Dat ***** Kild (sic), yo !

Little White
Snitch
***** Kild (sic), yo !
Galantine White
Worked Like a Charm
Cataleptic Farm.

See Nothing
Say Something
See Nothing
Say Something
Liked, Liked, This.

See Nothing
Say Nothing
See Nothing
Say Nothing
Said : Liked This

Liked, Liked, This
Liked, Liked, Liked
Liked, Liked This

Kited Dread Slough !



James R Morse, NYC.
All Rights Reserved 2012.

There are too many things to unsee in this city,
the night street holds dark memories;
traffic jams, phones blaring
the static complacency of the bourgeoisie,
faint screeches of beat up vans
and tire explosions, schizophrenic
sloth of industrial machinery
drilling roads, houses, three metres apart;
the fragmentation of the nuclear family -

if only life were a gothic fable;
we would all be mythical
deities to the dark regions of earth -

for the night is oceanic,
Atlantic, revolution
turns upon a fixed axis;
tonight’s ocean
opening, first ionization,
breath as oxidation -

the middle
the midnight

in the air where the air is alight
and the light contains substance,
the fine saturation of salience,
lust for dopamine, we light

the silk in the fire, remember the earth
spirals around a sailing sun
like a strand of DNA,
everything circumferencing
in swirls of cataleptic cinnamon,
and we are space dancers,
free in the infinite,
the embroidery of all edges,
small, but
insoluble
and dissolving.

As it sit, here on peninsulas
extensions into oceans,
tides that drag, pixelating
parameters opening
to peering places,

my eyes squint
at blurred horizons;
everywhere horizoning,
circumferencing me
in swirls of cataleptic cinnamon
(you know, that pop cultured
coalescence of sensation)

And while I swim
through these streams and unconscious rivers,
on peninsulas (of dust)
placidly pouring  soft summer rain
onto concrete souls like treacle on crumpets,
it occurs to me that
we are just madness becoming
into something astonishing

I’ve seen innocence playing, and then learning, and then growing till it is no more;
Babies sleeping on undeserving laps of cataleptic and lifeless parents that can’t see an inch beyond themselves;
Souls crippled and mutilated by an almost perpetual chain of senseless, co-dependent and self-seeking conduct.
However, in all honestly, I must absolve them all: man only wounds when wounded.
Man is perfectly imperfect.

I’ve seen youth squandered and consumed, as if it were perpetual and worthless;
Girls and boys, and boys, then girls, willingly falling into wells, and running madly into brick walls,
As if a florid garden awaited them, unaware that an abyss of emptiness and sadness lies ahead.
Fresh souls and drugged-up bodies will always wander, bemused and helpless, in a maze of their own making.
This youth is endless and quite probably already dead.

I’ve seen men that believe in themselves transform into giants and soar,
Just to turn my face the other way and find the exact opposite motion -
Fear and doubt pounding down with infinite weight our brittle existence,
Leaving behind a trail of things undone, loves unloved, and unrealized dreams.
Will we never understand that the script we write is the play that follows?

I’ve seen man pitted against man, against nature and against himself, in a never-ending cycle of sheer stupidity and sadism;
Enraged faces and frantic hands repeatedly stabbing their own child, their own brother, and their own flesh,
In an utterly comical and pointless attempt to soothe our inbuilt suffering.
Man is his biggest foe, his only foe:  the deepest scars are indisputably self-inflicted.
Pain is, consequently, inescapable.

I’ve seen a humanity that is not human: man’s wanting turned rotten, then dead;
Greed uninhibited and hysterical, pushing man to his lowest denominator;
Blood filling the gaps of understanding, and as a sorry excuse to a twisted and self-serving morality,
Whilst peace lies agonizing, tortured, and *****.
Human tragedy is simply the making of our collective human un-conscience.

I’ve seen into the souls of Buddhists, Christians, Hindus, Muslims, and Jews;
I reached deep into their chests, and with my bear hands ripped their bloodied, beating hearts out,
And I tell you – my brother, my sister – that they all look exactly the same.
We are all human, animal, chemical, and mineral alike.
Distinction is mental, psychological, and naught.

I’ve seen God Himself, compassionate and commanding, visibly invisible,
Yelling at me in languages I could not comprehend (certainly enraged at His own creation),
While I, on my knees, completely obedient, docile, and innocent, regurgitated endless mantras of fear, vain love, and inanity.
Fortunately, His yelling awakened me, and as I peeked into His eyes, caught a fleeting glance of my own Self.
We were not made in his image, he was made in Ours.

I’ve seen love, and the hope of love, give birth to a new life, to a new dream, and to a new meaning.
A love that conquers pain, past, and present is everything and holy.
This love is infinite.
Love, certainly illusory, is truly all, and more than all:
In the end, all things considered, love is our only escape.

Now, having seen all, I close my eyes and see no more -
I am love, pure love.

[personal definition based upon a study case of one]
1. Self-commitment to silence one’s heart; often described as ‘experiencing life holding your breath’ or ‘seeing the world as if you were on a river bottom’; main symptomes: being able to interact but refusing proximity .
2. Condition found after one’s sudden awaken from a long period of self inflicted cataleptic narcosis, by a singular human touch, and subsequently being unexpectedly left in the wide; main symptomes: non-stop spinning and sprinting in all directions; aphasia and forgetfulness of words; general deeply cultivated indifference beneath high level of external activity in order to endure the understanding of everything as delusional; slow return into narcotic catalepsis, mainly through smothering the heart beat.
Notes
1. Predisposition for the syndrome: perception of a flaw disabling wholeness; intrinsic tendance to flee from others when reality does not match one’s pre-vision; obsessive phobia of halves of nothing.
2. Treatment: unknown; progress shown under some conditions did not linger.
3. Survival rate: not appliable.

Cosmic consciousness can consequently convey cataleptic conditions...
captured calamities constantly cascading, careening, colliding continuously...
continuity, congruity, catalysts construing clarity,  confining confusions...
concluding;  causality creatively conducts constructed concretized    concordance.

My existence in his life vanished long ago
Now I write this poem to say Adiós

There wasn't much story to tell,
"How can you like someone who you've never really got along that well?"
The first time we met I saw something worth the pain;
Flashing light aching to be found,
Lived upon himself

Years tormented me
Forced to conceal what I felt underneath
Until I found what I thought could be it;
Secret poems to forget him

Felt secure my words wouldn't reach him
Needing more to feel appeased
Staring at the button line spelling "S.E.N.D"
I slide my fingertip and hold tight onto it,
Cataleptic of the fuzz I would tremble myself in

He's persistent in knowing my name
Yet there's nothing else left to say
All this anxiety drives me insane,
Thought I was over him somehow,
Suddenly all this sentiment runs back
I want to scream, I want to cry
Why can't I tell him goodbye?

As mystery this will remain
Not willing to shatter what's left
Hoping all this will soon fade away
I open my heart and truely say:
Please stay away.

The Hideous Heart of Scandinavia

Morning in Oslo, from my hotel room I see many roofs
most of them of the same design; tidy, I wondered if they
employed a roof sweeper.
Social democracy in action cold and efficient not given
to surface passion, even their homegrown terrorists is
boring but dangerous.
Streets in Oslo are clean too so spotless they look
somehow defenceless and slightly obscene.
The citizens are restraint, tolerantly wait for traffic light
to turn green so the can cross even if no cars are coming.
But there is another Oslo especially at weekends
when people drink an enormous about of beer fight breaks
out and knives shine in moonlit nights.
The lust for ****** hark backs to a shared cataleptic
memory; and you know there is a pent-up passion
In the hideous heart of Scandinavia

My Soul suffers a bitter agony within,
To watch the devastation upon my kin.
To see Hope die under such fearsome strain,
As Alzheimer’s invades, to despoil their brain!

We see them fall under its inhuman spell,
To wander lost, alone in a private Hell!
For who can follow the path they now tread,
That leads to where?  ‘Tis known only to the dead!

Who can know the realm to where they’ve gone?
No sign points the way!  No light shines on
Their tortuous path!  There is no respite
To tangled thoughts plunged into darkest night!

Desperately we seek answers to their plight,
But none are found!  No reason sheds light
Upon their persecution!  Each afflicted breath,
A further step along the road that ends in Death!

Their fierce passion, though it might burn inside,
Lacks purpose or direction. Heartbroken, we hide
Concerns, lest we deny them Love they need.
Though we anguish over futile lives they lead!

Their ailment advances.  We know them no more!
They return to be the child they were before!
Though whims and desires demand fulfilment,
Reason is lost, as is sane discernment!

Next, into cataleptic state they retreat,
Needing constant Love and devotion to defeat
The grim effects on their tormented brain.
We pray for their release and peace again!

When freed of those chains, by which they were bound,
Should we celebrate the new freedom found?
Are we shallow hypocrites to rejoice this way?
As their torment ends when Death takes them away?

Rhymer.  August 13th, 2020

These taciturn days,
       that's how they move
Like the arm that dances around the margins
     of my crime.

I bet if you climbed on top,
          you couldn't penetrate deep enough.
      
          It's that momentary feeling of capture

                     You're the injured rabbit.

You
          would make them
                           want you

Only one touch.

{When you **** the words out of me,
              my hair covers you}
                                     & your
cataleptic eyes lay upon
               your first & last meal.

It's how I've always known it.

I mean,
          who would wake up
                       on a Thursday morning,
Sunshine beaming thru;

unraveling in the afterglow of the
                
                                Fall?

The Flash

When the is thunder and lightning fall to earth
let us call the lightning “Flash” when hitting the ocean
it does not die but sinks to the sea like a bubble
waiting in a cataleptic slumber.
When the call came, they rose from the shaking sea
upwards and behind the clouds.
The meteorological conditions had taken a turn for
the worse, clouds were running out of flashes.
The vain Thor, with his hammer, striking an anvil was
not effective only produced small glimmers that
didn’t reach the earth.
Thus, fortified clouds were ready for the winter.