I

In eras weird with old mythology,
As if asleep the fabled country lay:
Her wave-like hills and faerie forests dense,
Her thorny brambles budding curling claws,
And ivy circling all the woodsey way --
The far swan's cry came soft and woke them not.
Forlorn, that selfsame call upon the gates
Did break; those gates of Britain's long-lost keep.
She too slept fast, the weary weathered stones
Of fairest Caerleon. O pulsing stream,
Thou vein of life in woods a-slumber, Usk!
Alone are you in knowing castle's face,
From years of timeless burbling at her feet.
What tales are told by water over stone?
What lark or wren can sing of sadness come?
Aye, answers are the beach-wet sand, yet hark!
Rejoicings spilled, proud hails, from Caerleon:
They cheered the ****-frost's melting with the Spring;
The holy Gwyl Fair y Canhwyllau
Had come at last, in foliage of dawn.

Within, their goblets sailed, wassailed, and crashed
Like growling Jove, their boasts and toasts like wine --
They drank it spiced and over-strong. Indeed,
Some stretched exaggerations: 'twas Sir Bors,
That spotless sheet, who tried to contradict.
He quoted purifying texts and spurned
The wine that nature raised and crafted sweet.
Yet "Loosen up!" uproared the host to him.
"The time has come to celebrate," said Kay,
Beloved knight, step-brother to the King,
"Aloft thy wine, below thy gills! Drink! Laugh!
Your stomach is a falsehood-spewing fool,
It must be drowned for you to feel a lord.
I speak a sooth, you need wine's fleeting bliss!
Know thee that man's tomorrows bleed him dry:
A wade through death and depths as sure as pain
That shall tomorrow light your brow. Laugh! Drink!"
Bold cheering spread with Kay's advice, though yet
To no surprise Bors turned aside the drink,
Unblemished bore, so celebrates alone.
Weep not for him, for soon he'll find a cup
More suited to his strange of chaste and grace.
And none to waste: his share was drunk by all.

Engaged in feast Owain ap Urien,
Engaged in tale now Bedwyr and Kay,
And Lancelot made eyes at Gwenevere.
It was a feast of great success and joy
As fitting of the season's robust gleam,
Yet two there were with shallow-rooted smiles.
Prince Mordred one, though ever-somber he:
Accursed spawn with bone in place of heart
And dreaded incantations for his blood;
His brooding perched like crow on him. Alas:
The other joy-bled man had beard aflame,
A bear-skin drape, and crystal eyes, the Lord
He was of Caerleon and Mordred both.
'Twas not the gleam in lover's gaze that vexed
Though it was seen; he had no heart in him
To chain his Queen as if in dungeon steel,
For Arthur lived believing to be fair
Was paramount, to even paramour.
It wreaked its toll, yet caused small grief this day.
Not even serpent son gave cause to mourn
That greater was than missing nephew's spot
Among the feast. His chair was naked bare
Returned though he should be from faerie quest.
At Calan Gaeaf they expected him
When winter storms had racked their shoddy hall,
Yet since, the months had rolled to Gwyl Fair
The milder season come, but not his kin.
The image of his maiméd corpse did taunt
And haunt the agéd mind of Arthur, King,
His phantom nephew slain anon by knight
That of no flesh was made. In year that died
This green-mailed knight arrived a guest and called
Infernal challenge. Trick it seemed to them
And trick it was, for subsequent the blow,
This seaweed knight did lift his severed head
And from dead lips he cried "Well struck! Now come,
Fulfill me of my game. The year to come
Shall see thee in my home, and as agreed
My turn 'twil be to answer with my axe."

So rapt in recollecting, Arthur missed
The growing clamor that beset his hall.
His ******* cleared the grief from him with taunt,
To bring him into grief. "What say thee, Dad,"
Dripped venom from his mouth, "No love for us?
Your hail we called, but disapprove your eyes.
Methinks that far away thou seest a dream
That visits oft the elderly: a place
Thou knewst when in thy prime, with love
Now filled to burst. Yet fear us not, away!
To land of youth far more beloved than we
Whose happiness with thine own heart is twined."
"My fellow, soft!" the King began, distressed,
Yet Lancelot rose to his feet and spake
"Blackguard is he who mocks our Lord to face!
Thou palest hide, thou Mordred, sit thee down!
This sniveling craven knight should be replaced."
A sounding of the table met his speech,
Again was hailed his toast, and Arthur glad,
Though burdened to his breaking point, and sad.

"Blackguard is he who mocks our Lord to face,"
Had spake his bravest champion and friend
With no regard to Blackguard wrapped in stealth.
See how his roughspun fingers coil in hers
And how some sweetened whisper 'scapes her lips?
The beams of color-stainéd light slip down
To play upon their blissful sin almost
As if King Arthur's King approved on high.
Sovereignty is ruthless, Arthur thought,
Well-wishings of my God grow ever-faint.
I must believe in good though I am ill,
Just as I find my countrymen displeased
Though I did calculate my every breath
To see that it did stand with God's own will
To help my common people from their murk.
I fear I am not what I wished to be,
And now my only solace peaceful death.
If up to me, I'd wish it in my bed.

What horn's blare? Hark! King Arthur roused from thought.
Court gatekeeper Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr,
Dressed plain in brown, took down the horn from lips
And loud as elk called to the hall "Have cheer!
Sirs, drink another beer and wreath your brow
With springtime blooms, for lost knight fair is found!"
Old Arthur trusted not his feeble ears,
But came a hush and Lancelot confirmed:
"What **," he boomed, "our brother has returned!
'Tis grey Gawaine, aye, Gwalchmai! Drink his hail!"
The uproar was enourmous: "Gwalchmai! Cheers!"
Was like to wake the sleeping wilderness
That hung suspended in the myth and mist.

II

Astonishment had come like breaking wave
Upon the thirsty sands of monarch's face
So long consigned to reap the low-tide's grief.
When Arthur's ursine hand clenched round his cup
And hailed his nephew's presence with a roar
Long lost to hibernation's hoary spell,
The hearts that beat in armor under him
Did swell to find their lord with cheer at last;
The toast they drank so hearty as to give
Sweet Dionysus pause against excess.
Though only two there were who did not drink,
And one of these were Bors, a sadness fell
Once more as tangible as any wrong
That chose to haunt a hall. 'Twas Gwalchmai grey,
The conqueror now home from quest to rest
Who would not lift his eyes to meet the King's.

"Has cheer so fled from you? Your life remains!
What black has inked you in?" the King did ask,
And silence overtook the hall to hear.
How strongly then did Gwalchmai wish to leave,
To blend once more his form to root or branch
Or soaring river. Wind, the songbird's muse,
Had been his fast companion on the road,
For known to him were many things. He was,
They say, some god that stalked the minds of man
In young enchanted places of the world
Though all his magic helped him not at court:
His shyness was a leaf obscured by rain.
Yet even gods of silence know to speak
When words of pain encircle heavy hearts.
He let them fly, birds in the sky, he said
"I failed. My quest was long and arduous,
The seasons changed while I in heather lost,
The moon its phases shed as fen-frogs called,
I floated through the endless cloying mist
That flows, a ghostly sea wrapped round our isle.
The path had nearly drowned me when I found
The chapel green enough to spell my doom.
When entered I, methought "It cannot be!"
So kind and courteous a host met me
That would have been disgrace to call him green.
He feasted me, and warmed my wounded bones,
Yet I betrayed him in the end; I failed.
I stayed his guest, and friend, and swore to him
That for his hospitality I'd share
Each thing I won while underneath his roof.
And all was well -- I'd rest, he'd hunt -- until
His wife played hearts with me. I did refuse,
But by her final trick was tempted and --
So lost all knightly honor and renoun.
Her lusts I spurned three times, but on the third
She offered me that which my heart desired,
Instead of love she begged me take her boon:
A silken girdle sewn with charms, and green,
Deceit I should have seen. She said the spells
Would keep me safe from harm and spare my life...
When on my rugged journey all I'd feared
Was twisting face of death that loomed so near.
I could not help myself, it seemed so tame,
Yet when the time had come I could not share
That gift, or else expose the husband's wife.
Beneath my armor tied when left that place,
My secret wore me down upon the bog.
It seemed the mist grew thicker, wind grew swift,
I now know under spell was I, but then
It seemed some vengence coming to a head.
My tale grows long, and past the point am I.
The Green Knight and my host were one in fraud:
An airy insect's dream. His "wife," a witch,
Had formed him out of acrid moorland soil:
Homunculus to carry out her scheme.
The blow he owed me carried little force,
Though still this scratch is plain upon my nape.
And so you see my folly plain as oak:
For though I kept the life I feared to lose
My lie grows in me like a cancer bloom
That in the span of time shall **** me sure.
I failed; I'm gone; to revelry return."
The silence, vast again, gripped all the knights
And king too dry to cry, who drowned his heart.

III

"Is there some madness come to roost herein?
Thy folly is ridiculous," said Kay.
"I valued mine own life past honor's flame,
A sin of selfishness, and blame, and wrong.
What of the world, if all would act as such?"
A weeping noise he made, but choked it back
And turned to leave in shame, and might have done
Had not the stout Sir Kay gripped Gwalchmai's arm.
He raised it in the air and shouted thus:
"Percieve our stunning champion stands nigh!
Though of a frail ennobled heart, we know
Thou art absolved. This trinket given free
To aid in quest I wager was for thee.
And as for sacred broken vows, this man --
You said yourself -- was conjured from a bug.
You owe him no alleigance Gwalchmai, sit!
This serious you need to be for wine:
Come sit with brothers now! We drink to thee!"
"Dispel the failure all you can, it stays
As weighty on my brain. It was a sign
To signify the kind of soul I am,
To me it showed my grimy ills and plain
Did tell my shaping, shape, and shape-to-be."
King Arthur to this nephew spake: "My child,
Is there no antidote to questing's woes?
What has become of jousts and silver swords?"
The anguish in the old man's eyes so keen
To those who knew him. Gwalchmai did reply
"Your majesty, there's not a grief can ****
My bird-like love of questing through the trees,
For only questing can redeem my shape."
"Then let us have this quest!" cried Kay beside
Him at the table, deep in drink he swore.
"Come with me, brother-knight, to clear thy mood!
You do you wrong blaspheming at yourself."
The wine was quaffed by Gwalchmai, yet he said
"I first shall stay, I need to rest my ills."
"Your ills are that which keep you ill, good knight.
I bid you come and we shall quest as birds
Who savor springtime berries in the mist."
"I shall not go, I seek my quietude."
"In sunlight you and I must bask. Comply,
Or else I challenge you by burnished blade."
All eyes on Gwalchmai, under pressure cracked
Into a grin and downed his kykeon.
"In stubborness persisting, Kay, you've won,
A river such as I could not keep stead
Against a boulder. When shall we away?
When come the summer blossoms, fair and red?
Or else not til the saps have lost their leaves?
Departure yours to choose, my brother-knight."
Kay beat upon the table and their ears
When called triumphantly "This very day,
This very hour! To help those who need aid
On holy days shall surely fix your heart.
No time to wallow in the swamp that's gone,
We now away, to break our swords with day!"
"You mock me or you heard me not, Sir Kay,
I wish not to away, I wish to rest!"
The fairest Guenevere, like silver bells,
Chimed in "You must forgive your heart's despair,
Or emanations of its guilt will plague
Your mind. I have a lunar garden if
You wish to sit in soothing calm and think."
"My queen is holy," Gwalchmai spoke in grace,
But Kay had cut him off with "Hear her not!
She will ensorce your mind to not explore,
To sit and think and mold with lunacy;
Beneath the sun we'll tred. It's known on quests
I favor Bedwyr, 'tis true, yet you
My fairest Gwalchmai, keep your wits -- and arms --
Two things in need of we shall be.
I mean you no offense, dear Bedwyr,
But I and Gwalchmai share a severed soul
And shall succeed; two sides of selfsame coin.
So come my cousin grey, to right our wrongs
We must away, to break our swords and say
'My heart is glad I did not stay at home!'
Consume your drink! We go," he trumpet-called.
Thus Gwalchmai was convinced, and so was forced
To nod politely to his Queen and stand,
Declaring to the court "I shall away,
This gloomy mood is dried beneath the sun
Though dearly do I wish some lunar grace
To lose myself in mysteries anew.
To bear this flesh is weighty, yet I've found
The strain to be rewarding in its way.
Think nothing of my former woes, they've passed
Like summer storm or wisp of misty cloud."
The hall at large did drink his hail, and then
Did thrice more drink for quest to which they went.
And Mordred scowled and drank the foulest wine
For his monsoon and fog would last his life.

So summoned then Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr
To hearken unto birds, as was his gift.
He said to all, "I shall now call my friends
And see what worthy tales of quests they bring!"
"There may be naught on Gwyl Fair," said Bors,
"A holy day, all wove with peace. Nor Gods
Nor men would stir their strife this day of days."
"We all shall see," the gatekeeper replied.
Beside his King upon the dais came
And played a serenade upon his horn
That rang throughout the keep and lands beyond.
A time did pass with no response recieved --
Slain silent was the raptness of the court --
But then through open pain in stainéd glass
A thrush did bob and weave in melody,
On finger of the Queen he briefly perched
Before he flit away upon the air.
His song so sweet, but then - what fright! No more!
A hawk had entered, just the same, and swooped,
And now the thrush was silent in his claws.
The cabinet of augers all took note
And sketched their calculations into books,
Though none, in this, more wise than Gafaelfawr
To whom the hawk said "Hail, you man of rank
Who speaks the tongue of wing-in-air. Now hark!
'Twas not in hunger slew this thrush, but fear
That what I have to tell might go unheard.
My family, we roost near Cornwall's sea
And late, the noises off the coast grew strange
As if some evil kraken raged at love.
My chicks; my wife and I; we're simple hawks.
We eat and some of us are eaten, yet
Beware the thing that slouched from out the waves.
His shape is something like a boar, but huge,
He dwarfs his kin, and hill, and oak,
This hall is large, yet he'd be stuck inside.
He does not eat what he has killed, instead
He smears the bloodied flesh on stones and trees,
What man could face a fear that bears this face?
If you could hear the rutting squeals he makes!
I swear this sooth by wind and waving plumes:
You men who craft with metal, hark!
Destroy the beast!" And then he flew away
Still calling after him "Destroy the beast!"

The court at large had heard the warbling hawk
But did not know the tongue, so only watched
Glewlwyd's unease upon his face
Until with stiff and rasping voice relayed
The content of the predatory news.
Unease began to show among the knights,
For many there recalled a beast so shaped
And all the blood and guile he took to drown
The first time. Arthur, grim, forbade Sir Kay
And Gwalchmai face these perils by themselves,
But recommended regiment of steel
To bolster ranks against the fearsome boar.
"I know this foe from days of old," he said,
His years of rule etched rough across his face,
"And so do most of you, though many gone
And this monstrosity not even slain."
But Gwalchmai said "'Twas hard indeed to win
Those relics that he bore. Remember I
That Trwyth was the name he chose, and we
Shall best him fair. Though not for trinkets now,
But with the zeal of mother guarding young:
This foe, Twrch Trwyth shall not raze the land
Nor wage a war against some peaceful ilk
While rounded table can beco

It’s a place of healing,
the forest floor.
A place alive with secrets and knowing.

My learned sense of reality catches on the brambles and thorns as I pass,
and the tentative uncertainty of my untrained step
loosens with the soil on my feet
in the puddles on the path.

It’s a place of healing,
the forest floor.
A place intent on living.

Where each movement beneath the
towering company of life informs the next.

A little slower this time.
A little softer.
More quiet.

And with each surrendering breath,
another can be heard.
One more colossal and unified in its polyrhythmic sway.  
The trees and vines and creatures with their watchful eyes,
and the earth underfoot,
swell and recede in a merry yawn.

On my twilight walk to fetch water
the dark patiently dilutes all colour,
but allows detail a stolen moment to define my way.
The texture of bark on the lean oak trees around the spring,
the burbling contortion of their reflection at its yielding mouth,
the lichen-rough rocks,
smoothed at the water's edge,
all persist and scintillate into grey.
The soft pricked dendrites of moss cushion my knee
as I slip and fall,
one foot in the spring!
And my scream and giggle pierce the listening night,
and there is no other human being in sight.
So I sit. Wet and still. In the moss.
For tonight, when the darkness stretches its veil impenetrably-tight
over the forest I shall be inside,
to find my place within it's creeping, writhing breath.

Its a place of healing,
the forest floor.
Where living things may grow.

Crackling criss-crossing blue in mind. It scissors down the lanes through the pipes and tubes and little dividers. Electrical mind numbing beauty. Veins-bursting in excited anticipation. Convulsions and scenic skittering routes. Into the Nexus! Here simmers what we are thinking and believing. Our mind's eye focuses and drips into the pool until completion. Psionic figures dance flicker through life existence. Pulse-width fluctuations. Tiny menagerie of our Will. Scribbling through dusted panes of time interface. All afire with ourselves once we have discovered ourselves. Nano-tech emotions. Hope fear anger mercy curiosity buzzing swarms of grey goo jibbering and bubbling in an artificial mind-****. What is all this allusion? Nothing complicated. Speculation on future times where sensual technological biological singularity is paramount. In my room where the clocks are taped over and the sun is dark and dim. Through the windows I see myself. The boxes on the floor emanate simple clickings with melodies intertwined casually. I myself appear redundant. I have done this and so have others. To discuss oneself is worthless unless you become convinced you are another entity gazing back across the room. I feel I am being watched. I become cautious as he may have noticed. Tingling weightlessness tickles in waves in both heads. The Jazz Classic appears. Old dark men and women in hazy environments. Organic supposition or cold observation? Both hold importance so let us appreciate it all. The cello quivers and hums with vibration. Fingers callused and riveted like the age-old corn field bother still strings. A child hums to just myself. What does he want? I never asked him for an audience. Yet he freely gives it to me. Now he multiplies. Or she? Children confuse and cause one to be apprehensive. Nothing and silence. Silence in movement. Cease my visual stimulation for a couple seconds each. The child is back. What does he speak? Pray inside the rubble? Heal in this place? In disgrace? I do not know. His octaves are meshing together. Whining and thrumming with strange alterations. Some madmen tweaks my ears. Maybe he knows the child? I'm not sure. Let us continue on. The flute is the child. Old cello, you have stopped? These musings mean nothing. I would look upon them in a year and think nothing of it. Yet it feels as if this time is important. Da Vinci knocks on the door. Not as if I wanted to talk to it. Wouldn't mind I suppose. He is gone. We talked but I do not remember the conversation. Perhaps we've all talked but we just don't remember our conversations. That's ridiculous though. Then anything is possible. We could have flown to the moon on scarlet weasels outfitted with the latest nano-pores that secreted pure liquid indulgence. And we did because I just imagined we might have. However, I don't remember actually doing it. Just what I thought it might have been like. How frustrating. My thoughts are the same as all others who write out their thoughts when under the influence of yourself. It always seems like some thing is scuttling near my feet or under the nightstand; just out of view. Strange. I would be afraid. No reason to fear that which doesn't bother me. No reason to fear much of anything. That's been said before. Why are we so often concerned with saying that which has been said before? Cliche? auump-ump auump-ump auump-ump little thumping noise in my ears. That vibration is calming. Every night I am awake. Every day I seem asleep. I do not like it but I do not care yet I allow it to be what it will. Vision defaults to out of focus. My eyes always cross if I cease trying to control them. People are strange. Animals are strange. Same thing I guess. Someone will find that clever. Someone will find it cliche. This someone won't care. ****** fantasy permeates day to day. More entertaining than living a fantasy though. ***. Not that entertaining. Perhaps no one knows how to do it properly anymore. Maybe we never did. Maybe some people are just disenchanted with it. When I'm by myself, I never have any ****** desire. When around others, I generally think of it out of curiosity: what would it be like to please the person in front of me? The only enjoyment I've had with *** would consist of pleasing another or observing another ****. The human body is intriguing. Definitely. I really do think so. Sometimes I look at my own. Not out of appreciation really. Just the fact that I have body allows me to investigate it and understand it more. Pain is merely a stage one can get past, so I suppose I injure myself sometimes to see how I react. It's like I need to check I'm still working properly. I can't tell when I'm tired. I feel something, but when I ask myself if I'm tired, I murmur back, "I don't know." Maybe that is why I stay up till early mornings? I wanted to add again that the human body is beautiful and unappealing all in the same space. Perhaps the unattractiveness and softness and strangeness produces attraction. A negative and a negative equals a positive. Three negatives likes to fluctuate. In my mind at least. I may ask another to remove their clothing and whatnot during those intimate moments. Eh, never quite feel like having *** though. I like the emotions and sensuality of just looking at someone. They usually want to physically play around with each other. I think I enjoy fighting more. One day I'll leave everyone except I'll reminisce on those I enjoyed meeting. Maybe come back and visit? I would like to ride something quickly through an empty desert. Find my own food and water. Create shelter. Think by myself. My room is the smallest desert I have and the biggest. I have more in my head but I only occupy one at a time. I suppose I like I do like things like all others. I mean, materials can be nice. If I impart meaning on to an object it gains importance. I see it vital to also say that if it were to be lost, then I wouldn't mind and I would obtain something else or nothing at all.The constitution. Just mentioned by some woman in my room. Or in my ears would be more correct. Constitutional Rights. I honestly don't see the need for them. I was criticized for burbling that once. We should not need a constitution. We should be able to do what we like to do without fear or concern. Unless natural fear and concern appears. Now that may confuse a bit. Right to bear arms. I shouldn't have to be told or allowed to massive bear arms if I feel the need to have them. Big hairy bear arms. Curious little mishap. Freudian slip as Johnny said once? Danger Danger. Anyway, Right to bare arms. I shouldn't have to be told, as I look back,  go back and throw in that comma after told, that I'm allowed to bare arms and defend myself. I'll just do it if the need arises. Freedom of speech. That already has many issues these days. However, there shouldn't have been a need to tell people they have freedom of speech. Speech should have been freely allowed and never oppressed in  the first place. Theme? We have erred so much in the past and I would think sometimes we ignore that and just try make little cosmetic fixes by saying it's okay. Another point. Hold that: side discomfort. I sometimes feel like a little spider or creature is crawling or skittering on my leg under the covers or I'll change the music to Galaxy 2 Galaxy 90's hi-tec jazz there we go. Done! Now back! Or I forget what I said about the spiders. Another point: what? ******, curse damnable ****. Can't recollect what it was I was connecting together. Something that tied in to deceiving people into things are okay. I could go on about consumerism and all that jazz. Instead I'm listening to some techno-jazz whatever-decided-to-call-it. Hyphenated phrases are fun when I decide they are appropriate. English and grammar in such can be cool but at the same time I want to say **** it and stay proper. Do both. Acknowledge how to write and speak "correctly," but as long as someone understands what you are trying to say, then why correct more? Someone large doesn't like the fact I make a lot of noise in the morning. I stole some speakers and subwoofer from the room next to me as I was going to say Austin.  They are on the floor and whichever large person lives below me is probably annoyed or was. I don't spend any of my actual time despising them, but I'll easily say I despise them when someone asks. Otherwise it isn't worth wasting time on. Perhaps the vibration quivers downstairs and shakes them silently. The greate beast is perturbed and sneaky vibrations cause electro-annoyance! Her pulsewidth as I understand it must be like a super-saw as I think it. Silence. Some woman said it's just a feeling. HEA not sure what why I put that sounds like a garageband song. Switched to Inspiration! That is what I did this night. Finally start writing and making things again. Even though I never did and always did. My head sometimes hurts from thinking. Never truly though. Gotta say those things to keep the conversation going. That is really the only reason I say anything. To keep the conversation going. Otherwise I'd just watch people and be just fine. Just yelled "bahh," out loud (didn't sound the comma) because I felt the need or the want. Same. Wrong keys erased. sdas=a====dddddddddd Sorry. Oh well. Oh My. How the time flies goodbye. Going nowhere. Could write more but I felt the slight flicker of wanting to stop. So I do. What an ending. Now I'm only typing to continue the conversation with myself. Just thought ******* sounds good melody. Do as I sayt way to go good job. STOPSDMFA

****** a

Guess I'll read this little conundrum I wrote up. Stop writing ******. Stop EDITING

his essence
cascades across
the grain of my frame;
as his eyes dilate,
imbibing in the beauty
of motion teasing the lull
of moonbeams as it
dabbles
against the infinity
of our minds

beholding
our reflected image
in mirrored composure,
as our delicacy of want
pushes
towards an edge
of lustiness
entwined within
warbled notes
of rock wrens
singing love songs
as they dip
their wings
on early
summer
morn's

my eyes close
as softness of
lips touch upon
mine own; sending
thoughts to lucid
stillness of serendipity
bathing our contoured
frames in dulcetness
aligned within pouted
hunger tasting one
another in unity

kaleidoscopic prisms
alight in our eyes
as the lull of the moon
pulls the ebb and flow
of the ocean's current
as our bodies move
in rhythm with its
motion of each
cresting wave
crashing against
the shores of
our soul's fluidity
burbling in ecstasy

The oceans’ froth betrothed to lunatic scoff
The sublunary elegance of a subdued earthen cough
Infectious pulchritude conjures snow-globe turpitude
Defiant humility professes to know the rudeness of the crude
Distilled casually in a leery trance
Terpsichorean choreography of a hallowed prance
Callow scowls affix the hebetude of anger to the sauciness of banter
Gallant cavalries court the cult of she and enamor and enchant her
Foretold calamities proceed like clockwork from God’s destructive jaundice
Death deployed as a sententious homily of wraiths that taunt us
At every turn fatidic inspirations work to cement a known outcome
Averted gaze away from rampant gays and fire-and-brimstone bunkum
We cherish a world where the stodgy and outmoded monopolize choice considerations
Where hedonism abreast of asceticism are internecine intimidations
Suffer like Christ and buffer like tenacious poverty sustained by rice
Dare to glower with menacing insistence at the known outcome of errant dice
Soothsayers soothe prayers but cataclysm still dares
To pulverize innocent insouciance and become the cynosure of trepidation and stares
Heaven blares a deafening “obey” while hell stays silent to lure the prey
Hobnob with hobgoblins and expect opprobrium to park and stay
Gentility and class-divisions orchestrate a frozen system of tenacious prisons
Stalking the lifeblood of mainlined ecstasies and surgical incisions
Minority Report within the grasp of the majority uproar
Dalliance with a self-fulfilling time means there will always be a bout between Bush and Gore
Lecherous eyes prize a hedged bush and irascible lies seek copious gore
But because the bush ensconces the ****** in bed with China the twin towers imploded for common core
Mondegreens serenade a mistaken flirtation with a time traversed and mastered
Swelling tides hearken the moon to make a hypothetical bonanza out of disaster
Enumerated infinity within esoteric grasp and pandered sequester
Bedazzled of foreknowledge  it charters the uncharted exploitation faster and faster
Burgeoning funds entertain a mind cloistered by infamy and oppressed by indecency
Burbling puns ecstatic about the perpetuity of guns hector the province of a token leniency
Squander the day and indulge the night by knowing exactly the demise of every shooting star
Knowing the origin and legacy of every single scar
Knowing the path creates the path known
Every single stock you know you should with alacrity own
Prosperous kinship and insubordinate brinksmanship win the prejudiced award
Fencing with lethal intent the specter of death devolves into irenic accord
Envy the impregnable corporate machine and its unassailable pipe dream
Hunt the Wolfs of Wall Street until panic evolves into cacophony of screams
Democratization of prophecy will cue the most titanic robbery
Shills looking for upstart thrills will pretend an unwarranted snobbery
Paradox is impossible because every moment elapsed is indelible and irrevocable
Every frisson of love is fertile and impregnable
So rejoice that the masters of the clock invest in select stocks
And hope that parcels of secrecy tumble from the 1919 White Sox
Emerald Street knows When the Music ‘s Over
Brandished crumbs adorned with sportive panache clothed in a lucky clover
Deprived of snide tithes and the confessions of millions protest a catholic cabal of universalism draped in quaint overalls
Mock the hegemony of the sailing class and their brisk and copious squalls
Opulent scions vouch for the failsafe prerogatives of Zion
Sleeping awake we indulge the oneiromancies of Orion
Cinematic wonders regale glorified eavesdropped blunders
Until the secrecy of the machine is so conspicuously in sight it tears the elected pantheon asunder
A master race of an intelligent nepotism in denial of its own disgrace
Exploits the argosy of secrets of the flying-disked race
But one day a challenger like a rooster will orient the demotic vogue towards the treasure trove
And pirates will prosper in burgeoning droves
Myths foisted will debunk themselves as eternity preens its chosen wealth
Even the most furtive endeavors will have to equip even more stealth
That day will prompt an arms race and a worms race
To burrow beneath the chasms of malcontent and adopt and insular embrace
They billow now with toxicity and malignancy
Even death will have alternative contingencies
The resplendent future will capture the common heart
For the accumulated wisdom of words will make us infinitely more smart

I don't know why I write poetry
all I know is that writing poetry makes me rich
enjoying -- not possessing
the ever-expanding universe
without fear of inflation

in the sky --
white clouds
singing larks
whispering wind
the tender moon and twinkling stars

on the ground--
mountains hills plains gullies
lush green red brown yellow
oceans streams lakes ponds
splashing gurgling burbling
the blooming flowers
the vacillating leaves
children's innocent laughter
cats dogs chickens ducks birds
jumping chasing croaking singing
all are parts of my life's fortune

of course, there too are
ferocious dark clouds
harrying eagles
howling storms
withering flowers
roaring guns
and piercing screams
the shadows that lend dimension
to poetry and life

In fact, I don't write poetry
poetry writes me

Like a cell drawing in pure water, rejecting unnecessary, undesirable molecules.

Like a virus spreading multiplying, taking over with vigor and tenacity.

Like the bubbles on the burbling lips of a toddler, growing and popping and dripping.

Like a ronin samurai without a lord, coming and going like the wind.

Like a thought that just won’t quit, a feeling that burrows into the bones.

Like the intensity of a fire, when a steady wind presses the seat of the fuel source.

So is my passion for life.

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

The Tree stands
  tall
    noble
Just as he has for a hundred years
Just as he will for a hundred more.
But time passes differently for a tree

He looks upward
  his boughs
    his branches
They touch the sky
Brush the clouds
Forming their own cloud

His leaves are the purest verde
  a halo
    a crown
He is lord of the oaks
King of the trees
Pride of the forest


He looks down at the common folk
   the maples
     the birches
Their stature only a fraction of his own
He looks down kindly at his subjects
All is well

He sees something else
   small
     deformed
Stubbier than even the shortest willow
It has probably come to pay homage to him
Bow before the King of Trees

But it just stands there
   hands on hips
     chin raised
The very picture of defiance
He just stands there
Looking at him

The King bristles
   the impudence
     the impertinence
How dare this little sprout
The King thunders at this puny creature
His commands go unheard

The creature takes something from its back
   is that...
     wood?
It looks like a branch
Has this beast dared to form an object
From the flesh of a tree?

There is something attached to the branch
   sharp
     shiny
He's never seen anything like it
What blasphemy is this?
What could such a thing be for?

The creature pulls back the branch
   aims
     swings
It connects
Against the Tree
There is a dull chuntk


All of a sudden
   pain
     pain
Unimaginable pain
What just happened?
He screams


(chuntk)


The King of Trees is screaming
   crying
     begging
His subjects watch in silence
Stunned to see their lord behaving like this
This creature must be a demon


(chuntk)


The Demon swings again
   again
     again
He does not hear the King's cries
He continues with his work
Whistling a merry tune

(chuntk)

The Mighty Oak feels only pain
   Inescapable
     Inexorable
His branches shake in agony
Some of his jadey leaves fall to the ground
The Demon tramples them

(chuntk)

The King feels his sap rush out
   burbling
     gushing
Staining the earth blow
Pumping wildly from his death wound
He is sapping to death

(chuntk)

Time crawls past
   weeks
     years
Or maybe just minutes
Time passes differently for a tree
Especially when he's being tortured

(chuntk)

The Tree shudders
   leans
     falls
What's happening?
The impact is the worst part
He lands with a bouush

What just happened?
   he fell
     he landed
He looks down his trunk
He sees a stump
HIS stump

The King of the Forest screams
   a curse
     a blight
A plague upon this thrice acursed demon
May a thousand locusts eat his leaves
May his roots rot into dust for what he has done

The other trees join him
   mourning
     weeping
Lamenting their fallen leader
But the demon ignores them
Pretending not to hear

The lord of the oaks yells at his subjects
   commanding
     pleading
Telling them to shut their eyes
They should not witness this
Should not see their King in such a state

They obey
  eyes shut
    backs turned
They will not embarrass their king
Will not cause him any more humiliation
Will not watch him die

He knows he is dying
  water
    nutrients
They came through the earth
Through his dismembered roots
Without them, it's only a matter of time

Under the pain, he feels something else
   thirst
     hunger
Without his roots, he cannot pull in water
Cannot initiate photosynthesis
Cannot live

The Tree lies there
   low
     humiliated
For how long, he doesn't know
But then, Time passes differently for a tree
Especially when he's dying

Sometimes I forget that you
cannot absorb as much
as you like to say you can.
I forget that you are human, and not more,
not the impassive statue that you
would like to be.
I have seen you
in your weak points and I
have helped you through
some bad days and I
somehow forgot
your true form.
Forgive me, I
am so full of words tonight that
I overflowed and nearly
drowned you, even as you stood
ready to try and help me safely swim
the dangerous currents
of my own disintegrating being.
Forgive me, I
would mop up these streams and
plug up these holes and even
divert rivers in the tradition of Heracles
to clean out the accumulated grunge
of everything I have dumped on you.
I would let my mind
stop burbling and my words run dry
if only you will
forgive me.

This is the place where faeries sleep, down,
by the river burbling over mossy boulders, beside
the pink Rhododendron caressed by the sun.
Where I wait, feeling my wanting,
my longing as I meet the Beloved.

The light is everywhere, shimmering
on the wings of a bumblebee as it swings by
lazily unaware of my desire rising from the root
effervescent like the bubbles chasing
each other on the surface of the water.

So alive,
so exciting,
so exquisite,
so magical,
so perfect,
so NOW.
This meeting
this touching
this connecting
this tasting
this falling...

This falling
truly, madly, deeply in
love with this moment,
this tender, fragile, faltering
moment that is me.

This exquisite Eden that I have
uncovered at my core,
this awakening of the unforbidden
so luscious, so delicious in it’s invitation
to taste it’s sweet aliveness that
my heart has abandoned all shame,
and is lost in the lust,
blown open in wonder
at the awesome,
the indescribable
thrill of this dance,
this movement
toward death.

Each moment so precious,
each moment  a jewel,
each moment in which
I am alive, AWAKE and wanting.

This is the place where faeries sleep.
Down, by the river.

In shortening she made me jam roly poly
a Jezebel in a grand fully furnished way aglow
with bold basement statements broad brushed full on
to glaze the way to a plum job whole storey mission
proclaiming sofas as soft as any humble pin cushion
stuffed with unfinished symphonies in a mansion
booming out to empire builders' biggest guns
tended by harems of belly dancing bumble bees
burbling alongside a myriad of louder hues
flowing into bouffant hairstyle shrubs brushed
and blow dried into blooming privacy bushes


but outside she transformed
yet served by outsize platters
prolific with blazing seasonings
glazed with enough sweets
to satisfy a pudding feast
laid before a sumptuous appetite
comforting peahens with broad beans
ripened beside horizons of warm salads
dressed by blooming strawberries
pores plumped up from ladles
dunked deep as finger buns
into sloppy icing barrels
awash with hoarded nuts
of sweet toothed squirrels
engorged to dozing on branch barges
full to the gunnels and slow wallowing
in troughs laden with fatted chugs
rambling across rolling oceans awash
with tranquil rafts of whales nibbling
each morning on shoals expanding
beyond shallows into deep new ports
to offload uncontainable cargo
swung low on sweeping vista nets
dragging tree trunks packed like Jumbo
to land with a thump in wide sided carts


splashing and rocking slowly on their ways
until mopped up by richly saturated bales
of overgrown Danish butter grass pats
resplendent amidst dollops of luscious
double churned cream gateaux farm gates
open for cuddling golden syrup spoons of heat
spreading mellowness deep into the sponge
of unfolded meadows with encyclopedic knowledge
accumulated into increased volumes of decisive “belle”
resounding excitedly across the hills of plenty


chirrups bumping cheekiness into narrow valleys
to settle hawk eyes wide open to opportunities
accumulating it all in seam stretched sack boasts
of the good life storehoused bigger than most
but ready to collect and offload refreshment
like the slow but steady wobbling airships
stretched out resplendent across hay loft skies
fluffed up between a sweating Queen bed cumulus
keen to bounce into cloudless heady ensembles
swung high over thigh slapping oompah band hills


in a tug-of-war snapping heartstring restraint
and low frequency waves of contentment
she apportioned herself and me in generosity
celebrating a fully stocked love stacked larder
sweet with chock-a-block huffs and puffs
and then glad sighs of expansive success
in relief a schmooze diorama all she was after
Summer's glorious bamboozled ardour

Follow that burning you feel in your bones. That tingle of pure fire running through your veins
Ignite your soul.
there is so much I would love
to see

These trees
wrap their arms around my blossoming soul; my true home found in the purest laughter of the wind
and the dancing call of the creek

I am you and you are me

                                 we are everything

To be anything. Moment. Living present to recieve our presence. You are only ever here. Now. Embrace the breath found in these rolling forests
our glittering banks
Embrace your breath.

We are freedom. Living simply, living peacfully. We are love. Embrace this moment always.

The sun brushes kisses upon my upraised face
bringing warmth to my soul
opening in delicious appreciation of the wonderful heat that he is.
Everyday. bestowing kisses and asking nothing in return.
What can be more beautiful
then that?

Take this body. Release tension. Breath deep. Breathe to remind. You are anything. Everything. Take your body and live in your truth. Imagine if you did, how free you would be!

My soul is expanding, wide open hugging the earth in all her glory. So diverse, so intricate, so simple. She is everywhere. Fingers of wind running through my hair, salty kisses of the ocean, brushing my toes. The burbling laugh of mountain streams hopping rocks in their journey of release.
There is no search. There is only now, and the enjoyment of the chickadee calling goodmorning to the toes of sun running between the cedar trunks. There is only now. Breath.

I am you and you are me.

                          **we are everything

The birth of our day.
All fresh and touched with
The Master's hand
in dewy majesty.

The shell of sky
wet with foamy clouds.

The earth awaits wheeling birds
to rest again - benign in the
trees of their birth.
Burbling and raucous
in their boisterous
roosts.

Cacti creep along the
last vestiges of the
velvet night.

A coyote laughs.

He makes his lone way
up the still, starlit, streets.

And all is embraced by the
embarking orb emanating for eons
from the eastern estuaries.

I write upon mornings
because they are the marks of time
upon beginnings.

The new year begins at midnight.

But the new day?
ahh... the new day begins

with the

SUN.



SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/29/2015
all rights protected

The lies choke me,
constricting my throat with their icy tentacles.
Vines riddled with thorns,
twist and scrape inside my airway.
Blood running down my trachea
pools in my lungs,
Each burbling breath
a disturbing reminder of the webs I've woven.

They say, you can't see God
But in the dawn and at dusk,
In the daylight and starry night
And when the sky wears the spectrum,
I see Nature, I see God.

They say, you can't hear God
But, everytime I hear the burbling stream,
the soothing sound of the waves
and the chirping of birds,
I hear Nature, I hear God.

They say, you can't talk to God
But whenever I scream out my love
to the desolate dunes and
talk my heart out to lonely trees,
chilling under their shades.
I talk to Nature, I talk to God.

They say, you can't smell God
But in the sweet scented​ flowers
and in the wet mud after the recent rains,
I smell Nature, I smell God.

Everytime when the wind
blows through my hair,
Everytime when I feel
the fresh air on my face,
I feel Alive, I feel You,
I feel Love, I feel God.

They fall upon us over the spillways of time,
Burbling at us through some Radio Free Nostalgia
Courtesy of some college station sitting at the far left of the dial
Or streaky CDs at the rear of some forlorn shelf,
And we know them to be to be, if not outright falsehoods,
Among the more variable of truths
(As all truths are, if we’re being honest about the matter)
For when someone sets out to create the Great American Whatever,
It becomes quickly apparent that such paths
Are not straight and clear, but wind and double back upon themselves,
Replete with thorns and weeds with bladed edges;
Egos must be stroked, revenue streams and margins considered,
Leaving one’s primary legacy as a testament to compromise.

But to be a casualty is not necessarily to be a fatality,
And through the narrowness of a three-minute window,
Purveyed to us by quartets of chanteuses
Who were no strangers to compromise their ownselves
(So many staged photo shoots,
So many hokey Christmas songs and cosmetic-sale jingles)
We can glimpse momentary epiphanies,
Crescent-moon slices of the verities,
Which, if not the whole truth and nothing but,
Provide us with something to hold, something to hum
As we go about the tortuous business
Of making some sense of the whole **** thing.

A black and white film
About an old man and his dog.
There is no dialogue.
Just ambient sounds -

First, of the alarm clock’s
monotonous song.
Followed by an abrupt
cutting silence as his hand slams
down on the snooze button

Then, the sound of a coffeemaker
spitting and burbling.
The coffee, pouring into a chipped mug.
Sugar, then milk,
the clink of the spoon against the ceramic
as he stirs
the long first sip

As the man looks curiously
at something on the fridge,
just out of frame.
A bag of dogfood opening.

hard kibble ringing against the metal dish.
The dog grumbling - impatiently waiting.
Tupperware  opening
The hum of a microwave, and the beep.
Last night’s stew poured into a bowl
the rest, over the kibble.

The closed caption reads:
[Enthusiastic, sloppy eating noises]

The sound of water running
as the bowls are scrubbed clean.

The door closing as the two leave
for their morning walk.
The old man and the dog
are now sitting on a park bench.

The grass, still wet from the morning dew.
There is a beautiful sunrise
over the nearby lake.

The camera pulls away,
as music overtakes the diegetic sounds
of nearby parkgoers, birds and runners,
and teens playing hooky.

The camera cuts back to for a beat
to the kitchen
in the empty house.

The camera zooms in on a weathered
and well loved piece of paper
held up by a rainbow magnet
on the refrigerator door.

Fade to a black screen,
with white letters:
Fin.

in utter radiance two bodies meld,
in decadent tenderness; emanating
from one another in mindless bliss,
like silken sheets fluttering in a
midsummer day breeze; flapping out
a heart's symphony as each mellifluous
tune is carried along effortlessly of fallen
petals in an upward warm wind...alluring

when lips touch their essence is as
delicate and soft as a newborn's first
breath and visions of meadows as
burbling brooks eke out nature's
wonderous animations of life; hidden
amongst conifers naked seedling in
cones of yews procreative life...caressed

eyes gaze upon one another in trancelike
looks of longing; in ponderance of love's
accepting embrace, to feel it's enraptured
warmth; skyrocketing moans in resonating
tremors of gossamery affection...cloud nine

emerging gasps are born to undulate in
waves; awakening love's cupidity to be
forever within one another's limelight,
delighting each other's ambiance of
life's many truisms; our spirits bountiful
and serene as we live and love in our own
paradise on earth...in spirituality

becoming excited in our veracity to
understanding the complexities of
love and living in moments of bliss;
standing still vacuumed, absorbing
one another's vitality to be as one,
soulmates until heart and mind
collide in hungering want; holding
onto thoughts only we can see
within one another's eyes...heavenly love

I only live in your heart,
the masculine particle of your air and
whimsical, my treat within

I will love you forever if only
you keep your breath winded.

A doll, button eyes and two cloth feet
which walks her on a chant –
for that is me, dwelling in your body
I exist as a plaything

or a burbling dream.  

My strings attach to your arteries
and I am on a highway to your soul.

I wobble, topple, follow
your staple, an underground troll
of noiseless, poppy veins
because you welcomed me in the lull.

I walk the busy streets isolated from the hustle,
Crisp wind lifts tendrils of my waves to the textured sky,
The roar is silent in my ears -
I've walled myself from the world,
Walking to my own beat.
Forever flat, I could never stop
and never tire
As my thoughts roam beyond these crowded streets.
I remember smells that exist no longer:
Cities smell only of concrete and pollution.
Childhood smells of wet air,
The tangy sweet-sour of decaying plants;
Sounds of burbling water and crunchy leaves,
Softly shifting branches in the breeze;
Tastes of smoke and evergreens;
And feels of cold stiff cloth against my skin.
I walk nostalgic paths longing for things I've left
and will never find in the noisy traffic
of the long city streets.

2009

and your     electricity
will propel   through me
   jolt me     ALIVE
make my skin   tingle
                                    this and your fingers
twirling until midnight
   chilly   trail   along   my   back
bones  I own
     played as a     silver harp

kiss me (pink)
and I’ll   sip   your smell
   like white wine
slip it under
my sleeve
   breathe easy
if you have     stained     me
with a [quick] shock of lipstick
watermelon juice
as a burn on my     neck

kiss me (red)
and my veins will i g n i t e
     a sunrise
between-our-toes
cauldrons for mouths
   burbling bits     of us
fat   happy   glistening   bubbles
wrench me
from the river   you know how
    rinse me in lilacs

kiss me (black)
and I’ll   crackle
spl int er as glass
be swept            along in neither here
               or there
lose my   taste   to the wind
fill milk-bottles to the     brim
   with inane bOO-hOOs
those bluespinksreds in-betweens
     **** me gently
(with a smile)

Deep in the forest,
The dark green forest,
Where the trees sway
In the lively breath of wind,
Their marshmallow heads
Dancing,

Where it is afloat and aflutter
With birdsong,
And the chirps of the playful creek,
The steady burbling of unbridled joy,

Where beauty grows on trees,
In pinks and purples and pollen
In fur and feathers,
In the earth,

There is a pond,
A polished mirror laid gently
On the dewy grass.
An echo of the strokes
Of a child’s painting,
In the sky.

A toddler with a stick
poking holes in wet sand;
Making short lines and squiggles
which waves wipe quickly away.  
When his toes have been tickled
and sand rises up around his tiny feet,
the boy falls
backwards onto his bottom.
There! Did you feel it? The universe stops–

Then begins again -
with delighted squeals burbling forth
as the water moves around him
licking his skin –
and a thousand small kittens
tumble away.

I never,
never,
meant to hurt you,
and then the door
slammed shut
behind you.

How the Sun and Moon,
have spent so long
together,
keeping their rhythm,
Without ever screaming,
or shouting.

Water runs over stone,
it refines,
fluid, burbling brooks
run over
and never does the age old rock
refuse to be perfected.

She dances,
endlessly, outside
of time, parallel to us,
and he watches,
adoring gaze,
never bored of how she moves.

And I marvel
at that, complete love,
but I do not envy,
for we might scream and shout,
and slam doors,

but the light
at the end  
of the tunnel
will always be you,
and it's not exactly functional
but it's there.

At the end of seven minutes
What will remain?
Hopefully not
an empty page
I'll test these glorious minutes
as if the end if my soul
is nigh
and try
To live to the fullest
I leave with a dry eye
an burbling well
of unused thoughts
a special little piece
of me
That I never thought
I could wrap with any sort
of decorum
Leaving it under the seat
of a well trafficked forum
Just a little surprise
to light someone's eyes
Just a tiny thought
plucked from so many
*Desire the world
claim your own little part
insider your heart
and never let any
deny your pleasure
For what we all treasure
is something that lives
inside us that is our very own
Our own little piece of the world
Where we can be some one