the original vetuda thereby enabling the specificity of prowess to vicariously encounter distant gulfs of time with the simultaneous realization of past becoming present tense because beyond the revisionism of the censors the human lineage originates in approximated design tethered to the aboriginal photographs and hallmark expenditures of celluloid digitized into annealed constellation to provide separate junctures in space time with the same indelible percept decontextualized but potent by showcase of the verdure of the generosity of shared perception rather than cleaved faint traces of divergent imagination conceiving junctures by distal lurches of insular harbors of private registries of tact and discretion without the shared raltention of the plevisable entities that populate the fragmented lineage of space-time to achieve full congruence in percept first and abstract eventually as neuroscience slogmarches with the nockerslug of invidious depredation of sanctanimity. Adrift in iconoduly sustained by lambent monasticism of abnegation we were lost widows of insular idiosyncrasies of similar concepts separated by the longevity of imagination redacted into communicable formula to ensure the divergence of impact of liturgies heterodyne by vast distances but linked to archaic designs that formed the paradigms which eventually merged with the wiseacres of Renaissance conserved in momentum over centuries into the information capital that forms the futtocks of the girdle of a womb matrix of society sustained by a newfangled uniformity of exposure that slowly churns the collectivism of memory and the syndication of the cartel into the ubiquity of prominent thorns of perception magnified by iconography of the megalography of historical permanence evasive of censors and embracing the entelechy of coherent perceptions siphoned by different engineers but arriving at precisely the same conceptual imprint thereby unifying the perceptual world with the usucaption of leveraged networking of browsers of antiquity. The finesse of leapfrogs of modern human impediment is to scour the reaches of the troves of the most vivid imagination and expedite the turnstiles of conserved rollercoasters of enthusiasm probed by the cadasters capable of castophrenia to syndicalize the autonomy of human perception sejungible from indelible vivid footprints of abstraction upon an interface of truly hard-won vehicles of transmissible abstraction to win the arduous relish of once a vacuum of infested instinct into an algorithm of an intelligent source that creates the precise conditions of parallax to seed through celestial hosts the flourishes of stereodimensional traces of permanent cadaster into something that elects beyond the ethereal snatches of oblivion the provisional apportionment of sentiment above continence to set ablaze the rarefaction of raltention and quantify the intelligible impact of one artifact of civilization over the constellated taxonomy of all apothegms within the divine grasp of a sublunary eternity revived and recycled into syndicated scrutiny that bows to a convergent entelechy of instantaneous improvisation of perdurable registry into indemnities that litigate the humorous quizzical trangams of vastly outmoded obsolescence borrowing from panspermatism of technocracy to the edgy appeal of scintillating horizons of peerless scope that approximate the ommateum of approximated omniety but never span far enough for the distant riometers to see for deputized galaxies to be evoked in concrete human-alien achievements sempervirent and virulent guardians of the toil of sensation to refract off of its overhang because of redundant upbringing to shelve the incendiary impediments of the chary into the corsairs of revelation beyond gamuts of lurch and bypassing elapsed regress to arrive at ceremonial progress to trespass upon many minds with a unified concrete hypostasized entelechy of a fielded incorporation of organic life into a manufactured cycle of the most prolonged and beatific longevity capable of digestion and implementation from the toolsheds of hubris accelerated by the vainglory of subsidized harmonies that break through the barriers of language to sprout convergence in direct opposition to entropy to achieve oculate ommateum.The opponents to the logical syndicalism of positivism emergent as the verdant drape of homogenized pasteurization of raw lavaderos that capsize swallock and devour consciousness with predatory mobilism is the tregounce of the ponderous imprints of recapitulated stupidity which is easy to quantify in terms of human rarity because the difference between a 130 IQ and a 155 IQ is a difference in ingenuity power than exceeds 25:1 or an even higher margin of liquidation of indebted concatenations forming the flombricks of capitalized language finessed into burgeoned growth to radically shift postulates into abstract precision that observes the flanges of the dominion of inculcation into the filibusters of gainsay that supersedes hearsay in an evolution of the dialectic to exert transformative esemplastic rejuvenation that transcends creed and ingeminates the festivity of spectacle with the alvantage of albenture to such an extent it predicates new modalities of persiflage grounded on the aggressive patented expansion of the noosphere to inherit the instincts of orthobiosis while simultaneously inheriting the flair of redoubled ingenuity swarming with the vespiaries of predatory discretion working to ***** out glaring beacons of sapience so that intellectual capital is a local rather than ubiquitous emergence because of the prizes of urbacity enhanced by systems of masonic creed that preserved foresight with varying degrees of exactitude knowledgeable about outcomes but incidental in creating those outcomes out of the alchemy of the convergent sphere of spacetime to curve to synclastic pancratic refinement realized in the taxation of the most domineering figures of canon to indoctrinate the inkburch of wernaggle while the panorama of peripheral obscurity adduced by the resourceful few provides the progeny for a seminal equation that encounters the quandaries of precise retention amplified by the synergies of language exponentially grown by the depth and breadth of lexicon siphoned through mechanisms of percolation seeded by the convergent progeny of hindsight meeting foresight to a truce in the elected interests of the filagersion of the spotlight highlighting a universe that only exists with self-aware reification rather than plodding animated instincts of a stagnant match with a slowpoke evolution that scrawls the gabble of the vacuums of faint oblivion knowing only pain, agony and brief felicity but never registered into ecosystems capable of enriching themselves with artifices of origination rather than vapid retrenchments of the stale vapor of the exigencies that plague the intellectually bereft with tertiary deskandent perfunctory desuetude outstripped by the parsecs of the 170 crowd who secretly orchestrates the think tanks that run the furtive cryptadia of regional governance with foisons of fruition realized as dividends of exponential bypasses of even a linear route of the streamline by warping time itself to a spontaneous entelechy that triangulates a warped trigonometry that fathoms what can only be mapped on an imaginary flickering plane of fluxed existence that achieves sub-Pythagorean travel by altering the vacillating distances predicated by the theory of relativity into shortened tracts of abbreviation separating the bridgewaters of locomotion from the vast lurking prowess of reconfigured geometries lurking beyond the shadowy grave of reconnaissance into the penumbra of conservatory refinement. The punctual symmetries of thermodynamic decay met with a conversant offset in reverse acceleration of thermolysis converge with the centripetal prism of annulment to make stalemates of atomic precision appear grandiose to the economic principle of leverage acquired by debt because the discounted cost of symmetrical approximations of sentiment, abstraction and the already syndicated unity of perception vastly scale the scope of the reach of the amenable universe to tractions bound more by eccentricity of parameterized volumes of competing hyperbolas of a warped unity of tugging forces spawned by the differential weights of a flummoxed calculus that provides obeisance in ecumenical uniformity that was absent by degrees through the tinkers of time to adjust the orbits of consideration by tilted warbles of the songbirds that swim in abysses reaching sizable celestial tutelage providing reprisal for quintessential crudity mapped into a syntax of evolved refinement amplified by conserved concatenation accelerated into mastery by the coalescence of new lexicon to probe conceptual space unchartered by the nexility of normal human conduct and therefore bound to a different pattern of evolution that is oleaginous to the engines of revved ostentation in intellectual prowess that is selfsame from the majesty of heaven because of preordained populace meeting transitory flickerstorms twinged with the irony of discursive disclaimer and discretion of disclosure of emissary vehicles that power synaptic vesicles to burst with signal strength harnessing the unity of conscientiousness into a coenesthesia that fathoms interdisciplinary bridges rarely exacted by the formulas of a more rudimentary mind demarcated in taxonomies of scope that are taxemes for unrealized entelechy bristling against the headwinds of doldrum rather than zephyrs of accelerated approximations of the enumeration of elaborate sveldtang into seminal traversals of the inhibitory grasp of narquiddity exceeded by the alacrity of provident discretion in apportioned judgment enough to parameterize vast distances with instantaneous wiseacres rather than rippled mirrors of faint simulations of simultagnosia bounded by the regional scope of subliminal etches of harnessed flombricks invisible to most aptitude measures of working memory but evocative of subroutines that flourish because of the cross-pollination of exasperated sapience clambering for a perpetuity of renewable raltentions conveyed widely and succinctly in indelible tacenda broached by the wisest sophrosyne inclinations to survive the onslaught of traditional nexilities that make obtuse minds hardened by slowpoke myelination and hidebound parameters of achieved convention recursive on reiteration but not expansive on the tracts of genius reserved for the asylum boundary between insanity of delusion and bountiful riches of harvested non-conventional imagination which sometimes pollutes the integral provenance of rapid conveyance. True transcendence is summarily defined as outpacing pace itself to visibly outfox the forsifamiliation of events perceived as distance sworn by the ability of the accelerated frontier to understand the vestiges of the outmoded to the extent redintegration can surpass with imagination beyond the tethers of quddity that narrowcast swallock but refine the space that distances itself from magnitude and achieves a limited vetuda that phenomenalizes the redacted plucky perjury of self-anonymity to identify a novel visibilia of characterized clarity only specialized to the extent the vast sphere of retention exerts a gravitas over footloose fragments of disunity to surpass the skeumorphs of the trailing bolides of distant comets to avoid by meteoric trajectory the lapse incumbent to E=MC^2 which guarantees implicitly in the barter of nebbich chalky rigmarole that the energy of refinement is an abstraction limited only by the coherence of marginal dumose decay to estrange inertia as plevisable from motion and thermolysis as sejungible in partition what cannot be summarily be filibustered by the succedaneum of shortchanged shorthand convenience of the credulity of those who perceive dynamism of delivery as an easily fudged quandary not restrained by the logarithmic slowdown of conservatory inseminations of panspermatism of invention. The riddle of the enigma of neuroscience that presides over classifiable qualia is that the outstretched rax of rectiserial reorganization must gradatim invoke spurious prestige to predicate the entrapment of narrative exponentially slower than the impregnated literacy of an integral harpsichord of mind to finesse the octaves so that sublime majesties become superlative ringleaders of seditious conventions embedded more by absorptive brocrawlers than expressive werniques. We must fashion an orthobiosis that is leniency embodied but plenitude outnumbered by the progeny of its sculpted riches for extravagant spools of tapestries of refinement to be the imprints of legacy compounded by the complexities of inheritance in lineaments situated in the context of overhanging specters and domineering prospects swimming by commonwealth acatelepsy in a maelstrom of revived gammerstang notions of impetuous apostasy benighted by the macroscian and macrobian spans of the captive capture of a Taylor Series of infinite expenditure assuming perpetuity that necessarily converges on organization because of conscientious reversals of entropy into ladders of betrayal against the hegemony of ******* over the synquests of hortoriginality that spurn the castigations inherited from its immodesty of permutation to fixate on global problems of intricacy ragged in salebrosity bereft of the marginal galvanization of hidden inquirendos into artifice contingent upon elapsed epiphenomena of compounded rigmarole resonant with a simplified system of hostage complicity to a least common denominator that belongs to suboptimal refrains issued by Procrustean forces against demassified parsecs of bounded limitations exceeding the volume of perceptible shadows recessive in the alleles of culture but eventually transmogrified into teetotaler totalitarian principles of grave gravities of tabanids to the aceldamas of territorial joust rather than annealed irony of the recidivism of the plucky thorns of percurrent but latent vehicles for oppression to swamp the lethargy of durative formation such that the hambourne atrocity of hambaskets of hinderbaggle grapple mostly with the adolescent excesses of milked pleonexia becoming the downfall of cagey imprisoned syntax bereft of capable constellation and thereby stranded in vagrant proclivities that net positive only in the rare grandeur of my formative axiom of the axiolative excesses of my recensed definition of transcendence. The vacant harbor of asylum of abiding auctions of flexible transistors of wealth is inherently a poolswap of attractive chocolate-box travestime of incurred wreffalaxity suborning the lewd machination of funneled flipcreeks to the commerstargall of incendiary glaciers basking in boardrooms of ataraxic placations of commiseration found in dynamos lamenting degraded embodiments of regaled regelation as seasonal flictions of submerged vanity vaporizing the wisps of whimsical bloated grievances of paltry imparlance to the defalcation of a filigree of mind only sustained by the steady churlishness of preserved relic hibernating in brocrawler pleonasm to grindole the welter of spates of vapid deceleration of successful vibrancy measured in the gamut of hues to exact a penultimate ruse before the finitude of the capstone of capers of fiat remission slick with glamborge of gallionic sciamachy prone to revelry in the cretaceous extinction of monochromatic mathematicization of gradgrind visagists toying with the treacle of blue-sky action billowed into toxic spurts of contrarian aggression of herculean appendages of hackumber providing the bronteum of recidivism to vanquish a righteous trajectory on a pause of Canada Dry conveniences sultry in daft hipsters of tilted stage grafting conclusion prior to rapport of introduced variables of poignant tethers of necessary succor for a desiccated bastion of hidden unspoken reach fizzling into trangams of obsolescence because of perennial inebriations that thwart strong character to scandalize a pinhoked vessel of conscientious objection to the radiology of centerpiece hapless forlorn arid squelches of the vibrant verdure of macrobian dumose shelter for reformatories that invent incidentally accidents otherwise precluded by the ommateum of wasted foresight guzzled on the premium of disaster for a showcase of verve going awry steamy with livid filagersion aimed with a reluctant enmity against the cagey headwinds of recalcitrance inveterate to the scruples of the otherwise unscrupulous who foist lewd licentious philandered paragons of philogeant mysticism to forefront cowcatchers that eliminate kumbaya rijuice of gridlock impressionism guarded by the sentinels of rambunctious destructive attempts to evict intellectual propriety from careens of subtlety barnstorming with polyacoustic nuances of differential gradients of vapid bastions of strident but backwards versamily froward and bountiful of Head Hunter specters rather than heaved recombinations of orthotropism wed with mangers of savory dilettantism of the lionized array of brooks branching into rivulets and the fluminous barnstorm of pelagic awareness interrupted by the finicky prevarications of piggybacked fair-weather allies who secretly fund the slander for the mainour of dirt fundamental to meteoric rises acclimated to dissipated moral vacuums of disbelief of evidentiary miracles among the jostle of scientific regency that slakes opprobrium to illiteracy while benefiting greatly from my perceived barathrum that is rather a crowning ravenous achievement of appetite above substance and distinction varied from prediction that my Titanic zalkengur spared from the unnecessary sacrilege of less accommodating curglaff to the metaphorical hypothermia of albatross in dramaturgy rather than a pause glowering with mastery against my jarred enemies preying on weakened reach due to preeminent dirges of inkburch and swallock to ravage my sanctity with a hyped stage without a starlet daydream fantasia spectacle that is calculated to upstage even in the coverthrow of intelligentsia against the plodding boweries of pestilential raving resentment absconding with elusive enmity rather than cherishing a true trident champion of the seized seas and the traindeque of emulated intellectual accordions of claptrap chockablock pedigree that outlast gallywow afflictions of rapacious venality tenacious to the detritus of constructive detriment building the ashes of effigy before I am dead and buried with the storge of perennial legacy rather than scandalous privation of the obolary tenets of desecration above reabsorption of mendicant bodges of the bodewash of freedom’s counterstrokes of maskirovka ineradicable and plenipotentiary wit deniable but legacy ineffable by degrees of exponential long-winded flambeaus of filagersion swiveling with recessive rubble in a crenellated fortress guarded with tripwire insubordination against cordslave dependencies liable to recurrent reproach rather than sustainable filigrees of electrified balkanization toxic to the aquifers of modernity streamlining Roman imperium. To this flajoust I owe eternal behest as the captaincy of time is not a perishable whangam of superstition an affront to a provident rejoinder of verifiable prestige because the curvature of time favors the ripple effect of magnetized reninjuble charms alerted to upward soaring skies of inevitable peerless dominion in the  perceived symphily of competing benevolence with a shared stake in Earthly pulchritude emanating a sworn allegiance to the best interests of philosophical enlightenment

they said he should submit this
make submissions and do readings
this is the way it’s been done
for many years
but he didn’t really want to
a couple of rejections left him weary
and he’s a writer not a performer

the contests say “all styles and subjects”
but surely they have criteria
not this one
not this one
this one
the all inclusiveness is a lie
the judges know what they want
he wished they’d be up front and specific
but it’s all about the entry fee
they pretend to be seeders
offering everyone a chance
to grow and bloom
but they’re actually weeders
quickly quashing poems
rubber stamped with doom
they never really stood a chance
because it’s all about the entry fee

“Don’t self publish”, they said
“You’ll regret it”
he did the design and layout anyway
“Can ‘we’ make changes to the cover?”
who the hell is “we”?
this is his book?
sure he wanted sales
that’s what publishing is about
but sink or swim
he wanted his book, his way
especially his first book
and he’s a stubborn *******

the internet is accommodating
this IT age makes it easier
the process has been long
with glitches and obstacles
doubt and procrastination
but the would be destination was worthy
available at amazon

Poems about Things that Break

These are poems about things that break and/or shatter: a bubble, glass, a mirror, a twig or tree limb, a thunderstorm, cities and towers in times of war, old habits, our hearts, and sometimes Love itself.



Shattered
by Vera Pavlova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I shattered your heart;
now I limp through the shards
barefoot.



Dark-bosomed clouds
pregnant with heavy thunder ...
the water breaks
―Michael R. Burch



As grief reaches its breaking point
someone snaps a nearby branch.
―Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Lightning
shatters the darkness―
the night heron's shriek
―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Eros, the limb-shatterer,
rattles me,
an irresistible
constrictor.
―Sappho, fragment 130, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



My heart is unsteady as a rocking boat;
besieged by such longing I weaken with age
and come close to breaking.
―Otomo no Sakanoue no Iratsume, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Mirror
by Kajal Ahmad, a Kurdish poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My era’s obscuring mirror  
shattered
because it magnified the small
and made the great seem insignificant.
Dictators and monsters filled its contours.            
Now when I breathe
its jagged shards pierce my heart
and instead of sweat
I exude glass.



Mirror Images
by Michael R. Burch

She has belief
without comprehension
and in her crutchwork shack
she is
much like us ...

tamping the bread
into edible forms,
regarding her children
at play
with something akin to relief ...

ignoring the towers ablaze
in the distance
because they are not revelations
but things of glass,
easily shattered ...

and if you were to ask her,
she might say―
sometimes God visits his wrath
upon an impious nation
for its leaders’ sins,

and we might agree:
seeing her mutilations.

Published by Poetry SuperHighway and Modern War Poems



Second Sight
by Michael R. Burch

I never touched you―
that was my mistake.

Deep within,
I still feel the ache.

Can an unformed thing
eternally break?

Now, from a great distance,
I see you again

not as you are now,
but as you were then―

eternally present
and Sovereign.



Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Not the blossomings of song nor the adornments of music:
I am the voice of my own heart breaking.

You toy with your long, dark curls
while I remain captive to my black, pensive thoughts.

We congratulate ourselves that we two are different
but this weakness has burdened us both with inchoate grief.

Now you are here, and I find myself bowing:
as if sadness is a blessing, and longing a sacrament.

I am a fragment of sound rebounding;
you are the walls impounding my echoes.



Bubble
by Michael R. Burch

.................Love
..........fragile elusive
.......if held too closely
....cannot.........withstand
..the inter..................ruption
of its.............................. bright
..unmalleable.............tension
....and breaks disintegrates
......at the............touch of
.........an undiscerning
..................hand.

I believe this is my only shape/shaped/concrete poem.



Because Her Heart Is Tender
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth, on the first anniversary of 9-11

She scrawled soft words in soap: “Never Forget,”
Dove-white on her car’s window, and the wren,
because her heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her. As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.

She wrote in sidewalk chalk: “Never Forget,”
and kept her heart’s own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.

Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers’ glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on ...
she stitches in damp linen: “NEVER FORGET,”
and listens to her heart’s emphatic song.

The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when fledglings fell beyond, beyond, beyond
its reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.

She writes in adamant: “NEVER FORGET”
because her heart is tender with regret.

Published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Villanelle, The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Nietzsche Twilight, Nutty Stories (South Africa), Poetry Renewal Magazine and Other Voices International



Break Time
by Michael R. Burch

for those who lost loved ones on 9-11

Intrude upon my grief; sit; take a spot
of milk to cloud the blackness that you feel;
add artificial sweeteners to conceal
the bitter aftertaste of loss. You’ll heal
if I do not. The coffee’s hot. You speak:
of bundt cakes, polls, the price of eggs. You glance
twice at your watch, cough, look at me askance.
The TV drones oeuvres of high romance
in syncopated lip-synch. Should I feel
the underbelly of Love’s warm Ideal,
its fuzzy-wuzzy tummy, and not reel
toward some dark conclusion? Disappear
to pale, dissolving atoms. Were you here?
I brush you off: like saccharine, like a tear.



Breakings
by Michael R. Burch

I did it out of pity.
I did it out of love.
I did it not to break the heart of a tender, wounded dove.

But gods without compassion
ordained: "Frail things must break!"
Now what can I do for her shattered psyche’s sake?

I did it not to push.
I did it not to shove.
I did it to assist the flight of indiscriminate Love.

But gods, all mad as hatters,
who legislate in all such matters,
ordained that everything irreplaceable shatters.



Mate Check
by Michael R. Burch

Love is an ache hearts willingly secure
then break the bank to cure.



Water and Gold
by Michael R. Burch

You came to me as rain breaks on the desert
when every flower springs to life at once,
but joy’s a wan illusion to the expert:
the Bedouin has learned how not to want.

You came to me as riches to a miser
when all is gold, or so his heart believes,
until he dies much thinner and much wiser,
his gleaming bones hauled off by chortling thieves.

You gave your heart too soon, too dear, too vastly;
I could not take it in; it was too much.
I pledged to meet your price, but promised rashly.
I died of thirst, of your bright Midas touch.

I dreamed you gave me water of your lips,
then sealed my tomb with golden hieroglyphs.

Published by The Lyric, Black Medina, The Eclectic Muse, Kritya (India), Shabestaneh (Iran), Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry, Captivating Poetry (Anthology), Strange Road, Freshet, Shot Glass Journal, Better Than Starbucks, The Chained Muse, Famous Poets and Poems, Sonnetto Poesia, Poetry Life & Times



Resemblance
by Michael R. Burch

Take this geode with its rough exterior―
crude-skinned, brilliant-hearted ...

a diode of amethyst―wild, electric;
its sequined cavity―parted, revealing.

Find in its fire all brittle passion,
each jagged shard relentlessly aching.

Each spire inward―a fission startled;
in its shattered entrails―fractured light,

the heart ice breaking.

Published by Poet Lore, Poetry Magazine and the Net Poetry and Art Competition



In the Whispering Night
by Michael R. Burch

for George King

In the whispering night, when the stars bend low
till the hills ignite to a shining flame,
when a shower of meteors streaks the sky
as the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame,
we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen,
and gather our vigor, and all our intent.
We must heave our husks into some raging ocean
and laugh as they shatter, and never repent.
We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us,
soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze:
blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning
to the heights of awareness from which we were seized.

Published by Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times and The Chained Muse



Distances
by Michael R. Burch

There is a small cleanness about her,
as if she has always just been washed,
and there is a dull obedience to convention
in her accommodating slenderness
as she feints at her salad.

She has never heard of Faust, or Frost,
and she is unlikely to have been seen
rummaging through bookstores
for mementos of others
more difficult to name.

She might imagine “poetry”
to be something in common between us,
as we write, bridging the expanse
between convention and something . . .
something the world calls “art”
for want of a better word.

At night I scream
at the conventions of both our worlds,
at the distances between words
and their objects: distances
come lately between us,
like a clean break.

Published by Verse Libre, Triplopia and Lone Stars



The Ruins of Balaclava
by Adam Mickiewicz (1798-1855)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, barren Crimean land, these dreary shades
of castles―once your indisputable pride―
are now where ghostly owls and lizards hide
as blackguards arm themselves for nightly raids.

Carved into marble, regal boasts were made!
Brave words on burnished armor, gilt-applied!
Now shattered splendors long since cast aside
beside the dead here also brokenly laid.

The Greeks erected shimmering marble here.
The Romans drove wild Mongol hordes to flight.
The Mussulman prayed eastward, day and night.

Now owls and dark-winged vultures watch and leer
as strange black banners, flapping overhead,
mark where the past piles high its nameless dead.



Once Upon a Frozen Star
by Michael R. Burch

Oh, was it in this dark-Decembered world
we walked among the moonbeam-shadowed fields
and did not know ourselves for weight of snow
upon our laden parkas? White as sheets,
as spectral-white as ghosts, with clawlike hands
****** deep into our pockets, holding what
we thought were tickets home: what did we know
of anything that night? Were we deceived
by moonlight making shadows of gaunt trees
that loomed like fiends between us, by the songs
of owls like phantoms hooting: Who? Who? Who?

And if that night I looked and smiled at you
a little out of tenderness . . . or kissed
the wet salt from your lips, or took your hand,
so cold inside your parka . . . if I wished
upon a frozen star . . .  that I could give
you something of myself to keep you warm . . .
yet something still not love . . . if I embraced
the contours of your face with one stiff glove . . .

How could I know the years would strip away
the soft flesh from your face, that time would flay
your heart of consolation, that my words
would break like ice between us, till the void
of words became eternal? Oh, my love,
I never knew. I never knew at all,
that anything so vast could curl so small.

Originally published by Nisqually Delta Review



Eras Poetica II
by Michael R. Burch

“... poetry makes nothing happen ...”―W. H. Auden

Poetry is the art of words: beautiful words.
So that we who are destitute of all other beauties exist
in worlds of our own making; where, if we persist,
the unicorns gather in phantomlike herds,
whinnying to see us; where dark flocks of birds,
hooting, screeching and cawing, all madly insist:
“We too are wild migrants lost in this pale mist
which strangeness allows us, which beauty affords!”

We stormproof our windows with duct tape and boards.
We stockpile provisions. We cull the small list
of possessions worth keeping. Our listless lips, kissed,
mouth pointless enigmas. Time’s bare pantry hoards
dust motes of past grandeurs. Yet here Mars’s sword
lies shattered on the anvil of the enduring Word.



The Higher Atmospheres
by Michael R. Burch

Whatever we became climbed on the thought
of Love itself; we floated on plumed wings
ten thousand miles above the breasted earth
that had vexed us to such Distance; now all things
seem small and pale, a girdle’s handsbreadth girth ...

I break upon the rocks; I break; I fling
my human form about; I writhe; I writhe.
Invention is not Mastery, nor wings
Salvation. Here the Vulture cruelly chides
and plunges at my eyes, and coos and sings ...

Oh, some will call the sun my doom, but Love
melts callow wax the higher atmospheres
leave brittle. I flew high: not high enough
to melt such frozen resins ... thus, Her jeers.



Old Habits Die Hard
by Gulzar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The habit of breathing
is an odd tradition.
Why struggle so to keep on living?
The body shudders,
the eyes veil,
yet the feet somehow keep moving.
Why this journey, this restless, relentless flowing?
For how many weeks, months, years, centuries
shall we struggle to keep on living, keep on living?
Habits are such strange things, such hard things to break!



Having Touched You (The Boy in the Bubble)
by Michael R. Burch

What I have lost
is not less
than what I have gained.

And for each moment passed
like the sun to the west,
another remained

suspended in memory
like a flower
in crystal

so that eternity
is but an hour
and fall

is no longer a season
but a state
of mind.

I have no reason
to wait;
the wind

does not pause
for remembrance
or regret

because
there is only fate and chance.
And so then, forget...

Forget that we were very happy
for a day.
That day was my lifetime.

Before that day I was empty
and the sky was grey.
You were the sunshine,

the sunshine that gave me life.
I took root
and I grew.

Now the touch of death is like a terrible knife,
and yet I can bear it,
having touched you.

I wrote this poem as a teenager after watching "The Boy in the Plastic Bubble" with John Travolta playing a young man with a defective immune system who risks death for a chance at love.



Published as the collection "Poems about Things that Break"

Keywords/Tags: break, breaking, breakings, shatter, shattered, shattering, delicate, fragility, fragment, touch, cruelty, brutality, abuse, stress, love, pain, relationships, society, mrbreak, mrbbreak

Can I illustrate beauty
without the help of my eyes?
Will I be able to see the sunlight
the clouds floating above
the marvel of the skies?

Having tried it and succeeded
I was absorbed with fascination.
The blind described as unfortunates
yet now I can enjoy the mystery of touch
become suspended with satisfaction.

I can touch anything with my eyes folded
from animals and other objects.
yet the human bodies are far better
they’re so warm and so soft
can’t be compared with other subjects.

Feeling bodies so atmospheric and tense
especially the sensation of a woman’s skin.
The touch of women’s flesh befitted my addiction
their faces, hips, thighs and legs
fondling them like playing the violin.

Touching flesh became my fixation
spending most time contemplating the feeling.
Night and days eyes shut in darkness
caressing bodies in my over imaginative mind
satisfactory, but not so accommodating.

Pictures, portraits and views for the eye
soft sounds, loud sounds for the ear and the mind.
I have touched pots and pans, table and chairs
establishing for good the power of feeling
the forbidden touch prudently refined.

              ----------

I didn’t notice anything not around me
I felt my whole behaviour very strange.
I was crouched at the foot of her body
what happened next was totally unexpected
it seemed my body was about to interchange.

My body was becoming entangled with hers
it felt like my hands and hers were divine.
Every time I touched her face I felt it on mine
same with messaging her thighs, stroking her legs
so frightened it sent shivers down my spine.

love has turned to frustration
and little things have begun to collect
like plastic floating in the whirl-pooling currents of the ocean

a small raft built to protect myself
to stay afloat
after treading, nearly drowning in the swirling masses
keeping my nose to the air
to breathe our oxygen

searching for ways to recycle a synthetic past into raw, earthy tones
dreaming of ways to live gently
and soothe a conscience full of unknown, hidden foes

one moments glance at the jungle of hardened polymers shining in the crusted sunlight -
i begin to realize they are not garbage, but gold

to be re-shapeable, to be reusable; is this not better than gold?
to keep firm and true to ones self, while being agile and accommodating, is this not worth much more?

to have a 75 year half-life;
slow, deteriorating, dissolving decomposition.

or to be re-formed. replenished.

you can recycle the past.

It's like right from wrong becomes irrelevant when it comes down to the person you love. You know you're not being treated how u should but you ignore it, due to pure fear of loosing them or simply not having them. I know I should be number 1 but I'm accommodating to less than that because of love? Is it love? Or is it the desire of something forbidden.
This pain is paralyzing.
I need her.  
I want her.
If I think about how her arms,
How her body completely held mine I can still feel it.
I can still smell her scent.
I cry. The exact same tears I shed as she held me.
Emotional overwhelment.
difference is, I'm actually alone.
She's not holding me anymore.
She has her own person. So she can survive without me.
I was just a distraction.
Yet she still acts and Perseus and brainwashes me as if I were superior to her number 1.
It's all so messed up, it's all so degrading, and simply wrong,
And I am choosing to ignore it.
Which is also wrong.
But how could I not talk to her? How could I cut her out when she's crawled in so deep.
I need to get her out. And keep her out.
I am not the other woman.  
I have my flaws. But my potential is not of thee to be in this position.
So I scream
"**** her I don't need her I can do this"

In hopes of one day believing it.
Maybe one day her voice won't make me melt.
Maybe one day this will all just be a memory just as every other person, who has come into my world and left with pieces leaving me with less of myself.
Maybe.

(An After Dinner Desert Conversation)

He: I love you

She: I love you more

(this repartee ballet, has been rehearsal~danced  since our first season)

He: Why? That surely cannot be!
(on certain paths, he is more skeptic, than convert)

She: Because you are
kind and generous,
to street beggars,
my single friends,
(all who want to meet your
non-existent brother)
good and smart,
love dance, the Giants, and art,
go to bad superhero movies,
accommodating me
(as if you wouldn't go secretly),
never let me down,
love my cooking,
kiss my neck like no other,
hand me a tissue just before
I sneeze (how you do that..)

leave space for others
when you car park,
go thru life making
waiters, doormen and ticket takers
smile and laugh-appreciated,
then you tip crazy generous,
money worries put aside

restful sleep for hours,
head on my bumpy hip,
write me crazy love poems,
Veal Chops and a Day at the Ballet,^
never show me your love poems,
(tho one can peek, when you're asleep)
lest I might cook for you every night,
which you would feel guilty about

woman-injured,
you let me
repair the damages,
and I wonder how
she missed the gentle,
what the world so easy sees
when you sneezes poetry
from its crazy atmosphere

always have a plan,
the best of which is when
you announce no plan today,
maybe bed, maybe movie,
maybe movie in bed,
maybe all maybe none,
and that was exactly
what I was thinking,
which you already knew,
but have reservations made for
our special days through 2024

He: This mystery boy,
whom I don't recognize,
can't be me, for I am the
restless and writing type,
in the wee morning hours,
not a planner or plotter,
a slow and steady plodder,
lazy as the day is long,
shaves but once a week,
keeps his inside stuff,
well hid and most discrete,
drives like a madman in the
video game of Manhattan's streets,
delays the pressing troublesome matters,
asking only workman's wages and
what's for dinner tomorrow night?

She: A ****

He: This mystery boy,
never met him, never seen,
his existence, Einstein failed to prove,
maybe he's roaming the hallways,
oblivious to gravity,
(but not hunger pains,)
overhearing poems,
in languages he doesn't speak,
while riding the M31 bus,
for free, on an expired Metrocard,
cause the bus drivers wave him on knowingly,
his poetry writing sanctuary, they drive,
where they will be perchance, immortalized

if **** is your menu upcoming,
set a table for three,
his heart and soul will be in attendance,
his growling stomach sending his
appointed messenger,
tin foiled wrapped communications

surely as sure can be,
this mystery boy,
gonna want an extra slice of
life tarted with you,
in order to prove gastronomically,
The Theory of Relativity Poetically,
*should I ever see him

i
no less than two hundred souls lie
        clustered along the shoreline
        lowland they call a town.
there where the hilltops look
        below, where salty waves
        in unending sequence
        lap the rocks.
the foam floating still is fading
        and the icy gloom of night is gone.
the tug-tug of the diesel engine
        interrupts the balmy silence
        of the sleeping town.
perchance,
        here is a variant
        (or is it?)
        on new island soil
        tread one another foot.

       ii
away now from the busy hum of
        factory, from the hurrying trucks,
        daredevil drivers, the unwelcomed
        whistle of the morning train,
        from the strained scream of the
        lumpia vendor, from the sophisticated
        melody of nightclub music, from the
        alms-begging cries in crowded sidewalks,
        from pretending graded glasses seeking
        sheep-skin, high-pressured ticket seller.
        away form the honk-honk of waiting
        limousines, the haste of presses
        accommodating headlines, the cackle
        of the radio announcer.
        it takes a sea to part the two,
                and many others more, yet the
                watery distance do mend the broken
                piece-part of the broken whole.

      iii
broken by the water barrier, part of
        the broken scheme – a stray mass
        the grown untamed.
blame it on the ills of war, a frenzied
        sickness, a cancer-growth.
        a callousness undisguised
the city’s pleasure is a farmlife’s
        leisure and these
        in different garbs exist.
not even mindful of the worms
        that eat up the human heart,
        like a rotting fruit.
with colored goggles
        the hue is blood-red and shady black.

  iv
o city of pain,
vineyard of desire
o burial ground
        where lay bedfellows
        they who came, stayed, gone,
where stumps and leafless trunks
        are bare to the sun,
        breathless and devoid.
while fingers are busy
        counting metallic coins.

  v
no, not a flood shall cleanse
        this wild and wanton fleshliness,
        nor upturn the barren farrows,
        not the rise of the tides
        nor the fury of the winds
        not even the whiplash of a strong hand.
the deluge in every clayey figure
        in the farm and furnace.
the going up beyond the worldly
        watermark of the passing tide
        that is man.
the man
        the self
                is the starting point
                from which the line
                        of the circle revolves.
                        and in our chambered brief hours
                                of aloneness, shall speak
                                a shrill deep-seated voice
                                to which we shall be all ears
                                        and shall tremble.

Am made of black
Am a true symbol of a black
Strong
Powerful
Black is independent
Black is determined
Black is original never fades
Black remains consistent forever

Am made of black
Black is an attitude
Black is beautiful
Black is love
Black don't discriminate
Black accepts you for who you are
Irrespective of your race,color and religion

Am made of black
Black is patient
Black is caring
Black is accommodating
Black is brilliant
Black is intelligent

Am made of black
Black lives with you
Black inspires you
Black motivates you
Black is a leader not a ruler (Nelson mandela)
Black is an activist(martin luther king Jr)
Black is a rapper(2pac)
Black is a sprinter(Usan Bolt)
Black is a footballer(George Weah
Black is a singer(Akon)
Black is a poet(Me and myself)
Black is a friend(Akanbi Olawale)
We are blacks we are more

Black is made of more
I am made of more
I am original
I am beautiful
I am powerful
I am attractive
I am charming -----do you know why?
Because am made of black...
Am made of more ...

"He was a brave, resourceful and honest boy. He would have been a successful man under other circumstances. I loved the youngster in the old days and can say now after the passing fifty years that I still love his memory. He has gained an unfair and undeserved reputation. Most of the stories told about him are simply not true at all. He was born into poor circumstances and did what he did to get by. He was a thousand times better and braver than any man hunting him, including Pat Garrett." - Frank Coe, close friend

"He stayed with me at my home for most of one winter, during which time we became staunch friends. I never enjoyed better company. He was humorous and told me many amusing stories. He always found a touch of humor in everything. He never seemed to care much for money. He never drank. He would go to the bar with anyone, but I never saw him drink a drop, and he never used tobacco in any form. Always in a good humor and ready to do a kind act for some one." - George Coe, close friend.

"I liked him very much. He had his share of good qualities and was very pleasant. He had a reputation for being considerate of the old, the young and the poor. He was loyal to his friends and above all loved his mother devotedly. He was unfortunate in starting life and became a victim of circumstances. In looking back to my first meeting with him my impressions of him were most favorable and I can honestly say that he was a man more sinned against than sinner." - Miguel Otero Jr, friendly aquaintence

"Today he is featured as a mean man, as dark as a Mexican. He wasn't. He was a light complexioned boy who was always smiling. He was very brave and loyal to his friends. He's gone now, but many Spanish girls mourned for him." - Carlota Baca Brent, resident

"He was a remarkable boy. Far above the average of the young men of those times and he undoubtedly had the making of a fine man in him." - Susan McSween, close friend

"He had a great personality and could ingratiate himself in people's good graces very quickly. He had laughing blue eyes, always smiling or laughing, very accommodating and good hearted. He had an innocent timid look and all of this took with the girls at once."
- Lily Casey Klasner, resident
Personal Note: Ms Klasner was Bob Ollinger's girlfriend when Billy killed Ollinger during his great escape, and apparently even she had kind words for The Kid. Furthermore, when news of Bob Ollinger's death reached his mother, his mother was quoted to say the following. "Bob was a murderer from the cradle. If there's a hell, he is surely there."

"All the wrongs have been charged to him, yet we who really knew him know that he was good and had fine qualities. We have not put our impressions of him into print and our silence has been the cause of great injustice to him." -  Martin Chavez, close friend

"He (Garrett) was afraid to go back into the room to make sure of whom he had shot. I went in and was the first to discover that they had killed my little boy. I hated those men and I'm glad I've lived long enough to see them all dead and buried."
- Deluvina Maxwell, very close friend

"He has gained an undeserved and unfair reputation to this very day,
and so his truest to life story written poetically is my mission to set the record straight."
- BILLYtheKidster, Me

*******************­*

I hope what you've read will put some falsehoods to bed
regarding all of the untrue things that Billy allegedly did.
This concludes my truest to life story of William H Bonney,
The Forever Legendary BILLY the Kid

Love is patient,
It willingly waits,
Accommodating the pace,
of others,
it is never in a haste.

Love is kind,
It provides support for the long haul,
even in the heaviest downpours.
It appreciates the efforts others make,
However small.

It does not envy, it does not boast.
It exudes humility wherever it goes.
Love is not proud,
"I" is never what it's about.
Love is not rude,
even when it's in a foul mood.

It is not self-seeking,
It does not fight for rights.
Love is not easily angered,
It does not stir up fights.

It keeps no records of wrongs.
Love is forgiving.
It is always protecting,
rather hurting itself than hurting another.

It is always trusting, hoping and persevering even
when the person repeatedly does the wrong thing.
Love never fails.

This is the love that I have.
The love bore to me in death.
When you died on that cross,
You paid the cost.

And now, I'm no longer lost.

It's a travesty to tolerate
The ugly mores of men,
When everyone's allowance
Condones release for them.
Where everywhere provision
Is made for man to shove,
And woe betide the meek
Who don the feathers of a dove


The world applauds the forceful,
Rewards are rich for he
Who tramples over daisies
And holds aloft the key.
Who forces his attentions
And speculates the win,
Despite the devastation wrought
In winning it for him.


It's a travesty to tolerate
This bovine charge of man
When all can be achieved
With an accommodating plan,
When compromise and levity
See consideration's way
Where success can be attained
With out bloodletting on the day.


I hear the snort of your derision,
Feel the snigger in your smile,
See the curl of lip descending
With your slit eyes of defile.
For this portraiture is global
The fighting man is King
And he who deviates
Is left bereft and vanquishing.


Sadness is the matador
Who casts his scarlet cloth,
To be shredded and impaled
By a maddened bullock's wrath.
To be tossed aside, asunder
Like a lifeless ragged doll,
Like mankind's brute tomorrow
When the final drums do roll.


Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
29 November 2009

I didn't know exactly what your name was for a long while. You've been inside of me on numerous occasions. Sometimes when you visit, you stay for weeks, other times you might only visit for a day - whatever the length of your visit you never cease to leave me questioning my ..sanity  (If sanity exists any more)?

I can’t tell whether you’re part of me, or if you’re merely a confused visitor, who happened to once find some empty cavity in me that could foster you for a while, and have since returned from mere convenience. Either way, I still haven’t yet decided whether I like your company or not. We shall see.

I appreciate that you never let me become too content. You omnipresently remind me that I do not deserve to be too happy, too blissfully at peace with my surroundings. I thank you for that. It reminds me what I need to do, who I need to help, what I should do, and who I should be helping.

I don’t like how guilty you make me feel. I don’t like how I've grown to become frightened of what you might, one day, make me become. You've made me think and consider things I've only ever shunned others for thinking and doing. Why the **** do you do that? Do you know how confused it makes me? You've made me feel like I'm only controlling about 90% of what goes on up there. I hate that feeling. I'm still in control, I know that much - but even that measly 10% that you've taken from me makes me feel robbed.

You've made me doubt my aspirations. This is what I probably hate you the most for. I know I want to write. I want to write about the people who deserve to be written about. I want to sit with them, I want to watch and feel their suffering, and I want to somehow translate that into words and put it in print for the world to read. But I don’t want what I write to become merely a story to the people who read it. I want them to read it, and feel it seep into their skin. I want them to feel the pain of the people whose pain I am writing to them about. I never want what I make to simply become a ‘show’ to people. But I can’t do that. That’s not how people are made.

You make me think I adamantly hate people. I know I don’t, I hope I don’t - but you trick me into thinking it with such conviction that, when you decide to leave me, I'm left wondering whether it was really you or I who put that in my head in the first place.

There are bad people in the world. Hell, most of us are bad. We are horrible. Our morals and our beliefs turn us into things we never wanted to be, but somehow all ended up as. And once we've become a monster, very rarely can we become the pure, good, perfect things we were born as.

But, I know that some people have goodness in them. I hope that I am one of them. It frightens me like nothing else to think that, maybe, I am not a good person. That I am as disgusting as the people who switch the channel when something comes on their television that isn't a fictional drama, comedy, ******-mystery, whatever, because they find it unpleasant. Or because it doesn't effect them.

I don’t want to be just another person who donates money to charities, walks around in old, inexpensive clothing, volunteers and help people, and does it because she wants people to look at her and think “****, she’s a good person”. I don’t want people to think of me as a good person. I don’t want people to think of me at all. I don’t want people to know what I do, why I do it, or how I do it. I just want to do the things I can, have people benefit from them, then remember the THINGS. Not the face or the name of the person who did them.

I want a stranger to think “Someone gave a homeless person their shoes. I could do that. I could give a homeless person my shoes. I have another pair, I don’t need them. That’s what I’ll do” and do it. Then maybe someone will see them and do it also. But to think that someone would think of the deed then link it to me, or to a face generally - that repulses me. It repulses me into thinking that, somehow, every person nowadays is objectified, and every object is personified. And it’s terrifying.

I go to sleep every night with that thought in my head. I don’t know who to blame for putting it there. If it was you, Electra, just make it clear that that’s the case. I will forgive you. I will still let you come back when you have nowhere else to go. I would just like to know.

For now, that’s all I have to say to you. I hope your stay is comfortable, and you’re experiencing a pleasant refuge from whatever you are hiding from. When you next leave, please make sure to leave me what is mine. I often find myself feeling, after your visits, that part of what I had has left with you - which, generally wouldn't bother me, except I've never gotten those bits back.

Thanks.
Love, your ever-accommodating E.

only in england, where so few philosophical
works are actually read,
it's apparently enough to cite Locke,
the famous island isolation -
after watching a program on bipolar disorders /
manic depression and what not
started watching a rekindling of
the premier league from the years 2002 / 3...
with the years' music in the background -
great memories Wayne Rooney was still
at Everton, and David ****** had a moustache
and a ponytail standing in goal at Arsenal,
Ole "babyface" Solskjær was playing at
Manchester United - the white stripes came out
teasing a breakthrough just before
their elephant album - well, that's that,
but this programme about the manics -
you'd think that england was really accommodating
to eccentrics as once Vladimir expressed -
he's half-informed, 'hey Vlad... you have half
the picture, honest to god...'
but i want to deviate from any sort of scrutiny
on the subject - the "sane" people think
doctors are holy - what's with this notion that
some surgeons don't leave surgical equipment
in bodies, and that misdiagnosis doesn't happen?
well... so much for deviation:
does it begin with questioning your thinking
rather than questioning existence?
half-baked activists - no "change the world"
prompt? i guess you could say that -
no qualification credentials and you're just
a street-cleaner, apparently - a street-cleaner
in the sense of shuffling tripping up on
banana skins (chris rea - god's great banana skin -
https://goo.gl/3JYJYV - great song) or waltzing
on autumn leaves - suddenly there's a new
zoology department at the London zoo -
changed sphynxes on two legs rattling piggies
of savings they never made other than what they
picked up from the street - besides that -
well, you can resort to the Koran -
or at least i find a way to mediate it - back to
descartes: an example of good through doubt,
meaning i'm a quasi-believer, but not, as sartre
would claim: an unbeliever - since doubt equates
itself with good faith, sartre's doctrine teaches
bad faith... and if the opposite of bad is good,
then the opposite of doubt is denial (the un- prefix
summary when coupled to belief);
so this one manic depressive was describing
a moment of solipsism in terms of annie lennox
singing to him - well, she was, the man just
experienced a moment of solipsism, a thought
experiment in subconsciously, and he simply didn't
realise it - like i told you - so few works of
philosophy are read in england, most of these books
try to follow the route nietzsche attempted:
to write very little when others wrote a great deal...
and then what? sit on a poet's laurels and ****
and smile that all too deceptive smile of some sort
of accomplishment? that'll hardly work -
imagine thirst, and hunger, and put that into writing -
and here we have the telegraphic technique -
as suggested by the author of slaughterhouse 5 -
m. kurt vonnegut - well obviously you will not find
any comparisons - but then at Yale the professor of
"creative" writing or whatever they call it
just cited the first line of the first canto - so i ask you:
why would you want to write something as if
it's an instruction manual for a television set?
oddly enough too, the Florence school of art technique
wasn't passed on - while Albrecht Dürer kept his
a secret, unto himself - lucky man, a sad man,
but a lucky man - i actually like his selfishness.
no, they don't read philosophy in england,
and i can testify with the usual saying they have:
'he's lost touch with reality', what the hell is that?
no, i don't have the stamina for any secret society
crap - i get the comedy of life,
a comfortable positioning on the ****** laze -
limit all of life's temptations and live out
a slightly impoverished life - premonition i'd say
now, had enough money back when i was making
investments in a music & book library -
now i'm full - now my turn to give -
oh look: a bunch of gnat memory readers
easily distracted by traffic lights - we've all been
there - two years and a few books in between
it took me to read Heidegger's being and time -
TWO YEARS! and how much came in between?
sunset upon glee of the sea - Ezra's
broken token to the conjunctions
        and
                and
                        and and and and
i don't mind - man lived to be poetry's prefect of
the 20th century - see, a whole group of them, not a solitary
macaroon fetishist that Proust was -
and moby **** will have his days counted,
but not by me - there's no point being a Samson
keeping all the pillars - actually, that's the point,
to be Samson, take a few literary pillars
and then the whole **** temple collapses -
so with two or three of them taken by you
the rest you leave a rubble - turning over to the leisure
of poetry - Vladimir, haven't you heard?
people in england think all poetry is depressing,
depressing? 'what's normal?' is another maxim
in england - singing on the train is forbidden, also -
hey, social criticism is better than running around
with a kalashnikov - turn words into bullets
and mown the strata - and mown the strata -
                 and mown the strata -
give up on preplanned expeditions - only gymnasts
and tightrope walkers do pre-planning -
patience and constant innovative practice - ****'s jazz,
there was no classical composer in their midst with
a silencer of the music, music scores -
how they crammed an entire orchestra in those
little heads of theirs, i'll never know -
so this manic depressive man cited solipsism without
knowing it, and it made him very, very uncomfortable...
i wouldn't have sent him to a psychiatrist,
i wouldn't even want to go to one voluntarily -
i'd have sent him to the library -
but oh, oh, more and more libraries are closing -
while the zenith in my local library was
Thomas Mann's Doctor Faustus - everything else
was toilet paper.

On my better days
My watery eye rests
Somewhere between dream and imagination
And I am aware of a gentle ocean
Swinging into lazy waves
Slapping each other softly
As a bright white yacht
Slips serenely and silently
Through this accommodating sea
As long as the planet breathes
And air becomes wind
Or even breeze enough
To fill the glowing sails
The yacht keeps gliding
Blithely forward
But that's on my better days

                                            By Phil Roberts

She prances the streets, a ballerina in heat snapping finger's in rhyme! Forget thy time, she telephathicly makes her own.

She lives alone, yet roomies become her attire, maiden of dires, dating site's not accommodating thy interest? Pinterest !

A pipe she keeps next to her bed, juicy lipstick, a prideful head,
Yet still her small green bag does not satisfy.. Queen so blind!

Smoke evacuates the old pried windows that are nailed, for ghosts do haunt her, within and outside..

Thoughts of suicide, as riddles she makes up to stay sane, her mascara pounds to thine rain that leaks into her basement sanctuary!!

Addict's she clings to, monsters she speaks to, as her cats keep good company, I know!!!!

An operetic show, a fatalist as me, yet still hoping for whats not there, unruly she dares!!!

Her street lies beyond the ghettos, 515 dover lane ..
On the east side of town where the bullets meet with trains!!

Factory's of grains that make your daily bread, where thy living and thou dead come in between two world's...

Lonesome young girl, no more chariots can you escape, for thou art blundered and unvaped to the cloud animals thou creates!

for so long i tried to be anti-racist...
i could be... most accommodating...
i could truly stomach
the multi-culture pact of
a post-colonial empire implosion...
all the white girls were accommodating...
sure... i'll eat curry...
but there's only so much curry
you can eat...
and you're not going to
imitate the Asians and eat
it for ******* breakfast, are you?
what happened to eggs...
to French pastry?
for fresh buns...
         i tried not being a racist
and i still "try"...
but even i'm being race-baited...
an outlier like the city of Romford...
on the outskirts of greater London:
in local news...
the Debenhams was shut...
what's to replace it?
a Bangladeshi mall...
curry! curry! curry!
saris in the upper levels...
i thought that Havering was a conservative
area...
across the street the Church will become
a... shop that sells... chandeliers...
like in Scotland...
but i'm not English:
this isn't my land...
yet i'm... bemoaning the transformation...
racist?! ha ha...
are there any Bangladeshi girls
available...
is it that one: where...
because she's the woman...
my children would speak the lingua "franca"
of English... Bengali...
but zero of ******?!
well... sorry... **** that...
the local erupted with speculation
that the Debenhams would be turned
into a mosque...
well... if "they" congregate to breed
commerce...
                "lucky" me... i have an escape
plan... i can always live out a hermit's life
in Poland...
this... isn't my land...
i once... cared... but seeing how the natives
capitulated...
the Jews ******* first... the whites follow suit...
only today i was honked at
at the Gants Hill roundabout...
i managed to see a tight passage...
the driver of a supposed... ahem: TANK...
thought otherwise... he owned the road!
he did?!
i looked around... eh... ****-smear skinned
donning sunglasses...
perfect! the ******* and a *******!
i was so accommodating once upon
a time... i really was...
but even me, now: feel...
infringed upon... it's creeping up on me...
England is a lost sort of a case...
thank god or no one for the back-up
plan i have in my head...
my parents die i'll probably *******
from England...
i don't want to live among the cowering
sorts...
from the height of the empire:
to this... now?
making it near impossible for the natives
to reproduce so one might eat up
more... ******* curry curry: carry?!
i don't believe myself asking
the question: am i racist?
i sound like an Englishman...
cosmopolitan art: at best...
          i'm just slightly bothered...
the local Debenhams is turned into
a Bangladeshi mall... plentiful sairs
and curries...
well it's almost like the Russians
reclaiming the southern Slavs
from the Turks...
sorry... the barbers: you don a beard?!
bitter absinthe... infused with
coriander seeds...
i'll drink what no one else will
drink...
little pockets of anger:
framed at would be Bangladeshis...
the middle-finger
and a pronounced ****-off...
the world! awaits!
this is... not my... land!
i don't wish to be quaking...
Ing-Leash;
for ****'s sake,,,
the natives are not going to
"save" us... are they..

You are full of it
when what you plan
to do did not include
other people's interest.
Are you playing with
yourself all alone,
when all you needed
was just lovely friends
who will gladden your
world with their lives.
These loving friends are
actually the flowers in
the garden of our lives,
they decorate our lives
with beauty and adorn it
with fragrance of their
loving smiles,
bringing to us that free gifts
of love and friendship.
Their presence is more than
a balm of Gilead.
A true friend is like a rose
and a beautiful flower in
the vase of our lives worthy
to be nurtured and watered daily.
We need each others touch to
survive and thrive.
Love is about inclusion,
doing and acting out our lives,
and letting others into our world.
Even though some might be a
pain in the ***,
still you can't do without them,
they make up the textures
of our lives.
We need all of them both the
positive and the negative,
they help bring us to a better place.
Unwittingly helping in an
uncanny way to learn about
love and forgiveness,
accommodating and acceptance,
patience and endurance,
Wellness and healing.
They bring pleasure and delight into our world.
How I wish we could be good loving friends.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.

The intensity of the moment builds.
Eventually, a shrill of excitement will fill the room.
And all eyes will be on us, in the rays of light that strike us from the ball room ceiling.

Your hair curls gracefully, and bounces as you walk down that isle.
Your dress wraps around you, accommodating every curve, and every defining feature.
The white contrasts your cherry blossom lips, and your sweet hazel iris.

You are utterly gorgeous.

Though there's one thing...
Just one.
It's all in my head.

You were never mine to be with, and that's the saddest part of all.

Pick Up The Microphone

  Pick up the microphone,
hear me speak,
I see you looking at me,
feeding me the words coming out of my mouth,
feeding off of my energy, the hype,
catharsis personified is what you are in that moment.
I digressed but yeah correct me if needs be.

If needs be,
Words?
Where we have Mr.Ease and Difficulty,
Then the least they do is hug me.

Pick up the microphone,
Noises spoke,
Voices wrote,
The philosophy,
And the etymology,
To shine with glitter by the twang which is spoken,
From pretty little girls that provoke them,

Pick up the microphone,
Give birth to the word which is answered,
Give in the words to be renowned and,.
be free with the verb that has  inaugurated me,

With this personal noun stands my identity,
My adjective accommodating the quality,
Adverb knowing the effect of me,
So,the next time you blur vision, to get a vivid state of mind.
You better PICK UP THAT MICROPHONE .

when critique is about, the unsuspecting walk like peacocks, showing off the wooden dutch slacks of fear prior to criticism, forging a proof of god so debased that it would require the holocaust to have taken place.*

- yes, this call is immediate, what's the severity?
- immediacy in all circumstances.
- sounds terrible.
- yep, blood in my **** too.
- ooh, dialectical diarrhoea?
- skidding at one hundred miles per hour with a popsicle swerve on the slurp.
- trafalgar sq. fountains?
- lions roaring in alabaster to the breaking of bony hinges.
- triage.
- can i see him face to face.
- no, you need to speak to him first via the triage telephone system.
- so he's the now receptionist and knows the daybreak slots with chemical compounds.
- no, thingy thingy, dum dum **** a toe, crackle fun pull a twig: we're
   the receptionists, he prioritises the eventuality of a cancer advert.
- three quid down the drain?
- yes, we, the receptionists of the world will stand against the robotic onslaught!
- ****** on winter sledges.
- exactly.
- not exactly, you, receptionist, you jane, me tarzan, you book face to face, now.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment, now.
- me jane, me receptionist, me on the conveyor belt of corn crop patched harvestable.
- me i.q.
- me one hundred and fifteen.
- face to face to farce.
- farce to bloke to pole.
- pole leaning on a pole.
- englishman eating a napkin.
- blackjack and ingredients for the pride of britain: vindaloo child.
- sloshed on a cricketeer's return.
- puns and cardamon cardigans of colour without scent.
- pushy apple sours coloured acid green without the mojo juice.
- spank that gimp ***** into a piglet.
- leathered up, boots on parole.
(who the hell is talking now?)
- i need to see the doctor face to face, i need my sick note to live on:
   on brink of day in ultraviolet twilights, and drink.
- are you a banker?
- i'm a sick man, a beggar.
- we only provide sickness to the rich and famous.
- so what do i get?
- premature death.
- oh, can i have a bank account with that?
- oh sure, as long as you can accept debt.
- 5% like standard a.e.r.?
- no, 2000%
- so my debt interest will be crazy dizzy above my savings interest rate?
- yes.
- do you sell h.i.v. positive syringes?
- we're accommodating.
- thank you very much.
- thank you.
- goodbye morrow and marrow tight.
- bones ashore.
- **** all ahoy.