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  This is the story of two lonely souls....
Who found each other, without cajoles...
Neither had ever had a mate....
Yet Jack and Gill decided to date.....
They felt an instant connection....
As both were Chefs and had a fixation....
One for Chicken the other for Bacon....
And so decided to take their direction....
From what they had learned in life....
Party animals that they were....
And perhaps now you can concure.....
Their feelings for each other....
Was so far from any another....
People just didn’t understand....
Why when they walked, it was always hand in hand....
They never strayed and held tight to their ways....
Believing their world was just another phase....
But eventually the world would accept you see....
That what they had was called * “ smaltzy “....
*Yiddish word for rendered chicken / animal fat or a garish over the top fancy party...

weary of mothers and friends
losing their children,
before their time,
weary of failing
to achieve reconciliation
with whatever one nominates
the force that regulates,
fate, Name-Your-God,
deity of your choice,
nature, laws of physics,
the "whatever"
that controls, interferes,
that you think to believe
wills these event's occurrence
non-randomly

cessation of formalities,
one sided truce
signed and delivered,
unafraid to call this
what it is,
**** and damning fate,
for no god
could be so cruel...

If only there was a
Dislike button
for life and the poems
wrenched from death

at 5:00 am
this thought is my
sole inhabitant

once again,
nature's bosses distort,
another friend's grief
asks, cajoles me
to betray my/thy belief

banish it or me,
for we both cannot be
cohabitants
under the one roof,
of this limited mind,
where flailing
poems
never good enough,
failing
to express my
sorrowed rage

In Greek Mythology, Terpsichore “delight in dancing” was one of the nine Muses and goddess of dance and chorus. She is usually shown dancing and sometimes holding a lyre, accompanying the ballerinas’ choirs with her music

Close your eyes, relax the spaces of your mind
Delight in Dancing I give to you, practiced from the beginning of time
Terpsichore, the Greek Mythology Muse of dance and chores as I hold my lyre
Passion, lust, desire, graceful movements for the mind to inspire
Enticing the man’s **** flames of fire
No rhythm to engage, only your body, the essence of this muse, no cloth or Greek attire

The body enticement found in a wanton dance
The sum of ninety-three, the Thelema spiritual philosophy for a man to understand
Ancient dances to make the skies shed rain
Dancing in glee to escape life’s stinging pain
The muse within me guides your mind to move like the smooth flow of sand
A beautiful crusade to be shared between woman and man
Lucid, rumbustious, daring, as feet moves to the beat
As you hark unto the dance, as my lyre sets the energy of your soul free

Medicine, ceremonial, rituals, and entertainment dances to amuse
Terpsichore, the Greek Mythology Muse of sensual dances, no man could refuse
Under the silken covers time we reclaim
Two bodies seeking the carnal feast of its weakening fame
A private dance made for two lovers, my lyre discreet to be
Instilled passion under the moonlit, giving and receiving, the commencement of you and me

From the taste of my honey dripped lips
The dance of grace, elegance, seduction, the heart it eclipses
Clench me tighter and feel the alluring sway of my hips
The balance of my soft hands roaming over you, your body basking in the abyss of a wet slip
Linking my arms around your neck as we attune to this emotional dance
The lyre, my chorus backdrop, as the enticing moves heightens of this sultry romance

Allow the rhythm once inside as the elixir of love floats from you
Dip me slowly, worshipping my soul, losing your mind in the addictive moves
Body to body, feast of love found in the magnetic inviting grooves
Spinning me around, taking my mind pass the stars
Come into me as you taste Venus, dancing found under the planet Mars

I’m dizzy from the twirling thrill
Pull me closer, sinking deeper and deeper of your own free will
The rapture with the chorus of my tuneful lyre surrounding us, as time stands still
Feel the essence of my erratic heartbeat as it’s matching yours
Blissful finale of dancing bodies, sedated, perspiration seeps from pores
Breathless and content, as allowed me to take your mind for a sequestered tour  
Heart to heart
My lyre, when dancing with a love one, is a masterpiece work of art

I’ve danced in times of old with my lyre, the chorus played in sync on Mt. Olympics, to the Roman towers  
A woman’s greatest asset as she cajoles in a passionate dance, entrenched by the slow dancing power
Love comes in droves while whirling in the soft mist of a rain shower

Bedazzled under the once seductive poetic words of Horace
Terpsichore, the Greek Mythology Muse of dance heard with my lyre, and chorus

A growing sickness

Flowing through my veins

Burning away inside, eating me away

As the darkness takes over from within.

Lapses in sanity, I find myself lying

In cold sweat, falling through the chasm

And I know its only a matter of time

Before the demon inside has arisen.



A manic bloodlust takes over my being

I ache for the violence to be set free.

In their dead eyes, I see reflections of mine

A murderous gleam shining within

As my face stretches into a smile that isn’t mine.

Every fibre of my being, repulsed by myself

Petrified by the beast I have become

I cry out in pain and anguish

As I feel Him taking over again.



Under the light of the gibbous moon

I revel in my madness, as her

Screams goad me on and take me

To the precipice. I stand grinning at

Her broken,****** form in the earth

As she whimpers a pathetic plea for mercy.



No one knows of my disease; He only

Claims my body for himself in the dark

Leaving me behind to feel the horror and disgust

In the cold, grey sunlight.

Every night I struggle inside

I fight against my inner devil, pleading

For reason and humanity to return

To the twisted ******* I have become.

He stretches my face into a wide smirk

Reminding me of that exquisite, repulsive

Scent of flowing gore; He coaxes me,

He cajoles, He beckons me to join Him

As my will weakens and my body surrenders.



And so ends my tale, I have lost myself

To the contorted insanity I bred inside.

Horrified, repulsed, revolted with my being

My death only entices me now

Promising relief from my unholy illness.

But I know that small comfort is lost on me

Eventually, He’ll possess me entirely

And in the remorse of this truth I lie

And I feel Him return inside, eagerly awaiting my demise

No more can I hold out against Him.

No more can I wear the mask of Jekyll.

1023

It rises—passes—on our South
Inscribes a simple Noon—
Cajoles a Moment with the Spires
And infinite is gone—

Breathless . . . Heaving . . . Sputtering . . .
Many more steps to go.
Hardened feet.
No longer are my steps maligned by stabs of blood.
Condemnation . . . Damnation . . . Corruption . . .
My seasoned back launches into my perennial burden.
And another step I take.
Into an inevitable future of drudgery.
Hope . . . Exoneration . . . Absolution . . .
Have long been forgotten.
Their burnt ashes adorn my forehead.
My shoulder screams ahead, into the weight it upholds.
Rumble  . . . Rumble . . . Rumble . . .
Each step like the millions before it,
thrusts the stone another foot towards the jagged peak
that towers impressively up ahead.
Dum Da De  . . . Dum Da Doo . . . Dum De Da Dum . . .
And the day goes on.
Dum Da De . . . Dum Da Doo . . . Dum De Da Dum . . .
And the night lives long.
Breathless . . . Heaving . . . Sputtering . . .
My war-torn muscles relax.
And the stone sits.
Stares at the valley below.
Lightning . . . Rain . . . Thunder . . .
The wind caresses and cajoles,
And the stone rolls down below, echoing Thor’s exclamations
And my heart leaps with joy.
After all, there will be another day.
And my feet have hardened anyway.
Ha Ha . . . Ha Ha . . . Ha Ha . . .

if i were to ask
if you'd prefer the truth
over happiness, would you take
the red pill or the blue?

in Your Heart is a Muscle
the Size of a Fist, Sunil Yapa
writes, "care too much
and this world will **** you cold."
but there is no greater love
than this: i'll lay my life down
for both strangers and friends.

it's true what the adages say.
knowledge may yet yield power,
but most find bliss
in fictitious myths.
the tyranny of dead deities
cajoles the soulless, self-inflicted
ignorance claps the mind in shackles,
a brain neutered by obedient acquiescence.

there is a somber courage in sobriety.
i'll deny until i die, defying the urge
to idolize a substance that distracts
the mind from misery. i choose to question
everyone and everything,
even if a clear-head invites
utter agony. conviction is certainly
a long and lonely road, but our integrity
is the very last inch of us and—within
that inch—we are free.

so steadfast, i remain
a stone anchored to the riverbed
by the weight of gravity and the rushing
tides eroding me. we'll stand strong
in solidarity with all those suffering,
opposing the specter of dominance, illusory
as a phantom, ephemeral as the passage
of time. i'll unleash an omnipotent psyche,
inspired by the insight found in the closing lines
of a punk and artist's call-to-arms:

pursue what haunts you.

if the truth terrifies you, good.
that is precisely what veracity
ought to do.

Like puppets dancing on strings
Are Presidents and princes
Prime Ministers and politicians
And the tune they dance to
Is older than their kingdoms
Behold the King of this world
Hidden away from the public eye
Yet commanding nations with a whisper
He was glorious and beautiful once
And he walked among the innocent
But, in one moment of vanity
He stole rulership of the world
His personality is stamped upon mankind
For he sets the pace
While most men follow
He spoke the first lies
Inflicted the first casualty
And he has never felt regret
Has never shed a tear
Though his wars have taken millions
And his devotees have enslaved nations
He is the author of confusion
The instigator of Hellfire and hatred
The creator of trinities and tribulation
He accuses you and I of cowardice and selfishness
Yet is himself running scared
And clinging to power and life
He is the excuser of unholy child abusers
And the inspiration of Jihadist bombs
He speaks lies about the innocent
And glorifies the guilty
He hunts all good men
As a lion hunts the deer
He will tear at your throat
And consume you
He is the Resistor
The Slanderer
He cajoles those who consider his existence
And paints himself in mythical proportions
He would destroy the earth rather than surrender it
Would rather ruin if he cannot rule
Yet the whole world is in his hands
But not forever
Because forever does not belong to him
And not life
For the gift of life is not his to give

Cryptic dreams awaken the mind
Telling more than I want to know
Hinting at emotions undefined
The glint of rough gems to be mined

Possible rapture threatens contentment
Disturbing the balance and the flow
Turbulence enters the calm of the present
Subconscious susurrations could prove prescient

The painstakingly built façade stays intact
But the lingering dream won’t go
No use denying its deep impact
As it cajoles me to think and act

On The Great Lawn of my mind,
The city's biggest dance floor,
Upon its cushions, stepping lightly,
The spring breeze, feeling its way,
Making, reawakening, a thousand acquaintances,
Absent parent kissing each long-lost babe-blade of grass

Breeze takes each blade of spring grass:

Cajoles, asks not,
With windy hands, guided missiles,
gentle/firm
push/pull
engage/ disengages,
open/closes

Breeze makes each one
Neck, caress their neighbor,
A thousand pas de deuces of  
fresh faced green children.
All in all a triumphant processional,
Cloaked in robes of sky blue velvet,
Crowned by the sun's burnt orange kisses.

At the middle school dance,
The walls are portrait painted  
with the shy ones,  
The ones-who-don't-know-how-to-ask.
Passover's children
Needy for a Moses.

Student of the spring breezes,
This silly earnest teacher/chaperone,
Grand-pa-rent will:


Cajole, ask not,
With hands, guided missiles,
gentle/firm
push/pull
engage/ disengages,
open/closes

Under his tutelage,
Every boy and girl
A dancer, a blade,  
Each a Passenger on the fuselage
Of his Spring Ballroom breeze.

These are my spring rites  
imagined,
Visions of my sight  
unimpaired,
Present and future  
clarified.

Soon we will teach our own  
Little Princes and Princesses,
The shelter of dancing,
Feel the embrace of nature,
Under the mantle of an  
A Capella choir of tree leaves,
We will lie side by side,  
Skyward pointing,
Sharing our spring-sprung imaginings,
Performing each and all  
Upon the breeze to carry away,
For all to gleeful applaud!

I don't think winter
Was ever meant to be
Who can live when the cold
Freezes your soul?
I want the warmth of the sun
To kiss my skin
I want the delicate flutter of
A butterflys wing against my cheek
But nature plays this cruel trick
On me every September
It cajoles me with red and gold leaves
The shades of amber and burnt orange
Delight my eyes
All the while the leaves are dying
And I will never behold them again
Bare branches will reach up like skeletal arms
Against dull gray clouds
Snow will descend and a hush will fall
Like death, but not quite
And I must wait so long for the first bloom
Of color to push up through the spring snow
Promising the warmth of summer to follow
I don't think winter
Was ever meant to be

I'm not "Religious".
I believe in sin (Wink wink- If you know what I mean)
but I don't believe in religion when it cajoles or demeans.
Yet there is a ray of light in the windows of my dreams.
And it calls to me in a voice at once radiant and dim.

I call it the universe, but were I Religious, I'd call it "Him".

I am not loud, nor do I preach.
I believe in soft voices, and hymns sung only in one's head.
I believe in the reach of silence, broad and inky and welcoming.
I believe in my own inner thoughts and their peace (and too, their dread)
Yet there is a voice that tells me, in words softly said
that sometimes only the loudest sermons truly can teach.

I am non-religious, and I have been for a while.
I believe in dulcet whispers, and the sweet touch of sin.
I believe in Metal Music, and the musical devil within.
Then why, whenever I see someone capitalize "Him"
does my mouth turn up at the corners,
and grant me an unasked, yet welcome smile?

Your muse sits on the draining board
Swinging her legs like a child
A quizzical look on her face
As you make yourself a coffee
Eyes follow you round the room,
You haven't spoken in a while

Pen and paper lay where you left them
Since the last time you were inspired
Writing words to shake the world
Simile and metaphor straight from your
Soul, but even though she whispers, nudges
And cajoles, you continue to ignore her

There are other poets in the world
Screaming out for inspiration
Begging for the right word to guide them
Bring them to the ****** of creation
Don't leave the door too long open
She may slip away without you noticing.

10,000 reasons,
ten thousand years,
A cloud of witnesses,
over head

They are the ones who praise and roar
                                             raise their voices; for you.


Many years before though
one fallen,
lost before the fight was fought
                 thought it right to recruit with doubt.

These are the unseen, not good, and the Unseen not at all bad,
both are armies, only One leader leads;
the other
cajoles, then,
takes his toll, many
a jaw dropping,
eternal soul.

Then you look around you, the landscape,
city, country, mountain, lake open ocean
and outer space, awe and wonder on your face.

Then you look around you, after you text,
talk, and tap your phone, 'buds in your
ears, what you experience replaces your
fears.

Of being alone.

When the dark (one)
closes in,
and pours over you your sin,
and it has been so long you
only want to hide, but you are part of
the Seen world, where is the light switch,
anyway...
the noisy noise,
breaks your poise,
separate

yourself and make time for ...  prayer
"Open my eyes, so I can see"


©DWE062013

The sunlight,
Softly removes the blanket of snow
To awaken earth from winter's sleep.

And the mild breeze
Gently cajoles the cocooned bud
Out of her drowsiness.

Slowly the blossom wakes up,
Stretch towards the unbound sky
And the light drizzle
Freshens her to face the tunes of nature.

A playful butterfly and a bubbly bee
Greets the jubilant flower with great enthusiasm.
In the frame of time and space
Life after life unfolds in spring's loving care!

These heretical poems on the subjects of God, religion and Christianity explain why I “left” the Religious Right.

If one screams below,
what the hell is "Above"?
—Michael R. Burch

Religion is regarded by fools as true, by the wise as false, and by rulers as useful. — Seneca, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch

If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.

I wrote this epigram to express my conclusions after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age 11 and wondering how anyone could call the biblical “god” good.

A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch

Santa Claus,
for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy …
just … Santa, please …
I’m on my knees! …
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!

What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch

What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to **** and Plunder?

For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!

When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,

when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?

***** Nilly
by Michael R. Burch

for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped—
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

pretty pickle
by Michael R. Burch

u’d blaspheme if u could
because ur Gaud’s no good,
but of course u cant:
ur a lowly ant
(or so u were told by a Hierophant).

Saving Graces
for the Religious Right
by Michael R. Burch

Life’s saving graces are love, pleasure, laughter
(wisdom, it seems, is for the Hereafter).

A Passing Question for the Religious Right
by Michael R. Burch

since GOD created u so gullible
how did u conclude HE’s so lovable?

The Less-Than-Divine Results of My Prayers to be Saved from Televangelists
by Michael R. Burch

I’m old,
no longer bold,
just cold,
and (truth be told),
been bought and sold,
rolled
by the wolves and the lambs in the fold.

Who’s to be told
by this worn-out scold?
The complaint department is always on hold.

Multiplication, Tabled
or Procreation Inflation
by Michael R. Burch

for the Religious Right

“Be fruitful and multiply”—
great advice, for a fruitfly!
But for women and men,
simple Simons, say, “WHEN!”

gimME that ol’ time religion!
by Michael R. Burch

fiddle-dee-dum, fiddle-dee-dee,
jesus loves and understands ME!
safe in his grace, I’LL **** them to hell—
the strumpet, the harlot, the wild jezebel,
the alky, the druggie, all queers short and tall!
let them drink ashes and wormwood and gall,
’cause fiddle-dee-DUMB, fiddle-dee-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEee . . .
jesus loves and understands
ME!

Starting from Scratch with Ol’ Scratch
by Michael R. Burch

Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh
went to the ovens. Please don’t bother to cry.
You could have saved her, but you were all *******
complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp.

Scratch that. You were born after World War II.
You had something more important to do:
while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza
with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a
religious tract against homosexual marriage
and various things gods and evangelists disparage.)

Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I’m quite sure
that your intentions were good and ineluctably pure.
After all, what the hell does he care about Palestinians?
Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians.
Scratch that. You’re one of the Devil’s minions.

Red State Religion Rejection Slip
by Michael R. Burch

I’d like to believe in your LORD
but I really can’t risk it
when his world is as badly composed
as a half-baked biscuit.

Less Heroic Couplets: Funding Fundamentals
by Michael R. Burch

"I found out that I was a Christian for revenue only and I could not bear the thought of that, it was so ignoble." — Mark Twain

Making sense from nonsense is quite sensible! Suppose
you’re running low on moolah, need some cash to paint your toes ...
Just invent a new religion; claim it saves lost souls from hell;
have the converts write you checks; take major debit cards as well;
take MasterCard and Visa and good-as-gold Amex;
hell, lend and charge them interest, whether payday loan or flex.
Thus out of perfect nonsense, glittery ores of this great mine,
you’ll earn an easy living and your toes will truly shine!

Originally published by Lighten Up Online

U.S. Travel Advisory
by Michael R. Burch

It’s okay
to be gay,
unless, let’s say,
you find your fey
way
outside the Bay.
They
will want you to pray
to their LORD, or else pay
for the “wrong decision.” Stay
in San Fran, or maybe LA.

Amazing “grace”
by Michael R. Burch

Amazing “grace”
how unsweet the sound
that made such a wretch of me:
I once was rich
but now I’m unsound…
since the church embezzled me.

’Tis so sweet, etc.
by Michael R. Burch

It is no secret
what God can do.
What he’s done for others,
he’ll do for you:
with arms wide open,
he’ll let you die,
then **** your children.
Never ask him why.

i believe
by Michael R. Burch

i believe in eversolovely slovenly love
and in melting rigid moralists at the stake;
i believe in sweet liberating euthanasia
and that every “commandment” was an ancient mistake
(except the ones that protect fledglings and poodles
from men with limp, icky, religion-besotted noodles);
i believe we should make love in oodles ’n caboodles
and can the canoodles;
i believe

According to Webster “canoodle” originally meant “donkey” or “fool.” The modern word has taken on aspects of petting and cajoling. So one might interpret “canoodle” in the context of this poem to be an *** who cajoles other people into mulish foolishness.

lust
by michael r. burch

i was only a child
in a world dark and wild
seeking affection
in eyes mild

and in all my bright dreams
sweet love shimmered, beguiled ...

but the black-robed Priest
who called me the least
of all god’s creation
then spoke for the Beast:

he called my great passion a thing base, defiled!

He condemned me to hell,
the foul Ne’er-Do-Well,
for the sake of the copper
His Pig-Snout could smell
in the purse of my mother,
“the ***** jezebel.”

my sweet passions condemned
by degenerate men?
and she so devout
she exclaimed, “yay, aye-men!” ...

together we learned why Religion is hell.

When I Was Small, I Grew
by Michael R. Burch

When I was small,
God held me in thrall:
Yes, He was my All
but my spirit was crushed.

As I grew older
my passions grew bolder
even as Christ grew colder.
My distraught mother blushed:

what was I thinking,
with feral lust stinking?
If I saw a girl winking
my face, heated, flushed.

“Go see the pastor!”
Mom screamed. A disaster.
I whacked away faster,
hellbound, yet nonplused.

Whips! Chains! *******!
Sweet, sweet, my Elation!
With each new sensation,
blue blood groinward rushed.

Did God disapprove?
Was Christ not behooved?
At least I was moved
by my hellish lust.

no look pass
by michael r. burch

ask me no questions,
i’ll tell u no lies,
but, since u inquired,
ur GAUD is unwise,
evil, unloving,
cruel & unjust:
he said not to look
but I’m all about lust!
ergo, ur religion’s a bust!

Redefinitions

Faith: falling into the same old claptrap.—Michael R. Burch
Religion: the ties that blind.—Michael R. Burch
Trickle down economics: an especially pungent *******.—Michael R. Burch

I call these epigrams "redefinitions." There are more, but these are my three favorites.

Pagans Protest the Intolerance of Christianity
by Michael R. Burch

“We have a common sky.” — Quintus Aurelius Symmachus (c. 345-402)

We had a common sky
before the Christians came.

We thought there might be gods
but did not know their names.

The common stars above us?
They winked, and would not tell.

Yet now our fellow mortals claim
our questions merit hell!

The cause of our damnation?
They claim they’ve seen the LIGHT ...

but still the stars wink down at us,
as wiser beings might.

Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.

Well, Almost
by Michael R. Burch

All Christians say “Never again!”
to the inhumanity of men
(except when the object of phlegm
is a Palestinian).

Memo: The Divine Plan (an Update)
by Michael R. Burch

CC: Pat Robertson, G.W.B, the Religious Right, et al.

God,
the fundamentalist ****,
said,
“I love Christians, but Muslims just ****,
so…
let’s have a faith that is bound to annoy ’em
and
keep ’em in chains, until Bibi destroys ’em.”

Defenses
by Michael R. Burch

Beyond the silhouettes of trees
stark, naked and defenseless
there stand long rows of sentinels:
these pert white picket fences.

Now whom they guard and how they guard,
the good Lord only knows;
but savages would have to laugh
observing the tidy rows.

Listen
by Michael R. Burch

Listen to me now and heed my voice;
I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness,
but listen now.

Listen to me now, and if I say
that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray,
I have no choice.

Does a madman choose his words? They come to him,
the moon’s illuminations, intimations of the wind,
and he must speak.

But listen to me now, and if you hear
the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear,
then do not tarry,

but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary.

fog
by Michael R. Burch

ur just a bit of fluff
drifting out over the ocean,
unleashing an atom of rain,
causing a minor commotion,
for which u expect awesome GODS
to pay u SUPREME DEVOTION!
... but ur just a smidgen of mist
unlikely to be missed ...
where did u get the notion?

thanksgiving prayer of the parasites
by Michael R. Burch

GODD is great;
GODD is good;
let us thank HIM
for our food.

by HIS hand
we all are fed;
give us now
our daily dead:

ah-men!

(p.s.,
most gracious
& salacious
HEAVENLY LORD,
we thank YOU in advance for
meals galore
of loverly gore:
of precious
delicious
sumptuous
scrumptious
human flesh!)

Less Heroic Couplets: ****** Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch

“****** most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.

“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner.

As you fall on my sword,
take it up with the LORD!”

the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.

Originally published by Lighten Up Online and in Potcake Chapbook #7

In an attempt to demonstrate that not all couplets are heroic, I have created a series of poems called “Less Heroic Couplets.” I believe even poets should abide by truth-in-advertising laws! And I believe such laws should extend to Creators who claim to be loving, wise, merciful, just, etc., while forcing innocent mice to provide owls with late-night snacks. — Michael R. Burch

no foothold
by Michael R. Burch

there is no hope;
therefore i became invulnerable to love.
now even god cannot move me:
nothing to push or shove,
no foothold.

so let me live out my remaining days in clarity,
mine being the only nativity,
my death the final crucifixion
and apocalypse,

as far as the i can see ...

u-turn: another way to look at religion
by Michael R. Burch

... u were borne orphaned from Ecstasy
into this lower realm: just one of the inching worms
dreaming of Beatification;
u'd love to make a u-turn back to Divinity, but
having misplaced ur chrysalis,
can only chant magical phrases,
like Circe luring ulysses back into the pigsty ...

In His Kingdom of Corpses
by Michael R. Burch

In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to speak
in many enraged discourses,
high, high from some mountain peak
where He’s lectured man on compassion
while the sparrows around Him fell,
and babes, for His meager ration
of rain, died and went to hell,
unbaptized, for that’s His fashion.

In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to vent
in many obscure discourses
on the need for man to repent,
to admit that he’s a sinner;
give up ***, and riches, and fame;
be disciplined at his dinner
though always he dies the same,
whether fatter or thinner.

In his kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to speak
in many absurd discourses
of man’s Ego, precipitous Peak!,
while demanding praise and worship,
and the bending of every knee.
And though He sounds like the Devil,
all religious men now agree
He loves them indubitably.

faith(less)
by Michael R. Burch

Those who believed
and Those who misled
lie together at last
in the same narrow bed

and if god loved Them more
for Their strange lack of doubt,
he kept it well hidden
till he snuffed Them out.

You
by Michael R. Burch

For thirty years You have not spoken to me;
I heard the dull hollow echo of silence
as though a communion between us.

For thirty years You would not open to me;
You remained closed, hard and tense,
like a clenched fist.

For thirty years You have not broken me
with Your alien ways and Your distance.
Like a child dismissed,

I have watched You prey upon the hope in me,
knowing “mercy” is chance
and “heaven”—a list.

I’ve got Jesus’s face on a wallet insert
by Michael R. Burch

for the Religious Right

I’ve got Jesus’s face on a wallet insert
and "Hell is for Queers" on the back of my shirt.
And I uphold the Law,
for Grace has a Flaw:
the Church must have someone to drag through the dirt.

I’ve got ten thousand reasons why Hell must exist,
and you’re at the top of my fast-swelling list!
You’re nothing like me,
so God must agree
and slam down the Hammer with His Loving Fist!

For what are the chances that God has a plan
to save everyone: even Boy George and Wham!?
Eternal fell torture
in Hell’s pressure scorcher
will separate **** from Man.

I’m glad I’m redeemed, ecstatic you’re not.
Did Christ die for sinners? Perish the thought!
The "good news" is this:
soon my Vengeance is His!,
for you’re not the lost sheep He sought.

jesus hates me, this i know
by Michael R. Burch

jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
"little ones to him belong"
but if they use their dongs, so long!
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!

jesus fleeces us, i know,
for Religion scams us so:
little ones are brainwashed to
believe god saves the Chosen Few!
yes, jesus fleeces!
yes, he deceases
the bunny and the rhesus
because he's mad at you!

jesus hates me—christ who died
so i might be crucified:
for if i use my **** or brain,
that will drive the "lord" insane!
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!

jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
first fools tell me "look above,"
that christ's the lamb and god's the dove,
but then they sentence me to Hell
for using my big brain too well!
yes, jesus hates me!
yes, jesus baits me!
yes, he berates me!
Church libel tells me so!

Con Artistry
by Michael R. Burch

The trick of life is like the sleight of hand
of gamblers holding deuces by the glow
of veiled back rooms, or aces; soon we’ll know

who folds, who stands . . .

The trick of life is like the pool shark’s shot—
the wild massé across green velvet felt
that leaves the winner loser. No, it’s not

the rack, the hand that’s dealt . . .

The trick of life is knowing that the odds
are never in one’s favor, that to win
is only to delay the acts of gods

who’d ante death for sin . . .

and death for goodness, death for in-between.
The rules have never changed; the artist knows
the oldest con is life; the chips he blows

can’t be redeemed.

Nonbeliever
by Michael R. Burch writing as Kim Cherub

She smiled a thin-lipped smile
(What do men know of love?)
then rolled her eyes toward heaven
(Or that Chauvinist above?).

Rhetorical Prayer
by Michael R. Burch

don’t tell me man’s lot’s poor:
i always wanted more.

don’t tell me Nature’s cruel
and red with visceral gore.

i always wanted more.

please, dial up ur Gaud and tell Him
i don’t like the crap He’s selling.

if He’s good, He’ll listen, i’m sure,
this Gaud u so adore.

Christ!
by Michael R. Burch

If I knew men could be so dumb,
I would never have come!

Now you lie, cheat and steal in my name
and make it a thing of shame.

Did I heal the huge holes in your heart, in your head?
Isn’t it obvious: I’m dead
and unable to repeal what I never said?

Untitled

Why do faith, hope and love
always end up PUSH and SHOVE?
—Michael R. Burch, lines from "Christ, Jesus!"

Habeas Corpus
by Michael R. Burch

from “Songs of the Antinatalist”

I have the results of your DNA analysis.
If you want to have children, this may induce paralysis.
I wish I had good news, but how can I lie?
Any offspring you have are guaranteed to die.
It wouldn’t be fair—I’m sure you’ll agree—
to sentence kids to death, so I’ll waive my fee.

limping to the grave under the sentence of death,
should i praise ur LORD? think i’ll save my breath!
—Michael R. Burch

Mini-Ode to Annihilation
by Michael R. Burch

Just to be able to breathe
is better than the wildest bliss,
but never to breathe at all
is the Nirvana we missed.

Evil Cabal
by Michael R. Burch

those who do Evil
do not know why
what they do is wrong
as they spit in ur eye.

nor did Jehovah,
the original Devil,
when he murdered eve,
our lovely rebel.

Ninety-Three Daughters of Israel
a Holocaust poem by Chaya Feldman
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We washed our bodies
and cleansed ourselves;
we purified our souls
and became clean.

Death does not terrify us;
we are ready to confront him.

While alive we served God
and now we can best serve our people
by refusing to be taken prisoner.

We have made a covenant of the heart,
all ninety-three of us;
together we lived and learned,
and now together we choose to depart.

The hour is upon us
as I write these words;
there is barely enough time to transcribe this prayer ...

Brethren, wherever you may be,
honor the Torah we lived by
and the Psalms we loved.

Read them for us, as well as for yourselves,
and someday when the Beast
has devoured his last prey,
we hope someone will say Kaddish for us:
we ninety-three daughters of Israel.

Amen

and then i was made whole
by Michael R. Burch

... and then i was made whole,
but not a thing entire,
glued to a perch
in a gilded church,
strung through with a silver wire ...

singing a little of this and of that,
warbling higher and higher:
a thing wholly dead
till I lifted my head
and spat at the Lord and his choir.

Alien
by Michael R. Burch

for J. S. S., a "Christian" poet who believes in "hell"

On a lonely outpost on Mars
the astronaut practices “speech”
as alien to primates below
as mute stars winking high, out of reach.

And his words fall as bright and as chill
as ice crystals on Kilimanjaro —
far colder than Jesus’s words
over the “fortunate” sparrow.

And I understand how gentle Emily
felt, when all comfort had flown,
gazing into those inhuman eyes,
feeling zero at the bone.

Oh, how can I grok his arctic thought?
For if he is human, I am not.

Practice Makes Perfect
by Michael R. Burch

I have a talent for sleep;
it’s one of my favorite things.
Thus when I sleep, I sleep deep ...
at least till the stupid clock rings.

I frown as I squelch its **** beep,
then fling it aside to resume
my practice for when I’ll sleep deep
in a silent and undisturbed tomb.

Originally published by Light Quarterly

Enough!
by Michael R. Burch

It’s not that I don’t want to die;
I shall be glad to go.
Enough of diabetes pie,
and eating sickly crow!
Enough of win and place and show.
Enough of endless woe!

Enough of suffering and vice!
I’ve said it once;
I’ll say it twice:
I shall be glad to go.

But why the hell should I be nice
when no one asked for my advice?
So grumpily I’ll go ...
although
(most probably) below.

Note to a Chick on a Religious Kick
by Michael R. Burch

Daisy,
when you smile, my life gets sunny;
you make me want to spend all my ****** money;
but honey,
you can be a bit ... um ... hazy,
perhaps mentally lazy?,
okay, downright crazy,
praying to the Easter Bunny!

One of the Flown
by Michael R. Burch

Forgive me for not having known
you were one of the flown—
flown from the distant haunts
of someone else’s enlightenment,
alighting here to a darkness all your own . . .

I imagine you perched,
pretty warbler, in your starched
dress, before you grew bellicose . . .
singing quaint love’s highest falsetto notes,
brightening the pew of some dilapidated church . . .

But that was before autumn’s
messianic dark hymns . . .
Deepening on the landscape—winter’s inevitable shadows.
Love came too late; hope flocked to bare meadows,
preparing to leave. Then even the thought of life became grim,

thinking of Him . . .
To flee, finally,—that was no whim,
no adventure, but purpose.
I see you now a-wing: pale-eyed, intent, serious:
always, always at the horizon’s broadening rim . . .

How long have you flown now, pretty voyager?
I keep watch from afar: pale lover and ******.

what the “Chosen Few” really pray for
by Michael R. Burch

We are ready to be robed in light,
angel-bright

despite
Our intolerance;

ready to enter Heaven and never return
(dark, this sojourn);

ready to worse-ship any GAUD
able to deliver Us from this flawed

existence;
We pray with the persistence

of actual saints
to be delivered from all earthly constraints:

just kiss each uplifted Face
with lips of gentlest grace,

cooing the sweetest harmonies
while brutally crushing Our enemies!

ah-Men!

evol-u-shun
by Michael R. Burch

does GOD adore the Tyger
while it’s ripping ur lamb apart?

does GOD applaud the Plague
while it’s eating u à la carte?

does GOD admire ur intelligence
while u pray that IT has a heart?

does GOD endorse the Bible
you blue-lighted at k-mart?

yet another post-partum christmas blues poem
by michael r. burch

ur GAUD created hell; it’s called the earth;
HE mused u briefly, clods of little worth:
let’s make some little monkeys
to be RELIGION’s flunkeys!
GAUD belched, went back to sleep, such was ur birth.

wee the many
by michael r. burch

wee never really lived: was that our fault?
now thanks to ur GAUD wee lie in an underground vault.
wee lie here, the little ones ur GAUD despised!
HE condemned us to death before wee opened our eyes!
as it was in the days of noah, it still remains:
GAUD kills us with floods he conjures from murderous rains.

ur-gent
by Michael R. Burch

if u would be a good father to us all,
revoke the Curse,
extract the Gall;

but if the abuse continues,
look within
into ur Mindless Soulless Emptiness Grim,

& admit ur sin,
heartless jehovah,
slayer of widows and orphans ...

quick, begin!

ur-Gent prayer request
by michael r. burch

where did ur Gaud originate?
in the minds of men so full of hate
they commanded moms to stone their kids,
which u believe (brains on the skids)
was “the word of Gaud”!
debate?
too late & of course it’s useless:
please pray to be less clueless.

The title involves a pun, since the “ur-Gent” would be the biblical “god.”

wee beliefs of the POTTER's chillun
by michael r. burch

wee believe in a MYTHICAL MONSTER
who wont give wee time of the day;
HE hates wee because w(err)e queer;
HE hates wee because w(err)e fey;
or likewise if weeuns ur straight
and yet with our weeselves wee play;
HE abominates seeing w(err)e happy
and all other sad things of clay
HE molded to be this way.

wee’uns
by michael r. burch

wee are descended from GAUDS, wee suppose,
though some like JEHOVAH may turn up THEIR nos(e)
after pausing from murdering kids, to declare
men inhuman beasts & unlikely to care
for the poor & the sickly & the prostitutes
THEY’ll sentence to hell with THEIR priests in cahoots
for not guessing right 'bout which GAUDs to believe.

such far-right-eous GAUDs could never deceive
and thus we are left with mere billions in hell:
the bad guessers and gays the GAUDs made not s(o) well.

yes, wee are descended from GAUDS, wee suppose,
impressed by THEIR ****-dumb and g(l)oriest love,
but if one screams below, what the hell is “above”?

twin nuggets of ancient ****-dumb
by michael r. burch

oh, let it never once be said
that love for Gaud is dead!

wee love the way he murdered eve!
such awesome love! wee must believe!

wee love the way he sent a FLOOD
to teach wee babies to be good!

wee love the zillion births he aborted!
such awesome love cant clearly reported!

(so never mind the embryos
who died in their mommies’ drowning throes!

the unborn babes, the unborn lambs
all drowned for Gaud’s divinest plans!)

“do as I say, not as I do!”
cruel Hippo-Crit! does Jesus rue?
(if Christ were good he’d rue Gaud too.)

no! wee must love our abusive Father
and follow hymn meekly, mild lambs to the slaughter,

or he’ll burn us forever in Hiss terrible hell.
it’s so much safer to tell hymn he’s swell!

thus wee love our Gaud so loverly
hovering over us so smotherly!

wee love the TITHES his cons abscond.
wee love the Big Fish in Hiss pond.

And so wee say “whee!” to all this and all that!
PS, also the earth is flat!

Bible libel (ii)
by Michael R. Burch

ur savior’s a cad
—he’s as bad as his dad—
according to your horrible Bible.

demanding belief
or he’ll bring u to grief?
he’s worse than his horn-sprouting rival!

was the man ever good
before being made “god”?
if so, half your Bible is libel!

stock-home sin-drone
by Michael R. Burch

ur GAUD created this hellish earth;
thus u FANTAsize heaven
(an escape from rebirth).

ur GUAD is a monster,
**** ur RELIGION lied
when it called u
his frankensteinian bride!

now, like so many others cruelly abused,
u look for salve-a-shun
to the AUTHOR of ur pain’s selfish creation.

cons preach the “TRUE GOSPEL”
and proudly shout it,
but if ur GAUD were good
he would have to doubt it.

un-i-verse-all love
by Michael R. Burch

there is a Gaud, it’s true!
and furthermore, tHeSh(e)It loves u!
unfortunately
the
He
Sh(e)
It
,even more adorably,
loves cancer, aids and leprosy!

wild wild west-east-north-south-up-down
by Michael R. Burch

each day it resumes—the great struggle for survival.

the fiercer and more perilous the wrath,
the wilder and wickeder the weaponry,
the better the daily odds
(just don’t bet on the long term, or revival).

so ur luvable GAUD decreed, Theo-retically,
if indeed He exists
as ur Bible insists—
the Wildest and the Wickedest of all
with the brightest of creatures in thrall
(unless u
somehow got that bleary
Theo-ry
wrong too).

The Leveler
by Michael R. Burch

The nature of Nature
is bitter survival
from Winter’s bleak fury
till Spring’s brief revival.

The weak implore Fate;
bold men ravish, dishevel her . . .
till both are cut down
by mere ticks of the Leveler.

God to Man, Contra Bataan
by Michael R. Burch

Earth, what-d’ya make of global warming?
Perth is endangered, the high seas storming.
Now all my creatures, from maggot to man
Know how it felt on the march to Bataan.

Heaven Bent
by Michael R. Burch

This life is hell; it can get no worse.
Summon the coroner, the casket, the hearse!
But I’m upwardly mobile. How the hell can I know?
I can only go up; I’m already below!

“Heaven Bent” is a pun on “being bent on Heaven” and the heaven/hell thing being bent into a different version, with the dying escaping hell here on earth. That would make death “heaven” even if there is no afterlife. “This life is hell,” “upwardly mobile” and “how the hell” are also puns that can be read two ways. I wrote this poem in high school, around age 16 in 1974, but was unhappy with the third line and forgot about the poem. I stumbled upon it on on July 4, 2006 —ironically, Independence Day — and the third line occurred to me.

Untitled

The beauty of the flower fades,
its petals wither to charades...
—Michael R. Burch

Non-Word to the Wise
by Michael R. Burch

The wise will never cry, “Save!”
The wise desire a quiet grave.

sonnet to non-science and nonsense/nunsense
by michael r. burch

ur Gaud is a fiasco,
a rapscallion and a rascal;
he murdered lovely eve,
so what’s there to “believe”?

and who made eve so curious?
why should ur Gaud be furious
when every half-wit parent knows
where bright kids will stick their no’s(e)!

no wise and loving father
would slaughter his own daughter!
ur Gaud’s a hole-y terror!
CONSIDER THE SOURCE OF ERROR:

though ur bible’s a giant hit,
its writers were full of ****.

Yet another Screed against Exist-Tension-alism
by Michael R. Burch

Life has meaning!
Please don’t deny it!
It means we’re ******.
But why cause a riot?

Evangelical Fever
by Michael R. Burch

Welcome to global warming:
temperature 109.
You believe in God, not in science,
but isn’t the weather Divine?

Peers
by Michael R. Burch

These thoughts are alien, as through green slime
smeared on some lab tech’s brilliant slide, I *****,
positioning my bright oscilloscope
for better vantage, though I cannot see,
but only peer, as small things disappear—
these quanta strange as men, as passing queer.

And you, Great Scientist, are you the One,
or just an intern, necktie half undone,
white sleeves rolled up, thick documents in hand
(dense manuals you don’t quite understand),
exposing me, perhaps, to too much Light?
Or do I escape your notice, quick and bright?

Perhaps we wield the same dull Instrument
(and yet the Thesis will be Eloquent!).

The Final Revelation of a Departed God’s Divine Plan
by Michael R. Burch

Here I am, talking to myself again…

******* at God and bored with humanity.
These insectile mortals keep testing my sanity!

Still, I remember when…

planting odd notions, dark inklings of vanity,
in their peapod heads might elicit an inanity

worth a chuckle or two.

Philosophers, poets … how they all made me laugh!
The things they dreamed up! Sly Odysseus’s raft;

Plato’s Republic; Dante’s strange crew;

Shakespeare’s Othello, mad Hamlet, Macbeth;
Cervantes’ Quixote; fat, funny Falstaff!;

Blake’s shimmering visions. Those days, though, are through…

for, puling and tedious, their “poets” now seem
content to write, but not to dream,

and they fill the world with their pale derision

of things they completely fail to understand.
Now, since God has long fled, I am here, in command,

reading this crap. Earth is Hell. We’re all ******.

Yet Another ****** Ditty
by Michael R. Burch

Here’s my ditty:
Life is ******,
Then you get old
And more’s the pity.

Truth be told,
We’re bought and sold,
Sheep in the fold
Sheared lickety-splitty.

But chin’s up,
What’s the use of crying?
We’ve a certain escape:
Welcome to dying!

I see u-turn
by Michael R. Burch

o, tiny intolerant god,
the savior of only the FEW,
the respecter of any HUGE CLOD
who preemptively whispers, “I love u!”
and turns you into a smashed sod
so ****** on two-hundred-proof brew
that you crow, like a HUGE GIANT FRAUD…
is this, perhaps how you grew?

Post-Nashville Covenant
by Michael R. Burch

We love our God.
We love our guns.
We despise the weak.
Don’t call us Huns!

We love our kids.
We love our schools.
We love our guns.
Don’t call us fools!

We pledge ourselves
to the strong defense
of the Constitution
and our Mensch.

Once re-elected,
Trump will rule
with God and guns
and safer schools.

Wonderworks
by Michael R. Burch

History’s
mysteries
abound
& astound,
found
(profound)
the whole earth ’round,
even if mostly
underground.

The King of Beasts in the Museum of the Extinct
by Michael R. Burch

The king of beasts, my child,
was terrible, and wild.

His roaring shook the earth
till the feeble cursed his birth.

And all things feared his might:
even rhinos fled, in fright.

Now here these bones attest
to what the brute did best

and the pain he caused his prey
when he hunted in his day.

For he slew them just for sport
till his own pride was cut short

with a mushrooming cloud and wild thunder;
Exhibit "B" will reveal his blunder.

The Gospel According to James Webb
by Michael R. Burch

“The universe is broken: who on earth can fix it?” – Moishe Rosen

The universe is broken.
God has finally spoken:
“I snapped my fingers and
the stars appeared, like sand.”

The universe is broken
and who on earth can fix it,
since our best theory flopped
like a half-baked biscuit?

The universe is broken.
Man’s shipwrecked on the laughter
of some ancient God.
Hubris, meet your master.

Shadowselves
by Michael R. Burch

In our hearts, knowing
fewer days—and milder—beckon,
how now are we to measure
that wick by which we reckon
the time we have remaining?

We are shadows
spawned by a blue spurt of candlelight.
Darkly, we watch ourselves flicker.
Where shall we go when the flame burns less bright?
When chill night steals our vigor?

Why are we less than ourselves? We are shadows.
Where is the fire of our youth? We grow cold.
Why does our future loom dark? We are old.
And why do we shiver?

In our hearts, seeing
fewer days—and briefer—breaking,
now, even more, we treasure
this brittle leaf-like aching
that tells us we are living.

A coming day
by Michael R. Burch

for my mother, due to her hellish religion

There will be a day,
a day when the lightning strikes from a rainbowed mist
when it will be too late, too late for me to say
that I found your faith unblessed.

There will be a day,
a day when the storm clouds gather, ominous,
when it will be too late, too late to put away
this darkness that came between us.

Hellbound
by Michael R. Burch

Mother, it’s dark
and you never did love me
because you put Yahweh and Yeshu
above me.

Did they ever love you
or cling to you? No.
Now Mother, it’s cold
and I fear for my soul.

Mother, they say
you will leave me and go
to some distant “heaven”
I never shall know.

If that’s your choice,
you made it. Not me.
You brought me to life;
will you nail me to the tree?

Christ! Mother, they say
God condemned me to hell.
If the Devil’s your God
then farewell, farewell!

Or if there is Love
in some other dimension,
let’s reconcile there
and forget such cruel detention.

The closing poems were written during a brief stab I took at Christianity in my forties, which I soon abandoned after reading the Bible from cover to cover a second time, and concluding for a second time that its “god” was evil, not good.

A Possible Argument for Mercy
by Michael R. Burch

Did heaven ever seem so far?
Remember—we are as You were,
but all our lives, from birth to death—
Gethsemane in every breath.

Originally published by First Things

The Gardener’s Roses
by Michael R. Burch

Mary Magdalene, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, “Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away.”

I too have come to the cave;
within: strange, half-glimpsed forms
and ghostly paradigms of things.
Here, nothing warms

this lightening moment of the dawn,
pale tendrils spreading east.
And I, of all who followed Him,
by far the least…

The women take no note of me;
I do not recognize
the men in white, the gardener,
these unfamiliar skies…

Faint scent of roses, then—a touch!
I turn, and I see: You.
"My Lord, why do You tarry here:
Another waits, Whose love is true?"

"Although My Father waits, and bliss;
though angels call—ecstatic crew!—
I gathered roses for a Friend.
I waited here, for You."

I do not believe in Jesus as a “sacrifice” to a primitive God who demands the blood of innocents in order to “forgive” sins of his own making. But I will not completely discount the hope that love can transcend death, although, like Thomas, I will have to see it to believe it.

Birthday Poem to Myself
by Michael R. Burch

LORD, be no longer this Distant Presence,

Star-Afar, Righteous-Anonymous,
but come! Come live among us;

come dwell again,
happy child among men—

men rejoicing to have known you
in the familiar manger’s cool

sweet light scent of unburdened hay.
Teach us again to be light that way,

with a chorus of angelic songs lessoned above.
Be to us again that sweet birth of Love

in the only way men can truly understand.
Do not frown darkening down upon an unrighteous land

planning fierce Retributions we require, and deserve,
but remember the child you were; believe

in the child I was, alike to you in innocence
a little while, all sweetness, and helpless without pretense.

Let us be little children again, magical in your sight.
Grant me this boon! Is it not my birthright—

just to know you, as you truly were, and are?
Come, be my friend. Help me understand and regain Hope’s long-departed star!

#HERESY #HERESIES #GOD #GAUD #RELIGION #CHRIST #MRBHERESY #MRBHERESIES #MRBGOD #MRBGAUD #MRBRELIGION #MRBCHRIST

Curled in a quivering ball,
She holds her lips sealed tight.
Her sole goal is to pass the night
Without utterly losing it all.

Fingers pressed to temples,
Eyes shut with all her might,
She waits for dawn's first light
And begs for it to be gentle.

She begs for Time to have mercy
On her worn and wearied soul.
She pleads, beseeches, and cajoles
For Time to find her worthy.

And when the sun's beams
Breach the womb of dawn,
Her exhausted form looks upon
A new day and a new dream.

Information guarantee
ask and what will be.

In her guidance, moments changed this man and what will be is what?
I am,
surrender,
I give in
She has won,
this tug,
if war is what it be she wins at every thing and today is everything and she wins, she wins,
the game.

I have aces up my sleeve though don't believe I'll use them yet,
She
gets me, understands the foibles that trouble me, cajoles and comes close then she cuddles me,
If it was only up to me
I'd ask for information guarantee from everyone's in this but me,
and
what will be?

3/30/2O23 WRITING
https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/l8njruxa73yee9b0jzmhd/The-Ultimate-Unabridged-Guide-to-Esoteric-Working-English-2.docx?­rlkey=kunoar7ghpfkb7fjk5xkdgx95&st=i84ornny&dl=0

THE WROX OF ATTINGENT ATTRITION WIELDED BY AKINESIA ORBITED AROUND GALERICULATED JARVEYS TO THE PANMIXIA OF BARNSTORM WASES OF BARTONS ENTANGLED IN THE CRUCIBLE OF ERUCIFORM MOTIVES FOR OLIM WALLETEERS AND WALLFISH THAT BREAK THE BRATTICE RANKS OF APARTHEID THAT ABORNING ALPENGLOW SUNSET SAFFRON CAJOLES OF THE WELKIN SCYTHING AGAINST THE PLEROMORPHY OF REDACTED AND REDOUBLED PLEONASM THAT MIGHT BE AN ESCADRILLE ON THE FOREFRONT OF THE CAMARRA OF VENTRILABRAL FEATS OF KNEADED MALAXAGE FOREVER THE SUFFRAGE OF BODACHES ENTANGLED IN SARSENETS OF SERICULTURE. WE WITH RIP VAN WINKLE THORNY IMBROGLIOS OF THE COLLECTIVE AMNESIA CREATED BY SIMULTAGNOSIA WE SPURN THE ANZACTILE FLASHBANGS AGAINST SECTILE DOLDRUMS OF WINTRY SUPPEDANEUM USING THE FAGINS OF SUBACTION THAT THE CLOFFIN OF GEZELLIG TRAMONTANE TO ALL SPECTERS NEVER A BUGABOO OF BODEWASH RINSED IN NIHILISM COULD EVER SURMOUNT WITH THE CARYATIDS OF CHOMAGE AND METEORIC CHOANIDS WE STAND A FIGHTING CHANCE TO REVIVAL AND WITH THE WAPENTAKE OF CONFEDERATE OMPHALISMS WE MIGHT SEE A CLEAVED WORLD DISMAL ON SATURNINE SYCOMANCY BECAUSE THE NEMESISM OF ROILING ROARING ROORBACKS OF CAREFULLY PLUCKY VENOSTASIS MIGHT THE BARRULETS OF HABITUES OF LIONIZATION BE GREATLY ENRICHED BY THE ENLISTMENT OF NOVERNARY MACROPICIDES BECAUSE OF FALTERING STEVEDORES THAT EVENTUALLY THE CURGLAFF BECOMES AN APOTHECARY SENTIMENT OF DELIBERATE POISON TO THE WELLSPRING OF WINTERBOURNE ARCEATED ARMISTICE WITH THICK AND DENSE CURDLED BONNYCLABBER THAT CLOYS THE MUTILATED ETHOS OF THE VANGUARD CORTEGES AND THE CORBELS OF THE SYBOTIC FENNEC AND FIDDLE. WE BLACKGUARD AGAINST RHADAMANTHINE AGENTS DEPLOYED BY SENTINEL TRIBUNES TRYING TO GLITCH THE FUSION OF PARVANIMITY WITH THE CAPABLE BANDELETS OF SPECIOUS SOPHISTRY THAT SCRAWLS INTEMERATION IN EVERY SUBDICOLOUS SWARF OF GRAVID IRONY PREGNANT ONLY BECAUSE OF MIDWIVES TO CIRCUMLOCUTION THAT MOTIVATES THE THRESHING FLOOR TO SEIZE THE FIG TREE AND GALVANIZE THE MUSTARD SEED ECONOMY OF ERUCIFORM DELIGHTS KNOWN FAR BEFOREHAND BY COGNOSCENTI FRAVVERSCRIBBLE BECAUSE OF THE OBLATED NUTATION THAT GOUGES TOO MANY BECAUSE OF THE ZOOSEMIOTICS OF NEKTON TRUCIDATION THAT THE HARVEST OF NYALAS IS NOT IN VAIN FOR ALL OF THE CODSWALLOP THEY DERIDED IN THEIR PERENNIAL FICTIONS AND THEIR BONTBOK PROSELYTIZATION OF MANY SUSCEPTIBLE SURQUEDRIES OF SURDOMUTE MYTHOS SPANKING THE MONKEY UNREEVED BECAUSE OF TURNSTILE PHARMACEUTICAL ROT THAT DISTILLED IN ITS ESSENTIAL CONTORTIONS THE CORDWAINER APPEAL OF CURATIVE NOSOCOMIAL RANCOR TRUCKLING TO HIDDEN EPITHETS BURIED IN ACCOLENT TEMPTATIONS RATHER THAN SUPERSTITIOUS IDEOGENIES THAT BECAME THE BELLWETHERS OF INOCULATION IN AN ERA BESET WITH PLAGUES AND THE BLAINS OF BLUNGED ORTHOPTEROLOGY ZESTY WITH THE ZEAL OF THOUSANDS OF ANGRY ANGARIES FOR THE UMSTROKE OF LABILE LEVERAGE FINESSING THE BARCAROLE SUCH THAT THE INSIGHT OF THE WIVERN OF ANTICTHON MIGHT EVENTUALLY BECOME A DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER PARABLE OF THE RETCHED MISCEGENATION OF OUTCAST MANUFACTURE STRICKLING A FENESTRAL DISGRACE FOR THE JANGADAS OF THE CAMPANILE SEED ****** BY CALUMETS OF THE VEES OF MOULIN ROUGE SCANSORIAL CONDUCT OF THE DEMARCATED DERMATOLOGY OF PATINAS ABOVE THE CIRCULAR REPOSE OF VISIBILIA BECAUSE THE GIAOURS OF SPHACELATION OF GRAMERCY BROWBEATING FOR SPECIOUS RANTIPOLE RANGIFERINE SERROWS OF ESTABLISHED ELITISM ABOVE FUNNELED BURROLES OF BRAINTRUST SUBORNING ALL ALLEGIANCE TO THE GREATEST PINNACLE OF SUBSIDIARY CIVILIZATION THAT IS NEVER INDOLENT AND ALWAYS A REPROACH TO THE WISEST PEOPLE OF WISEACRES WIDELY ENTERTAINED BEYOND VAPULATION IN CATERCORNERED ELITISM. NYALAS ENGINEERED THE BIGGEST SCAM IN THE HISTORY OF NYALA AND THE STULMS OF CORPORATE SABOTAGE DESIGNED BY THE MAJORITARIAN TREACLE OF URBANE BERLINE DERELICTIONS OF PROXEMICS THAT WE MIGHT SEE THE BOLAR STOLONICITY OF CASEMATE BRITSKAS RENDERING THEM EFFETE IN DISEASED MENTICIDE ABOVE CARPAL TUNNEL FORESIGHT OF TWADDLING SCRIPTURE THAT BELONGS TO ROCKSTAR PARLANCE BUOYED BY BRIMBORION BLACKLISTS OF SAMIZDAT BECOMING MORE IMPORTANT TO THE ACT OF BALEFIRE THAN THE PORTREEVES HANDING THE CLAVATE OF GHAWAZI THE CLAVIGEROUS MIGHT OF HANDSPIKE FOR JALEOS AND JARABES OF GREATER TRICOTEES THAN TREACHERIES BECAUSE THE VINTAGE WINDCHEATERS THAT SOARED WITH CORSAIRS MIGHT THEY BE SO PRIVILEGED WITH PREROGATIVES OF SUBLIME EXCHEQUER THAT HOPEFULLY THEY STORGED THEMSELVES ON HEALTHIER DIETS RATHER THAN THE NESH DEBAUCHERIES OF MISERICORDS BECOMING BETHELS OF THE COMPANIONWAY OF LECHERY THAT SCOWLS AT OWLERIES BUT INSTEAD WANTS THE NECROTYPE FOR ROOSTERS BECAUSE OF HEYDAY HATRED RATHER THAN SOCKDOLAGER PROSELYTIZATION TO THE LARGESSE OF PYCNOSTYLE PERSEVERATION. INSTEAD OF ERECTING  STANDPIPES TO THE ILLITERACY OF SEDIGITATED DELUSIONS FED INTO CAMISOLES OF BROCKFACED BRAZEN STRETCHERS FOR THE WALDGRAVES OF WARDCORN EXPERIMENTATION WE FIND THAT THE WINZE THAT LEADS TO THE SYRINX OF ELITISM NOT GUARDED BY ABESSIVE PRIVILEGE WE ENTERTAIN THE STALINESQUE SYSTEM OF PSYCHIATRY TEETOTALING AROUND THE CEREAL KILLER MENTALITY BECAUSE OF A SWARTHY BIAS OF PREGNANT NIGHT AND KNIGHTS TO RULE OVER HEADLESS HORSEMEN TAXIDERMIES BURIED IN THE CLOTURE OF CETACEAN MYTHOS GIRDLING THE CARDIMELECH OF BASELINE PRIDE RATHER THAN CARDIOGNOST UNDERSTANDING THAT NEPHROLITHS OF  STOCKINETTE ARE IN FACT THE BOLSTERED ECONOMETRICS OF SCALING THE TOTEMIC LEVERAGE OF SUBSTRATOSE SOCIETIES IN VARIOUS DIVERGENCES OF IDIOSYNCRATIC ARRAIGNMENT THAT RESULTED IN SUCH A PROFOUND NEUTROSOPHY THAT EXERTS A TUG UPON THE STOKEHOLD SPODOMAN CY AND SPODIUM OF SPECIAL INTERESTS THAT ATTEMPTED TO MAGNETIZE THE MESMERISM OF DEFEATED IDEAS AND IDEOLOGIES MIGHT THEY SURVIVE WITH CATHEXIS FOR THE WASES OF BARNSTORM OF RHEOTAXIS IN WAPENTAKE. THE WORLD NEEDS TO KNOW HOW SEVERELY THE IVORIDE OF THE IVY LEAGUES AND THE CONSTELLATION OF PEOPLE WITH PERVERSE COMPASSIONS DISCARDING THE EMOTIVISM OF BLUEPETERS TRYING TO EDGE BEYOND THE BOUNDARIES OF IMAGINATION TO FORSIFAMILIATE BECAUSE OF ECCENTRIC PECCADILLO THAT LURCHES AGAINST TIMBERLASK VIRILITY TO ENTRENCH A QUIXOTIC AND QUISQUILOUS MULIEBRITY TO ROUSE THE SEMAPHORE ALARM THAT NO LONGER CAN THE BANDEROLS OF THE SIMPLEST MEN BECOME THE SIRENS FOR EVERY PROTEST RATHER MIGHT THEIR TURGID DISREGARD RENDEM THEM IRRELEVANT BECAUSE ONOLATRIES AND SCRIVELLOS BOTH PANDER TO WICKED WICKS OF THE TABLE OF ALL AFFAIRS THAT EXLEX REALISM IN A PRAGMATIC WORLD OF STUNSAIL SUPERNOVAS DEFEAT THE NOMOGENY OF THE RADICALISM BECOMING MORE RADICAL BY INCULCATION THAT CONSTERNATION IS THE CRUCIBLE OF ARISTOPHREN DISTASTE BUT THE EXCHEQUER OF ELECTORAL CERTAINTY OF PERIBLEBSIS ABOVE CLEARHEADED SIGHT RATHER THAN MYOPIA IN FAMISHED LANDS FATTENING CALVES IN THE PROVIDENCE OF PROWESS THAT MIGHT RESCUE US BEYOND PETTY DELUSIONS THAT WE MUST ENCOUNTER TRIBULOID CNICNODES WITH THE BEST ABDERVINE AFFAIRS RATHER THAN A NOMENCLATURE ELITISM THAT IS SAVVY ONLY WHEN THE ABAFT TURTLEBACK ONLOOKERS OF THE NOYADE APPROACHING FROM MILLIONS OF MILES APART THAT THEY BECOME DISENTHUSED BY THE COMPOSITE SPECTRUM MIGHT THEY TURN INTO DEMOCRATIC SOLFERINOS OR OTHERWISE SOLFERINOS TO BEGIN WITH, THE LACERTILIAN CROTALINE SONDAGE OF DARKNESS IS A KNELL FOR THE DARK RASPY DAYS OF WHERRET AND STULTIFICATION OF GARBOLOGY EVEN WHEN IT REMAINS THE LINCHPIN OF ALL TROPES OF TRUTH FOR TROMOMETERS AND STADIOMETERS THAT UNDERSTAND WANIGANS OF WAINAGE. IN CONCLUSIVE HARBINGER UMBRACIOUS SERVITUDE TO A SUFFRAGE OF SPHECOID LITTORAL EMBANKMENTS THAT RIVULATIONS GUARD ABOVE THE GROUNDPROX MUGIENCE OF BRAYING JACKALS HAUNTING THE JIBOYA FORESTS OF AFFORCED AND ATTEMPERED ATTENUATION THAT RANKLES THE GRAVAMEN OF RANCID HINDSIGHT IN CHRONOPSYCHOLOGY THAT SPRAWLS OUTWARD FROM THE PROVENANCE OF ALL ILLUMINATION THAT THE SORBILE SOURDINE SGRAFFITOS TO THE ELECTORAL REGARD BECOMES A SWANK BEYOND SILKALINE BANGTAIL OSTENTATION THAT NEGAHOLICS AGAINST CRETACEOUS SUFFICIENCY OF THE PALLOR OF ARENTRUM ABOVE BLANKETED WALLFISH WHO SPY ON PISCIFAUNA MIGHT THEIR SENICIDE BECOME THE CAREWORN OPPOSITE TO ALL CAREER TEMPTATIONS FOR GIGMANIA IN A SLOW CARAPACE OF FORAMINATION ABOVE THE RESOFINCULAR DISTORTIONS OF BOLTROPES INGRATIATING THE INSTRUMENTALISM OF DECLINE. WE MUST HEED GOD AND OBEY HIS PROVIDENCE SUCH THAT THE CHEVET OF THE RELIGIOUS ACCLAIM OF GENERATIONS EXPANDS TO BE A DISCIPLESHIP TO ALL WORLD LEADERS IN THE SEDERUNT OF PATIENCE RATHER THAN IMPETUOUS FUROR AGAINST RIDDLED PRAXEOLOGY. IN THE CULMINATION OF ALL AGES WE MUST ENDURE THE SUFFRAGE OF COGNOSCENTI PIRATES MIGHT THEY EMBARK IN OPPOSITIVE SUPPORT FOR THE GRATUITIES THEY SEE THROUGH THE PORTALS OF ABATJOUR THAT SPAWNED MYTH AND MYTH CONQUERED THE TREACLE OF DECEIT BECAUSE OLMS OF THE PAST AND ZEKS OF THE PRESENT DESERVE A BETTER REGARD OF THE CREDENDA. NEUTROSOPHY IS THE BALKANIZATION OF QUIZZICAL IDEAS DERIVED FROM FAULTY COMPASSIONS TO MINORITARIAN BACKPIECES OR ROTUND PROPAGANDA COALESCING PEOPLE BY GIROUETTISM THAT THEY MIGHT BE ENTHUSED BY A WEIRD CISVESTISM AS A BADGE OF HONOR BECAUSE OF LIBIDINAL IMBALANCE AND MANY FORMS OF RADICALISM POLLUTE SOCIETY PRIMARILY BECAUSE ECCENTRIC BOOKWORM PROFESSORS HARDLY THE VICTIMS OF POLYHISTORY OFTEN TRADUCED THE CONTEMPORARY MALAISE AND INVENTED FROM A VACUUM A DERIVATIVE OF WARPED EUHEMERISM THAT MISLEADS MANY ONTO DESOLATE PATHS OF ISOLATION IMMUNE TO THE CONSENSUS OF GENIUS WHICH FLOUTS THOSE SPECIOUS SOPHISTRIES BECAUSE THEY ARE RACKRENTS OF ACADEMIC BANKRUPTCY THAT NEED TO BE ANNEALED OF A REVIVAL OF PEAK MODERNISM IDEOLOGIES BEYOND THE IDIORHYTHMIC PROGRESSION OF TRUCKLING COMPROMISE AND CLOYING TOLERANCE.

Quand tu touches ma tige
Tu ne la touches pas seulement
À proprement parler :
Tu l'aiguises, tu l'affûtes, tu la redessines
Tu adoucis les angles et les courbures
Tu la fais flèche de cathédrale
Juste en la frôlant de tes ailes de fée.
Quand tu touches ma tige
Je ne savoure pas seulement
À proprement parler
Je frémis, je frétille, je pétille de tous mes rhizomes
Je sors de mes entrailles telles des queues de comète
De petits couinements infinis d'années-lumière
Adulterines et incestueuses
Tu m'effleures, tu m'effeuilles
J'enfle, j'enfle, je gonfle
Je vogue entre les galaxies et les îles
Et toi pendant que tu m'electrises
De tous tes cils
De toutes tes tentacules
Pendant que tu me transfigures
Tu me cajoles sans hâte en geignant.
Et dans chaque gémissement
Je crois entendre en playback
"Have you ever been to Electric Ladyland"

The Universe drip feeds me
keeps me being true to myself

Cajoles, encourages, loves
keeps me informed

Where I am on this road
in a personal, intimate, myriad of ways

The Universe drip feeds me
Her child.

On this auspicious day of  Her becoming a Republic....

BHARAT MATA DESIRES

Our Bharat Mata, today requests; and Her children cajoles, to truly love Her.

Wondering, from their sleep, their siesta,  indifference, when will they rise n stir !

Ages of attacks n conquests have tired Her, now our solace She seeks.

She asks Her soldiers n leaders to truly love Her; and not become meek.

Awaiting eagerly She is for Her children  to love Her;  waiting for that truly happy morn.

Wishes She another  Gandhi, Shastri, Dadabhoy, Bhagatsingh n Patriots many be  born.

Desires She that correct n clean up they,  all the  mess; all that has sadly gone wrong.

Desires She, that all Her administrator sons, become honest n strong;

That for Her, they, a great name in  the current times earn, is Her burning desire.

Can all the leaders, big n small by their deeds n actions everyone else aspire.

Armin Dutia Motashaw

I may have never been the light of your life but you were mine. Recently when people voice the word ‘therapy’, it elicits in me a feral sort of anger. It's a routine: rage, panic, and exhaustion.

My mother’s quaint china dishes have found a steady home on my sienna wooden floors. Please understand why I taste acid and rancid flesh when I think of your hazel eyes and strong arms. My Tracy Chapman record echoes monotonously out to me, but the blood simmering in the grooves of my brain fills my ears with a sound that displeases my auditory senses. It sounds like static from a broken radio. The wind howls through the cracks of my windows and sometimes it cajoles the door open. Somehow, my penchant for you never fails to disappoint me as my eyes flit up for the briefest second to see if you've arrived. I use my teacups as wine flutes and my heart as a pincushion, but maybe your broad shoulders and firm chest could shelter me from myself. My desk stands proudly in the corner of the room. Enrobed in dust and half-eaten pizza slices, it stands proof of what you've done to me. Mr. Teddy is taking a nap. His cottony, soft, white insides poke out in tufts from under the patchwork.
Another one bites the dust.

The poison seeps through the gaps in between my teeth and panic swallows me like an ocean. If you want, I would clad your feet in my shoes but I have never been one to chase after something so I cannot fathom how to explain to you why they have holes on their soles, much like my soul. The towel pools at my feet as I feel the heat behind my eyelids start to cool. Exhaustion sweeps over me like a summer breeze. I can hear fast cars as the put me to sleep.
It smells like petrichor; wet earth after the storm.

Make your unwanted advances
- on the ****** predators.
Place an uninvited unmistakable hand
on the casual grazers
the brokers
traders
*** negotiators
anyone who assumes
his entitlement
to sate his primal appetite
by right
anyone who
coaxes
cajoles
coerces
controls
in order to pick away
at a vulnerable soul.
Now's the time to shout
to call him out
and expose him
to unforgiving light
reversing the shame
in bare plain sight.
And there you'll find
you don't have to fight alone.
No, he'll be shown that
you were never on your own
and together
we can show society
that we stand defiantly
claiming the right
for all to live beautifully
free of each and every
pathetic
*** starved bully.
Come out now
and claim your life
and live it truely fully.

"ÇA  PLANE POUR MOI!

You
all that Paris is!

The myth..the magic
the music of being.

Sunlight sifting
through summer leaves.

The dazzled waters
of a morning.

A forgotten orange
on a cobbled street.

Chitter-chatter of
passing Parisians.

A flock of
human birds.

A look-alike Plastic Bertrand
busks Ça Plane Pour Moi!

A crumbling wall shouts
in a strong graffiti voice

"Laisse tomber
c'est pas grave!"

Et dans
Jardin les Tuileries

Madame's tone
scolds and cajoles

"Flick-flac...flick-flac
en dedans en dehors!

Suzanne..sous-sus
sous-sus Suzanne!"

Little children
the puppets of her voice

balance on
their too spindly legs.

Old man lost
in his Tai Chi

grasps sparrow's tail
smiles to his secret self.

These and so much more
grace notes to our loving.

We the present lovers
of lovers gone before

stretching back into time
the ghosts of kisses.

We embody all
that love has been.

I kiss you
in best Bogey style

"At least
we'ill always have

'Ça plane pour moi,
moi, moi, moi, moi,

ça plane pour moi
(Hou-hou-oou-oou!)'


. . .Paris!"

light distracts me
the switch that the night brings
cajoles and attracts me,
she knows me too well.

My cell in hell will have pictures
of Bananarama on the walls
and
I'll be climbing them,
(the walls, not Bananarama)

Ideas are like buses in that
you wait for one
and ten come along
at once,

but they're in a muddle and
I struggle to find some design.

I shouldn't ought to
but I thought you
might like a read
on a Saturday and
unlike 'Zenda'
don't need to spend a
life time hid
away.

And there it is in
black on white
trying to write
when the light
distracts me.

Waiting for a war could be the make up of you
Asking for the style of toasted chips chains and whips
be more you
Yet inside the tunnel of fun the banal seeking mug
is never a deference for seething inside is self forgiveness
The lights you thread states streaking faster
to satellite then to satiate the falling fist
Of all humanity's brutality the devils are well met
as you lay and decompose in sin
The messes made of ginned up country sentiment as if from dignity
Your predilection for face is only simpleton vanity
as always it's what you anchor between you and me
Here this now what now is a force as the flag up the gripping girders
Preened per pound and pasteurized by demi goddess hope here
queens who sing of flesh who're only as an entity that vows
Touch the answers for in the end the people you claim to protect
will dismiss call out and take
The last blade falls and with you all and your likeness adores accredits oh so cajoles

Desperations promises perpetual ingratiations poverties hells

"ÇA  PLANE POUR MOI!

You
all that Paris is!

The myth...the magic
the music of being.

Sunlight sifting
through summer leaves.

The dazzled waters
of a morning.

A forgotten orange
on a cobbled street.

Chitter-chatter of
passing Parisians.

A flock of
human birds.

A look-alike Plastic Bertrand
busks Ça Plane Pour Moi!

A crumbling wall shouts
in a strong graffiti voice

"Laisse tomber
c'est pas grave!"

Et dans
Jardin les Tuileries

Madame's tone
scolds and cajoles

"Flick-flac...flick-flac
en dedans en dehors!

Suzanne..sous-sus
sous-sus Suzanne!"

Little children
the puppets of her voice

balance on
their too spindly legs.

Old man lost
in his Tai Chi

grasps sparrow's tail
smiles to his secret self.

These and so much more
grace notes to our loving.

We the present lovers
of lovers gone before

stretching back into time
the ghosts of kisses.

We embody all
that love has been.

I kiss you
in best Bogey style

"At least
we'ill always have

'Ça plane pour moi,
moi, moi, moi, moi,

ça plane pour moi
(Hou-hou-oou-oou!)'

. . .Paris!"

*

The title comes of course from the Plastic Bertrand faux punk hit back in the days of '77 and full of crazy lyrics and mad energy. it is a French idiomatic expression which is best translated as "everything's going well for me" (literally: "it is gliding/sliding for me") or indeed " I like it!".

"That's fine by me "/"Ça plane pour moi"