My mind is a bull-fight, semi manifested. Half-realized and halfway through a lingering emotion, a hesitant atmospheric disturbance. The stadium is empty, but the perspiration of thousands of people still float. The enthusiastic screams craving blood, honour, courage; the craving for a childish narrative in which the bull represents evil, and the Matador represents the rebellious hero. The crowd knows such things don't exist. What they do know, however; is that somewhere between the

tête-à-tête

of the bull and the matador, exists a universality of understanding. An understanding that the crowd has defiantly given up on. So they do what we all do: They grasp at straws. But the crowd is not really there. And neither is the Matador, and neither are his assistants. There is only the smear of their bright, bourgeois garments dancing with exuberant flamboyance across the walls, in an obscure, enigmatic disobedience to black-line-confinement. The same distortion of form that occurs through the lens of a powerful drug; or the force of blunt pain.

The bull is adept with his horns, and their propulsion is fuelled by bovine testosterone. But his horns turn to papier-mâché, and the rage loses its direction, like when you try to escape some pursuer inside a nightmare.

And then: Revelation.

The amphitheatre is empty, there is no Matador, no enemy, no good, evil, no trouble or tranquility;
Only
Silence
Impotence

A confused bull, alone in it's thoughts, infinitely circling an empty arena, stabbing at a phantom.

In Yucatan, the Maya sonneteers
Of the Caribbean amphitheatre,
In spite of hawk and falcon, green toucan
And jay, still to the night-bird made their plea,
As if raspberry tanagers in palms,
High up in orange air, were barbarous.
But Crispin was too destitute to find
In any commonplace the sought-for aid.
He was a man made vivid by the sea,
A man come out of luminous traversing,
Much trumpeted, made desperately clear,
Fresh from discoveries of tidal skies,
To whom oracular rockings gave no rest.
Into a savage color he went on.

How greatly had he grown in his demesne,
This auditor of insects! He that saw
The stride of vanishing autumn in a park
By way of decorous melancholy; he
That wrote his couplet yearly to the spring,
As dissertation of profound delight,
Stopping, on voyage, in a land of snakes,
Found his vicissitudes had much enlarged
His apprehension, made him intricate
In moody rucks, and difficult and strange
In all desires, his destitution's mark.
He was in this as other freemen are,
Sonorous nutshells rattling inwardly.
His violence was for aggrandizement
And not for stupor, such as music makes
For sleepers halfway waking. He perceived
That coolness for his heat came suddenly,
And only, in the fables that he scrawled
With his own quill, in its indigenous dew,
Of an aesthetic tough, diverse, untamed,
Incredible to prudes, the mint of dirt,
Green barbarism turning paradigm.
Crispin foresaw a curious promenade
Or, nobler, sensed an elemental fate,
And elemental potencies and pangs,
And beautiful barenesses as yet unseen,
Making the most of savagery of palms,
Of moonlight on the thick, cadaverous bloom
That yuccas breed, and of the panther's tread.
The fabulous and its intrinsic verse
Came like two spirits parlaying, adorned
In radiance from the Atlantic coign,
For Crispin and his quill to catechize.
But they came parlaying of such an earth,
So thick with sides and jagged lops of green,
So intertwined with serpent-kin encoiled
Among the purple tufts, the scarlet crowns,
Scenting the jungle in their refuges,
So streaked with yellow, blue and green and red
In beak and bud and fruity gobbet-skins,
That earth was like a jostling festival
Of seeds grown fat, too juicily opulent,
Expanding in the gold's maternal warmth.
So much for that. The affectionate emigrant found
A new reality in parrot-squawks.
Yet let that trifle pass. Now, as this odd
Discoverer walked through the harbor streets
Inspecting the cabildo, the facade
Of the cathedral, making notes, he heard
A rumbling, west of Mexico, it seemed,
Approaching like a gasconade of drums.
The white cabildo darkened, the facade,
As sullen as the sky, was swallowed up
In swift, successive shadows, dolefully.
The rumbling broadened as it fell. The wind,
Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry,
Came bluntly thundering, more terrible
Than the revenge of music on bassoons.
Gesticulating lightning, mystical,
Made pallid flitter. Crispin, here, took flight.
An annotator has his scruples, too.
He knelt in the cathedral with the rest,
This connoisseur of elemental fate,
Aware of exquisite thought. The storm was one
Of many proclamations of the kind,
Proclaiming something harsher than he learned
From hearing signboards whimper in cold nights
Or seeing the midsummer artifice
Of heat upon his pane. This was the span
Of force, the quintessential fact, the note
Of Vulcan, that a valet seeks to own,
The thing that makes him envious in phrase.

And while the torrent on the roof still droned
He felt the Andean breath. His mind was free
And more than free, elate, intent, profound
And studious of a self possessing him,
That was not in him in the crusty town
From which he sailed. Beyond him, westward, lay
The mountainous ridges, purple balustrades,
In which the thunder, lapsing in its clap,
Let down gigantic quavers of its voice,
For Crispin to vociferate again.

Written in April 1798, during the alarm of an invasion

A green and silent spot, amid the hills,
A small and silent dell! O’er stiller place
No singing skylark ever poised himself.
The hills are heathy, save that swelling *****,
Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on,
All golden with the never-bloomless furze,
Which now blooms most profusely: but the dell,
Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate
As vernal cornfield, or the unripe flax,
When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve,
The level sunshine glimmers with green light.
Oh! ’tis a quiet spirit-healing nook!
Which all, methinks, would love; but chiefly he,
The humble man, who, in his youthful years,
Knew just so much of folly as had made

His early manhood more securely wise!
Here he might lie on fern or withered heath,
While from the singing lark (that sings unseen
The minstrelsy that solitude loves best),
And from the sun, and from the breezy air,
Sweet influences trembled o’er his frame;
And he, with many feelings, many thoughts,
Made up a meditative joy, and found
Religious meanings in the forms of Nature!
And so, his senses gradually wrapped
In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds,
And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark,
That singest like an angel in the clouds!

My God! it is a melancholy thing
For such a man, who would full fain preserve
His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel
For all his human brethren—O my God!
It weighs upon the heart, that he must think
What uproar and what strife may now be stirring
This way or that way o’er these silent hills—
Invasion, and the thunder and the shout,
And all the crash of onset; fear and rage,
And undetermined conflict—even now,
Even now, perchance, and in his native isle:
Carnage and groans beneath this blessed sun!
We have offended, Oh! my countrymen!
We have offended very grievously,
And been most tyrannous. From east to west
A groan of accusation pierces Heaven!
The wretched plead against us; multitudes
Countless and vehement, the sons of God,
Our brethren! Like a cloud that travels on,
Steamed up from Cairo’s swamps of pestilence,
Even so, my countrymen! have we gone forth
And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs,
And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint
With slow perdition murders the whole man,
His body and his soul! Meanwhile, at home,
All individual dignity and power
Engulfed in Courts, Committees, Institutions,
Associations and Societies,
A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting Guild,
One Benefit-Club for mutual flattery,
We have drunk up, demure as at a grace,
Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth;
Contemptuous of all honourable rule,
Yet bartering freedom and the poor man’s life
For gold, as at a market! The sweet words
Of Christian promise, words that even yet
Might stem destruction, were they wisely preached,
Are muttered o’er by men, whose tones proclaim
How flat and wearisome they feel their trade:
Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent
To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth.
Oh! blasphemous! the Book of Life is made
A superstitious instrument, on which
We gabble o’er the oaths we mean to break;
For all must swear—all and in every place,
College and wharf, council and justice-court;
All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed,
Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest,
The rich, the poor, the old man and the young;
All, all make up one scheme of perjury,
That faith doth reel; the very name of God
Sounds like a juggler’s charm; and, bold with joy,
Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place
(Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism,
Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon,
Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them close,
And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven,
Cries out, “Where is it?”

Thankless too for peace,
(Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas)
Secure from actual warfare, we have loved
To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war!
Alas! for ages ignorant of all
Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague,
Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,)
We, this whole people, have been clamorous
For war and bloodshed; animating sports,
The which we pay for as a thing to talk of,
Spectators and not combatants! No guess
Anticipative of a wrong unfelt,
No speculation on contingency,
However dim and vague, too vague and dim
To yield a justifying cause; and forth,
(Stuffed out with big preamble, holy names,
And adjurations of the God in Heaven,)
We send our mandates for the certain death
Of thousands and ten thousands! Boys and girls,
And women, that would groan to see a child
Pull off an insect’s leg, all read of war,
The best amusement for our morning meal!
The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers
From curses, who knows scarcely words enough
To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father,
Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute
And technical in victories and defeats,
And all our dainty terms for fratricide;
Terms which we trundle smoothly o’er our tongues
Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which
We join no feeling and attach no form!
As if the soldier died without a wound;
As if the fibres of this godlike frame
Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch,
Who fell in battle, doing ****** deeds,
Passed off to Heaven, translated and not killed;
As though he had no wife to pine for him,
No God to judge him! Therefore, evil days
Are coming on us, O my countrymen!
And what if all-avenging Providence,
Strong and retributive, should make us know
The meaning of our words, force us to feel
The desolation and the agony
Of our fierce doings?

Spare us yet awhile,
Father and God! O, spare us yet awhile!
Oh! let not English women drag their flight
Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes,
Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday
Laughed at the breast! Sons, brothers, husbands, all
Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms
Which grew up with you round the same fireside,
And all who ever heard the Sabbath-bells
Without the Infidel’s scorn, make yourselves pure!
Stand forth! be men! repel an impious foe,
Impious and false, a light yet cruel race,
Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth
With deeds of ******; and still promising
Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free,
Poison life’s amities, and cheat the heart
Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes,
And all that lifts the spirit! Stand we forth;
Render them back upon the insulted ocean,
And let them toss as idly on its waves
As the vile seaweed, which some mountain-blast
Swept from our shores! And oh! may we return
Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear,
Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung
So fierce a foe to frenzy!

I have told,
O Britons! O my brethren! I have told
Most bitter truth, but without bitterness.
Nor deem my zeal or fractious or mistimed;
For never can true courage dwell with them
Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look
At their own vices. We have been too long
Dupes of a deep delusion! Some, belike,
Groaning with restless enmity, expect
All change from change of constituted power;
As if a Government had been a robe
On which our vice and wretchedness were tagged
Like fancy-points and fringes, with the robe
Pulled off at pleasure. Fondly these attach
A radical causation to a few
Poor drudges of chastising Providence,
Who borrow all their hues and qualities
From our own folly and rank wickedness,
Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, meanwhile,
Dote with a mad idolatry; and all
Who will not fall before their images,
And yield them worship, they are enemies
Even of their country!

Such have I been deemed.—
But, O dear Britain! O my Mother Isle!
Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy
To me, a son, a brother, and a friend,
A husband, and a father! who revere
All bonds of natural love, and find them all
Within the limits ot thy rocky shores.
O native Britain! O my Mother Isle!
How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy
To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills,
Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas,
Have drunk in all my intellectual life,
All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts,
All adoration of the God in nature,
All lovely and all honourable things,
Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel
The joy and greatness of its future being?
There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul
Unborrowed from my country! O divine
And beauteous Island! thou hast been my sole
And most magnificent temple, in the which
I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs,
Loving the God that made me!—

May my fears,
My filial fears, be vain! and may the vaunts
And menace of the vengeful enemy
Pass like the gust, that roared and died away
In the distant tree: which heard, and only heard
In this low dell, bowed not the delicate grass.

But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad
The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze:
The light has left the summit of the hill,
Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful,
Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell,
Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot!
On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill,
Homeward I wind my way; and lo! recalled
From bodings that have well-nigh wearied me,
I find myself upon the brow, and pause
Startled! And after lonely sojourning
In such a quiet and surrounded nook,
This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main,
Dim-tinted, there the mighty majesty
Of that huge amphitheatre of rich
And elmy fields, seems like society—
Conversing with the mind, and giving it
A livelier impulse and a dance of thought!
And now, beloved Stowey! I behold
Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms
Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend;
And close behind them, hidden from my view,
Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe
And my babe’s mother dwell in peace! With light
And quickened footsteps thitherward I tend,
Remembering thee, O green and silent dell!
And grateful, that by nature’s quietness
And solitary musings, all my heart
Is softened, and made worthy to indulge
Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind.

Deconstructing a Kafkaesque
amphitheatre of the absurd,
Easy wallows she in their hypocrisy,
Son of a gun grabbed on
to the gold that fed his infant
self, doesn't dare let go, won't ever,
Dev breaks the bottle he hits,
scrounges, discards the last scrap,
the rat scurries in, devours, heads
back into the smoked corridor,
the auction goes on, so does he
showering petals and pity upon the
middle road more travelled, bumpy,
potholes full of acid and bile,
the stupidity of the tyrannical majority
and an underwater civilisation consumed
by mind-numbing, mildly shocking TV,
undercurrents of power drowned under.
Uppercase Him, uppercase He,
they hoist a red flag, set it afire,
stomp out the flames, wave a black
rag till the ashes turn to naught,
the Dionysian petit bourgeoisie proceed,
spew, *****, spew, repeat.
The voyeuristic rat has front row seats
gaze fixed, piercing centrestage
auction-house by day, amphitheatre by night,
the bids shall resume when
the morning bells toll, till then,
Dev's hungry for more,
the rat enjoys the show.

A night in mid-August
and you can hear them
from your house,
the drums begin
and brass sounds follow
like quietly excited children,
like the two who walk with you
over the hill.

The sun sinks
into evening’s quicksand,
your soggy clock
of adolescence
ticks faster than ever.

Scent of popcorn
excites your nostrils,
grey couples talk soft, slow,
and once your blanket
is draped upon the grass
you see an orb of hollow green
drift sleepily
up, up, over everyone’s heads
and you wish
you were that tiny balloon,
floating far away
toward something new
as each teenage summer
blurs into your brew.

More folk need to learn
About Cause and Effect
Respecting others
Is fundamentally what earns respect

My dad was raised Christian
Episcopalian
But left
No disrespect
He just wasn't convinced

So when I was a child
Our attendance at church was
sporadic
Sometimes a source of contention
And, usually, more pain than joy

The summer of 1969
Men walked on the Moon
And my parents
Split
My dad moved across town
I saw him one day each weekend
The most time we had ever spent together.

When I was twelve the earth moved
Sixty-four people died
And my father embraced Buddhism
And Buddhism embraced him
In a way nothing else ever had
and he learned moderation
Regaining his freedom

What got him was the Law of Causation
Cause and Effect
What goes around comes around
The Golden Rule
Unencumbered
With the baggage from his past
The philosophy of common sense
His pianist's artist's teacher's mind
Could comprehend
Grasp and hold for good

My twelve-year-old mouth
Would not be denied
And so I one day announced
That chanting
Was simply another form of prayer
A fact he acknowledged
reluctantly
but ultimately
with humor and grace

And was it my father's turn to Buddhism
That sparked my own
Journey into Spirit?

In 1972
With Godspell on the radio
I saw Jesus Christ Superstar
At the Universal Amphitheatre
Twice
And when my sister joked
"Let there be light"
And all the lights came on
Then she genuflected
Before taking her seat
It was only partly in jest
For there was reverence in the air
And a sense of the Eternal
The foundation of the story
Of every story
Cause and Effect

Later that year I was baptized
Before I realized
That no church held the key
For the key was within me
As it resides within us all

More folk need to learn
About Cause and Effect
We are here on earth to Love.
And respecting others
Is fundamentally what earns respect.

6/7 July 2005 Approx. 2 AM

There was a kid, he sat by himself
In classes he never spoke nor asked for help
He'd sit up the front, all quiet and calm
He never once did anything to hurt anyone

He just did his work, only spoke when spoken to
I'd see him alone in the courtyard, he never ate his food
Recess or lunch would swing by, he'd listen to music
And every day I saw him there so I got used to it

Then come one Lunch, he wasn't there
I pretended not to care but deep down I was scared
Because in the lesson before some kids were talking tall
About how they'd sort him out by setting him up to fall

And by God I was shaking, I was fucken nervous
He was just a quiet guy you don't need to hurt him
He never did wrong he was just around
I jumped when I heard him scream by Christ it was loud!

I ran into the amphitheatre and all the kids were screaming
He was mangled on the ground and **** was he bleeding
He looks across with fading eyes, says "help please"
I had to look away as I fell to my knees

He's looking hopefully
He's looking up to me
I look up at the shocked faces like
"You ******* happy? Answer me!
How the **** was I so blind to not see this happening?
All you ever spoke about was hurting him and killing me!

Now the tides have turned! You ******* killed him
You better run now before the darkness hunts down your sin!"
I look down again, he has a smile of hope
"Thank you for holding up the Bro Code"

Then his hand falls, it lays on his chest
And I'm not sure who's more dead, coz I got no breath
The sirens scream as loud as the kids fleeing
And all I remember was six shots and fucken running

My brother on the ground, burned into my mind
And it haunts me to this day that I left him behind
But I gottem back, made them join him
So he can get em back and start bashing

the sleeper...

riled in slumber
         her face fevered
     cussed about the terrain
                                     of a floral breeding
  bedding patterns and the print
                                        bunched in struggles
in smudges
                     an amateur trial with sisters makeup
     primal cosmetics
            make a mock
                    daubed
                                ceremony for slumber

dusty and museum are her dollworks
        an amphitheatre audience
                                 overlooming her berth
    flaunting the gallery shelves
                sustained expressionist menace
Roman eyes and Victorian ridicule
stuffed suffering with Ugly Duckling down
****** sawdust and your sullied label
they bray and they brawl
         and they sluice their gull gall
    a sick drizzle
       over the sleepers form

   from the exterior
  wild wails the weather
its being
     drubbing
  peers fragile
at the windowpane
a raid on this vulnerable sleeper
impounded in bedroom aloft
raised to meet the jet stream

she is fumbled in dreams...

  abraded adolescent swells
judder out figments
  a bleed of vandals
     siling her muted childhood
       parading the playground
          berating old
         once loved playthings
       adopting no sympathy
    adapting in favour
      of the wild riding will
        of the direful pre familiar

into the woods...

a ***** charmed breath
       dressed smartly as boy
stoppers her pathway
       insisting a gentleman's assistance
frustrates her recitations
      of grandmothers doting
           stern teachings
         like fragile pottery
            come to harm
         broken into teeth
the quick blood beating
       this nocturnal forest
     busy in heat
      bonding death
       to refract the hustling moon

a company of wolves
    fill out the clearing
not a spell too soon
their howls reverberate
             jeering
mocking their new glut
sifting followers
      from the raggle-taggle array of fools
the foolish dreamers
          rounded up
amongst them she stands
red dressed and nervous
one hand clasping
                  and sexing the other

fortified
a great jaw operates here
an excited irresponsible mastication
committed to this fairytale

...agitation in her sleep

poetry as audio - only audio - the tendons: physics between
animate muscles and inanimate bone - poetry as only audio,
poetry to be disguised without the skeletal alphabets -
never seemingly written - bounce drum rhyme -
                   repetition to no flute
or violin sound -
               bouncing, ping-pong
of consonants -
           the usual cliches -
listening to recitation like to classical
music, and felt no emotion,
only the mechanisation with
robotic churns of the body,
a voice above me, clouding me -
with each b and p and d and q -
                               at the new Bermuda -
passing through to either attend
each though and oar past the Stygian
thought - yes,
   this is the city where men are mended,
spaghetti for the cowboy
     and the poet in a western of Minotaur
  vast west: imploring: western.
       there she and he hang on a
scaffold - not a stage -
      among the heads of chauffeurs
and aristocrats - upon the grand scaffold,
with the chandelier guillotine -
where tongues are cut off: as the people
feared: the stealing of truth: similarly an
apple in Arabia - hence the tongues roll
out from the mouth of dutiful thieves -
the grander good of the beheaded caricature:
spineless -
                   and each word with attempt
to be both meaningful
            and knocks - to better resound
with meaning but still the never-to-be
syringe of sound - myriad of knocking,
thumping and whistling,
          never to accept the fakes from the paraphrasing
and ditto:
                  they hunted the stones: alias
for the hearts-
                            so too, the fluctuations
of bemoaned cravings: settling into routine -
    and the grand extreme rainbow of grey -
where truant light en-robes the eye with
shades rather than colours - where white and
black mingle truer, than into what the pristine
Newtonian spectrum arrives at -
        oh or not so dramatic on every turn -
thus the voice, neither trumpet, nor the saxophone -
   or agile hands and violins -
to the palette of niche villages -
         hollowing out the angry mob -
and the secret heart, without an inner -
the voice above me like a halo
                    to suit man's comparison with
angels' wings - thus the halo,
         man's comparative image of bleeding
out to do good and earn flight,
               then the halo and the Berlin wall -
that of the puritan nurture of one's own -
thus too, a poet's recitation,
a claustrophobic immersion in orchestra -
          suddenly a reminder of the conductor's
wand - thus an entire orchestra in
a room the size of a house, or the poet's voice
reciting in the equivalent of a matchbox -
equal measure of the two being comparatively equal.
  so indeed, poetry should only be encoded
purely audio, never in skeletons of
numbing toothpicks scattered - A as three of them
   and Z as three also -
                      but of course, no talk of urban
rivalries - of the softened heart to absorb more,
   and even more - never the stone that's the heart
un-repenting to experience more, as ever the more
needed to claim a knowledge of life...
                        forever trying to make rhyme
the odd chance - to make rhyme the odd chance -
to not succumb to philosophical systematisation -
for poetry faces the fates of shoes boxes and
         cardboard boxes stacked -
                           as they did: to succumb to
philosophy's systematisation, perhaps not rolling
the Sisyphus vocabulary - but conscious of techniques
in variations cannot be mended: why write
  poetry by being conscious of writing a passport?
rhymes ought to be rare, spontaneous -
             chance meetings...
                                                chance kisses...
   chance cheek against cheek -
                              so i too feel a voice of poetry
said: perfectly aligned to my body's movements...
unlike music, extreme in classical: to sway heart and eye -
of the voice: the entire body is aligned to move -
to never sit still... thus: into writing.
                                but poetic scores should never
be written... immediately: said...
                                and they should be marked
by the waking quake of idle fingers and the teleportation
from voice to encode into these zigzags naked for
the eye to see...                       or so it seems,
  upon hearing... even though there is no excess of
narration - where each to his voiced concerns
does not obey to be ushered by dim-wit and the
intelligent narrator, as each narrator makes it clear:
mere puppets where characters should reside -
   in each book... a character a poet...
                       and already that demand to
despise the god - with each narrator overpowering
  weakling characters - impossible poetics -
                         if not merely puppets to coerce
the architect of movement - sodden prose brimming
with clouds, tables, and sunken eyes -
                      charcoal swans and cobweb constellations -
          akin the two: but with each musical note
    i count words equal - and the genesis beyond
  the standard of civilisation, of the desert fathers -
            then into each of the 26 limbs -
                  and the marriages of the 26 cousins -
     the balance of the ratio 26:5 - .2 thus man and woman -
              or in ratio or fraction reverse: until the last penny...
(matthew), or... because abraham obeyed me (genesis) -
                            strength in nothing being comparable -
              and weakness in everything having
                                     anecdote - amalgam - and a
                                                         sweaty amphitheatre;
from applause to organisation by arithmetic -
         as from encore to echo - and the readied to cling
         in the umbilical chord of history's hunger, of mother
earth and the blind eyeing the world through
                                   both telescope and microscope -
           in heart as both reside: with diminishing
                             vibrations - at last, the love least entertained
  and embracing.

where Hollywood's celluloid dream
is reflected off silver screen
into the consciousness
of audience's expectations
sitting
in amphitheatre auditoriums
amid
whispered conversations
plot revelations
spoiler alert
sweet packet crinkle
coke slurp
popcorn rustle
where held hands
make promises breached
bases reached
love declared
for a fumble on a back seat
childhoods spent
getting out from under
grownups feet
the good guys won
the bad guys wore black
where a thousand shots fired
nobody died
in the end
aching legs brought to life
to leave with
a head full of stories
unrelated to real life

i couldn't be... more... possibly: well... not possibly more...
aloof...
   yes... that's a crumpet of a word...
a scone...
        something levereging me to circumstance
myself with: delight: in that it is delightful - it's brimming
with delight...
it's what i want to eat: and by eat: what i can feel...
my... what can i counter eating and feeling with?
perhaps this... taking to thinking is a bit like taking a ****...
perhaps... just perhaps:
i am merely constipated... or rather...
               claustrophobic...
                  or perhaps! i have become exhausted
from taking three attempts at sitting on the throne
of thrones...
strip me down to the basics and all i have left
is a playground of language:
and the omni- prefix litany of a god that's
bound to no polytheistic drama of engaging
man... in that... geometrical throne room...
in that cosmological: in that phe... phenomenoligcal
"argument"...
what a boring god! this god!
             a fixation on keeping something so well
contained: and neatly: impossible!
what a boring god of gods... yawn...
no drama: no soap opera...
ah! one sure sign that i am not a native:
yet speaking and writing and scribbling like
a chicken scratching on a page...
   where was i when t.v. soap opera happened?
where was i... when... reality tv happened "across
the pond"?
                   astounding! before the establishment
came around to pick up pieces of one Dane...
and... existentialism was called: phenomenology...
cactii words... prickly and hardly anything
worth considering as concise as a well lubricated
pill...
   of a paracetamol or a vitamin C...
           well... if i read too much into Shakespeare...
here's a sonnet - no... the expectation is too great!
Hitchens: a contemporary... a man has died...
Dickens? beyond the century and more...
a man: had lived...
       for sake of clarification:
              a life for the sake of the argument...
  or... a life... for the sake of a narrative...
                           if this was all sorted into a paragraph...
it would hardly be called: an imitation
of painting... is there such a "thing" concerning
a Kandinsky-signature?
           beside the point...
i have to air my allowance for frivolity!
      all day today all i had to do was appreciate
the afternoon sun and bask in in...
pretend to be a goldfish... and look for the downer...
a crow perched on a detail: croaking...
and yes... the epitome of happiness -
a sparrow throng... would i dare to care that i didn't
find it?
          o these most insincere details...
bland conversations over... details of superfluity:
that very english: over-stated, cosmopolitan:
so sorry... so sorry... moving on...
i want this toy this sandpit and this
muffin of well adjusted sand for a bucket & *****
party...
should cinnamon: should enough cinnamon
and cumin and coriander... and paprika...
all arrive on time to replace the already stated
need to make architectural grand feats using sand!

with such a day as i've had...
i would be pretty much content with...
a lullaby of whiskey and a welcoming pillow
to come... and sleep...

if i only have had the half of the fullness
of bother surrounding me: shackling me...
dragging me down to no-known depth of a pit...
a circus of words! a play with them!

but as every unwelcome interlude...
if only solving a crossword puzzle was not such
a solipsistic event...
       if there was a dear grandmother: gorgon
by her son-in-law thus stated...
that man is to... exit the abode of a mother
and a father... joke is: children are all that is to come...
except... for the ***-note of "moving forward"...
the mother the vermin the father the vermin...
when one has to rejoice! rejoice! oh most splendid!
in... taking account of a mother-in-law!
woe woe: woo         this "future" man...

reality chequers... and half-wit of chess...
mid-way through a sudoku puzzle no. 11,484...
prior to i was thinking:
what if the letters were to replaced
with greek letters... better still...
let's extend the strict geometry... let's play tennis:
a game of 7 rectangles and the odd two or three
squares: notably within the confines
of I, V and X...

and here the talk of internet soap opera...
drama...

if it were a rose i'd wish to pluck: i'd pluck a rose...
if i were a butcher dealing with a slab of
pork... and if i were about to fillet a corpus of
salmon... i'd do all that and all the details
feigned "missing" / deemed...

    invaderVie...
                         and... what the bulgarian prostitutes
do is... reverse stealing kisses...
and charging a top-up fee to taste the ****-courosel
for an extra tenner...
a brothel that stinks like bourbon turned into
a perfume?                      premature *******...
i'm hardly any better... better at what...
"manning up"... or just... the whiskey has to be
most certainly drank... and prior to: bought...

and none of the money can go into...
jeremy cricket farming for either conscience or...
leprecauns, lepers or... locust...
                    
                     the original... of course...
         in the digital application... algebra...
a pure affair of letters...
          "too much algebra: not enough
arithmetic"!

VII    X    X    X    X    X    X    X    X
X    X    X    X    VII    X    X    X    X
X    X    X    X    X    X    X    X    VII
X    VII    X    X    X    X    X    X    X
X    X    X    X    X    X    VII    X    X              (7)
X    X    X    VII    X    X    X    X    X
X    X    X    X    X    X    X    VII    X
X    X    VII    X    X    X    X    X    X
X    X    X    X    X    VII    X    X    X

VII    VIII    X    X    X    X    X    X    X
X    X    X    X    VII    VIII    X    X    X
X    X    X    X    X    X    X    VIII    VII
X    VII    X    X    X    X    X    X    VIII
VIII    X    X    X    X    X    VII    X    X              (8)
X    X    X    VII    VIII    X    X    X    X
X    X    X    X    X    X    VIII    VII    X
X    X    VII    VIII    X    X    X    X    X
X    X    VIII    X    X    VII    X    X    X

VII    VIII    IX    X    X    X    X    X    X
X    X    X    X    VII    VIII    IX    X    X
X    X    X    IX    X    X    X    VIII    VII
IX    VII    X    X    X    X    X    X    VIII
VIII    X    X    X    X    IX    VII    X    X              (9)
X    X    X    VII    VIII    X    X    IX    X
X    X    X    X    IX    X    VIII    VII    X
X    X    VII    VIII    X    X    X    X    IX
X    IX    VIII    X    X    VII    X    X    X

VII    VIII    IX    X    VI    X    X    X    X
X    X    X    X    VII    VIII    IX    X    VI
VI     X    X    IX    X    X    X    VIII    VII
IX    VII    X    X    X    VI     X    X    VIII
VIII    X    X    X    X    IX    VII    VI     X              (6)
X    VI     X    VII    VIII    X    X    IX    X
X    X    VI    X    IX    X    VIII    VII    X
X    X    VII    VIII    X    X    VI    X    IX
X    IX    VIII    VI    X    VII    X    X    X

and as such... yes... i am convinced that man...
has... a fixed: anatomy of morals...
is free will an argument for: a transcendence
beyond / within the obligatory
confines of: yes / no... elevated toward:
either / or...     i sometimes... do wonder...
but... seeing a sudoku using roman
numerals... mandarin?
hardly a chance to freely mingle...
letters to... discover new ground...
with letters: not with numbers:
the calcalus...
as such: letters as merely: theory put into
practice... tested... spatial / temporal
orientation: proof...
the stuff of letters... they are... still... letters...
pi et al. aren't they?

   otherwise, yes... the joys of the abacus...

VII    VIII    IX    X    VI    V    X    X    X
X    X    X    X    VII    VIII    IX    V    VI
VI     X    V    IX    X    X    X    VIII    VII
IX    VII    X    X    V    VI     X    X    VIII
VIII    V    X    X    X    IX    VII    VI     X              (5)
X    VI     X    VII    VIII    X    X    IX    V
X    X    VI    V    IX    X    VIII    VII    X
V    X    VII    VIII    X    X    VI    X    IX
X    IX    VIII    VI    X    VII    V    X    X

would it be enough to see the flavian amphitheatre...
see it: when letters were also numbers...
just a little cockroach of detail...
a sudoku... within the confines of the roman
numerals... less abstracted than...
chinese ideograms...
what, idea?! count! count! count!
or rather... entertain abstracting geometry...

VII    VIII    IX    X    VI    V    X    X    IV
X    IV    X    X    VII    VIII    IX    V    VI
VI     X    V    IX    IV    X    X    VIII    VII
IX    VII    X    IV    V    VI     X    X    VIII
VIII    V    IV    X    X    IX    VII    VI     X              (4)
X    VI     X    VII    VIII    X    IV    IX    V
X    X    VI    V    IX    IV    VIII    VII    X
V    X    VII    VIII    X    X    VI    IV    IX
IV    IX    VIII    VI    X    VII    V    X    X

VII    VIII    IX    X    VI    V    X    III    IV
X    IV    III    X    VII    VIII    IX    V    VI
VI     X    V    IX    IV    III    X    VIII    VII
IX    VII    X    IV    V    VI     III    X    VIII
VIII    V    IV    III    X    IX    VII    VI     X              (3)
III    VI     X    VII    VIII    X    IV    IX    V
X    X    VI    V    IX    IV    VIII    VII    III
V    III    VII    VIII    X    X    VI    IV    IX
IV    IX    VIII    VI    III    VII    V    X    X

VII    VIII    IX    II    VI    V    X    III    IV
II    IV    III    X    VII    VIII    IX    V    VI
VI     X    V    IX    IV    III    II    VIII    VII
IX    VII    X    IV    V    VI     III    II    VIII
VIII    V    IV    III    II    IX    VII    VI     X              (2)
III    VI     II    VII    VIII    X    IV    IX    V
X    II    VI    V    IX    IV    VIII    VII    III
V    III    VII    VIII    X    II    VI    IV    IX
IV    IX    VIII    VI    III    VII    V    X    II

and of course... X disappears into I...
because... "0" is still a "mystery"...

VII    VIII    IX    II    VI    V    I    III    IV
II    IV    III    I    VII    VIII    IX    V    VI
VI     I    V    IX    IV    III    II    VIII    VII
IX    VII    I    IV    V    VI     III    II    VIII
VIII    V    IV    III    II    IX    VII    VI     I              (1)
III    VI     II    VII    VIII    I    IV    IX    V
I    II    VI    V    IX    IV    VIII    VII    III
V    III    VII    VIII    I    II    VI    IV    IX
IV    IX    VIII    VI    III    VII    V    I    II

concerning spacing... not enough of...
"too little butter spread... over too much toast"...
that proverb: he who sleeps on
the floor has no fear of falling out of a bed:
or the honesty of rising from one...

this! or anything to lend itself
to fathom mandarin architectural concerns...
no... there's not talk
of greenwich alignment...
none of it!
    
    just so you might have asked...
        the bible doesn't belong in... Kentucky!
not with the televised preachers...
i want something of this book...
this greco-hebrew collaboration...
i'm writing in latin ditto: am i, not?
  
               i want something from this book...
i want the romance: i want...
the narrative...
         to hell with the staging of arguments!
the final chapter was written in nuance...
the greeks joined forces with the yids:
the hebs... i'm quiet late to the party...
of the late and no: western revival...
or how, yes, "how" the byzantines didn't
see the ottomans or their precursors:
the seljuks...

greek numerals.... blah!
                 i have 7 heads: here are the 7 hills...
and i'll compound them into the 7 kingdoms
of the benelux... if you... want...

if it will sound better in german:
i am here, as an arrogance...
let's see...
  ich bin hier, wie ein arroganz!
       ja! daß machen erklingen: herrlich!

yes: i am here... because someone,
   "someone" was... too busy... keeping count
of copper coinage...
and i'm tired of... this was never
a greco-hebrew conspiracy at a time when...
the greeks started to grow shrimp-*****
about... how...
           their **** and ego affairs of
"the argument" drifted into romance and nostalgia
and... whatever became of them...

i do count 7... or the hebrew cornerstone,
letter... L... lamed...
             i drink and all i want is to...
fall in love with a girl with brown eyes
and brown hair... teased with...
oak and chocolate... and sun-stroke burns...
of shy strawberry blossom...
or... that sort of kind of wording...

oh for ****'s sake! not Helga! not some
Valhalla monstrosity of butch & **** blonde
operatics!
something tame... something...
associated with native h'american Sioux...
and... a stew... carrots and: **** like that...

        besser im deutsche!
                     seit im: englisch: ist nein: genug!

A knot of truth hangs over me,
more a promise that all things
      come together.

Were a straight line that if
    you take enough steps
leads to an amphitheatre of

                         echoes

reverberating around and around
         resonating with this truth

that all things have a balance.

We start, end, doesn't matter if we
                   stand still of reach for the

heavens..

Eventually we'll just swing silently
                like a extinguished light bulb

hanging dead in the abyss.

When you visit Rome, it is as if history beckons,
All other thoughts are secondary to reckon,
Stunning architecture and ruins does the mind conjure,
While being tempted to look at the bigger picture

Marble sculptures adorn numerous buildings and landmarks,
Their sheer size and natural look surely leave a mark,
Said to be influenced by the ancient Greeks,
And perfected by the Romans as seen in most tweaks

Vatican is reportedly the smallest state in the world,
Christianity hails it as the holiest place in the world,
The City's museums, chapels and gardens lend a scenic splendor,
Making it an enchanted place with little to wonder

St Peter's Basilica is one of the largest churches in the world,
It's sprawling mosaic interior and impressive art is way out of this world,
The incredible Michalengalo dome will always be entrenched in one's memory,
Climbing atop the dome for a panoramic city view is anything but dreary

St Peter's Square is the vast spectacular square in the Vatican,
It is quintessential with an opulent air that no one can question,
Majestic columns and pilasters flanking the square are an architectural marvel,
That it can hold more than a quarter million people is for the mind to unravel

The Sistine Chapel is proof of Michalengelo's transformation from sculptor to painter,
Reflected in the ceiling depicting the Book of Genesis's nine episodes as you saunter,
The gallery paintings portray detailed maps of the world in the sixteenth century,
Remaining etched in visitors' memories when leaving the Vatican eventually

The iconic Flavian Amphitheatre (Colosseum) is a major landmark in Rome,
Majestic arched entrances and thoughtfully designed seating impress as you roam,
The arena and cages where gladiators combated wild animals bring painful memories,
Of a ****** sport that people flocked to witness, as if in a reverie

Trevi fountain's theatrical architectural marvel is a sight to behold,
Little wonder that visitors come in droves with so much to be told,
Coins thrown in the water portend a return visit in Rome's favor,
Group euphoria and endless clicking of selfies are memoirs to savor

Spanish Steps is famous for its elegance and unique design,
The Barcaccia Fountain at it's base adds to the scenic outline,
People relax for hours at this traditional meeting place,
The annual summer fashion show here though, is never commonplace

Rome is no exception to Italy's famed gelato,
People slurp on cones with considerable gusto,
Gelato is creamier and denser than ice cream,
Its such subtle differences that make it a scream

Rome, as the rest of Italy, is a gourmet's delight,
Trattorias, aka informal ristorantes are a common sight,
People swarm these eateries that offer great variety for a bite,
Can there be a better way to whet one's appetite?

It is a city that is always teeming with tourists,
With a colorful spontaneity that is difficult to resist,
Brings to mind literally the phrase "All roads lead to Rome",
As memories continue to linger long after one heads back home

Rolling over encumbered waters and their peelings. I am deloused in the sanctum of brazen ladders that were manufactured in a tunnel in Somalia now that tunnel lies, sinking gradually by attoseconds. Africa is connected to Arabia via this passage “and how could I know?” I hear you ask. Well you don’t know, and you never will. But lo’, am I not making your mind nod? Stubborn as you may believe yourself to be, I remain an anvil and you are a blanket. So, there is no better reason to acquiesce. Beneficial, it will remain. So what say you, friend? Shall I continue? Well, here’s the second frame that has materialized within the half second: I’m writing vigorously, beholden to a contrived cosmic thing and erratically, I dream of a mauve *******- I reckon it’s an amphitheatre. The fiery rings of chairs are segregated according to the stature of the ***** that rest their heads on them. Briggyn Losyandr, a fisherman Thraex, assaults me with a Macedonian lance. Its blade is merely a tongue, and an oxidized one at that.
“Begone, man! I’ve got no role to play in your firetruck ambush.”
“Sir, this conflict isn’t for me, but I belong with you.”
The writer is supposed to be disconnected. That’s a constant, you hear? Dig? Up? Soil? Out. Out, now.

I have not one
Not two or three
I rather stick with none
Than make you agree

The face you once saw,
The face you see now,
And the face you see later
Each is a different amphitheatre.

When you judge me,
On the face you saw before,
I won't make you understand
For the face you will see later
As I hold many...just like a curator.

When the first one compliment me
And the second vilifies me
Do not find their fault in it
As the face I chose for them to see
Is the surface of the thousands that lays beneath.

© KhayrSouf

i
Painted face sits shotgun
on a pennyfarthing chakra
ridden blindfold.

A twist of spine
swings him pendular
every beat, a half-finished bongo trill
nudges black berets askew.
Goatee stubble corrals galloping speech
into enclosures.

Break comma stop.

ii
The chorus,
a fat thousand-eyed mollusk gapes:
he juggles
a bomb
an asp
a knife.

Does he
drop the bomb, ****** the knife,
let the poisonous snake bite?

With child's plainspokenness
we play rock scissors paper
with death’s ivory hands waiting.

Bomb shatters knife
knife slices snake
snake eludes bomb.

The marks whelp their joy
clapping, weeping
with the thousand hands and eyes
of Guishan Guanyin.

Azrael's eyes
drowned in narcotics
***** from the shadows.
Pupils dilate, prolapse
in a unison of aqueous humour.

A blur of dervish
swallows the air
spreads like virus.

iii
Outside the amphitheatre
wings grazing crumbling walls
Azrael peddles dice.

"Worn from the teeth of a dead Logos," his voices sing
his nebulae of tongues clicking against teeth
arrayed like tombstones inside his abysses of mouths
breath smelling of hemlock and grift.
His stock sells out.

After a rainy night of craps
we hissed graft
in the whorl of the priest's ear.
He went home to bed
and dreamt of riches
pouring from the wounds
of sweat-shop children.

iv
In the morning
eight bells peal.
Eyelids hummingbird beneath a black sun
choking the sky over Styx.

Flayed by owls
flendo cinere
we bask in charcoal
and spit obols
into the ferryman's blistered hand.

.                 Gaza Aghast


     It’s a spectator amphitheatre

   from the comfort of ones home,
                           *
     but the world is star gazing.


Because MSM sanitised versions

    are saturated with subliminal

      endorsements of Zionism.







Ps.


Some may cancel me

even try to temper my

tongue but this silence

is just a pause between

echoes of my last words,

still ringing in their ears.

the redhead
with matching pants
practiced violin beneath the bridge

moments away

behind the museum
the amphitheatre hummed
with the song of birds

MEANWHILE BACK IN VERONA

you ******* kisses
from Juliet's balcony as if
you were the real thing

suddenly we are
Shakespearean
& the play's the thing

'Oh Donall Donall...
...wherefore art thou
... Donall! '

I kneel before
Juliette's statue
her left breast

all shiny
rubbed for luck
by touchy touristy

hands and loud guffaws
here in Verona amongst
its ancient amphitheatre

and so I sing
mock opera
and 'La Traviata.'

'Come...do the Christian thing
& throw me to your *****! '
you run

your laughter echoing
amongst ruins
and long gone times

that summer
(there in Verona)
Juliet & Traviata

were real
and alive
yet it is we now

who have become
fictional characters
our love now

only a story
a thing
of mere memory

'Oh Anu...Anu...
wherefore art thou
...Anu! '

hey i could mention the numbers
to add or divide and it seems those

today work well

i enjoyed your talk of roads, reminded me
that when we were in chester on a stayover
a birthday treat

she told me how it took years for someone
to remark upon a street there that was not straight
like all the others built by romans

on investigation found the remains of an amphitheatre
the road built to avoid

nicely excavated you may sit there now
only one can’t in the lockdown
nor sunbathing

i am glad we went that year
it was lovely

romans stil roam the streets with children
following dressed in proper gear shouting
learning
terrorising the shoppers who feign fright
then laugh

not now
in the lockdown

so children learn other things at home
like stars and satellites
birds and butter on bread

i have learned about garden fires these
few weeks, how not to upset the neighbours

how to get up early specially in
my pyjamas light it carefully

learned the ways of leaves and wood
the varieties
my patience required

then stand and watch the smoke plume
against the chill of the hour

once i saw a chap paint that in watercolour
and i wondered

a
good morning
feel better than
yesterday when
thoughts drifted
into things i will
rather forget

as we all do sometimes

james