Day by day I fritter away
Observing decorum as best I may
Meet me as you meet — reserved somebody
Leave me as you leave — dull nobody

Dreary, weary, listless, spiritless
A resting spirit clamours to emerge
Unguided, wild, free and seeking
Boldly defying reserved somebody

But how, just how do I unleash this defiant spirit
For it is to cross all conceivable limits
Oh but a mask, of course a mask!
The perfect accessory for this task!

Careless of propriety
Boastful of daring
Acting against my will
Or in tandem with it?

This mask — just now I can't discern
Ponder I do with great concern
Does it shield my identity
Or render truth to it?

So now just what fun in masks
One may ponderously ask

Masks, bring to life fantasy
Fantasy, a realm of our reality
Reality, wherein lies multiplicity
Multiplicity, within each individuality

Urns and odours bring away!
  Vapours, sighs, darken the day!
Our dole more deadly looks than dying;
  Balms and gums and heavy cheers,
  Sacred vials fill’d with tears,
And clamours through the wild air flying!

  Come, all sad and solemn shows,
  That are quick-eyed Pleasure’s foes!
  We convènt naught else but woes.

Ushers clad in white rush the masses to their seats.
Talk dulls to whispers as the queue outside depletes.
A black suit waves his wand at centre stage.
“It looks just like they said it would on this week’s news’ front page,”
             they say.

The tuxedo raised its hands, to quell the audience,
His stonewall face daunting, demanding perfect silence.
As the ushers move in tandem, down the aisles to the stage,
The curtain breaks, the glasses shake, as the lights begin to fade.

Hooded figures appear, wheeling metal tables
Bearing cobalt cadavers, held fast with jumper cables.
They are brought to centre stage, to three white-clad physicians.
Tools are passed into the hands of each the meat-magicians.
“Thank you. You’ve arrived very much on time,” says tuxedo,
       and he snaps a shot of bourbon.

Curtains billow ‘round the stage like clouds of clotted blood.
The lights dim and the show begins, the audience waiting, rabid.
And through the obscurity,
Through the gloom of the room,
They see the white-coat men lift their arms in unison,
As the tuxedo points his wand about like a handgun.
He waves his stick at the white-coat men
And they lower their hands to the bodies in front of them.
They hold tools with blades short and long,
    and dig into their subjects.
They pick through pith and pulp,
     casting flecks of flesh into the audience.
Their white coats blush deeper and deeper
   the farther they dig with their knives and their peepers.
The tuxedo thrashes his wand astir, directing the dissection with little discretion.
The audience gasps and murmurs a disturbed digression
   but watch with wide eyes in disgusting obsession.
“Someone’s got to teach these ******* a lesson,” says a white-coated man, digging deeper depressions.
All the while the corpses lay, until the tuxedo man bends in plie.
And the cadavers awaken and scream upon seeing their entrails laid out for display.
“What a horribly carnal ballet!”
             they say.

The audience clamours, simply enamoured,
Erupting with tears, and applause, and laughter.
They clap at the bodies exploding in seizure
While the white-coats rip and cut to their leisure,
The subjects watch in horror as they are filleted,
Their own pelts and rinds are stars on Broadway.

Suddenly the tuxedo man stops,
Signaling the white-coats to stop in mid-chop.
The mangled bodies see on the floor themselves in pieces like the dried needles of pines.
And they curl and writhe on the metal tables, hugging tightly to their own spines.
“Thank you. But it seems we’ve run out of time,” the tuxedo man says with a bow,
As he wipes the sweat and blood from his brow.
And the ushers rush the audience out,
While the hooded men return to collect the waste
While the audience leaves feeling nothing close to disgraced.
“I’ve never once seen a better display,”
             they say.

Justum et tenacem propositi virum.
      HOR. ‘Odes’, iii. 3. I.


  The man of firm and noble soul
  No factious clamours can controul;
  No threat’ning tyrant’s darkling brow
    Can swerve him from his just intent:
  Gales the warring waves which plough,
    By Auster on the billows spent,
  To curb the Adriatic main,
Would awe his fix’d determined mind in vain.

  Aye, and the red right arm of Jove,
  Hurtling his lightnings from above,
  With all his terrors there unfurl’d,
    He would, unmov’d, unaw’d, behold;
  The flames of an expiring world,
    Again in crashing chaos roll’d,
  In vast promiscuous ruin hurl’d,
  Might light his glorious funeral pile:
Still dauntless ’midst the wreck of earth he’d smile.

FROM off a hill whose concave womb reworded
A plaintful story from a sistering vale,
My spirits to attend this double voice accorded,
And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale;
Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,
Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.

Upon her head a platted hive of straw,
Which fortified her visage from the sun,
Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw
The carcass of beauty spent and done:
Time had not scythed all that youth begun,
Nor youth all quit; but, spite of heaven's fell rage,
Some beauty peep'd through lattice of sear'd age.

Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,
Which on it had conceited characters,
Laundering the silken figures in the brine
That season'd woe had pelleted in tears,
And often reading what contents it bears;
As often shrieking undistinguish'd woe,
In clamours of all size, both high and low.

I don't look like me, I don't sound like me,
I don't feel like me.
Sometimes it feels not like I'm in the present,
But like I'm from the future sent back too far into the past,
And I'm impatiently waiting, playing catch up
Until my body grows into its brain.
Please, god, let me grow into myself.
My skin feels stretched too tightly over brittle bones,
And my muscles are so itchy,
I want to rip away my flesh just to reach inside.
My heart clamours incessantly, hurling itself at my rib cage
With such ferocity that my entire chest shakes with its beating.
Please, god, let something quieten it,
And if it can't appease it, please, god, let something silence it for good.

any reading of a philosophy book, outside of university, is mapped without the sort of strategy to receive a grade, for a "correct" interpretation (rather a regurgitation) of said work (mentioned below); to say it in simpler terms: i do not ever think that understanding a concept - in concreto - is worth some sort of "passing on the genes" (memes) of one individual to another - given that a meme has become pop culture, and as the french would put it:
        ce crasse et petit irritante chiotte valeur de merde
                                                                ­                        (i.e. un cliché) -
truly written like and englishman -
   a meme is that crass and small irritant bog's worth of ****
                                                            ­                                           ( " ),
   at least that's peckham french, del boy french,
                         i was well informed about this french dialect.

- and to even "think" why there are so many blue
indians, and so few piggies; perhaps it boils down
to the fact that the blue indians believe in
   burial within fire, rather than earth,
  and they prefer to surround themselves with the living,
rather than with the dead; and piggies do,
  graveyard upon graveyard,
    and that constant "nostalgia", idol-worship
of the past, where nothing greater can come again;
for those who surround themselves with the living,
their existence rages akin to the elemental
tomb of their burial... but for those who surround
themselves with the dead,
   their existences decompases akin to the elemental
tomb of their burial, a heart-broken: nightmarish
earth. -

for some reason, i always get these
"revelations" (for lack of a better word) -
as one might receive a signature
of a thunderstorm in the form of
lightning upon the sky -
           and it usually predicated by
listening to a few pop songs -
   and then listening to the
    *cantos of templar knights -
            but then again, you sometimes
really need extremes,
     as the canadian sayings goes -
we only have two seasons,
    one's winter, the other is construction.

but this is about technicalities,
one could even cite the following as
the part of any contract, the terms & conditions
written in the smallest possible print,
   lodged in hardbacks worth over 30 quid -
not your cheap bestseller paperbacks -
   those too could be appreciated,
   but akin to pressure to keep a worth's of
expression in sanctum of a hardback?
   take the year 1996 for the cantos 1st
on toilet-paper (paperback) - but in brick?
take the year 1970...
  and where do the technicalities come in?

   - heidegger's ponderings V, aphorism 41 -
technicalities akin to the rules of
a game of cricket, or at least the pointing system.

but count it nonetheless, half an hour to scroll...
12,700+... till i got to april the 8th
  and resurrect a memory?

.  ע   ‎
יהוה ‎‎‎
א‎
                  sighs from on high...
      and laughter into the depths.

let us just say, that digital is
the new hardback edition -
    to condense my works into toilet-paper
till take more years and more pushy-pushy
tactics, to transform
     a hardback into something affordable...
but in reverse...
               what comical inversion,
   30 years will become 300 years to come
  about for someone to wipe-their-***-to-mouth
fathom of what went on at the genesis
of the birth of the internet,
   in some obscure location,
                  like a catholic school in england.

now the germanic pilot-plotline (regarding
aphorism 41, ponderings V):

    promo enigma-alchimia in vivo lingua,
             anti ipse (dixit) in lingua vitro.

(we're not in posh-boy grammar school,
the language is dead, it's become play-dough,
a malagrammaton-monœgo:
for a man's tongue is to his befitting desire
to state the terms of play).

da / ein-da / die-da          vs.                hier   vs.
                                      die-hier / ein-da

( there / a there / the there        vs.
                                                ­                 here    vs.
  the here / a there    -
                                
                               ­ atheistic scissors of
definite/indefinite articles/articulation of
    what's near, and what's far away,
     the dualistic-dichotomy of here&there,
  then&now...
           as far as i am concerned i cannot narrate
this akin to a vampire romance page-turner
bestseller... too many organic chemistry diagrams
concerning electron migration, sorry) -

   but given the "blank" slate genesis, starting
with articles... they go beyond being categorised
as definite or indefinite...
    namely... am i, or can i be assured that
      there's no X variations?
    i.e.
                da     ein da
                      X
       die hier     hier            ???????????????

               isn't ein hier merely "being"?
imagine being forced into a there -
                  without being the there,
akin to a zeitgeist, akin less!
      zeitgeist = a there (communism),
  but the there? that's what hegel
said of napoleon entering jena:
       "das ist ein weltgeist!" (capitalism).

and who are the anglophones?
  i cannot respect these "peoples" -
they constantly stutter when it comes to
  their lack of diacritical application,
they stutter... i might as well call them
the strabismus race...
    and if darwinism is to be the vector-catalyst
(hollywood was thrashing american cities
for decades, what damage could this
observation could possibly do?) -
  if darwinism is to be the prime historian,
that darwinism replaces actual history
and becomes neither in vitro, nor in vivo,
but in situ? why do scientists wonder why
universities are undermined in their
humanities, when scientific populism of
biology (i.e. darwinism) has undermined
papa historia? am i... missing something?!
     if you undermine a credible study within
the humanities with enough darwnism?
what do you get? inertia...
     you can burn crosses, but you can also
burn an image of a monkey into a man's mind,
the same result occurs!
      personally, i'd rather burn crosses,
i might end up drinking beer and joking with
a few skin-heads around an unsual campfire.

the other side just... "debates" loud-mouth
******* who haven't learned the gymnastics
of looking up those grandiose black-holes
of blah blah.... blah blah blah... blah...
     i'd like to ask them... does your **** of talk
ooze a perfume of.... strawberries?
   and the punk-fist fields... forever! ooh...
****** *******' salsa! shwing yir hips
ya bunch of conclaves (p.j.w.) - privacy
                     justice warriors).

        taoist's foregetfulness

grounded in maxim primus -
  to allow the world a breath, allow the world
to let you breathe as you deem fit,
   never too soon to be bound to genealogy,
esp. that of the genesis bound to
the new testament -
  for if the old testament begins with poetry,
and if truly metaphorically chained,
then how pitiful is the genesis of
the new testament, which begins with
  something as sorrowful as the nadir
of greek culture, the expired logos,
   a genealogy, with the greeks ransacking
the jews under roman rule,
  just like the ransacking of constantinople
by the venetians in 1204 (4th crusade)...
who'd start a "holy" book without poetry,
but a ******* geneaology?!
          no wonder poetry these days isn't
a rare appreciation...
    but cheap and as tsunami natured
   in its "production" as tabloid press,
  toothbrushes, toilet paper,
                        toothpicks, among other
                                               paraphernalia;
the new testament is such a massive turn-off...
if you don't begin with poetry,
esp. that of metaphor translated into imagery,
and instead begin with a branch of logic
that the new testament begins with, i.e.
genealogy... and then expect latter poetics
in the text to be taken literally?!
          clue the keen me into the clamours
of the poly-schismatic version of events...
    sure, christianity is a "polytheism",
                           in that it's poly-schismatic.

and of the garden, should adam have approached
first, as he would have done in asia -
         he would have talked with
the serpent sæwelō -
           perhaps that same serpent of
   caucasus - first, to have a thirst of
knowledge tamed - although never really -
  for the serpent sæwelō would have
tempted adam: eat of this tree, its fruit,
  and your thirst for knowledge will be
forever satiated!
   so said the serpent of order
   so said sæwelō (ᛋ), the sun-snake...
the serpent of illumination -
                            the golden serpent.
and so adam bit into the fruit,
   and such thirst as never before filled him,
a thirst for knowledge that hasn't
as of yet seized -
     for the fruit, which adam imagined
would be sweet - was actually filled with salt.

  and we are initiated into the myth
of how the other scenario took place with regards
to a woman approaching the serpent first,
       yes?
                and for the woman, the serpent
of chaos, known as ansuz (ᚨ) - the siamese -
who said both truth and lie simulatenously
  also known as the god who's name begins with
yod, in the roman tongue (Y),
                          and he said:
  you will know the difference between
good and evil -
    ah indeed he said so, but that said, it would
imply acts being simulatenously both,
rather than either / or -
he continued: you'll be like the æsir (gods)!
      knowing such distinctions,
                   and will know the meaning of fate,
and justice, and due recompense!

as etymological mutations occur,
   and translations into other tongues
go, let's begin with:

sieg heil - old english - sigel - hail sun!
       if ever a führer (the few, the rarer),
                        so too the sun's eclipse -
   louis xiv wouldn't have minded,
    but at least he ****** to his
         cockerel's content to praise sunrise -
but as it stands, an etymological
           "mutation" in translation: hail sun!

-------------------------- p.s. p.p.s. p.p.p.s. p.p.p.p.s.
    f(p.s.) ad infinitum: borrowing from
mathematics, i.e. f(x) - heidegger
invented the algebra of writing in a certain style
that's only worth a neurotic / autistic pedant's
worth of bother...

   let's just say, in terms of style,
                                        it's purely hellish,
   you can only go as far with a text
when the variations
  range from dasein, to da-sein
   to da-sein to da-sein (i.e. da-ßein) -
    to whatever else is enclosed in the book...
i haven't got the time to write
an expansion of these milimetres
            and a litre of *** waiting for me...

   inverse stress on being
              detached from a "there": da-ßein:

   with regard to the world and its being
   constituting beings (heidegger's style
of expression, i know, can be a muddle)...

all i wanted was an antonym:
   rather than the world and its there,
   i wanted the world and its nowhere,
or rather, a pure form of being: a here,
      being detached from beings,
   the infinite dance of "solipsism",
    mono-direct articulation /
   plural-direct articulation (a march) /
mono-indirect articulation (a thought) /
plural-indirect articulation (a commute home)...

in terms of dictionary ref. to oppose da (there):

ist da - is here
                hier - here
komm her! - come here!
           hier & da - here & there
                  auf der stelle - here & now

stelle:
       schnellen - quickly
   schwellen (ich bin) - i am swelling
schelle - bell
   bruchstelle - break

                            da-ßien = hiersien

i.e. stressor on being,
             which morphs into a reconstruction
of the original equation:

     i.e. "da"-ßien = hier-"sien" ≠ nichtsein...

    and the point being?
    the simple f(x) translation into philosophical
jargon... f(p.s.) ad infinitum...
                      this had to run into a cul de sac
at some point, given all the technicalities
and stylistic disparities between existentialists,
if any remained to live into the 21st century...
but the buggers ****** off
              let's just say the new wave
of concerning italics remains the still
unexplored territory of missing diacritical marks
in the english language...
    as much can be said about writing
            chair    as can be said about
   writing                  krzesło...
           (yes, a consonant grapheme, err-zed)...
funny, in grapheme terms...
   that the german grapheme ß
  never became a replacement of -sch-
     in english -sh- in slavic -sz-,
             seems to be more t'ss... wet snare...
          another example?
    (choo-choo) train / pociąg -
  and yes, that's not implying choo-choo,
   since it's obvious, the verb ćwiczyć:
to train.

Narcissus was hunted,
His life abated through reflection
‘Till all that was left was his beauty
Stained on the water’s surface,
And his tale as a flare in the night
For every proud soul.

Thenceforth we shamed ourselves,
For every fleeting glimpse at the face
Which contains the twinned thoughts of our own.
The mirror, now a symbol
Of despicable self-assurance,
Man’s vain invention.

It is the microphone
However; the tool that listens,
Clamours attention to every word
And breaks in vicious soundwaves,
That’s the true measure of vanity,
A catapulted voice.

The mirror, used more so
As a reflection of our self-doubt
And all of the fear people can see.
My self-effacing curses,
My knowledge of singularity,
And total lack of greed.

I dream, I dream and morphine seems to take the pain away,
the poppy fields are my armour,
the shields against the clamours of
the day.
If I could,
I would and should awake but that takes moral fibre,
and I am just the turpitude, the crude and base, no shame,
and furthermore, I can't face the accusing looks, or
the debits in my credit books.

I dream, I dream and lean towards the light that
shines from the opthalmoscope,
there is no hope I hear them say,
more clamour in the clamour of my day,
more morphine takes the pain away.

I dream to dream and dreams dreams me,
dreams will be my
downfall.

High atop shining mountains,
Where Gods glint as they spy
On wanting mortals, cast in heat
And toil, in heavens that are always
Basked by sun and days of grape,
That flow from the endless pour
Of golden casks, give mirth to always
Blue veins as they revel in mighty
Perfection and beauty, enameled
With imperishable face and statuary
Form, who thunder above feathery
Cloud, rumbling beyond all earthly
Ken and dream— in these heavens,
Is there myth only of desire?

Or do they yearn in cradle sleep,
As all those landed babes in need
Of mercies and fable, do gods shape
Subtle creations with the music of love,
Of blood in a touch, of dawn and hope
In the flowering of family and learning?
Can the gleaming child ever know needs
As they are met, held by eyes and lip,
The windy caress of kiss and nod
And rarest time as it wanes?

On radiant, fabled Olympus, where
Eagles, golden in the sun, only rake
The rims of Elysium as they song glide
So effortlessly, unlike the perilous, shy,
Wandering tribes basely set so far below,
The sun clad Titans home eternal, who always
Are held, perpetual in ever engulf of skies, rest
Starry, in their sparkling, immortal cloaks
Of milky cosmos and ambrosial aethers.

Above the murmuring clamours
Of the under strays and dogs of plain
And sea, do chose children of light ever
Quake or shudder in awe, never moved,
Or are they but weilders of storm and fierce
Lightning strikes, burnishing in judgement flame,
Never to be struck by leaves that come in fires of autumn,
Such monumental peace in a seasons turn, the simple joinings,
Of lovers, by a hearth, by a road, by rush of mountain streams?
In high heavens do even the Gods not dream
Of deep, down, sole earthly pleasures?

.
High atop shining mountains,
Where Gods glint as they spy
On wanting mortals, cast in heat
And toil, in heavens that are always
Basked by sun and days of grape,
That flow from the endless pour
Of golden casks, give mirth to always
Blue veins as they revel in mighty
Perfection and beauty, enameled
With imperishable face and statuary
Form, who thunder above feathery
Cloud, rumbling beyond all earthly
Ken and dream— in these heavens,
Is there myth only of desire?

Or do they yearn in cradle sleep,
As all those landed babes in need
Of mercies and fable, do gods shape
Subtle creations with the music of love,
Of blood in a touch, of dawn and hope
In the flowering of family and learning?
Can the gleaming child ever know needs
As they are met, held by eyes and lip,
The windy caress of kiss and nod
And rarest time as it wanes?

On radiant, fabled Olympus, where
Eagles, golden in the sun, only rake
The rims of Elysium as they song glide
So effortlessly, unlike the perilous, shy,
Wandering tribes basely set so far below,
The sun clad Titans home eternal, who always
Are held, perpetual in ever engulf of skies, rest
Starry, in their sparkling, immortal cloaks
Of milky cosmos and ambrosial aethers.

Above the murmuring clamours
Of the under strays and dogs of plain
And sea, do chose children of light ever
Quake or shudder in awe, never moved,
Or are they but weilders of storm and fierce
Lightning strikes, burnishing in judgement flame,
Never to be struck by leaves that come in fires of autumn,
Such monumental peace in a seasons turn, the simple joinings,
Of lovers, by a hearth, by a road, by rush of mountain streams?
In high heavens do even the Gods not dream
Of deep, down, sole earthly pleasures?

My new lover is an old ghost,
who picked apart armour
left bereft by rust and rain,
to sit inside my ribcage
once more throwing pebbles at my heart

I did not welcome them
to my table
or to my bed
but this ghost holds me close inside my bones,
and each morning,
I entertain a phantom
that clamours to be fed.

What is this fire
Stirred up from within?
From deep inside
the embers of my soul
my heart is restless.

Here, with the children;
Motherly duties abound.
Take this bring that what is this
Can you help me?
Can I have…?
It is true:
My love for them holds
No bounds.
It is unlimited,
No matter what they need
Or demand

Yet
My soul, forever, wild,  
wanders through thickets
Of bush, my hair a-tangle
As I slip through
deserted forest
Through endless tundra
Moss tickling my toes
I do not even feel the cold.
I am in a swirling array
Of bright clean snow
Icy energy
That fills me up
Makes me glow….
Indeed, I have reached
The land of the seals and whales:
My own polar plateau.

Oh yes, my skin turns to ice
And my eyelashes frozen
Fingers numb
In  this deep freeze I have chosen.
I  lie, spread out
Upon the sheet of soft
White that surrounds me
A freezing sea that buoys me up
Like a babe in the womb
******* in the nourishment
of glacial waters
and gelid floes
the icicles forming around my toes.

And all the while,
inside me, the fire burns and burns
My heart upon a skewer,
turns and turns
I am simply ignited
By my own inner flame
One I cannot put out
Even if I wished
I am illuminated from within
Becoming cooked
inside my own skin…

Help me, great powers above
goddesses of fire and brimstone
Cool me
let the icy waters trickle down
to my deep
quivering spots
Let the smoke be gone
Let me dive into icy waters
And refresh my soul

For now,
I sit here, upon the sofa
Staring into space
House asleep.
My thoughts my own.
Incantations up and out
As my soul clamours and
Shouts.
It will be better
In the morning's
Glow.
I sleep
With incandescent
colors about my head
Like dreamy auroras
Surrounding my bed
My hands
Holding
My beating heart
Pumping
Flowing
Somehow whole
In all my parts.

In an iridescent aura a hippie angel came to me
Enchanting me with a ticklish, infectious laugh
I am enamoured, my heavy heart clamours
Woozy in her magical aftermath
Her dreadlocks frame her enchanting face
Etched with curves of compassion
An image of accentuated grace
Which sparks my heart like nuclear fission
Prithee Angel, be my guide
Enamour me of your wisdom
By your truest words I'll abide
Let me in your passions kingdom
O hippie Angel I love thee
You are the delight of eternity

I spin myself a web of lies;
Lies that are disguised as the sweetest nectar
Yet contain a sickly poison within -
Killing yet comforting with every dose.

My tainted spell bewitches me,
To the point where both
mind and matter are
completely controlled by my
pleasurable pain,
And when my sense rejects this impulse my
insatiable heart clamours for more
and more,
pushing me to the brink of insanity -
Insanity that no one but my desire is to blame.

And what lies can influence the logical mind so?
Lies of unspoken passion which only my eye can see,
if my eye is to be believed.
Fantasies of requited need and longing,
Dreams of endless wonder at what could be
and what might be, maybe.

I don't want to believe my lies anymore
For they fool my silly heart,
Yet perhaps my lies are the only thing
Keeping my heart from breaking.

Just bemeath chosen words
And rewrites,
There clamours a poem raw
And true,
Free of likes and critique,
Above bandwagon scociety,
There a poet can believe in
The art of the experience:

I am alive between each word,
The hand on fire
As sudden urges froze me
In the actiin of my words
To jot them down,
What captures my life like
The inspired word,
And the need to capture a moment
On paper,
Where I was is now instilled
Like the metaphor of life,
And I am one with the unspoken,
As i have stopped and
Undone.
Words pause me,
Propel me,
And I freeze in the flow
Where life happend
And i stop all things
To write it down stuck
Between the stanzas.
The poet can write life,
Rarely does the experience
Saturate the time of a writer.

I go about my day
good mother that I am
No one understands
How when I stop moving
                           cooking
                           helping
                          cleaning
                      ­   teaching
                         hugging
           mending little hearts    
No one can understand
How my own heart is   longing
                                  craving
               ­                  missing
                                cracking
                ­                splitting
not quitting
                    yet breaking
No one knows of my secret pain
buried deep inside
within fissures of steaming earth
My passion fighting
to be released
from my burning skin
My heart beats out twigs and soil
as it clamours to be loved
My hands reach out
to the stars
into the void of endless want
Help me, heavens above
My empty lips implore
Let my prayers be
answered, too

I want more

.
High atop shining mountains,
Where Gods glint as they spy
On wanting mortals, cast in heat
And toil, in heavens that are always
Basked by sun and days of grape,
That flow from the endless pour
Of golden casks, give mirth to always
Blue veins as they revel in mighty
Perfection and beauty, enameled
With imperishable face and statuary
Form, who thunder above feathery
Cloud, rumbling beyond all earthly
Ken and dream— in these heavens,
Is there myth only of desire?

Or do they yearn in cradle sleep,
As all those landed babes in need
Of mercies and fable, do gods shape
Subtle creations with the music of love,
Of blood in a touch, of dawn and hope
In the flowering of family and learning?
Can the gleaming child ever know needs
As they are met, held by eyes and lip,
The windy caress of kiss and nod
And rarest time as it wanes?

On radiant, fabled Olympus, where
Eagles, golden in the sun, only rake
The rims of Elysium as they song glide
So effortlessly, unlike the perilous, shy,
Wandering tribes basely set so far below,
The sun clad Titans home eternal, who always
Are held, perpetual in ever engulf of skies, rest
Starry, in their sparkling, immortal cloaks
Of milky cosmos and ambrosial aethers.

Above the murmuring clamours
Of the under strays and dogs of plain
And sea, do chose children of light ever
Quake or shudder in awe, never moved,
Or are they but wielders of storm and fierce
Lightning strikes, burnishing in judgement flame,
Never to be struck by leaves that come in fires of autumn,
Such monumental peace in a seasons turn, the simple joinings,
Of lovers, by a hearth, by a road, by rush of mountain streams?
In high heavens do even the Gods not dream
Of deep, down, sole earthly pleasures?
.

THEM ****** DAFFODILS!

"Ah...howya!"
said the ink blot

throwing itself
all over my copy book.

"Jaysus...wait 'til yer teacher
sees this!"

it chortled
proud as punch with itself.

I stare at it
in an almost total disbelief.

My bladder clamours
to be relieved.

I...squeeze
my knees together.

King Blot bloated with
its own self importance

has totally obliterated
the last word I have penned.

"I wandered lonely as a
. . .!"

Teacher snaps it up
with great glee

holding it between
thumb & forefinger

with mock disgust
& real contempt.

"So, Dempsey...ya
wandered lonely as...

. . .an ink blot!"

The class sniggers
( glad it's me - not them ).

He glowers them
into silence.

"Yes...yes...Sir!"
I whimper &

suddenly seeing a loop hole
( I dive )into it.

"It's...it's...show
not tell. . .Sir!"

His glasses flash
smile becomes sneer.

"COME...HERE...BOY!"
he enunciates clearly

each syllable
chiseled into an awed silence.

The cane cuts through the air.
The class winces.

The tips of my fingers
scream in agony.

I dance a hornpipe
of pain

palms tucked
under my oxters.

"Them ****** daffodils!"
I groan

moaning through
my growing tears.

coming back full circle... but not exactly...
rereading ted berrigan's sonnets
is like:
      unlike: my dreams, my love...
my thirst my youth that i gladly blind-spotted
and it passed me: with not bye-bye...
not that i am old enough
for a retrospection...
  but i also, don't suppose it can ever
be a mythological time
akin to... march, april, may of
a 1963 of the u.s. of a.
            i never go around the: h'american
love for acronyms...
i never will...
two best things out of this said continent /
nation... 20th century poetry and...
bourbon...
i would have added cornbread
to the list but i've never tried...
but my god
        they really did love their milk:
esp. via seeing it in movies and some
h.b.o. "what's not a soap opera"...
#metoo: i too love milk...
but... not when eating dinner...
on it's own... and if i feel congested
then milk in the morning
with some strawberries...
usually does the "trick"...
but unlike any other time in history
when words were written
somehow: democratically and not,
because of a churn of a behemoth of
talent: like: Shaky Pear...
               not all... spectacular?
exactly... but not one to really
allow himself a statue status...
  such was the prodigy of a people:
once upon a time...
once upon a time there was also
a soviet pact...
now i'll just focus on pedantic *******...
i.e. the colon...
how it is primarily a punctuation
mark of a prepositional nature
to fathom a rubric, a list...
e.g. in a supermarket, you will probably
find: watermelons, whiskey, eggs...
honey... butter...
or... it's employed as an emphasis
when otherwise italicised letters
would do as much
ergo...
   i do wish: you could
"vs." i do wish, you could...
          then again... the stress is not
on the pronoun of you...
but whether this one of a you:
could, would, should, will, no...

it's been a while since i've liked what
i write... i guess it must be
a while longer because this
just stinks of forced-jack-****
of... "scared of an empty canvas":
it screams! beg the crows to
pig me...
beg the crows to peck me...
beg the crows to pluck my eyes
out... beg the crows at the pig's trough
beg the crows: i'm an omelette
of minced flesh...
not an omelette a
tightening of herr burg & herr er
with glue of most certainly
egg... breadcrumbs...
maybe... may-be... flour...
of the relevant culture from the past
century:
thespian shadow-thieving -
what if John Wayne were to be staged
in a biopic of Lyndon B. Johnson...
just as a reminder:
where my southern comfort comes
from...
backtracking to: some ******* of
a little town where the meme
of the slender man roams...
it's hardly not terrible to have this
romantic, nostalgic view of
1960s h'america and not the 1950s...
if i were a german
bound to the 19th century's closure
it would have been
the mystery of the ancient Greeks:
so i'm told no great nostalgia
on the crux of the expansion
of Rome: not a lot of thinking
upon the shoulders beside...
       "thinkers" like Cicero and Seneca...
congested with names...
cruel underworld of
a crab-bucket...
fatty farts against not wind:
below an entire grey body of water
of: must we forget(?)
             beside all this reason to:
abstract...
the drawings in the caves of Lascaux...
at best Kandinsky attempted
to replicate the "blur":
at worst he replaced the ox
with a deconstructed something or
alienated the "other" of
a rectangle...
mind you: the X (chi) is a surd...
Las-Cow...
  lasso me in... escape the tumult of sounds...
today this one word
started boiling in me...
no use to converse with it / over it...
i'd sooner be found digesting some
offal: like beef intestines in a broth (
beef-comb): sooner me nibbling
on goat's hooves...
- the word?
oh... it involved tonne...
   but it was missing -ne...
        whatever the word was:
i still remember the word: cloud...
as i might remember...
clot... and cauliflower...
            to stand in the light of the most
abstract: outside of the realm
of space, time...
then to have to return to the glued realms...
like... before the discovery of
dinosaur bones...
people were drawing pictures
of dragons...
fire-breathing creatures...
fire from the meteor...
accepted orthodox narrative "parallel"...
to imagine dragons from what?
seagulls and wriggling spines of
lost eyelid serpents:
insomniac lizards?
             i abhor fatalism more than
i might ever like to join
the nihilistic gypsy circus of
alcohol and ***** ****:
  skin's between the muscle, the fat:
toward the bone(s)...
  this is too eerie, even for me:
i might like to lapse into
some variation of existentialism
with solipsism on the fore...
barrage of verbiage: perhaps some loan
word... perhaps:
notably in english: none...
in the clamours of the niche:
   claustrophobic esque nostalgia for...
words from worms...
the sound made by slugs
when digesting glass, ice and pressured rocks
that... time... devours...
where to begin a resurfacing narrative
from?
  historically - rather...
ahistorical - easier for the atheist...
easier for the atheist
than the a-historicist... no?
              much easier to be an atheist
than to be... so laughed at having to conjure
past events like they might
lead one into commanding an army
of figurines...
that there must be some mediocre events
worth more than...
the john f. kennedy's speech about...
moon, nationhood and one's place in it...
is more important than...
the charge of the winged
hussars at the siege of Vienna...
well then...
that in the beginning there was word
and the word was god:
honestly?
poetry would call it: counter evolution...
we didn't evolve from apes:
we devolved from apes...
we... fell...
        divine inspiration...
to have to explain a load of camel riddling
******* along the way of
the humps and the seven rivers,
the seven mountains etc.
why would i need clothes and... fashion...
if i could still be a 300lb gorilla
with my own fur?
why would i need bonsai tigers
as company when i could
have life most exciting...
most congenial: most social in a little
pride...
for a computer or a telephone
i abhor... for the letters i see...
i could take my mortal self to the highest
perch of the crown: that's a tree...
i would never have had to leave
Africa and wander: desolate toward
the ***** of Alaska or Siberia...
a dream-esque state of affairs...
Darwinism is too much of
an a posteriori perspective...
      
      it's not that i don't like it:
but it's one of those arguments: structured
to erase any if all history...
the impeding doom for the "individual":
some... "now"...
it's not like Philip Augustus, the Capetian would
be desired to have
a mention...
well... under darwinism it's unlike
the Copernican collective revolution...
solo-projects astound:
some common grounding with this: hearth...

my pet peeve is also with the people
that are bishops of Darwinism...
who can't see uselessness of
having to apply something
a posteriori... having to agitate the sleeper-cell
of the unit of man...
i don't see the point of waking
individuals one by one...
hell: altogether now: yes!
but at the same time...
it's useless... hindsight is useless...
notably when studying history...
it **** with the momentum of life!
darwinism has ******-off with the momentum
of life...
e.g. subjectivity is an illness!

thank **** i'm forever subject to gravity...
and the english crown... but not forever...
and how they cite: subjectivity ill...
yet they are subjected to the scientific facts...
"objectivity" round-up...
they don't object to the facts...
the science...
next to none snooker + poker ******* teasing
with pokers & a giggle... march...

intellectually not hardened:
by the preface of the hard boiled egg:
later, much later...
screamed against a tile upon a tile:
glued together with some mayo for
a paste...

    for an atheist to live without
either the concept of time,
"concept" aside: that there is time,
that there is space...
for pauper me to allocate the...
Fwench scoop on the matter: pyramids!
what space is: a barren creature...
what time is: an unforgiving ******
of replica of past events...
what "god" is...
a most forgiving Ottoman of
leisure...

not what i will do upon entry
into eternity:
but, rather... what i will not have
to "encounter":
i see no evolution:
perhaps the simplest explanation
that guarantee the mind of gravity
extending to the serpentine
of plants via phototropism...

we devolved to be so conscious
of so much that leave
us adding so little to what could
encapsulate us with details
of managing "the whole"...
we have our structures...
our striking contrasts of cataracts...
what we pet we ingest with
cancer what dies
sooner we have probably poached
or snookered into an ivory trade...

we evolved for a headache...
a bunch of walking abortions...
i see no gorilla enslave
a giraffe for ****'s sake...
a body of horse... exists...
from chowing / chewing on grass...
the dietary requirements
of the omnivore of a "hulk":
rattle my wheat basin!

what isn't atheism is: what's ahistorical?
remind me what is!
cosmopolitan superiority
of argument: "argument"?!
           leave me with
Odin and Slender Man...
leave me with the oldest superstitions that
allowed me to gravitate toward
a purpose that was never
about the crisis in stand-up comedy...

for christ's worth of cross
and if that's not bad:
i just wanted a broom...
or a *****...
if i were desperate enough:
a *****...
sell that ****(e) to Syrians
if you must...
when i asked for a shovel
i received a circumcision suppose...
i asked for a shovel...
not now when Israel has
been established to drivel against
goat, goad & gott...
i can replenish the Berliner
cosmopolitan scoop.... for hush, hush...
will h'america charade with
a white knight charge?

no... i bet so!
this new... nuanced... axis of heave!
and even still: "evil"....
how one tribe "allows" themselves
to "think" they are expatriates...
the other tribe didn't follow suite:
not enough powdered *******:
not enough cumin, coriander,
turmeric...
EASTERN EUROPE...
lesser former soviet ****...
oh sure... the expatriates of Xina...
and...

   lesser people of Yugoslavia...
Greek is not European:
PIGS...
      once upon a time: jarring...
add a year or so to the equation...
just plain ******* dandy / annoying...
the lesser Europe... EAST...
well... **** me: bon voyage and your
sharia!
niqab me later...
         ****'s a brownie of a cuckoldry
and lacklustre and still calls it:
the beacon for all people
to glorify: brain-drain manifest themselves in...
to champion!
i was late to the party...
your... masochists had priority status
to exam the arguments...
i have a mushroom's growth
of animosity for these supposed:
higher tier people, these natives:
oh god... i love the tongue...
i own it...
   from what i heard some of the natives
are dyslexic.

THEM ****** DAFFS!

"Ah...howya!"
said the ink blot

throwing itself
all over my copy book.

"Jaysus...wait 'til yer teacher
sees this!"

it chortled
proud as punch with itself.

I stare at it
in an almost total disbelief.

My bladder clamours
to be relieved.

I...squeeze
my knees together.

King Blot bloated with
its own self importance

has totally obliterated
the last word I have penned.

"I wandered lonely as a
. . .!"

Teacher snaps it up
with great glee

holding it between
thumb & forefinger

with mock disgust
& real contempt.

"So, Dempsey...ya
wandered lonely as...

. . .an ink blot!"

The class sniggers
( glad it's me - not them ).

He glowers them
into silence.

"Yes...yes...Sir!"
I whimper &

suddenly seeing a loop hole
( I dive )into it.

"It's...it's...show
not tell. . .Sir!"

His glasses flash
smile becomes sneer.

"COME...HERE...BOY!"
he enunciates clearly

each syllable
chiseled into an awed silence.

The cane cuts through the air.
The class winces.

The tips of my fingers
scream in agony.

I dance a hornpipe
of pain

palms tucked
under my oxters.

"Them ****** daffodils!"
I groan

moaning throughODILS!
my growing tears.

hey lord, even though my body has weakened considerably, my irrepressible mind  still clamours for outside attractions.

hey lord, I have not figured out even now why my eccentric mind behaves in this way.

She spumes,babbles,murmurs and clamours
Indeed a belle so enticing n astounding
The drooping branches of trees bows to touch her
But she becharms and beckons all to her infinite *****
The foliage bedecks her,twines her
Draped in silver robe,her hair dishevelled
She flows on to lure all to its boundless beauty

Life would not be content
to be just a side-show
it clamours to be felt and heard
' this everyone of you must know'--

from the highest
to the utmost low
in all directions
its winds sweep and blow-

most in resignation give way
a few dare defy and declare: 'Not so'
those who stand up to fight
and would yield not, is each a true hero-

I choose to live in emptiness
to life nothing I should owe
how brief are the hours before me--
my own silent footsteps I must follow.

THEM ****** DAFFS!

"Ah...howya!"
said the ink blot
throwing itself

all over my copy book.
"Jaysus...wait 'til

yer teacher sees this!"
it chortled
proud as punch with itself

I stare at it
in an almost
total disbelief

my bladder
clamours
to be relieved

I...squeeze
my knees
together

King Blot bloated with
its own self
importance

has totally obliterated
the last word I
have penned

"I wandered
lonely as a
. . .!"

teacher snaps it up
with great glee
holding it between

thumb & forefinger
with mock disgust
& real contempt

"So, Dempsey...ya
wandered lonely as...
. . .an ink blot!"

the class sniggers
( glad it's me - not them ).
teacher glowers them into silence

"Yes...yes...Sir!"
I whimper &
suddenly seeing a loop hole

( I dive )into it )
"It's...it's...show
not tell. . .Sir!"

his glasses flash
smile becomes
sneer

"COME...HERE...BOY!"
he enunciates clearly
each syllable

chiseled into
an awed
and awful silence

the cane cuts
through the air
the class winces

the tips
of my fingers
scream in agony

I dance a hornpipe
of pain palms tucked
under my oxters

"Them ****** daffodils!"
I groan moaning
through my growing tears

my fingers yelling
fluttering and dancing
in their private pain