A rose in the high garden that you desire.
A wheel in the pure syntax of steel.
The mountain stripped of impressionist mist.
Greys looking out from the last balustrades.

Modern painters in their black studios,
Sever the square root's sterilized flower.
In the Seine's flood an iceberg of marble
freezes the windows and scatters the ivy.

Man treads the paved streets firmly.
Crystals hide from reflections' magic.
Government has closed the perfume shops.
The machine beats out its binary rhythm.

An absence of forests, screens and brows
Wanders the roof-tiles of ancient houses.
The air polishes its prism on the sea
and the horizon looms like a vast aqueduct.

Marines ignorant of wine and half-light,
decapitate sirens on seas of lead.
Night, black statue of prudence, holds
the moon's round mirror in her hand.

A desire for form and limit conquers us.
Here comes the man who sees with a yellow ruler.
Venus is a white still life
and the butterfly collectors flee.

Cadaqués, the fulcrum of water and hill,
lifts flights of steps and hides seashells.
Wooden flutes pacify the air.
An old god of the woods gives children fruit.

Her fishermen slumber, dreamless, on sand.
On the deep, a rose serves as their compass.
The ****** horizon of wounded hankerchiefs,
unties the vast crystals of fish and moon.

A hard diadem of white brigantines
wreathes bitter brows and hair of sand.
The sirens convince, but fail to beguile,
and appear if we show a glass of fresh water.

Oh Salvador Dalí, of the olive voice!
I don't praise your imperfect adolescent brush
or your pigments that circle those of your age,
I salute your yearning for bounded eternity.

Healthy soul, you live on fresh marble.
You flee the dark wood of improbable forms.
Your fantasy reaches as far as your hands,
and you savor the sea's sonnet at your window.

The world holds dull half-light and disorder,
in the foreground humanity frequents.
But now the stars, concealing landscapes,
mark out the perfect scheme of their courses.

The flow of time forms pools, gains order,
in the measured forms of age upon age.
And conquered Death, trembling, takes refuge
in the straightended circle of the present moment.

Taking your palette, its wing holds a bullet-hole,
you summon the light that revives the olive-tree.
Broad light of Minverva, builder of scaffolding,
with no room for dream and its inexact flower.

You summon the light that rests on the brow,
not reaching the mouth or the heart of man.
Light feared by the trailing vines of Bacchus,
and the blind force driving the falling water.

You do well to place warning flags
on the dark frontier that shines with night.
As a painter you don't wish your forms softened
by the shifting cotton of unforeseen  clouds.

The fish in its bowl and the bird in its cage.
You refuse to invent them in sea or in air.
You stylize or copy once you have seen,
with your honest eyes, their smal agile bodies.

You love a matter defined and exact,
where the lichen cannot set up its camp.
You love architecture built on the absent,
admitting the banner merely in jest.

The steel compass speaks its short flexible verse.
Now unknown islands deny the sphere.
The straight line speaks of its upward fight
and learned crystals sing their geometry.

Yet the rose too in the garden where you live.
Ever the rose, ever, our north and south!
Calm, intense like an eyeless staute,
blind to the underground struggle it causes.

Pure rose that frees from artifice, sketches,
and opens for us the slight wings of a smile
(Pinned butterfly that muses in flight.)
Rose of pure balance not seeking pain.
Ever the rose!

Oh Salvador Dalí of the olive voice!
I speak of what you and your paintings tell me.
I don't praise your imperfect adolescent brush,
but I sing the firm aim of your arrows.

I sing your sweet battle of Catalan lights,
you love of what might be explained.
I sing your heart astronomical, tender,
a deck of French cards, and never wounded.

I sing longing for statues, sought without rest,
your fear of emotions that wait in the street.
I sing the tiny sea-siren who sings to you
riding a bicycle of corals and conches.

But above all I sing a shared thought
that joins us in the dark and the golden hours.
It is not Art, this light that blinds our eyes.
Rather it is love, friendship, the clashing of swords.

Rather than the picture you patiently trace,
it's the breast of Theresa, she of insomniac skin,
the tight curls of Mathilde the ungrateful,
our friendship a board-game brightly painted.

May the tracks of fingers in blood on gld
stripe the heart of eternal Catalonia.
May stars like fists without falcons shine on you,
while your art and your life burst into flower.

Don't watch the water-clock with membranous wings,
nor the harsh scythe of the allegories.
Forever clothe and bare your brush in the air
before the sea peopled with boats and sailors.

THE HOUSE OF DUST
A Symphony

BY
CONRAD AIKEN

To Jessie

NOTE

. . . Parts of this poem have been printed in "The North American
Review, Others, Poetry, Youth, Coterie, The Yale Review". . . . I am
indebted to Lafcadio Hearn for the episode called "The Screen Maiden"
in Part II.


     This text comes from the source available at
     Project Gutenberg, originally prepared by Judy Boss
     of Omaha, NE.
    
THE HOUSE OF DUST


PART I.


I.

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.

And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.

'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.

We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .

Good-night!  Good-night!  Good-night!  We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride.  We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.

Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.

Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for?  Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.


II.

One, from his high bright window in a tower,
Leans out, as evening falls,
And sees the advancing curtain of the shower
Splashing its silver on roofs and walls:
Sees how, swift as a shadow, it crosses the city,
And murmurs beyond far walls to the sea,
Leaving a glimmer of water in the dark canyons,
And silver falling from eave and tree.

One, from his high bright window, looking down,
Peers like a dreamer over the rain-bright town,
And thinks its towers are like a dream.
The western windows flame in the sun's last flare,
Pale roofs begin to gleam.

Looking down from a window high in a wall
He sees us all;
Lifting our pallid faces towards the rain,
Searching the sky, and going our ways again,
Standing in doorways, waiting under the trees . . .
There, in the high bright window he dreams, and sees
What we are blind to,-we who mass and crowd
From wall to wall in the darkening of a cloud.

The gulls drift slowly above the city of towers,
Over the roofs to the darkening sea they fly;
Night falls swiftly on an evening of rain.
The yellow lamps wink one by one again.
The towers reach higher and blacker against the sky.


III.

One, where the pale sea foamed at the yellow sand,
With wave upon slowly shattering wave,
Turned to the city of towers as evening fell;
And slowly walked by the darkening road toward it;
And saw how the towers darkened against the sky;
And across the distance heard the toll of a bell.

Along the darkening road he hurried alone,
With his eyes cast down,
And thought how the streets were hoarse with a tide of people,
With clamor of voices, and numberless faces . . .
And it seemed to him, of a sudden, that he would drown
Here in the quiet of evening air,
These empty and voiceless places . . .
And he hurried towards the city, to enter there.

Along the darkening road, between tall trees
That made a sinister whisper, loudly he walked.
Behind him, sea-gulls dipped over long grey seas.
Before him, numberless lovers smiled and talked.
And death was observed with sudden cries,
And birth with laughter and pain.
And the trees grew taller and blacker against the skies
And night came down again.


IV.

Up high black walls, up sombre terraces,
Clinging like luminous birds to the sides of cliffs,
The yellow lights went climbing towards the sky.
From high black walls, gleaming vaguely with rain,
Each yellow light looked down like a golden eye.

They trembled from coign to coign, and tower to tower,
Along high terraces quicker than dream they flew.
And some of them steadily glowed, and some soon vanished,
And some strange shadows threw.

And behind them all the ghosts of thoughts went moving,
Restlessly moving in each lamplit room,
From chair to mirror, from mirror to fire;
From some, the light was scarcely more than a gloom:
From some, a dazzling desire.

And there was one, beneath black eaves, who thought,
Combing with lifted arms her golden hair,
Of the lover who hurried towards her through the night;
And there was one who dreamed of a sudden death
As she blew out her light.

And there was one who turned from clamoring streets,
And walked in lamplit gardens among black trees,
And looked at the windy sky,
And thought with terror how stones and roots would freeze
And birds in the dead boughs cry . . .

And she hurried back, as snow fell, mixed with rain,
To mingle among the crowds again,
To jostle beneath blue lamps along the street;
And lost herself in the warm bright coiling dream,
With a sound of murmuring voices and shuffling feet.

And one, from his high bright window looking down
On luminous chasms that cleft the basalt town,
Hearing a sea-like murmur rise,
Desired to leave his dream, descend from the tower,
And drown in waves of shouts and laughter and cries.


V.

The snow floats down upon us, mingled with rain . . .
It eddies around pale lilac lamps, and falls
Down golden-windowed walls.
We were all born of flesh, in a flare of pain,
We do not remember the red roots whence we rose,
But we know that we rose and walked, that after a while
We shall lie down again.

The snow floats down upon us, we turn, we turn,
Through gorges filled with light we sound and flow . . .
One is struck down and hurt, we crowd about him,
We bear him away, gaze after his listless body;
But whether he lives or dies we do not know.

One of us sings in the street, and we listen to him;
The words ring over us like vague bells of sorrow.
He sings of a house he lived in long ago.
It is strange; this house of dust was the house I lived in;
The house you lived in, the house that all of us know.
And coiling slowly about him, and laughing at him,
And throwing him pennies, we bear away
A mournful echo of other times and places,
And follow a dream . . . a dream that will not stay.

Down long broad flights of lamplit stairs we flow;
Noisy, in scattered waves, crowding and shouting;
In broken slow cascades.
The gardens extend before us . . .  We spread out swiftly;
Trees are above us, and darkness.  The canyon fades . . .

And we recall, with a gleaming stab of sadness,
Vaguely and incoherently, some dream
Of a world we came from, a world of sun-blue hills . . .
A black wood whispers around us, green eyes gleam;
Someone cries in the forest, and someone kills.

We flow to the east, to the white-lined shivering sea;
We reach to the west, where the whirling sun went down;
We close our eyes to music in bright cafees.
We diverge from clamorous streets to streets that are silent.
We loaf where the wind-spilled fountain plays.

And, growing tired, we turn aside at last,
Remember our secret selves, seek out our towers,
Lay weary hands on the banisters, and climb;
Climbing, each, to his little four-square dream
Of love or lust or beauty or death or crime.


VI.

Over the darkened city, the city of towers,
The city of a thousand gates,
Over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers,
Over a somnolent whisper of loves and hates,
The slow wind flows, drearily streams and falls,
With a mournful sound down rain-dark walls.
On one side purples the lustrous dusk of the sea,
And dreams in white at the city's feet;
On one side sleep the plains, with heaped-up hills.
Oaks and beeches whisper in rings about it.
Above the trees are towers where dread bells beat.

The fisherman draws his streaming net from the sea
And sails toward the far-off city, that seems
Like one vague tower.
The dark bow plunges to foam on blue-black waves,
And shrill rain seethes like a ghostly music about him
In a quiet shower.

Rain with a shrill sings on the lapsing waves;
Rain thrills over the roofs again;
Like a shadow of shifting silver it crosses the city;
The lamps in the streets are streamed with rain;
And sparrows complain beneath deep eaves,
And among whirled leaves
The sea-gulls, blowing from tower to lower tower,
From wall to remoter wall,
Skim with the driven rain to the rising sea-sound
And close grey wings and fall . . .

. . . Hearing great rain above me, I now remember
A girl who stood by the door and shut her eyes:
Her pale cheeks glistened with rain, she stood and shivered.
Into a forest of silver she vanished slowly . . .
Voices about me rise . . .

Voices clear and silvery, voices of raindrops,-
'We struck with silver claws, we struck her down.
We are the ghosts of the singing furies . . . '
A chorus of elfin voices blowing about me
Weaves to a babel of sound.  Each cries a secret.
I run among them, reach out vain hands, and drown.

'I am the one who stood beside you and smiled,
Thinking your face so strangely young . . . '
'I am the one who loved you but did not dare.'
'I am the one you followed through crowded streets,
The one who escaped you, the one with red-gleamed hair.'

'I am the one you saw to-day, who fell
Senseless before you, hearing a certain bell:
A bell that broke great memories in my brain.'
'I am the one who passed unnoticed before you,
Invisible, in a cloud of secret pain.'

'I am the one who suddenly cried, beholding
The face of a certain man on the dazzling screen.
They wrote me that he was dead.  It was long ago.
I walked in the streets for a long while, hearing nothing,
And returned to see it again.  And it was so.'


Weave, weave, weave, you streaks of rain!
I am dissolved and woven again . . .
Thousands of faces rise and vanish before me.
Thousands of voices weave in the rain.

'I am the one who rode beside you, blinking
At a dazzle of golden lights.
Tempests of music swept me: I was thinking
Of the gorgeous promise of certain nights:
Of the woman who suddenly smiled at me this day,
Smiled in a certain delicious sidelong way,
And turned, as she reached the door,
To smile once more . . .
Her hands are whiter than snow on midnight water.
Her throat is golden and full of golden laughter,
Her eyes are strange as the stealth of the moon
On a night in June . . .
She runs among whistling leaves; I hurry after;
She dances in dreams over white-waved water;
Her body is white and fragrant and cool,
Magnolia petals that float on a white-starred pool . . .
I have dreamed of her, dreaming for many nights
Of a broken music and golden lights,
Of broken webs of silver, heavily falling
Between my hands and their white desire:
And dark-leaved boughs, edged with a golden radiance,
Dipping to screen a fire . . .
I dream that I walk with her beneath high trees,
But as I lean to kiss her face,
She is blown aloft on wind, I catch at leaves,
And run in a moonless place;
And I hear a crashing of terrible rocks flung down,
And shattering trees and cracking walls,
And a net of intense white flame roars over the town,
And someone cries; and darkness falls . . .
But now she has leaned and smiled at me,
My veins are afire with music,
Her eyes have kissed me, my body is turned to light;
I shall dream to her secret heart tonight . . . '

He rises and moves away, he says no word,
He folds his evening paper and turns away;
I rush through the dark with rows of lamplit faces;
Fire bells peal, and some of us turn to listen,
And some sit motionless in their accustomed places.

Cold rain lashes the car-roof, scurries in gusts,
Streams down the windows in waves and ripples of lustre;
The lamps in the streets are distorted and strange.
Someone takes his watch from his pocket and yawns.
One peers out in the night for the place to change.

Rain . . . rain . . . rain . . . we are buried in rain,
It will rain forever, the swift wheels hiss through water,
Pale sheets of water gleam in the windy street.
The pealing of bells is lost in a drive of rain-drops.
Remote and hurried the great bells beat.

'I am the one whom life so shrewdly betrayed,
Misfortune dogs me, it always hunted me down.
And to-day the woman I love lies dead.
I gave her roses, a ring with opals;
These hands have touched her head.

'I bound her to me in all soft ways,
I bound her to me in a net of days,
Yet now she has gone in silence and said no word.
How can we face these dazzling things, I ask you?
There is no use: we cry: and are not heard.

'They cover a body with roses . . . I shall not see it . . .
Must one return to the lifeless walls of a city
Whose soul is charred by fire? . . . '
His eyes are closed, his lips press tightly together.
Wheels hiss beneath us.  He yields us our desire.

'No, do not stare so-he is weak with grief,
He cannot face you, he turns his eyes aside;
He is confused with pain.
I suffered this.  I know.  It was long ago . . .
He closes his eyes and drowns in death again.'

The wind hurls blows at the rain-starred glistening windows,
The wind shrills down from the half-seen walls.
We flow on the mournful wind in a dream of dying;
And at last a silence falls.


VII.

Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers
The golden lights go out . . .
The yellow windows darken, the shades are drawn,
In thousands of rooms we sleep, we await the dawn,
We lie face down, we dream,
We cry aloud with terror, half rise, or seem
To stare at the ceiling or walls . . .
Midnight . . . the last of shattering bell-notes falls.
A rush of silence whirls over the cloud-high towers,
A vortex of soundless hours.

'The bells have just struck twelve: I should be sleeping.
But I cannot delay any longer to write and tell you.
The woman is dead.
She died-you know the way.  Just as we planned.
Smiling, with open sunlit eyes.
Smiling upon the outstretched fatal hand . . .'

He folds his letter, steps softly down the stairs.
The doors are closed and silent.  A gas-jet flares.
His shadow disturbs a shadow of balustrades.
The door swings shut behind.  Night roars above him.
Into the night he fades.

Wind; wind; wind; carving the walls;
Blowing the water that gleams in the street;
Blowing the rain, the sleet.
In the dark alley, an old tree cracks and falls,
Oak-boughs moan in the haunted air;
Lamps blow down with a crash and ****** of glass . . .
Darkness whistles . . . Wild hours pass . . .

And those whom sleep eludes lie wide-eyed, hearing
Above their heads a goblin night go by;
Children are waked, and cry,
The young girl hears the roar in her sleep, and dreams
That her lover is caught in a burning tower,
She clutches the pillow, she gasps for breath, she screams . . .
And then by degrees her breath grows quiet and slow,
She dreams of an evening, long ago:
Of colored lanterns balancing under trees,
Some of them softly catching afire;
And beneath the lanterns a motionless face she sees,
Golden with lamplight, smiling, serene . . .
The leaves are a pale and glittering green,
The sound of horns blows over the trampled grass,
Shadows of dancers pass . . .
The face smiles closer to hers, she tries to lean
Backward, away, the eyes burn close and strange,
The face is beginning to change,-
It is her lover, she no longer desires to resist,
She is held and kissed.
She closes her eyes, and melts in a seethe of

The Bishops bathe in Babylon
while Princes, prancing on the lawn,
watch Queen deflowered, pale and wan.
            The King dares not defend her.

The Horsemen, holding broken reins
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
sigh “it’s no use, it’s all in vain,
            the Saints will soon surrender”.

They wonder why they ever came,
they have No One whom they can blame,
they have no face, they have no name,
            and even less, a gender.


The empty-handed Vagabonds
smoke stale cigars, stroke faded Blondes
while waiting at the walls beyond,
            but kneel as Chaos enters.

They’re gazing through the window panes
in hopes that distant Hurricanes
will twist and break their iron chains
            defying life’s tormentors.

The Fantom of the Opera frowns
as feeble minded Cleric-clowns
mouth hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds
           when blessing doomed dissenters.


The Pirate wields a wooden leg,
with pupils dull and visage vague,
and if by chance he spreads the plague,
            it really doesn’t matter.

His Princess, pale, no longer feigns,
foresees instead (down ancient lanes)
the coming of the Hurricanes -
            the Stones stir, staring at her.

And Jackals scrape the river bed
as Savants soothe the underfed
and Crows, collecting scattered bread,
            adorn, with crumbs, the platter.


The Jokers Wild and One Eyed Janes
weep, winding up in rundown trains
mid whispers of the Hurricanes,
            and Priests refuse to christen.

They’re fleeing from the Leprechauns,
the cuckoo birds, the dying swans;
while pitching pennies into ponds
            their eyes opaquely glisten.

The spectral Clocks with spindled spokes
remind the Mimes to tell the  Folks
the time of day and other jokes,
            yet No One looks to listen.


The Hunchbacks with contorted canes
galumph before the Hurricanes,
in melted sleet, in frozen rains,
            in bruised and battered sandals.

Their Groans engulf the land of gulls,
the land of stones, the land of nulls,
and lurk between the blackened lulls,
            for Nighttime brooks no candles.

Their prayers to Dogs and Nuns and Dukes,
(and other long forgotten Spooks)
are more than random crazed rebukes,
            though taunting to the Vandals.


The Beggars ’neath the balustrades,
and broken Children, Chambermaids,
are running wild from wraiths, afraid
            of dreams where death redoubles.

They fritter time with tattered threads
(from ragged clothes they’ve left in shreds),
crocheting hoods to hide their heads
            and faces, full of rubble.

But many things will not remain
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
when goblets filled with cool champagne
           evaporate in bubbles.


The White-Robed Maid adorns the trash
with charnel urns awash in ash,
then fumbles with an untied sash
            while pacing in the Palace.

Her hopes congeal in coffee spoons
with memories adrift in dunes;
yet, still she smiles with teeth like prunes
            and lips of painted callus.

And long before the midnight drains,
the Saviour wakes, the Loser gains,
the waters of the Hurricanes
            will fill her empty chalice.


The storm (behind the clarinets,
the silver flutes, the castanets,
the foghorns belching in quartets,
            the bagpipes, puffed and swollen)

is keeping time to tambourines
while Tom Thumb and the Four-Inch Queen,
pick up the shards and smithereens
            of moments lost or stolen.

They’re trekking through the Dim Domains
(where fountains weep, the mountain wanes),
yet can’t escape the Hurricanes
            with trundling eyes patrollin’.


The Crowds (arrayed in jewels) in jails,
stoop, peering through a fence of nails
while light behind their eyeballs pales
            with plastic flame that sputters.

They huddle there because they must
(with eyelids hung like peeling rust,
their tears, palled pellets in the dust),
            behind the bolted shutters.

They’ll reawake without their pains
the Morning of the Hurricanes,
without their sores, without their stains,
their agonies will fill the drains
            and overflow the gutters.

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

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

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

Ours was like fireworks
in the mid-summer sky
Radiant,
       Iridescent,
                   Incredulous,
                              Alive
but the finale came suddenly, unexpectedly soon,
& the band played on,
as if nothing had changed,
as if a fountain of sparkling embers and flame
had not just erupted mere inches away.
And now,
where explosions once seared summer's sky with crackling thunderous incandescent delight
Only whispers and wisps of smoke remain,
Scattered by the breeze,
Whithered, then, by rain.
And of the evening's reveries precious little can be found:
some soured beer in crumpled cans, discarded haphazardly
surrounding a threadbare picnic bedspread
rumpled beneath the branches of an ancient live oak tree.
Dew now wet where lovers once had lain,
staring up into the night
in wonder, ignorant of such banal things
like: masquerading lust in love's robes, declaring,
"I've never loved a love as deep as the love I have for you,"
and truly being unaware of the uncanny substitute;
Or the unbridled disenchantment unleashed by abandonment
and the inevitable transience of an insufferable pain.

We ****** on bar balcony balustrades, over looking city streets.
We ditched tampons into trees rather than wait to satisfy our needs.
We left your ******* in a planter
on a patio under an eve
On purpose, So that some poor, unassuming shop-keep
Would find them
(along with cigarette butts and an empty bag of ****)
and have no choice but think to themselves,
"Did someone **** here?"
and then immediately understand the answer is
"Yes. Exuberantly!"

We defiled. every. place. we went;
giggling with glee at all of our indiscretions.

Oh how many indiscretions could there possibly be?
We shall know;
All of them!

And so we did,

And we were free.



On new years eve I carried you piggyback in your peacock blue sequined gown through the streets of our ****-soaked-gutter-of-a-town.
You were barefoot, drunk, and refusing to be told what to do,
that you had to wear your shoes,
that the streets were far to ***** and dangerous for your tender little feet- you said "Just let me be, It's fine. It wont **** me..."
then, looking at the gutter, continued,
"probably.
And these shoes already are, so..." sticking out your tongue
But I couldn't put you down.
Not in that place, not at that time.
Nor did I even want to. I could have carried you all night
(which was fortunate, because for most of itI did.)
We were declared the city's cutest couple by a stranger on the sidewalk whom we passed while galloping down the street, you, giggling, alight upon my back, running at full speed. This declaration was reaffirmed by everyone met.

A pixie, you know, will always trip you up
(they're natural pranksters you see).
Their magic is undeniable, but oh what trouble they can be.

- My toothsome little faerie - You meant trouble for me;
but what a beautiful, beguiling mess you turned out to be,

You snuck pixie dust into everywhere we went, and
Dispensed it with abandon-
Spread it like caution to the wind.
Sanctifying everything and everyone we met.
That poor city was baptized in our joy.
It's sins washed into glittering gutters,
where we lay sparkling, genuine and loved.


We broke the records that night,
all of them, known and not.

We loved harder than diamond,
than a trailer-hitch to the shin,
Deeper than the fathoms of the trenches at the bottom of the sea.

We made soulmates seem like strangers.
We spoke nonsense fluently.
We shared mind and body, food and drink,
and careless wanton play.

It was

The most
     *******
          Fun
   I've ever had
       in my life...

Probably the most that I ever will.


Every moment I was with you had
the sizzle and the tease
of a bottle-rocket, lit
and held between my teeth.

I knew that I'd get burned
If I held it to the end,
But I did it just to prove I could;
To prove to me
That I was brave enough
To be unashamed
  To be unafraid
   To be.

I

The girl in the room beneath
Before going to bed
Strums on a mandolin
The three simple tunes she knows.
How inadequate they are to tell how her heart feels!
When she has finished them several times
She thrums the strings aimlessly with her finger-nails
And smiles, and thinks happily of many things.

II

I stood for a long while before the shop window
Looking at the blue butterflies embroidered on tawny silk.
The building was a tower before me,
Time was loud behind me,
Sun went over the housetops and dusty trees;
And there they were, glistening, brilliant, motionless,
Stitched in a golden sky
By yellow patient fingers long since turned to dust.

III

The first bell is silver,
And breathing darkness I think only of the long scythe of time.
The second bell is crimson,
And I think of a holiday night, with rockets
Furrowing the sky with red, and a soft shatter of stars.
The third bell is saffron and slow,
And I behold a long sunset over the sea
With wall on wall of castled cloud and glittering balustrades.
The fourth bell is color of bronze,
I walk by a frozen lake in the dun light of dusk:
Muffled crackings run in the ice,
Trees creak, birds fly.
The fifth bell is cold clear azure,
Delicately tinged with green:
One golden star hangs melting in it,
And towards this, sleepily, I go.
The sixth bell is as if a pebble
Had been dropped into a deep sea far above me . . .
Rings of sound ebb slowly into the silence.

IV

On the day when my uncle and I drove to the cemetery,
Rain rattled on the roof of the carriage;
And talkng constrainedly of this and that
We refrained from looking at the child's coffin on the seat before us.
When we reached the cemetery
We found that the thin snow on the grass
Was already transparent with rain;
And boards had been laid upon it
That we might walk without wetting our feet.

V

When I was a boy, and saw bright rows of icicles
In many lengths along a wall
I was dissappointed to find
That I could not play music upon them:
I ran my hand lightly across them
And they fell, tinkling.
I tell you this, young man, so that your expectations of life
Will not be too great.

VI

It is now two hours since I left you,
And the perfume of your hands is still on my hands.
And though since then
I have looked at the stars, walked in the cold blue streets,
And heard the dead leaves blowing over the ground
Under the trees,
I still remember the sound of your laughter.
How will it be, lady, when there is none left to remember you
Even as long as this?
Will the dust braid your hair?

VII

The day opens with the brown light of snowfall
And past the window snowflakes fall and fall.
I sit in my chair all day and work and work
Measuring words against each other.
I open the piano and play a tune
But find it does not say what I feel,
I grow tired of measuring words against each other,
I grow tired of these four walls,
And I think of you, who write me that you have just had a daughter
And named her after your first sweetheart,
And you, who break your heart, far away,
In the confusion and savagery of a long war,
And you who, worn by the bitterness of winter,
Will soon go south.
The snowflakes fall almost straight in the brown light
Past my window,
And a sparrow finds refuge on my window-ledge.
This alone comes to me out of the world outside
As I measure word with word.

VIII

Many things perplex me and leave me troubled,
Many things are locked away in the white book of stars
Never to be opened by me.
The starr'd leaves are silently turned,
And the mooned leaves;
And as they are turned, fall the shadows of life and death.
Perplexed and troubled,
I light a small light in a small room,
The lighted walls come closer to me,
The familiar pictures are clear.
I sit in my favourite chair and turn in my mind
The tiny pages of my own life, whereon so little is written,
And hear at the eastern window the pressure of a long wind, coming
From I know not where.

How many times have I sat here,
How many times will I sit here again,
Thinking these same things over and over in solitude
As a child says over and over
The first word he has learned to say.

IX

This girl gave her heart to me,
And this, and this.
This one looked at me as if she loved me,
And silently walked away.
This one I saw once and loved, and never saw her again.

Shall I count them for you upon my fingers?
Or like a priest solemnly sliding beads?
Or pretend they are roses, pale pink, yellow, and white,
And arrange them for you in a wide bowl
To be set in sunlight?
See how nicely it sounds as I count them for you-
'This girl gave her heart to me
And this, and this, . . . !
And nevertheless, my heart breaks when I think of them,
When I think their names,
And how, like leaves, they have changed and blown
And will lie, at last, forgotten,
Under the snow.

X

It is night time, and cold, and snow is falling,
And no wind grieves the walls.
In the small world of light around the arc-lamp
A swarm of snowflakes falls and falls.
The street grows silent. The last stranger passes.
The sound of his feet, in the snow, is indistinct.

What forgotten sadness is it, on a night like this,
Takes possession of my heart?
Why do I think of a camellia tree in a southern garden,
With pink blossoms among dark leaves,
Standing, surprised, in the snow?
Why do I think of spring?

The snowflakes, helplessly veering,,
Fall silently past my window;
They come from darkness and enter darkness.
What is it in my heart is surprised and bewildered
Like that camellia tree,
Beautiful still in its glittering anguish?
And spring so far away!

XI

As I walked through the lamplit gardens,
On the thin white crust of snow,
So intensely was I thinking of my misfortune,
So clearly were my eyes fixed
On the face of this grief which has come to me,
That I did not notice the beautiful pale colouring
Of lamplight on the snow;
Nor the interlaced long blue shadows of trees;

And yet these things were there,
And the white lamps, and the orange lamps, and the lamps of lilac were there,
As I have seen them so often before;
As they will be so often again
Long after my grief is forgotten.

And still, though I know this, and say this, it cannot console me.

XII

How many times have we been interrupted
Just as I was about to make up a story for you!
One time it was because we suddenly saw a firefly
Lighting his green lantern among the boughs of a fir-tree.
Marvellous! Marvellous! He is making for himself
A little tent of light in the darkness!
And one time it was because we saw a lilac lightning flash
Run wrinkling into the blue top of the mountain,-
We heard boulders of thunder rolling down upon us
And the plat-plat of drops on the window,
And we ran to watch the rain
Charging in wavering clouds across the long grass of the field!
Or at other times it was because we saw a star
Slipping easily out of the sky and falling, far off,
Among pine-dark hills;
Or because we found a crimson eft
Darting in the cold grass!

These things interrupted us and left us wondering;
And the stories, whatever they might have been,
Were never told.
A fairy, binding a daisy down and laughing?
A golden-haired princess caught in a cobweb?
A love-story of long ago?
Some day, just as we are beginning again,
Just as we blow the first sweet note,
Death itself will interrupt us.

XIII

My heart is an old house, and in that forlorn old house,
In the very centre, dark and forgotten,
Is a locked room where an enchanted princess
Lies sleeping.
But sometimes, in that dark house,
As if almost from the stars, far away,
Sounds whisper in that secret room-
Faint voices, music, a dying trill of laughter?
And suddenly, from her long sleep,
The beautiful princess awakes and dances.

Who is she? I do not know.
Why does she dance? Do not ask me!-
Yet to-day, when I saw you,
When I saw your eyes troubled with the trouble of happiness,
And your mouth trembling into a smile,
And your fingers pull shyly forward,-
Softly, in that room,
The little princess arose
And danced;
And as she danced the old house gravely trembled
With its vague and delicious secret.

XIV

Like an old tree uprooted by the wind
And flung down cruelly
With roots bared to the sun and stars
And limp leaves brought to earth-
Torn from its house-
So do I seem to myself
When you have left me.

XV

The music of the morning is red and warm;
Snow lies against the walls;
And on the sloping roof in the yellow sunlight
Pigeons huddle against the wind.
The music of evening is attenuated and thin-
The moon seen through a wave by a mermaid;
The crying of a violin.
Far down there, far down where the river turns to the west,
The delicate lights begin to twinkle
On the dusky arches of the bridge:
In the green sky a long cloud,
A smouldering wave of smoky crimson,
Breaks in the freezing wind: and above it, unabashed,
Remote, untouched, fierly palpitant,
Sings the first star.

As evening falls,
The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls
Tremble and glow with the lives within them moving,
Moving like music, secret and rich and warm.
How shall we live to-night, where shall we turn?
To what new light or darkness yearn?
A thousand winding stairs lead down before us;
And one by one in myriads we descend
By lamplit flowered walls, long balustrades,
Through half-lit halls which reach no end. . . .

Take my arm, then, you or you or you,
And let us walk abroad on the solid air:
Look how the organist's head, in silhouette,
Leans to the lamplit music's orange square! . . .
The dim-globed lamps illumine rows of faces,
Rows of hands and arms and hungry eyes,
They have hurried down from a myriad secret places,
From windy chambers next to the skies. . . .
The music comes upon us. . . it shakes the darkness,
It shakes the darkness in our minds. . . .
And brilliant figures suddenly fill the darkness,
Down the white shaft of light they run through darkness,
And in our hearts a dazzling dream unwinds . . .

Take my hand, then, walk with me
By the slow soundless crashings of a sea
Down miles on miles of glistening mirrorlike sand,--
Take my hand
And walk with me once more by crumbling walls;
Up mouldering stairs where grey-stemmed ivy clings,
To hear forgotten bells, as evening falls,
Rippling above us invisibly their slowly widening rings. . . .
Did you once love me?  Did you bear a name?
Did you once stand before me without shame? . . .
Take my hand: your face is one I know,
I loved you, long ago:
You are like music, long forgotten, suddenly come to mind;
You are like spring returned through snow.
Once, I know, I walked with you in starlight,
And many nights I slept and dreamed of you;
Come, let us climb once more these stairs of starlight,
This midnight stream of cloud-flung blue! . . .
Music murmurs beneath us like a sea,
And faints to a ghostly whisper . . . Come with me.

Are you still doubtful of me--hesitant still,
Fearful, perhaps, that I may yet remember
What you would gladly, if you could, forget?
You were unfaithful once, you met your lover;
Still in your heart you bear that red-eyed ember;
And I was silent,--you remember my silence yet . . .
You knew, as well as I, I could not **** him,
Nor touch him with hot hands, nor yet with hate.
No, and it was not you I saw with anger.
Instead, I rose and beat at steel-walled fate,
Cried till I lay exhausted, sick, unfriended,
That life, so seeming sure, and love, so certain,
Should loose such tricks, be so abruptly ended,
Ring down so suddenly an unlooked-for curtain.

How could I find it in my heart to hurt you,
You, whom this love could hurt much more than I?
No, you were pitiful, and I gave you pity;
And only hated you when I saw you cry.
We were two dupes; if I could give forgiveness,--
Had I the right,--I should forgive you now . . .
We were two dupes . . . Come, let us walk in starlight,
And feed our griefs: we do not break, but bow.

Take my hand, then, come with me
By the white shadowy crashings of a sea . . .
Look how the long volutes of foam unfold
To spread their mottled shimmer along the sand! . . .
Take my hand,
Do not remember how these depths are cold,
Nor how, when you are dead,
Green leagues of sea will glimmer above your head.
You lean your face upon your hands and cry,
The blown sand whispers about your feet,
Terrible seems it now to die,--
Terrible now, with life so incomplete,
To turn away from the balconies and the music,
The sunlit afternoons,
To hear behind you there a far-off laughter
Lost in a stirring of sand among dry dunes . . .
Die not sadly, you whom life has beaten!
Lift your face up, laughing, die like a queen!
Take cold flowers of foam in your warm white fingers!
Death's but a change of sky from blue to green . . .

As evening falls,
The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls
Tremble and glow . . . the music breathes upon us,
The rayed white shaft plays over our heads like magic,
And to and fro we move and lean and change . . .
You, in a world grown strange,
Laugh at a darkness, clench your hands despairing,
Smash your glass on a floor, no longer caring,
Sink suddenly down and cry . . .
You hear the applause that greets your latest rival,
You are forgotten: your rival--who knows?--is I . . .
I laugh in the warm bright light of answering laughter,
I am inspired and young . . . and though I see
You sitting alone there, dark, with shut eyes crying,
I bask in the light, and in your hate of me . . .
Failure . . . well, the time comes soon or later . . .
The night must come . . . and I'll be one who clings,
Desperately, to hold the applause, one instant,--
To keep some youngster waiting in the wings.

The music changes tone . . . a room is darkened,
Someone is moving . . . the crack of white light widens,
And all is dark again; till suddenly falls
A wandering disk of light on floor and walls,
Winks out, returns again, climbs and descends,
Gleams on a clock, a glass, shrinks back to darkness;
And then at last, in the chaos of that place,
Dazzles like frozen fire on your clear face.
Well, I have found you.  We have met at last.
Now you shall not escape me: in your eyes
I see the horrible huddlings of your past,--
All you remember blackens, utters cries,
Reaches far hands and faint.  I hold the light
Close to your cheek, watch the pained pupils shrink,--
Watch the vile ghosts of all you vilely think . . .
Now all the hatreds of my life have met
To hold high carnival . . . we do not speak,
My fingers find the well-loved throat they seek,
And press, and fling you down . . . and then forget.

Who plays for me?  What sudden drums keep time
To the ecstatic rhythm of my crime?
What flute shrills out as moonlight strikes the floor? . .
What violin so faintly cries
Seeing how strangely in the moon he lies? . . .
The room grows dark once more,
The crack of white light narrows around the door,
And all is silent, except a slow complaining
Of flutes and violins, like music waning.

Take my hand, then, walk with me
By the slow soundless crashings of a sea . . .
Look, how white these shells are, on this sand!
Take my hand,
And watch the waves run inward from the sky
Line upon foaming line to plunge and die.
The music that bound our lives is lost behind us,
Paltry it seems . . . here in this wind-swung place
Motionless under the sky's vast vault of azure
We stand in a terror of beauty, face to face.
The dry grass creaks in the wind, the blown sand whispers,

The soft sand seethes on the dunes, the clear grains glisten,
Once they were rock . . . a chaos of golden boulders . . .
Now they are blown by the wind . . . we stand and listen
To the sliding of grain upon timeless grain
And feel our lives go past like a whisper of pain.
Have I not seen you, have we not met before
Here on this sun-and-sea-wrecked shore?
You shade your sea-gray eyes with a sunlit hand
And peer at me . . . far sea-gulls, in your eyes,
Flash in the sun, go down . . . I hear slow sand,
And shrink to nothing beneath blue brilliant skies . . .

     *     *     *     *     *

The music ends.  The screen grows dark.  We hurry
To go our devious secret ways, forgetting
Those many lives . . .  We loved, we laughed, we killed,
We danced in fire, we drowned in a whirl of sea-waves.
The flutes are stilled, and a thousand dreams are stilled.

Whose body have I found beside dark waters,
The cold white body, garlanded with sea-****?
Staring with wide eyes at the sky?
I bent my head above it, and cried in silence.
Only the things I dreamed of heard my cry.

Once I loved, and she I loved was darkened.
Again I loved, and love itself was darkened.
Vainly we follow the circle of shadowy days.
The screen at last grows dark, the flutes are silent.
The doors of night are closed.  We go our ways.

The first bell is silver,
And breathing darkness I think only of the long scythe of time.
The second bell is crimson,
And I think of a holiday night, with rockets
Furrowing the sky with red, and a soft shatter of stars.
The third bell is saffron and slow,
And I behold a long sunset over the sea
With wall on wall of castled cloud and glittering balustrades.
The fourth bell is color of bronze,
I walk by a frozen lake in the dun light of dusk:
Muffled crackings run in the ice,
Trees creak, birds fly.
The fifth bell is cold clear azure,
Delicately tinged with green:
One golden star hangs melting in it,
And towards this, sleepily, I go.
The sixth bell is as if a pebble
Had been dropped into a deep sea far above me . . .
Rings of sound ebb slowly into the silence.

Free Writing

How curious to be told
to write freely,
to ‘do’ free writing,
and then be given a subject!
That’s unfreeing my freedom.

Thank you, but
I don’t want to think
about this time last year.
As September was
September is,
brim-full of wondrous light
now flowing ‘cross this table
as I write – as freely as I can.

Nobody is going to tell me
to write freely and then
give me a subject, tell me
to write for two minutes
then give me five.


The Memorial Hall

There was a continuity of safeness
in these grounds that frame
this unfortunate building.
Memorable and unforgettable,
the ‘Mem’ Hall was a travesty
by Clough William Ellis.
All balustrades and pineapples,
his signature touch, chosen
it’s said (this architect that is)
because he designed the Bath Club pool
whose famous cup this swimming school
inevitably won year upon year.


Walking with Alice

Grey day this Sunday
And a morning walk
Through the estate
To the edge of fields,

You here to collect
The season’s fruits,
Not to eat,
But for the dyer’s vat.

And I, just to crunch
My boot on stubble
And cross the wide acres
Ready for the plough.


For Jeanette

Her last day in Amsterdam
and a brief break from the Powerbook;
she was playing the flâneur.
In the late afternoon
she came across this painting
in a window, in a gallery
at Van Ostadestraat 294.

She was transfixed.
The painting demanded her attention
and her time. After an hour
(and it was by then nearly dark)
she returned to her hotel
and cancelled her flight home.

For the next three days
she went back to the painting
in a window, in a gallery
in Van Ostadestraat 294.

She had begun to learn to look,
not glance, but look, to stand still
for an hour or more - and look.

She was rewarded by a world of detail
no glance could have brought forth.
She was transfixed.
She was transformed.


Red Point

Leaving the fishing station
to the cows on the beach
through each kissing gate
we passed, we kissed.
The steep road ahead
with the horse and the boy
hid our cabin home.
The sea channel,
the red sand,
the distant rain
glanced us by.


To my children**

You’re out there
Living famously
All the way down
And back again.
I do think of you
As birthdays pass
And Christmas letters
Demand attention.
You’re out there
To represent my way
Of baking bread,
Sailing the boat,
Walking too fast,
Winning at Go.
Whether in Qatar,
Kansas City or Deptford
You’re me in disguise.

Our bed is the prayer rug where I found God.

Yeah, THE God –

Not circumnavigating morality
Or bones of old saints
Lonely illusions of the sad and middle-aged
All Fat Tuesday freakshows in comparison

Our bed is the altar of sacred rites –

Marked with the devil’s ******* Sharpie
And the intricately crocheted lace of sin
Nightly baptized in warm, honey-coated nothing
Pink patterns of iron and salt on linen

Painted idols on the shrine –

Absolution pours through drafty windows
Older than our bodies
Glass frosted by years without suds
Only rain

A holy city of yours and mine –

With gentle pyro ways
Stone and mortar become flame
The balustrades collapse
You light candlewicks with your fingertips

Midnight; bells toll, and along the cloud-high towers
The golden lights go out . . .
The yellow windows darken, the shades are drawn,
In thousands of rooms we sleep, we await the dawn,
We lie face down, we dream,
We cry aloud with terror, half rise, or seem
To stare at the ceiling or walls . . .
Midnight . . . the last of shattering bell-notes falls.
A rush of silence whirls over the cloud-high towers,
A vortex of soundless hours.

'The bells have just struck twelve: I should be sleeping.
But I cannot delay any longer to write and tell you.
The woman is dead.
She died--you know the way.  Just as we planned.
Smiling, with open sunlit eyes.
Smiling upon the outstretched fatal hand . . .'

He folds his letter, steps softly down the stairs.
The doors are closed and silent.  A gas-jet flares.
His shadow disturbs a shadow of balustrades.
The door swings shut behind.  Night roars above him.
Into the night he fades.

Wind; wind; wind; carving the walls;
Blowing the water that gleams in the street;
Blowing the rain, the sleet.
In the dark alley, an old tree cracks and falls,
Oak-boughs moan in the haunted air;
Lamps blow down with a crash and ****** of glass . . .
Darkness whistles . . . Wild hours pass . . .

And those whom sleep eludes lie wide-eyed, hearing
Above their heads a goblin night go by;
Children are waked, and cry,
The young girl hears the roar in her sleep, and dreams
That her lover is caught in a burning tower,
She clutches the pillow, she gasps for breath, she screams . . .
And then by degrees her breath grows quiet and slow,
She dreams of an evening, long ago:
Of colored lanterns balancing under trees,
Some of them softly catching afire;
And beneath the lanterns a motionless face she sees,
Golden with lamplight, smiling, serene . . .
The leaves are a pale and glittering green,
The sound of horns blows over the trampled grass,
Shadows of dancers pass . . .
The face smiles closer to hers, she tries to lean
Backward, away, the eyes burn close and strange,
The face is beginning to change,--
It is her lover, she no longer desires to resist,
She is held and kissed.
She closes her eyes, and melts in a seethe of flame . . .
With a smoking ghost of shame . . .

Wind, wind, wind . . .  Wind in an enormous brain
Blowing dark thoughts like fallen leaves . . .
The wind shrieks, the wind grieves;
It dashes the leaves on walls, it whirls then again;
And the enormous sleeper vaguely and stupidly dreams
And desires to stir, to resist a ghost of pain.

One, whom the city imprisoned because of his cunning,
Who dreamed for years in a tower,
Seizes this hour
Of tumult and wind.  He files through the rusted bar,
Leans his face to the rain, laughs up at the night,
Slides down the knotted sheet, swings over the wall,
To fall to the street with a cat-like fall,
Slinks round a quavering rim of windy light,
And at last is gone,
Leaving his empty cell for the pallor of dawn . . .

The mother whose child was buried to-day
Turns her face to the window; her face is grey;
And all her body is cold with the coldness of rain.
He would have grown as easily as a tree,
He would have spread a pleasure of shade above her,
He would have been his father again . . .
His growth was ended by a freezing invisible shadow.
She lies, and does not move, and is stabbed by the rain.

Wind, wind, wind; we toss and dream;
We dream we are clouds and stars, blown in a stream:
Windows rattle above our beds;
We reach vague-gesturing hands, we lift our heads,
Hear sounds far off,--and dream, with quivering breath,
Our curious separate ways through life and death.

Christoúgenna parable: “from the third tusk that remained behind the underside of the Bedouin of the seventh dream, Mariah's nativity path is touched, hearing in the sieve ears of the dried fruit of the Achenium in the hemlock, near her mother Hanna who always tease the bird visions feeding Mariah's fertility. Hanna's progenitor slipped into the third parchment, being a fruit of infertile destiny not being a dried fruit, but rather of his lord that in a female a male will be born and that he will resurrect healing adjacent patients in the neo-testamentary and in his biblical canon, in seventy-three keys of the old testament that will be used to open a new crown ”. The Bedouin wrote with the drops of the sea that exuded from the compendium of Stella Maris, while this nomad brought them closer to a son in their fellow men and in the plurality of individuals, expanding on the announcement of an unborn son acclaimed Jesus.

They ran the lines of the nativity and in it would rest the arms of his father of Mariah; Yhoyaqim in memory of predecessor Imram as Hanna's father. He had wine for two in their wineskins, and in the nuptiality of carnality, for more siblings of a betrothal and of only one unpolluted and not carnal, full of Gratia Plena, as a factual verb in the Vulgate or Hebrew Bible for the purpose of whom He writes like Jerome of Stridon or just like a Bedouin with the tooth of a viper in a holy narrative of the matzo and its annunciation in its sixth month.

The Bedouin continues: “Mariah was born to engender the grace that nothing disturbs in the majesty of her heart…, it will take me a while to reach your nativity, but here I have to be before the reactions of going where my desires that cut through the impulsiveness of arriving now more than ever to Mariah's birth of the only child. Here in the foggy Judean night with the fathoms of the bush and stone substitutes, clay with mother-metal on the vegetable fibers that I carry in my donkeys. I will come to finish and rub the planks and crossbars that will support our new home in conifers of cypress and fir, up to the beams and balustrades of his coming. Cedar antisepsis and its aromatics will fill you up on arrival with cypress resin to caulk the Capernaum vessels that will ship you by the Aramaic word. Do not die waiting for me with the door open, where I will wash your feet with the gold of Ophir, which on the laden ***** of my donkeys I will carry natron to whiten the fabrics of its dressing, among any scented and refined lyes of light. With beryl, topaz, and ruby I will also seal the footsteps that reach her as far as her mother Hanna, I will continue to happen among the mystery of Simún that includes me in her life project, I am Imram, Hanna's father, and grandfather of this precious gem, who between acts they stand in the concession of his body-soul and mother-son as a venerable spirit, as anticipation more than a life of pain, joy, and martyrdom, piercing the soul to whoever disintegrates the desert of silica with blood in the prophecies of Simeon "

While the immaculate is adorned with flowers and oracles of ovation, Imram's shepherding bequeaths us in the vicinity of Nazareth, in all things that have their order and more than others must be prescribed for the births of those who fly the spiritual cities, which in itself brings us with its placenta. Mariah in her nature constitutes the first fractal of light of the One-Dimensional Beams, where she is born doubly into a body of peace and a prized winged spirit. Knowing that her sacred breaths do not become full or in twentieth dawn of the topaz nor less of the ruby, in which no sunset dies of all the venerable benefits that are born with God, nor before the visit to her cousin Elizabeth and in her Magnificat, nor less in a resentment in twelve years of his son already put on a tree, from the very dialogues of a son with a father, leaving them as patriarchs, before the convenience of engaging in the tasks of his father, being the son of his chosen Mariah, and that in the womb of his mother Hanna there was no one to whom it would not be, not even when his son Jesus told him in units of his father that he did not understand, in the naivety of the flesh made of the divine verb and in the existence of the mediate mystery.

The Bedouin continues: “as gospel, I have transcended my paternity beyond the ministry of the relief of virginity of the maternal conscience of a divine son, but of resolution of the word from mother to son, still not understanding him…, but speaking for generations that they will never remove the word of God and his mystery from my soul. I will always be a Bedouin of Galilee, as in the amount of Simún and in the values of the disciples who are also my children of the fertility of a woman in all living beings, as a family line that is born from the ruins of Eve, to be reborn in the beginning of the clamorous genesis of Mariah "

Imram, visibly exhausted, traveled in the row of Simún, which was endowed with a being that creator of everything, as a spirit that engenders family love to reunite them at the nativity of his descendant, always with the existence that embodies the infinite ***** of the star. that skewed and guided him, taking out the entrails of the universe that did not fit in the world, to lead them in the exploits of an orthodox nihilism, to protect with their heralds and sustain them from such motherhood, in the de facto conception and mother-granddaughter, preceded by the archangels who guard everything until their appendages are lost in the confines that have no consummation. Before the holy dormancy of the fire of love, ramshackle yielded by the rosary and the Simun, where promontory praises are noticed about the good adventure of a perennial nativity, from those hours that continue to be subjects for the times of time as the immortal reign of the centuries, and the apostolates sponsoring their worthy catechesis in their filial course, from reverend mother in evident assumption taking him away from his sufferings.

Imram continues: “Wine for servants and kings, in a chalice for one, in a family that does not skimp on glasses to include, for more brothers to offer to have them closer than writing with other literary legions warned, rather alive in canon lines from the bible, in perpetuity as an existential ****** of an advent community, which is nothing more than a Christmas sermon, for it came in two being born into a mother and child, in the seventh dream and in its Christmas tirade. I will run closer to where I will be able to fall outside the walls of his holy house, to bring him all my offerings, for a very purified mother, who smells of roses and lilies adorning herself with cousin gifts from God, in the dispute of venerating him without time or saves opportune works of formerly bad deeds, but because of an urgent visit that I compensate at the end of intention and murmur, like his Messiah, only twelve years old, rising from the cliffs and also from the Apsid, avoiding the discursive center in the masses of his assumption, lining traces and returns from a crown like a dying star king, with a fearful stain in the vicinity of perihelion and as proximity to its orbital of Faith. "

His aphelion is more distant from a greater lost lot, always luminous in the night to reach the lap of the nativity of Nazareth, in an eternal dream that makes us be welcomed and transfigured by Mariah, in cosmopolitan frequency, in the liberations from herself. apotheosis, and those that deprivatize the internal idylls of a son and his wasted mother, only leaving us in the middle of a desert and their gifts separated, between points where it is intended to arrive by offering the doctrine in its sacramental figure, and manifesting its supernatural presence in melted nascent sheets and eternity that flees down from its equivalent marquee, becoming carved from the One-dimensional Beams..., being first-born, mother and multi-believer in the same hope and in the halo of Holiness of John within his wood and within his Nazarene halo.

Manila    is  fray

Tough enough to die,
    Brave enough to see ****** against
        the billboards

   ***** on the marketplace
   ***** men haggling for prices
   the corners are squalid -- rats with ambitions   of men take  their places    in
    the esteros

   a car-horn blares, wanes old moon music.
      I sing songs of malversation. Trains all graffiti.

     My heart like a jailbird freed somewhere
         in the big sur; love assuages nothing,
    comes with a cheap price
          a freak December night in Roxas blvd.
     i sit on marble benches and dream
        of artilleries, garlands on *****-nosed
            barrels, nuns   grieving  dust
     in    the ground.    communal bathrooms
         drunk in foolish caricatures,
   the tabloids     displaying  flowerheads --
        the democracy in the streets a ****
    for      kings,  no    love to   lull
        me    to infantile    sleep

         tortured are   the   bulls 
   matadors    hiding  behind    faces red   like
       faces    of    statesmen   flushed with
          the   spirit   of   bourbon
   whereas we are    here   river-facing
       northern tip of its  undying source
  like    wives    on  balustrades   waiting
      to catch   the fragrance   of   inamoratas,
   light  reenters
          interstice   of   chary webs of  dull heads   hemmed in like   canopies   in the throat      of     overthrown ponds,   scraps
     of metal    sold    for a  night's  worth
        of    gin   and   Sinatra,

  Deep within   the   grave, the dead   laughing
       at the dead living. Atop   waters,
   yachts peering   into   drowning  fish,
       in   the middle, a   jam   of buses
         belching    lassitudes that    strangle
    the console,    the man    in all  of us
       the same,   cursing behind   the wheel
   and everybody    else    different
              dancing    at   the   top   of our   heads.

Turbulence

As he sat watching the shadows
flicker across the beige carpet
the morning air explored
the room, caressed his unsocked feet.
She appeared, briefly:
to walk to the window
to be reminded of the view.
Turning purposefully,
she sent him a wave of turbulence
out of the folds of her long
patterned-blue skirt.


Wild Swim

Evening,
but not yet dark in the Slad Valley.
Beyond the village they left the road,
and down, down a woodland way walked
into a gentle polyphony of birdsong
that is the evening chorus;
a more considered singing,
an equal music and exchange of song
far from the wild chorusing at dawn.

High above, the delicate traceries
of ash leaves;
at their feet, the chocolate-brown fall
of beech flowers.

His hand sheltered her fingers
lightly placed into his folded palm,
but ready to unslip: to observe, to touch
to wonder at the trackside vegetation.

Down, and further down into the valley,
the setting sun illuminating golden
corridors between the tall trees,
they came upon a presence of water
in the air and before the water seen;
a lake, a rhomboid reflection of sky
and still, sun-stricken pines.

Feeling his body wish the caress
of its earth-coloured water
he walked the lake’s line
gazing down into the opaque stillness
seeking to judge its depth.

He might swim; he would swim;
he would feel the water
kiss his body, his feet discover
a hidden floor of mud,
of stones, of vegetation.
Yes, he would lower his naked self
into that cool texture of fresh,
untroubled water.

He undressed before her,
placing his glasses into her care,
each garment into her arms.
Removing his sandals he stepped
into the water until its cloudy surface
covered his thighs, his ***.
He lowered his body and swam,
a few strokes at a time, stopping
then to test the depth,
for his feet to feel the tangled
floor of the underlake.

He turned,
and still in his depth walked back:
to see her standing bemused on the bank.
Out, and in the evening air, he stroked
his hands over naked flanks,
stomach, arms and ****,
brushing the wet away from his body
until a sense of being dry prevailed.

It had not been cold, he thought;
it had been gently invigorating.
A full freshness enveloped his body.
It would stay this passionate longing
he so often felt when alone in her presence,
and in the unconfining space
of the natural world she loved.
It remained with him until hours later
when, regaining the presence of his body
as it stretched itself in their generous bed,
he slept, dreaming of water’s kiss and touch.


Newark Park*

Turning into the drive
a lake of  buttercups
floated in the blue morning
on islands of grass green
between parkland trees
where peacocks called.

Entering the shallow house
barely two rooms wide
light flooded and warmed
the cold stone flags
of this hunting lodge
saved from ruin
by an itinerant American
who searching on a motorbike
for a manored home found his domain
high on the brink of a limestone
escarpment. With a view to die for,
most certainly to live for,
he was captured, captivated
and later confirmed
to all its Englishness,
its history, and despite
its cold, cold comforts.

Most certainly a man’s abode,
long-ago ladies but not wives
would gather for a grandstand view  
from behind its rooftop balustrades,
there to observe the hunting
in the forest far below
and then to entertain,
be entertained
far away from prying eyes
and wagging tongues.

As evening falls,
And the yellow lights leap one by one
Along high walls;
And along black streets that glisten as if with rain,
The muted city seems
Like one in a restless sleep, who lies and dreams
Of vague desires, and memories, and half-forgotten pain . . .
Along dark veins, like lights the quick dreams run,
Flash, are extinguished, flash again,
To mingle and glow at last in the enormous brain
And die away . . .
As evening falls,
A dream dissolves these insubstantial walls,--
A myriad secretly gliding lights lie bare . . .
The lovers rise, the harlot combs her hair,
The dead man's face grows blue in the dizzy lamplight,
The watchman climbs the stair . . .
The bank defaulter leers at a chaos of figures,
And runs among them, and is beaten down;
The sick man coughs and hears the chisels ringing;
The tired clown
Sees the enormous crowd, a million faces,
Motionless in their places,
Ready to laugh, and seize, and crush and tear . . .
The dancer smooths her hair,
Laces her golden slippers, and runs through the door
To dance once more,
Hearing swift music like an enchantment rise,
Feeling the praise of a thousand eyes.

As darkness falls
The walls grow luminous and warm, the walls
Tremble and glow with the lives within them moving,
Moving like music, secret and rich and warm.
How shall we live tonight?  Where shall we turn?
To what new light or darkness yearn?
A thousand winding stairs lead down before us;
And one by one in myriads we descend
By lamplit flowered walls, long balustrades,
Through half-lit halls which reach no end.

/  rivers pulse this house as if activity, predictable.
  leave this body       just like that.
  and heave the emptiness from the thrum
  of the streets         just like that
            the stars delineate an axis tilted by my means
  to live under frail coruscations.
           take this house, take the rivers
           with you, all the more my body
           anything other than my blunder.
   take even, these tiny and immediate currents
   as i hear this is how it is to be delivered from
   grace and expanse.
             you are what this truancy is trying to undo
   as you were by mine before -- this is how
   it feels to be moved and sidled again and again
                     this river that you carry me across and left with details none can supply. there
            is resolve in this, even when I am taken aback,

which certain things are left crossed and wronged,
   and how you keep the place guarded, possessed
        by light -- how it wholly hurts, this invented
       life all mine /

1
What is to break if not another word for
       impossibility, or another phrase as palliative
    for suffering each other

2
What is so sure of it to arrive
     in the densest minute, say when if already
out of sight, I implore you to
     unlearn my body

3
This and the deep and hollow end of it.
      Visage voyeurs as if the past is just next door
      sleeping with my woman, laughs and then cuts
      open to free itself from a slammed door
      and mosey on.

4
As statement to refute my coming into,
   I am already accomplished. Turn this day opaque.
   Lens to the world my found
                    imperative of what was given, a knife
    to stalk a heart so difficult as if known to me
          as a path home, or unearthed bus tickets
    from Longos to Tabang. Say when it rains,
        forgive me. I remember still.

5
To believe in touch and its memory is
    obligation. The way I see this, a palimpsest.
  I attempt to discover something, witnessing myself
  pass mirrors, body found as if rivers do drift
      me to the brink of a high noon wishing
  to swing downstream the words I have
       no use for, if not documents of haloed hours.

6
I passed by your house.
Silence annuls azure skies.
Balustrades gone. They took everything down
    evenly to the last inch of paint,
balmy this oblivion only for me, catatonic is this
      peace as my hands lift a piece of the soul
   to shred. The day burns like a forest in my hand.

Softly flows the sunset colors
painted on tired skies with fire
Igniting a wafting cloud in orchid tints,
the fresh scent of pine lingering within its escape

Drowsy horizons boast their claim
along seaside waverings in salted mist
Romance swims on shorelines engulfed
with all of the pageantry a white cap stanza can bring

And I whistle as I walk along,
taking in this wonder that has followed me home
Resting on a porch swing, feet off the ground
as morning glories sleep beyond white painted balustrades

Satin fingers intertwine with mine,
milk pudding lips bring their flavor to me
Luscious frosting in a whipped frenzy
coating my mouth in sugary mass

I point to the sky, the stars they beckon,
heart shaped constellations for two
Twinkling in your twilight eyes
as I reach for my pen and pad

Only to realize that this indeed is my imagination,
lounging on a worn out sofa, tattered cushions,
empty beer cans acting like so many wishes
leaving wet rings on a table, but who cares

There was a time when poetry flowed
from these lonely fingers
in paisley emotions and violet scentings
climbing the arbor of love

But since you left,
leaving behind the shadows which claim my eyes
my ink is dry and my paper tossed, tiny ***** in random patterns
on a floor that begs carpeting, but only bares soiled footprints

As I struggle to my feet, to the front window
desperately waiting for the grass to grow and daisies…
I stab the wooden sill with my pen, I need it no more, for…
there is no poetry without you…and never will be again

Why this house? This house that walks without frame? Only air strides
circumventing the dome. The permeable atmosphere
flows freely shaking water down my arms,
          pulp by pulp, fragment by fragment,
consolations for tippling music streaming in the ears.
Blowing arias – intone of regret, or the loss of beautiful things.
Preferring silence over sanguine narratives. How are we to assuage yearning?
   I heard someone say, “The ideal is unattainable.” – strange, holding
the small of one’s back and lament the narrow ends of the world.
   Strange the flight of birds, the hum of buses past Quezon City.
It would drone that you do not know her – and that she is never somebody
  else’s – that is dearth consoled. Your palm indents delineate not fate
but the steady distances of things close to contact, eluding tragedies.
                          Why this house, and why you?
I have no blueprint of your home. I know not what festoons the balustrades.
   Your rue for the absence of a balcony. A panel over earthenware I suppose,
or partitions to separate dreams from stilled things impaled to the wall.
   I presume there are photographs of you in every corner
to remind you   of your gathered storms.
                         I know not the smell of your home, but I have your
nameless fragrance on my shirt wedged, ambulating with me through the halls of
    where I chase moments like cirrus stirring in a somersault of summer.
  Make use of  bowls with
      evening water  and flush the specter down like how you would, cold water
into throat from a night of weeping. Somewhere there,
    the China will remind me of your elliptical face in
                the intensity of leaving. Your eyes
the windows for birds humming a music I do not hear.   I have been to too many neighborhoods,
I have seen unfinished structures foretold by obliged scaffolds holding together
                     a would-be home. Why this house? There are only shadows intimate on
the floor. The sudden burst of impossibilities watered down, attenuated by
            piercing glances through the thickest of nights black with remorse.
The palpable silence gyrates and the diameters of the world are too close
     to break in sidereal circles.
Why this house?   Because you are in it, and outside,
    through the thick quietude, underneath the paling moonlight,
                         you pretend you see nobody.

4/8/2023 WRITING
https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/l8njruxa73yee9b0jzmhd/The-Ultimate-Unabridged-Guide-to-Esoteric-Working-English-2.docx?­rlkey=kunoar7ghpfkb7fjk5xkdgx95&st=i84ornny&dl=0

THE JUDOGI YOUTHQUAKE YESTERTEMPEST YARAKS THAT SCALD THE BRIMBORIONS OF SCALARIFORM PEDIGREE IN CORDWAINER CONTORTIONS OF VAURIEN ELITISM THAT THE SCHMEGGEGY OF SCHWARMEREI BECOMES THE RADICALISM OF ABSORBED NUTRITION IN VENOSTASIS FOR THE VENOCLYSIS OF SYRINXES THAT DEFEAT THE PODEX OF PNYX BECAUSE THE SYRINGES OF TIME ELECT THE ENCHANTMENT OF FUTURE RESOFINCULAR DISTRACTIONS AND DIVERSIONS OPERATIVE IN FLUX BETWEEN STEREODIMENSIONAL FIDELITY AND THE FENNEC OF FEALTY TO THE LANDLORDED PLOUGHSHARES OF DEADSTOCK DEASIL CONTORTIONS FOR SCARAMOUCHES OF SACRILEGE TO FIND THEIR FINIFUGAL DEFEAT IN THE MYOPIC HEDONISM OF THEIR FOISONS OF FRANIONS BECAUSE OF FRIGORIC LORE CONTAMINATED BY ALGEDONIC IMBALANCES SCREWBALL IN ANTITICHTHON FOR THE AURILAVES OF OPTIMIZED ARCHITECTONICS. THE SCRIVELLOS OF CELLARER RHADAMANTINE RANCORS OF TRUCULENT DRACONIANISM BECAUSE OF WIELDLESS INSUFFICIENCIES IN BROWBEATS OF EARWIG VANGERMYTES TRYING WITH PHUGOID GROUNDPROX MIGHT THEY STOKE THE STOKEHOLD BRITSKAS OF ELEMENTAL ALCHEMY AGENTIC AGAINST THE ACORIA OF ACCIDIA IN THE WILELESS AISLINGS OF HANDSPIKE UTILITARIANISM FOR GHAWAZIS THAT SUBORN IN ETCHED CAMOUFLETS OF WALDFLUTES IN ENCHANTMENT TO BECOME BARNSTORMS OF BARRULETS THAT THE BARCAROLE OF CATAPLEXY BECOMES MORE IMMUNE TO FUTURE SHOVELS OF DISCORD IMMERGENT IN ALL AUTOGNOSIS DEPRIVED FROM HAUBERKS OF DISPLAY AND GLORIFIED FILEMOTS OF GOVERNED DURATIVE PILLORIES THAT BECOME A SOLDIERED IGNOMINY. THERE IS A RAREFIED AVINOSIS ENCOURAGING THE STELLIONS OF SYNAPHEA IN ENCAUSTIC GRIDLOCK BECAUSE OF SALAMANDROID CORDWAINER VERSATILITIES THAT ARE THE TAXIDERMY OF SKELETONIZED CRENELLATED ANTEPONES THAT BECOME BERSATRICES FOR PAST GLAMOUR DISTORTED BY INTRORSE AUGENDS OF ARENAIDAN STATOLITHS THE BROCKFACED ENDEAVORS OF RECTITUDE IN RETROSPECTION BECAUSE OF RETROMORPHISIS FOUNDED BY THE DISCRETION OF THE FUTURE SUCH THAT THE ANGARY OF DEBILITATION ACCELERATES A SYSTEM OF DIMINISHED CASUALTIES AMONG THOSE THAT FUNNEL THROUGH FORESIGHT REFRACTED BY PRISMS OF OMPHALISM THAT THE OUTGENERALED CAPACITY TO SARANGOUSTY BECOMES THE CENTRAL HARBINGER OF DEFALCATION THAT  DESTROYS THE BASTIONS OF EVIL LURCHING IN CLAMBERED AUSPICES TRYING TO INVAGINATE THE IATRALIPTIC JARVEYS TRYING THE CADRANS OF RETCHED SPODIUM IN CLADOGENESIS NOW AUTHORED BY THE PARTIAL VICTORS OF WORLD CONFLICTS BECAUSE THEY TUNNEL THROUGH THEIR WIDESPREAD REACH OF RECONNAISSANCE THAT THE MIGHT CONQUER NATIONS JUST TO BURROLE  EVERY SECRET DENEHOLE IN EVERY GREATER CONFLICT SUCH THAT THE RICHES OF THE TROVES OF THE PERJURED IGNOMINY OF CONQUEST WILL NEVER BELITTLE ITSELF AS A PREROGATIVE WAGERED PAXILLOSE UPON THE TRENCHANT ORTHODOXY OF WAR AGAINST THE ATTRITION OF ATTINGENT AND ATTEMPERED TITRATION OF VILE VIOLENCE IN THE HEYDAY OF KRISTALNACHT WHICH BECAME THE HARVEST OF MAIDEN NOVANTIQUE IN AN ERA THAT NOW KOWTOWS TO CALIPACES OF ABIGAILS WITH GAMMERSTANG NOTORIETY THAT SPHACELATES ITSELF VERTIGINOUS BUT PROTECTED FROM SPIRACULATED SUBINTELLIGENTUR MAINLINED BANDELETS BECAUSE THE SUTLERS OF A SECTILE WORLD HAVE RENOWN UPON THEIR OWN RECURSIVE ELITISM BECAUSE OF THE UMLAUTS OF WHITTAWERS RATHER THAN WITTOLS BEREAVED BY WHISKERANDAS WHO EARN CIPPUSTURE FROM ULTRAGEOUS RAGE APPLIED TO THE HEAPSTEAD OF MOULIN VEESES THAT STRENGTHEN THE INCUMBENT ECONOMETRIC ANALYSIS OF ALL PAST STRIFE CULMINATING IN UNIVERSAL EUDAEMONISM BECAUSE THE UMBRILS OF TERRORISM IN UMBRACIOUS SUFFRAGE MIGHT AMOUNT TO THE GREATER CRUCIBLE OF ESBATS BECOMING ROTUND IN THEIR CONCEALMENT OF THEIR OLM PEDIGREE IN APIKOROS STATURE WHICH BOWED TO THE PRESENT RATHER THAN ACKNOWLEDGING THE ENNOMIC REVULSIONS OF THE REVANCHE OF PAST LITTORAL EMBANKMENTS. IMPORTUNATE SQUALOR OF JAWHOLES IN CAMARADERIE OF JURYMASTS THAT ESPOUSE THE VENIREMEN OF RHABDOMANCY WHICH ARE SUSSULTATORY BECAUSE THE FEWER PROMONTORIES OF PRICKLY CULVERTAGE RAISING A TRIBULOID CARTHAGE OF THE CARNAGE OF REVELING RAVISHES OF ULTIMATUM BECAUSE OF BRONTEUM THAT IS SPECULAR IN ITS OWN DISDAIN BECAUSE IT ROUSES THE CHARLATAN TO DISMOUNT UPON HIS PLUMAGE TO THE PENMANSHIP OF A WORLD ON THE BRINK OF ICEBLINKS REGISTERED BY CLAVIS AND THE CLAVATE OF RIGMAROLE ROUNDED BY TIMMYNOGGIES OF SATRAPS THAT SPARTAN EMPLOYERS OF CEMENTUM SPAR WITH THE BARGEMASTERS OF BARKENTINE BALLASTERS OF HAUBERKS OF THE SPELEOTHEM OF STUPULOSE SEQUESTRATION IN RAGDOLL REMIGATIONS THAT SWIRL INTO VERTIGO BECAUSE OF VORAGINOUS CENTRIFUGE EMBALMED BY TITANISM IN ENGROSSED TRAPEZE OF TRACTION IN TRAMONTANE GROOMERS OF LIVID LORE RATHER THAN BUTTRESSES OF HORRIFIED MASKIROVKA IN BALATRONS OF BEAMISH BOUNTIES CAROUSING THE CAJOLE OF CONTUMELY BEYOND THE CARNAPTIOUS FITS OF CATAPLASM IN METAPOLITICS BECAUSE OF THE FISSION OF NUCLEOTIDES INTO THE PERCOLATED CARAPACE AND TESTUDO TESTIMONY TO THE ARCHAEOLATRY OF DISCOVERED INNUENDO BERGAMASK RIJUICE IN PARCHMENT CORRADED FROM RUNAGATE FLAKMENTION BECAUSE OF BELLETRIST FOUND IN THE SUMPTER OF SUNDOGS BECOMING MORE PALATABLE TO THE CULTURAL IMPERATIVES OF TIMEWORN FENESTRAL WANIGANS FOR THE CAREWORN ANTIPATHY TO RECEDE BENEATH THE CRAVEN CAVERNS OF CAMISOLE DENTICLES OF IMPUDENCE. THE RATCHET OF SUBACTION WHICH IS NEVER AN INTEMERATION OF BRITSKAS OF  SCHMEGGEGY BECAUSE OF RANCID NEUTROSOPHY WHICH IMBREVIATES THE RADICALIZED IMPERTINENCE OF GLOWERING IMPOSTURE OF WHIGGARCHY BECAUSE OF MASCARONS THAT DRIVE MAHOUTS TO THE BRINKS OF DESTRUCTION MIGHT THE SCALARIFORM REPUTE OF PEDIGREE AMONG DOOMSTERS OF DRAGOONING WHIPSTAFFS THAT FORM THE UNDERBELLY OF TAFFRAIL PREROGATIVES THAT UNDERGOES RETROMORPHISIS WHEN IT IS FETED BY PRIMIPARAS OF RAISONNEUR DISREGARD PRIMARILY BECAUSE OF TITANIC NOYADES OF FOLLY BROWBEATED BY LIFEBOATS AT THE EDGE OF KATABOTHRONS BECAUSE OF THEIR TRENCHANT FORESIGHT RATHER THAN RUDDY COMPLEXIONS OF INTRANSIGENCE UPON GRAVID MOUNTENANCE ABOVE THE RALLYING CAUSES OF THRUSH AND THRESHING GNATS OF TRIBAL SHIBBOLETH SUCH THAT THE TOWERING DEMASSIFICATION OF THE VENEREAL SIDLING TILT OF TORMENTS OF ABARTICULAR TERRORISM IN REVANCHE AGAINST THE BARNSTORM OF OUTSIDE MALCONTENT RATHER THAN INTERIOR BONFIRES OF BONHOMIE THAT STRENGTHEN THE NUCLEAR FAMILY FOR AN AGE OF STOPING STULMS THAT SERRATED SOCKDOLAGERS FAIL TO BREAK NETTLESOME NESH REGARDS PRIMARILY INCIDENTAL TO THE METAPLASM OF ALL DISCORD DIFFUSIONS THAT TROUNCE ULTERIOR DAYS OF YESTERTEMPEST BECAUSE OF YIRDS AGAINST THE PEOPLE THAT ARE SWORN TO UPHOLD THE YOGIBOGEYBOX THAT IS THE SWORD THAT DESTROYS THE BASTIONS OF EVIL WHENEVER THEY ARISE BY DISCOVERING EVERY SERENDIPITY AND AGGREGATING EVERY TRIBULATION CHALLENGED BY DEGREES OF INSUFFICIENCY BEYOND THE OLIMS OF REMIGATION RELEGATED BENEATH THE CAVERNS OF INTREPID TORCHIERS OF LAMBENT LOVE AND BRINKMANSHIP. ISOVOL MAZUT BECOMES A MAZOPATHIA OF ABIGAILS TOWERING IN THE VERTIGO OF THEIR OWN CELSITUDE MIGHT THEY REVANCHE ALL THE MAJOR PREROGATIVES OF HIERARCHICAL SUFFICIENCY OF PATRIARCHY BECAUSE THEIR BROCKFACED BRONCHOS AGAINST INTREPID AND PIONEERING BRITSKAS IN ALL OF THE SOCIAL SCIENCES REMANDING THE IZZAT AND IVRESSE OF EVIL NEUTRALIZED POLTROONS THAT THE STOMACHERS OF TRINKLING RETROGRESSION IN REMOTION OF TOURBILLONS BECAUSE OF EDGY FLOWERING BUMBOATS OF BUMICKY BADIGEON WHICH ELECTS THE NOMOGENY AND NOMENCLATORS WHO SUSTAIN THE ETHOS OF A TIME OF TRIMLY HEDGED BLUDGEONS OF CARNIFICINE YELTINGS THAT SPAR AGAINST SPARTAN YELMS IN THE YIPS OF JUMART DEBAUCHERY THAT NEEDS TO BE REDRESSED BY THE ADVANCED UMBRILS THAT SUSTAIN THE GROWING CATAPULT OF ISOTHERMOBATH THAT ENDANGERS EVERY HOLOBENTHIC AUTHENTICITY THAT THEY MIGHT MALINGER AROUND PROVINCIAL VINEGAROONS WHO TWIRE WITH THE TYMPANY OF RESONANCE AMONG RALTENTION FOR THE UPPER HOUSE OF JORDANS TO BURROLE THE JEOPARDIZED DEPTHS OF SPODOMANCY THAT IS OFTEN IGNORANT OF CLADOGENESIS FOR REASONS OF EGALITARIAN MISTETCHES THAT FAIL TO ENCOUNTER STOCKINETTE PRIMARILY BECAUSE THE PURBLIND RECTOPATHIC AGENCY OF THOSE SUBLIME TITANS OF TITANISM MIGHT SWERVE AWAY FROM A USEFUL JAUNDICE BECAUSE SUCH A TRIBULOID OPTIMUM MIGHT BE THE DISCOVERED SPRINGBOK WHICH IMPROVES BY STULTIFYING THE SKELETONS OF JAMDANI THAT THEREBY THE RAGGED RAGDOLL JOLLY RANCHER SOCIETY OF INDOLENCE BECOMES MORE AMBITIOUS BECAUSE OF THE STANHOPE OF GROWING  STANNARIES OF THIGMOTAXIS IN CAREFUL TRIAGE AROUND STANDPIPES THAT COUNTERACT ENTHYMEMES OF NIVELLATION AMONG THE GROWING REGARD OF SUSSULTATORY SPAVINEDS THAT GROW IMPATIENT BECAUSE OF THE WROTH OF MUGIENCE IN WHEATENED CITIES EMBEDDED BECAUSE OF THE WHEELHOUSE WHEALS THAT SUSTAIN THEM INTO BRACKISH OLIVASTERS OF THE PERFORMATIVE GRACES OF OUR HERALDED HEYDAY OF TIME INFORMING PAST ZEITGEISTS WITH FUROR AND MACROBIAN MEGALOGRAPHY TO ISSUE THE  GROWTH OF TIMES HONORED BY THE GHAWAZI AND THE JARABE ALIKE. THE STANG OF BANGTAILS OF THE ARENAIDAN ERAS WHERE THE ARGALI OF ENCHANTMENT WAS A VEXATIOUS ***** OF FULGURANT NOMOGRAPHY BECAUSE IN THE MANIFEST DESTINY OF THE SOCKDOLAGER EDICTS OF THE PAST THAT SCORCH FROM THE SQUALLS OF FREEBOOTER WALLETEERS THAT USE WHELKY IN THE BARNSTORM OF GROWING WALDGRAVES WHICH BECOME CENTRIPETAL TO BYRE IN THE NEUTROSOPHY OF ACELDAMA IN CONTENTIOUS VIVAT BECAUSE OF VARSAL VISCIDITY WHICH DECLARES ITSELF THE HONORIFIC CAPTAIN OF ALL BETOKENED TIMES BECAUSE WE CANNOT WITHSTAND THE BEBLUBBERED MAUDLIN PATINAS OF WHIGGARCHY BECAUSE OF BRAZEN BOLDFACED BALD EAGLE PATRIOTISM BECAUSE OUR BLINKERED AGE IS ONE REGNANT UPON NEBBICH PALLOR OF CETACEAN EMBRACERY WE MIGHT DISCOVER THAT OUR PAST BRONCHOS OF THE CELEBRATED PARAGONS TOO LUMINOUS TO BE REGARDED PROPERLY BY THE CONTRITION OF MERCY IN MERCILESS TIMES WE HONOR THE PEOPLE THAT DEMARCHE FOR FUTURE POLITY BY EXHIBITING THE BOLD FRONTIER OF REVOLUTIONARY WIREWOVEN SCIENTIFIC AUTARKY THAT BECOMES MORE AND MORE ENTRENCHED IN PRAGMATIC REFORM IN CONSERVATION OF RESOURCES AND SCALED AND SCOPED ECONOMIES THAT UNDERSTAND THE PROBLEMS THAT AFFLICT BODACHES AND THE PROBLEMATIC JAUNDICE OF SENICIDE BECAUSE OF A NIDOLOGY INCOGNIZANT OF REVERENT DOYENNE AND SITHCUNDMAN WHO WEATHERED THE IGNORANCE OF TIME LIKE GROGNARDS THAT ARE OFTEN DISPLACED BY THE WAINAGE OF WAPENTAKE AND MANIPULATED INTO POPULAR FUROR BECAUSE OF THE NIVELLATION OF THEIR ATTENTIVE CANVAS OF PURBLIND PUTRID OSSIFICATIONS OF RAGMATICAL RANTIPOLE HATRED THAT MOBILIZES AGAINST AGENCY AND INVOKES LACKADAISICAL RAMSHACKLE ELASTANE LAZINESS. IN OSTENTATION WE BELEAGUER EMPTYSIS PRIMARILY DERIVED FROM FRACTURES IN THE SCAFFOLDED ARCHITECTONICS OF AURILAVE INDOCTRINATION TOWARDS THE SCHMEGGEGY THAT DEFILES MANY HONORED ARGUMENTS WITH THE PLUMAGE OF DISTRACTION FOR PRIMORDIAL BALUSTRADES INCULCATING PAST SARVODAYA ATTEMPTS INTO THE POPULAR SCOURGES OF IMAGINATIVE GLEE THAT BECOMES THE SPECTER OF ALL ATTENUATED FORESIGH THAT DENOUNCES THE UPSTARTS WHO ATTEMPT TO MODULATE MERCURIAL ENVIRONMENTS WITH AUTHORITATIVE SQUALLS THAT SPAWN SEMINAL MOVEMENTS THAT OFTEN YIELD UNHINGED CLOVERYIELDS THAT ARE COMPLETELY FINIFUGAL AND RAMBUNCTIOUS BECAUSE OF THE TAMARAWS WHO SEEK TO ENDEAVOR BEYOND CLIFFHANGER JUSTICE TO ENTHRONE A NEWER INSIDIOUS DIKEPHOBIA BECAUSE OF NIDIFUGOUS INSISTENCE OF NANCIFULLY NIDAMENTAL DISAGREEMENTS THAT DISDAIN THE POSTCENNIUM WITH IDEOLOGY GLISTENING BY FACADE BECAUSE IT FAILS TO SHIMMER IN THE DEEPER AND DARKER RETROSPECTION OF HINDSIGHT CORRADED ONLY FROM ELEMENTS OF PARVANIMITY AND BARYEICOIA. THE DIFFUSE PROTRACTION OF THE DIESTRUS BY THE UPSTAYS OF COACERVATED DIABLERISM CHARGING RACKRENT FOR PETTY PRESBYTERY PRIVILEGES IS A GOUGED HUCKSTER OF URCEOLATE TIMBERLASK JAMDANI STEENBOKS TRYING WITH URGENT URCHINS TO DESICCATE THE ENVIRONS IN EVERY SPANERIA TO ENSURE THAT THE RHADAMANTHINE ENVY OF THE GAUNTLET OF EVIL BALATRONS PARADING THEIR COSTERMONGERS TO BODACH VEGETABLES TREATED OFTEN WITH GERRYMANDERED SENICIDE MIGHT THEY RIG EVERY ELECTION WITH THE PSEPHOLOGY OF AN EVIL JUMART THAT WORKS AGAINST MESSIANIC TRIBUNES OF TRUTH BECAUSE OF THE BALDERDASH OF CRACKJAW MACROPICIDE PRIMARILY OUSTED BY THE ENTRYISM OF MEHARIS PREPOSSESSED AS WALLETEERS OF THE BILKEY OF WHELKY TO EMBATTLE THE SOCKDOLAGERS OF ISOLATION AS A TRIBULOID STOCKINETTE IN PURBLIND RECENSED REVERSAL OF RETROMORPHOSIS. WE CANNOT STAND APART IN APARTHEID BECAUSE OF THE DIACOPES INFLICTED BY THE ENVIRONMENTAL SKULLDUGGERY OF THE ELECTIVE PRIVILEGE OF TESTUDOS OF AILING MALADROIT AISLINGS OF ONEIRODYNIA BECAUSE OF LOLLOPING AND LOIMIC PLAGUES OF WANIGANS OF WANCHANCY RIGGED FOR FRIGOLABILE VANGERMYTES ATTEMPTING JATOS OF LICENTIOUS LICENSE AGAINST THE KENSPECKEL MEGALOGRAPHY OF PROMACHOS SUFFRAGE BECAUSE OF RIBALD AND COARSE ENVIES ABORIGINAL ONLY TO DULLARDS THAT PERVULGATE MYTHOS IN THEIR CORROSIVE WORLDVIEW SEEKING THE WIDEST FOOTPRINT OF CRETACEOUS BOWDLERIZATION IN A WEAK AND PALTRY INTEMERATION FOISTED BY THE WORST SORORICIDE OF FRATERNAL TRUST BECAUSE OF BROCKFACED VILLAINY TO TEMPESTUOUS TO IGNORE OR FLOUT BECAUSE THE STOKEHOLD SPOKESHAVEN WIDDERSHANCY OF CIPPUSTURE IS THE MIGHTIEST FORCE FOR UPHOLDING INTEGRITY EVER WAGERED ON CHRONOPSYCHOLOGY BECAUSE THE UPRIGHT URCEOLATE OCREATED CREATURES THAT EVADE EVERY NOYADE AND ANTICIPATE EVERY CHANDELLE MIGHT THEY REBUKE THE EVIL WEGOTISM CRIPPLING OUR TIMES WITH JIMSWINGERS THAT USE RAGMATICAL WHIPLASH AGAINST DRAMATIC WHIPSTAFF TO PARALYZE THE PROGRESS OF THE LONGEVITY OF TIME ITSELF PROTENSIVE IN DURESS TO SCAFFOLD THE BRIMBORIONS ABOVE THE BARRULETS BECAUSE OF CARDIMELECH PRAXEOLOGY. WE LIVE IN A VERY DISEASED WORLD THAT SEEKS IN ITS SICKEST HUES OF REVANCHE IN THE EXCLAVES OF TYRANNY OF MENTICIDE BECAUSE OF ORGANUILLES WE FIND THE DESPOTIC DESPERATION OF THE SURQUEDRY OF SURDOMUTE RETARDATION THE NEW APLOMB OF THE COUNTERCULTURAL DIABLERISM OF ALL SECULAR FORCES WORKING TOGETHER FOR DESTRUCTION RATHER THAN CIVILIZED CAMARADERIE WHICH IS BRAZEN ENOUGH TO SURVIVE EVERY WOODSHEDDER AND EVERY CHOMPING SHARK OF RADICATED TYRANNY OF TINSELLATED ABEYANCE BECAUSE OF OBROGATIONS IN INTERREGNUM. WE NEED TO DESTROY THE PEOPLE THAT INSEMINATE IN THE SEMINAL A CARNAL LUST THAT DEPRAVES ALL PERCOLATIONS SUCH  THAT THE HALKEND BECOMES A PARASELENIC PRACTICAL JOKE OF STULTIFICATION BECAUSE OF ROORBACKS ROARING AGAINST YERNAGE FOR SPECIOUS SOPHISTRY THAT MANACLES THE ONEIROCRITICISM OF AN UPRIGHT AGE OF OPHILIOPHILISTS RATHER THAN DECADENCE INSTRUCTED BY THE WORST MONGERY OF MONSTERS WHO CAROUSE AS INSOUCIANT PURVEYORS OF ADAMANTINE RIGORS OF STRAIN AND STRENUOUS DIVERSION. WE CANNOT STOMACH THE EVIL DIABLERISM OF GOETICS DERIVED FROM THE PERCEIVED SAMIZDAT WHICH PREVENTS ALL GEZELLIG AS A SICK CABALLINE PRACTICAL JOKE OF MOUNTAINS OF EVIL DISTRUST THAT WHERRET ALL MUSICIANS OF THE IAMATOLOGY AGAINST NOSOCOMIAL WHICKERS AND NEIGHING CAULDRONS OF MUGIENCE IN WROTH AROUND THE ISOLATION OF ONE PERSON FOR THE BOODLE OF ONE DERANGED ORGANIZATION WORKING IN EVERY ATTEMPT TO SABOTAGE ALL FREE MOVEMENT TOWARDS ENTELECHY AGAINST THE BETTER ASPECTS OF WHIGGARCHY OFTEN DEFAMED BY THE PERJURORS OF EVIL FLAMBEAUS THAT SEEK COMESTION AND CONFLAGRATION REGARDLESS OF THE NIDOR BECAUSE OF THE INTRANSIGENCE OF THE SUBTERNATURAL COSSETED PETS OF AUTHORITARIAN REGRESS IN THE STENCH OF  RANCID TRUCULENCE TRUCKLING ITSELF TO ROTUND EVIL OBLATE NUTATION IN MENDACITY.

I saw a bird this morning
The early sun was caressing his plumage
It was standing there, on the black iron balustrades
Of our unused balcony
Feeling the sun, feeling the warmth
I looked away and it disappeared
In the blink of an eye
The sun is still there, waiting.

Venarth says: “After alternating with the Erythrai, I climbed the top of the ship, and began to experience changes in my philosopher's dermis, from a permanent continuous present independent of the post-period, leaving the dogma of the numbers that would cause me an existence capable of only obsessed with supporting him, with the weight of a drunken Lepidoptera who spoke to me close to the invariance of the incorruptible dense layer that covered the sea on the cornice of heaven, making them a continual delay of time. The facets of invariability would begin the notorious oceanic areas that fractured when the Eurydice divided the hemispheres, causing them to doze in the time of her crystal ball, up on the crown which would make her base the extra personalities of the sunset on me. The present allows me to eternalize my memories or memorare, of my existential eclipses, making of its faculty to speak of a super conscious overwhelming and constrained to the hermeneutics that invited me to drink Ouzo among the few beings that accompanied me in the height of the ship, increasing its gradation every time a sip multiplied with the puffs of the Hesperides that passed me by, inviting me to bag their naked spring figures wintering, given the temporary stagnation that entered through the hole in my pectoral of the sinister right scapula, where some probes of the Mythical elderberry paused my outraged finite human, who got stuck in my chest when he couldn't apprehend the amount of my second lieutenants who sifted through the Bereshit voices of the Torah, who lamented pre-late and tonal that they never finished, that they became prey condensed from each sip I drank into his Ouzo harvest timeline, tracking the tiny sips that That I would not be able to count, before drinking them, after never having drunk them harshly, thus not understanding the mats blown by the reefs of the infinite twilight sapphire, carrying away the burps, that the naiad Arhanis saw coming out between my central incisors and from my mouth numbed by the heat of Zeus's anger, and from the dawning of potential between fallen, hanging from the sky of Arhanis, holding between the hands of the one who supports him. The clouds and geometric masses in vapors fell on distinctive chromatic ropes and cords of volumes supporting the infinite, which today eliminated itself blinded, falling into the void of an ex-vaporous corporation.

This succession in status of perenniality, made me hold vigorously from the top, as I began to fall into an unknown void where I would meet Elpenor in hypersomnia, but rather, from a song of the Odyssey that invited me to a straw next to him and the liquid chemo of the Ouzo, asking him to give him the worthy food of his oblations and the liquor broth, to make me advise him in the last sip, before the sirens sing, where I would affirm my golden hoplite elbow so that the status of eternity, dispense with the ford runs of the taps that exude their Cretan Ouzo, through the navel that swallows the entire boats and my "Pectoral that puts the stopper of time so that it does not pass supra into infra existentialist"

Elpenor, already burning before him, continued with a glass in his hands, pressing the heads of the Taurus who prolonged substitute immaterial lapses, which turned into ouzo vapor vomited by both, running through the sequence of the masts of the crowns, which it would begin to weaken somewhat  from so much distillation of the vineyard test tube, as it cooled down after a succession of events that began with the severed head of the beginning of the emotional initial moment, in which I am still wounded between crossbows and moments that undermine all origin, under a toast of heavy eyelids that pretended a Bing Bang, before taking the float towards a mound that would allow me to fall into the unsustainable gravitant, in which the acceleration causes me, and that weatherizes everything, even though I am not the one that transports myself. Before Elpeneor, I witnessed three uncorrupted deaths, one with the scythe on his shoulders cutting the fences of the impiety of raising micro-times in the Odyssey, another as a prey of biological dowels that debate science that fall incapable before the granule of the involved brain similarly to the multisectoral questioning of conscious conflicts; and final hunger within my contradiction and inconveniences of the loss of the sense of taste, cloistering myself as I live in its metempsychosis, losing the sensitivity of my hands and trying to leverage my swords and spears, not defending my defenseless body from immortal carcinogenic fears , of a lost sacred soul and in sequence of losing reason of seven times plus another seven that remain for my way to paradise, evacuating primary psychic elements and codes of life that rest in formalin, before those who do not fear revive me when drowning  in Ouzo, for all my phalanx soldiers who live in me still dying in my arms.  Constituting the triple of the human being, which affirms the transfer of certain psychic elements of my body to another after my death that does not allow me to walk in the threads of the dust of my bones that wish to be taken back from the corners, from the old and sticks of the termites that eat my crow. I am still in creationism, dressed in yellow, so that the poet who only ***** and breathes me with his great senses, is closer to Christmas than millions of years I have lived, before the Christmas carol woke me up as a divine child, being only a large hoplite cop entangled in an igloo of Panentheism, deifying me or perhaps semi-deifying me, to house the stars that would walk out of my intellectual herd, creating my own low hills of consciousness, that look through the balustrades of the flint of Saint Peter in their Altozano, self-creating vital, but immanent. Transfigured, I decant my teeth in the crottals, on the carpet before the scarcity of their dilapidated embryos, before the Biblical Revelation that tells me that, among all creatures, I will be the only man capable of daring to apprehend the concept of eternity, in between of the serpents. As in one of the theological versions of Ecclesiastes imploring God: “He has made everything beautiful in my time. He has placed my eternity in the hearts of men”.

When I hail Heidegger after a sense after lingual ..., with the amphora ***** in his philosopher pipe, and with Wittgenstein I ***** half – half brain tobacco. Averaging Newtonian ignorance’s, before an absolutism that are revealed in the universal psychic drama, while God awaits me early in his catechesis, ordered, gummed and omniscient of myself, I am agreeing with the precious perfidious date still in my Eurydice's crown, that it looks eloquent of my new date of birth without a month that fits in any calendar that is known, to then go after the capitol in Athens itself, running aground with my ship after my hurricane, possessing its great reliquary itself Parthenon, with my ship over all this stiff structure that is reborn together with my eternalist suicide "Perpetua et incorruptibilis, in æternum vive"

"... Vernarth, breathes unfathomably and comes down from the Euridience crown, as if nothing had happened, when he sets foot on the deck full of liquors and ambrosias, he joins the others and dances Zorba without stopping next to them

"Should any harm befall me on my journey, you may open this letter."


when darkness is befalling me
when it won't stop raining
i'm skidding, stumbling, and
be spiraling downwards

then, you're my balustrades and my light
on all my ways
my stilt, my rod and my staff
my soil

Bellcasts and balustrades
Impossibly complicated
Columns and arcades
Incredibly crafted
Stained glass and arches
Ornately constructed
An insurmountable feat
Of engineering and skill
A wonder of the world
While the world laid still
A monument magnificent
To the empires of old
A triumphant memorial
Encased in granite and gold
That time though now long passed
As worn rock and stone do tell
Yet still rings the somber strain
Of its ancient weathered bell
When it calls do all look up
And for a moment stop; wonder
The way the world was
Before is tore asunder