Are you struck with her figure and face?
    How lucky you happened to meet
With none of the gossiping race,
    Who dwell in this horrible street!
They of slanderous hints never tire;
    I love to approve and commend,
And the lady you so much admire,
    Is my very particular friend!

How charming she looks — her dark curls
    Really float with a natural air;
And the beads might be taken for pearls,
    That arc twined in that beautiful hair:
Then what tints her fair features o'erspread -
    That she uses white paint some pretend;
But, believe me, she only wears red
    She's my very particular friend!

Then her voice, how divine it appears
    While carolling: "Rise gentle moon;"
Lord Crotchet lastnight stopped his ears,
    And declared that she sung out of tune;
For my part, I think that her lay
    Might to Malibran's sweetness pretend;
But people won't mind what I say —
    I'm her very particular friend!

Then her writings — her exquisite rhyme
    To posterity surely must reach;
(I wonder she finds so much time
    With four little sisters to teach!)
A critic in Blackwood, indeed.
    Abused the last poem she penned;
The article made my heart bleed —
    She's my very particular friend!

Her brother dispatched with a sword,
    His friend in a duel, last June;
And her cousin eloped from her lord,
    With a handsome and whiskered dragoon:
Her father with duns is beset,
    Yet continues to dash and to spend —
She's too good for so worthless a set —
    She's my very particular friend!

All her chance of a portion is lost,
    And I fear she'll be single for life;
Wise people will count up the cost
    Of a gay and extravagant wife:
But tis odious to marry for pelf,
    (Though the times are not likely to mend,)
She's a fortune besides in herself —
    She's my very particular friend!

That she's somewhat sarcastic and pert,
    It were useless and vain to deny;
She's a little too much of a flirt,
    And a slattern when no one is by:
From her servants she constantly parts,
    Before they have reached the year's end;
But her heart is the kindest of hearts —
    She's my very particular friend!

Oh! never have pencil or pen,
    A creature more exquisite traced;
That her style does not take with the men,
    Proves a sad want of judgment and taste;
And if to the sketch I give now,
    Some flattering touches I lend;
Do for partial affection allow —
    She's my very particular friend!

a large tree I've hacked limbs from
is staring back at me
through a window
from those wounds
they look like
eyes
and weeping wounded mouth

by J.M. Romig, Ryan P. Kinney, Morgann Blackwood, and Aaron Kasunic

Here’s to vices and virtues
To living without apologies or regrets
To breaking in order to heal

This old bird no longer caged
She gets to look on the other side of the bars this time
He gets another stumble in the hallway
A headfirst dive into a bottle of pills

Purple sharks and goats
That glow in the dark
Banana dimpled belugas
Swimming wildly asunder

Then I met God
The most beautiful of all my conquests
I knew no one else would quite match up to her

Her hair in the porch light
Looked like the thunder god had an ******

Her face still cannot be manifest
This woman,
The most beautiful thing I’ve seen
She lingers in my conscious
And has a major role to play in what will be my swan song

If experience has taught me anything (an unlikely assumption)
It is that if a woman ever tells you
-Straight up-
That she is a *****
She is not lying

There are exceptions to that rule
As I myself am quite exceptional

Im back! and front as well!
here I am incarnated in the living flesh!
tapping one fingered at my brand new keyboard.
Writing strings of meaningful associated fine sounding words
with the sole aim of lifting you and you and you out of Mind
and its operating system ,the Multiple Conditioned Identities
that have plagued you all in every lifetime you've ever had so far--and taking you into temporary Union with the Isness of the Universe.
Let me tell you one aspect about how it feels to be incarnated in this body--charging around soft machine--this walking running distinctly stunning ATV.
Seeing the world around me through the organic mini-cams
mounted on either side of the nose that I,the individual Isness,
use to smell through--chikkens a fuming in the oven--sage and onion stuffing is on the table.
Hearing the world through the shell like sound collectors
mounted on either side of the head I am seated in--Amber the sheppie grunting at the thought of bones to come--plates to lick.
I know that we,my companion and I, can take you out of Mind and MCIs--Ive been taking people higher since I first blew Alto Sax at Jimis shoulder in 1967.
I know that we can lift you if we play our horns for you live--
but we are here and you are there--time zones and distances away--
so maybe not today-- who knows what the future will bring.
Last night--(9pm our time in the UK)-we played an absolute blinder --
of Mull of Kintyre--you would have floated free--we walked upside down on the ceiling--we flew in and out and through each others bodies.
We could guarantee that youd float free of Mind..
She played very close to the melody but with twiddly bits
making it sound as if she was composing it as she played it,
as if she were so far away by a lonely lake listening to waterfowl honk and chatter.
When she opens up on her Mike Tobias 4 string Elec Bass
even the Isness of the Universe stops what its doing and listens!!
Through her Fender Frontman the 60 Watts of resonant sounds
become like the sighing of the midnight winds--elegiac and haunting--
like so many Causerina trees swaying in the warm breezes.
Me?.
I blew my brains out,as usual,
on my Selmer Paris Alto Clarinet--
hand made in 1967 in Paris France(as the yanks say)-
fabricated out of African Blackwood--
lugubrious and burbling---keening and bagpipe like.
I played it backwards--sideways--upside down --in and out--from the middle to the edges--and yet?--and yet?.
When we blended we merged!!.
When we separated we talked in tongues.
We became two instruments played by one Isness--
playing for the Isness of the Universe because no one else was there
to hear--to listen.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

Dearest John,
Whats the point of writing something to you that you will probably never read.
if writing nothing to you is the only something I can write?.
Whats the point of writing nothing to you if I cant write something to you that's really nothing to you?.
Whats the point?.
A nightingale singing in the the Lilac bush
in my backyard?
Is that the point?.
saying hear me sing just for you--listener!.
A luscious Blackberry swollen with its lifes nectar,
dangling insouciantly, singing its song silently--
pick me--crush me in your mouth--
wash your tongue with my sweetness.
Is that the point?.
A Selmer hand made Alto Clarinet on its stand-
daring me to play the melody of the Isness of the Universe just for you?
Is that the point?.
swooping keening hawk like notes
flowing from my very beingness.
An empty canvas waiting patiently
for medium to be applied.
The Chaos of my emptiness
crying out to be stirred into the action of your Form.
Is that the point?.
Or just to say for your ears alone--I Love You!.
An unfilled pan needing filling
with hen ***** and milk and salt and pepper--
and then flamed into the tasty miracle of scrumbled eggs.
Yummy yummy yummy
Ive got food in my tummy
and everything is gonna be alright.

If I tried to write my life down for you
would you come to my waiting arms?
Would you end this cruel silence?
Would you commit a line of meaningful prose
to your keyboard just to tell me you love me?
But your gone to heaven knows where?
Memphis?.
Dissapeared into the maw of electronic death.
Leaving me bereft of your yourness.
No access to your body fluids.
No more your flesh to caress.
As if I could penetrate the skin
of your aloneness and merge into the Isness that keeps
molecules of your georgeous beingness together.
Walking talking laughing the symphony of life together.

Would you listen if I spoke truthfully to you
or would you prefer one of the many "truths"
of your multiple "religions" or "politics" or "philosophies"?.
But as I can only speak truthfully then I guess
youll hear but not listen.
Wasting your opportunities at Isness realisation
as you have done since I,as the Isness of the Universe,
brought into being voidness from my own essence
with time and materiality--hearing but not listening
to the Brownian arpeggios of the rising and falling scales
of the music of the spheres.
I play my horn of blackwood to the empty rooms
of my universe--
accompanied by the booming bass of harmony--
Amazing Grease.
India the Corrupted.
Moanin and Groanin.
Warm as Luke.
A Chicken Supreme.
Satis-Faction.
God Rest Ye Gerry Mandlebaum.
The Universe listens.
Everyone else hears.
I speak.
your ears are closed.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk

spoiled milk and wilted flowers dried up like tobacco
and all the air musty the litter and entropy of it pulls at your
attention. roaches and moths and junebugs tapping against
the glass or skittering
across your floor, climbing up the walls and into a corner
eyeing me probing the air with its antennae.
oil caked on the glass thoughts in my head
spurting red broken bones and shredded muscle
deliciously sinewy.

flush it down. inhale and head rush legs weak smile written across my face as my mind
recoils in terror and confusion
the world waves and warms. it shines.

nag champa blackwood currents and shisha
oily anticipation. just a few hours now and there will be reprieve
i can go back and heal from this confusing binge.

skies are blue. helicopters hover their way over the city and suburbs.
the tower spins its light. floating and warmed I wander back home.

the dreams might be hellish
sleep might not come at all
the time it takes to readjust is staggering.
yellows shades and water and lots of **.

now to disappear completely. leave the damage.
not a trace of yourself though.
run a massive burn
and then escape unnoticed.
sayonara.

Patchwork Dreams
by Aaron Kasunic, Amanda Whitlock, Morgann Blackwood, J.M. Romig, Ryan P. Kinney, and Valentine Berlin

The block is killing me
A million thoughts stopped by a lacking syllable
The start
Could it be? Should it be?
I’ll fill the silence with doubt
Waiting for the right sound
While the deadline looms...

These dreamers in my mind have stopped dancing,
Tired of waiting for the music:

Paint splashes grayscale
Patches together in swatches
Blending to erase the boundaries
I never follow anyway
It’s been years since
My guidelines were straight
Enough to stay inside
Yet it’s where
I prefer to be

I’ve been poor, so poor
That harvesting cigarette butts to squeeze the tobacco out
Was the only way to smoke
So poor that i had to carve a pipe out of a carrot
To smoke that tobacco
Yes, I’ve been poor
Poverty is a misery, but I’m crafty
So-so living, those problems
Making do is how I survive
Yes, I’ve been poor
And I carry the scars to prove it

Loop. Swoop. Pull.
Nope.
Loop. Swoop. Pull
Still no.
Mom’s getting fed up
I’m sorry.
I just can’t do it.

I race through the shop door
The natural light stings my wet eyes
And the chill stops me for an instant
My mother screams behind me,
“Get the **** out of here.”
I am sobbing, finding it difficult to breathe
As I choke down mucus and blood
My lip is already starting to swell
Tomorrow, she will try to bribe my forgiveness with some useless object
Another ******* worthless sentiment
From a parent who never stopped being a child

So soggy... everything...
The grass, the hay, the sky
And my crotch- presently soaked in blood.
Two periods in one month!!
YAY for me.
Soggy... everything.

Jesus died
Because I am a sinner
I’m on my knees
For the fifth time this week
Trying to find my salvation
On this bathroom floor
Penetrated by the needle
Full of bubbling holy light

I’m drunk and so ****** out right now
There is no God
If there was
He would have saved me
Or atleast given me a bigger ****

Before the arthritis set in,
I could grab a ****,
They called them “handys” back then,
And I was very accomplished.
My grip was magical
And Old Faithful would quietly make a show.

I’m as dead as America in the Fall
The dead-eyed liberal zombies are coming
To knock down the walls of my panic room
Picketing my rights
If they had half a brain
They’d put down those signs
And pick up a gun

It’s already past 11.
The kids are long since asleep
I quietly stick the key in the lock
And try to open the door without the usual creak
I drop my briefcase in the hall
As though the full weight of 70 hour work weeks were stored within
I loosen my tie and walk to the fireplace
There I spot the kids, dead to the world on the couch
“Waiting for Santa”
He’s finally here!
As I bend to slide another present under the tree

Memory corrupted
Trying to recover
Installing... Installing
Installing the good data. Recover the bright.
Installing... Installing
Deleting viruses. Replace corrupted data.
Installing... Installing
Waiting for completion
In-
Stalling...
Ready to carry on
In
Stalling....

I remember as a village member,
I cut a memorable road in the wood...


I remember as a walking wobbler,
Some deep thrill made shrill the route,
Covered by the blackness of Blackwood.


I remember as a faint bystander,
What a dark power had that wild park,
beware-embraced, making my eyes sharp,
Taking its hideous darkness like a lark.


I remember with a tender temper,
Some river's ripping ceased my shiver,
I - a thinker, harkened the silent timber,
How the water seduced me to drink her,
Whether I will fall to flaw, following her.


I remember as a deep slumber,
I answered the call, the fanfare, I heard;
The song of the fake stream was a lake,
A lake calling me with its narcotic ache.


I remember as I remember,
As if that freak lake wanted me to keep,
As if that deep lake... made me to leap.


I remember as a member of the lake,
I cut a memorable road in the wood...

the tension in
stressed blackwood
skinned wing

of a sparrow
the clean knife
of a december wind

all this
all this
steps on gravel
the night's last

The stair-shadow bar
a blackwood twist that swims
& recurves under elbow and pint.

Eyes knock in the false, exacted twilight,
against the yarded backdrop
of felt puddles stroked with chalk.

Here is a glass of rye - it waits
in amber for the pink warm wash
of my prowling, kissing palm;

here is a glass of Powers - the sweet
scent flowers the stale angles,
fumes away beyond the lip line.

Things can't quite be read -
what does the canted shoulder mean
when it turns my way?

Words tumble into the chrome-crumbled
struts of the barstools. A kölsh floats into me,
then two, small columns of silted yellow.

On leaving, I am amazed to find
the cheer-charred night, rude gestures
of moon sweeping the towers,

& a fearful silence that finds its harbor
deep inside the glen of my ribcage:
a barking heart, chained to its house.