O Sovereign power of love! O grief! O balm!
All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm,
And shadowy, through the mist of passed years:
For others, good or bad, hatred and tears
Have become indolent; but touching thine,
One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine,
One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days.
The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er their blaze,
Stiff-holden shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades,
Struggling, and blood, and shrieks--all dimly fades
Into some backward corner of the brain;
Yet, in our very souls, we feel amain
The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet.
Hence, pageant history! hence, gilded cheat!
Swart planet in the universe of deeds!
Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds
Along the pebbled shore of memory!
Many old rotten-timber'd boats there be
Upon thy vaporous *****, magnified
To goodly vessels; many a sail of pride,
And golden keel'd, is left unlaunch'd and dry.
But wherefore this? What care, though owl did fly
About the great Athenian admiral's mast?
What care, though striding Alexander past
The Indus with his Macedonian numbers?
Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers
The glutted Cyclops, what care?--Juliet leaning
Amid her window-flowers,--sighing,--weaning
Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow,
Doth more avail than these: the silver flow
Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen,
Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den,
Are things to brood on with more ardency
Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully
Must such conviction come upon his head,
Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to tread,
Without one muse's smile, or kind behest,
The path of love and poesy. But rest,
In chaffing restlessness, is yet more drear
Than to be crush'd, in striving to uprear
Love's standard on the battlements of song.
So once more days and nights aid me along,
Like legion'd soldiers.

                        Brain-sick shepherd-prince,
What promise hast thou faithful guarded since
The day of sacrifice? Or, have new sorrows
Come with the constant dawn upon thy morrows?
Alas! 'tis his old grief. For many days,
Has he been wandering in uncertain ways:
Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks;
Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokes
Of the lone woodcutter; and listening still,
Hour after hour, to each lush-leav'd rill.
Now he is sitting by a shady spring,
And elbow-deep with feverous *******
Stems the upbursting cold: a wild rose tree
Pavilions him in bloom, and he doth see
A bud which snares his fancy: lo! but now
He plucks it, dips its stalk in the water: how!
It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight;
And, in the middle, there is softly pight
A golden butterfly; upon whose wings
There must be surely character'd strange things,
For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft.

  Lightly this little herald flew aloft,
Follow'd by glad Endymion's clasped hands:
Onward it flies. From languor's sullen bands
His limbs are loos'd, and eager, on he hies
Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies.
It seem'd he flew, the way so easy was;
And like a new-born spirit did he pass
Through the green evening quiet in the sun,
O'er many a heath, through many a woodland dun,
Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams
The summer time away. One track unseams
A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue
Of ocean fades upon him; then, anew,
He sinks adown a solitary glen,
Where there was never sound of mortal men,
Saving, perhaps, some snow-light cadences
Melting to silence, when upon the breeze
Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet,
To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feet
Went swift beneath the merry-winged guide,
Until it reached a splashing fountain's side
That, near a cavern's mouth, for ever pour'd
Unto the temperate air: then high it soar'd,
And, downward, suddenly began to dip,
As if, athirst with so much toil, 'twould sip
The crystal spout-head: so it did, with touch
Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch
Even with mealy gold the waters clear.
But, at that very touch, to disappear
So fairy-quick, was strange! Bewildered,
Endymion sought around, and shook each bed
Of covert flowers in vain; and then he flung
Himself along the grass. What gentle tongue,
What whisperer disturb'd his gloomy rest?
It was a nymph uprisen to the breast
In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood
'**** lilies, like the youngest of the brood.
To him her dripping hand she softly kist,
And anxiously began to plait and twist
Her ringlets round her fingers, saying: "Youth!
Too long, alas, hast thou starv'd on the ruth,
The bitterness of love: too long indeed,
Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I ****
Thy soul of care, by heavens, I would offer
All the bright riches of my crystal coffer
To Amphitrite; all my clear-eyed fish,
Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish,
Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze;
Yea, or my veined pebble-floor, that draws
A ****** light to the deep; my grotto-sands
Tawny and gold, ooz'd slowly from far lands
By my diligent springs; my level lilies, shells,
My charming rod, my potent river spells;
Yes, every thing, even to the pearly cup
Meander gave me,--for I bubbled up
To fainting creatures in a desert wild.
But woe is me, I am but as a child
To gladden thee; and all I dare to say,
Is, that I pity thee; that on this day
I've been thy guide; that thou must wander far
In other regions, past the scanty bar
To mortal steps, before thou cans't be ta'en
From every wasting sigh, from every pain,
Into the gentle ***** of thy love.
Why it is thus, one knows in heaven above:
But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewel!
I have a ditty for my hollow cell."

  Hereat, she vanished from Endymion's gaze,
Who brooded o'er the water in amaze:
The dashing fount pour'd on, and where its pool
Lay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool,
Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still,
And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill
Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer,
Holding his forehead, to keep off the burr
Of smothering fancies, patiently sat down;
And, while beneath the evening's sleepy frown
Glow-worms began to trim their starry lamps,
Thus breath'd he to himself: "Whoso encamps
To take a fancied city of delight,
O what a wretch is he! and when 'tis his,
After long toil and travelling, to miss
The kernel of his hopes, how more than vile:
Yet, for him there's refreshment even in toil;
Another city doth he set about,
Free from the smallest pebble-bead of doubt
That he will seize on trickling honey-combs:
Alas, he finds them dry; and then he foams,
And onward to another city speeds.
But this is human life: the war, the deeds,
The disappointment, the anxiety,
Imagination's struggles, far and nigh,
All human; bearing in themselves this good,
That they are sill the air, the subtle food,
To make us feel existence, and to shew
How quiet death is. Where soil is men grow,
Whether to weeds or flowers; but for me,
There is no depth to strike in: I can see
Nought earthly worth my compassing; so stand
Upon a misty, jutting head of land--
Alone? No, no; and by the Orphean lute,
When mad Eurydice is listening to 't;
I'd rather stand upon this misty peak,
With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek,
But the soft shadow of my thrice-seen love,
Than be--I care not what. O meekest dove
Of heaven! O Cynthia, ten-times bright and fair!
From thy blue throne, now filling all the air,
Glance but one little beam of temper'd light
Into my *****, that the dreadful might
And tyranny of love be somewhat scar'd!
Yet do not so, sweet queen; one torment spar'd,
Would give a pang to jealous misery,
Worse than the torment's self: but rather tie
Large wings upon my shoulders, and point out
My love's far dwelling. Though the playful rout
Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou,
Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow
Not to have dipp'd in love's most gentle stream.
O be propitious, nor severely deem
My madness impious; for, by all the stars
That tend thy bidding, I do think the bars
That kept my spirit in are burst--that I
Am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky!
How beautiful thou art! The world how deep!
How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep
Around their axle! Then these gleaming reins,
How lithe! When this thy chariot attains
Is airy goal, haply some bower veils
Those twilight eyes? Those eyes!--my spirit fails--
Dear goddess, help! or the wide-gaping air
Will gulph me--help!"--At this with madden'd stare,
And lifted hands, and trembling lips he stood;
Like old Deucalion mountain'd o'er the flood,
Or blind Orion hungry for the morn.
And, but from the deep cavern there was borne
A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone;
Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passion'd moan
Had more been heard. Thus swell'd it forth: "Descend,
Young mountaineer! descend where alleys bend
Into the sparry hollows of the world!
Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder hurl'd
As from thy threshold, day by day hast been
A little lower than the chilly sheen
Of icy pinnacles, and dipp'dst thine arms
Into the deadening ether that still charms
Their marble being: now, as deep profound
As those are high, descend! He ne'er is crown'd
With immortality, who fears to follow
Where airy voices lead: so through the hollow,
The silent mysteries of earth, descend!"

  He heard but the last words, nor could contend
One moment in reflection: for he fled
Into the fearful deep, to hide his head
From the clear moon, the trees, and coming madness.

  'Twas far too strange, and wonderful for sadness;
Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite
To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light,
The region; nor bright, nor sombre wholly,
But mingled up; a gleaming melancholy;
A dusky empire and its diadems;
One faint eternal eventide of gems.
Aye, millions sparkled on a vein of gold,
Along whose track the prince quick footsteps told,
With all its lines abrupt and angular:
Out-shooting sometimes, like a meteor-star,
Through a vast antre; then the metal woof,
Like Vulcan's rainbow, with some monstrous roof
Curves hugely: now, far in the deep abyss,
It seems an angry lightning, and doth hiss
Fancy into belief: anon it leads
Through winding passages, where sameness breeds
Vexing conceptions of some sudden change;
Whether to silver grots, or giant range
Of sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge
Athwart a flood of crystal. On a ridge
Now fareth he, that o'er the vast beneath
Towers like an ocean-cliff, and whence he seeth
A hundred waterfalls, whose voices come
But as the murmuring surge. Chilly and numb
His ***** grew, when first he, far away,
Descried an orbed diamond, set to fray
Old darkness from his throne: 'twas like the sun
Uprisen o'er chaos: and with such a stun
Came the amazement, that, absorb'd in it,
He saw not fiercer wonders--past the wit
Of any spirit to tell, but one of those
Who, when this planet's sphering time doth close,
Will be its high remembrancers: who they?
The mighty ones who have made eternal day
For Greece and England. While astonishment
With deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he went
Into a marble gallery, passing through
A mimic temple, so complete and true
In sacred custom, that he well nigh fear'd
To search it inwards, whence far off appear'd,
Through a long pillar'd vista, a fair shrine,
And, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine,
A quiver'd Dian. Stepping awfully,
The youth approach'd; oft turning his veil'd eye
Down sidelong aisles, and into niches old.
And when, more near against the marble cold
He had touch'd his forehead, he began to thread
All courts and passages, where silence dead
Rous'd by his whispering footsteps murmured faint:
And long he travers'd to and fro, to acquaint
Himself with every mystery, and awe;
Till, weary, he sat down before the maw
Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim
To wild uncertainty and shadows grim.
There, when new wonders ceas'd to float before,
And thoughts of self came on, how crude and sore
The journey homeward to habitual self!
A mad-pursuing of the fog-born elf,
Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-briar,
Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire,
Into the ***** of a hated thing.

  What misery most drowningly doth sing
In lone Endymion's ear, now he has caught
The goal of consciousness? Ah, 'tis the thought,
The deadly feel of solitude: for lo!
He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow
Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild
In pink and purple chequer, nor, up-pil'd,
The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west,
Like herded elephants; nor felt, nor prest
Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air;
But far from such companionship to wear
An unknown time, surcharg'd with grief, away,
Was now his lot. And must he patient stay,
Tracing fantastic figures with his spear?
"No!" exclaimed he, "why should I tarry here?"
No! loudly echoed times innumerable.
At which he straightway started, and 'gan tell
His paces back into the temple's chief;
Warming and glowing strong in the belief
Of help from Dian: so that when again
He caught her airy form, thus did he plain,
Moving more near the while. "O Haunter chaste
Of river sides, and woods, and heathy waste,
Where with thy silver bow and arrows keen
Art thou now forested? O woodland Queen,
What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos?
Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos
Of thy disparted nymphs? Through what dark tree
Glimmers thy crescent? Wheresoe'er it be,
'Tis in the breath of heaven: thou dost taste
Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost waste
Thy loveliness in dismal elements;
But, finding in our green earth sweet contents,
There livest blissfully. Ah, if to thee
It feels Elysian, how rich to me,
An exil'd mortal, sounds its pleasant name!
Within my breast there lives a choking flame--
O let me cool it among the zephyr-boughs!
A homeward fever parches up my tongue--
O let me slake it at the running springs!
Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings--
O let me once more hear the linnet's note!
Before mine eyes thick films and shadows float--
O let me 'noint them with the heaven's light!
Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white?
O think how sweet to me the freshening sluice!
Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry-juice?
O think how this dry palate would rejoice!
If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice,
Oh think how I should love a bed of flowers!--
Young goddess! let me see my native bowers!
Deliver me from this rapacious deep!"

  Thus ending loudly, as he would o'erleap
His destiny, alert he stood: but when
Obstinate silence came heavily again,
Feeling about for its old couch of space
And airy cradle, lowly bow'd his face
Desponding, o'er the marble floor's cold thrill.
But 'twas not long; for, sweeter than the rill
To its old channel, or a swollen tide
To margin sallows, were the leaves he spied,
And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crowns
Up heaping through the slab: refreshment drowns
Itself, and strives its own delights to hide--
Nor in one spot alone; the floral pride
In a long whispering birth enchanted grew
Before his footsteps; as when heav'd anew
Old ocean rolls a lengthened wave to the shore,
Down whose green back the short-liv'd foam, all ****,
Bursts gradual, with a wayward indolence.

  Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense,
Upon his fairy journey on he hastes;
So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes
One moment with his hand among the sweets:
Onward he goes--he stops--his ***** beats
As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm
Of which the throbs were born. This still alarm,
This sleepy music, forc'd him walk tiptoe:
For it came more softly than the east could blow
Arion's magic to the Atlantic isles;
Or than the west, made jealous by the smiles
Of thron'd Apollo, could breathe back the lyre
To seas Ionian and Tyrian.

  O did he ever live, that lonely man,
Who lov'd--and music slew not? 'Tis the pest
Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest;
That things of delicate and tenderest worth
Are swallow'd all, and made a seared dearth,
By one consuming flame: it doth immerse
And suffocate true blessings in a curse.
Half-happy, by comparison of bliss,
Is miserable. 'Twas even so with this
Dew-dropping melody, in the Carian's ear;
First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten clear,
Vanish'd in elemental passion.

  And down some swart abysm he had gone,
Had not a heavenly guide benignant led
To where thick myrt

That relatable gay dream of running away,
Wind blowing through what's left of your hair,
the first ties to be cut.

That relatable gay fear, questions you'd rather not asked and that subsequent relatable gay sorrow after the answers.

That relatable gay loneliness, all hollow spaces and devoted secrecy.
Bitten back tongues and hidden colors.

That relatable gay moment of finding love in your friends.
Not the kind that you kiss but the kind you hold dear in the night,
as tears drip from cheeks to shoulders.

That relatable gay plan of holidays with your other gay friends, a real family, the one who would love you no matter what.
Cheers and queers and all too far away.

That relatable gay longing for love-
true love-
Like the kind they never show in fairytales,
Real and supportive, never hidden away or forgotten.

That relatable gay anger,
Boiling from injustice always under the surface,
Waiting to erupt in pointless shouts of grief for a world that was not built for me.

That relatable gay exhaustion, hostile slurs and benignant apathy blending together into a reality of unending fights just to keep on existing.

So when someone asks me what makes you a community I show them all those relatable gay moments of anguish and loss, of solemn support and stolen minutes.

And I tell them of how terrible it is that they are so very relatable,
But how wonderful it is that we could at least live through them together.

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

Soothing, sensational,
elegant as the harp,
Semblance, integument,
covering of the tarp,
Ebullient, vivacious,
precision of the mind,
Vehement, appetent,
keen & one of a kind,
Perfervid, chocolate katydid,
desirable & luscious taste,
Delectable, ambrosial,
palatable & consumed with haste,
Sybaritic, voluptuous,
enticing to the senses,
Libidinous, hedonic,
enriched untightened hinges,
Efficacious, puissant,
robust delight to the eye,
Potent, consequential,
immeasurable symbol of the sky,
Pulchritudinous, gorgeous,
magnificent as the autumn sun,
Resplendent, vivid, lustrous
as a diamond-lithographed gun,
Sympathetic, affectionate,
condoling soul of a angel,
Altruistic, benignant,
warmhearted with no mangle,
Serenity, tranquility,
composure of divine peace,
Harmonious, amicable,
placid as the slow moving creek...

I saw an aged Beggar in my walk;
And he was seated, by the highway side,
On a low structure of rude masonry
Built at the foot of a huge hill, that they
Who lead their horses down the steep rough road
May thence remount at ease. The aged Man
Had placed his staff across the broad smooth stone
That overlays the pile; and, from a bag
All white with flour, the dole of village dames,
He drew his scraps and fragments, one by one;
And scanned them with a fixed and serious look
Of idle computation. In the sun,
Upon the second step of that small pile,
Surrounded by those wild, unpeopled hills,
He sat, and ate his food in solitude:
And ever, scattered from his palsied hand,
That, still attempting to prevent the waste,
Was baffled still, the crumbs in little showers
Fell on the ground; and the small mountain birds
Not venturing yet to peck their destined meal,
Approached within the length of half his staff.

Him from my childhood have I known; and then
He was so old, he seems not older now;
He travels on, a solitary Man,
So helpless in appearance, that from him
The sauntering Horseman throws not with a slack
And careless hand his alms upon the ground,
But stops,—that he may safely lodge the coin
Within the old Man’s hat; nor quits him so,
But still, when he has given his horse the rein,
Watches the aged Beggar with a look
Sidelong, and half-reverted. She who tends
The toll-gate, when in summer at her door
She turns her wheel, if on the road she sees
The aged Beggar coming, quits her work,
And lifts the latch for him that he may pass.
The post-boy, when his rattling wheels o’ertake
The aged Beggar in the woody lane,
Shouts to him from behind; and if, thus warned,
The old Man does not change his course, the boy
Turns with less noisy wheels to the roadside,
And passes gently by, without a curse
Upon his lips, or anger at his heart.

He travels on, a solitary Man;
His age has no companion. On the ground
His eyes are turned, and, as he moves along,
They move along the ground; and, evermore,
Instead of common and habitual sight
Of fields, with rural works, of hill and dale,
And the blue sky, one little span of earth
Is all his prospect. Thus, from day to day,
Bow-bent, his eyes forever on the ground,
He plies his weary journey; seeing still,
And seldom knowing that he sees, some straw,
Some scattered leaf, or marks which, in one track,
The nails of cart or chariot-wheel have left
Impressed on the white road,—in the same line,
At distance still the same. Poor Traveller!
His staff trails with him; scarcely do his feet
Disturb the summer dust; he is so still
In look and motion, that the cottage curs,
Ere he has passed the door, will turn away,
Weary of barking at him. Boys and girls,
The vacant and the busy, maids and youths,
And urchins newly breeched—all pass him by:
Him even the slow-paced waggon leaves behind.

But deem not this Man useless.—Statesmen! ye
Who are so restless in your wisdom, ye
Who have a broom still ready in your hands
To rid the world of nuisances; ye proud,
Heart-swoln, while in your pride ye contemplate
Your talents, power, or wisdom, deem him not
A burden of the earth! ’Tis Nature’s law
That none, the meanest of created things,
Of forms created the most vile and brute,
The dullest or most noxious, should exist
Divorced from good—a spirit and pulse of good,
A life and soul, to every mode of being
Inseparably linked. Then be assured
That least of all can aught—that ever owned
The heaven-regarding eye and front sublime
Which man is born to—sink, howe’er depressed,
So low as to be scorned without a sin;
Without offence to God cast out of view;
Like the dry remnant of a garden-flower
Whose seeds are shed, or as an implement
Worn out and worthless. While from door to door,
This old Man creeps, the villagers in him
Behold a record which together binds
Past deeds and offices of charity,
Else unremembered, and so keeps alive
The kindly mood in hearts which lapse of years,
And that half-wisdom half-experience gives,
Make slow to feel, and by sure steps resign
To selfishness and cold oblivious cares,
Among the farms and solitary huts,
Hamlets and thinly-scattered villages,
Where’er the aged Beggar takes his rounds,
The mild necessity of use compels
The acts of love; and habit does the work
Of reason; yet prepares that after-joy
Which reason cherishes. And thus the soul,
By that sweet taste of pleasure unpursued,
Doth find herself insensibly disposed
To virtue and true goodness.

                                  Some there are
By their good works exalted, lofty minds
And meditative, authors of delight
And happiness, which to the end of time
Will live, and spread, and kindle: even such minds
In childhood, from this solitary Being,
Or from like wanderer, haply have received
(A thing more precious far than all that books
Or the solicitudes of love can do!)
That first mild touch of sympathy and thought,
In which they found their kindred with a world
Where want and sorrow were. The easy man
Who sits at his own door,—and, like the pear
That overhangs his head from the green wall,
Feeds in the sunshine; the robust and young,
The prosperous and unthinking, they who live
Sheltered, and flourish in a little grove
Of their own kindred;—all behold in him
A silent monitor, which on their minds
Must needs impress a transitory thought
Of self-congratulation, to the heart
Of each recalling his peculiar boons,
His charters and exemptions; and, perchance,
Though he to no one give the fortitude
And circumspection needful to preserve
His present blessings, and to husband up
The respite of the season, he, at least,
And ‘t is no ****** service, makes them felt.

Yet further.—Many, I believe, there are
Who live a life of virtuous decency,
Men who can hear the Decalogue and feel
No self-reproach; who of the moral law
Established in the land where they abide
Are strict observers; and not negligent
In acts of love to those with whom they dwell,
Their kindred, and the children of their blood.

Praise be to such, and to their slumbers peace!
But of the poor man ask, the abject poor;
Go, and demand of him, if there be here
In this cold abstinence from evil deeds,
And these inevitable charities,
Wherewith to satisfy the human soul?
No—man is dear to man; the poorest poor
Long for some moments in a weary life
When they can know and feel that they have been,
Themselves, the fathers and the dealers-out
Of some small blessings; have been kind to such
As needed kindness, for this single cause,
That we have all of us one human heart.
—Such pleasure is to one kind Being known,
My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week
Duly as Friday comes, though pressed herself
By her own wants, she from her store of meal
Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip
Of this old Mendicant, and, from her door
Returning with exhilarated heart,
Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in heaven.

Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And while in that vast solitude to which
The tide of things has borne him, he appears
To breathe and live but for himself alone,
Unblamed, uninjured, let him bear about
The good which the benignant law of Heaven
Has hung around him: and, while life is his,
Still let him prompt the unlettered villagers
To tender offices and pensive thoughts.
—Then let him pass, a blessing on his head!
And, long as he can wander, let him breathe
The freshness of the valleys; let his blood
Struggle with frosty air and winter snows;
And let the chartered wind that sweeps the heath
Beat his grey locks against his withered face.
Reverence the hope whose vital anxiousness
Gives the last human interest to his heart.
May never HOUSE, misnamed of INDUSTRY,
Make him a captive!—for that pent-up din,
Those life-consuming sounds that clog the air,
Be his the natural silence of old age!
Let him be free of mountain solitudes;
And have around him, whether heard or not,
The pleasant melody of woodland birds.
Few are his pleasures: if his eyes have now
Been doomed so long to settle upon earth
That not without some effort they behold
The countenance of the horizontal sun,
Rising or setting, let the light at least
Find a free entrance to their languid orbs.
And let him, where and when he will, sit down
Beneath the trees, or on a grassy bank
Of highway side, and with the little birds
Share his chance-gathered meal; and, finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has lived,
So in the eye of Nature let him die!

And this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom,
To each poor brother who offends against us—
Most innocent, perhaps—and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
Each pore and natural outlet shrivelled up
By Ignorance and parching Poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;
Then we call in our pampered mountebanks—
And this is their best cure! uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage faces, at the clanking hour,
Seen through the steam and vapours of his dungeon,
By the lamp’s dismal twilgiht! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed
By sights of ever more deformity!

With other ministrations thou, O Nature!
Healest thy wandering and distempered child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit healed and harmonized
By the benignant touch of Love and Beauty.

"bleed·ing heart"
a person considered to be dangerously softhearted
feeling sorry for everything and everyone and giving in to emotions quickly.

“My heart bled today.”
Nothing new, same old routine, same old unremarkable usual thing.
They say over and over, Repetition is key. The key for what, I may never know.
Things often moving quickly halt and take on the slow.
The same people, the same faces, the same air, the same places.

I’m a person with a bleeding heart.
It’s dangerous to lead a life like mine,
Sadly you can’t escape the family bloodline.
Constantly stuck in a place between the planes.
I can’t help what’s running wild, pumping through my veins.

No rest for me. The others are already gone.
My logic quickly left along with the dawn.
My bleeding heart might just be the death of me.
I would show you I am hurting but we can’t seem to agree
I am all alone surrounded by nothing but my own suffocating thoughts.
I can’t breathe and continue to find myself at a loss.
A new beginning. The strong will live, the weak will die.
It’s tattooed into the minds of the people in the city as a nearby excuse for people like me.

Yes, there are others, but they are far out of reach, conveniently unavailable.
The rest of us have been wiped out and deemed unfavorable.

What am I?
Just an unnoticed vessel of the human soul
and all of it’s dangerously soft-hearted mannerisms.

I have a bleeding heart. I do not deny.
Left alone for the beasts to tear apart.
But I cannot help but look to the sky.

I despise my nature, my being even,
Curse my benignant soul,
And my lack of self control
What’s left for me in this cruel world?
Run by unintellectual imbeciles running off their own flawed reasoning

A divergent past, lies in ruins which was once filled with memories and happy experiences,
I was once just a kid lost in her own place, drowning and begging for help but no one came.

Perhaps, I’m not as much of a person with a bleeding heart as I possibly could be.
Perhaps, the legacy I leave behind will be nothing but a life of running away.
Perhaps my bleeding heart only bleeds in contrast to the reality around me.

“Because it is mine, it will always bleed”.
I am stuck in this life of heartache and unwelcome spilled blood, but it will be alright.
Because I won’t give up, not until I succeed.  
I will make it one day, even if there is no destination, I’ll go just to see the sights.
Bleeding heart and all, I will fight the war, not backing down, but disappearing at midnight.

Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantum
recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim
                                      (Seneca, Letters 130.10)

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove;
Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free;
And calm’st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth:
Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot;
Who do thy work, and know it not:
Oh! if through confidence misplaced
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.

Serene will be our days and bright,
And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,
And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold
Even now, who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed;
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried;
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust:
And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task, in smoother walks to stray;
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;
But in the quietness of thought:
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance-desires:
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead’s most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face:
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh, let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live!

There never was a face as fair as yours,
A heart as true, a love as pure and keen.
These things endure, if anything endures.
But, in this jungle, what high heaven immures
Us in its silence, the supreme serene
Crowning the dagoba, what destined die
Rings on the table, what resistless dart
Strike me I love you; can you satisfy
The hunger of my heart!

Nay; not in love, or faith, or hope is hidden
The drug that heals my life; I know too well
How all things lawful, and all things forbidden
Alike disclose no pearl upon the midden,
Offer no key to unlock the gate of Hell.
There is no escape from the eternal round,
No hope in love, or victory, or art.
There is no plumb-line long enough to sound
The abysses of my heart!


There no dawn breaks; no sunlight penetrates
Its blackness; no moon shines, nor any star.
For its own horror of itself creates
Malignant fate from all benignant fates,
Of its own spite drives its own angel afar.
Nay; this is the great import of the curse
That the whole world is sick, and not a part.
Conterminous with its own universe
the horror of my heart!

"I don't know how you do it"* man sighed.
"Do what?" pondered nature.

"All this," said man,
"you're kind whilst being cruel
breathing life upon some and inhaling it from others
you're tranquil yet hide a sea of storms inside your chest
you're a contradiction,
with no end to it;"

Nature smiled, knowing eyes gazing upon mankind.

*"A contradiction I may be
in your eyes, yet-
I'm neither kind nor cruel;
Neither benignant nor malevolent.

I simply am.

Then again, she breathed,
What you see in yourself, in your kind;
is what you reflect upon me."

Unto seventy years and seven,
  Hide your double birthright well--
You, that are the brat of Heaven
  And the pampered heir to Hell.

Let your rhymes be tinsel treasures,
  Strung and seen and thrown aside.
Drill your apt and docile measures
  Sternly as you drill your pride.

Show your quick, alarming skill in
  Tidy mockeries of art;
Never, never dip your quill in
  Ink that rushes from your heart.

When your pain must come to paper,
  See it dust, before the day;
Let your night-light curl and caper,
  Let it lick the words away.

Never print, poor child, a lay on
  Love and tears and anguishing,
Lest a cooled, benignant Phaon
  Murmur, "Silly little thing!"

Disaster & heartache, but it doesn't stop there,
it's thought of & preached, but who really cares;
the poor, the rich, the white boys & thugs,
we're all the center of the joke to stereotypical punks;
but if you reach to the bottom & search for the meaning,
all this *******'s based on fixations & ludicrous teachings;
we follow their viewpoints just to prove that we're able,
but the "American Dream" still isn't stable;
poverty & exigency run like the rest,
like the men in the sky, with bombs strapped to their chest,
If you believe them, you're already trapped in their game,
They say you've got personal freedom, yet you're all raised the same;
nobody wants the reality, but they've defeated all hope;
when alliance is offered, the conversation is broke;
we spend all this time on building up "life",
we forget the meaning of whats wrong & whats right;
few still have givin qualities, hope they hold on til death,
cause others were proved cowards when faced with the test;
Unlike the hundreds who fight for our rights,
when they offer you honesty, you turn out the lights;
sincerity at its finest, benignant and pure,
while some just watch, others establish a cure;
but to think, thats only a nick on the board,
what bout the billions needed, but forced out to war;
but we let it all go, "****, it never happened to me,"
allowing yourself to only feel what you see;
thats cowardly, what if the next to go was a friend,
would you blow it off, step up, would you defend;
like dictators in the past, civilizations reaching the end,
but that doesn't stop ignorance from reeling um in;
all the lies and propaganda is their key to success,
i laugh at the fools who fail when faced with the test

Kylagoodson-

The West a glimmering lake of light,
A dream of pearly weather,
The first of stars is burning white--
The star we watch together.
Is April dead?  The unresting year
Will shape us our September,
And April's work is done, my dear--
Do you not remember?

O gracious eve!  O happy star,
Still-flashing, glowing, sinking!--
Who lives of lovers near or far
So glad as I in thinking?
The gallant world is warm and green,
For May fulfils November.
When lights and leaves and loves have been,
Sweet, will you remember?

O star benignant and serene,
I take the good to-morrow,
That fills from verge to verge my dream,
With all its joy and sorrow!
The old, sweet spell is unforgot
That turns to June December;
And, tho' the world remembered not,
Love, we would remember.

Fling wide, my Emily, the doors of the High Ones
And fill with garlands the temples of clouds
And the breathing entrails of beasts. Let not
This sad soul, in isolation, surround your altars;
Let fellow hearts over land beloved
Of gentle green and hilly region, dear to my heavenly god,
Raise them to your benignant *****. Let black
Envy get her fill, turning her malicious breast elsewhere.
Do we not all live under one sky?
It happened as I wandered idly at sunset
In spacious enclosure, for my lyre lay limp
With strings slack. No melody, no bird of song
Came comfortably to my bed; lay aside my lyre.
Small to the eye but huge to the sense,
Marvellous in measure, my vision fain to cry.
So mighty the deception that makes
The small figure large! Rejoicing from the heart,
With you at my gaze, I happily drink nectar!
Hurt without knowing and refrain I beg.
My wings fly, and loss for all time will be my wound.

gratitude #2

gratitude
an adjustment
of attitude
does not denote
lassitude
or even servitude

thankfulness
over
wankfulness
appreciation
doesn't mean
supplication
subjugation
or
capitulation

A little tolerance
is a lovely thing
A little kindness
over boxing in the ring

being human
regardless of numen
just us humans
being
humane

compassionate
kind
benignant
over
ignorant
m­e me me me
single minded
******* in ego
binded
and so
blinded

sometimes
we need reminded
to be gentle
not necessarily
sentimental
just clement
all...

A little tolerance
is a beautiful thing.

© J.C. 28/08/2019.

A benignant person
Deserves everything and more
Only fate knows what's in store
The negativity we'll try to ignore
Throughout the verbal blood and gore
We'll dance until we're sore
As the best is yet to come
The lonely are never out of ***
And the prudes are never out of gum.

The War Prayer

by Mark Twain

It was a time of great and exalting excitement. The country was up in arms, the war was on, in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism; the drums were beating, the bands playing, the toy pistols popping, the bunched firecrackers hissing and spluttering; on every hand and far down the receding and fading spread of roofs and balconies a fluttering wilderness of flags flashed in the sun; daily the young volunteers marched down the wide avenue gay and fine in their new uniforms, the proud fathers and mothers and sisters and sweethearts cheering them with voices choked with happy emotion as they swung by; nightly the packed mass meetings listened, panting, to patriot oratory with stirred the deepest deeps of their hearts, and which they interrupted at briefest intervals with cyclones of applause, the tears running down their cheeks the while; in the churches the pastors preached devotion to flag and country, and invoked the God of Battles beseeching His aid in our good cause in outpourings of fervid eloquence which moved every listener.

It was indeed a glad and gracious time, and the half dozen rash spirits that ventured to disapprove of the war and cast a doubt upon its righteousness straightway got such a stern and angry warning that for their personal safety’s sake they quickly shrank out of sight and offended no more in that way.

Sunday morning came — next day the battalions would leave for the front; the church was filled; the volunteers were there, their young faces alight with martial dreams — visions of the stern advance, the gathering momentum, the rushing charge, the flashing sabers, the flight of the foe, the tumult, the enveloping smoke, the fierce pursuit, the surrender!

Then home from the war, bronzed heroes, welcomed, adored, submerged in golden seas of glory! With the volunteers sat their dear ones, proud, happy, and envied by the neighbors and friends who had no sons and brothers to send forth to the field of honor, there to win for the flag, or, failing, die the noblest of noble deaths. The service proceeded; a war chapter from the Old Testament was read; the first prayer was said; it was followed by an ***** burst that shook the building, and with one impulse the house rose, with glowing eyes and beating hearts, and poured out that tremendous invocation:

God the all-terrible! Thou who ordainest,
Thunder thy clarion and lightning thy sword!

Then came the “long” prayer. None could remember the like of it for passionate pleading and moving and beautiful language. The burden of its supplication was, that an ever-merciful and benignant Father of us all would watch over our noble young soldiers, and aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in the day of battle and the hour of peril, bear them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the ****** onset; help them crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory —

An aged stranger entered and moved with slow and noiseless step up the main aisle, his eyes fixed upon the minister, his long body clothed in a robe that reached to his feet, his head bare, his white hair descending in a frothy cataract to his shoulders, his seamy face unnaturally pale, pale even to ghastliness. With all eyes following him and wondering, he made his silent way; without pausing, he ascended to the preacher’s side and stood there waiting. With shut lids the preacher, unconscious of his presence, continued his moving prayer, and at last finished it with the words, uttered in fervent appeal, “Bless our arms, grant us the victory, O Lord and God, Father and Protector of our land and flag!”

The stranger touched his arm, motioned him to step aside — which the startled minister did — and took his place. During some moments he surveyed the spellbound audience with solemn eyes, in which burned an uncanny light; then in a deep voice he said:

“I come from the Throne — bearing a message from Almighty God!” The words smote the house with a shock; if the stranger perceived it he gave no attention. “He has heard the prayer of His servant your shepherd, and will grant it if such be your desire after I, His messenger, shall have explained to you its import — that is to say, its full import. For it is like unto many of the prayers of men, in that it asks for more than he who utters it is aware of — except he pause and think. “God’s servant and yours has prayed his prayer. Has he paused and taken thought? Is it one prayer? No, it is two — one uttered, and the other not. Both have reached the ear of Him who heareth all supplications, the spoken and the unspoken. Ponder this — keep it in mind. If you would beseech a blessing upon yourself, beware! lest without intent you invoke a curse upon your neighbor at the same time. If you pray for the blessing of rain on your crop which needs it, by that act you are possibly praying for a curse on some neighbor’s crop which may not need rain and can be injured by it.

“You have heard your servant’s prayer — the uttered part of it. I am commissioned by God to put into words the other part of it — that part which the pastor — and also you in your hearts — fervently prayed silently. And ignorantly and unthinkingly? God grant that it was so! You heard the words ‘Grant us the victory, O Lord our God!’ That is sufficient. The whole of the uttered prayer is compact into those pregnant words. Elaborations were not necessary. When you have prayed for victory you have prayed for many unmentioned results which follow victory — must follow it, cannot help but follow it. Upon the listening spirit of God fell also the unspoken part of the prayer. He commandeth me to put it into words. Listen!

“Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth into battle — be Thou near them! With them — in spirit — we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us tear their soldiers to ****** shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended in the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames in summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it —

For our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimmage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet!

We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.

(After a pause.) “Ye have prayed it; if ye still desire it, speak! The messenger of the Most High waits.”

...

It was believed afterward that the man was a lunatic, because there was no sense in what he said.

as the **** of A.C./D.C. have degenerated eclectical currents ******
I stuff my both nostrils with onion skins to obliterate feeling sneezy
My bleeding heart has been knotted, contorted & tangled dead after
finding that Frederique van der Wal works as a bouncer called Fred
My old heart's been knotted, mangled & tangled dead after learning
that Frederique van der Wal knocks heads as a bouncer named Fred
I wanna be your lesbian play-thing in ways digestively pancreatical
until I am gynecologically unfit to be your **** purely diagnostical
as from within our vulvae sprout puffy cysts fleshed pseudocystical
that swing on the periphery of benignant wens gone neoplasmatical
in Chicago slaughter houses where each & every delicious pig *****
on old concrete floors that are made no less **** by porcine *******
that pop unpropped as popped polyp polypus polypusi possibly pop
in fashion with cryptical fashion that sits slower than soles at a stop

I keep my neck below my head so that my head rests not dislocated
above Bruce Jenner's extreme estrogenetical ******* unabated
as the **** of A.C./D.C. have degenerated eclectical currents ******
I stuff my both nostrils with onion skins to obliterate feeling sneezy
My bleeding heart has been knotted, contorted & tangled dead after
finding that Frederique van der Wal works as a bouncer called Fred
My old heart's been knotted, mangled & tangled dead after learning
that Frederique van der Wal knocks heads as a bouncer named Fred
I wanna be your lesbian play-thing in ways digestively pancreatical
until I am gynecologically unfit to be your **** purely diagnostical
as from within our vulvae sprout puffy cysts fleshed pseudocystical
that swing on the periphery of benignant wens gone neoplasmatical
in Chicago slaughter houses where each & every delicious pig *****
on old concrete floors that are made no less **** by porcine *******
that pop unpropped as popped polyp polypus polypusi possibly pop
in fashion with cryptical fashion that sits slower than soles at a stop

Blessed  with matchlessly magical Parents,
Their supremely good, serenely happy raising,
design our thought processes.
Their loving, comforting storytelling skills,
leave indelible footprints  and heartprints.
Thankyou God for this Benedictory Love!!!

Blessed with a bombastic Brother,
self-styled natural, perennial itinerant,
Sentinel of sisters life-long.
Sentiments flow unabatedly,
for our illustrious, boisterous beloved younger.
Thankyou God for this Blissful Love!!!

Blessed with delicate darling Sister,
who wears expressions benignant perpetually.
Wiitty, gritty, easy-going habitually.
Evident protected favourite of all surely.
Fondest moments born in her queenly company.
Thankyou God for this Harmonious Love!!!

Blessed with solicitous Husband,
His silent romanticism, macho protective ways,
smoothen tumultuous paths.
Terribly correct and sober better half,
Brokers peace, plots life's happiness graph.
Thankyou God for this Angelic  Love!!!

Blessed with an endearing Child,
Whose arrival, auspicious, momentous and miraculous, Rearing the divine and sublime born,
definitely, a definition for the guardians.
Our child, our panacea, promise of better tomorrows.
Thankyou God for this Supreme Love!!!

When I was young I thunk Chicklet was quite the sassy, saucy dish:
double stitching ******, stripping for money, eating discounted fish
and majoring in alcoholics while imitating crapped-out Lillian Gish
******* on Easter portraits to the wall as that was her Easter wish
Let's force our greasers punked up on acid to pay steep border taxes
to seat obese Arizonian ******* witches in lawn chairs that relaxes
intestinal tracts south of ghettos, west of any congress that backs us
with terminally benignant tumors on communitarians who tracks us
befouling a eugenically, puritanically Marxian, hocus-pocus praxis
Back, back into the hobo camps of our most viciously-local hordes
a ****, ******, blondish woman of 25 can strain folded vocal cords
Girly bodies are Lord-filled temples, like carriages carrying gourds
as Jerry and Betty were just 2 of the rat-milking, rat-breeding Fords
You as a scoffing ******* are, of course, free to freely scoff
but don't till you've walked in my 2 shoes with both legs blown off
knowing that these lung-replacement problems began with a cough
while doing ****** under bridges is worser than a rental apartment
or wiping up gooey filth in New Stanton's G.M. dental department
as only niacin will **** cannibal queen Beth's mental bombardment
Cast your queer leer to the queerest of baited states: Massachusetts
that has granulated Hillary's lesbian **** above where her ***** sits
Iraqi citizens saw the free eye surgery provided by Saddam Hussein
as a surgical gift of vision freely given by their sad man who's sane
as opposed to the mayor of Bangor proposing a sand dam in Maine
In an empire failing Americans find Uncle Sam ****** in Bahrain
Trifling things shall not diminish my reverence for Miss Kitty Ting,
despite the fact that her '67 suicide made moot mere mortal atoning
from Diana's birthing moon where Earthen-Human souls are placed
in 0-72-hour newborns after old-corpse memories have been erased
K.F.C.'s M.S.G. excito-toxins made Harland Sanders a river dancer
before he crapped out from acute leukaemia & chicken liver cancer

I remember God on God Day, even though He gave me the twinges
of a benignant brain stem nerve tumor that strangulates & impinges

To treat cancer: consume NO red meat or alcohol, take zinc (recommended daily allowance) & pancreatic enzymes (fresh pineapple & papaya abounds in natural enzymes) . Take a *****-analysis pregnancy test upon rising (a full urinary bladder is best). Positive means: pregnancy or cancer or pregnancy plus cancer or false positive (the kits are only a dollar). If 4 of 6 tests are positive (for men too) then cancerous/tumorous activity is present. The B17 will stop the process. Initially tumors will swell as malignant cells die. In time the tumors will shrink by no more than 5 to 10%. You'll be cancer-free but NOT tumor-free. If the tumor is impinging nerves or blood vessels (or for cosmetic reasons) then surgical ablation might be warranted. Otherwise, in time (it may take years) the benignant tissue will be absorbed

Additionally: To treat cancer, patients have taken up to 6 grams daily in pill/capsule form and even more intravenously. ALL B vitamins are water soluble and will turn one's ***** orange.

Like-charges repel one another making it impossible for the immune system to mount a direct assault on malignant structures so, instead, benignant cells build a tumorous mass to contain the clutch of cancerous cells. If the immune system could attack cancer, mammalian pregnancy (gestation to term) wouldn't be possible as pre-embryonic cells (which are virtually indistinguishable from malignant cells) would be defined by the immune system as invasive & condemned to destruction & absorption.

My cousins are dead because of you Norman Cousins swearer to masonic blood oaths. Cousin Cousine gave hope to my cousins & me & to Ted Danson, Ned Manson, Fred Janssen & Jed Hanson. Ship now Stanley ** or forever hold your shipments for the sudden crapping-out of nice people is what I'm gambling on. Marilyn Monroe is unforgettable especially since corporators never relent in keeping her name & likeness before the public. By the 7th day of an electrical black-out feminism will be no more as the natural order of things will be restored. The cancer-afflicted girls who make the news are suffering from radiation sickness. Radiation sickness cures nothing. Radiation sickness denigrates the immune system. Next stop: doughnut shop for APPLAUSE & APPLE SAUCE, a simple sample of Pederson's shrimp in shambles & shims in sandals with a dosage o' ol': allopathism, regionalism, nationalism, emotionalism, rationalism, pyorrhea, diarrhea, gonorrhea, Cary Grant, Gary Crant, Crary Gant, Grary Cant, Carry Gant, Carr Ganty, Garr Canty, Granty Car, Ganty Carr, Garnt Cary, Carnt Gary, Carnty Gar, Garnty Car, Arnty Garc, Arnty Grac, Ranty Garc & the man who stands above others: Ranty Grac. Help me dead Dave Dudley to rave studly then pave mud free with Neil Diamond to **** Neil Simon worshiper of: Satan's hollyhock tree Hollywood; **** Dolly's Dollywood; Tamil's Kolly-wood; Bomay's Bollywood & fair airplay for the not-so-fair *******' Nollywood where whitey ain't welcomed even as a token.
   Malignant cells are electrostatically-charged negative as is the immune system. Like-charges repel one another making it impossible for the immune system to mount a direct assault on malignant structures so, instead, benignant cells build a tumorous mass to contain the clutch of cancerous cells. If the immune system could attack cancer, mammalian pregnancy (gestation to term) wouldn't be possible as pre-embryonic cells (which are virtually indistinguishable from malignant cells) would be defined by the immune system as invasive & condemned to destruction & absorption.
   It's minimum-wage day in Albania! Grab a strange Albanian woman's *** to get the fun started and the ball rolling!

I keep my neck below my head so that my head rests not dislocated
above Bruce Jenner's extreme estrogenetical ******* unabated
as the **** of A.C./D.C. have degenerated eclectical currents ******
I stuff my both nostrils with onion skins to obliterate feeling sneezy
My bleeding heart has been knotted, contorted & tangled dead after
finding that Frederique van der Wal works as a bouncer called Fred
My old heart's been knotted, mangled & tangled dead after learning
that Frederique van der Wal knocks heads as a bouncer named Fred
I wanna be your lesbian play-thing in ways digestively pancreatical
until I am gynecologically unfit to be your **** purely diagnostical
as from within our vulvae sprout puffy cysts fleshed pseudocystical
that swing on the periphery of benignant wens gone neoplasmatical
in Chicago slaughter houses where each & every delicious pig *****
on old concrete floors that are made no less **** by porcine *******
that pop unpropped as popped polyp polypus polypusi possibly pop
in fashion with cryptical fashion that sits slower than soles at a stop