Dear Poet Friends, being fond of Art, I wanted to compose on
this topic for a long time in a simplified form! Egyptian Art and
Architecture influenced the Early Greeks, who in turn influenced the Romans and other civilizations! Initially Art and architecture, religion and culture, were all closely inter-related! Real distinction emerged with the Italian Renaissance. Here I have used only a portion of my personal notes. Hope you find this interesting to read! Sorry for the length! Kindly give Comments after you have managed to read the entire portion in your spare time. Thanks, -Raj

INTRODUCTION TO THE STORY
OF WESTERN ART IN VERSE:
          PART ONE
    * BY RAJ NANDY

INTRODUCTION
Art over the centuries has been variously defined,
But an all embracing definition is rather hard to find!
Ayn Rand defined Art as a recreation of reality according to
artist’s values, his view of existence, and choice;
Who recreates by a selective rearrangement of the elements
of reality, and not simply out of a void!
Study of Art History is a study of man’s creative evolution;
A progress of his wakened consciousness, and a restless
striving towards perfection!
The progress of his mind, taste and skill, which has gradually
evolved through past traditions;
Finding ultimate expression in his multi-faceted creations!
I commence this story from its earliest days, and mention those
Ancient Civilizations which influenced Art in many ways.
Art has been greatly influenced by religion, culture and history;
Therefore, knowing these aspects becomes necessary to
fully appreciate this Art Story!

PREHISTORIC STONE AGE ART:
Let us take a ride on the magic carpet of History, down
past millenniums to begin our Art Story;
Right into the ancient Paleolithic, Mesolithic and Neolithic
Eras of the Stone Age,
When early humans left their creative imprints on rock
surfaces and on walls of caves!
Long before the evolution of any proper coherent speech
or communication,
In some 350 caves of France and Spain are seen paintings
of large wild animals like horses, antelopes and bison;
Bearing witness to the story of gradual human evolution!
The cave paintings of Chauvet, Cosquer, and Lascaux, date
between 8000 and 1700 BC,
Drawn by nameless and faceless people who emerged from
an inhospitable Ice Age;
Those nomadic tribes who were hunter-gatherers living in
pre-historic caves!
The Story of Art therefore begins before recorded History,
Pieced together by scholars with the help of science and
archeology!
During the Neolithic Period beginning around 8,000BC,
Ancient man became gradually sedentary, engaging in
agriculture and animal husbandry!
With these nomads settling down in small communities,
Art became mystical and monumental in range;
As seen in the megalithic (large stone) structures of the
famous Stonehenge!
This type of post and lintel structure is also found in ancient
Egyptian architecture, and later in Greece as its special
feature!
Art History spans the entire history of mankind,
Right from the pre-historic days, up to our modern times!
Man’s everlasting quest for immortality lies etched on
rocks and raised stone edifices, defying marauding Time!

MESOPOTAMIAN ART (3500-300BC) :
Let us now travel fast forward on our magic carpet to reach
the Fertile Crescent,
Where the Tigress and the Euphrates Rivers flow, to the
Ancient Civilization of the Sumerians! (3500-2300BC)
The birth of civilization has been traced to Southern
Mesopotamia, where the Sumerians built their first cities,
As the earliest River Valley Civilization around 3500 BC!
It was a period when writing got invented in its earliest
Cuneiform form;  (around 3400 BC)
When Patriarch Abraham established the worship of a Single
God, in a revolutionary religious reform! (Judaism)
Mesopotamian Civilization as the source of our earliest
surviving Art dates back to 3500BC;
When major civilizations like the Sumerian, Akkadian,
Babylonian, Hitties, Assyrian, and the Persians, in this
chronological sequence, contributed to Art History!
Mesopotamian Art in general glorified their powerful rulers
and their connection with divinity;
Reflected on their city gates, palace complexes and ziggurats,
are scenes of both victorious wars and their prosperity!
Art was then highly functional and repetitive; depicting
love of beauty, a sense of order, and power of hierarchy,
- in their sculptures and motifs.
However, no signatures were ever found bearing the name
of the Artist!
It is interesting to note that both the potter’s wheel and the
cart wheel, made their first appearance around 3500 BC
and 3200 BC respectively;
With the Sumerians contributing to art and culture, and the
progress of Human Civilization immensely!
(Ziggurats are semi-pyramid like structures with steps, a temple complex located in the center of all ancient Sumerian cities-states! Saragon the Great of Akkad from the North, defeated the Sumerians in the South, & united entire Mesopotamia around 2300 BC, for the first time in Mesopotamian History, & they ruled for 200 years.)

ANCIENT EGYPTIAN ART :(3000 BC -500BC)
Next we travel to an isolated area of north-east Africa,
Where the White Nile flows down from Lake Victoria.
The Nile enters Upper Egypt traveling through Sudan,
Is joined by the Blue Nile at Khartoum to become one!
Continues its flow north through Egypt Lower, flowing
into the Mediterranean as the World’s longest river!
Historian Herodotus had called Egypt ‘the gift of the Nile’;
Ancient Egypt became a rich treasure trove of art and
architecture for all times!
The Nile valley area was protected by the desert on its
east and the west;
In the north by the Mediterranean, and towards the
south by a rugged mountainous terrain!
Annual flooding of the Nile along with an effective
irrigational network,
Ensured Egypt’s prosperous stability, congenial for her
many innovative architectures and art works!
Egyptian Art got shaped by her geography, mythology
and her polytheistic religion;
Also by their preoccupation with after-life and belief in  
the immortal soul’s continuation;
Thus elaborate funeral rites were performed by priests for  
the body’s preservation by mummification! *
(’KA’= was a real astral twin or stellar double of an Individual, which continued to exist even after death, requiring the same sustenance as the humans, so food offerings were made in the coffins! ‘BA’= shaped like a human-headed bird, composed of non-physical attributes of an Individual. ‘BA’ collected the deceased’s personality after death from the mummified remains & united it with the ‘KA’, making a person complete; thereby making it possible for the person to be reborn as ‘AKH’ (Star), - in its ultimate unchanging form, to join Osiris in the ‘Happy Fields’! Since this journey to the next world was fraught with danger, magical funerary spells & rites were performed by the priests, with incantations from the ‘Book of the Dead’, inside the funeral chamber of the Pyramid!)

Art During Old, Middle, and New Kingdom Period:
Egyptian Art was concerned with ensuring continuity of the
universe, their Gods, the King and the people;
A projection into eternity a version of reality pure and free
from all earthly evil!
Therefore in ancient Egyptian society, conformity over
individuality was always encouraged;
Artists worked in groups with conservative adherence to
rules, order and form,
And all individual artistic initiatives strictly discouraged !
Their earliest pyramids the Mastaba, the Step, and the Bent
Pyramids were all prototypes;
While the Great Pyramid of Giza built for Pharaoh Kufu,
- was the first true pyramid which still survives!
Art comes down to us as ‘funerary art’ designed for the tombs,
Which was to accompany the royalty in their journey to an
afterlife, with its symbolic forms!
This symbolism is seen in their paintings, statues and architecture;
In vibrant color codes of their paintings as a special feature!
Where White was the symbol of purity, Black for death and night;
Green for vegetation or new life, Blue for water and the sky;
Red for life and victory, and Yellow like Gold as the flesh of the
Gods and also the Sun God ruling the sky!
Thanks to Jean-Francois Champollion’s translation of the Rosetta
Stone, (1822)
We are able to decipher many mysteries of the Ancient Egyptian
with the cracking of the Hieroglyphic Code!
Larger than life statues with poise and austere harmony at the
Luxor Temple complex survive;
Symbolic of the individual’s status, while creating zones of
strangeness for imagination to thrive!
(’Matsaba’= Egyptian for ‘bench’, referred to bench shaped pyramids;
“Step Pyramids” = were like benches placed one on top of the other in
a tapering form going up vertically!)

The Old Kingdom Period covers a five hundred years span
of Ancient Egyptian History, (2686-2181BC)
Known as the ‘Age of Pyramids’, with Pharaohs from the
Third to the Sixth Dynasty!
“The World fear Time, but Time fears only the Pyramids”,
- is an Ancient Egyptian Proverb;
Whose ‘heterogeneous structure’ made it earthquake
proof, making Time to reluctantly serve! #
Here we find formalized figures with long slender bodies,
idealized proportions and large staring eyes;
Where Kufu’s Great Pyramid of Giza raises its mighty head
as the highest, on the west bank of the Nile;
And the mighty Sphinx guard the entrance to those ancient
royal tombs, though defaced, still survive!
These pyramids were like Pharaoh’s getaways to eternity,
An insurance to an afterlife of peace and prosperity!
(# Pyramids with stone blocks of different sizes & shapes made them
Earthquake resistant; & use of pink granite in the inner chambers
made them erosion resistant against Time!)

The Middle Kingdom Period (2040-1650 BC) :
Following 150 years of civil disorder Theban ruler Mentuhotep
the Second, reunified Egypt and ruled up to Nubia, (Sudan)
And began the Classical Era when Block Statues appear,
indicating political stability;
When artisans worked with bronze and copper alloys, designing
exquisite jewelry!
Kings now preferred to be buried in secret tombs, Pyramids
having lost their appeal,
And work began on the west bank of the Nile, in the Valley of
Kings!
(Inside those rock cut ‘funerary temples’ on the East bank of the
Nile, opposite Ancient Kingdom of Thebes ; Pharaohs from the
Early and Late New Kingdom Periods were buried, including
Tutemkhamen.)

Early New Kingdom Period (1550 -1295 BC):
Between the Middle Kingdom and this Era, Art remained
static for almost a hundred years,
When the Hyksos from the Near East fought the weak Theban
Rulers!
In 1550 BC Theban Prince Ahmose reunited Egypt, and was
succeeded by able rulers, who ushered in the Golden Age!
Art works continued to maintain its basic traditional style,
With successive Kings from the 18th Dynasty consolidating
their kingdom’s wealth and power all the while!
But Egypt witnessed a change with an innovative style in Art,
When Amenhotep IV in 1353 BC became King, initiating a
fresh start!
This king changed his name to ‘Akhenaten’, the spirit of Aten,
-- ‘The disk of the Sun’;
Abandoned the pantheons of Gods with Aten as the ‘sole God’,
and a religious revolution had begun!
His new capital city of Amarna, 200 miles north of Thebes,
Got decorated with a new kind of art work to make it complete!
The statues now appear more realistic displaying emotions,
With fluidity of movement, unlike those rigid earlier creations!
The artistic talent of this Amarna Period gets best exemplified,
In the exquisite bust of Nefertiti, Akhenaten’s Great Royal Wife!
Regarded as ‘icon of international beauty’, a great archeological
find ! **
(Discovered by a German team of Archeologists in 1912 at Amarna! This 19 inch long limestone Nefertiti statue weighs around 20 kg, now housed in Berlin Museum; comparable only to the artistic Golden Mask of Tutankhamen!)

King Tutankhamen (1336-1327 BC):
Akhenaten’s unpopular rule was short-lived, with those humiliated
Theban priests calling him the ‘Heretic King’!
A nine year old boy Tutankhamen (‘The living image of Amun’),
was next to succeed him!
King Tut restored the worship of Amun, in a back-lash against
Akhenaten;
Shifted the royal palace back to Thebes, with the religious center
at Karnak once again!
King Tut’s short ten year’s rule remained buried in 3000 year’s
of Egyptian History,
Till Howard Carter found his richly laden intact tomb, in the
Valley of the Kings! (1922)
King Tut’s priceless and exquisitely carved golden face mask,
reflected the exalted standard of art work;
Weighing ten kilos, inlaid with semi-precious stones, and eyes
made of obsidian and quarts!
With the King’s early death, the 18th Dynasty of Pharaohs came
to an abrupt end,
And the 19th and 20th Dynasties of the Late Kingdom Period
commenced!
The famous rock temple of Abu Simbel now got built, under the
warrior and builder Ramses II, one of Egypt’s greatest Kings!


Pharaoh Ramses-II of the Late Kingdom Period :
Here I sweep across centuries of Egyptian History, to mention
King Ramses-II’s contribution to our Art Story!
In Shelly’s famous poem titled “Ozymandias of Egypt” he is
immortalized; (Greeks called Ramses-II “Ozymandias”!)
And as the Pharaoh associated with Moses in the movie “The
Ten Commandments”, he is popularized!
Egyptian Art is intrinsically bound with its religion, pyramids,
hieroglyphs, and architecture;
With a concentrated focus on ‘afterlife’ as its special feature!
In 1270 BC young Ramses took over from Seti the First,
And his rule for a period of 66 long years did last!
As the third Pharaoh of the 19th Dynasty, he had ruled with a
firm hand;
Recovered lost territories from the Hittites and the Nubians,
- earlier captured Egyptian lands!
He enlarged the territories of Egypt ensuring prosperity and
stability;
Became renowned as the famous Warrior and Builder King
of Ancient Egyptian History!
Ramses-II had expanded most of the temples, as recorded in
the artistic motifs and hieroglyphic symbols;
Here a special mention must be made of the Temples of Luxor,
Karnak, and Abu Simbel !

Temples of Luxor and Karnak in Ancient Thebes:
Ancient Thebes was located on the eastern bank of the Nile,
where the modern City of Luxor stands;
Thebes was once the capital of the 11th and 18th Dynasties,
And the power and religious center of all Egyptian land!
Gets mentioned in the 9th Book of Homer’s ‘Iliad’ where “heaps
of precious ingots gleam, the hundred-gated Thebes”!
Excavation work began in Thebes during the late 19th century;
And the gradual unearthing of the Temples of Luxor and
Karnak, added a new dimension to Egypt’s Art Story!
It must be remembered always, that the Ancient Egyptians in
those early days,
Structured their temple architecture to the point of ‘Sacred Art’!
With their knowledge of astronomy and geometry, they
aligned their temples so perfectly,
That the light of the rising sun fell on the temple’s innermost
sanctuary! (Temple of Abu Simbel is a great example,)
Where the Egyptian priests, who were also the artists, healers,
mathematicians, astronomers and scribes;
In dimly lit incense-filled sanctuaries performed the sacred rites!
The temples symbolized the cross roads of the cosmos, where
the divine and the mortal met in perpetual harmony!
These divine scenes were integrated into the very fabric of the
Egyptian society through chants and rituals;
With cosmological symbols of magical hieroglyphs, which
priests alone could transcribe in those days!
(Thebes began to decline rapidly after Alexander the Great
established the port-city of Alexandria as Egypt’s new Capital
around 332 BC !)

Luxor Temple built by Amenhotep-III, was dedicated to God
Amun, his wife Mut and son Khonsu, - the Theban Triad;
Tutankhamen and Ramses-II expanding the temple during the
New Kingdom Period!
Creator God Amun became assimilated with the Sun God Re;
Was worshipped in Thebes, and in the cult centers of Luxor and
Karnak, - as Amun-Re!
The walls and columns of these cult temples were decorated
with carved and painted relief,
Depicting the interaction with Gods, and military exploits of
Egyptian Pharaohs and Kings!
The sun temple of Amenhotep-III at Luxor has many columns
resembling papyrus bundles,
Symbolic of the primeval marsh from where Creation was
believed to have unfolded !
A Sphinx Alley excavated between Luxor an

GREAT ARTISTS & THEIR IMMORTAL WORKS :
CONCLUDING ITALIAN RENAISSANCE IN
VERSE.  -  By Raj Nandy, New Delhi.

Dear Readers, continuing my Story of Western Art in Verse chronologically, I had covered an Introduction to the Italian Renaissance previously. That background story was necessary to appreciate Renaissance Art fully. Now, I cover the Art of that period in a summarized form, mentioning mainly the salient features to curb the length. The cream here lies in the 'Art of the High Renaissance Period'! Hope you like it. Thanks, - Raj.

                          INTRODUCTION
“Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, &
  Poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.”
                                                        – Leonardo Da Vinci
In the domain of Renaissance Art, we notice the
enduring influence of the Classical touch!
Ancient Greek statues and Roman architectures,
Inspired the Renaissance artists in their innovative
ventures!
The pervasive spirit of Humanism influenced
creation of life-like human forms;
Adding ****** expressions and depth, deviating
from the earlier stiff Medieval norms.
While religious subjects continued to get depicted
in three-dimensional Renaissance Art;
Portraits, **** figures, and secular subjects, also
began to appear during this great ‘Re-birth’!
The artists of the Early and High Renaissance Era
are many who deserve our adoration and artistic
due.
Yet for the sake of brevity, I mention only the
Great Masters, who are handful and few.

EARLY RENAISSANCE ARTISTS & THEIR ART

GITTO THE PIONEER:
During early 13th Century we find, Dante’s
contemporary Gitto di Bondone the Florentine,
Painting human figures in all its beauty and form
for the first time!
His masterwork being the 40 fresco cycle in the
Arena Chapel in Padua, depicting the life of the
****** and Christ, completed in 1305.
Giotto made the symbolic Medieval spiritual art
appear more natural and realistic,
By depicting human emotion, depth with an
artistic perspective!
Art Scholars consider him to be the trailblazer
inspiring the later painters of the Renaissance;
They also refer to Giorgio Vasari’s “Lives Of
The Eminent Artists,” - as their main source.
Giotto had dared to break the shackles of earlier
Medieval two-dimensional art style,
By drawing lines which head towards a certain
focal point behind;
Like an illusionary vanishing point in space,
- opening up a 3-D ‘window into space’!
This ‘window technique’ got adopted by the
later artists with grace.
(Giorgio Vasari, a 16th Century painter, architect & Art
historian, was born in 1511 in Arezzy, a city under the
Florentine Republic, and painted during the High
Renaissance Period.)

VASARI’s book published in 1550 in Florence
was dedicated to Cosimo de Medici.
Forms an important document of Italian Art
History.
This valuable book covers a 250 year’s span.
Commencing with Cimabue the tutor of Giotto,
right up to Tizian, - better known as Titan!
Vasari also mentions four lesser known Female
Renaissance Artists; Sister Plantilla, Madonna
Lucrezia, Sofonista Anguissola, and Properzia
de Rossi;
And Rossi’s painting “Joseph and Potiphar’s
Wife”,
An impressive panel art which parallels the
unrequited love Rossi experienced in her own
life !
(Joseph the elder son of Jacob, taken captive by Potiphar
the Captain of Pharaoh’s guard, was desired by Potiphar’s
wife, whose advances Joseph repulsed. Rossi’s painting
of 1520s inspired later artists to paint their own versions
of this same Old Testament Story.)

Next I briefly mention architects Brunelleschi
and Ghiberti, and the sculptor Donatello;
Not forgetting the painters like Masaccio,
Verrocchio and Botticelli;
Those Early Renaissance Artists are known to
us today thanks to the Art historian Giorgio
Vasari .

BRUNELLESCHI has been mentioned in Section
One of my Renaissance Story.
His 114 meter high dome of Florence Cathedral
created artistic history!
This dome was constructed without supporting
buttresses with a double egg shaped structure;
Stands out as an unique feat of Florentine
Architecture!
The dome is larger than St Paul’s in London,
the Capitol Building of Washington DC, and
also the St Peters in the Vatican City!

GILBERTI is remembered for his massive
15 feet high gilded bronze doors for the
Baptistery of Florence,
Containing twenty carved panels with themes
from the Old Testament.
Which took a quarter century to complete,
working at his own convenience.
His exquisite naturalistic carved figures in the
true spirit of the Renaissance won him a prize;
And his gilded doors were renamed by Michel
Angelo as ‘The Gates of Paradise’!
(At the age of 23 yrs Lorenzo Ghiberti had won the
competition beating other Architects for craving the
doors of the Baptistery of Florence!)

DONATELLO’S full size bronze David was
commissioned by its patron Cosimo de’ Medici.
With its sensual contrapposto stance in the
classical Greek style with its torso bent slightly.
Is known as the first free standing **** statue
since the days of Classical Art history!
The Old Testament relates the story of David
the shepherd boy, who killed the giant Goliath
with a single sling shot;
Cutting off his head with Goliath’s own sword!
Thus saving the Israelites from Philistine’s wrath.
This unique statue inspired all later sculptors to
strive for similar artistic excellence;
Culminating in Michael Angelo’s **** statue of
David, known for its sculptured brilliance!

MASSACCIO (1401- 1428) joined Florentine
Artist’s Guild at the age of 21 years.
A talented artist who abandoned the old Gothic
Style, experimenting without fears!
Influenced by Giotto, he mastered the use of
perspective in art.
Introduced the vanishing point and the horizon
line, - while planning his artistic works.
In his paintings ‘The Expulsion from Eden’
and ‘The Temptation’,
He introduced the initial **** figures in Italian
Art without any inhibition!
Though up North in Flanders, Van Eyck the
painter had already made an artistic innovation,
By painting ‘Adam and Eve’ displaying their
****** in his artistic creation;
Thereby creating the first **** painting in Art
History!
But such figures greatly annoyed the Church,
Since nudes formed a part of pagan art!
So these Northern artists to pacify the Church
and pass its censorship,
Cleverly under a fig leaf cover made their art to
appear moralistic!
Van Eyck was also the innovator of oil-based paints,
Which later replaced the Medieval tempera, used to
paint angles and saints.

Masaccio’s fresco ‘The Tribute Money’ requires
here a special mention,
For his use of perspective with light and shade,
Where the blithe figure of the Roman tax collector
is artistically made.
Christ is painted with stern nobility, Peter in angry
majesty;
And every Apostle with individualized features,
attire, and pose;
With light coming from a single identifiable source!
“Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,
and unto God things that are God’s”, said Christ;
Narrated in Mathew chapter 22 verse 21, which
cannot be denied.
Unfortunately, Masaccio died at an early age of
27 years.
Said to have been killed by a jealous rival artist,
who had shed no tears!

BOTTICELLI the Florentine was born half a
century after the Dutch Van Eyck;
Remembered even to this day for his painting
the ‘Birth of Venus’, an icon of Art History
making him famous.
This painting depicts goddess Venus rising out
of the sea on a conch shell,
And the glorious path of female **** painting
commenced in Italy, - casting a spell!
His full scale **** Venus shattered the Medieval
taboo on ******.
With a subject shift from religious art to Classical
Mythology;
Removing the ‘fig-leaf cover’ over Art permanently!

I end this Early Period with VERROCCHIO, born
in Florence in fourteen hundred and thirty five.
A trained goldsmith proficient in the skills of both
painting and sculpture;
Who under the patronage of the Medici family
had thrived.
He had set up his workshop in Florence were he
trained Leonardo Da Vinci, Botticelli, and other
famous Renaissance artists alike!

FOUR CANONICAL PAINTING MODES OF
THE RENAISSANCE:
During the Renaissance the four canonical painting
modes we get to see;
Are Chiaroscuro, Sfumato, Cangiante and Unione.
‘Chiaroscuro’ comes from an Italian word meaning
‘light and dark’, a painting technique of Leonardo,
Creating a three dimensional dramatic effect to
steal the show.
Later also used with great excellence by Rubens
and the Dutch Rembrandt as we know.
‘Sfumato’ from Italian ‘sfumare’, meaning to tone
down or evaporate like a smoke;
As seen in Leonardo’s ‘Mona Lisa’ where the
colors blend seamlessly like smoke!
‘Cangiante’ means to ‘change’, where a painter
changed to a lighter or a darker hue, when the
original hue could not be made light enough;
As seen in the transformation from green to
yellow in Prophet Daniel’s robe,
On the ceiling of Sistine Chapel in Rome.
‘Unione’ followed the ‘sfumato’ quality, but
maintained vibrant colors as we get to see;
In Raphael’s ‘Alba Madonna’ in Washington’s
National Gallery.

ART OF HIGH RENAISSANCE ERA - THE
GOLDEN AGE.

“Where the spirit does not work with the
hand there is no art.”- Leonardo

With Giotto during the Trecento period of the
14th century,
Painting dominated sculpture in the artistic
endeavor of Italy.
During the 15th century the Quattrocento, with
Donetello and Giberti,
Sculpture certainly dominated painting as we get to
see!
But during the 16th century or the Cinquecento,
Painting again took the lead commencing with
the great Leonardo!
This Era was cut short by the death of Lorenzo the
Magnificent to less than half a century; (Died in 1493)
But gifted great masterpieces to the world enriching
the world of Art tremendously!
The Medieval ‘halo’ was now replaced by a fresh
naturalness;
And both Madonna and Christ acquired a more
human likeness!
Portrait paintings began to be commissioned by
many rich patrons.
While artists acquired both recognition and a status
of their own.
But the artistic focus during this Era had shifted from
Florence,  - to Venice and Rome!
In the Vatican City, Pope Julius-II was followed by
Pope Leo the Tenth,
He commissioned many works of art which are
still cherished and maintained!
Now cutting short my story let me mention the
famous Italian Renaissance Superstar Trio;
Leonardo, Raphael, and Michael Angelo.

LEONARDO DA VINCI was born in 1452 in
the village of Vinci near the City of Florence,
Was deprived of a formal education being born
illegitimate!
He was left-handed, and wrote from right to left!
He soon excelled his teacher Varrocchio, by
introduced oil based paints into Italy;
Whose translucent colors with his innovative
techniques, enhanced his painting artistically.
Sigmund Freud had said, “Leonardo was like a
man who awoke too early in the darkness while
others were all still asleep,” - he was awake!
Leonardo’s  historic ‘Note Book’ has sketches of a
battle tank, a flying machine, a parachute, and many
other anatomical and technical sketches and designs;
Reflecting the ever probing mind of this versatile
genius who was far ahead of his time!
His ‘Vituvian Man’, ‘The Last Supper’, and ‘Mona Lisa’,
Remain as his enduring works of art and more popular
than the Leaning Tower of Pisa!
Pen and ink sketch of the ‘Vitruvian Man’ with arms
and leg apart inside a square and a circle, also known
as the ‘Proportion of Man’;
Where his height correspondence to the length
of his outstretched hands;
Became symbolic of the true Renaissance spirit
of Man.
‘The Last Supper’ a 15ft by 29ft fresco work on
the refectory wall of Santa Maria, commissioned
by Duke of Milan Ludovic,
Is the most reproduced religious painting which
took three years to complete!
Leonardo searched the streets of Milan before
painting Judas’ face;
And individualized each figure with competence!
‘Mona Lisa’ with her enigmatic smile continues
to inspire artists, poets, and her viewers alike,
since its creation;
Which Leonardo took four years to complete
with utmost devotion.
Leonardo used oil on poplar wood panel, unique
during those days,
With ‘sfumato’ blending of translucent colors with
light and shade;
Creating depth, volume, and form, with a timeless
expression on Mona Lisa’s countenance!
Art Historian George Varasi says that it is the face
of one Lisa Gherardini,
Wife of a wealthy Florentine merchant of Italy.
Insurance Companies failed to make any estimation
of this portrait, declaring its value as priceless!
Today it remains housed inside an air-conditioned,
de-humidified chamber, within a triple bullet-proof
glass, in Louvre France.
“It is the ultimate symbol of human civilization”,
- exclaimed President Kennedy;
And with this I pay my humble tribute to our
Leonardo da Vinci!

MICHEL ANGELO BUONARROTI (1475-1564):
This Tuscan born sculptor, painter, architect, and
poet, was a versatile man,
Worthy to be called the archetype of the true
‘Renaissance Man’!
At the age of twelve was placed under the famous
painter Ghirlandio,
Where his inclination for sculpting began to show.
Under the liberal patronage of Lorenzo de Medici,
He developed his talent as a sculptor as we get
to see.
In the Medici Palace, he was struck by his rival
Torregiano on the nose with a mallet;
Disfiguring permanently his handsome face!
His statue of ‘Bacchus’ of 1497 and the very
beauty of the figure,
Earned him the commission for the ‘PIETA’ in
St Peter’s Basilica;
Where from a single piece of Carrara marble he
carved out the figure of ****** Mary grieving
over the dead body of Christ;
This iconic piece of sculpture which along with
his ‘David’ earned him the ‘Superstar rights’!

Michel Angelo’s **** ‘DAVID’ weighed 6.4 tons
and stood 17 feet in height;
Unlike the bronze David of Donatello, which
shows him victorious after the fight!
Michel’s David an epitome of strength and
youthful vigour with a Classical Greek touch;
Displayed an uncircumcised ***** which had
shocked the viewers very much!
But it was consistent with the Mannerism in Art,
in keeping with the Renaissance spirit as such!
David displays an attitude of placid calm with
his knitted eyebrows and sidelong glance;
With his left hand over the left shoulder
holding a sling,
Coolly surveys the giant Goliath before his
single sling shot fatally stings!
This iconic sculpture has a timeless appeal even
after 500 years, depicting the ‘Renaissance Man’
at his best;
Vigorous, healthy, beautiful, rational and fully
competent!
Finally we come to the Ceiling of the Sistine
Chapel of Rome,
Where Pope Julius-II’s persistence resulted in the
creation of world’s greatest single fresco that was
ever known!
Covering some 5000 square feet, took five years
to complete.
Special scaffoldings had to be erected for painting
scenes from ‘The Creation’ till the ‘Day of Judgment’
on a 20 meter’s high ceiling;
Where the Central portion had nine scenes from
the ‘Book of Genesis’,
With ‘Creation of Adam’ having an iconic significance!
Like Leonardo, Michel Angelo was left-handed and died
a bachelor - pursuing his art with devotion;
A man with caustic wit, proud reserve, and sublimity
of imagination!

RAFFAELLO SANZIO (1483-1520):
This last of the famous High Renaissance trio was
born in 1483 in Urbino,
Some eight years after Michel Angelo.
His Madonna series and decorative frescos
glorified the Library of Pope Julius the Second;
Who was impressed by his fresco ‘The School
of Athens’;
And commissioned Raphael to decorate his
Study in the Vatican.
Raphael painted this large fresco between 1510
and 1511, initially named as the ‘Knowledge of
Causes’,
But the 17th century guide books referred to it
as ‘The School of Athens’.
Here Plato and Aristotle are the central figures
surrounded by a host of ancient Greek scholars
and philosophers.
The bare footed Plato is seen pointing skywards,
In his left hand holds his book ‘Timaeus’;
His upward hand gesture indicating his ‘World
of Forms’ and transcendental ideas!
Aristotle is seen pointing downwards, his left
hand holds his famous book the ‘Ethics’;
His blue dress symbolizes water and earth
with an earthly fix.
The painting illustrates the historic continuance
of Platonic thoughts,
In keeping with the spirit of the Renaissance!
Raphael’s last masterpiece ‘Transfiguration’
depicts the resurrected Christ,
Flanked by prophets

(Sorry Friends, for posting educational type of poems, I know Haiku are easier to read & comment! But if you happen to like this true story, kindly recommend it to your other friends! Thanks, -Raj)

STORY OF EUROPEAN RENAISSANCE: PART TWO

THE CITY-STATE OF FLORENCE :
The city of Florence lies in the historic valley of Tuscany ,
Along the banks of the Arno river, surrounded by hills
of scenic beauty !
Here during the first century BC , the conquering Romans
established their ‘Colonia Florentina’,
To settle the war veterans of Caesar’s army in Northern
Italia !
But later after the fall of Rome , it became a battleground
for the Holy Roman Empire and the Pope ;
But the independent nature of its people refused foreign
yolk !
They preferred commune rule led by a powerful leader –
called the Signore ,
Just like the city-states of ancient Greece, in those days of
yore !
But unlike Greece , Florence saw no Democracy ,
Since the Medici family finally usurped power in this
city of Northern Italy !
Unlike Venice , Florence is landlocked and not a port
city ;
Relying on banking and trade to prosper economically .
Their gold coin florin became the standard coinage
throughout Europe ;
While through the export of its quality textile and woolen
goods, great wealth got secured !
But to become patrons of art and letters mere wealth is
not enough ,
One must have a refined taste to become a true lover of
letters and art !
And here the Medici carved out a niche for themselves
under the Florentine sun !
Writers like Francesco Petrarca , Dante, and Boccaccio ;
And artists such as Giotto , Lippi, Dontello, Leonardo ,
and Michelangelo , were all born Florentines !
Even classical Athens couldn’t boast of such a vast
galaxy ,
Of artistic talents within such a limited time frame of
History !
These artists embellished their city with their literary
works, sculptures, architectures and paintings ;
Made Florence to reawaken, dazzle, and shine ;
Carving out a proud moment in history for the
Florentines !

CONTRIBUTION OF MEDICI FAMILY OF
FLORENCE :
Giovanni de Medici (1360-1429) :
This Medici family became the Godfather for the Italian
Renaissance ,
And I feel obliged to narrate their story tracing their
historical source !
In those early days Art was considered a lowly craft ,
There were no art galleries, and one couldn’t make a
living out of Art !
Without patronage the artist and his art couldn’t survive ,
So I speak of the Medics, who had originated from the
Tuscan countryside !
Gaining power through wealth and political astuteness,
And not through military force for dominance !
The founder of family’s fortunes was Giovanni de
Medici ,
An educated man with a simple life style , who
traveled on a donkey !
A humble man who had never aroused any enmity .
He established the Medici Bank with innovations
in ledger accounting system ;
And became a pioneers in tracking credits and debits
through a double entry system !
He opened branches of the Bank in Rome and Northern
Italy ,
Facilitated bills of exchange and credit bills, to multiply
his money !
After the return of the Papacy from Avignon to Rome ,
The Medici Bank was made the official bankers of the
Pope ;
And Giovanni became the wealthiest man in Italy , if
not in entire Europe !
In 1421 Giovanni was made the Chief Executive of his
city ,
And he commissioned its leading architect Brunelleschi , -
to glorify Florence city .
The challenging task for Brunelleschi was to build the dome
of the Cathedral of his city .
This was the first octagonal dome in history , a breakaway
from the earlier Gothic structures ,
And even surpassing the Roman Pantheon as a marvel of
Florentine architecture !
It took sixteen long years to complete this huge dome ,
And stands today as an icon of Renaissance Europe !
Giovanni had taught his son Cosimo to follow a simple
life style ,
To patronize art and letters, and to his people be kind !

COSIMO De MEDICI (1389-1464) :
After Giovanni’s death , Cosimo the Elder built upon
his father’s inherited wealth ;
Absorbed most of the 39 Florentine Banks, operating its
branches in London and Bruges as well !
The greatest rival of the Medici fortunes were the Albizzi ,
They plotted against Cosimo and the Medics ;
And in 1433, exiled Cosimo and his family out of jealousy !
But after a year the Medics were recalled back as heroes ,
Since the Florentine coffers without the Medici Bank , -
had become almost zero !
But both peace and prosperity are needed for flourishing
of art and culture ,
So Cosimo engineered the Peace of Lodi (1454) with Milan
and Venice , -
To prevent future wars and misadventure !
Scholars were made to collect precious manuscripts from
the East, and the churches and vaults of Europe ;
And an ensured period of stability , contributed to Early
Renaissance’s growth !
Sculptor Donatello’s bronze **** David stood up as an
unique art form ,
And with paintings of Fra Angelico, and Filippo Lippi , -
the style of art itself began to reform !
Architect Michalozzo built the famous Medici Palace ,
And Cosimo opened the Medici Library for the spread of
classical knowledge !
After the fall of Constantinople in 1453 , the Greek scholars
with their classical manuscripts fled to Italy .
They flocked to Florence where Cosimo established a
Platonic Academy !
Renowned Humanist Marsilio Ficino became its President ,
And complete works of Plato got translated from Greek
to Latin !
Thus the growth of Early Renaissance owed much to
Cosimo’s patronage ,
And the Florentines inscribed “Pater Patriae” on his tomb , –
(‘Father of His Country’) after his death !

LORENZO THE MAGNIFICENT (1449-1492) :
Cosimo’s son Piero the Gouty died within five years ,
Never achieved anything spectacular worthy of tears !
The Medici Bank had loaned large sums of money to
King Edward IV of England and Charles the Bold of
Burgandy,
Failed to recover getting into bad debts and insolvency !
So when Cosimo’s grandson Lorenzo succeeded at
the age of twenty one ,
He focused on other areas of creativity, and the period
of High Renaissance begun !
Lorenzo , a genuine lover of arts, also wrote poetry in the
dialect of his native Tuscany ;
Following the footsteps of Tuscan born poets Donzella ,
Davanzati , and Dante the author of ‘Divine Comedy’ !
On 26th April 1478 , the Pazzi family in connivance with
the Archbishop of Pisa and backing of Pope Sixtus IV ,
Tried to assassinate the Medics during the High Mass, -
in the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore !
Younger brother Giuliano was fatally stabbed , but they
failed to **** Lorenzo .
All the conspirators were hanged including Pisa’s
Archbishop !
Ecclesiastic censure was issued against Florence ,
And Lorenzo was excommunicated by the Pope !
But Lorenzo worked out a treaty of peace with the King
of Naples ,
And became the undisputed ruler of the Republic of
Florence !
Unfortunately , Lorenzo died young at the age of forty-
three ,
At the dawn of the great Age of Exploration and
adventures by sea !
During his rule Renaissance reached its Golden Age ,
And literature, art, and architecture blossomed with
Lorenzo’s patronage !
It earned him the title of ‘Magnifico’, now know to
us as Lorenzo the Magnificent !
Leonardo da Vinci , Michelangelo , Raphel , Giovanni
Bellini ,Titan, Veronese, Correggio , Tintoretto ;
All became superstars of the Renaissance era ;
Their works are cherished, valued and treasured to
this day of our Modern era !
In the year 1492 with Lorenzo’s death , Italy entered
a period of turmoil and instability,
And the Renaissance saw a period of decline in Italy !
But the flames of the Renaissance spread to other
parts of Northern Europe ,
And in the 16th century reached England’s shores !
The Medici Family had also provided three Popes to
Italy, and three Queens to France ;
Besides patronizing the growth of the famous Italian
Renaissance !
Now dear readers, to do justice to Renaissance art ,
architecture, and literature briefly ,
I propose to narrate its story in Part Three !
-- By Raj Nandy of New Delhi .
*ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE WITH THE AUTHOR

MY FROG MASTERS

How thoughtful were the rainfalls
To water our gardens and flowers
The flowers spread wide garments
To celebrate their terminal beauty

The joyful frogs occupied my pond
To orchestrate their vocal prowess
They taught me to take blind leaps
Like lightning bouncing in the skies

Squatted, stretched, beeped down
I was a millstone on the pond floor
My slippery pond mates wondered
How soft I was in the maritime arts

Mortally rescued in a muddy mood
The clouds sent in rescuing showers
To confirm my firm loss to the frogs
Like a grain of salt cast into the seas


673. MONEY BAGS IN THEIR BODY BAGS

The money bags shopping for their body bags
Waggled through the makeshift supermarkets

Their ancestral homes they plotted modernity
Like the general gathering fine forces together

To the villages they made to return with pride
Like pregnant elephants caught up in the mud

Their desolate villages are deep and sickening
Glowing flamingly in the crucibles of local gins

The dusty and gravy pathways are like furnace
Burning the leather off from their frozen souls

Traditional birth attendants cut off their cords
And zipped the money bags in their body bags

674. A GLORIOUS DAY

The new day spoke powerfully
Like a war making superpower
And his voice roared forcefully
Like the skies forced to shower

The sunrays came dynamically
Like love responding to silence
Beauty crawled in submissively
Like the mixed arts and science

One eagle soared energetically
Like lions feuding in the colony
Far clouds relocated peacefully
Like souls betrayed to harmony

The breeze sighed thoughtfully
Like horses galloping on the lea
Inspiration unfolded thankfully
Crowns monuments with a pea

675.  THE FOG BANK

The sun had gone to pay our bill in the fog bank
The world foggily crawled into the strong rooms
Darkness demonstrated her strong mindfulness
Provided for the strong gale with lurking shrieks

The black paint billers snowballed to our dreams
With the bill of exchange for wild sunny excesses
Ghostly bats emerged with the bill of indictment
In demonstration of our acrophobic dispositions

We packaged the sunrays for our folk memories
To reassure the day of our eternal followerships
We cherish our follow-throughs in our dark beat
To usher the sunlight out of the hollow fog bank

676. THE PROTRACTED INTERNECINE FEUD

These things had happened before we were born
Like sulphur deep into our fresh hearts they burn
Now we stumble on the bumpy terrains in horror
Like one frightened by ghosts in a standing mirror

The internecine feud has razed our men of valour
With their carcasses dumped in their cold parlour
Our community cattle graze in the barren pasture
Like the unrepentant sinners awaiting the rapture

For our plight the once glorious sky is grown pale
Like the ***** fetching territorial waters with pail
The storms have rolled off the catalogues for rain
All our efforts to mop up the mess end up in vain



677. THE AREA LEADERS

They cracked coconuts on the heads for the crown
And embraced our days with their castaway pollen
Sadness and sorrow have dyed our garment brown
With the strongest song sung when night has fallen

These are the blinding dusts from our barn’s grains
They breed cunning serpents in the soft pasturages
They are failed cargoes on our broad societal trains
They dedicate our common committee to outrages

Now our days seek deliverance from their tentacles
Like the colourful fields immersed in gloomy beauty
They play our eyeballs with the stenciled spectacles
With our consciences to sight and found us off duty

To rescue us the colossal clouds were born gadarene
Our communal life was willed to pageants of gaieties
Then moonlight stories held us for a larger gathering
Now all the objects we sight dress up like cold deities

678. THE LAST DESCENDANTS

The rapacious thunderstorms ***** the skies for their tears
The hot embers were born to glow mourning the late forest
The moon crawled out of the blue like a great grandmother
Cuddling her descendants wrapped up in her ancient shawls

The wild waves were weird weavers weaving withering wails
The captioned wigs gyrated on stunning shoes upon auctions
The little creatures crouched in primeval baskets of the night
To gnaw at the generational tubers in the creative farmlands

The dazzling specimens of dentitions relaxed in water basins
Like bright red artistic architectures on potent ocean boards
Golden hearts glow in the threatening prisms of the furnace
As beautiful sunset defines her beauties in her nightly corset

It had been a sweet pill for the past descendants to swallow
Depending on the colonial masters for loaves, lore and lures
Our creativity had been packaged in their mortal depravities
Like the tranquil days resting sorrowfully upon the dark oars

The centenarian thunders downgraded our minute whispers
We had been kept upon our toes by the eternally sworn foes
At last our worthy artworks have worn their wormy catwalks
The refreshed dawns greet our easting days in their greenery



679. VICTIMS IN THE VALLEY

The victims in the dark rally
Caged, dried and browning
Therein their meanings tally
With waves born drowning

In the depth of a cold valley
Horrible nobles are cultures
Like pilgrims in the dark alley
Willed to ravenous vultures

The victims all robed in tears
With hearts like potter’s clay
For pains they have no fears
Only mimed games they play

For victory awaits the victims
Alien to a blind mimed game
Glorious are eternal rhythms
For death Christ died to tame

680. THE GIANT SCARS

These are our giant threatening scars
Engraved on our demonstrative heads
Our sympathies crawled on superstars
Weeping for us on their moonlit beds

They threatened us with nasal sounds
Like thunderclouds seasoned to burst
For us their galleries are out of bounds
Behind the iron bars plagued with rust

Our patience passed their wildest tests
Like the lions roaring in the thick jungle
On the heart of the Lord our faith rests
Like numbers posted on the right angle

681.  A LADY

In a lady’s handbag
Is her hidden hunchback
Stuffed with her heart ache
For the pains relieving groom

In a lady’s tender smile
Is hidden miles of similitude
Marked with the zebra crossings
For the ever winning marathoner

In a tender lady’s heart
Is hidden her cowboy’s hat
Soaring within the white clouds
To soothe the earth with the latter rains

682. BRING BACK OUR GIRLS

Bring back our homesick girls
Their vacant cradles are bleeding
Bring back our innocent girls
On the chariots of fire descending

Bring back our suckling girls
Their feeding bottles are weeping
Bring back our infant girls
Their mothers’ ******* are heavy

Bring back our harmless girls
The united universe is thundering
Bring back our dewy girls
In the sharp sun rising in the skies

Bring back our beautiful girls
Like light plucked from darkness
Bring back our glorious girls
Aboard the shore-bound waves

Bring back our worthy girls
On their fresh faces our lights seek to glow
Bring back our living girls
Our fountains of joy are bubbling to burst

For our returned girls the skies shall bear
Roaring rivers, singing seas, chiming clouds
With gongs and songs, pianos and praises
Dulcet dulcimers and documentable dances
With healthy hymns and eloquent embraces
All nations shall into a common cathedral flow

683. ****** GENEOLOGIES

They electrify their demonic high tables with old fears
Only their ****** genealogies are bookmarked to reign
The sight of their portables whetted our eyes to tears
We are reinforced by the clouds born to the later rain

Our skins have renovated the sickening cattle wagons
With our dreams flying upon huge smokes in the skies
Beneath their tables we abridge their creaking jargons
Upon their floors with our generational landmark tiles

The dew drops dropped like old crops upon our brows
To soften the veils falling to the flaming edged swords
The flaming hearted sword of the penetrating sunrays
Born to pluck us alive from our hotly bandaged bruises

684. LET US SPEAK UP

The light is climbing downstairs
And danger is sprouting abroad
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light is melted on the glades
And terror grazing our eyelashes
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light is late and lately buried
The mourners are on danger list
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

The light has divorced the grave
Her grave clothes are dew dyed
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

Silence is a forgotten tombstone
Lost in the din of cold morticians
Our feet are listening for a word
Let us speak up lest they go deaf

685.  THE SUN

The sun smiles on all prescriptively
Like the waves spreading on shores
The green grass glows descriptively
Like the full moon upon dark sores

The sun is a tailor fixing the buttons
Preparing the sky for incoming stars
Like the weaverbird weaving cottons
To conceal the day’s damnable scars

The sun is a marker on diurnal pages
Tall grace he bestows on the flowers
The sun retains his graces for all ages
Bees and butterflies are his followers

Our common laughter is endangered
When sun bows down in big setbacks
All mortals have the starlets fingered
When the night comes on drawbacks

686. UNTIL HERE

(For Lou Lenart and his team)

Their floods came seeking Jewish bloods
Like streams they roared for our dreams
They emerged as columns of soldier ants
Like whirlwinds they zoomed towards us

Until here we were crumbs for the reptiles
Until here we were like airborne cloudlets
But here the sudden change unveiled to us
From here the elusive victory embraced us

With skeletal jets we fought like bold lions
Soared like eagles and spoke like thunders
We conquered columns of invading armies
The bleeding armies turned back and blank

From here we turned from victims to victors
From here enemies’ defeat our greatest feat
Upon this memorable bridge it all happened
Victories leapt upon our pool like joyful frogs

687.  JOY UNLIMITED

The fledging sun offers its rays
And the rays offer golden trays
For our joy a platform to spray
Rowdy paratroops like thunder
To scoop roses from pure oasis

Our joy is ripe upon celebrations
Our celebrations with decorations
Decorations with documentations
Documentations for all generations
Generations in our joyful habitations

688. ANOTER RAINING DAY

The dark clouds are wandering river basins
Spiral bounded by breakable outer casings
The rivers and the seas display empty cups
For the swift blessings descending the tops

The rains come as defense troops’ missiles
And the drowning lands look like imbeciles
Now we are groaning in the watered claws
With the liberated scales marking our flaws

The retreating clouds crawl away in a belch
Dumping the missing cargoes on the beach
The winds bow in a state of shock in a cord
Praying and fasting for a visit from the Lord

689. GRANDMOTHER

Grandmother, please wake and get up
The sky is quarreling with her husband
Soon they will spill their freezing sweat
On our bodies for us to catch dead cold

Grandmother, please sneeze not louder
The sky and her husband are quarreling
Soon they will send old floods like gales
To sweep mankind away from the world

Grandmother, you are everything I have
My moon, my sun and my morning stars
Provoke not the couples with your cough
Lest they refill their greasily wraths again

Grandmother, the big reptiles have come
With their lethal grandchildren following
They are laced with secret burial shrouds
With sympathetic tears tearing their eyes

Grandmother, I kiss you a shaky goodbye
With broken pains roaring within my soul
Grandmother, where are your groundnuts
To conduct my solo heart as you sing away

690.  A NIGHT WALK THROUGH THE FOREST

Lured away on an alluring dream by fables
I trudged along the grassy paths with fears
Upon my steps spilling the prevailing dews
The shadows bowed their heads in silence
Like the soul issued with a death sentence

The night crawlers emerged above boards
Throwing light upon contrary communities
In their hearts and eyes were painful tears
Crawling down their exaggerated eye *****
Like a handbag filled with rotten cosmetics

The shadows were bold animators’ shelves
Stage managing the horror motion pictures
In the ghostly commodities I met wild hosts
Lifeworks evaporated from my fresh breath
Like foreign tragedies in common comedies

The sorrowful shadows cast away their veils
Like the candles letting go of the weird wax
Sadly I sat in the sack for conflicting fetuses
Another sun appeared like a serial divorcee
Counting the testicles of another naked day

691.  SUBJECTIVE SUBJECTS

The sad sun descended upon her haunting melodies
Reeling from mysterious layers for electoral riggings
To harden the flowerbed for flower girls born tender
Disenfranchised voters came weeping in barren polls
Dressing the blank nest for the fat electoral parodies
With the mourners the faulty bells they came ringing
Like the angry water castigating a ****** port fender
And the smokes climbed upon their wide aerial poles
Arching over the emptied shelves with liberal singing
They subjected their subjective subjects to all objects

what's the biggest difference
between 20th century's
french and german
existentialism,
    and the 21st century's
primarily, anglo-sphere,
realisation of an existential
   "crisis"...
           anti-jew meme...
         the globalist octopus...
imagine...
     some people have
recovered from an existential
crisis, having established
vast constructs of thought
way back in the 20th century,
namely
the french, and the germans..
but...
my oh my oh my my...
the anglo-sphere of linguistics
has only, "just now"
awoken to this...
   quiet a predicament,
wouldn't you say?
                         fertile ground...
oh sure, there was existential
angst in the anglo-
sphere among irish
pillars...
                beckett, joyce...
but concrete architectures
of thought, regarding existentialism,
seem to be absent...
  so... counter-argument:
so how come i can
freely buy a copy of some
german philosopher,
a french novelist turned
philosopher...
           but...
  i'm skint... when it comes
to english thinkers more
or less associated with
my status, rather than stance,
on contemporary "translation"?
   elitism...
no... it's not that...
      i could have just well
have procured
a life helping out my father
in industrial roofing...
             i didn't mind roofing...
it's not an exactly pristine
labour of love sort
of environment...
the scottish widows' h.q.
roof near st. paul's?
        me.
   i was part of that
monstrosity...
       but... come again?
but there are some many attachment
cursors when it comes
to an anglican take
on "revising" continental
existentialism...
        whatever crisis
the continental people
felt, and consolidated
the 20th century people...
is only just starting to bud
in the anglo-phonic world...
start-up, island,
end result,
    h'america and australia...
there was never a question
as to why, or if,
the english-speaking
people would ever entertain
existentialism,
but, suddenly they are,
at least starting to look
into the pit,
from their ivory towers...
immediate escape
impetus?
      reach for the fictive
narrative,
                disavow journalism...
make journalism bedfellows
with political rhetoric...
there's no debate...
circus, however you look
at it...
             you can't fathom
an abstract variant
of the german or the french
mind, gripped by
an existential critique,
a piquancy,
    a pedantry...
in the english speaking world...
there are,
just simply...
   too many attachments
to deal with...
       - growing a beard:
meant exactly that -
eat ****.    
         i don't see where
there a "me" to be found
in a (0, 0) starting space,
of net-worth-"work"...
     coumpters-freeze
network...
for a language...
that ridiculed,
or became succinct
in succumbing
to its anglo-preferences
of objectifying counter-standards
for its own...
shortcomings...

  what has 20th century
existential philosophy have
to do with "anything",
esp. if arrived from
the either french
of german, cultures?

we have Joe Slave over 'ere...
oh right... sorry...
paweł nowak....
just took joe stephen slave's
role was
the person, the hands,
in a recycling factory...
do you mind?
  rather:
do you mind...
teaching your natives...
   to...
   and you know how that
cindarella story ends...

introducing existentialism
to the brits and,
generally,
  the anglican variety of
the tongue, being
used...
   will end up as, failure...
the 20th century
taught me this,
the irish failed,
the french
and the germans...
basically a "foreign" idea
is more than just...
******..
the people are ******,
with paradoxes
of their women...

                sure... a bit like
Iceland...
oh, ****, a bit too close
to the continent...
like madagascar
  is to africa...
and sri lanka is to india?
i'm not 'ere to care to
the idiosyncratic
concerns of island people...
contra the, "collective"...

island people will forever
remain island people,
"solipsistic", idiosyncratic,
idioms...
            i can't change that...
always prone to export...
but never to import...
    island people,
       the **** is there to say?
ever bewilder yourself
over chanel 4 news...
and how...
  john snow is slipping
into dementia?
      you listen to the cue?
no?
                  sorry... john...
dementia on the horizon...

attempting to adapt
existentialism into england
will fail,
given their moral high-ground
of the "migrant crisis"...
it's an island...
  the borders are clarifying,
distinct,
        sure, the people can be *****
when their language
is bored in being
a "lingua franca"...
         but other people have
other, in-debt defences...

western slavs?
ever hear a spaniard speak
pollack, just because
he hiked with a polish girl?
yeah... mahler...
                       violins and ****...
you only listen:
                  for an idea...
it comes, it comes,
it doesn't come...
well... you move onto
some khachaturian...
        so,                 no biggie...

you can't import continetal
thinking to an island people,
they have no concept
of borders...
their naive presupposing
barrier, centered-ground is
unshakeable...

   existential philosophy
"meme" rate of survival is... ?
0.1,
binary, negation, an affirmative
statement,
and then the fiasco...

       it doesn't help
that there's an alternative
outlet via h'america or australia...
i'm not looking
at the "bigger picture",
when there isn't one...

     20th century existentialism
will not work in 21st century england,
or any english-speaking world
to begin with...
there are just, too many,
attachment points,
         as many nurtured
nostalgia avenues
as there are amnesia riddled
currencies of attention
exhaustion...
        it's just a pristine model
to revive the serf...

there's no point reading existentialism
to a people,
so far lodged in their
isolationism that they
can claim, both an island-stature...
and two continents,
by extension
       of stating: "being aware"...      

i guess you have to be born
on the continent
to read anything by 20th century
writers,
but... trying to implement
the word...
into the idiosyncrasy
of island-dwelling people,
akin to the English?

                    i'm not even going
to bother trying...
they're island-folk...
   they "think" of borders akin
to coastlines...
and not migration
fake bordering of a contradiction
of peoples occupying
a quicksand pit
of looking at a geography map...
island-folk...
  they know border...
because they know... island...

you can't translate
something that's already
paradoxical to them
  (hypocritical, is not a milder
term of usage for the desired
execution)...
     no...
                not going to happen...
two islands,
some set of continental enclaves...
culture...
whatever you want...

             i've lived with them,
even though i've lived pretty much
among either the irish migrants,
or the scots...
    you're not going to translate
an island, into a continent's
auxiliary...
  right now...
you'd think that
   Estonia would become
characteristic of an island-people
auxiliary mentality...

       i can't blame these people
though...
   an island environment
provides an island people
mentality...
    if you have never been
part of a congregation,
geographically...
   yes...
      but they're borrowing
continental idiosyncracy...
****** *****...

   Iceland?
            yeah... oh yeah...
they're hot on the topic of what
island life is like...
being so...
   conservative that they even
have developed apps
for people to check their
genetic proximity
and any immediacy to live,
+ baggage...

      the Brits were always 'ere...
the Icelandisch?
were always there...
          and...
  sorry... for the already given
postcard: wish you were
here analogy of...
            curiosity killed
the cat...

           but island dwelling people
will always be,
an island dwelling people...
right now,
you do what i do...
you play chamaleon...
  "sociopath"...
                you...
begin with: a-pathy...
          without pathology
looking for... what requires
you to mingle with the most
pathological examples of
a hushed sanity of society...

          and...
          your luck, as well as mine...
nothing really happens...
like butter smeared
over a gently toasted
piece of toast.

hello tomorrow.

the world is a machine built of scorpions and wolves, praying for sleep and
soft lullabies. the wheels and knobs turn endlessly, recklessly howling at the
stars for it's desirable solace, like ghosts stuck on earth preying on others for
revenge for being sentient puppets tangled in the strings, thrashing in their
thoughts, stuck in a everlasting cycle carrying around burdens like a courier
through dense forests and vast wastelands, burning bridges and bibles and
throwing gasoline upon the architectures built up and setting them on fire
but i feel hands of fear at my ankles, pulling me into the restless ocean
with a pulsating ache, wolves howl from the insides of my barren stomach
and making them be quiet is difficult, if duct tape worked, it would help
these knives for fingers cut through anything, but it can't cut through you

- kra

I

Fanciful and then the first notice of
suspended mouth corners,
fleeing gravity with invisible strings,
sloppily synchronize in giggles.

II

A glance at the shore horizon,
widening into chasm,
Erebus leaking
ominously—
oh but the raft
is far too small!
oh and flimsy!
surely the shadows
will ravage
the branches
and pull this
neurotically
euphoric contraption
below.

III

glazed malfunction
blurred and hazed
for lack of clarity
billowing surges
mold as magnets inandout
and in andoutandinandout again

fades in before
melting again to
disjointed gestures
in a multicolored backdrop

IV

Skeletal architectures
return from a hysterical
awareness of ****** intricacy—
And discussion is,
of course,
forever precluded
for fear of relapse
and embarrassment.

Little ant, so small and insignificant
Yet in numbers up an elephant’s snout
How easily you make him indisposed
Lesson to learn: strength in numbers
Maxim to remember: unity of purpose

Oh termite, thou destroyer of civilizations!
How mighty when surreptitiously you creep in
Such ingenious civil engineering feats everywhere
Orderly highways with neither jams nor congestion
And tall imposing castles kissing the air proudly
Result: new architectures plagiarizing your prototype!

And you wasp of constricted waist and mean toxin
You make no attempt to hide or disguise your dwelling
Yours is a house built upon a hill for all to see and tremble
They say when a man has no obvious protection keep away
Lest you trigger subtle forces that mesmerize and pulverize you
Lesson from this: commandos are modern day human wasps

Everybody owes the bee everything, from sweetness to health
The bees a-buzzing speak of persistence and how it breaks barriers
In the end you listen because the message is ceaseless and urgent
And oh sweet bee of the hot sting shot from your posterior
No cordon bleu chef anywhere can ever approximate your finesse
Your formula and patent are hedged with natural mystery
Lesson to learn: the bitter and the sweet in judicious mixture!

Now little man recently so puffed-up and conceited and ever so inadequate
Hear ye this and know it well lest you stumble and fall into dark precipices
You’re nothing and you’ve created nothing; there’s a prototype of everything
In nature’s wonder store of huge surprises and unassuming wisdom
Lesson from all this: one day the other world will rise up and assert it itself
So steer your course differently and beware of those who bide their time
Grim in their purpose and determined in their unshakable resolve

The flames of Valencia
Rips through my veins
His colors course
Through the dreams
In my eyes…
Astounding architectures
Along his streets
I gathered….
Whispering expressive
Spanish songs,
In the core of my ears…
Inside a taxi cab..
Running  wild
Unmindful,
My heart soaring
Like the taps of
The feet of
A flamenco dancer…..
Wrapping my very soul
With eclectic passions
Rhythm and rhymes
Church bell that chimes
Carelessly,
Impatiently
He moves his fingers in a dance
….and
To me,
It is a caress,
that leads me to a trance…..

With a  soft cry of passion
I walked the streets
Of Valencia
Like a woman
Possessed…
With his glory
With his story
Loving minute after
Minute
Of his magnificence  and wonder…
Never wanting to leave
his Mediterranean shores…..

Sights and sounds of Valencia…….
With his pious ,stately cathedrals
Where I knelt in awe
Before the ******
Vowing to return,

A hungry kiss upon his cheek
Shall I plant before I go...
This I promise and this I know….

Valencia…..in my heart
You will always stay…
In fervent wishes,
This, I truly  pray….

One tedious journey, the blistering heat of the day made me stay.
I am home outside the porch exploring my eyes of the panoramic scenery of the countryside.

My mother baked Vanille Kipferl (vanilla crescents) with her own special recipe. The haunting aroma entice through my nostrils. She loves to bake especially on sunny days.

She went out to hand me a plate of cookies and mumbled how magnificent the scenery of the valleys.
True, it is breath taking but she gets to be so flibbertigibbet sometimes.

The tranquility of surroundings is exquisite.
I exhaled and it felt so good.
Rocking the chair, I grabbed an old novel from a table.
The cover was all tattered and dusty but I still flip it.

Then, I walked through a twisting thicket road bound by soil.
The vast green grass sways as the wind dance around them.
The singing of birds is beautiful.
I held my cloche hat while swaying my white regency gown like a lunatic. Every day is a gift. And that gift needs to be value.

I found a shade from an old oak tree at the top largest hill.
It was cozy but I don’t want to sleep, I’m afraid I’ll end up in a Rabbit Hole.  Instead, I climbed the tree with all my might, until I reached the edge.

Up here is different. You can see everything!

The sea is barely visible. Towns and villages are lined up. The atmosphere is heavenly. I embraced the beauty and got down from this old oak tree.

I snatched the book I left on the ground. I hugged it and when I look behind…

I am in a bridge that crosses a canal.

I found a flat-bottomed rowing boat with a man singing.
He looks funny in his striped shirt and black pants.
He grabbed his skimmer and bowed down.
There I go curtsy.
He told me he’ll show me the world. I just hopped in.
The place is floating! There are buildings with such unique architectures.

The man rowed and rowed while singing a song called “O Sole Mio”.
Since it was Neapolitan, I just listened and it sounded romantic.

He said we’re almost there.

…

The honking of vehicles and jamming traffic roused me.
I put the book inside my bag and looked in front.
The cars are huddled together.
These yellow cabs are not moving.

I descend my feet on the ground and shut the door.
The rapid combustion is hideous!

Burger joints, restaurants, people… more people. It’s too crowded.

Anyway, I made my way to this small coffee shop for a little zap!

Then the intense feeling got me clairvoyant.

Flipping pages, I come to enter a portal of a different universe.

In my own little world that no one can get me.

I am the protagonist.

5/25/14

.all of Dante: no feminism; surely woman was such a half-"breed" that she didn't deserve the partiarchal sustenance anomaly of a Dante... a: mutation... half-wit me: succor? no succor! surely a man these days, would rather read ****-****** poetry from the 20th century, and watch football... than be levelled to a "need" to fathom the courtship of woman... it's enough for me to read the Braille of a key and a keyhole: and... like... some miraculous enterprise of a door... i'm out: dodo project... all the man that i will ever be: is being the man i was not expected to be: one thing being a puppet in the hands of the gods: another to be a puppet being kicked and shoved by a fellow human mob; fin; yep... fancy a gambled spotting of a Dante on a roundabout of: on a whim, within a whim, and... whenever she puts on lipstick in an advert: i am not thinking about her thinking of the metaphor for: *******.

you know...
i once stop myself...

i'm reading some
homosexual poetry
from the 1950s

and then i...
"reflect":

what is woman
writing in
the 21st century...

??????

archeologist...
certainly not
an entymologist...

one word...
pre-
whatever ethnic
grouping i was
part of...

***'gy'el...
one word savior,
much more
than an "our father..."

oh i'm way, way past
brown, coco,
copper tanning,
way past the Bangladeshii:
100 shades of
  goo...

gold smitten...
and some of Cairo
hushed extra-
     extravagance
of the dimmed
sandy-
-hued locket of
             timid amber...

4 artifacts from
the 20th century
imprinted on my collectivised
aspect of a singling out
mind:
the holocaust
of the 1940s...
itallian **** from the 1970s...
music videos
from the 1980s...
t.v. reruns of cartoons
in the 1990s...
4th artifact... ****!
****!

what's the fourth 'un?

westerns:
with their scoop of:
any action, no action,
all action:
   panorama to boot...
a decade bias:
'60s...

             and with so many
takes on, "the trip",
i sometimes they didn't
drag god, the word, logos,
into their phantoms
upon the wake...
if only... they didn't desecrate
the shrines of
ingesting hallucinogenic
fungus,
by simultaneously
writing about them:

no go: zombie area...
   i too wish:
no x-ray was handy
in the variety of poem...
but:
******* desecrated
the sights...
like the machu picchu
of the soul...

what then:
at the end of a bottle?
another bottle!

       and prior to?
all of the worthy set
that constitutes
the making of life:
in the collective quest
of the repeated set
of mistakes.

- i tune in into
the speakeasies of
american psychologists
who:
a controversial
opinion is as much
degrading
as a shot of *****...

they could have tripped
all they wanted...
but have recorded:
nothing of their
experiences...

   and all would be:
just as well...
stiff & the stale Vatican:
holy men
for a worth of a leather
shoe... or a cotton shroud's
worth of a hood 'n'
fabric...

                as i sometimes...
have to stop...
no writing,
and interlude of reading...
and nothing but
a shelter in music...

rarely does the sound
of falling rain
compensate
music...

     i remember that the first
time i heard
       ola gjeilo i was in
transit, i cried,
because only the kind
of beauty never to be
attached in attaching itself
to the world, the organic,
will ever make me
cower into complete
shadow:
disowning a heart,
both in rhythm as
           in subject-matter...

now i know the word
to counter what
is being strained:
4000 b.c.

                to boot...
summary:

40s lamb for the slaughter...
70s italian ****,
80s music videos,
90s televised cartoons...
50s new york poetry...

         some jazz,
some painting,
   and then some of 21st century's
summary "criticism"...
         19th century architecture...

but of course...
  none of this even
suggests a chance to savour
  a contemplation
as recuperation...

         to me?
the poets of the 20th century...
should have never have
dragged
  the word into the phantasmagorical
world of the fungus "deity":
namely?
whatever word
is to be extracted from the dream
world is nothing but:

****, skyscraper,
*****, oyster, hat...
             screwdriver...

we have been abandoned
by dreams...

we have been kicked out
from our "2nd Eden",
the Eden of Dreams...
and, it's as if:
we... "don't know it"...

i can only see my persistent
inability to dream,
the anglo-saxon lie that:
we can elaborate on
sleep with: staggering
dream-architectures...

      no! we've been kicked out!
second strike!
i blame the beatnik poets:
because why would you
drag the word into
hallucinogenic experiences...
while desecrating
the altar of the unconscious?

to have been kicked out
of the Eden of Sleep...
is to face the reality
of standing before
the Narcissus of a mirror's
rejection of the 3D man...
an no 2D avatar waiting:
mind you...
   the atom, the... "man"...

i sleep, i don't dream,
all i see is the
gnawing worm:
                         εποχoν -
the bulwark
released from
being tied to an orbit
for our safety: on a leash:

gnarl - up!
and gnashing teeth
like a mythology
of a grinding into
    spit
from a crushing wheel;

however much i try...
i can't dissociate
the following:

fjør-

                             & -skå...

da!

             no anglo-saxon can
lie to me,
in saying:
  he's the architect of
the dream-world:
while mine:
    remains shackled
to ruin...

                     and sometimes:
baron music
shoves a sock soaked
in **** down my throat:
and i...

mingle fingers away from
flesh,
and entomb them
in the wind:
and lacerate myself
with a vision
of an x-ray's worth
of gaze.

.at what point am i not... so ****** angst-prone teen... suppose c. g. jung and... akin to h. p. lovecraft... when there's a keter: ha-shem: ehyeh asher ehyeh... so many "deviation" from the name... new gods... new names... cthulhu and abraxas... jesus ******* ****... + christ all you want... nothing desires a sanctimony of the sacred... nor the death of a chris cornell... unless... it can only be pardoned with "the passing": i.e. death... patient spider... patient stone... patient stab-in-the-back... the solipsistic russian nation of mongrels... to lesser ears: the tipshar of albert alexeyevich razin... udmurt & "udmurt"... jokes... are... currently... reclining... how they would suddenly feel obliged to: scoff-off on a whim... the dead: are sleeping... "concept" of Katyń... no... the dead are besides sleep: they are the tombs what we agitate into life: the best we can... from neither the realm of sleep nor the realm of death: life is our... grace... death: our downfall... there's only mindinf the "creativity" of being left with the in-between...

lay my tired bones and aches into this everyday
shallow grave of sleep:
    i care not for dreams or for other:
unfathomable "questions"...

and when all is done and i have,
no more use for sleep...
lay my tired mind and captured
breath of 21 grams of worth...
into... the sleep of sleep...
        into the architecture of death:

and let neither the obnoxious
insurgence of a dream like heaven
or a dream like pandemonium...
starve me from exercising...
        my... wish to retain obscurity
within the confines of stones, bones...
rust and decay...

lay my bones and aches into
this everyday shallow grave of sleep...
lay my mind and "soul"
into the grand architecture of death...
don't think that you will find
me content with sleep and dreams...
so much so:
content with death and a dream
of dante's geometry of heaven...

   somehow i can cherish the sleep
without the dream...
as i can death...
     should death sentence me to
a fate of Sisyphus: and no demon guardian
with a leash, a hot-rod of agitation
to be my shadow...

who said: the fate of this cheater
of the gods: orpheus the gnostic...
   sisyphus the gnostic...
was to roll the stone... under who's supervision?
tell me again: of that... cat-walk
of evolution...

from the hunched ape to the upright man...
and... the comedy...
back to the hunched spine:
of how an ape borrowed a crow
to ponder... or took a cat and petted it...
in vain hope that:
when sleep would be the spice to escape
the gross mundaneity of recurrent:
similar days...
      a dream...

sisyphus rolled the stone...
sisyphus could just as well... have sat on it...
how one defines eternity:
the grail of vanity...
                        is how one can
master enough: cognitive labyrinths...
to be entertained by a stone...
or "nothing": yes... esp. diese nichts...
and... da(s) nichts...
           the extremes of mediating:
ontology... aeons before the cinema
of saturn... aeons before jupiter...
gloom... and aeons more bound to
neptune...

             the planets: seen: by the naked eye...
no telescope postcards of:
oh yeah... it's there... naked, blunt truth...

as the gnostics might have said...
there are three tiers of truth...

  prosta (simple) - einfach
                           pusta (empty) - leeren
                                          czysta (pure) - rein...
anything outside of simple geometry
of explanation is... the fourth (exempt -
via the thesaurus of antonyms) -
but by the fifth: gradation...
                
truth is beauty... which is devoid of geometry...
no wonder then... that was is most
beautiful... is harangued by... the criticism
and... its self-implosive hypocrisy...
truth is a beauty that...
                    suggests: not everything
good is beautiful... a moral act is not beautiful...
that it is necessary...
one is obliged to find out...

truth as beauty is: simple...
   it is empty... and it is... pure...            

truth is both: good & evil...
          those topics of necessity and...
the... not necessary "additions" come to mind...

it's no longer worth citing truth: per se -
science... facts... a rubric of psychology
in a secular... materialistic world...
a logic behind a soul... body / meat and two veg...
what soul?

truth as a regurgitation of scientific facts
and statistics... a new an old orthodoxy...
perhaps: perhaps not...

          all in all...
             truth: what i can muster to deem vague:
because what's required is not...
nor will it ever be: in vogue...
   a hyphen prefix stressor:
             truth-
                                     and...
   the three adjective suffixes: with the hyphen
included -pure
                        -empty
                                 -simple...

death is a sleep i cannot fathom...
        death is a sleep i cannot fathom...
death is a sleep i cannot fathom...
       if only life was a dream:
that didn't require me, to fathom, it...

"reality": and the so-called "questions"
i.e. reality being... that sort of canvas...
of walking around in...
someone else's... fiction?
at least the rocks the stones have
a somewhat agreed-upon reality of bible:
geology - and no worship: etc.

letover: just... snippets...
but the original theme is given light...
on why it's recurrent...
why did sisyphus toil with the stone:
did zeus give attach to him
a shadow handler with leash
and a fire-riddled poker like the man
was less a man and more:
a work-horse?

couldn't... the myth come up with...
and finally... sisyphus sat on a stone...
curled up his once ***** spine...
took thought before the court of eternity...
and decided: lest i be... "mistaken"...
what happened to gregor samsa
is one coin-flip...
  
   yes... today i was cleaning the shed...
and i was witness to a genus of spider...
when touched by an "invisible" hand / poker...
once... will fli: bellyside up...
curl its anorexic extensions and
play dead...
honest to "god"... spider play dead better than
dogs pretend, to... play... dead...

no... one day... i wasn't faced with
the fate of gregor samsa...
although the mush and the exoskeleton
of thought god soul and:
journalistic nuance of:
the alt. to priests of the 20th century...
carl bernstein / bob woodward /
  paul avery...

once upon a time in the 20th century...
where... journalists could be credited
with status... of... Manichaeans...
when journalistic integrity was:
credo... and... the ditto-heads
were... the apes in a zoological
confinement...      splendid times!
days when... one would... admire...
journalists...
          
   mental health / psychology /
the iron maiden of... finding a simple daft...
expression of... also... made...
coincidental with catching a breath...

          the worst kind of "reality" is
bound to the "future" of the narrative
and esp. off the narrative...
of what... is the sort of people...
that also: deviate from reading a paragraph
of fiction!
"reality" and... -itz...
                          the reality of:
someone else's fiction... a solo project...
from under the iron curtaian...
through to: and including... the silicon veil...
much later:
  but hardly the bed-fellows
coming to terms with the niqab...

      i die: believing that there are...
countless impromptus... serving me...
akin to make replicas of richard the lionheart's:
odes to being: without "stock"...
while john, lackland...
capitulated... for worth of the time: that's ripe...
an affectionate: gyrocentric whoosh!
of a ****-buddy...
and the magna carta was, ahem...
signed...

                     kant... the forever basis of...
the bachelor party:
no stag no hen parties...
the deafening stillness of...
sometimes and "something" in
between...

confines of: pity me for petting cats...
but... he loves me... he loves me not: sunflowers...
i totem a cat... not the petals...
for hope of these grand architectures of dreams:
that people: supposedly acquire...
they even mind telling others that
they have had recurrent dreams!

who are... these people... who have had
recurrent dreams?!
i want to know them!
who are... these people...
who have had recurrent dreams?!

   - moi! ******* son o' german: **** it...
both...               mir!     mich!
the orc: the east... extensions of the mongol
borrowed space by the slav...
hardly... something from...
bothersome south... akin to africa...

stereographs of the modern...
western: "man" is... orcs are not... associated
with... mongols... slavs:
the u.s.s.r.?
they are... allocated a status for...
african migrants from 2015?
on those... inflatable boats?
these... these... are your... orcs?!

           ha ha! pale orc... ching-chang-yin-yang
orc... etc. etc.
            no... never down south...
not when hu-chow and salman ibn
hussein took over kenya
and the the east coast of africa...

i imagine the orc to be meme: toe in toe
with the mongol -
the tartars of crimea...
      pale orc: what?! zee zulu black
panthers: panthers of south h'america?!

hassan i sahba... without exception of
muhmmad... and his name was...
muhammad ibn "abn / abu"...
pray pity: but! there was
a figure of grandfather and uncle:
sometimes the father gets it right...
sometimes...
sometimes the mother gets it right...
but... for fear of ******...
i drink and i tell you...
i'd sooner want
25% of me under my wing...
than 50% of me...

for the love of grandchildren...
god knows what one is to do with children...
send 'em to the crows... and swans?!
i can... love is diluted...
25% of me with the grandchildren...
which implies...
that 50% of me is not relegated
to dispose of with:
a mimic impetus to
"continue"...

                we can be friends at 25%
replica: in its immediacy...
at 50% we're talking: *******...
or on the rare occassion:
it might work: jesus joseph & mary...
according to the zodiac:
jesus was a bull...
joseph was an ares...
mary was a pisces...

           alternatively...
your pick of rat pig and barry...
      yes, of course...
            all formality of a tux-lingo...
dear sir...
sky 'as fallen!
   kind regards...
             better this... than a crossword:
for pedsntry in straitjackets?

new-age ******* of re-learning literacy
because... 2nd act of...
the phantom: all opera shun itself
to the nieche...
masquarade...
                   new learn ways of spell..
new learn ways of recite...
bogus trivial
abracadabra variation of
sudoku...

                    christine was
never a christopher was never: but probably
was a byzantine... cataphracts...
a name for every kind if beloved:
an ogling father in tow...
to mind bori g conservatism...
and all the flamboyancy of lies...
white lies: and hardly...
all the bitter truths...

     all that is mine isn't...
crown and the breeding: what i most likely...
in that: most feel obliged to fear:
the patience and stealth
of spider pin-knuckle rubric...

yes... hello: "today"...
and tomorrow... *******!

random extract:

                 the thuluth:
and the thoth: that became
             the signature of muqlah shirazi...

Le coucher d'un soleil de septembre ensanglante

La plaine morne et l'âpre arête des sierras

Et de la brume au **** l'installation lente.


Le Guadarrama pousse entre les sables ras

Son flot hâtif qui va réfléchissant par places

Quelques oliviers nains tordant leurs maigres bras.


Le grand vol anguleux des éperviers rapaces

Raye à l'ouest le ciel mat et rouge qui brunit,

Et leur cri rauque grince à travers les espaces.


Despotique, et dressant au-devant du zénith

L'entassement brutal de ses tours octogones,

L'Escurial étend son orgueil de granit.


Les murs carrés, percés de vitraux monotones,

Montent droits, blancs et nus, sans autres ornements

Que quelques grils sculptés qu'alternent des couronnes.


Avec des bruits pareils aux rudes hurlements

D'un ours que des bergers navrent de coups de pioches

Et dont l'écho redit les râles alarmants,


Torrent de cris roulant ses ondes sur les roches,

Et puis s'évaporant en des murmures longs,

Sinistrement dans l'air du soir tintent les cloches.


Par les cours du palais, où l'ombre met ses plombs,

Circule - tortueux serpent hiératique -

Une procession de moines aux frocs blonds


Qui marchent un par un, suivant l'ordre ascétique,

Et qui, pieds nus, la corde aux reins, un cierge en main,

Ululent d'une voix formidable un cantique.


- Qui donc ici se meurt ? Pour qui sur le chemin

Cette paille épandue et ces croix long-voilées

Selon le rituel catholique romain ? -


La chambre est haute, vaste et sombre. Niellées,

Les portes d'acajou massif tournent sans bruit,

Leurs serrures étant, comme leurs gonds, huilées.


Une vague rougeur plus triste que la nuit

Filtre à rais indécis par les plis des tentures

À travers les vitraux où le couchant reluit,


Et fait papilloter sur les architectures,

À l'angle des objets, dans l'ombre du plafond,

Ce halo singulier qu'on voit dans les peintures.


Parmi le clair-obscur transparent et profond

S'agitent effarés des hommes et des femmes

À pas furtifs, ainsi que les hyènes font.


Riches, les vêtements des seigneurs et des dames,

Velours, panne, satin, soie, hermine et brocart,

Chantent l'ode du luxe en chatoyantes gammes,


Et, trouant par éclairs distancés avec art

L'opaque demi-jour, les cuirasses de cuivre

Des gardes alignés scintillent de trois quart.


Un homme en robe noire, à visage de guivre,

Se penche, en caressant de la main ses fémurs,

Sur un lit, comme l'on se penche sur un livre.


Des rideaux de drap d'or roides comme des murs

Tombent d'un dais de bois d'ébène en droite ligne,

Dardant à temps égaux l'œil des diamants durs.


Dans le lit, un vieillard d'une maigreur insigne

Egrène un chapelet, qu'il baise par moment,

Entre ses doigts crochus comme des brins de vigne.


Ses lèvres font ce sourd et long marmottement,

Dernier signe de vie et premier d'agonie,

- Et son haleine pue épouvantablement.


Dans sa barbe couleur d'amarante ternie,

Parmi ses cheveux blancs où luisent des tons roux,

Sous son linge bordé de dentelle jaunie,


Avides, empressés, fourmillants, et jaloux

De pomper tout le sang malsain du mourant fauve

En bataillons serrés vont et viennent les poux.


C'est le Roi, ce mourant qu'assiste un mire chauve,

Le Roi Philippe Deux d'Espagne, - saluez ! -

Et l'aigle autrichien s'effare dans l'alcôve,


Et de grands écussons, aux murailles cloués,

Brillent, et maints drapeaux où l'oiseau noir s'étale

Pendent de çà de là, vaguement remués !...


- La porte s'ouvre. Un flot de lumière brutale

Jaillit soudain, déferle et bientôt s'établit

Par l'ampleur de la chambre en nappe horizontale ;


Porteurs de torches, roux, et que l'extase emplit,

Entrent dix capucins qui restent en prière :

Un d'entre eux se détache et marche droit au lit.


Il est grand, jeune et maigre, et son pas est de pierre,

Et les élancements farouches de la Foi

Rayonnent à travers les cils de sa paupière ;


Son pied ferme et pesant et lourd, comme la Loi,

Sonne sur les tapis, régulier, emphatique :

Les yeux baissés en terre, il marche droit au Roi.


Et tous sur son trajet dans un geste extatique

S'agenouillent, frappant trois fois du poing leur sein,

Car il porte avec lui le sacré Viatique.


Du lit s'écarte avec respect le matassin,

Le médecin du corps, en pareille occurrence,

Devant céder la place, Âme, à ton médecin.


La figure du Roi, qu'étire la souffrance,

À l'approche du fray se rassérène un peu,

Tant la religion est grosse d'espérance !


Le moine cette fois ouvrant son œil de feu,

Tout brillant de pardons mêlés à des reproches,

S'arrête, messager des justices de Dieu.


- Sinistrement dans l'air du soir tintent les cloches.


Et la Confession commence. Sur le flanc

Se retournant, le Roi, d'un ton sourd, bas et grêle,

Parle de feux, de juifs, de bûchers et de sang.


- « Vous repentiriez-vous par hasard de ce zèle ?

Brûler des juifs, mais c'est une dilection !

Vous fûtes, ce faisant, orthodoxe et fidèle. » -


Et, se pétrifiant dans l'exaltation,

Le Révérend, les bras en croix, tête baissée,

Semble l'esprit sculpté de l'Inquisition.


Ayant repris haleine, et d'une voix cassée,

Péniblement, et comme arrachant par lambeaux

Un remords douloureux du fond de sa pensée,


Le Roi, dont la lueur tragique des flambeaux

Éclaire le visage osseux et le front blême,

Prononce ces mots : Flandre, Albe, morts, sacs, tombeaux.


- « Les Flamands, révoltés contre l'Église même,

Furent très justement punis, à votre los,

Et je m'étonne, ô Roi, de ce doute suprême.


« Poursuivez. » Et le Roi parla de don Carlos.

Et deux larmes coulaient tremblantes sur sa joue

Palpitante et collée affreusement à l'os.


- « Vous déplorez cet acte, et moi je vous en loue !

L'Infant, certes, était coupable au dernier point,

Ayant voulu tirer l'Espagne dans la boue


De l'hérésie anglaise, et de plus n'ayant point

Frémi de conspirer - ô ruses abhorrées ! -

Et contre un Père, et contre un Maître, et contre un Oint ! »


Le moine ensuite dit les formules sacrées

Par quoi tous nos péchés nous sont remis, et puis,

Prenant l'Hostie avec ses deux mains timorées,


Sur la langue du Roi la déposa. Tous bruits

Se sont tus, et la Cour, pliant dans la détresse,

Pria, muette et pâle, et nul n'a su depuis


Si sa prière fut sincère ou bien traîtresse.

- Qui dira les pensers obscurs que protégea

Ce silence, brouillard complice qui se dresse ?


Ayant communié, le Roi se replongea

Dans l'ampleur des coussins, et la béatitude

De l'Absolution reçue ouvrant déjà


L'œil de son âme au jour clair de la certitude,

Épanouit ses traits en un sourire exquis

Qui tenait de la fièvre et de la quiétude.


Et tandis qu'alentour ducs, comtes et marquis,

Pleins d'angoisses, fichaient leurs yeux sous la courtine,

L'âme du Roi mourant montait aux cieux conquis,


Puis le râle des morts hurla dans la poitrine

De l'auguste malade avec des sursauts fous :

Tel l'ouragan passe à travers une ruine.


Et puis plus rien ; et puis, sortant par mille trous,

Ainsi que des serpents frileux de leur repaire,

Sur le corps froid les vers se mêlèrent aux poux.


- Philippe Deux était à la droite du Père.

Night is like a song that you can’t see
so you make up scenery to fill the gaps
between fluorescent highways. and forests possible.
Figments of figs twist with twigs into
nocturnal architectures of confusing beauty.
Headlights slice into your eyes and ruin
the surprise so you return to sound
of foggy rain and smoky tears,
trying to fit between the droplets
without feeling cold or found. and failing.
World exposed as just imagination but
your faith blooms, believing
makes the secrets breathe.
Traffic rolls across eyelids like
tracks of fading bright and wet tails
across the windshield. and when
you peek again you find only rubies
staring back like mute, unblinking fireflies
and you know you’re driving blind
no matter how wide your spies are open.

if it’s so successful why so much apathy surrounding the justifiably argued vote? is it the bureaucratic 110m with obstacles and hefty organisers of a to b and b to a pink on yellow paper with or without folding or licking a stamp as a dire requirement of a pension in conservative congratulatory applause aided by a flying red carpet that simply spells out: career? we all love the new zealander rugby haka - there’s no democracy in that! it’s a triangle!*

as my grandmother and grandfather said
and i swear it with an oath of death
to give flowers to an american girl:
a. girls will weep... but that’s a girl’s point of view
second....
b. keep you heart small, small enough
to construct nations into agglomerates of empires.
and hence little augustus arose from the people,
since the people felt indulged into being apathetic concerning democracy,
in the numerous they vetoed instead of voted,
and so their party officiate ransacked the crowds into a singular voice, his own,
and disposed of the people like a whirlwind of communist protesters
not willing to assassinate.
cowardly essentials were provided for the toothless lion,
who slurped the meat up like a fly,
and i watched, and watched, while tourist professionals dittoed,
while the belittled men asked men of sheered honour for a judge and jury,
i watched, i watched dearly for my life be spared:
i watched democracy walk in protest to get no sparing or guarantee or success,
i watched it march and watched it fail,
but at the same time i watched no wise man emerge from the tilling of shrunken heads,
so the jokes of aged erections aren’t true?
well that makes up one republic less of what encompasses a democracy
of a single vote.
i watched democracy plagiarise itself into apostasy - but not criminalisation
in secular terms like in the leftist tongue of someone who votes but is taken
in vanus - regression i say! democracy failed a long time ago,
now i’m holding democracy’s economics in a stranglehold to ******* cut off
operas for a point of castrato argued: spoon the moon and dance on water!
i did watch it decide upon a deathbed of the march how the old died with thought of
youth, how eager horned socrates allowed it, how the young then feared
and were unable to cajole with age a mirroring effect to think that too -
having to eat the scribbles of once firm architectures and *** **** a nuance of
the bean turned into a balloon or kidney!
yes, i watched democracy crumble, and i watched it with good stead,
i saw “democracy” craft a war against its people wish,
i watched “democracy” hide the french & russian revolution and the english one,
i saw democracy institutionalise poets as academic byproducts of semantic dirges
concerning life rather than death -
i saw it crumble with syria, and i applauded with alexander’s libido hushed into monogamy,
and since then i have aged, vetoed rather than voted, and articulated
what was to become the segregation of scot from brit looking at two pence worth’s of copper.

Stones which used to be Mountains

worn away by frequent seas


{eroding shores by an ocean’s undulating toll

Will it leave a sound-?-or will all be smitten

by the waves’ pitch and roll,

wearing me down, singing like a siren}


Broken windows in remarkable architectures,

gravel hurled injuring sick and dying edifices


{shattered skeletons by which rusty old panes ache

Will they come back to life-?-or will they crumble

like so much grey mortar

waiting on my grave, my ash like lime}


Substance of life saw so much when solid

now drips its thawing unwanted mobility, unrestrained


{once unique solitary patient glaciers

Will these tepid breezes not extinguish-?-yet hastened

towards the yawning mouth

which empts into the anonymity of the deeps}

Once upon a Cold, we painted with
our Breath, drawing grand designs with Frost.
We thought the Ice would last
all season, comfort of our white Chrysalis
wrapping Crystal dreams.
We antici-
pated  each  coming  day
like a Snowflake waits
for infinite friends to follow
it’s unique descent.
We didn’t fear starry hours
or burned out sky
because even that
was Bright.
And one morning whispers with a
drip. drip.
delicate palaces rush into consciousness.
new chrysalis cries
as every brick of what we built
becomes a warmer, wetter winter tear.
collapsing towers, liquid architectures dancing
deep in ear canals, all flowing castles of the fall.
Tall empires all return to sea level.
farewell, foundations.
goodbye, stuck moments.
take care, cold friends.
hello, invisible breath.
now fleeing into pavement rivers,
moving as if only motion was alive,
sunlit course corrections,
shifting midstream to not die.
but I weep for our grand designs,
no solace in the warm survival of their parts,
impermanence courts chaos
in what’s left
of a pair
of frozen hearts.

An old tale tells of a world where creativity and beauty is but a forgotten word.

Trees and birds are only stories that were quickly forgotten.

The people live in the same houses, and wear the same clothes.

There are no colours but black and white.

It is a world where creativity and beauty is dead... Save for one young boy.

With his gifted hands, he created.

Sculptors of strange and wonderful creatures and architectures one could only see in their wildest dreams.

Stories and tales that could make even the saddest clowns laugh and the coldest soldiers cry.

Pictures and murals that displayed the colours of the rainbows that had long since stopped shining.

Beautiful as his creations were, he was shunned by his family and friends.

They saw him as mentally disturbed because he created things that he cannot see. Written stories that he cannot hear.

Beautiful as his creations were, they were hastily discarded by the townspeople;

Thrown into a river that flows through town, into a chasm without a bottom.

Shunned by his kin and his creations discarded,

One day, the boy could take no more.

He fled from his house, indistinguishable from the other buildings around,

And he cast himself into the river, intending to join the tales and images his hand wove into existence.

Down with the raging water, and into the great darkness in the center of the earth. A darkness that even the grey sun could not illuminate.

Darkness holds mysteries, and this one is one that none knows.

None but the boy.

When he woke up, he found himself cradled in a woman's arms.

But this woman had a face of a goat. On her head is a strange piece of clothing called a hat, and her eyes were a beautiful crimson red.

She only had three fingers on her fluffy, snow white hands.

She was dressed in a soft robe that shines a wonderful violet from the glowing crystals around.

"The Great Creator," She spoke. "Why have you fallen down here, far below the grey world above?"

"The grey world is blind," said the boy. "Blind to how different, how grand, the world would be if there's colour and form just like ages past. I wished to join my creations in Oblivion."

"You are not in Oblivion, child," said the woman. "But you are where your creations reside. Look around."

The boy looks around the Underground. The land below the earth was not dead and desolate, but rather filled with life.

Lives like the goat woman.

A man with the lower body of a horse,

A faery who carries his head in his hand,

And a bird clad in a sightless mask, for its gaze could turn anyone to stone.

And they all sported such vibrant colours, wore such magnificent clothing and lived in strange-looking abodes.

All too beautiful for the boy to believe.

He looked around some more to see more familiar things. One of his sculptures, placed in the middle of a bed of mushrooms, turned into a shrine.

He listened to two bug children tell a story he wrote; a story that once brought a soldier to tears.

He saw scribbles on the buildings that looked like recreations of his own drawings, but they never came close to the grandness of the original.

All of them were credited to a being called 'The Great Creator from Above.'

"Those close to you may shun you, child," said the goat woman. "But someone, somewhere, loves you for who you are."

She smiles to him, a sight so warm the boy had to shed a tear.

"Don't change for them...

Stay as you are for us."

title: the what
body: or? what?!

i always wondered how it is that people see
images when asleep... vast architectures of dreams...
even this phenomenon of the recurrent dream:
what an alien concept: people have recurrent dreams?
like what: they're school children...
sitting in a classroom having to learn on repeat
a lesson they haven't learned the first time round?
it must be like that... a cosmic "deity" is sending
them a... electric bill reminder: or something?
i dream so little... i once bemoaned this...
but if i hear a words being uttered in dream...
if i see a word... let's say... i'm content...
                but i sort of figured it out...
   in the distance... while perched on the windowsill...
i "accidently" squinted my left eye while having
closed my right eye... squinted it and peered
at a street lamp in the distance...
         wow... the light splintered... obviously
the source of light remains intact...
but by squinting my eye... a beam of light races to me...
but no... not directly into my eye...
the source of light is directly present in my eye...
this beam of light... it travels... to my forehead...
my brain? just above my eye... into me...
do i have a third eye? is it closed: implying that's
the reason i do not have visual dreams?
well... it's not that i'm wholly ignorant of certain
matters... i would be ignorant of certain matters
if i had recurrent dreams...
   no cosmic "deity" is sending me mail... via dreams...
it probably figured: no need to bother him...
he's quiet content with being awake:
he'll probably find that... by squinting his eye...
he'll see where light travels to...
  he'll probably find out that he has a third eye...
then he'll realise that... he's not getting my mail...
because it (the third eye is closed), which will tell him:
he's content with his life, with his being...
              no self-help guru is going to touch his
   auspicious disposition...
well... i guess that's about right...
                whatever the science is... the brain is a sponge
of electric currents... it short-circuits
when a person is asleep and the unconscious pretends
to be consciousness and... conjures up dreams...
because that's how the unconscious pretends to be
consciousness... i.e. conjuring dream architecture
for the sleeper... no... i'm not interested in an objective
language... i've heard too much objective language
when doing 3 years of a chemistry degree...

oh but the more poignant point...
     how many years was it... for a 21 year old boy...
boy... clearly not a man...
  to get over his first "love" (the first best **** of his
life... and being torn from it)...
  the years of a ****-less desert... or just timid "lovers"...
14... years... and finally...
ah... a new chapter... hmm... love is less hard-hitting
this time... my head doesn't come off...
my heart has a steady beat... sure... sometimes
the stomach and intestines give in to something
that's outside the realm of superficiality...
of idealism... but it's a different sort of "butterflies"...
some butterflies are actually moths...
they are warning cramps...
          the hot flusters are there... that's when the moths
come... the stomach cramps created by the moths
are a way of providing me with a warning:
this girl is a bad idea... even she's telling you that she's
a bad idea... the people in your vicinity say
she's a bad idea... she's nice to strangers... but it's a mask...
perhaps she was only nice to strangers because
she worked with you and noticed how you treated
everyone equally... and... what you actually saw?
a show... an act... because she was in your presence...
otherwise she wouldn't behave like she did...
double-cross... back-stabbing... political in the sense
of: puny-politics of in-group and out-group preferences...
oh... mind you: the retreat...
she knew she ****** up... but you nonetheless didn't
confront her about a rumour... against you...
you did the opposite... to ploughed forward with a charm
offensive... oh the sweetness of the retreat...
because... she just started looking ridiculous...
those are the moths... you get flustered... for a reason...
you learn to fall in love like a boy again...
if she's putting on an act... hmm... you put on act...
                 beautiful... this sieve... to separate the bull-*******
from the authentic people...
mind you... the butterflies do come...
but they're not the same as when you were younger...
you have to work on stamina of the... ahem...
"certain parts" of the anatomy that are essential
to copulate... the butterflies come... sort of in reverse...
you get butterflies from merely thinking about:
giving a good bedroom performance...
and the many tricks involved in doing just that...
fasting... but eating a heavy loaded diary meal in between
two extreme exercise sessions on a bicycle...
30 minutes each... drinking white wine...
taking your time to get to location... walk a bit...
buy a small sample of brandy... relax...
   get rid of any possible thought...
              eyes wide open... no need to invoke the heart...
keep it the size of a pebble...
and no... thinking about nothing will not suddenly
make your head to get chopped off with some
wild ideas that this encounter might go somewhere
like: a house, 2 children a dog... holidays together...
whatever...
               the butterflies are a preparation tool...
once... my first ever girlfriend...
          we went on a date... well... sort of... it wasn't a "date":
it was a DAY... a day-date...
art gallery... cinema... Troy just came out...
then to a sushi bar...
           it was an entire day...
                        it was a glorious 2004 summer...
we were so young... so innocently young...
                 i took her to the train station... hugged...
then a former "friend" of mine called me and said...
she said that when she hugged you...
she had the butterflies... blah blah...
so i called her up... started dating... thank god it was
at the end of high school...
i literally had no drama in high school...
then again... it was a Catholic school...
we were all in strict uniform all the time...
   that's always good... drama: esp. with women...
begins on the level of fashion...
                          send your children to a school with strict
school uniforms... point being...
the butterflies came after: for her...
now? butterflies come prior... anticipatory butterflies...
could i love... again?
what the hell is love? commitment? i tried that once...
no regrets... it's much better being the person being
rejected than doing the actual rejection...
i'm committed to keeping the cats fed, warm and healthy...
i'm committed to keeping the house tidy...
to ironing the shirts... to cooking meals...
i'm committed to taking care of people at football events
in stadiums... i'm committed to... looking very
******* presentable on the job... to the point where
i fixate on correcting my tie while someone in the audience
tells me i look sharp...
love? what the hell is that?
love is... when someone sticks around...
is that love? so love is not the little dramas...
the great ***?
the intimate:
eating-each-other's-eyes-with-each-other's-eyes?
love is not... eating each other's lips
with each other's lips?
love is not... what the tongues get up to
when the eyes are closed?
to be honest?
    if love is anything but the briefest encounter...
my god... what torture... or rather:
what boredom! perhaps i could love...
a deaf girl... i'm being serious... when i'm alone
in the house for a period of 2 weeks or longer...
i sometimes startle myself or rather:
the silence of the house... the house is startled
when i finally break down and speak with irritability...
why? because the cat is meowing too much...
who said that?!
                   well... when the neighbour comes round...
blah blah... but in general...
peace & love... peace & love... & solitude...

i can love: the smell of damp London in the Mile End
vicinity... i can love.... salted pork bagels
of Brick Lane... i can love... the emptiness
of Hyde Park... i can love the traffic from Romford
into Central London... cycling...
i can love a good curry... decent music...
i can love... feeling ***** throughout the whole
day being lazy and not washing myself until
the evening... which included my teeth...
taking a decent amount of ****... even diarrhoea...
a walk in the woods...
but... loving someone else? oh my god...
spare me... i'd like them to pass freely...
    that sort of love implies... also mourning them...
losing them... i don't want to love because
i don't want to mourn them...
       now... what this second encounter with great
*** has taught me... it's not love...
it's only a momentary attachment...
   no... this is "confusing"... to get dragged into "love"
with all the petty squabbles...
"planning"... whatever that might be...
sure... it would make life easier... if the bills are split...
someone does the cooking... someone does
the cleaning... blah-d-blah... but if i can do that
all by myself... love... for... what?
a ******* conversation? about what?
what is there to talk about... if you've been
a sort of monk from the age of 21... and still sort of are
aged 35... what... common language?
i could swear i'm en route to somewhere else...
en route: well... at least no one is going to mourn me...
that's a big relief...
    love... people throw this word around like
it has some mystical properties...
          my grandfather didn't understand it either...
he provided for his family and was treated like ****...
drove him to abuse alcohol...
he didn't drink prior to: something having happened...
oh... wait... i think i can pin-point it to:
my grandmother not wanting a third child
and getting an abortion instead...
         i'm just guessing... completely sober prior
to some event... whether it was that or not...
do i need that? i'd play along to... being the surrogate
father... much easier... mould the mind...
to hell with the body... again: what's love again?
abusing someone... because... now you get access
to their domestic routines and the diamonds galore
of meeting up and having *** is gone...
can't people do that: best... on their own?
          i don't remember being ever good at sharing
something with someone...
time... esp. time...
                              there's nothing better than walking
alone in the woods... or the fields in Essex...
never mind cycling alone... why... on earth...
would anyone require company... conversation:
to upset the gentle balance of the wind rustling
through the trees, ferns and bushes?
- need to reinforce my own ontology...
    by... god... i abhor the objective language of...
2nd? 3rd wave Darwinism?
maybe that's why i'm going down the existential
rabbit-hole of subjective-language...
the objective-language reality of 2nd? 3rd wave Darwinism
that now... merely focuses on the dating and mating
side of things... but has... absolutely no...
sense of wonder... about the natural world...
Darwinism in the mainstream no longer focuses
on... the external world... on sharks... on birds...
it's all internalised garbage ***** about who is:
and who isn't getting laid...
objective-language reality and all that fact spewing
*******... doesn't it become... sort of... tiresome?
it's sort of like the language of: astrology...
i'm hearing something... but... at the same time...
is this Mystic Meg from the tabloid The Sun shedding
light on... the prophecy for the zodiac sign: Taurus?
no good with a subjective-language reality?
life is a FACT... but not an EXPERIENCE?
wow...
              really? no one wants to hear the objective-language
of Darwinism: esp. in its current form...
reduced to the dating & mating flesh market...
after all... the original language of Darwinism...
it wasn't objective as such... it was a subjective-language
dynamic... it was a discovery: eureka!
i found something! look! look! as a theory:
it wasn't cold... it was... FRESH...
objectivity doesn't deal with excitement...
it's cool, calculated, repeated... firm... well established...
didn't Darwinism face backlash at first?
heated debates? ergo... it originated in a subjective-language
dynamic... no?
objective-language structures are what makes
pedagogy happen...
            but for something to be found to be original?
subjective-language structure is more becoming...
of how something is conveyed... expressed...
passed down... the modern take on Darwinism has
been hijacked by... popular psychology...
and... psychological adding up of data points...
the self-evident failures of the dating & mating
market monopoly by a... small percentage...
oh... the natural world is always the best excuse to use...
because... all those years of man trying to overcome
the natural world... ships to cross the seas...
aircraft to defy gravity... the invention of pencilin
to combat disease... pain-killers to block pain receptors...
yet... we're now... going back... way back...
men created certain ways to bypass...
natural discriminations... monogamy...
           once upon a time... Darwinism was once
a revival of the man-child ancient Greek philosopher
mentality: awe-struck... wow... look at this...
the original language was a subjective-language...
the use of objective-language came later... much later...
when the subjective truths / intuitions were to be later
tested... established... given to the rigour of...
something akin to mass-production...
   pedagogy... but the original language structure wasn't
objective... in the least...
hardly... now? Darwinism... "Darwinism" and the use it
has... in the modern world... it's all about ***...
no... no need to spare some thought-awe
for the Greenland shark...
   and his "funny" companion: the eye-parasite...
   Ommatokoita... yeah... the parasite attaches itself
to the shark's eyes... and slowly makes him go blind...
the shark lives for 120± years...
the shark itself? Somniosidae: sleeper shark...
                       in pop conversation... that's what?
Darwinism was supposed to be used to explain this...
not be weaponized for the dating & mating game...
i hate what Darwinism has become...
the natural world imploded... Darwinism "borrowed"
something from history: it wasn't supposed to borrow...
any new... spontaneous evolution?
we're in stasis... no new evolution in our lifetime...
i can guarantee that... well... unless you're going to talk
about single men... there's going to be lightning speed
re-adaptation methods in place:
the dodo project mentality...
   but Darwinism in its current format:
the objective-language reality... nothing's new...
spewing these psychology-mingling facts is a bit like...
reading yesterday's news for... about a week...
while at the same time... nothing is "supposed" to happen
a week from the day the news were being recited...
but the shark is sleeping in complete darkness anyway...
so... parasite? or is it rather... a symbiosis?
it doesn't matter whether he could see or not...
he couldn't see jack ****...
perhaps being blind allows the shark to live
much longer?

consequences? there's no returning to a subjective-language
Darwinism of... exploration...
the weight of the objective-language "Darwinism"
is... too annoying... because?
it has lost clues regarding... exploring the external world...
of focusing on nature...
it has been hijacked by en masse psychologism
of statistics...  herding... herding and... shackling
in... chicken cages...
            once upon a time Darwinism was like...
finding out about... navigation of the seas...
now? n'ah ah... Darwinism has become internalised...
weird that... internalised via an objective-language...
i can imagine something being internalised via
a subjective-language... but...
paradox: subjective-language externalises...
it doesn't internalise... objective-language internalises...
since... it's a drill-process...
why remember 1 + 1 = 2? not because it's a subjective "truth"...
it's an "objective" truth...
add a measure to the numbers... seconds... meters...
you get the picture...
that's why we think: i guess...
we internalise objective-language and why we externalise
subjective-language...
     or... to put it more simply...
            that's why we sometimes can't say certain things...
to externalise subjective-language?
sign-language... body language...
how we speak without speaking when using our
body... what's that? internalise objective-language...
surprise surprise when someone has
internalised subjective-language:
the casual expression is: they're speaking their mind...
no?
   my god... good thing i started reading
Sartre in English... that's what i'm here for...
to externalise objective-language?
that's how the current wave of Darwinism goes...
fact... or rather a BLITZKRIEG VON TATSACHE...
a lightning strike of fact!
   i won't use the plural... term for facts...
because? the singular implies a cascade, a: boom boom boom
rather than a tsunami of facts...
to externalise objective-language?
to regurgitate... to parrot... to read something and speak
it back to someone else...
never to think about it...
                how are the reins on the flow on this, Matthew?
i think i'm about to find closure...
people who don't read that much will
find this as a sort of a word-salad... i got that...
no need to think when reading:
or rather... perhaps thinking about something else...
when reading it... that's why i'm not going to make
any youtube videos... writing is a good sieve...
it keeps the idiots out... the ones that have
this irresistible need to speak to a camera:
but not a person...
  and what am i going to do? repeat my point(s)
again? like Sartre: "reinvent" the ******* circle?
i think i was pretty clear so far...
i'm going to take a selfie and send it to Khedra...
but unlike the normal selfie...
i'm going to take the whizz-kid selfie type of pointing
the camera at a canvas of glass... with my reflection
entombed in it... no... not inverted with the camera
looking at me... i'll be taking a photograph of the camera
looking with me... at something... well... me...
i'm not going to muddy the waters by the fabric of
reiteration: it will not prove my point any more...
job's done... i'm done...
i reached the zenith of my argument...
the modern interpretation of Darwinism *****:
***... big ***... elephant sized ***...
it is (an) internalised objective-language...
rubrics... pedagogy... the original was an externalised
subjective-language... where there was once awe,
suspense... now? nothing's new...
move on... nothing new to see...
******* menopause or...
myopia... or... a return to the geocentric reality
of the world... people still don't see it?
we've returned to a geocentric model of the world...
because of ****** frustrations...
and it's not like women are incapable of starting
wars... no... because Helen of Troy is just
a ******* myth... no no... just an innocent creature...
what caused the war was the hurt pride
of the brother of Agamemnon... Menelaus'...
yeah... that's what started the war...
not Helen's infidelity with a toy-boy fling of Troy...
thank god the matter was settled between
Hector and Achilles...

i'm not going to be ****** and reiterate...
i made my point...
if it's not clarified already... then i think you...
probably can't be my contemporary...
i'll need some necromancy readers...
people who might understand me when i'm dead...
i never expected to be understood by people who...
just so it happens... are alive... while i'm alive...
fat chance of that happening...
i sometimes try to give directions to people
and they are insistent on not waiting...
while i try to conjure up a map of my locality...
an before i can give them directions they
assume: oh... you're not a local...
drive off... *******... wait wait...
i'm walking these streets with a can of beer...
what's the ******* hurry?!
can i have a minute or two?
i'm not a local... even though... i perfectly know
the timing on some of the traffic lights...
at junctions... o.k.: whatever...
people in a hurry... are usually people with
nowhere to go...
yeah, sure... be free... whatever...
you're apparently as much needed elsewhere as
the place you just left: asking for directions...

god... bring me more of these sort of people...
the type of people i can tell to ******* without telling
them to *******...
i'm starting to love it.

Laisse-moi respirer longtemps, longtemps, l'odeur de tes cheveux, y plonger tout mon visage, comme un homme altéré dans l'eau d'une source, et les agiter avec ma main comme un mouchoir odorant, pour secouer des souvenirs dans l'air.

Si tu pouvais savoir tout ce que je vois ! tout ce que je sens ! tout ce que j'entends dans tes cheveux ! Mon âme voyage sur le parfum comme l'âme des autres hommes sur la musique.

Tes cheveux contiennent tout un rêve, plein de voilures et de mâtures ; ils contiennent de grandes mers dont les moussons me portent vers de charmants climats, où l'espace est plus bleu et plus profond, où l'atmosphère est parfumée par les fruits, par les feuilles et par la peau humaine.

Dans l'océan de ta chevelure, j'entrevois un port fourmillant de chants mélancoliques, d'hommes vigoureux de toutes nations et de navires de toutes formes découpant leurs architectures fines et compliquées sur un ciel immense où se prélasse l'éternelle chaleur.

Dans les caresses de ta chevelure, je retrouve les langueurs des longues heures passées sur un divan, dans la chambre d'un beau navire, bercées par le roulis imperceptible du port, entre les pots de fleurs et les gargoulettes rafraîchissantes.

Dans l'ardent foyer de ta chevelure, je respire l'odeur du tabac mêlé à l'***** et au sucre ; dans la nuit de ta chevelure, je vois resplendir l'infini de l'azur tropical ; sur les rivages duvetés de ta chevelure je m'enivre des odeurs combinées du goudron, du musc et de l'huile de coco.

Laisse-moi mordre longtemps tes tresses lourdes et noires. Quand je mordille tes cheveux élastiques et rebelles, il me semble que je mange des souvenirs.

The banter runs in squares. Hot air
condensing stories on the things you like,
inquiring where they’re from? A lush
entanglement of architectures
pulled from hungry jaws, unsated,
set to gnashing blindfully
at light, like worms?
Rejoice in proper terms!
Renounce those shameless fights
with others and yourself, best soldiers for
this no doubt war
appealing to the combat tribes
to both consider lives
and shoot them from the fences.
Ampleness, bedecked in hero standard,
tacks our motto to his brim -
“Why Can’t You Be Like Him?”
A just extolment of desire
(trod lightly otherwise),
steps to our eagle-eyes.
We’re living.
Pry the fenders off the lies
that carted us to chaos
heedless what it spurned -
what gardens have we watered?
Labors that upturned the noses
of the rulers bidding silence in their undertow -
what power, then, to stir below.

steel cold looks
cool worked metal in hand
American workers pause
waiting to take stand
not on trial
but as witness to tell
of planes and plain faces
they have known so well
cross examined
with tacit emotion
by averting eyes broken
and curtains unopened
the artist a jury
convicts without words
his portrait the judge
its sentence unheard
but architectures fate
arcs down towards man
to remind him
of lost history's demand
to imitate the past
on infertile soil
to bear no fruit
and continue their toil

Why do we play this deranged charade?
Silly dancers, changing shapes
Did I entertain, distract from the pain?
Did I catch you smiling as you turned away?
Where the waves break, it’s gets insane
Knuckling down, despite the rain
Which, washes the well in which I remain
Walking on glass in this ****** ballet
Deliberate decay, butts in the tray
Flip side, I pray, this street’s two way
Architectures grand, but it’s just a trap
It bleeds like the trees so we savor the sap
I lose myself being heartfelt
Such a try hard, puts holes in my belt
Marks on my knees, scratches and welts
This mask may be neat but inside I melt

The city is strangely grey            
as though seen through color filter                      
that adds apocalyptic tone to everything ---                        
stern architectures on sides of the street                        
vehicles that make road silently busy                          
I walk a while                          
and then pause at a taxi stop                                  
People slowly gather around me                  
like a flock of black crows            
huddling on withered winter branches                      
Anxiety begins to pile up while I wait              
hopelessly                    
for a cab to pull over                        
and take me back to my own reality                          
A block away                          
next to the street bistro                          
a misty harbor stretches                            
in the face of an ocean        
where vast expanse of nihility        
takes the place of fathomable water    
                            
A road sign indicates:        
Here is the end of time