Colliding; the collusion of day and night
Of things co-exsisting, theirs,
Light and darkness.
Blazing across the ethereal plain
An arch angelic inferno.
Infinite is the horizon
Confluently coloured; eminence
Transforming smouldering heat.
An auric aureole interpenetrating diverse bi-unity,
Illuminative transcension igniting
The charcoal black vast depths of heaven, space.
The eternal perfection ordained, twilight
Zenith sense turbulent like the oceans tide
Anthropomorphic legions, lingering shadows
In the purgatory of mischievous children.
Blood gushing like emotions,
Sacraments ordained for sacrifice
Canonised; Sepulchre
Immortal legions mortal as the knell echoes
This side of paradise,
Heaven an altar
A church altar, rapidly retreating
As stars disperse like candles fading-
Sacrilegious; sepulchre
Of angels fallen.




1997 ELEETE J MUIR

commentary of a bunch of photographs uploaded showing the dilemma of the A's in paper size... exhibits a - f show a lesson, well, you remember that old depiction of the idiot of the class, standing on a stool at the front of the class with a heretic's coned hat? well, they revised the hat, now it's a once green eyeshade clerk's hat via interpretation of a cricket cap.

it's quiet easy, words fill never justify the images,
the dunce was just saying: you could make one
toothpick from a Sunday newspaper's double spread,
that's what got him canonised perched on a stool,
no one exacted how many anyway,
like they never teach your the chemical formula for
wood, if what has a H too two Ohs, then wood must
must have something in the strand of including
carbon, a cabaret of elements with carbon the prompter
poking his prickly head once in a while due to
acting tremors and cold sweats of sudden amnesia...
the point being, to further the first point about
the size of newspapers on Sundays and whether there's
such a thing as A0, or an architectural sized paper,
i guess architectural spreads are like breast sizes...
imagine looking at schematics of 30F through 32E
and onto 30D past 38DD... you never see the sagging
in these diagrams, because they're abstracts of
the two hangmen... you see, the bra... did anyone tell
Freud that Anti-Oedipus as proposed by the two French
philosophers mixing up Nietzsche and Marx with
Freud on the side anticipated this Anti? it's the bane
of my existence, English black humour mixed with
giggles at words like: bottom, ****, ****... i don't know
how you can get seriously randy afterwards...
it's atypical English humour, *** jokes... the notion
that Oedipus can't laugh at *** underpins the very
basis of the unconscious, i.e.: that something sinister
is lurking in the depths and reaches back into childhood
and it's subsequent destruction. the opposite of
the theory proposed by Freud (as evolved from the already
mentioned *Gilles Deleuze) is at the same time frightening,
because it almost presupposes Oedipus' father
in the version of Saturn, best exemplified by
Saturn devouring his Son painted by Francisco Goya...
and the basis of this eventuality due to the woman's
madonna-***** complex: mini-skirt ***** lollipop
but a saintly mother beneath... jooke.
**** it, i deviated from the topic of periscopes but more
importantly of the size of sensible paper, A0 being
the spread of a Sunday Times... architectural scores
must therefore begin with B5...after architecture come
advertisements probably beginning at around
B3 or B2... football stadiums are filled with these passive
sheets of material, and that's talking way down the
alphabet of categorising size... you know, when they
pull down those massive club insignias.
in the end all i can do with a A4 paper is cut a kippah
or make a momentary mask... but with the
sunday spread of newspaper... i can momentarily
turn into a newspaper ghoul, or if you prefer:
a newspaper ghost!

Indolent dipterous demons
Disperse maudlin thoughts, omniscient
Towards the undercroft as they drink
From the sinuous amphora
Whilst the knell echoes throughout
The belligerant zenith of conflagration
Stated still upon the burning of sepulchre
Canonised by the death of angels
As the blood sheds red like paint
On canvass throughout the murderous
Battle of Heavens legions.



ELEETE J MUIR.

i did one stint from one "village" to another,
Ostrowiec was the reds' heartbeat
of communist innovation, steelworks you name it,
army contracts,
that was sodomised in the tipping submergence
of Titanic... i did a stint in a capital,
Edinburgh,
most of my contemporaries didn't venture
as far, closer to home, closer to the bread
and the washing-machine -
now they're living prolonged middle-class
lives (apologies for the Marxist
auxiliary vocabulary - i see a future in you
in the orbit of canonised journalism
worthy of a Hendrix comet - gush gone
the next type) - of course the first Gurkha sentiments
are the ones teaching us that Europe is
the holy grail - it's actually a ****-hole with
quiet a few people actually insane...
who are given representative power
via democracy, with democracy constituents
aimed at 30% representation,
a third! a third! imagine chimpanzees voting
as if they were getting arrested:
micro the universe with ink blotches on
the thumbs and the question:
'who bent the bananas?! who bent the bananas?!
we had a joke you ruined it
a banana in the pocket... who bent the bananas
from Pythagoras to Euclid? who?!'
30% turnout when once 100% fought,
whether stonemason or farmer -
if this is democracy i'm not really pessimistically
pensive over an attack on autocracy by it,
but still warring in places like Vietnam will
not make democracy the conqueror,
sometimes natural communism works
if it's structured on a tribal level, i.e.
'you scratch my back i'll scratch yours',
tribal levelling is a case for a dishonesty concerning
money, nails can't be hammers with money present,
the time it takes is the economic prowess of
the elitist democratic function,
quasi-religious meaning
why would nihilism's testimony first craft moral
questions rather than economic questions
to gain approval and the audience of artists' revenue
for even asking?
hey headlines! everything else is optional!
as i said, from one village to another,
a momentary stint in capital Edinburgh and London,
in London i was asked to be crucified -
21st century England, one student said i should
be crucified because i was not supporting Palestine
while enjoying some student theatre...
in Edinburgh i don't know...
i asked for the position of the film society's vice
president role and never made it to the platform
of speaking to intro a film...
but a student telling a student he'd be crucified,
in england, war of the roses rekindled?,
it was too much much for me...
education can grow goosebumps and comb-overs
should i care... idiots educate themselves
these days, Birmingham nearby (no river, no flow),
crucify all you want -
          this is England, half-way house of Syria...
the famous 21st century not so famous now -
Zionist plots to submerge - what the **** can be
deemed as political and correct? Henry the 8th?

November first, all saints
Celebrated canonised or not.
Recognition left as beauty
In the eye of the beholder.

For sinners accomplishing
Something worthy of holiness,
Something worthy of humanity,
Its nature, the Universe.

Compassion, aidance, honesty.
Truthfulness, chastity intended
In its purest sense. November first,
Olive picking day for me.

Harvesting season's yield
After the longest drought as I feel,
The warmth of an obstinate sun
Pierce skin through bones

To my very core. The same,
Beams granting abundance
Of golden juice to the gently
Reaped pearls of black and green.

From fingertips runs
An inundating sense
Of blessing, intrinsic unity
Of substance shared.

Only anticipating taste,
Fluidity slithering on tongue,
An exquisite elixir caressing
Palate as globules fall like rain

From branches onto
Sheets meticulously laid.
An event unknowing solitude
For it demands collective efforts,

While the distant village band
Plays hymns to the dead I praise
The living and their worth,
Waiting to imagine hundred

Kilograms render seventeen
Precious litres of ******
Olive oil. Chastity unfolding
In its purest form.

come Closer
but remember The First time when
I Was A Fool
… A Fool To Cry
”I Know I Know I Know”
my displaced pride exclaims
but Back In Your Head
i’m Walking With A Ghost
who whispers sweetly, “Goodbye, Goodbye”
maybe once i was your Heartthrob
but you kept shouting, “I’m Not Your Hero”
and the echoes reverberate against the stained glass windows of my heart
Where Does the Good Go
when things fall apart?
and Now I’m All Messed Up
and So Jealous refusing to Call It Off
the unnecessary flirting and asking for My Number
because i never claimed to be an angel
and the Dark Comes Soon
but you were well versed in This Business of Art
the art of illusion
but in spite of my warning that You Wouldn’t Like Me much
you went ahead and canonised me
and with that Sainthood i tried to Fix You Up with clumsy hands
frustrated I Can’t Take It
so stepping away i ask myself,
”How Come You Don’t Want Me?”
this relegation to my own version of Hell
when Freedom feels more like Dancing In The Dark
spinning wildly in your Living Room
and Under Feet Like Ours, broken glass
your hand holds me like the vice grip of an Alligator's bite
and when i was younger you always Drove Me Wild
as Love They Say
sometimes feels like kissing Underwater
to discover one another was like studying the Floor Plan of your heart
If It Was You, there would be me
and This Is Everything that we would need
i would be that Shock To Your System
the North Shore claiming lost ships like strangers embracing long lost lovers.

I don't wite poetry drunk and think
it's great, or rather: to later
                                       think, it's great

rather, as a genuine outlet,
   worth the dub: ***** poetry
(analyse that,
     Ronnie K., the sentimental
     psychopath),
    since i could be up to no...

(and already the sealed cascade
   of the original intention:
whirlwind spaghetti remnants
worth of: collage);

for Sienkiewicz really
is tedius, in the camp of writers
some dubbed:

a first class, second class writer,
i even managed to dream
that i was reading a contemporary
novel:

         yet somehow the remaining
200 pages of this (circa) 800 page
novel are hanging over me
ungidested, like some farce
of the sword of Democles...

me and my necrophilic taste in
books, or rather:
        catching up to: the dogma
of what youth is pushed in schools
and tested on...

    and I am of the authentic opinion
that Bolesław Pruß is readable,
a 19th century story,
     written in the 19th century...

Siekiewicz's romanticism is
too, inauthentic...
   i could blame the weather,
cold spring mornings,
a seemingly eternal sun throughout
the day...
       but the women
as unrelateable as hot sushi...
a 19th century romanticism
of a late 14th / eartly 15th century
"history":

           and they said Kraszewski
was supposed to be as entertaining
as soaking stale bread in water...

beyond a doubt...
     and without much to think about,
I can't imagine anyone who
writes these snippets (akin) to be
proud, and not ashamed
in some way that could better
translated / attired with the word:

barely satiated...
            I almost wish it sounded
better in my head,
even though it was worth
about a worth of time
   equal to that of a splinter
barely compensating a century
worth of oak, standing dumb
before its majesty.

at least a compensation though,
if I seemingly cannot fathom
"serious" literature
of the living, i also cannot fathom
poetry of the dead...
         the dead can't be excused
the fickleness of the living,
    as the living can't exactly
recreate the rigidness of the dead:
plus the obvious,
painstaking process of:
      the missing typewriter...

not to mention:
      sooner comes cinematic
version of a modern tale...
              and already the undomesticated
reader making books into
bricks...
            
    otherwise the constipated tradition
and literary hoarding of the past,
it almost dwarfs any ambition
when compared to the biblio-monolith
of, say, the Qu'ran...
                      no qualms for
having only read an instruction
manual, and wholeheartedly
   gesticulated at the moon
    and Mecca (or what's left of it)...

"satanic" credo murmurs in
a catholic church:
                         no way forward -
no way back...
      and certainly not down
the exhausted route of becoming
a ***** for secularism...
        somehow and most certainly
"somewhere"
                in an existential limbo...
without a crisis:
           or rather:
     watching about a hundred breakdowns
per day, and not exactly
gesticulating at an exited libido
as compensation for the disorientation
of others...

but there certainly could be worse
outlets than writing drunk...
thankfully sometimes the quiet sober
opinion at 7am,
     where I am, genuinely jealous
of the salat...
          yet unconvertable,
             bound to that infernal
religion that is: on the tip of
the tongue of an English teacher -
humanism.

               no serious literature
of the living, as certainly that of
the "canonised" dead,
   countered with:
      no serious poetry of
     of (ditto): only that of the living
and of the immediately: in transit
id est: with third party remnants...

evidently i was going to
break these "rules" / whims
   by having inherited the remnants
of the Beat movement,
      and invested in gathering
a necessary compedium...
          
    a time when it almost feels like:
your average Joe and John
were not overtly politicised...
        as compensation for
voting apathy,
                  and the unredeemable
post scriptum of nuance...

no, I don't think much of the poetry
I write drunk...
     but I can certainly attest
    that, with it as an outlet -
     I'm far from requiring a punching
bag, bound to some chemical
rainbow of explanations,
    that, for the most part:
                act like placebos;

came the people happy in their
misery...
    came the people gluttonous
in their happiness...
        only that the former
            had the better humour,
since the latter,
   very much akin to their politics:

perhaps sarcasm is the lowest
form of wit,
   but given sarcasm in a subtle
way... without ridicule...
it's still better than snarly
conservative humour...
                         for some reason...
without pointing out the obvious:
having to laugh
at jokes of an angry man...
     turns out a crying clown
is thrice as funny.

it's a toss-up between either silverchair's song
shade, or neil young's old man,
i actually remember the latter
more,
was on a date, with a persian-pict
mongrel of a fine gal,
in a shady edinburgh jazz bar,
and it was covers night...
chambers st.! that's it!
right next to the old college...
mind you, once the scaffold was
up, i climbed the building,
and sat on the roof...
pretty **** decent (point of) view...
i still miss edinburgh,
    i miss it more than i'd
ever wish to...
   but the "i miss it" parts come
dislodged, like jigsaw
puzzles: i can never really
solve the puzzle, and hope
for reminder that's revived,
permanent, re-lived...
it's just the past...
  and by default of the standard
set of questions?
no, i just think kant's should
be canonised...
as the patron saint of bachelors...
****** seems pretty stable,
head up his ***,
   solipsistic, falsely debated as
an autistic brain-child...
   i have no qualms with him...
i've always considered myself
a solipsist, than an egoist...
bogus alpha "male"
  suggestions seem to be missing
when inviting solipsism...
the game is over, it's
a the end / game over...
why is it a the end though?
it's an end when you take to
watch franchises, isn't it?
     ******* don't even bother writing
it these days...
       so why is egoism
so riddled with bogus
anti-athos (three musketeers)
   advice? best advice? to not give
any advice...
   shut it up, show yourself
in your current narrative chronology...
i still don't understand why
some dip-**** american would
say that solipsism is a mental illness,
and that egoism was: just, plain, natural;
probably did seek the patron saint
of reading kant...
        st. kant... sounds nice...
ridiculous to be sure,
   but more of a saint than john paul ii
who merely kissed airport tarmac...
and forgave a turk: in a jail...
****! send mustafa what's his name
like god sent cain into the wilderness!
what sort of forgiveness is
a forgiveness in a confined space?
shady, as ever, given the vatican mafia;
yeah yeah, don't worry,
next time i go to church
i'll **** one off to compensate my
lack of dough: you can call it a *****
bank donation...
  but then again: that's what you already
are! ha!
sick bollocking of the matter...
  it's a harem, oh harems do exist in the west,
don't get so ****** nervous
that you're missing out... you are!
sure, there's no arab sheikh...
but there's the first choice ***** donor
in western society...
       soon we'll be ******* our
far removed cousins...
    nice to know: even better to disengage
from;
but as all honesty goes:
    those two songs... probably the most
pleasurable to play to...
          in a world where there's nothing
new, or is, exponentially new -
nothing to seems to change, nonetheless,
even with all the cinematic futurism,
the same debates rage on & on,
those archetypal narratives never seem
or "want" to change...
   it will be just as mundane in the year
"anno domini" 2302 as it is in 2017...
the same archetypes, "fixations" of man's
ultimate endeavour: of being unable
to foresee a benevolent change of character:
sure, the circumstance will change,
but the character? it will still boil down to
either a god, or the devil;
and yes, i really, really do believe that
the sahara desert was once a mountain
range, akin to to alps or the himalayas...
what? you think that history is still
only intact with a monkey to man transition?!
geology outstrips biological historiology,
o.k, john wayne?! ******:
drool, while i draw you an in-between
between the big bang: what a ****** name for
a genesis... and the dawn of man.
big bang my ***, more like a timid ****
on a crowded train.
  same with the gobi desert, once a mountain
range: now a desert...
      there had to be a middleman
          coordinate! third party sources!
i just became bored with only 2 origin narratives...
this is there a 3 origin was spawned,
where chemistry fused itself with geology
and said: these deserts you see?
they used to be mountain ranges once...
i'd be ******* daft to listen
to the same ******* for the next 30+ years...
and yes, i've been asked
to a co-op membership card,
apparently i'd have saved 89 pence on
today's purchase... it costs a quid for
the membership...
  dunno... i might get it...
             a quid back after just two purchases
of a litre of *****;
plus the staff resemble the less-beat-down
version of the tesco staff...
      i like looking at scared workers,
but i also like looking at permanent workers,
who don't agree to 0 hour contracts...
******* ******...
           i mean:
it's good to see people being given
job security...
                   what i don't like
is what i see elsewhere -
  band-camp of capitalism is probably
worse than the nazis,
  i'd probably prefer 5 years in auschwitz than
an entire lifetime in this current
capitalist model:
           arbeit wie witz versklaven
          (work as a joke enslaves);
and capitalism has a made a joke of work...
this isn't working, this is poncing,
this is modelling...
you ******* "think" the chinese will give
their jobs up? nadda.

there is an electricity of the city
that speaks to you in hushed tones
in the middle of private moments
where you skivvy around wondering
when your time will come;  
stop
waiting in the wings.

we run our dogged marathons
and sing our sacrilege out and loud, remorselessly—
fear not of who hears and who doesn’t—
we’re hungry for something to say.
i’ll etch my fingers into your flask
of liquid, warm courage
and we’ll feel right for a second or two,
as time undulates a little more kindly for us.

these nights we canonised
our foolishness wrought with
a stubborn feeling
and i told you we were invincible

our limbs tire and lungs respire
but our hearts and minds will always ache proudly with rage.
you and i were cut from the same cloth,
unremittingly.
for if the seams of our lives would eventually splinter
we’ll still live forever
through music and film and our love
don’t cry,
my baby blue.

i'm so... oh so... disillusioned with myself:
i'm drinking chilled white wine...
ergo... no red wine no ice cubes
no coca-cola: no kalimotxo... no aztec giggle...
music... once the pillar of my identity
now reduced to...
let's just pretend the wind doesn't whistle...
dodging traffic...
without a hard-on for the changing
of gears... or revving up...
skid-meister...
i must be disillusioned with myself...
i'm listening to a cherry-picking of pop...
billy joel's we didn't start the fire...
a very democratic take on history...
not like Genghis Khan would ever mind...
a democratic study of history:
not history as: those most psychopathic
those most ambitions...
those most willing to work the plough...
the little people matter:
now they everyone is literate and now that
everyone has a vote...
vote for status quo!
  
mmm.. hmm... the current zeitgeist of:
MEN(?) the moralists...
i like it...
let's kiss the good squeak goodbye...
let's see how time erodes all that prevails with
the walking abortions in sight...
i'm part of this ever arising cohort...
of disfranchised readied to ***** silly...
men are terrible moralists...
you know that seeing a women
exfoliate as she does...
in her ****** prowess...

imagine: a video of self-gratification:
she can do it to herself whilst sober:
pregnant... it's still not me slapping the silly
whittle richard silly monkey:
no scented candles...
i have no traction to compete...
i might have *******...
but a ******* is by no means...
a kippah... or a monkish tonsure..
or for that matter... a tribal get-together...
for a game a bowling...

what's a white Russian without
a game of bowls with a Big Lebowski?
i'd sacrifice ownership
of *******... if i were wedded to
an orthodox Jewish gal...
or a Muslim crease in a niqab...
i'd give up my ******* pronto!

i feel so disillusioned drinking white wine...
it's not red: i can't make
kalimotxo!
music has become...
a noise i rather listen to
beside the congestion of
traffic jargon...

i don't care that it is...
Prokofiev... Tool... 50Cent...
Sonny Rollins... it's music...
it's not... the sound of the orchestra of
trickling imitation of orchestra:
no... there's no polyphony...
when the rain: and the rain:
does fall...

XAOΣ... ΚΑΝΟΝΕΣ...
what is to be: canonised... no?
oh please allow these women
all their freedom they can muster...
i want to fulfil myself as
completely disinhibited from the status
of bachelorhood...
without paying attention to
a James Bond -esque ambitions...
clearly... i have been freed!
suppose the casually usual...
stereotypical... slant... view...
the loner... "user":

thank you... woman...
you can't begin to imagine what
freedom you afforded me to express!
the chains of expectant monotheism:
have i sacrificed my *******
on the altar?
you took up a niqab?
no... well then! a marriage
with the lineage of Pontius Pilate
making the sanctity...
of a binding contract...

i rather pick fleas from my cat's fur...
oh but i love he brothel...
it's like opening a bottle of bourbon...
all the scents are there...
sure... it's not so socially inclusive
as the disappointments associated
with going clubbing...
hell: i can resist...
i'll laugh about it...

feminism! thank you for the freedom!
you forgot you might have allowed:
no allegiance to either queen or king!
woman!

femina! tu gratia!
woman: you, i thank...
vs. woman: i thank you...

a bit like: a trust advertisers more than
journalists... well.. i do...
journalist might claim my mind as
dough...
dough arrives at surprise: the freedom
of thought...
advertisement...
what money i have...
i have no money...
let's counter sculptures...
i have no money to spend...
the journalists are paid
pig trough regurgitation spews...
journalists ≠ advertisers...

if i don't have the money to spend...
what's... willing me...
to have the thought to "think"...
concerning.. the labyrinth of the currency
of journalism? no... sorry...
you lost me...
you lost me at the point
where i mentioned...

the ****** come in at £2.00 per minute...
that's £120... per hour...
Christianity is still alive and well...
in the shadow of the crucifix...
the sado-masochistic...
gimp-suited-and-well-booted...
"ulterior" motives...
     what's not to... milk? i.e. verb: not merely
the noun...

grammar friendly retards...
no like...
     like moi...
'ere come(s) a doll...
oh... winter... my winter cold...
my very own self:
retaliating from the crux
posit of... a... "very" old... refreshed"

thank... you... dearest... woman...
i can finally play out my inhibited
dodo fetish ambitions...
i can froth at toying with solo...
without meaning injected into...
prototypes... replica... breeding!

i heave no lineage of athletic genes...
i have no lineage of a surname...
as freely as i am alive:
i'm as freely willing to "die":
assure myself of the reality-contract.

The sun might rise over you.

The days may grow longer and more pleasurable with you.


The night might belong to me.

The nights, cocoon us in our endeavors.


Time keeps ticking by.


Your smile canonised my feelings.


Clueless as we were, we couldn't get enough of that feeling.

Mother Theresa of calamity
to be canonised with a 21
nun salute from the Sisters
of Providence, Poor Clare's
and The Hermits.