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Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
that's 3 weeks without a keyboard,
that's 3 weeks on a dual-detox -
         that's that: roughly: antagonism
of: once upon a time...
           there can only be one Hans Andersen,
and as the story goes: ol' granny
   passed on the tales, without which:
no talk of posterity, and seances at
the theatre; alternatively: what if Kierkegård
opted for opera, rather than theatre?
    well: horrid is the task of dropping names,
as if being a village idiot, in that
capacity: giving directions... no such thing!
  nonetheless: a horrid task...
3 weeks... without this horrid world-entanglement...
amphetamines in the wild west,
                   and yet... everything slows down...
that's 3 weeks without such ''luxury''...
    and would you believe it?
3 weeks went by: in a blink of an eye.
             strange, or what 21st century writers
fail to recognise: the ******* canvas has changed!
any-single-one-of-them bothered to scrutinise
this new canvas? anyone?
     ah yes, it's still in its adolescence -
it's still: Dostoyevsky, scuttering in the grand
dungeon: that's the Moscow underground.
             the canvas! the canvas!
                             and indeed, if this be some
bellowing horn, from the depths of some forsaken
place... i'll go into the street, and sabotage
civilisation with graffiti...
                     then again: i have the least
expectations, such that capitalism works...
poetry... and what investment have you made?
nil, or almost nil... evidently: zilch!
      ah, but to have invested in canvases,
a studio, paints, brushes... see... no one sees
investment in poetry: primarily because the poet
has done the minimal...
            unless of course it turns out to ****
with a hot poker something once resembling
nations... which now resides in the insane asylum
(even though those, have been abolished)
                           , nation - ooh! what a ***** word!
the left irksome sometimes uses it:
in theory: the nation-state...
                        and then there's the resurgence of
ancient Greece... in a sing-along:
maybe 'cos i'm a Londoner... brother! brother!
Athenian! Athenian!
                                       but we are born into
a Spartan wedlock... no one really bothers to
**** our gob with Shakespeare...
    then again that is the schizophrenia (alias
dualism) in humanity... thus, to be frank,
psychiatry can be congratulated, it has provided
one useful term... and i will use it, over and over again,
in a non-symptomatic way, because, i find,
it stands, as if the Olympic Graeae (Zeus, Poseidon
and Hades) eating the carcass of some inhabitant
of Tartarus...
                               evidently: tartar steak...
doubly evident: tartars, or the remnants of mongols,
settled in crimea, and elsewhere in the Ukraine...
   tartar                      tra-ta-ta-ta... ku ku ryku!
a ja fu! krecha! a ja znow... fu!       radowitą
uprzejmość... skłaniam...  
    or what i call: rising spontaneously from the depths...
polymaths applauded, the tribunal resides in
bilingualism... trenches... history... perspectives
and current affairs... wicker man media...
                        so... an example of pedantry?
ó....               that's an orthographic dignitary -
        an aesthetic muddle... as is
c-ha                               contending with samo-ha...
     ch                            came from antagonism of
cz                                   which was later antagonised
by č               in česka.... say that: hen party
bound to Prague... in the Czech republic...
                                          ch      k..­.
i am, quiet frankly... standing at the feet of the tower
of babel... and i'm looking up, and i see
correlations, and i see decimal marks,
which, when given enough geography,
can seem like England and the isles,
       and central Europe...
    Iberia? phantom of Seneca...
  eureka! let's begin, once again...
  why is there a continuum beginning with
Plato and Aristotle?
                                           we could become
reasonable people... told to deal with madmen...
we could claim beginnings with Seneca...
and Cicero...
                      and why? the Romans loved poetry...
the Greeks antagonised Homer...
            the Romans loved Horace, Virgil,
                           Ovid... perhaps we should really forget
beginning with Plato and Aristotle...
       the former has become a church,
the latter a dentist's assistant (minus the ancients'
concept of a joke).
                      evidently i have to finish off reading
Seneca... his educational letters to Lucilius....
      moralising ******* that he was, thus, perhaps
a nibble at Cicero? but i must say:
                           it has to begin somewhere,
so not necessarily in stale-bread Athens...
                      and having such perspectives helps
in claiming casual conversation?
   assuredly - if it doesn't involve talking about
the weather...
                                which is always a great mystery
   if it's given enough aurora.
   onto the mystery of dialectics,
as discovered by Alfred Jarry in his Faustroll
Pataphysics contraband...
                                                nag­ging agreement...
nodding without approval... (chapter 10) -
beginning with αληθη λεγεις εφη
        (you speak the truth, he replies) -
   and ending with ως δoκεì
                              (how true that seems)...
and then some dub-step...
        know nothing dROP! boom! jiggy jiggy,
get the rhythm.
   as i always find it hard to look at
    diacritical arithmetic...
                                  given the following
represent a prolonging: hangman:
       å, ā and ä...
                             esp. in Finnish -
stratum: hedningarna täss on nainen.
                        rolling yarn, plateau, two dips;
and i will never say something profound...
i'll just say something no one else has said,
benefit of the doubt? somewhere, someone,
                                      kneels at the same altar.
  such are the distinction - invaders from the
north, and invaders from the south...
                                           even with
crusading Golgotha mann -
the times? many bats, supers, spiders,
but not enough readings of thomas mann...
                              easily befallen into prune-nosed
high-airs... it comes with the diet of literature...
   unfortunately.
                              and with yet another book:
i have burried yet another living person
i could have had a beer with, and conversed.
it always happens, every time i read a book
i have to attend a funeral... by reading a book
i have burried someone alive...
                          shame, in all frankness...
    i will sit in a congested train, touch a breathing
body, and consecrate the touch with
a warring genuflect - harbringer of a Teutonic
passion for initiation: a komtur's slap across the cheek.
   chequers played with passions...
           and some have to be approached like
caged animals, their vocabulary as cages,
                and the whole world before them:
cageless!
             some have indeed become so encrusted in
their daily: routine, that it would take a zoologist
(thrice oh, begs some sort of diacritical marking)
rather than a psychologist to understand them...
    like the darting dupes they are, enshrined in
20% gratis! smile! have a nice day! boxing day sales!
all but pleasantries, fathoming the grave.
   stiff vocab and all other kinds of perfume...
                           a king and his charlatan knights,
who are merely ditto-heads.
                  and not of this world, afresh -
among the nimble hands prior to birth -
surely there is: more grandeour in birth
   that entry via a ******...
                            the greatest pain of ****...
and when the ancient treaty was signed
under the name: Augustus Cesarean - or
recommended for a need of aristocracy -
    it was, for a time, the mana magnetism:
and such was the rule of poetry:
rather than a crown, donned the laurel leaves...
donned the laurel leaves...
    and such was the covenant from ancient
foes when trying to assimilate the Jew...
three kings from Babylon,
                         the child in Egypt...
          no good tides from Nazareth...
         a crown of myrrh - later overshadowed
by dogmatic sprechen, simpler: thorns...
yella things... or rzepak, Essex is filled with it...
rzepak... so why bother adding a dot above
the z, when you get capricious and use rz to
denote the same?! thus a science:
voiced retroflex fricative... Stalingrad!
                       can you really stomach this kind
of jargon? if it wasn't for science fiction:
science would be twice removed from gott ist tot,
*******' worth of pondering, given the close
proximity rhyme... nothing that rhymes should
ever be taken seriously, it should be hymnal!
                         Horatio! mein lyre!
   mein Guinness leier! rabbi krähe -
     and they deem that ****** white when talking:
thinking? i'd prefer Cezanne in real life -
   maggot wriggling and all...
                                          as much eroticism
as bound to a dog slobbering its testicles:
which means ****-all in an almighty stance
   for a dollop of halleluyah in Nepal.
well: pretty talk, pretty pretty pretty: i feel pretty,
oh so butter-fly-e.
                                    2 week stance,
***** in autumn... but so many Swiss hues
coming from the same concentration of decay!
shweet!  zeit-ser!        and that's me talking
kindergarten german: innovation begins with
a fork and a spoon, should the tongue come to it...
            i see a poem,
i see something worth bugging... c.i.a.,
f.b.i., hannibal's lecture in Florence, Venice for
the rats... bugging... shoving...
  shovelling... necro grounding, rattling...
    windy via north... Icelandic...
drums along incisors of abstract gallop:
violins... fringes of the mustang... airy airy...
all regresses toward the Vulgate...
         like ****, like said, and the only pristine
stress comes with vanilla ice-cream,
or a medium-rare beef ****! hmph!
                         fa fa fa excesses with that hurling
puff...
                      and i did finish Kant's
critique of pure reason... minus two calendars...
but, so help me god, the 2nd volume was hiding
under some corner...
                           thus, from transcendental methodology
came plump apricots, plums and pears...
             sweet decay fruit baron...
              and it's called sugars in the intricacy of pulp...
lazily grown, dangling on that caricature of
a formerly known: full crop of wheat-crude fringe.
    2 years... honest to god!
         but so many books in between...
i was given a recommendation...
i cited it already... kraszewski's magnum opus...
29 books...
                       although that's history fictionalised...
but nonetheless, it really was about
     the cossack uprising in the 17th century...
   and it was, as i once said, something i can forgive
sienkiewicz - the film version,
as in: i will not read a book once it has been adapted
to a movie... it's self-evident that too many
people have read a piece of work and are gagging
for a conversation... but where's the playground?
           ******* cherades!
  chinese whispers and a Manchurian candidate!
  i thought as much.
                          and whenever it's not a preplaned
escapade, what becomes of the day?
     was it always about a stance for carpe diem?
  syllables: di                em.
                            carpe is said with more lubricant.
corpus diem. well, that's an alternative, however
you care to think about it.
                and whenever you care to think about,
the proof is there: mishandling misnomers:
poets as tattoo artists... although no one sees the ink,
signatures on a reader's brian (purposively altered,
toward a Michael Jackon he-he, and other:
albino castratos the church venerates!)...
   that's 3 weeks in a catholic country...
  3 weeks... if only the football was better,
      i'd be called Juan Sanchez...
               but, evidently, the football is bad...
     so it's catholicism on par with a sleeping inquisition...
no one really expected Monty Python to conjure
that one... because it never really took place,
not until a trans-generational exodus
postscript 2004... once western brothels were exhausted,
and the Arab started ******* a hippo...
              then it was all about lakes and rivers
and Las Vegas 2.0 in Dubai!
                     you say quack... i say:
                                                    easy target.
and they did receive a blessing from Allah...
enough ink to write out Dante's revision of the Koran,
and some Al-Sha'ke'pir to write a play called:
the Merchant of Mecca.
  last time i heard, when the reformation was
plauging Christendom, no one invited the Arabs...
these days i think the little Lutherans of Islam
watched too many historical movies...
me? pick up a crucifix and march to Jerusalem?
  and is that going to translate into:
   blame the populists! blame the nationalists!
it's like watching a circus... why is the Islamic
reformation asking for third party associates?
                  i was happy listening to
the klinik... albums: eat your heart out...
time + plague...
                             once again: the world narrative
gags for enough people to conjure up
     a placebo solipsism... and that's placebo
with a squiggly prefix (meaning? how far
that ambiguity will take you) - ~placebo...
well: since existentialists were bores...
it's about time to head for Scandinavia
   and ask: is that " ''                 for passing on
an inheritance, or better still: ripe for
acknowledging ambiguity?
                          and if you can shove this
  into your daily narrative... you better be
a connaisseur of chinese antiques...
                frailty... then again, theres: ******;
well hell yeah *****'h, it's a murky underwold
after all.
                     and yes: that's called a petting word...
some say hombre, and we'll all be amigos
and muskateers at the end of the story.
                                    finally... i feel like i'm writing
a poem that i'll never end...
              why? it was supposed to be about
how John Casimir of Sweden championed
  the crown away from his brother Prince Charles
(volume 1)...
                      the bishop of Breslau...
a recluse... couldn't ride a horse...
    then again: nothing worthy imitation...
beginning with a donkey...
                               the transfiguration of palms
into whips... 2000 years later
talk of Hercules is madness... that other bit?
complete sanity.
                              well... if that be the case...
the book is there... i signed it, 2nd volume of
Kant's critique...
  
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| | | | | | | | | | | | | Y| | | |
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        an oak... in a forest of pine...
an oak in pine wood...

then onto the wood of sighs:

aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
          (somehow the surd escapes,
and later morphs into, but prior to)

a short script: variation on MW...

      pears' worth of blunting runes:
opulance s and ᛋ - versus z,
    congregation minor: the interchange, ß,
buttocks and *****, minus phantoms of erotica.
yet, taking into account trigonometry...
sine (genesis 0), and cosine (genesis 1),
or            M                                   W
(no Jew would dare believe the Latins have
the second 'alf of the proof: that loophole of all
things qab-cannibal-mystic - cravat donning
mystique - a flit's worth of sharpening,
or dental grit... flappy tongue,
flabby oyster, lazing for a crab's palette)...
so?

1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

of course there's an
Evangeline Ashe Aug 2015
Fahnd 'im lyin' int middle o' t'street
bruised an' battered from t'tramplin' feet.
Ee'd crawled aht from some gutter
an' them cries tha' ee did utter
almost like a knife through butter
cut mi quick an' deep.

'Is broken wings ah tried to treat
gently praying that ee'd be reyt.
But when 'is cry became a stutter
t'world rolled dahn its shutters
an' rahnd mi someone muttered:
" 'is prospects ain't 'alf bleak".

An' that poor lost little 'eap
ah cradled but coun't weep,
til mi arms discerned a flutter.
So in mi chest ee'll see the summer
from that 'ollow haven like no other
where ee can safely sleep.
And now, as Dawn rose from her couch beside Tithonus—harbinger of
light alike to mortals and immortals—the gods met in council and with
them, Jove the lord of thunder, who is their king. Thereon Minerva
began to tell them of the many sufferings of Ulysses, for she pitied
him away there in the house of the nymph Calypso.
  “Father Jove,” said she, “and all you other gods that live in
everlasting bliss, I hope there may never be such a thing as a kind
and well-disposed ruler any more, nor one who will govern equitably. I
hope they will be all henceforth cruel and unjust, for there is not
one of his subjects but has forgotten Ulysses, who ruled them as
though he were their father. There he is, lying in great pain in an
island where dwells the nymph Calypso, who will not let him go; and he
cannot get back to his own country, for he can find neither ships
nor sailors to take him over the sea. Furthermore, wicked people are
now trying to ****** his only son Telemachus, who is coming home
from Pylos and Lacedaemon, where he has been to see if he can get news
of his father.”
  “What, my dear, are you talking about?” replied her father, “did you
not send him there yourself, because you thought it would help Ulysses
to get home and punish the suitors? Besides, you are perfectly able to
protect Telemachus, and to see him safely home again, while the
suitors have to come hurry-skurrying back without having killed him.”
  When he had thus spoken, he said to his son Mercury, “Mercury, you
are our messenger, go therefore and tell Calypso we have decreed
that poor Ulysses is to return home. He is to be convoyed neither by
gods nor men, but after a perilous voyage of twenty days upon a raft
he is to reach fertile Scheria, the land of the Phaeacians, who are
near of kin to the gods, and will honour him as though he were one
of ourselves. They will send him in a ship to his own country, and
will give him more bronze and gold and raiment than he would have
brought back from Troy, if he had had had all his prize money and
had got home without disaster. This is how we have settled that he
shall return to his country and his friends.”
  Thus he spoke, and Mercury, guide and guardian, slayer of Argus, did
as he was told. Forthwith he bound on his glittering golden sandals
with which he could fly like the wind over land and sea. He took the
wand with which he seals men’s eyes in sleep or wakes them just as
he pleases, and flew holding it in his hand over Pieria; then he
swooped down through the firmament till he reached the level of the
sea, whose waves he skimmed like a cormorant that flies fishing
every hole and corner of the ocean, and drenching its thick plumage in
the spray. He flew and flew over many a weary wave, but when at last
he got to the island which was his journey’s end, he left the sea
and went on by land till he came to the cave where the nymph Calypso
lived.
  He found her at home. There was a large fire burning on the
hearth, and one could smell from far the fragrant reek of burning
cedar and sandal wood. As for herself, she was busy at her loom,
shooting her golden shuttle through the warp and singing
beautifully. Round her cave there was a thick wood of alder, poplar,
and sweet smelling cypress trees, wherein all kinds of great birds had
built their nests—owls, hawks, and chattering sea-crows that occupy
their business in the waters. A vine loaded with grapes was trained
and grew luxuriantly about the mouth of the cave; there were also four
running rills of water in channels cut pretty close together, and
turned hither and thither so as to irrigate the beds of violets and
luscious herbage over which they flowed. Even a god could not help
being charmed with such a lovely spot, so Mercury stood still and
looked at it; but when he had admired it sufficiently he went inside
the cave.
  Calypso knew him at once—for the gods all know each other, no
matter how far they live from one another—but Ulysses was not within;
he was on the sea-shore as usual, looking out upon the barren ocean
with tears in his eyes, groaning and breaking his heart for sorrow.
Calypso gave Mercury a seat and said: “Why have you come to see me,
Mercury—honoured, and ever welcome—for you do not visit me often?
Say what you want; I will do it for be you at once if I can, and if it
can be done at all; but come inside, and let me set refreshment before
you.
  As she spoke she drew a table loaded with ambrosia beside him and
mixed him some red nectar, so Mercury ate and drank till he had had
enough, and then said:
  “We are speaking god and goddess to one another, one another, and
you ask me why I have come here, and I will tell you truly as you
would have me do. Jove sent me; it was no doing of mine; who could
possibly want to come all this way over the sea where there are no
cities full of people to offer me sacrifices or choice hecatombs?
Nevertheless I had to come, for none of us other gods can cross
Jove, nor transgress his orders. He says that you have here the most
ill-starred of alf those who fought nine years before the city of King
Priam and sailed home in the tenth year after having sacked it. On
their way home they sinned against Minerva, who raised both wind and
waves against them, so that all his brave companions perished, and
he alone was carried hither by wind and tide. Jove says that you are
to let this by man go at once, for it is decreed that he shall not
perish here, far from his own people, but shall return to his house
and country and see his friends again.”
  Calypso trembled with rage when she heard this, “You gods,” she
exclaimed, to be ashamed of yourselves. You are always jealous and
hate seeing a goddess take a fancy to a mortal man, and live with
him in open matrimony. So when rosy-fingered Dawn made love to
Orion, you precious gods were all of you furious till Diana went and
killed him in Ortygia. So again when Ceres fell in love with Iasion,
and yielded to him in a thrice ploughed fallow field, Jove came to
hear of it before so long and killed Iasion with his thunder-bolts.
And now you are angry with me too because I have a man here. I found
the poor creature sitting all alone astride of a keel, for Jove had
struck his ship with lightning and sunk it in mid ocean, so that all
his crew were drowned, while he himself was driven by wind and waves
on to my island. I got fond of him and cherished him, and had set my
heart on making him immortal, so that he should never grow old all his
days; still I cannot cross Jove, nor bring his counsels to nothing;
therefore, if he insists upon it, let the man go beyond the seas
again; but I cannot send him anywhere myself for I have neither
ships nor men who can take him. Nevertheless I will readily give him
such advice, in all good faith, as will be likely to bring him
safely to his own country.”
  “Then send him away,” said Mercury, “or Jove will be angry with
you and punish you”‘
  On this he took his leave, and Calypso went out to look for Ulysses,
for she had heard Jove’s message. She found him sitting upon the beach
with his eyes ever filled with tears, and dying of sheer
home-sickness; for he had got tired of Calypso, and though he was
forced to sleep with her in the cave by night, it was she, not he,
that would have it so. As for the day time, he spent it on the rocks
and on the sea-shore, weeping, crying aloud for his despair, and
always looking out upon the sea. Calypso then went close up to him
said:
  “My poor fellow, you shall not stay here grieving and fretting
your life out any longer. I am going to send you away of my own free
will; so go, cut some beams of wood, and make yourself a large raft
with an upper deck that it may carry you safely over the sea. I will
put bread, wine, and water on board to save you from starving. I
will also give you clothes, and will send you a fair wind to take
you home, if the gods in heaven so will it—for they know more about
these things, and can settle them better than I can.”
  Ulysses shuddered as he heard her. “Now goddess,” he answered,
“there is something behind all this; you cannot be really meaning to
help me home when you bid me do such a dreadful thing as put to sea on
a raft. Not even a well-found ship with a fair wind could venture on
such a distant voyage: nothing that you can say or do shall mage me go
on board a raft unless you first solemnly swear that you mean me no
mischief.”
  Calypso smiled at this and caressed him with her hand: “You know a
great deal,” said she, “but you are quite wrong here. May heaven above
and earth below be my witnesses, with the waters of the river Styx-
and this is the most solemn oath which a blessed god can take—that
I mean you no sort of harm, and am only advising you to do exactly
what I should do myself in your place. I am dealing with you quite
straightforwardly; my heart is not made of iron, and I am very sorry
for you.”
  When she had thus spoken she led the way rapidly before him, and
Ulysses followed in her steps; so the pair, goddess and man, went on
and on till they came to Calypso’s cave, where Ulysses took the seat
that Mercury had just left. Calypso set meat and drink before him of
the food that mortals eat; but her maids brought ambrosia and nectar
for herself, and they laid their hands on the good things that were
before them. When they had satisfied themselves with meat and drink,
Calypso spoke, saying:
  “Ulysses, noble son of Laertes, so you would start home to your
own land at once? Good luck go with you, but if you could only know
how much suffering is in store for you before you get back to your own
country, you would stay where you are, keep house along with me, and
let me make you immortal, no matter how anxious you may be to see this
wife of yours, of whom you are thinking all the time day after day;
yet I flatter myself that at am no whit less tall or well-looking than
she is, for it is not to be expected that a mortal woman should
compare in beauty with an immortal.”
  “Goddess,” replied Ulysses, “do not be angry with me about this. I
am quite aware that my wife Penelope is nothing like so tall or so
beautiful as yourself. She is only a woman, whereas you are an
immortal. Nevertheless, I want to get home, and can think of nothing
else. If some god wrecks me when I am on the sea, I will bear it and
make the best of it. I have had infinite trouble both by land and
sea already, so let this go with the rest.”
  Presently the sun set and it became dark, whereon the pair retired
into the inner part of the cave and went to bed.
  When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, Ulysses put
on his shirt and cloak, while the goddess wore a dress of a light
gossamer fabric, very fine and graceful, with a beautiful golden
girdle about her waist and a veil to cover her head. She at once set
herself to think how she could speed Ulysses on his way. So she gave
him a great bronze axe that suited his hands; it was sharpened on both
sides, and had a beautiful olive-wood handle fitted firmly on to it.
She also gave him a sharp adze, and then led the way to the far end of
the island where the largest trees grew—alder, poplar and pine,
that reached the sky—very dry and well seasoned, so as to sail
light for him in the water. Then, when she had shown him where the
best trees grew, Calypso went home, leaving him to cut them, which
he soon finished doing. He cut down twenty trees in all and adzed them
smooth, squaring them by rule in good workmanlike fashion. Meanwhile
Calypso came back with some augers, so he bored holes with them and
fitted the timbers together with bolts and rivets. He made the raft as
broad as a skilled shipwright makes the beam of a large vessel, and he
filed a deck on top of the ribs, and ran a gunwale all round it. He
also made a mast with a yard arm, and a rudder to steer with. He
fenced the raft all round with wicker hurdles as a protection
against the waves, and then he threw on a quantity of wood. By and
by Calypso brought him some linen to make the sails, and he made these
too, excellently, making them fast with braces and sheets. Last of
all, with the help of levers, he drew the raft down into the water.
  In four days he had completed the whole work, and on the fifth
Calypso sent him from the island after washing him and giving him some
clean clothes. She gave him a goat skin full of black wine, and
another larger one of water; she also gave him a wallet full of
provisions, and found him in much good meat. Moreover, she made the
wind fair and warm for him, and gladly did Ulysses spread his sail
before it, while he sat and guided the raft skilfully by means of
the rudder. He never closed his eyes, but kept them fixed on the
Pleiads, on late-setting Bootes, and on the Bear—which men also
call the wain, and which turns round and round where it is, facing
Orion, and alone never dipping into the stream of Oceanus—for Calypso
had told him to keep this to his left. Days seven and ten did he
sail over the sea, and on the eighteenth the dim outlines of the
mountains on the nearest part of the Phaeacian coast appeared,
rising like a shield on the horizon.
  But King Neptune, who was returning from the Ethiopians, caught
sight of Ulysses a long way off, from the mountains of the Solymi.
He could see him sailing upon the sea, and it made him very angry,
so he wagged his head and muttered to himself, saying, heavens, so the
gods have been changing their minds about Ulysses while I was away
in Ethiopia, and now he is close to the land of the Phaeacians,
where it is decreed that he shall escape from the calamities that have
befallen him. Still, he shall have plenty of hardship yet before he
has done with it.”
  Thereon he gathered his clouds together, grasped his trident,
stirred it round in the sea, and roused the rage of every wind that
blows till earth, sea, and sky were hidden in cloud, and night
sprang forth out of the heavens. Winds from East, South, North, and
West fell upon him all at the same time, and a tremendous sea got
up, so that Ulysses’ heart began to fail him. “Alas,” he said to
himself in his dismay, “what ever will become of me? I am afraid
Calypso was right when she said I should have trouble by sea before
I got back home. It is all coming true. How black is Jove making
heaven with his clouds, and what a sea the winds are raising from
every quarter at once. I am now safe to perish. Blest and thrice blest
were those Danaans who fell before Troy in the cause of the sons of
Atreus. Would that had been killed on the day when the Trojans were
pressing me so sorely about the dead body of Achilles, for then I
should have had due burial and the Achaeans would have honoured my
name; but now it seems that I shall come to a most pitiable end.”
  As he spoke a sea broke over him with such terrific fury that the
raft reeled again, and he was carried overboard a long way off. He let
go the helm, and the force of the hurricane was so great that it broke
the mast half way up, and both sail and yard went over into the sea.
For a long time Ulysses was under water, and it was all he could do to
rise to the surface again, for the clothes Calypso had given him
weighed him down; but at last he got his head above water and spat out
the bitter brine that was running down his face in streams. In spite
of all this, however, he did not lose sight of his raft, but swam as
fast as he could towards it, got hold of it, and climbed on board
again so as to escape drowning. The sea took the raft and tossed it
about as Autumn winds whirl thistledown round and round upon a road.
It was as though the South, North, East, and West winds were all
playing battledore and shuttlecock with it at once.
  When he was in this plight, Ino daughter of Cadmus, also called
Leucothea, saw him. She had formerly been a mere mortal, but had
been since raised to the rank of a marine goddess. Seeing in what
great distress Ulysses now was, she had compassion upon him, and,
rising like a sea-gull from the waves, took her seat upon the raft.
  “My poor good man,” said she, “why is Neptune so furiously angry
with you? He
Big Virge Oct 2014
BILLS BILLS BILLS !!!!
  
Soooo Many ... **** Bills ... !!!
I don't like Destiny's Child ... !!!
This ain't a Dance Drill ... !!!
  
I’m writing this poem
cos i'm ... TIRED ... of ... " BILLS " ... !!!!!
  
BILLS ... for the Electric ... !!!
BILLS ... for the Gas  …!!!
Soon … they'll be Billing ...
For taking a .... "SLASH" .... !!!?!!!
  
BILLS ... for ... The NET …
BILLS ... for your Texts ...
BILLS ... for those ... HOTLINES ...
For .... Telephone *** .... !!!
  
What will they bill next .... !?!
They're Billing .... Soooo Much ....
They don't even want ... Cheques ... !?!
  
Just Tap In ... Your PIN …
that's how they'll begin ...
to steal ... ALL Your Money ...
  
Why don't people see …. !?!
are they REALLY .... "THAT DIM" … ???
just look ... In Your Bank ...
  
"The Beast" .... Lies Within ....
  
Cashpoint machines .... “FAILING” ....
The service is .... “SICKENING” .... !!!
  
Meantime ..... YES ...... Your Bank
is … “HAPPILY” … Billing ....
  
Now ... I really would CHILL ....
if I ..... Never Again .....
SAW  .... A **** .... Dollar Bill !!!!
  
cos ... AMERICA’S ... used them
for Killing ... at Will ...
  
kinda gets me to ... Thinking .......
that ... even .... " Bill Clinton " ....
just bombed without ... Blinking ... !?!
  
Sudanese People .... DIED ...
as the U.S. .... just .... LIED ....
  
While meantime .... Bill Tried ... !!!
to STOP .... his **** .... SHRinKing ... !!!!!!
  
Lewinski .... for sure ....
Was NOT .... "FINGER LICKING" …. !!!!!
  
But doing ... Her Thing ...
while thinking ........... Ch-Ching ... !!!!!!!
  
Meantime .... Bill's career ....
was about to start .... SINKing ....
  
" TITANIC " ..... Indeed ..... !!!
  
Bill ... fulfilled ... His Need .... !!!
  
but then came ... The Press ... !
Monica's … "All DISTRESSED ... !!!"
  
but Bill ... Tried his Best ... !!!
once again .... to .... “DECEIVE” ….
  
but ... All of A SUDDEN ... !!!
BILL made ... "A NEW SOUND" ...
  
“Okay, Yes I did it … !!!”
  
The TRUTH ... did ... come out ... !!!!!!
  
So, how many Bills ... ?
are feeding us ... LIES ... !?!
from BILLS ... that we pay for ... ?
To … “UNIFORM GUYS” …. ???
  
Oh Yes ... The ... “OLD BILL” …
over here ... NEED TO ... chill … !!!!
They're beating on ... BLACKS ...
"RACISM" ….. “INSTILLED” …. !!!!!
  
Blacks Dying in ... Cells ...
All Show ... but ... No Tell ... !?!
of how this ... CHIT ... happens ....
  
“THE YOUNG MAN JUST FELL !!!!”
  
See, that's the ... Hard Sell ….
that's what ... Blacks Deserve ... !!!!!!!!
Ask .... Warren Mitchell .... !!!
  
Alf Garnett …. I MEAN ... !!!!!
  
See …. On TV screens ...
for years ... they've been showing ...
Blacks being .... "DEMEANED" ...
Drug Dealing .... or .... VIOLENT …
  
Then they want to ... BILL ME ...
for a **** ... TV Licence ... !!?!!
  
They may well be ... "Jokes" ...
to … “OLD SCHOOL” … White folks …
  
But .... Listen up ... CLOSE ... !!!!!
  
A Joke is a Joke .... !!!
but some ... "OLD BILL" ... these days ...
are those ... “*******” ... blokes ... !!!
  
So ... who in the end ...
will have faces of ... YOLK ...
  
Well .... NOT .... Rodney King !!!
Try this for a name ....
PC .... Julian Glyn ....
  
A .... Leicester .... Policeman …
caught .... " CHILD MOLESTING "… !!!
  
See i'm SICK of ... these Bills !!!!

We're paying .... "TAXATION" ...
for these ignorant ... " SICKO’S " ... !!!!!!!!!
to get their ... "CHEAP THRILLS" ... !?!
or to use ... Dollar Bills
to get people .... KILLED .... !!?!!
  
So ….

There are a FEW Reasons ...
why ... Bills ... get to me ...
amounting to ... TREASON ...
  
Haven't YOU ... had your fill ... !?!
  
Well ... maybe you ... Have … ?
Or ... maybe you ... Haven't … ?
  
I just want to ... RELAX ...
and be able to ... " CHILL " ...
and not have to ... Worry ...
about these ... " ****** " ….
  
BILLS … BILLS … BILLS … !!!!
They just keep on with them .....
A sportin' death! My word it was!
An' taken in a sportin' way.
Mind you, I wasn't there to see;
I only tell you what they say.

They found that day at Shillinglee,
An' ran 'im down to Chillinghurst;
The fox was goin' straight an' free
For ninety minutes at a burst.

They 'ad a check at Ebernoe
An' made a cast across the Down,
Until they got a view 'ullo
An' chased i'm up to Kirdford town.

From Kirdford 'e run Bramber way,
An' took 'em over 'alf the Weald.
If you 'ave tried the Sussex clay,
You'll guess it weeded out the field.

Until at last I don't suppose
As 'arf a dozen, at the most,
Came safe to where the grassland goes
Switchbackin' southwards to the coast.

Young Captain 'Eadley, 'e was there,
And Jim the whip an' Percy Day;
The Purcells an' Sir Charles Adair,
An' this 'ere gent from London way.

For 'e 'ad gone amazin' fine,
Two 'undred pounds between 'is knees;
Eight stone he was, an' rode at nine,
As light an' limber as you please.

'E was a stranger to the 'Unt,
There weren't a person as 'e knew there;
But 'e could ride, that London gent--
'E sat 'is mare as if 'e grew there.

They seed the 'ounds upon the scent,
But found a fence across their track,
And 'ad to fly it; else it meant
A turnin' and a 'arkin' back.

'E was the foremost at the fence,
And as 'is mare just cleared the rail
He turned to them that rode be'ind,
For three was at 'is very tail.

'Ware 'oles!' says 'e, an' with the word,
Still sittin' easy on his mare,
Down, down 'e went, an' down an' down,
Into the quarry yawnin' there.

Some say it was two 'undred foot;
The bottom lay as black as ink.
I guess they 'ad some ugly dreams,
Who reined their 'orses on the brink.

'E'd only time for that one cry;
''Ware 'oles!' says 'e, an' saves all three.
There may be better deaths to die,
But that one's good enough for me.

For mind you, 'twas a sportin' end,
Upon a right good sportin' day;
They think a deal of 'im down 'ere,
That gent what came from London way.
Sanaa May 2014
I’ve been quiet for a while,
silence has devoured me
into nothingness,

I’ve been watching more,
perhaps reading
seems too much of an effort
or an act we’d usually do together,

I’ve been thinking,
about you and the times
we’ve spent with one another,

I think I’ve replayed
the first time
I met you
a hundred times
without any exaggeration of the thought,

and I’d replay it
a thousand more times
if it means
your presence by me.
Thence we went on to the Aeoli island where lives ****** son of
Hippotas, dear to the immortal gods. It is an island that floats (as
it were) upon the sea, iron bound with a wall that girds it. Now,
****** has six daughters and six ***** sons, so he made the sons marry
the daughters, and they all live with their dear father and mother,
feasting and enjoying every conceivable kind of luxury. All day long
the atmosphere of the house is loaded with the savour of roasting
meats till it groans again, yard and all; but by night they sleep on
their well-made bedsteads, each with his own wife between the
blankets. These were the people among whom we had now come.
  “****** entertained me for a whole month asking me questions all the
time about Troy, the Argive fleet, and the return of the Achaeans. I
told him exactly how everything had happened, and when I said I must
go, and asked him to further me on my way, he made no sort of
difficulty, but set about doing so at once. Moreover, he flayed me a
prime ox-hide to hold the ways of the roaring winds, which he shut
up in the hide as in a sack—for Jove had made him captain over the
winds, and he could stir or still each one of them according to his
own pleasure. He put the sack in the ship and bound the mouth so
tightly with a silver thread that not even a breath of a side-wind
could blow from any quarter. The West wind which was fair for us did
he alone let blow as it chose; but it all came to nothing, for we were
lost through our own folly.
  “Nine days and nine nights did we sail, and on the tenth day our
native land showed on the horizon. We got so close in that we could
see the stubble fires burning, and I, being then dead beat, fell
into a light sleep, for I had never let the rudder out of my own
hands, that we might get home the faster. On this the men fell to
talking among themselves, and said I was bringing back gold and silver
in the sack that ****** had given me. ‘Bless my heart,’ would one turn
to his neighbour, saying, ‘how this man gets honoured and makes
friends to whatever city or country he may go. See what fine prizes he
is taking home from Troy, while we, who have travelled just as far
as he has, come back with hands as empty as we set out with—and now
****** has given him ever so much more. Quick—let us see what it
all is, and how much gold and silver there is in the sack he gave
him.’
  “Thus they talked and evil counsels prevailed. They loosed the sack,
whereupon the wind flew howling forth and raised a storm that
carried us weeping out to sea and away from our own country. Then I
awoke, and knew not whether to throw myself into the sea or to live on
and make the best of it; but I bore it, covered myself up, and lay
down in the ship, while the men lamented bitterly as the fierce
winds bore our fleet back to the Aeolian island.
  “When we reached it we went ashore to take in water, and dined
hard by the ships. Immediately after dinner I took a herald and one of
my men and went straight to the house of ******, where I found him
feasting with his wife and family; so we sat down as suppliants on the
threshold. They were astounded when they saw us and said, ‘Ulysses,
what brings you here? What god has been ill-treating you? We took
great pains to further you on your way home to Ithaca, or wherever
it was that you wanted to go to.’
  “Thus did they speak, but I answered sorrowfully, ‘My men have
undone me; they, and cruel sleep, have ruined me. My friends, mend
me this mischief, for you can if you will.’
  “I spoke as movingly as I could, but they said nothing, till their
father answered, ‘Vilest of mankind, get you gone at once out of the
island; him whom heaven hates will I in no wise help. Be off, for
you come here as one abhorred of heaven. “And with these words he sent
me sorrowing from his door.
  “Thence we sailed sadly on till the men were worn out with long
and fruitless rowing, for there was no longer any wind to help them.
Six days, night and day did we toil, and on the seventh day we reached
the rocky stronghold of Lamus—Telepylus, the city of the
Laestrygonians, where the shepherd who is driving in his sheep and
goats [to be milked] salutes him who is driving out his flock [to
feed] and this last answers the salute. In that country a man who
could do without sleep might earn double wages, one as a herdsman of
cattle, and another as a shepherd, for they work much the same by
night as they do by day.
  “When we reached the harbour we found it land-locked under steep
cliffs, with a narrow entrance between two headlands. My captains took
all their ships inside, and made them fast close to one another, for
there was never so much as a breath of wind inside, but it was
always dead calm. I kept my own ship outside, and moored it to a
rock at the very end of the point; then I climbed a high rock to
reconnoitre, but could see no sign neither of man nor cattle, only
some smoke rising from the ground. So I sent two of my company with an
attendant to find out what sort of people the inhabitants were.
  “The men when they got on shore followed a level road by which the
people draw their firewood from the mountains into the town, till
presently they met a young woman who had come outside to fetch
water, and who was daughter to a Laestrygonian named Antiphates. She
was going to the fountain Artacia from which the people bring in their
water, and when my men had come close up to her, they asked her who
the king of that country might be, and over what kind of people he
ruled; so she directed them to her father’s house, but when they got
there they found his wife to be a giantess as huge as a mountain,
and they were horrified at the sight of her.
  “She at once called her husband Antiphates from the place of
assembly, and forthwith he set about killing my men. He snatched up
one of them, and began to make his dinner off him then and there,
whereon the other two ran back to the ships as fast as ever they
could. But Antiphates raised a hue and cry after them, and thousands
of sturdy Laestrygonians sprang up from every quarter—ogres, not men.
They threw vast rocks at us from the cliffs as though they had been
mere stones, and I heard the horrid sound of the ships crunching up
against one another, and the death cries of my men, as the
Laestrygonians speared them like fishes and took them home to eat
them. While they were thus killing my men within the harbour I drew my
sword, cut the cable of my own ship, and told my men to row with alf
their might if they too would not fare like the rest; so they laid out
for their lives, and we were thankful enough when we got into open
water out of reach of the rocks they hurled at us. As for the others
there was not one of them left.
  “Thence we sailed sadly on, glad to have escaped death, though we
had lost our comrades, and came to the Aeaean island, where Circe
lives a great and cunning goddess who is own sister to the magician
Aeetes—for they are both children of the sun by Perse, who is
daughter to Oceanus. We brought our ship into a safe harbour without a
word, for some god guided us thither, and having landed we there for
two days and two nights, worn out in body and mind. When the morning
of the third day came I took my spear and my sword, and went away from
the ship to reconnoitre, and see if I could discover signs of human
handiwork, or hear the sound of voices. Climbing to the top of a
high look-out I espied the smoke of Circe’s house rising upwards
amid a dense forest of trees, and when I saw this I doubted whether,
having seen the smoke, I would not go on at once and find out more,
but in the end I deemed it best to go back to the ship, give the men
their dinners, and send some of them instead of going myself.
  “When I had nearly got back to the ship some god took pity upon my
solitude, and sent a fine antlered stag right into the middle of my
path. He was coming down his pasture in the forest to drink of the
river, for the heat of the sun drove him, and as he passed I struck
him in the middle of the back; the bronze point of the spear went
clean through him, and he lay groaning in the dust until the life went
out of him. Then I set my foot upon him, drew my spear from the wound,
and laid it down; I also gathered rough grass and rushes and twisted
them into a fathom or so of good stout rope, with which I bound the
four feet of the noble creature together; having so done I hung him
round my neck and walked back to the ship leaning upon my spear, for
the stag was much too big for me to be able to carry him on my
shoulder, steadying him with one hand. As I threw him down in front of
the ship, I called the men and spoke cheeringly man by man to each
of them. ‘Look here my friends,’ said I, ‘we are not going to die so
much before our time after all, and at any rate we will not starve
so long as we have got something to eat and drink on board.’ On this
they uncovered their heads upon the sea shore and admired the stag,
for he was indeed a splendid fellow. Then, when they had feasted their
eyes upon him sufficiently, they washed their hands and began to
cook him for dinner.
  “Thus through the livelong day to the going down of the sun we
stayed there eating and drinking our fill, but when the sun went
down and it came on dark, we camped upon the sea shore. When the child
of morning, fingered Dawn, appeared, I called a council and said,
‘My friends, we are in very great difficulties; listen therefore to
me. We have no idea where the sun either sets or rises, so that we
do not even know East from West. I see no way out of it; nevertheless,
we must try and find one. We are certainly on an island, for I went as
high as I could this morning, and saw the sea reaching all round it to
the horizon; it lies low, but towards the middle I saw smoke rising
from out of a thick forest of trees.’
  “Their hearts sank as they heard me, for they remembered how they
had been treated by the Laestrygonian Antiphates, and by the savage
ogre Polyphemus. They wept bitterly in their dismay, but there was
nothing to be got by crying, so I divided them into two companies
and set a captain over each; I gave one company to Eurylochus, while I
took command of the other myself. Then we cast lots in a helmet, and
the lot fell upon Eurylochus; so he set out with his twenty-two men,
and they wept, as also did we who were left behind.
  “When they reached Circe’s house they found it built of cut
stones, on a site that could be seen from far, in the middle of the
forest. There were wild mountain wolves and lions prowling all round
it—poor bewitched creatures whom she had tamed by her enchantments
and drugged into subjection. They did not attack my men, but wagged
their great tails, fawned upon them, and rubbed their noses lovingly
against them. As hounds crowd round their master when they see him
coming from dinner—for they know he will bring them something—even
so did these wolves and lions with their great claws fawn upon my men,
but the men were terribly frightened at seeing such strange creatures.
Presently they reached the gates of the goddess’s house, and as they
stood there they could hear Circe within, singing most beautifully
as she worked at her loom, making a web so fine, so soft, and of
such dazzling colours as no one but a goddess could weave. On this
Polites, whom I valued and trusted more than any other of my men,
said, ‘There is some one inside working at a loom and singing most
beautifully; the whole place resounds with it, let us call her and see
whether she is woman or goddess.’
  “They called her and she came down, unfastened the door, and bade
them enter. They, thinking no evil, followed her, all except
Eurylochus, who suspected mischief and stayed outside. When she had
got them into her house, she set them upon benches and seats and mixed
them a mess with cheese, honey, meal, and Pramnian but she drugged
it with wicked poisons to make them forget their homes, and when
they had drunk she turned them into pigs by a stroke of her wand,
and shut them up in her pigsties. They were like pigs-head, hair,
and all, and they grunted just as pigs do; but their senses were the
same as before, and they remembered everything.
  “Thus then were they shut up squealing, and Circe threw them some
acorns and beech masts such as pigs eat, but Eurylochus hurried back
to tell me about the sad fate of our comrades. He was so overcome with
dismay that though he tried to speak he could find no words to do
so; his eyes filled with tears and he could only sob and sigh, till at
last we forced his story out of him, and he told us what had
happened to the others.
  “‘We went,’ said he, as you told us, through the forest, and in
the middle of it there was a fine house built with cut stones in a
place that could be seen from far. There we found a woman, or else she
was a goddess, working at her loom and singing sweetly; so the men
shouted to her and called her, whereon she at once came down, opened
the door, and invited us in. The others did not suspect any mischief
so they followed her into the house, but I stayed where I was, for I
thought there might be some treachery. From that moment I saw them
no more, for not one of them ever came out, though I sat a long time
watching for them.’
  “Then I took my sword of bronze and slung it over my shoulders; I
also took my bow, and told Eurylochus to come back with me and show me
the way. But he laid hold of me with both his hands and spoke
piteously, saying, ‘Sir, do not force me to go with you, but let me
stay here, for I know you will not bring one of them back with you,
nor even return alive yourself; let us rather see if we cannot
escape at any rate with the few that are left us, for we may still
save our lives.’
  “‘Stay where you are, then, ‘answered I, ‘eating and drinking at the
ship, but I must go, for I am most urgently bound to do so.’
  “With this I left the ship and went up inland. When I got through
the charmed grove, and was near the great house of the enchantress
Circe, I met Mercury with his golden wand, disguised as a young man in
the hey-day of his youth and beauty with the down just coming upon his
face. He came up to me and took my hand within his own, saying, ‘My
poor unhappy man, whither are you going over this mountain top,
alone and without knowing the way? Your men are shut up in Circe’s
pigsties, like so many wild boars in their lairs. You surely do not
fancy that you can set them free? I can tell you that you will never
get back and will have to stay there with the rest of them. But
never mind, I will protect you and get you out of your difficulty.
Take this herb, which is one of great virtue, and keep it about you
when you go to Circe’s house, it will be a talisman to you against
every kind of mischief.
  “‘And I will tell you of all the wicked witchcraft that Circe will
try to practise upon you. She will mix a mess for you to drink, and
she will drug the meal with which she makes it, but she will not be
able to charm you, for the virtue of the herb that I shall give you
will prevent her spells from working. I will tell you all about it.
When Circe strikes you with her wand, draw your sword and spring
upon her as though you were goings to **** her. She will then be
frightened and will desire you to go to bed with her; on this you must
not point blank refuse her, for you want her to set your companions
free, and to take good care also of yourself, but you make her swear
solemnly by all the blessed that she will plot no further mischief
against you, or else when she has got you naked she will unman you and
make you fit for nothing.’
  “As he spoke he pulled the herb out of the ground an showed me
what it was like. The root was black, while the flower was as white as
milk; the gods call it Moly, and mortal men cannot uproot it, but
the gods can do whatever they like.
  “Then Mercury went back to high Olympus passing over the wooded
island; but I fared onward to the house of Circe, and my heart was
clouded with care as I walked along. When I got to the gates I stood
there and called the goddess, and as soon as she hear
John Stevens Sep 2016
This has been on my mind for some time... To share this comment to a poem I posted on the ALZ site. I don't know her name. It has made a deep impact on my heart.

The poem is:
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/41121/remember-for-me/

Dec 17, 1013

w/e wrote:
Your words are beyond words. Thank you. We've had a rough week. Stage 6 is beginning with all its fury: incontinence, hallucinations, delusions, and, of course, mood changes from happy - to sad  - to angry in the flick of a nano second.  BUT, in spite of the dark clouds of his mind, we still have beautiful moments of tenderness & love. He was eating tonight and I could see on his face the darkness creeping into his brain. He left the table and began to pace. He went to the bedroom and would not let me touch him, comfort him.  When he finally calmed down an hour later, the darkness of his mind began to dissipate. He came to the kitchen and  he said to me: "I am afraid, I am scared." "What is scaring you?" I asked. He replied, " I wont remember who you are." My husband has lost a tremendous amount of his ability to speak so my heart began to dance  with joy when I heard him say those beautiful words of LOVE. I hugged him, I kissed him, I held his hand. I was in awe of his love for me.  I said, "My dear husband, I will help you touch me, I will help you caress me , I will help you feel your love for me. I will help you remember me." We embraced and we cried together... feeling a lifetime of love for each other... Peace & calm  restored, he is sleeping now.
-------------------
I had brought the poem to the top and she commented again. Such beautiful words of love.
-------------------
Jan 8, 2016

IdahoStevens, my reply to you was written on December 2013... My immortal beloved took his last breath on January 2014... Immortal beloved. Noble. Strong. Sensual. Pure. My Sunrise Ruby. Bright crystal structure of endless love. Perfect and Imperfect.

O  fateful morning!  I was preparing breakfast. He was walking between the bedroom and the bathroom... Desperately searching...  Searching for me... He knew intuitively his life was ending... I ran to him...We looked into each others eyes... I cradled him in the deep of my arms... I said, "My love, I am here. I will never leave you." ... He smiled ... He stopped breathing. I called 911... My heart encircled in his love. My mind enriched by cherished memories. My soul transformed... His scent inside of me. My body burning with desire... To love. To be loved... My body flying with his. From this earth to the center of the universe. Glowing.

O earth's reality! It bites...

I am adjusting... Adjusting to the deafening silence of the day. And of the night.

I am adapting... Adapting to the absence of his kisses. And his embrace.

I am accepting... I am trying, with every breath I take, to accept.  To accept his empty place in my nest. And on this earth.

To adjust. To adapt. To accept.

To transcend... Life and Death ... We enter this world. We leave this world ... When I understand that. When I totally accept that. I shall find peace.

No sluggish hearts will ever be found in our midst, eh?... We have lots of heart muscle in Alzconnected. Muscle memories... Of tenderness. Of love. And of care.

Good to see you, IdahoStevens.

M/E

Another comment left
--------------------

IdahoStevens,

If it's possible to cry and smile at the same time, that's what I did while reading your poem.  I read with my mom and dad in mind and it captures so perfectly their life together.  They did indeed go for ice cream all the time, a favorite treat for both.  Particularly poignant were the lines surrounding the holidays, my parents did their tree together, they even had their own tree when my husband, youngest son, I and my parents both sold our homes and bought a larger home to all live together, because we enjoyed being together so much.  Every Christmas Eve my dad put some of the presents together - bikes, chalkboards, etc and my mom wrapped them, then they put them under tree together.  The holidays were truly a special time of year for my parents.  Your lines brought all that back in vivid color and I read with tears in my eyes and a smile while remembering.

My mom and I talked on the phone almost every day, we went shopping, to lunch, sat and watched tv together almost every night.  We all sat down and talked all the time, it truly was a wonderful time when we were all together.

My beloved father passed away three years ago, and the last thing I whispered in his ear moments before he left us was that we would take of mom and to not worry, we would be fine.  Now I struggle with the fact that we had to place my mom in an ALF because we were just not able to keep her safe at home.

And now, I walk through our home, and see both my parents in every room.  I can even hear my dad calling me to help him with a computer issue, I can hear my mom call out to me that she can't figure out the remote.  In my mind, my dad sits at the kitchen table every evening and drinks his coffee.

Your poem brought back many beautiful memories thank you for that.

Terry

----------
Here is the poem.
John Stevens
Jun 27, 2010
Remember for Me

When the curtain draws closed on my mind
And leaves my body alone.
Think of the times we were together,
The times we talked on the phone.
———————————
Remember the times we would walk on the beach.
Hand in hand always in reach.
The moments we shared - together each day.
The love we shared in every way.

Though the hours get long that make up a day.
While you are sitting with me in your caring way.
Remember the times we would take a long walk.
We would get an ice cream, just sit and talk.
Remember. Remember for me.
——————————–
Remember the seasons of flowers in bloom.
We’d walk through the meadow, nature’s room.
We’d hunt down asparagus along a fence row.
Bring home a bunch and fix it just so.

Remember at Christmas the lights on the tree.
The gifts for the children from you and me.
The smells of the season that filled the air.
The laughter and joy of people who care.
Remember. Remember for me.
———————————–
Remember the moments our thoughts would blend.
No spoken word between us would send.
The thoughts of love and things to be.
Would cross the distance ‘tween you and me.

Tell me over and over again,
Of the things we use to do and when,
Times of laughter and times of fun
We had together, under the sun.
Remember. Remember for me.
—————————–
When the curtain draws closed on my mind.
And leaves my body alone.
Think of the times we were together,
The times we talked on the phone.

As yesterday’s memories caress your soul.
Close your eyes, imagine us whole.
Where some day we will be together again
Where memories won’t fade, we will again begin.
Remember. Remember for me.



Please see a friend of mine's web page honoring his wife who died of ALZ
http://junebergalzheimers.com/june-and-alzheimers/a-day-in-the-life-late-stage-alzheimer-s

© (4-20-03) John L. Stevens

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1752987/remember-for-me-comment/
Support ALZ   Many people die of this horrible disease.

Also visit a friend of mines web page.
Visit June's Website: www.junebergalzheimers.com
You make it in your mess-tin by the brazier's rosy gleam;
You watch it cloud, then settle amber clear;
You lift it with your bay'nit, and you sniff the fragrant steam;
The very breath of it is ripe with cheer.
You're awful cold and *****, and a-cursin' of your lot;
You scoff the blushin' 'alf of it, so rich and rippin' 'ot;
It bucks you up like anythink, just seems to touch the spot:
God bless the man that first discovered Tea!

Since I came out to fight in France, which ain't the other day,
I think I've drunk enough to float a barge;
All kinds of fancy foreign dope, from caffy and doo lay,
To *** they serves you out before a charge.
In back rooms of estaminays I've gurgled pints of cham;
I've swilled down mugs of cider till I've felt a bloomin' dam;
But 'struth! they all ain't in it with the vintage of Assam:
God bless the man that first invented Tea!

I think them lazy lumps o' gods wot kips on asphodel
Swigs nectar that's a flavour of Oolong;
I only wish them sons o' guns a-grillin' down in 'ell
Could 'ave their daily ration of Suchong.
Hurrah! I'm off to battle, which is 'ell and 'eaven too;
And if I don't give some poor bloke a sexton's job to do,
To-night, by Fritz's campfire, won't I 'ave a gorgeous brew
(For fightin' mustn't interfere with Tea).
To-night we'll all be tellin' of the Boches that we slew,
As we drink the giddy victory in Tea.
Marshal Gebbie Mar 2011
Whilst wet with rain
beneath a tree
An introspective moment
had a sneaky peek at me.
Who am I and what am I
... and what have I to show?
And should I be concerned
that very few... may care to know?

Slightly left of centre
With a wrinkled, balding crown,
Scarred and bushy eyebrows
And a mouth that tends to frown.
A grizzled beard hides multitudes
Of sins I wish to hide
And the beauty of my burning youth
Has long since shrivel dried.

The paunch has spread expansively,
Athletic legs have shrunk
And my ****** performance
Has diminished with a thunk.
I suffer fools reluctantly
In fact, it’s true to say...
That my patience and forbearance
Is  more limited each day.

Pasta Carbonara
In a creamy bacon sauce
With a smooth rewarding merlot
Is my favourite fare.. of course!
Plus a stodgy Apple pudding
Bathed in double dairy cream
And a steaming cappuccino
Topped with chocolate is a dream.

A powerhouse of action
With the things I Iike to do
And a sloth, to beat the band,
When the Tax Return is due.
An ardent fan for Old Jazz
Vamped on keyboard and the snare
But the world of Rap
Just leaves my head In hideous disrepair.

I’ll face down bullies twice my size
And heaven help the fool
Who interferes with family
For I’ll hit him hard and cruel,
Yet feed me sad old movies
And, any given night, you’ll see
A little tear run down the cheek
Oh so, self consciously for me.

The woman is God’s gift to man
The statuesque, the strong,
The saturnine eyed redhead
Where the gazes linger long.
The magnificence of a ponytail
As it bobs along the street
Atop a Grecian Goddess
With her undulations, sweet.
And ****!.. there is that little dress,
The one that fits so well,
That amplifies your promise
And gives my senses Hell!

And there’s the need to tell the story,
To formulate the plan,
Initiate the living thought
In a delivery of élan.
To modulate the language
To win the ears of youth
With an oratory of promise
To impact them all with couth.

There’s commitment to your Darling
And a tolerance for the kids
And the need for good provision
So we all don’t hit the skids.
And the cat and dog need feeding
Plus the goldfish in the jar,
Then there’s Alf and Frank and Joe
Who all expect me at the Bar.

So what’s it all about you say
This parody called life?
Is it all a headlong rush
Along the road avoiding strife?
Is there any plan or sequence,
Does it pan out in the end
Or is everything a chaos
Driving me around the bend?

Survival is the answer!
Take one small step at a time,
Smile at dear old ladies
And your day will turn out fine.
Avoid the grim policemen
And skirt all growling dogs,
Be gentle with your Sweetheart
And don’t skate on jellied frogs.

The recipe’s so simple
The answer is so clear
Don’t complicate your time with ****
And, please pass another beer.

Marshalg
Still soliloquising under the tree in the falling rain.
26 March 2011
Tedious
Half-Baked
Egotistical
Erreneous

Assin­ine
Ridiculius
Troll
Inarticulate
SUBPAR
Tast­eless
Execrable

Laughable
Obnoxious
Grotesque
­Hopeless
Amateurish
Incompetent
Narcissistic

C­ounterfeit
Abominable
Reprehensible
Vainglorious
O­dious
Inspired by Loghain Carvo.

Repost this if you also cannot stand the cruelty of the trolls and haters on this site. We need to raise our voices against the malicious comments left by Loghain and many others, LET'S TAKE A STAND!
Amelie Jan 2013
A** chance to speak,
Beneath broken sheets,
Caught out in moment,
Dying deep inside.
Evaporate tension,
From little or no knowing,
Growing up alone,
Half loved and half resented.
I come to conclusions,
Just before my death,
Keeping me in memory,
Like you always promised,
Missing me in silence,
No more mourning of past,
Of regrets and despairs.
Promise me you’ll use what I learnt,
Question the decisions of others,
Reluctant or not,
Stay away from their paths,
They only lead you to their futures,
Unknowingly you end their second,
Valiant but alone,
Where you spend life in wandering,
Xrayed life,
Your future makes up nothing
Zorbing inside of your own bubble.
January Masterpiece !
Loveless Nov 2016
Light awakens with shrieks of thunder
In the sky, a breathtaking wonder
Grief of rain, within clouds it reside
Half parts meet when heavens collide

Tremble in sky, It longs to fly

Never get close, it just wants to clash
It screams with its fascinating flash
Never afraid of fall, it takes a leap
G**round it's salvation, it was born to seek
Down in snowman school where
they learn how not to melt,
well
what fool goes in there?
'Not I,'
I hear the snowball say, but
as I watch the snowball
trickles
trickles
effortlessly deathly
which don't
'alf depress me
away.

So snowmen go to school and
learn how to melt with dignity,
a touch of class, a dash,
learn to do it with panache,
keep your snowballs close at
hand,
be good, stay cool
don't be a snowball type of fool
go to snowman
school.
I AM TRYING TO FIND HAPPINESS, AS I FELT I HAD TO GET PAST MY MUM AND DAD
FOR FUTURE HAPPINESS, I THINK THAT VISION OF HELL, IS TRUE, CAUSE I AM A BELIEVER IN COSMIC ENERG, AS WELL AS THE BUDDHIST PHILOSOPHY OF
MENDING EVERY BLADE OF GRASS TO BE SOWN, I WANT TO BE A HOLLYWOOD CELEBRITY, BUT I HAVE TO SETTLE WITH MENTAL HEALTH, I WANT TO HAVE
MY ART DISPLAYED IN ART GALLERIES, BUT I DO IT ONLINE, EVEN FACEBOOK
I WANT TO LOOK AT MY STORIES, LIKE ME, BRINGING MY IMAGINERY TV STATIONS
INTO THE REAL WORLD, I REMEMBER DAD SAYING, SOMETIMES IN LIFE WE HAVE
TO MAKE SACRIFICES, WELL, I FELT I WAS SACRIFICES OF HIM TREATING ME
LIKE A LITTLE SHY BOY TO A TEASE, I TRY AND BE A OPTOMIST, BUT IT ISN'T HARD
TO BE A PESIMIST, BECAUSE, I AM NOT AS FAMOUS, AS I WOULD LIKE TO BE
YA SEE, I FIND THIS GUY PRETTY COOL, YA KNOW, HE ISN'T AFRAID TO EXPRESS
HIS BUDDHIST BELIEFS, BUT I FELT I WAS SUFFERING WHEN I WAS BEING THE
FAMOUS PERSON FROM THE FAMILY, AND I WANT TO BE MY OWN PERSON, I LIKE
THE IDEA, OF BEING FAMOUS, EVEN IF IT WAS FOR JUST 10 YEARS, I FEEL FAMOUS
IN MY MENTAL HEALTH DRAMA GROUP, I WANT TO GET FURTHER WITH THAT ART
THERPAY, AT BELCONNEN MENTAL HEALTH, WHAT IS WRONG WITH THAT, I WAS
TRYING TO CALL A TRUCE WITH DAD, HE DID DO IT FOR LOVE, BUT I FELT, HE
LIKED MY BROTHER MORE, AND HE DROVE ME CRAZY, NOW, I NOT COMPLAIN ABOUT HIM, HE TRIED TO UNDERSTAND ME, BUT HE COULD'VE TRIED HARDER
CAUSE, I SUFFERED ALL MY LIFE, YOU KNOW, NOBODY WANTED TO STAY
WITH ME AT NIGHTCLUBS, OR GO WITH ME TO NIGHTCLUBS,DESPITE, ME STILL
ENJOYING MYSELF IN NIGHTCLUBS, I REALLY WANTED TO BE W2ITH COOL MATES,
NOT TOTALLY SQUARRE MATES, AND I CAN TELL YOUNG DUDES, I PARTIED IN
NIGHTCLUBS, IN MY DAY, MAN, I TRIED TO UNDERSTAND DAD, WHEN I SAT NEAR HIM
BUT HE WANTED TO TREAT ME LIKE A LITTLE SHY BOY TO LIFE, LIKE SOMEONE
WHO IS FINDING IT DIFFICULT, DAD WAS A LITTLE SHY BOY, HE HATED, THINKING
OR DREAMING FOR THE FUTURE, AS OPPOSED, TO LIVING FOR TODAY, I KNOW
I SEEMED TO DWELL IN THE PAST, BUT I NEVER DWELL, I MAKE PEACE WITH THE
PAST, I TOLD DAD THIS BEFORE HE DIED, LIKE HE PREFERS, CONTRACTOR, I PREFER ERIN BOY, JUST BECAUSE I AM IN MY 40S, DOESN'T MEAN I CAN'T BE
AN ERIN BOY, INSTEAD OF CONTRACTOR, DAD, WAS A GREAT LOVER OF FLOWERS
AND HE HATED ME EATING GRASS, BUT I HATED HIM TREATING ME LIKE A LITTLE
BABY SHY BOY, I SAW LIFE, IN A BETTER AND DIFFERENT WAY TO DAD
I LIKE PARTYING DAD LIKED BEING MATURE
I PLAY CRICKET AND NEW YEARS EVE PARTIES, TO MAKE DAD FEEL LIKE A MAN
SOME OF THE MEN WHO WENT TO CLUBS, WERE NICER TO ME MORE THAN DAD
AND OUR NEIGHBOUR, ALAN WAS OLD, BUT HE LOVED THE SYDNEY SWANS
AND I USED TO TALK ABOUT HOW GOOD THE SYDNEY SWANS ARE, HE TOLD
ME ABOUT HOW HE WENT TO THE PAPER SHOP TO GET TELEGRAMS OF THE
SWANS, YEAH, I USED TO HAVE FUN ARGUMENTS WITH ASHLEY, AUSSIE RULES
V LEAGUE, AND I FOUGHT FOR CARLTON OVER STAN NIEMICS ESSENDON
AND I REMEMBER LESLIE, WAS MUMS FRIEND, BUT HE WAS A GREAT MATE TO ME
I HAD MY SCHOOL MATES TEASING ME IN MY HEAD, HE GAVE ME HIS EAR
THAT LIFE'S DEAD, BUT I SHARED A FEW LAIGHS WITH DAD, BUT HE WELL TRIED
AS HARD AS HE COULD, LIKE GOINGT TO MY FLAT FOR XMAS PARTIES, THE ONLY WAY, BUT I TOLD DAD THINGS ABOUT TV AND SPORT, LIKE DAD TOLD ME WHEN
IT WAS A FIRE BAN OR WHEN IT WAS GOING TO RAIN, I TOLD HIM ABOUT ALF
STEWART ON HOME AND AWAY, AND HOW BAD CARLTON AND THE RAIDERS
WERE PLAYING, I WENT TO WEEKEND JAIL FOR TYING UP A BOY, BUT I LEARNT
MY LESSON STRAIGHT AWAY, DAD  NEVER UNDERSTOOD THIS, HE JUST
THOUGHT I WAS DWELLING, I SUFFERED THROUGH THIS, I CAN'T BE LIKE
THE OLD BATTILAX, DAD, I CAN'T BE THE PERSON, DAD WANTED ME TO BE
I DON'T WANT TO BE LIKE HIM AND MUMMY, ESPECIALLY NOW, THAT HE IS DEAD
AND WE LAID DADS ASHES, IN COPPINS CROSSING, WITH JUST ME, MY BROTHER
AND MY MOTHER, I BROUGHT BUDDHA WITH ME, AND PUT A BIT OF DAD ON BUDDHA'S LAP, AND DID A LITTLE CEREMONY, AS I WAS TRYING TO BURY
DADS SPIRIT, SO HE CAN SOON GET REINCARNARTED AS ONE OF DAVID AND
LISA CAMPBELL'S TWINS, ROBIN WILLIAMS IS THE OTHER ONE, I DROWNED
BUDDHA, TO FINALLY BURY MY DAD, AND LET THIS FAMOUS BUSHWALKER
OF OLD TO FLOAT ON COPPINS CROSSING, I BELIEVE IN GOING TO ATHENA
UP IN THE SKY, FOR COSMIC DENTAL WORK, RATHER THAN DADS REALISTIC WAY
DENTISTS ARE QUACKS, WHO ARE AFTER YOUR CASH, PARACETAMOL AND
TOOTHPASTE AND COKE, HELPS YOUR TEETH BETTER, AND NOW DAD AS
HE FLOATS AROUND IN COPPINS CROSSING, THINKING, I MUST, HELP THE WORLD
UNDERSTAND, BRIAN, AND I HATED DAD TREATING ME LIKE THIS LITTLE SHY BOY, OR HE WANTED, IS TO SAY THE LAST FUCKEN WORD
THIS BUDDHIST ISN'T AFRAID OF GOING TO JAIL, I HATE GOING TO JAIL, I PREFER
THE PSYCH WARD, CAUSE IT'S SAFER, BUT I PREFER TO BE WELL, SO I DON'T
GO TO EITHER, I AM NO PHEADPHILR OR KIDNAPPER
\
I AM A BUDDHIST ARTIST AND WRITER AND YOUTUBE ENTERTAINER
WHO LOVES TO PARTY DOWN, OUT OF SQUARE TOWN, I AIN'T SQUARE
I AM RADICALLY AWESOME DUDE
hi dudes



i think my creativity is the key for me looking and staying young, i know what i am about to say sounds

negative, but i believe that i will never ever work at common ground, only because of what happened in

1990 with the kid and 2004 with the cat, you see i am still scared of going to the psych ward, after what

happened in 2013, , you see every time i get myself together, in the work front, something bad happens

even, being famous, i have got a lot of youtube views, and i want to make future posts, but i my mind of helping

people or being famous is very delusional, i want to be given a go, on TV, but it’s mighty hard for the little people

such as me, i realise i might have ****** people off, in some emails, but, it’s because, i want more out of life rather

than being a mentally ill ****** to be stuck in the psych ward, i hate the psych ward, i am watching prisoner to learn

how to keep myself out of the psych ward, i hear too many voices for the work at common ground and i really want

to work through my voices in ART and WRITING, i know i have designed a few buildings and sports grounds

you see i hear voices from patrick, because i am feeling my little young dude/hooligan coming back to me to

show me how bad i felt being treated like a little young dude, the main reason why i fought dad, because i drew

a triangular shape with a stick stabbing through the centre, dad hated it, i wrote on my arm kidnap 11 year old boys

and my carer was very upset, i do want to help the poor, but my past looks like will be against it, and i want to

fight my way to the top, not literally, but i feel i am fighting my way to the top with art and writing, you can’t do everything

and really i am feeling my shy man/hooligan trying to turn me into a weird man, and i don’t wanna look weird

i want to be fit, and healthy, and i want rupert murdoch and tony abbott to give their fortunes to help the poor people out

because if my situation was different, i would be a philanthropist, but i am not rich, but i still give, i want to have constant reminders

in my next life, to make sure poor people are well looked after, like, i see my world coming to life with common ground,

i look like i inspired it, because so many people are willing to help it, i want to still be a youtube entertainer, but i might be

a bit delusional there as well, expecting ellen will ring me up, or home and away will let me whack alf stewart with the belt

because he was an army guy, but i was sick back then, i appreciate the help mental health have given me, ya know chances

to be famous, i just worry  about being kidnapped by people i want to help because that is helping, by placing yourself in harms way

i would like to work on my art, and if anything, i would like a few pictures i have to brighten up the people’s day at common ground and

i am unsure of how to do that, my mind isn’t really into doing courses for jobs, i know i need to do a food hygiene course, i won’t get a job

at common ground unless you can give my entertaining delusion a go, but still that might still require a work with venerable person check

and really i want the voices to stop but while i still have voices saying, that i am still a little young baby young dude ringing around in my head,

it might be hard to work with venerable people, because the voices are driving me nuts, I WANT THEM TO STOP, and i can’t work at common ground

with voices like these, i can ignore the voices reading a poem on 2xx, because the voices will fade as i read, and the only job i could do in the famous world

is probably be one of the writers because my brain is too intense, and it can make me insane, insane in the membraiin insane in the brain

i feel like yelling like a schizophrenic, and just imagine me working with venerable people with these voices, i hear

everyone wanting to go to bed, but because they don’t want to muck with me in going to bed groups they sit up saying your like mrs allan, brian

and as i went to bed, the image of my old school chum pat is sitting up all night, and the image is plastered in my head and despite how much fun

i have staying up all night, it doesn’t work for me doing my art, so i am prepared to battle these demons and go to bed at 12.00, but i am not like

canary though, going to bed before midnight, where i can turn into a pumpkin, some woman doesn’t want me to film her kids and that is why i

don’t put many videos on youtube, i want to learn how to post legally, but i feel some videos are put on with me under delusions, posting on youtiube

like that, isn’t worth it, if i am always watching my back, but i still want to read my poems on youtube, i am learning more than people who are trained

to help does, but i don’t want to help like that, i find it hard with my voices to wait for videos of performances to load up, and i felt better when i did my

own stuff, the medication is making me shake a bit, and though there is nothing wrong with what i was doing on youtube to me, i am going back to

posting videos of myself reading stories and poems, cause i feel as naughty as a hooligan, and that ain’t brian allan’s style, maybe in my next life

i can be a proper youtube entertainer for awards, and i just sit there doing my tapestry watching sport like a guy over the internet, but i swill never

be too woosey for the computer world, because i feel like a naughty hooligan, and i upset my family a lot without meaning too and i don’t want to

upset my fans, and i know i have fans, i check my views, god your a fool brian, i hear the MEN say, i don’t want to go back to LEAD either, because

they teased me like how you tease a freaking hooligan, i am not a hooligan i am a real family person, and i am 45 years old, i shouldn’t behave like

a kid who needs discipline for the rest of my life, i don’t want mental illness, i like to be a success story
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
.for two days a song was haunting me, seemingly unheard before, hidden in the deep recesses of my mind - unrelated by sound or memory... yet burning itself a presence regardless of my faculties... restless... i had to take a walk through bedfords park, havering country park and hainault forest country park - through sun and rain and two bottles of wine... twice seeing bambi and at times scuttling like a rat / misanthrope from the unusual traffic of these parts... to finally find peace... Borodin's prince igor!

there's just enough of gloating to have to muster...
before some grander detail has to take form:
i've been trying to capture the song
i want to listen to: but it's hardly a genesis
of an #A... or... whistling...
             kik kershaw's the riddle?
                         it's not - now that the hindsight ("spoiler")
is presented... it wasn't a bach aria:
or a batCH... well: who's the good surd?
'ere boy... vat's a good tau: ba'ch...
     the would be baчelor: j. s. baχ...
                            a juggling act of... less than...
what james joyce's finnegans' had to offer:
and more: the diacrcrcr-detail-of-antics...
       pop sort of reference points?
                   would they be... if they weren't...
for the per se reasons?
                  details are in the noumenon -
that... axe-folding: exfoliating lesser demand
for: **** in machina...
                                      the sort of details
that mind: the over-simplified woman...
and... the terrible complicated seance of...
when witches were detailed about...
their broomsticks were to be replaced with...
vacuum cleaners... terrible details of
"unnecessary" complications...
man of science man of technology man
of engineering and man of mathematics...
much later... the man of linguistics and...
the troop of ballet dancers... the choreographers
and the composers...    

i have taken enough days to gloat...
working an addiction in reverse...
a bank-roll filled with: plenty of nicotine...
and chem.,
           just waiting for the completed
day... an exercise in language:
and jack daniels bubblegum:
pale blue... blueberry images... gluttons
of colour: those pearls...
back to music... back to music...

   i wanted: rather than tried...
to fathom a pause in the construnction
of the res cogitans: with the usual
punctuation markers...
it's hardly a semi-colon...
          a full-stop... a comma or a full-stop...
hardly the detail of syllables
with diacritical markers...
    hidden letters...
rare in english that sheer and chisel
should come together...

i was thinking of a punctuation marker
to block of all narrative...
not a mere punctuation marker -
not some apostrophre...
                precursor to the possessive article:
's..              's...
even the russians do not have
what i already have...
         namely... дж...   джик is an approximation...
something is hidden within...
dzik itself (boar)... dzikość - wildening...
        a lost attribute for the civilized man...
   дж is... slightly off from the intended:
   дз - while ж (rz or ż-art - joke) -
              is... well... it appears...
but is a few letters apart...
       for example in: drzeć (tear - ter:
not tier - nor teer - backwards to forwards...
latin diphthong of æ) -
                        to tear paper into pieces...
   a tear ran down my cheek...
   to have read: rather than... to simply: read -
and... the reed - a stalk of a bulrush...
               the eastern lands...
                      synonyms and two best known
aliases: the birch tree and the bulrush wetlands...

this is the only best: approximation
of a song akin to Borodin's prince igor...
that can't be hummed... unless heard proper...
not from an abstract of memory...
conflation of adjectives?
abstract is more an adjective than a noun...
for this presentation...

      hiding letters like a good 'ebrew...
           surds detailed with apostrophes...
mollusk legs... exercised...
  a day later and the extreme cigarette high
is "missing": not found...
   щыт "vs" szczyt / ščyt -
                 no less congested than:
                                       dość! enough!

from the initial fascination of working
english into greek...
                     things had to translate themself
into "mordor" regions: Ruś, Krym, Tartar...
the Caucaus...
                        and the Turkic dwarf plebs
of mythical Constantinople... takeover...

- with thinking i wanted to capture:
res vanus: the empty thing...
       a synchronised: symphony of...
with what's being emptied...
while at the same time... with what's being
filled...
the years passed when pacing
with a heart of a turtle...
compared to... the heart of a mouse...
i call it: no known noun...
              to think is to have the heart
of a mouse... easily agitated...
no room for lost narratives...
      hell: better still... without haikus
and all those condoms of denial and...
delayed view-count murmurs...

          a case of: res cogitans:
a thing most animate...
a case for: res vanus:
   aa thing most inanimate...
         it's... a slingshot... a strain on purpose...
it's an incremental addition of purpose...
it's a punctuation mark akin
to: lost the linear...
up toward the copernican east we go...
and then back toward the flat-earth
project of... being able to read a map:
topography... without: the need for 3D:
3D the copernican: it's all very imaginary...
vector alpha:
points beta and gamma...
to find punctuation: a silence...
a bit like... finding gravity...
which isn't a sound... but if it was...
it would be... the sound of falling rain
on leaves or lead plating of a roof...
or... the sound of recycling...
of water... in a waterfall...

by now all the ******* readers have
disappeared... there's no more...
instagram haikus in the system...
there's the drone drill sequence...
a very distant humming sound...
perhaps an impromptu crescendo of
variations of a cat's meow...

absolute: total: шит... more like шитышит:
    шыт if i was... to be honest...
   sheets of paper... floating about...
                    well... i too once thought:
those russians... with they cyrillic...
but no diacritical markers...
      well K in a mirror: ж...
                      no one told me about brining
mirrors into the project...
     sh-ch-
sz-cz-                щыт - height: well... zenith...
bl-ы'h bl-ы'h: blah... blah...
       it's a letter: the russians call a "sound"...
like the english should start calling
the letter "g" or the "h" a >sound<:
surd...    an apostrophe: gnome: 'nome...
gnosticism: 'nosticism...
                                 'alf the 'arvest...
prop'er: cockers and pouch of punches...
   very ******* irish sober to me...
brings all the harlequins and loon'doon'ish
to the backyard for:
                   milch-schütteln-und-schäkel...

and then i return the cork back onto the corkscrew...
as i pa'k - my... packaging... CCCP... comrade...
the folded soviet shop...
don't worry terrible ivan... there's a new shop
in town... the iron has morphed into silicon...
see-through curtains and...
this virus... did more damage...
than any... brave lion of the jihad would ever...
circumstance of the affairs of westminster bridge...
they would "epstein" one through
one in a while...
                 to **** chicken the populace
into a cucklicking KKK strut dance of:
burning hoods and bras and crucifixes...
and ******...
                              conventional... formal...
language usage? please reserve that for...
the golf course and business talk...
                write? write what? a kandinsky?!

yes... a big hello ******* from
tiktok and twitter...
1 minute videos and... 180 characters...
         i feel constrained... claustrophobic...
if... i can't write an imitation Dickens chapter...
1000 words is ******* lemonade...
2000 words is... regurgitating a day's worth
of a newspaper... saturday edition...
which includes the editorial and the magazines...
3000 words? a truly rare thing...
      given that... conjunctions and their details
are not counted: ' - is both an apostrophe and a surd
letter... t'at all depends: on the "v.a.t."...

the whole point was...
finding excuses to write about quitting smoking
are other... they were all fine: crack ******* smoked
when the levels of nicotine were dropping...
the upper body was exercised...
but the legs weren't... mollusks and oysters for *****...
or... toes...
to count... oysters for toes...
but when the legs have been exercised...
and a balance has been reached...
there's little to gloat about... about...
quitting smoking...
there's a need to say: the glory of the tongue
and its palette when walking...
the budding beauty of things surrounding me...
all blushing envy of the green...
  self-respecting green and its almost
teasing green phosopherscent insomnia
in the rubric of the sun: next to wake...
next to hide... a bud of bishop hues...

insomnia green of the forest...
                     poor bambi (x2)...
                    zinfandel rosé!
count! syllables! nurse! scalpel!
zin!-f'ah-del... rou-s'eh...
                              oh remind me of the night...
and the forest... the blinking moon
by count of clouds obstructing its glee...
turned into a melting moon...
spray-painted over the leaves with
its last will of agitated: clingy mercury tinge...

the debate: "debate" wasn't about...
i took 3 days to gloat about quitting smoking...
there are more important affairs to mind...
notably! notably?

example!

la traviata is an opera in three acts by (giuseppe) verdi
set to an italian libretto by francesco (maria) piave
                                                 (verbatim: i.e. borrowed)...

there... they cite... the composer...
    who doesn't need a first name, since: verdi is...
synonymous with verdi and opera composition...
but...
         yeah... you need to mention the first name
and the surname of... the libretto: francesco piave...
the opera...
      music... and... the words...
well so much for the music...
but... last time i heard... a violinist holds...
a violin and a bow...
                         what's the opera singer
to hold? the melody? no! he needs to hold...
words...

   today i passed a family in the forest...
a mother, a father... two children...
                   and a grandfather...
maternal / paternal... i don't know...
i was already on my second bottle of wine...
the woman asked me:
   'will we get back to the car park if we turn
around on this route?'
        i was already eyeing them with
a curiosity prior...
i uttered the words... 'you should...'
          not... 'i hope so... since i'll be
testing that question'...
or 'you will...'
                           several minutes later
in my own solipsistic interlude...
            you should... i swear to god...
sometimes i say something and can't
see letters behind the sound...
      like: i shouldn't really see: meow...
behind the sound a cat makes...
since... a cat doesn't just make an: ego sum: meow
universal statement...
there are variations...
    'you should'... i repeated...
slightly drunk and... whatever... i didn't see
any letters in the sound i made...
           for once... not the last time, though...

to abide in such joys from a past -
chevalier, mult estes guariz -
                 to cite charmlemagne and prince rolo:
the scandinavian convert -
who's (whoz: not who is) descendents
were the morphed vikings: the normans...
who conquered england...
        since the predecessors couldn't...
walther von der vogelweide:
                    palästanalied...
all through the german autobahn...
                   the word... AUSFAHRT!
the lands owned by the lithuanian who
married: and by marriage became converted...
from the last pagan prince of europe:
enclosure rhapsody of caged
elephants: prior: mammoths...
  the estonian bulwark...
von meer zu meer (von baltisch zu schwarzes meer)
these jagiełło platitudes of envy... chełm...
      sch'war'zes...

begotten not made: blistered...
the scarf of colour to capture the frenzy of
autumn... a shawl best worn to...
loot the colour and suffocate the subject
with: no past a dream and a dream
without rucurrence...
to borrow from the past as much
if not more from fiction!
to say: once they pickled Barbarossa...
come the third crusade... disgruntled oath-breakers...
sought the prussians...
and the lithuanians... and all that land
to the east...
had they only known... what the prussians
would make of the absence of the saxons
of the pomeranians and the bavarians...
i wasn't there... no...
but a romance is a romance is:
here's to... no ode to a ******* sailor:
capn' ahab... or the rodin instruction
knee deep in the mud at ypres...
or the mass-graves of german youth
or: how kaisser wilhelm and that in-breeding
crew of familial ties tore europe
on the altar of the bull...
before this bourgeoisie whittle adoolph HIT!
came about and charged the former
bitzmarck ***** and the elites with...
eh... the story is so told and so old...
"they" couldn't fathom the middle-project
of the khaki and ******* not coming
from their... high-brow... aristocracy...
better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven...
choir boy whittle adoolph said:
i'll borrow the schnurrbart from chaplin...
after all... with a surname like mine...
a ****** or a chaplin is no... WIN-D'SOR!
yes... apostrophe 'ere if not to hide a surd...
it's to elevate punctuation...
for the sake of syllables... the hyphen is not
enough... vowel catcher tetragrammaton
invocation! the first arm of the god:
the second arm is for: ha ha ha! laughter!
cynic and satyr!
            eh... let's leave the stoics to their
love of labouring over the fate of oysters!
protestants and pre-destination-alists...
clarvoyant calvinists!

                         from the decadence of a "lost"
empire... what "pseudo" history is to be
resurrected... romanced...
the angevin empire?! that there is a past...
the "lesser" dream...

a patrick and andrew a george...
and ef bwy newid troi (he who...
altered path) -

troedfilwr - petty velsh:
quasi-silesian / kashubian / little warsaw
of the "bigger picture" masovia...
CAPital neu...
          
- ever write something...
at a snail's pace: crow pecking...
because a moth has just flown into your room...
and... unlike... holding a seashell to your
ear... to find the ivory shore...
and the details of false echo of... galloping
waves...
you clench your hand...
and hear... fluttering... like the sound of...
desperately falling rain..

madame butterfly is an opera
by (giacomo) puccini, with a libretto
by luigi illica and giuseppe giacosa

the magic flute, k. 620, is an opera in
mozart to a german libretto by
emanuel schikaneder:

           der verk is in the form of a singspiel:
singing and spoken dialogue...
my demise: the awe... interludes of...
theatre... in an opera!

               rushing rushing and... kandinsky
the colt serenade kind...
  with... canvas... and an auction house
of reserve that... fridge magnet enterprise
of a single mother of... 6...
              
you couldn't get an opera...
working from the carmina burana...
the... libretto... thankfuly...
constricted the music...
you'd only get what you already have...
a medley... opertics instead of an opera...
sketches of an opera...
    the whole custard mess...
the rhubarb the rasberry "finicky"...
         the Goliards and the... gonnards...

               were diu werlt alle min
               von dem mere unze an den Rin,
               des wolt ih mih darben
               daz diu chunegin von Engellant
                lege an minen armen


the quid pro quos and the... anon. circus
spectacular sheen!
  
  what is the composer without the libretto?
the violin player has his violin and bow
attached: like some... frankenstein's take
on an elaboration of an autumnal fallen:
leaf of: a "false" limb...
dire desires for a lingering crescendo...
of a piece... without an overture...
bothercome children and the good life...
nothing worth clarifying the nouns:
to a supper... a goodnight...

                       bedtime with nabokov?
my take... well... it becomes apparent...
when... the local... easily accessed by the many...
avenues of love... are exercised...
what remains? taboo...
and once the taboo is... investigated...
invested in... well then...
there's that all overpowering tease of
thought not materialised into a will...
a 14 year old girl... below the mark...
she's 16 and i'm 18...
and i'm not her... cousin and this is not
israel...
                  after a while... the only *** available
is... the forbidden type...
and there's... so much freedom in
what's forbidden... when it's only thought...
the complex: θ(ought) complex
that becomes φ(inking)...

              the moment "she" starts to
perceive the mirror...
       and you're looking into the concept
of time and of glass...
  
but then... there's... the libretto... and the composer...
the rare event of: richard wagner...
where there's a schizoid... bilingual...
"in theory": der kommissar working 7/11
on the advent of: neu-muzik zu kommen!

  queen of the night aria contra...
my sleeping karma - satya - ahimsa...
that one: "last" cigarette...
me... a wife and a child...
        tidy... if i only aimed at...
the fraction to no effect...
the wife and the sole child...
i'd be doing all the proper details...
a wife and... the hungarian model...
of at least: towing 2...
      hardly an embitious venture if only
towing the holy trinity of:
fake hey-gay-zeus fake myriam fake josephus...

not looking for queen of the night aria...
   nor satie's gnossienne no.1 sampled...
ezio bosso - under the trees...
           vittorio monti
jean-paul egide martini {/^.5.p 6^)_(0$drd...
toast!
it was... bothering me... started last night...
took 6 rough miles to get the tune
out from my head...
into a coffin... of sorts...
it was... borodin's prince igor! all along!

p.s. re-flex: the politics of dancing...
       duran-duran: the reflex; ******-pointer-ler;
h'american pie contra dad:
   the gay bar: electric sexes und siebens:
hefyd...                         deutsche bankschisch...
zeit (time) and the ruschischen:
              цeit... always conflated as...
indistinguishable by a ****** / lithuanian...
           цeit - bißcuit... crumble: чarcoal...

hey presto: a *******... voilà contra eureka!
GfS Mar 2016
Getting close to people
half-heartedly
will only give you suffering
but alas, sadly
so does getting closer

Maybe, that's why
if one day we do
I would yearn for you
more than I should
it frightens me
to my very core
that you'd leave me
like the rest would
History has quite the habit
of repeating itself
Donall Dempsey Jun 2018
IN X ANADU....IT'S...COMPLICATED.

"Life should not be lived
in black and white...

...but, in colour!"
Coleridge thinks.

"Man should not believe in
'No-can-do"

but in 'Yes...
we can!'

Even a legless man can
dance the Can-Can

with the uppermost part
of his body and

dancing with imaginary
legs!"

Sammy( sometimes he )
displaces himself into

the  third person
decanting the fine wine of the mind.

"Naw...scrub that line
don't know where in hell I was

going with it.
Gawd! This laudanum is strong!"

And so, he sits, sips and pens
in a vision or a trance if you like

a dream of future-time
where people can be made

into paper replicas
of themselves.

The "picture-graph"
he calls it

for want
of a better word.

And now he pushes the boat out
pictures that can talk and walk

so that even the dead
will flicker for a second

back into the life
they had.

A world going to ***
and other such drugs.

Machines that can take your voice
and fling it over to...say...Japan

and back and forth
again.

The world shrunk to your hand
" a miracle of rare device."

Just think!
Think of it man!

Or to be Blake-an about it:
"What is now proved was once, only imagin'd."

"I have a dream..." the poet proclaims
beginning to sound like a speechwriter

"...that one day man
may fly...sitting down in the sky!"

Oh I'm really getting going now!
Laughs at his mind's daring derring-do!

Gawd....this laudanum is strong!

And that one day facebook(sic)
will come to be.

"...things unfathomable to man!"
These the dark caverns of the mind.

Cute cat videos...selfies
whatever!

"Look here is a picture
of my dinner!"

Relationships: It's...
...complicated.

He crosses out "unfathomable"
writes "immeasurable" above it.

"...miracles of rare device..."
So good I've said it twice.

Such "...mingled measures..."
will life be really so?

Suddenly a 'ping" or some
such thing!

A message request from
Kubla ****** Khan.

Now one is being poked
by some bloke

an Alf
from Porlock it would appear.

Good Gawd is that really his
Profile Pic...he looks sick.

Claims to be a Jehovah's Witness
and can he come 'round and

have I found
Jesus?

Jaysus no! Delete...delete!

This facebook is
"...a savage place...

as e're beneath a waning moon
was haunted..."

Bit flowery that but
it will have to do.

Now **** it all to hell
where ****** was I?

And now...now...this very now
a poem put upon my timeline.

My timeline's mine!

Yet another poem by some
"woman wailing for her demon lover."

Is it my imagination or
are there more demon lovers around

than this time
last summer?

Humming some **** tune
by that Olivia Newton John.

An annoying earworm.

Ada Lovelace
wants to be my friend

even though she isn't
even born.

Oh get a life!

Do I 'heart' Byron"
"Wot...that ***!"

Describing her mindset as 'poetical
science."

Goes on and on
about an analytical machine

and how individual and society
relate to technology

as a collaborative
tool.

She makes me feel
a fool.

I deign to
decline.

This stately "pleasure dome"
device is not for me.

I delete my future
account and listen

to the dear  birds
( alas no albatross )

in my lime tree bower
as they twitter.

Make myself a cup of tea.
No sugar.

Constipation is
killing me.

Eat an egg out of a tea cup.
A fat slice of ham.

Gawd! This laudanum is strong!

I do not like things
"...flung up momently..."

"I close my eyes with
holy dread and cry

Beware! Beware!"

Have... God...
**** run out of laudanum!

And so set out
for Porlock

avoiding Alf
if I can.
Kubla Khan
BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
Or, a vision in a dream. A Fragment.
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
   Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round;
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean;
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
   The shadow of the dome of pleasure
   Floated midway on the waves;
   Where was heard the mingled measure
   From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

   A damsel with a dulcimer
   In a vision once I saw:
   It was an Abyssinian maid
   And on her dulcimer she played,
   Singing of Mount Abora.
   Could I revive within me
   Her symphony and song,
   To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.


Oh that naughty Lord Byron making such an *** of Sam!

Shall gentle COLERIDGE pass unnoticed here,
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear?
Though themes of innocence amuse him best,
Yet still Obscurity's a welcome guest.
If Inspiration should her aid refuse
To him who takes a Pixy for a muse,
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass
The bard who soars to elegize an ***:
So well the subject suits his noble mind,
He brays, the Laureate of the long-eared kind.

***
Ada Lovelace (1815-1852) was born Augusta Ada Byron, the only legitimate child of Annabella Milbanke and the poet Lord Byron. Her mother, Lady Byron, had mathematical training (Byron called her his 'Princess of Parallelograms') and insisted that Ada, who was tutored privately, study mathematics too - an unusual education for a woman.

Ada met Babbage at a party in 1833 when she was seventeen and was entranced when Babbage demonstrated the small working section of the Engine to her. She intermitted her mathematical studies for marriage and motherhood but resumed when domestic duties allowed. In 1843 she published a translation from the French of an article on the Analytical Engine by an Italian engineer, Luigi Menabrea, to which Ada added extensive notes of her own. The Notes included the first published description of a stepwise sequence of operations for solving certain mathematical problems and Ada is often referred to as 'the first programmer'. The collaboration with Babbage was close and biographers debate the extent and originality of Ada's contribution.

Perhaps more importantly, the article contained statements by Ada that from a modern perspective are visionary. She speculated that the Engine 'might act upon other things besides number... the Engine might compose elaborate and scientific pieces of music of any degree of complexity or extent'. The idea of a machine that could manipulate symbols in accordance with rules and that number could represent entities other than quantity mark the fundamental transition from calculation to computation. Ada was the first to explicitly articulate this notion and in this she appears to have seen further than Babbage. She has been referred to as 'prophet of the computer age'. Certainly she was the first to express the potential for computers outside mathematics. In this the tribute is well-founded.
THE ALLAN FAMILY STORY = THE QUEST TO KEEP BRIAN WITH THE FIGHTERS AND KEEP HIM BULLIED



YA SEE, BRIAN WAS HAVING A HARD TIME, BATTLING HIS VOICES, AND ONE

VOICE ESPECIAL;LY WAS HIS FIGHTING WITH DAD GETTING BACK ON HIM

WITH A FEW OF HIS BEST MATES, AND EACH TIME BRIAN WENT TO PAT’S HOUSE

HE REALLY LIKED HOW, THEY SHARED, FISH AND CHIPS AND CHICKEN AND ALSO

AND A NICE PIZZA, YEAH BRIAN AND PAT WERE JUNK FOOD JUNKIES AND PAT

WAS REALLY NICE TO THE OWNER, ALWAYS ASKING HOW HIS BUSINESS WAS,

WHILE, BRIAN JUST SAT THERE TALKING TO PAT, ABOUT LYLE DOES, IN HINDSIGHT

IT WAS LEADING TO A WHOLE HEAP OF TEASING LIKE ME WITH DAD COMING BACK

TO HAUNT ME, LIKE WHEN I DIDN’T WANNA FIGHT A VOICE WOULD CROWD PAT’S HEAD

YEAH YOU GO AWAY LIKE THE COWARD THAT YOU ARE, AND I TOLD MUM, AND SHE SAID
CANBERRA ARE OUT TO GET YOU, BUT BRIAN DISAGREES, CAUSE BRIAN  HATED THE VOICES

OF DISTRUCTION, YA SEE, BRIAN WAS BEING YOUNG WHEN HE DREW ON HIS ARM, LIKE

A PEN TATTOO, AND DAD HATED THIS, WHICH FORCED BRIAN TO GET INTO A VERY BIG

FIGHT WITH DAD, SAYING, HIT ME WITH YA RHYTHM STICK, HIT ME, OH HIT ME AND DAD

SAID, BUDDY, I WILL HIT YA, BUT I DON’T WANT TO HIT YA, YOUR MY SON, AND I DON’T WANT

TO ENCOURAGE VIOLENCE WITH YOUR MATES BRIAN, AND MY BROTHER YELLED OUT KEEP

BLUDGING ON HIM BRIAN SURE MATE, AND BRIAN TRIED TO KIDNAP HIMSELF ON HIS PARENTS

BECAUSE, DESPITE BRIAN’S PARENTS BEING NICE, THEY WERE TWO OLD FOGIES AND BRIAN

WALKED AROUND FROM HOUSE TO HOUSE, TRYING TO FIND HIS MATES, TO ESCAPE HIS DAD

BUT BRIAN BECAUSE, HE WAS CRONUS, HAD TO BECOME A WRITER, CAUSE THE ALIEN INSIDE

OF HIM, MADE HIM COMMITT A BAD CRIME, LIKE TIE UP AN 11 YEAR OLD BOY, AND ALL BRIAN’S

MATES SAID TO BRIAN WHY DID YOU DO THIS, WHY!, AND BRIAN SAID, IT FELT GREAT AT THE TIME

AND PAT SAID, LET’S LEAVE HIM ALONE FOR NOW, BUT WE HAVE TO MAKE THIS COWARD PAY

FOR WHAT HE DID, BUT BRIAN WAS UNDER, PSYCHOSIS, OF TED BUNDY’S EVIL REIGN, OPAT

WAS NICE TO BRIAN, AND BRIAN LIKED PAT A LOT, AND HEARING THE VOICE OF PAT TREATING

HIM, LIKE A MAN TO A FIGHT, MAKES BRIAN SCREAM OUT ‘WHY ARE YOU ******* WITH ME BUDDHA

AND EVERY TIME I GET UP AND MOVE ON, THE STUPID FORCE KEEPS ME FROM LOOKING

YOUNG EVEN IF I HAVE NEVER BELIEVED IN GROWING OLD AND FUCKEN WEAK.

YOU SEE AS I RUN UP THE ROAD, I HEAR THIS VOICE, SAYING, YEAH GO AWAY AND RUN

LIKE THE LITTLE COWARD THAT YOU ARE, YOU LOST OUR FAITH IN YOU BRIIURN

YOU LOST OUR FAITH IN YOU, YA SEE, I ALSO HEAR THIS VOICE SAYING, IF YA WANNA BE LIKE US

BRIURN BEHAVE YOURSELF, CAUSE, YOUR NOT A YOUNG DUDE, AND BRIAN SAID, VOICE

I WANNA GET TO ADELAIDE, AND LIVE, I WANNA BE A HOLLYWOOD ACTOR, I WANT TO BRING SUSIE TO

BE BRAX’S GIRLFRIEND ON HOME AND AWAY,AND I WANT TO WHACK ALF STEWART WITH THE BELT

BUT THIS VOICE SAYS, IN A HORRIBLE VOICE, VERY SARCASTICALLY REPEATING EVERY WORD

THAT CAME OUT OFR MY MOUTH, YOU SEE THE COSMOS WANTS ME TO BE SHY, BUT DUDES

I DON’T WANT TO GET FOUGHT, CAUSE LATELY I DON’T **** PEOPLE OFF, MY PAST IS DEAD AND BURIED

AND WHILE I SAW PAT, MY BROTHER PLAYED TENNIS BY THE HOUSE, AND PAT SAID, I WANT TO TALK TO YOUR

BROTHER, SEE YA LATER, I AM NOT YA DADDY, BRIAN, BRIAN CAME OUT TOO, AND WE ALL JOKED AROUND TOGETHER

DAD AND MUM WERE TRYING TO TREAT ME LIKE SOMETHING I AM NOT, A COOL KID TO SQUABBLE WITH

JUST BECAUSE, DAD THOUGHT I HANDLED MY BROTHER SHYLY TO HIS OLD FOGIE WAY

AND THAT IS WHAT STARTED A LITTLE FUED WITH DAD, ME BEING A LITTLE SHY BOY TO HIM

HE WAS AN OLDIE, LIKE THAT. ENJOY YOURSELF PATRICK
The fugitives invaded me in the
sixties series somewhere on
TV,
one armed bandits
one eyed half wits
we watched it all
Janssen
Thinnes and
that lot on the bins
for
a touch of class.

Alf Garnett
he could be a gas
and Irma down the Street
with her
coronation chicken feet.

Taken over
one channel at a time
sublime?


Well it was all in Black and White,
so we could tell the day from night, but
not real life you understand
just pictures on a screen
now repeated
though I have seen them all before
I watch again
I so adore

**** York

Samantha,
wiggling her nose

Bouquets of barbed wire
tied to a rose.

Top cat smarter than Kojak
and the Flintstones in their
dream homes down in Bedrock.

Knock me up some dreams to dream
and I'll scream ******
Norman Bates
Hitchcock laughed at
those blind dates.

Niven
Cribbens
Poppins

moons and balloons and railway children
who'll then tell me where it went then?
Standing for the Anthem,
auntie Beeb and then some
chips and curry sauce of course
it's how we rolled in
Lancashire
betterdays Mar 2015
fragile,
needing care,
impermanent,
not quite all there

standing
gently swaying
with wavering stare
hand held out
needing care

but garnering
indifference
and  misplaced disgust

what if that was
you or me,
or uncle alf
or sister beth

would you want
the world to walk by
deaf to the mumbled cry

these are people
just like us....
these are people...
give a f...

not just a ******* up
sweat stained buck
thrown at them
like they are muck
scraped off the bottom
of your shoe...

cause by god,
this might well
one day be you
seeking truth
and sanity
in the gutter...

fragile...so very fragile
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
so she write this article, this amanda
foreman,
   a historian and with four girls
and one boy that's almost the fifth and
i'm wondering:
god, where has this headache come from
where is the man?
                life's too perfect to seem
to rhyme, or worth wasting your time
remembering some obscure Versailles verse
worth a shining ****'s worth of
a crown readied for a one-night stand...
**** me, a five+ female household,
i hope these muslim martyrs wishes what
they got themselves into...
   the true martyrs have three entry
points...
           mouth, vaginal, ****...
            if you can't spot the true martyrs
i'll tell you about asking the watermelon man,
or herbie hancocks, or in comparison
by ol' joe...
      treating his quasi-alzheimer stories
like your favourite jazz standards...
herr bitebonbon, dresden, auschwitz,
and some other memories:
  a drowning man will cling to a razor blade
to stay afloat, like any old man:
what bugs him now is not being sad,
but being foregetful...
he replays the rubric every day:
he says:
sure, i'm dead already:
but i want to remember myself dying!
   old people and their jazz standards of memory,
i am old, i feel old,
   oh ma'h feel'ah rob'eh m'on...
   patois or 'alf the pitied peshawar mamí son...
lumberjack my *** were 'ere bootleg
a stump of wood mamí sis...
  ya rite?
           *** we boss the 9,2,3,oh,5...
and call that a freq.,
  man that boy to a prrrrrristine:
shakin' m'ah timbers floating a-high...
man, sum tim' the talk ain't talk
it's called: scare-alley-cat-talk
feelin' a gush of **** talk-ji
  of an incubus toying with ya
little mums' crisp clear elijah of buttock
say in: **** as smooth as
a mouth slicking a rota of a hooplah...
talk cool: play the dumb infant...
next time you know:
   yo be talkin' to mama bear an
pleading for her Mississippi pancakes...
**** you not...
             she a one woman with
a five daughter brothel...
good lucky lucky luke if there's any
eager...
                last time i checked:
neither word, nor piano nor horn earned
****...
        just a nice ref. to: ooze...
  like washington's monologue in
fences didn't earned him oscar:
but a director's role none the less...
lady guesses to choose...
and her choice is always wrong
while her guess is always good...
          my, why a mighty site these days:
a man that stays at home becomes
a better cook than a woman,
who isn't all too eager to enter the outside world...
there's always the idea of a death by
a grizzly bear and i think of entering
a bear enclosure in the danzig zoo...
  and the little bear that ate my cardigan button...
and the bear mama...
      god, i love that memeory,
because it's so unreal that it's real because
it happened and my mind became
a ******* ******* trickster thinking
that my faculty of memory didn't dig
that far back...
         the child always remains with the man
that the child always was,
   but the child never became,
and the man who always imagined the child
becoming the man he is,
never said to the man un-becoming the child:
you were never this until "i" became you,
and "you" un-became me.
30+ hours wide awake and i'm still
trying to succumb to falling asleep
to fidgeting...
                        sure, nice trick, juggle three
oranges... then more into the iron league
of juggling three watermelons my
dear, common man.
         classical music acted upon the same
jerking off technique
     that excess rock did to solo guitarists...
chopin was a ****** on guitar...
he had no rhythm man...
            why do i know this?
the japanese, those wannabe white-ohs
pretend to be chopin...
they ******* ski-jump to boot!
                    chopin had no style because
he had no rhythm...
actually liszt ****** off the most,
smoked the most cigars and prematurely
******* with the most number of lovers...
    i really feel for that poet who cried himself
to sleep seeing him "perform"...
           you can solo the ******* want,
but the only rhythm on piano came with jazz...
i hate ******* for their lack of appreciation
of jazz... i hate to be a white guy telling them:
hey... jazz over class every day...
  you people, yes: YOU PEOPLE
ABANDONED JAZZ IN A MATTER OF
AN AMNESIAC TRYING TO REMEMBER
A DISTINGUISHING ASPECT BETWEEN
A T-REX AND MARC BOLAN!
how can you just give up rhythm piano,
the democratic soloing of each instrument
in a band in a matter of what,
20, 30, 40 years?
     LOSERS!
      rhapsody of the nincompoop...
hit the trends you ******, with your
nike airs and your shaaq attaq?
  canary in a colemine?
how 'bout a ****** smiling at me?
how about: pearly whites in a colemine?
talk kit-kat chunky pale white boy:
i start talking ivory...
                     hey: if the black guy ain't
the canvas of what i'm about to x-ray
i don't know why he shouldn't find his
root in the skin in the tongue in Swahili
so we can keep it neutral and not so,
******* lazy: english, keeping up with
post-colonialism Kardashians' shenanigans...
come on... they left sonny trashed nodding
at the piano: just one more note,
just one more note...
          boom... crescendo and the death's head
gravity pulled the gracious ***** down.
it's just a shame that they gave up
on jazz so quickly,
                   and turned to white *****
gloryhole ******* - which must imply:
Ethiopians in Japan...
              hey... you tell me:
last time i heard i heard the whale was
mammal, and that there was the Eskimo...
pop doesn't really bother me right now;
you left sonny clark nodding to his death
thinking he was falling asleep at the piano!
NOW... ******... BLEACH ME...
I ******* DARE YOU!
robert johnson didn't meet his fate
at the crossroads through a jealous middle
class white girl either...
given the times, being a white guy:
i guess that's also my fault...
oh look... there flies the cuckoo:
and here's the nest.
Zywa Jul 2020
It started with Ox House donkey
In the housebarn of the manor
The room was full of family

It was warm, with mum
and the aunts who know all
about childbirth, the men also

stayed up and drank to the new
king, his little bed with lambskin
in a manger was next to me

After Passover in the capital
we had to leave, the news
of our son was buzzing around

people came to warn:
Ox House Camel, the alphabet, Door
to open and to close

Hand that reaps the fruits, Eye that sees
and Mouth that speaks the truth
My heart that knows the concealed

breath of the breathing, spirit
over the waters, the words
it once started with
Maria (in Bethlehem, 5 bC)

Letters of the Phoenician alphabet – In the beginning was the Word

Collection "From Sacred Scriptures"
The slum

When I was born the manger was occupied
I got a cot at a Home run by the salvation- army
and stayed the until my step-grandmother committed suicide  
by jumping out of the third-floor window, she was going
to join my grandfather
A funny thing about the window it kept opening up by itself
for years afterwards.
The home, the SA ran was called the slum, the flat we got
nearby, as was also the big white house belonging
to a shipping magnate, he was born in the house and was
not about to leave for a fancy building out of town.
For us children, it was just a name and had no connotation  
of poverty or low life.
My best friend Alf lived permanently at the Home and later
became a chief train conductor in South Africa.
I met him once in Johannesburg entrenched in middle classness
big house and servants, something of a change from the slum.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
upper tier of crosswords,
mental rubric,

      s                        a

         t             h            e
    
      r            t     

                      d             e
      
  
       shattered: quasi germanica

lexicon...

                  atom...

warm ***** and the chilled chaser...
or no chaser, hence
***** chilled to the consistency
of gome syrop...
liquidated clear liquorice...

Pazura (actor)
     und Warszawa (a capital
of a European nation...

      dziw... bo bez sfobody,
między... to eN...

ha ha ha ha...

e e Cummings conjuring
up the cOncEPt of orthography
in the native readers...
without exploring diacritical
mark application,
which, orthography rests upon...

    co ma gzyms do
       krawędzi
kiedy pietruszka
        o, zajob...
i ta świcąca trójci Pitta...
nie brody warta,
tylko tego, bolka jolka...
greckiego, fagasa...
    
a piernik do wiatraka?
ujebany, Sergio Pansa...

...to guwno, tzn. prl'u:
co czyni papa new guinea
pierdolonym 'omikiem?

suka morda brud...

    te kurwa... z... kreską!

bilingualist contra the polyglot,
UN of the latter,  
trenches and no man's land
of the former...

       6 Napoleons made
a dozen private Ryans...
      at Jena...
  'alf  frisky Burgundian...
'alf celibate Schwabian...

crosswords and the thesaurus
avenue...
   poetry...
    and the robert frost analogy...
Dante and Virgil...
Homer's solo
with a blind man' stick,
or rather...
Homer and Milton...
sitting in a tree...

      either a tongue bound
to the breath of Horace...
or the leash
      and warden skit...
     of the Minotaur...

somehow...
etymology always was,
and always will be,
the pedantic, bookish
version of history...

      so much so,
that etymology bypasses
the ridiculousness of
Darwinsm, of form, of Plato...

aeons pass before ape
differentiates
the vowel from the consonant
or the onomatopoeia
from the mimic from
the noun...

            then comes the continuum
crushing all genesis
theists, as well as all genesis
atheists...
      love, love... and you typical
Sunday afternoon...
        
slang as an anti-etymology...
           likewise the ape...
ape being slang, for man...
   slang as noun as colloquial,
rather than as proverbial..
staccato...
                  and all sort of
mannerismsms of the,
"less informed"...
  
                            only England scorns
bilingualism it would seem...
unless it has no post-colonial
uncle toms to boast of...

P.T.S.D. of the 1946 Kielce Pogrom...
ever so shocking,  
unlike the biblical credo:
go forth and multiply...
      in any other instances,
less memorable, collateral...
guess not enough cousin fucky-fucky...
1 Chew worth 1000 Chings...
      if not more...
Chew has a name, Ching has a number...
like the good ol' days...
bribing the ß-mann (eszettmann)
for Milka bishop choc bars.
Jude kyrie Oct 2016
Uncle 'erbert on the Joanna
Aunty Mabel on the mike.
Singing rollout the barrel
All Alf ****** on saturday nite.

Cousin Doris in the armchairs
Face to stop a ****** clock
Giving me the greasy eyeball
And a stare to knock me
round the block

Grandad 'arrys in the money
His nag came in at 1O to 1
Granny Edie's sweet as honey
She get sour when
all the money's gone.

Cousin Cecil pudding and pie
Kissed the girls and made em cry.
And when the boys came out to play
He kissed them too
Cos he's a bit that way.

It will end in a ****** fight
Mixing this loss is hit and miss
But they do it every saturday nite
It's just my family on the ****.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2019
IN XANADU....IT'S...COMPLICATED.

"Life should not lived
in black and white...

...but, in colour!"
Coleridge thinks.

"Man should not believe in
'No-can-do"

but in 'Yes...
we can!'

Even a legless man can
dance the Can-Can

with the uppermost part
of his body and

dancing with imaginary
legs!"

Sammy( sometimes he )
displaces himself into

the  third person
decanting the fine wine of the mind.

"Naw...scrub that line
don't know where in hell I was

going with it.
Gawd! This laudanum is strong!"

And so, he sits, sips and pens
in a vision or a trance if you like

a dream of future-time
where people can be made

into paper replicas
of themselves.

The "picture-graph"
he calls it

for want
of a better word.

And now he pushes the boat out
pictures that can talk and walk

so that even the dead
will flicker for a second

back into the life
they had.

A world going to ***
and other such drugs.

Machines that can take your voice
and fling it over to...say...Japan

and back and forth
again.

The world shrunk to your hand
" a miracle of rare device."

Just think!
Think of it man!

Or to be Blake-an about it:
"What is now proved was once, only imagin'd."

"I have a dream..." the poet proclaims
beginning to sound like a speechwriter

"...that one day man
may fly...sitting down in the sky!"

Oh I'm really getting going now!
Laughs at his mind's daring derring-do!

Gawd....this laudanum is strong!

And that one day facebook(sic)
will come to be.

"...things unfathomable to man!"
These the dark caverns of the mind.

Cute cat videos...selfies
whatever!

"Look here is a picture
of my dinner!"

Relationships: It's...
...complicated.

He crosses out "unfathomable"
writes "immeasurable" above it.

"...miracles of rare device..."
So good I've said it twice.

Such "...mingled measures..."
will life be really so?

Suddenly a 'ping" or some
such thing!

A message request from
Kubla ****** Khan.

Now one is being poked
by some bloke

an Alf
from Porlock it would appear.

Good Gawd is that really his
Profile Pic...he looks sick.

Claims to be a Jehovah's Witness
and can he come 'round and

have I found
Jesus?

Jaysus no! Delete...delete!

This facebook is
"...a savage place...

as e're beneath a waning moon
was haunted..."

Bit flowery that but
it will have to do.

Now **** it all to hell
where ****** was I?

And now...now...this very now
a poem put upon my timeline.

My timeline's mine!

Yet another poem by some
"woman wailing for her demon lover."

Is it my imagination or
are there more demon lovers around

than this time
last summer?

Humming some **** tune
by that Olivia Newton John.

An annoying earworm.

Ada Lovelace
wants to be my friend

even though she isn't
even born.

Oh get a life!

Do I 'heart' Byron"
"Wot...that ***!"

Describing her mindset as 'poetical
science."

Goes on and on
about an analytical machine

and how individual and society
relate to technology

as a collaborative
tool.

She makes me feel
a fool.

I deign to
decline.

This stately "pleasure dome"
device is not for me.

I delete my future
account and listen

to the dear  birds
( alas no albatross )

in my lime tree bower
as they twitter.

Make myself a cup of tea.
No sugar.

Constipation is
killing me.

Eat an egg out of a tea cup.
A fat slice of ham.

Gawd! This laudanum is strong!

I do not like things
"...flung up momently..."

"I close my eyes with
holy dread and cry

Beware! Beware!"

Have... God...
**** run out of laudanum!

And so set out
for Porlock

avoiding Alf
if I can.
Oi, Manchester, why are you so blue?
You built it all, there is nothing you can't do.
We were here first and we will be here last,
Our future is bleak? Well, so was our past.
We've had more than our share of ups and downs,
Aye, it's grim up north, but every class needs its clowns.

Oi, Manchester, chin up arr kid,
If they ask you who built it, you tell 'em we did,
We built this city with rock and roll,
Through rain and shine, with northern soul,
The only thing we never built was a great northern wall,
We invited each people and we welcomed them all.

Manchester, mate, things will get better,
Mother nature tries beat us but we've never let her,
No matter the odds or how savage their action,
We are the great power house, we never lose traction.
Each time we're knocked down we rebuild from the ashes,
we shoulder each other, we each take lashes.

Oi, Manchester, don't you forget your station,
We are the heart, we are the brain and the spine of a nation.
It was here we split the atom, and here where Rolls met Royce,
Swing those monkey arms and sing your Mankey voice
Be proud, be loud, there's no need to tiptoe,
And always remember that WE created VIMTO.

Oi, Manchester, I don't 'alf miss THAT smile,
It's the whole hog, the bees knees, the best by a mile,
There will be a day when we all laugh again,
Brighter, more hopeful, more promising then,
There will always be dark before the dawn,
But, oi, this is manchester, where all dreams are born.
Manchester pride, a reaction to how Corona has subdued my city. We will smile again, arr kid, keep being awesome.
i am so sorry
after writing madly
about you
an
pit-bull
tried
to
eat my
chihuahua

trying to save him
my skull was
cracked
on
the
concrete

we have to be honest with myself
i think you gave me rabies
who took the letters
from
my
alphabit
who bit Alf
star BG
?



















...
..
.
hold my hand
in
this
mud
...
..
.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
my neighbour is having a solitary moment
with a wee bonfire in the backyard...
don't ask me... i watched his father trim the grass
a few hours ago...
maybe he's burning that...
or... whatever the reason... it's in the corner
of my eye... and the flame is big...
and small enough... that.. if warranted...
would make a great... theatre of soliloquy...
i'm yet to see a shadow enlarged
and gesticulating that it's talking...
with a raised arm... the other arm playing
the gratified ballerina when the applause comes...
hand entombing the heart...
      i'm yet to see a skull hamlet & co.
             "moment"...
                       so that's my neighbour...
i'm perched on a windowsill sitting on a folded
leg...
           and trying to crackle my throat
like a perched crow...
                the jay bird is of the same family...
        it's a crackle... i'm pretty sure the bird becomes
its new: "revised" distinct when bound to flight...
it's very hard to find...
boredom and existential exhaustion as...
synonyms... however back you look down the
entymological route...
   i couldn't have scribble: if only...
     i couldn't have scribbled this out of...
borne from a compliment to make "boredom":
a necessity...

          perhaps i am... existentially exhausted...
wouldn't you be?
if i were drinking some kalimotxo...
               or 20 beers... there would be an incremental
effect being felt...
which is what makes drinking a fun:
a social... something to borrow from:
"celebration": disinhibition?
                           only because of this one series
drama: sharp object... which made...
led zeppelin somehow "cool" again...
   in the evening... which didn't make it to...
the: the best of - led zeppelin double **** album...
either...
           so my neighbour is having a bonfire...
and there's nothing eerie about the silence...
esp. when there's a humming...
a fire is talking... but it's not the sort of fire
most associated with pine needles...
pine cones... and ancient oak...
           so he's doing that... i'm smiling... perched...
and drinking ms. know-it-all *****...
and... that's the problem with *****:
you have to wait for it... then again:
merely waiting is not a desirable affair...
and preoccupying myself with: "something else"
for a span of 20 minutes...
       waiting for a k.o. instead getting to play
the fiddle of grand itch-maestro with...
a if it isn't a cat nicknamed by schrodinger...
then all bets are on Pavlov...
                   but it's such a tiresome debacle...
had i made a video and had it... (x, y, x) of traction...
yadda-yadda...
          all the drama: soap-opera i could have
enjoyed... an imaginary street...
with imaginary squabbles...
        but none of the very translate-worthy
orientations of minor frictions...
         the bonfire is dying off...
the fire hasn't been fed dry pine needles...
or pine cones... or merchant oak retelling the story
of marco polo and... to the fire with me:
none of this... mahagonny sheen:
i fancy... a rough stone turned into a marble-esque
sheen?
                         it might just serve
a wooden hammer... to tell the difference between...
well... my initial presumption...
should lady justice be coupled with a gorgon?
lady justice and medussa?
  iustitia (who holds a sword and scales)
& prudentia (who holds a mirror and a snake)...

perhaps if Iustitia is blind-folded...
prudence can have her mouth stitched up?

but i'm still waiting for the ***** to kick in...
and so much for "fun" trying to find oneself:
with all the readily available knowledge and...
not... not: plagiarizing...
     or "jumping ship"...

   there truly isn't some sort of worthy compenation...
the served platter: the swedish table of...
all the foods presented... and you come
and stab at the nibbles... in a congregation of
those: given the advent of eating where:
no heart or its content is of a debate-worthiness...

beside the ancient roman glutton...
and... the well trained oesophagus...
          and regurgitation... and what was once
the celebrated icon: the snake...
would sooner or later have to be replaced
with a tapeworm...

    the serpent has had its day... and marble...
time... for the lesser creature... then again: perhaps not...

in "celebrating a drink of *****":
well... so much for... hunting a mammoth...
or... sitting beside a bonfire and...
telling stories or: dancing ****-naked
and dancing...

         i see no circus(es): beside the heaps and
heaps of bread: a character "assassination"
in writing...
sooner i'll catch a glimpse of a ballet choreographer
pirouette...
than know the difference between:
spinning an uncooked egg...
an egg soft-boiled and an egg: hard-boiled...

a racing track... equivalent to...
being hypnotized by... a spinning vinyl...
because... yore! that beacon of yawn rummaging
in the background of ambience...
and refrigerator drizzle of:
when falling rain became infused with...
electricity...

- alt. to "say" shish-kebab (let's be swabian...
and... "forget" the hyphen...)
like a toothless dog...
indeed... sometimes the tip of the tongue
teases the palet(t)e... hard or soft...
but sometimes the tongue-tip teases the top
frontal incissors: teeth...

where is the concept of the: rhapsodic...
the rattle-R... the quick... imitation
juggling of the tongue against the palete...
where the breath that involves
the uvula to swing like:
"for whom the bell tolls"?

                   do you see anyone taming
a ******* coch draig... anywhere?
this? this being "this"... "vicinity" of da-sein?
there-being: there's (there is)...
          on the moon... the alpaca trail...
in el dorado... in how the zulu tribe announced
a pristine: sod it...
          if only bulls were used instead
of horses: all that grit and armour...
notably of the cataphract...
                       if only bulls were used...
but: who's here to "rewrite" history
of that already, past... and inevitable?

the terrible has... already happened...
               í hiechyd ac tragwyddoldeb!
                          to health and eternity!
chiral: no...
     cheaper: no...
              i will find the "hark"...
   chosen... no no no...
                    similar (soft) to kid...
hybrid esque...
                 that "h" is not a surd...
verbatin 'e hie'....

                Olav! Dmitri!
Igor! meine hoonds!
                  ч - cheap... ah... roaming
in and around Midlothian...
                    loch ness! no prefix to suit up
a tux into... comes as a "surprise"
with the suffix: a loch...
                       х: hardly... k, s or c... or z...
xenophone: yuppy... aye aye...

              trag-wyd-dol-deb!
  zee velsh: sometimes the added same,
consonant... nurse! scalpel...
makes way for perfecting the syllable
incision... like so... trag-wyd-dol-deb!

   the lights have been dimmed on the tablet...
the battery life's longevity: expoinential explosion...
it takes so much little electric conversion
to feed the sap of sound...
that it takes to create blinking
and not blinking: murmur:
picadilly circus phantasmagoria of u.v. -

you can be crowned king deaf...
fall asleep with the radio... when the lights
are dimmed...
       no sooner me: no sooner you...
but... i'd much prefer the sound
of a fox at night...
than teeth gnashing... frothing: idly hungry...

all and no science: "or"...
all and no politics... "or" all of politics and all
of science... and most probably:
when the priest would wear a gown...
and the vatican remained neutral...
      
       etc. etc.              beside the vote:
or: woe... or woo...
        and such is the suffix association
with:      -man...
                    that there's some sexually
pervasive: attachment of either:
wooed by woe...
or... or...           to be woed by a woo...
  the beta gang would be singing:
bigmouth strikes again in a placebo
rendition...
                 because when you want to pirate
the original: it better sound just
a little bit more than then most...
    effeminate male available...
a morrisey will do jack ****...
you have to go full-tilt hindu and back
into transgender with
                                  a brian molko...

or at least that's how i concern myself
when managing to sit through
a production of tchaikovsky's ballet...
   beside the feet: what am i looking at?
spandex... the bulge?
     like it might be some covert name
for a battle, crisp on a piece of paper:
before the puff of a battle of crisps goes: pop!
in between the fudge of marrow
and the shrapnel of bone...
              here... i find my throne...
in a memory that's at best:
an amnesia...

             and somehow lodged in:
the... would-be... renting bums of dreams...
the squaters... the dream circuit...
when... in 1973... england drew 1 - 1
with poland...
                when being... just 7 years old
from 1966... an epitome for a very befitting
ending...
a closure... like any other...
             grandp'ah once said... once said...
and great-grandp'ah once said... once said...
sure as **** the logbow men of the 100 year war
weren't english... last time i heard
that churchill "mishandled" his V...
the original V voz viz zee velsh...
             index and ******* at
the fwench knights... since... if caught...
they'd cut 'em off!

                 V-salute! salute!
                           the blitzkireg overture...
         compound! no spaces in between: no hyphens!
der blitzkriegouvertüre...
        
   "together" come "together:... the disenfranchised
speculation of... what it was like...
to borrow from the first sequence
of the 20th century...

       and pass it into... what was it like...
acid neon: blonde... the culprit of bringing
the "congregation"
   past-participle: a romania a yugoslavia...
and a poland... nerve-riddled lithuania
and whittle estonia: etc.

      that grand boag bear o' ruzzia...
             wit' its ever persistent euro-fetish...
windows! windows! we need to see!
kandinsky translated into wind!

       on this democratic canvas...
           on this democratic canvas...
einz! zwei! drei!
     raz! dwa! trzy!
                   hey presto:
               on this demokratischleinwand!
meine stimme...
   meine: boo!
              meine: ghulrückzug!
               ich: bin zu sein gehört... ja?!
  
          this grand idea of a(n) european family:
get together...
   under the banner of: der VierteReich...
                the penned scribbles of
could always replace the boom-boom-'ombs...
and the brit-thai... would sit it out:
gob-smacked into shackles
and halos and angelic wings found
in the replica bargain of dry twigs...

the english sovereignty found among...
romanian root and fruit pickers...
              and if i too weren't lazy enough...
i'd have managed to find an atom-bomb...
glued my shadow to a wall...
and started a macaques' dance of freedom
from the magpie's cackle...
#metoo!

                   the cure and depeche mode made
it under the iron curtain...
the smiths? sorry... but i'm twice as likely
to appreciate them...

     the bass rummaging from fleetwood mac's
the chain...
and the bass rummaging from
pulp's wickerman...
            
                              canys y Çymraeg!
r. s. thomas...
                 that... battle of the season...
who is to know... beside auld lang syne:
whether the scots 'ave some gaelic in 'em...
except for the orthography: the diacritical & dialect
of somewhere akin to Glasgow...

  - that "unnecessary" war within the confines
of: the proud and selected: "empirical" and by invitation:
the trope... the welsh are...
are a silenced minority... and all that would
require "us" to confine "us" to "do"...
would be...
to stop thinking of england...
as a nation...
and... australia... or h'america...
as... a diaspora...

              clearly: "they" want to be at best:
and at worst: the distinct: genesis:
valkyrie first raiders...
in that non-essential war:
if the 1st world war wasn't...
seigl pandering lizzy...
sweden wuz neutralz...

                      woz she'iz notz?
            a pwetty pwetty: cobweb riddled face
like that of chris cornell...
               glue eyed but a background all
lacking in dimension for the sort
of immediacy of a curtain! cobain...
     yes: this is me... ******* on and dancing
on a grave:
last time i chequered my patience...
i found... the al fresco museum in a graveyard...
and the 3rd party artist working
on the marble... by gesture of wind and rain
and sun...

             how: exhausted by...
you cannot write an opera in italian...
to later translate it into german...
nor... clarity! sha! shtil!
                you can't... translate syllables:
like so... from... a japanese haiku...
into a... at best... a hiatus! a european sorting
factory of minor minded details...
of: adventure when licking a seal
on an envelope or...
a footnote that becomes a peacock
and a post-stamp when... detailing the affairs
of a piece of paper being governed by:
grieving having paired with it...
the metsphor / metaphysical aid of wings...

flake me: sire...
     boxing champ burroughs and all those
lost narratives that will never make it:
market a slow attention-span;
that's already available...

                          the muse my muse...
past the bob dylan and dylan thomas...
the priest and a cardiff...
        if only cardiff could boast akin
to how edinburgh can boast about
the old town and the royal mile...
and arthur's seat... and the craggs...

and... what women want...
mereditch brooks would never become
the next: the next to what next
of a... alanis morissette...
              never becoming... or being...
but all of that: for a continued cultural presence
of being in the recital rubric?
thank god for that...

quiet frankly? the la's": there she goes...
a little bit... a "little bit" irrelevant...
when you listen to the whole album...

the trouble with falling in love...
      is the trouble of: falling out of "love"
with one's mother...
                pursuit of the details
of a foetus... and all those details
of an unread book that staged its "fright"
on a bookshelf for circa close to a century...

             welcome party! or not so welcome!
i'd love to hear more about
welsh nationalism... since: on topic...
the scots have forgotten gaelic...
because of glasgow and being: oh so all
so-over pristine & perfect...
at least the welsh! oh god...
the welsh! on these isles!

hyphen! enter!
cymeradwyaeth

               cym-era-dwy-aeth
                      cym-erad-wyaeth

applause!­ and i'm trying: so trying...
to live for a liszt and lady gaga
as a summary of the jealous eyes
thst gave birth to bitter-tears...
yeah... fame...
and the cosmopolitan web of c.c.t.v.
"fame"...
the one already arrived at...
and the one pampered... with glitches
                               of editorial staff...

gu an cuimreach!
   - the escapade of keeping strict rigour / rubric
of being fed by adverts...
to have a buying impetus...
but not... the selling / haggling impetus...
from the cheap-*** moors and
the myriad of marrakesh:
   the berber: a latin for: hard-time:
quitting-time blues of...
            there are people still involved with
the a, z, via x q and... no readily available:
ph and th...
         because they were never...
the sort of brits... about to celebrate...
being conquered by ancient rome...
and ancient rome bulimia...
somewhere "circa": the baltic sea...

               - there's a "need" to be "coincidental":
pristine the developed mandibles
and the surname akin to singh...
        or... khan...
                   double that... for whatever reason...
and call it: Wales...
and then... the english-speaking conundrum:
"conundrum"...
and at best... nostalgia for 1990s
h'americana cultural export of:
fwends...

                    then: at best...
Wales is... Silesia... but at worst...
                    Ruthenia... and / or... Galicia...
that now Masovia is...
and how the Prussians were once
the fabled lot of the germanic left-over pieces
of a people: "******" by the standard
of teutons... or... what part of the glorification
of ancient rome...
oh, right... the parts not making
the germans the antagonists...
the "paraphrase" of the unexplored...

                    that only the english...
were to be so proud of...
a much later "digest" of... to have a "comfort"
within the confines...
last time i checked... there was pride in being
graffiti riddled as the afghanistan of
the ancient period...

             the unique history of island-dwelling
folk...
that they are... and i... can write
in their lingo: as... being devoid...
of... root...
              what is the great wall of china...
when what's already available...
given the la manche...
                                                       ­                 is...      
is not...
                 such a most pristine choice
of gentleman... and all!
and all! and all were tio be advocates!
and vote bound to stress!
king and country and the pickwick society
of: loitering gimps for worth of letters!

half a face divulging shadow...
half of which encompasses a play:
a ghost riddled... humanoid loiter
of exaspersation... and none... which,
would be most available...
to loiter... for the apple of Judas and
tht clinging... #30 pieces of silver...

thus wed: las vegas english...
      loitering actors' spew:
awound an Ilfowd 'n' Bawking 'n'
Dagenham... yo popsickle
'ipe and joy-c-c / jewc...
or whatsemfwench callz: sauz...
via dat: zu-not-my-*******-zoo.. ju...
plonkers & sons. (available)
jue: not juice 'ough...
******* kite-fliers!

            talks a cokckey slang like
a cherry... and that's...
the last left-over before mr. bangladesh
    before: quckie does one speakin'
"smart" did anyone any 'ood...

'oved up a 'arry 'n' the 'etter 'alf
of the... non-essential...
sounding "smart"
in cockeny: to be made export:
"loading essentials"...
is... hardly... the right sort of
***** avenue of:
escape from cwawddyff:
you... poke you poke my eyez
out... you... better start sounding
cockney shmartz...
eh: ja: herr?!

       **** it... whatever...
elt'z and etc. this bogus party back to...
and so call itz...
a limboz partez!

— The End —