there is comfort
in living in black
the devoid of color
makes life seem more meaningful
as if pain has got it's bludgening purpose

but then you came along
sprouted from the ground
petals in pastels and colors all around
and my god

i'll keep my eyes open forever
if it means the black has gone to color
and you promise me that you'll never find
any other

We got out of the ****** motel early,
while we still could,
before the rental car got stolen
or our room underwent dynamic drive-by refurbishment.
There was supposed to be a
complimentary continental breakfast,
but the coffee machine was broken
and someone had already swiped all the donuts.

My only frame of reference for Inglewood was that it was Sam Jackson's character's home turf in 'Pulp Fiction',
leading me to suspect it
probably wasn't a nice area,
although the fat ****** smoking outside
when we'd checked in at 2am
had seemed very friendly.

You were right about LA, about
how there must be a sun, but you can't
really see it, you just
sort of assume it's up there somewhere
behind the fog huffing in off the Pacific
and the toxic breath rising from the
city's gridlocked mouth.

We made for Venice Beach, because you
don't fly all that way and then not go,
us figuring ourselves early enough
in the grey, jet-lagged damp, to
avoid the junkies, the winos and the crazies,
the symptoms of America driving itself mad with
unrealistic dreams.
But they were already there, muttering and
shivering on sand and cement, some
under rags or cardboard,
just waking up in
spite of themselves.

A woman with the hungriest face I ever saw
threw a cigarette lighter at me, then yelled,
shaking in her filthy clothes, that she wasn't giving it to me, *****, FYI,
FBI, CIA, JFK... then
started screaming about Kennedy and all those lying ***** up on the hill.

The ocean ******* away at the land behind us, like it was
whetting its appetite for the day when San Andreas splinters, and the waves finally get to
devour
California.

The hungry-faced woman was still shouting when
we walked away, through the graffiti and
gangs of *******-huge, hulking seagulls.
If I'd stopped and tried to talk to her, if I'd
gotten anywhere close enough, I was
afraid she'd tear a bite out of my face,
and I didn't know what shots I'd need if that happened, and we didn't have medical.
Which was a shame,
because I'd have liked to hear
what she had to say about Kennedy.

We walked to where you'd street-parked
the car which
still hadn't been stolen.
On the way, some guy, a stranger
coming the other way, called you
'Football Dude' and asked you
to catch his neighbour if she
jumped off her balcony, but
I think he was joking.

Oh, and the car was yellow.

precursor - title correlation
body -

mind of:

C                oh

    oh                      Ri

n'ah.   (half an hour fiddling with a 502 bad
gateway; traffic these days! jeez!)

I.

it don't know what's more frustrating for the reasons that it's so good... i can't choose... it's a close call... either listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers' B-sides from By The Way... ugh! why didn't they release that as a double album! Stadium Arcadium was not that good as a double-album... all the prior albums are MAGIC... literally... for ****'s sake: GOLDMINE is literally just that... there's that... i can't concentrate on making my own translation of Ovid... i'm yet to scribble down the translation i have... i can't even drink my whiskey properly... the other frustrating focus? watching Armand Duplantis break his own world record of 6.21metres... the ****** has still at least 10cm in him! a record that will have to stand-still for the next 20+ years... i'll be dead before this record is broken... Сергій Бубка best be sleeping... i'm listening to the music, reliving the end of the World Athletics and trying to heel-myself-in-the-buttocks: better get a move on boy... hmm! "trying"... i'm actually heeling myself in the buttocks: no time to wait... one can wait for a bus... one cannot for one's own incentive... ol' Lizzy is coming up the mountain... she's coming with the proper closure of the 20th century... however many popes she outlived... however many prime ministers and american presidents... come on Lizzie... just one more year... i'm actually dying to spend money with whittle Charlie printed on the notes... my fingers are itching... but **** me... music so good By The Way should have been a double-album... no! Stadium Arcadium was not the salvagable double-album worth session... i'm getting "schizophrenic" vibes... i know that poetry is not an entertaining medium: it's a complacent self-congratulatory, thereupeutic load of *******... it's obnixious when staged: the exasperated art of speaking with speed... today i realised that i much prefer drinking to having ***... i like the preservation of my brain with a hard-on of itchy fingers than any actual ******* hard-ons... the knife opening oysters or plucking out the eyes of deer... best the eyes be gauged out... than having deer stare into car lights... hybrid confusions of static, motivated to move... frozen in a make-shift imitation of root and clay and copper: bam! one more statue down...

II.

it's no wonder why i'm not looking for a girlfriend, it's no longer bewildering why i'm not looking for a wife, at best i'm looking out for that ancient custom of Roman emperors: to become a foster father, a surrogate - i'm yet to find a match-up... i almost did, but she undermined my chances by undermining her own seriousness in such affairs... but clarity does come... as much as i might be a surrogate father to her son or daughter: i wouldn't be faithful to her... i would steal the night and run away into a brothel... but there's something else... the whole dynamic of publishing has changed... the whole idea of a library has also changed... i own more valuable books in my private collection than the public library of Romford... which is me peering at the dire straits of what the public is fed... i know why i don't aspire for pair-bonding... perhaps man so levelled aspired toward the imitation of birds a long time ago... perhaps swans are truly noble creatures: for one hears of widow and widower swans... perhaps parrots: born from those monstrous beasts that were the dinosaurs can imitate our talk... all that's this reality within the confines of "perhaps": nonetheless, it's all true... but perhaps being the mammal that i am... i moved from a community of chimpanzees into a solo-ride of imitation-bear... perhaps i only entertain the opposite *** on the encounter of ***... i couldn't land a conversation with a woman outside the constrictive-framework of work, so much so: i would abhor the mindset of men that go on dates with women: buy them food and then EXPECT... i leave that ******* out in my interactions... pay-up-front for what you're about to receive otherwise don't play cat while the woman plays mouse... or rather... a rat in cat's clothing: the woman therefore becoming a rat-trap... mind you: i can't think of a more terrible idea than the modern version of: eat first, **** later... at the old ****** proverb states: a hungry ****** is angry... a filled ****** is lazy... god forbid i ever become tempted by those dating sites... i'm currently looking for the original Latin text of Ovid's the Amores book 2 poem 6... why? what i have in my hand... and what i'm finding... it's like what Robert Pinsky remarked about once: TRANSLATIONS differ so much from one translator to another...

they have done it... UEFA are mad... just to get my
accreditation for the women's Euros final
at Wembley they're asking me to bring my passport
with me... so is Wembley the JFK of Florida
          space-shuttle launch? Houston? am i leaving
the country?
                but the girls have done it...
funny: some other people are still complaining:
IT'S TOO WHITE!
   there's not enough diversity in the team...
          that's me also planning to go and live
in Kenya and become a model for toilet paper...
i'm sure i could replace that known Koala bear /
golden retriever or perhaps i could go there
and model for soap adverts...
it just so happened that racial tensions (only football
could create them) rose up for a little:
just one night the day England lost to Italy
on penalty shootouts... because... 3 black guys
were playing a rigged roulette...
            then again? me? and the African heat?
fat chance...

find me the original Elegy VI: the death of Corinna's
pet parrot...
oh man... and her name was Polly...
i sat up late last night trying to find something
interest on the television...
bam! thank you ma'am...
                       kurt cobain: montage of heck...
sort of reminded me of...
                           a SCANNER DARKLY...
                           mind you: i sometimes do enjoy
a one-man show... or at least two...
there was this brilliant show in the West End...
Stones in his Pockets...
       two actors... sharing the roles of...
                  about 15 people each...
but it was back in circa 2001...
so... maybe it was Louis Dempsey
                                                        & Sean Sloan...
mind you... i'd still love to see Samuel Beckett's
             NOT I...

Jack Trades says: i'm about to a heap
of hay of hate...
                                i'm everywhere sometimes...
if it's not music, then its visual arts,
then it's philosophy, then fine literature...
then something "oriental" in thinking...
then its coupling my fetish for Deutsche as:
father to the English zunge...
then it's back east to rummage in some Katakana...

i know why i'm single, Roger Moore remained
a bachelor until his death...
  courteous: as ever as forever always...
i'd be a terrible match-up... i've given pair-bonding
a chance: i can't bemoan why X is not Y...
the sort of men that pair-bond are claustrophilic...
they love the company of a mate...
each time i was ever in a "relationship" i already
had one foot dangling: tapping an imaginary
drum set...
recently i discovered the B-side of the Red Hot Chilli
Peppers... so for me it's a version
of keeping the 20th century alive with
the "dichotomy" of the Rolling Stones vs.
the Beatles... i'm more... R.H.C.P.'s A-sides
of R.H.C.P.'s B-sides?
                                        i'm busy...
                i'm always busy... i don't want to relax...
i want a Turkish barber to suggest that
i need  hot-towel and an arm massage after
my beard is trimmed and... i'm still going to state:
getting a Turk to trim my beard is a close
contender to oral *** from a Turkish *******...

but try finding me that original Latin of Ovid's...
ah! found it! let's see if i can compete with
my own translation... the one i originally read
and the one i found finding the original Latin
were so disparaging...

**** yes! well... there was Ted Hughes writing
about the Crow... poor ******...
should have killed himself: might have competed
with his terribly-wonderful wife of a poet...
i give her that: what noose?
best head in an oven...
and you want a shovel with that?
but this is Ovid... "complaining" about
the death of his lover's parrot...
immediately i jumped to conclusions:
not enough crackers...

(A) the Original:

Psittacus, Eois imitatrix ales ab Indis,
    occidit—exequias ite frequenter, aves!
ite, piae volucres, et plangite pectora pinnis
    et rigido teneras ungue notate genas;
horrida pro maestis lanietur pluma capillis,
    pro longa resonent carmina vestra tuba!
quod scelus Ismarii quereris, Philomela, tyranni,
    expleta est annis ista querela suis;
alitis in rarae miserum devertere funus—
    magna, sed antiqua est causa doloris Itys.
Omnes, quae liquido libratis in aere cursus,
    tu tamen ante alios, turtur amice, dole!
plena fuit vobis omni concordia vita,
    et stetit ad finem longa tenaxque fides.
quod fuit Argolico iuvenis Phoceus Orestae,
    hoc tibi, dum licuit, psittace, turtur erat.
Quid tamen ista fides, quid rari forma coloris,
    quid vox mutandis ingeniosa sonis,
quid iuvat, ut datus es, nostrae placuisse puellae?—
    infelix, avium gloria, nempe iaces!
tu poteras fragiles pinnis hebetare zmaragdos
    tincta gerens rubro Punica rostra croco.
non fuit in terris vocum simulantior ales—
    reddebas blaeso tam bene verba sono!
Raptus es invidia—non tu fera bella movebas;
    garrulus et placidae pacis amator eras.
ecce, coturnices inter sua proelia vivunt;
    forsitan et fiunt inde frequenter ****.
plenus eras minimo, nec prae sermonis amore
    in multos poteras ora vacare cibos.
nux erat esca tibi, causaeque papavera somni,
    pellebatque sitim simplicis umor aquae.
vivit edax vultur ducensque per aera gyros
    miluus et pluviae graculus auctor aquae;
vivit et armiferae cornix invisa Minervae—
    illa quidem saeclis vix moritura novem;
occidit illa loquax humanae vocis imago,
    psittacus, extremo munus ab orbe datum!
optima prima fere manibus rapiuntur avaris;
    inplentur numeris deteriora suis.
tristia Phylacidae Thersites funera vidit,
    iamque cinis vivis fratribus Hector erat.
Quid referam timidae pro te pia vota puellae—
    vota procelloso per mare rapta Noto?
septima lux venit non exhibitura sequentem,
    et stabat vacuo iam tibi Parca colo.
nec tamen ignavo stupuerunt verba palato;
    clamavit moriens lingua: 'Corinna, vale!'
Colle sub Elysio nigra nemus ilice frondet,
    udaque perpetuo gramine terra viret.
siqua fides dubiis, volucrum locus ille piarum
    dicitur, obscenae quo prohibentur aves.
illic innocui late pascuntur olores
    et vivax phoenix, unica semper avis;
explicat ipsa suas ales Iunonia pinnas,
    oscula dat cupido blanda columba mari.
psittacus has inter nemorali sede receptus
    convertit volucres in sua verba pias.
Ossa tegit tumulus—tumulus pro corpore magnus—
    quo lapis exiguus par sibi carmen habet:
"colligor ex ipso dominae placuisse sepulcro;
    ora fuere mihi plus ave docta loqui".

mein gott... in English it reads so smoothly reading
it while listening to Red Hot Chilli Peppers'
B-sides... quixoticelixer...
teatra jam (short)... and then thinking about it...
through to and through Going Li coupled
with trouble in the pub (instrumental version)...

i will never own a car...
              mind you: i already secretely own a house...
if i keep appeasing my mother and my father:
when reality kicks in and they're dead and i'm
project solo... it's not like i'm waiting for the day...
they are hoarders of shoes and screws...
literally... no metaphor...
  on my own: i will have to recycle so much ****
before i will put the house on the market...
and? i never pledged any allegiance to Essex...
England... i have: pledged an allegiance
to the English tongue...
                 but if not the Shetland Islands...
north... "god" send me north! even as far as
Greenland!
                i'm not willing to die in a place where
villages are flaring up in a July heat...

i can't bemoan what i honestly couldn't keep...
i sometimes get mad at my father for being
so submissive to my mother...
i sometimes get so mad at my mother for only
being able to talk about her chronic pains:
i'm alligned with my grandmother
who once said: she's just like your paternal
great-grandmother... every itch and scratch...
it's like writing with chalk on a blackboard...
hey presto! ruptures of the Grand Canyon...
that ******* bollocking of: ooh! ah!
           me? i don't understand people with tattoos...
me? i collect scars...
these two fading ones on my face are a disappointment...
i thought something more pronounced
could be kept from that bicycle-crach Francis Bacon
esque imitation of painting:
   the sort of painting where you can still revel
in brush-strokes being visible...
   because it's not rigid: Renaissance form painting...

now: i can sort of imagine what men couple up...
those who fear being alone...
those not interested in art...
those mostly interested in sport... but not all sport...
just some sports...
sports that they support "passing their lineage"
with according to the cult of football teams...
not all-sports... i.e. not an interest in fencing...
swimming... certainly guys who thought:
wow! tennis is great to watch!
   but squash is so much more fun to play!
cycling... well... if you love cycling per se:
watching other people cycle is a bit: BOO-RING...
what sort of other men get married?
probably those not interested in risque ***
with prostitutes...
ones interested in making money for a woman
to spend...
me? i'm not interested in money...
                       in terms of money:
i'm more likely to spend £30 on a book than
think about a dinner date...
                      
is that...   ??? i'm not even going to ask myself
that question that begins with a buzz-word
and the letters Mmmm... miso...
                             well... what is a boy to do...
figure out what to do with his spare time...
               i don't mind cleaning the house:
who ever said that it's the duty of a woman to keep
the house clean? i like living in a household in order...
i love cooking: it's like chemistry 2.0...
                      give me a bag of Indian spices and i'll
cook up a perfect storm of a curry...
but then again: i'm not work-shy when it comes
to using heavy-duty tools akin to the KANGO...
which... i later found out was a Japanese word for
Chinese in general... or the other way round...
i'd hate to be one of those Phil Collins types of
forgetting how many hands i have
by changing gloves like i might be an octopus...

and when it comes to children?
eh... it's enough for a boy in a buggy in a supermarket
pointing his finger at me as i walk past
making that chimpanzee face of OOH at me...
or a fist-bump with some teenagers at the London
Stadium... that's enough... i'm happy to play
the "secret uncle" role...
while women remain women: as fickle as the wind...
i've learned to live with that reality...
i scratch my beard and pretend that i'm playing
a violin...

plus, i'm a terrible drinker... i'm a loving-drunk...
i'm drunk right now...
if a litre of whiskey per night satisfies
my libido shortages i'm happy:
it implies i can write... i stop drinking and start
*******: alles goot...
                           today i was visited by a wasp...
i was visited by a bee before...
oh man... it was heart-breaking...
he was dying... i had to help him...
   i poured some honey onto the pave-,
and moved him towards the puddle...
he stuck his mighty Gene Simmons sucker out
and started to perform an OD on sugar...
i was glad... watching him die from a sugar-overdose...
it was: rather pleasant to watch...

TERROR! mix JAINISM with TAOISM
and fuse that in an European mind...
               but i'll still eat meat...
                        it's a parody of what's to be expected:
i prefer life with the possibilities of change...
with... curiosities of: extensive ulterior
possibilities that run counter to estblished norms
of expectations of a RIGID MIND...
i water: i flow...
      i fire: i dance...
i air: i whirl...
i earth: i rumble...
i lightning: i blink...
hey presto! the five elements!

in another language close to my heart:
since i was born with it...
the pronoun disappears:
ja woda: płyne
ja ogien: tańcze...
   ja powietrze: kręce się (odd)
ja ziemia: trzęse się (also "odd")
ja grzmot: mrygam

there are languages in existence where pronouns
hide... to be honest...
in ******? the pronouns are rarely used...
oh mein gott... when they're used in a sentence:
esp. the I... it's like... wow! i just found
a "nugget of gold"!
seriously... that how my mother-tongue
is structured: on English is the current
prounoun-circus available to watch...
i'm siding with the Somali pirates having
a giggle... playing blackjack with either Greeks
or some other Africans...

there are languages in English that cannot: will not,
succumb to the current Marxist onslight
happening in this tongue...
not because these languages will not:
they CANNOT...
mind you... it's such an intellectual low-bar
of achievement... but since it's piggy-pop...
it must be slaughtered on an individual level
before this DISEASE is allowed to spread...
thank heavens that English is only my second
language... how that allows me to bypass
buying into any sort of propaganda...
   my lingua Ingelese... my tongue for spreading
ideas...
    oh: and thank **** i' expressing in a medium
desecrated by the same people pushing these
sordid ideas... post-humous fame! 'ere i come!
obviously! who's in it for the "real" and immediate
if one isn't... fabricating a pickling of a shark
in plastic.... who? who?! woof!
   a-woooooo"

            my heart has shrunk and hardened to
the size and hardness of a pebble...
    i wish i could entertain cosy nights with a woman
watching some pointless movie about
the stereotypes of love... then again: no...
i'd rather not...
drinking alone: who the hell said i was alone?
i sometimes "hallucinate" someone crying:
of late... i'm like: this isn't Aud Lang Syne...
this isn't Shakespear...
then again i love the idea that my true readers
are yet to be born...
i'm happy, happy-bear-alone...
                       a Maine **** is sleeping in my
bed... i'll join him come the right hour...
but he's not looking at me... he's looking above me...
only yesterday i started to paparazzi
a wasp that flew into my bedroom...
          what the **** do i have above me?
please say letters... i will not do alright with a halo...
i'm not going to join that
archangel one minute... saint the next...
clip my ******* wings for a get-through-easy
card: no!
          
it became finalized today... i'm literally tired
of ***... i'm tired of *** when it's equivalent to not...
being tired of eating food... drinking water...
it's unnecessarily-necessary... *** as golf...
per say...
                2 months of delay in payment...
i'm thinking about rekindling my affair with that mountain
bike... i have to forget the streets...
i need the woods again... but for that i need new tires...
oh... hell... i no longer have anything
to prove in the brothel... blah blah whatever...
threesomes look great: LOOk...
like a block of cheddar looks great...
when shredded...
and then melting...
perhaps in pornographic flicks...
but in reality? the changing of condoms
from one mouth to another...
from one ****** to another...
                          
what?! peiple are having unprotected ***?
vermin ****?!
   **** me... well... at least i'm obnoxiously savvy
in that regard...
no no... it's too disappointing...
you have to split your attention up...
there's nothing good about a *******...
why? because, usually... of the two girls...
there's one you really want to be a screwdriver to...
while the other is just being a, *******...
a ******* bandwagon... leftovers...
a pair of **** you get to imitate ****** with...
it's a bit like:
coupling an elephant with a giraffe...
but i want to ride the elephant!
but i want to stroke the giraffe's neck!
but  i want to pretend the elephants's tusk...
no! not tusk! TRUNK....
that rectangular bit of ******* you shovel
your clothes in when travelling...
TRUNK... or a TRAMPOLINE!
no... not the bouncy layer...
TRUNK... sneeze! trambone! jazz! ******* Miles Daisies!
Davis!  trumpet *******!
no... don't get me started on the sax...

then again: i want a rhino's horn! ram-jam...
Black Betty Bam B'eh Lam!

- oh no... i moved along... R.H.C.P.'s: thanks for the t-shirt...
Big Bukowski style:
i hate the eagles... run through the jungle...
run Forrest! whun!
WHUN!
  and that's me... hardly a LAMNTIA of the Beatniks
tripping... me? enough whiskey
and the right song... and i'm grooving beside
an imaginary drum-kit...
in that: once upon a time...
when men grew their hair long...
they were the barbarians knocking
on the gates of Rome... rather than being
the implosion of Rome within with
all of Rome's degeneracy of transgender gimmicks...

mind you: i've given it some thought...
i broke it down toward the following schematic:

anonymous audience, commenting,
video making blah blah...
****** "schematic": if you can call it that...
mind you: the VAR in WIETNAM
had the best soundtrack...
just saying: hey! her?! hey! don't shoot
the messanger!
i'd rather work the Fulham opening night
with the new stand: Thames-side being opened
than attend Wembley for a Westwood...
Westworld... Westlife concert,
i'm all up for handling those Scousers:
northern monkeys?
southern fairies...
let's just call them for what they are...
northern TOURISTS...

but the dynamic of publishing has changed:
i already know the criterium first...
women and children first...
THIRST beccause water matters...
i'm thirsty too... one litre of whiskey and
i'm still typing like a machine...
i'll box my liver and kidneys
as long as i keep my brain and eyes happy...

but it's just a different dynamic...
the internet experience...
i know a lot of people miss it...
i can't force people to read my bollocking-riddles...
ergo? i don't stagnate into celebrating it
or therefore advertising it...
i'm either read or i'm STAUB...
   dust...
                
i can't! i'm only making something available...
i can't force people out of their democratic "wedlock"...
you like it? great! you don't? great!
but the psychology of those video creators that
mind how many views they receive and
how many comments they: likewise receive...
"false hits" with the number of hits of viewership?

me? i'm not bothered... i've been watching
the female Euro finals...
i was almost scared... what if the female England team
don't make it to the finals?!
me? i'm gearing up...
any rowdy hooligans up to speed?!
as much as i hate women not trying toi compete
in sports that are sexually-exclusive...
there's this... THIS... i watch the games because
the Colleseum is burning...
i'm only watching the fire...
    and i'm watching the women i'd love to ****...
this never would have happened if watching
tennis...

    the crisp biting attache of a sharpshooter
WONG sort of mixer-mix-up with a whiskey
and a pepssi...
me... reaching for a second glass
with one already filled like: *******... RAINMAN...

keep your horses!
i'm gearing up to a translation!
wait, the, ****, up! keep it cool in Doob-Lyn!
oh no... you don't get to tell me
i use too many vowels without me showing
you... you mishandled the vowel-to-consonant
dynamic... Doob-Lyn is Dublin: tow me...
no: not to me? tow me... now you're dragging me
along the snail-trail...

the disparaging translations:

(B) the A. S. Kline translation

Parrot, the mimic, the winged one from India’s Orient,
is dead – Go, birds, in a flock and follow him to the grave!
Go, pious feathered ones, beat your ******* with your wings
and mark your delicate cheeks with hard talons:
tear out your shaggy plumage, instead of hair, n mourning:
sound out your songs with long piping!
Philomela , mourning the crime of the Thracian tyrant,
the years of your mourning are complete:
divert your lament to the death of a rare bird –
Itys is a great but ancient reason for grief.
All who balance in flight in the flowing air,
and you, above others, his friend the turtle-dove, grieve!
All your lives you were in perfect concord,
and held firm in your faithfulness to the end.
What the youth from Phocis was to Orestes of Argos,
while she could be, Parrot, turtle-dove was to you.
What worth now your loyalty, your rare form and colour,
the clever way you altered the sound of your voice,
what joy in the pleasure given you by our mistress? –
Unhappy one, glory of birds, you’re certainly dead!
You could dim emeralds matched to your fragile feathers,
wearing a beak dyed scarlet spotted with saffron.
No bird on earth could better copy a voice –
or reply so well with words in a lisping tone!
You were snatched by Envy – you who never made war:
you were garrulous and a lover of gentle peace.
Behold, quails live fighting amongst themselves:
perhaps that’s why they frequently reach old age.
Your food was little, compared with your love of talking
you could never free your beak much for eating.
Nuts were his diet, and poppy-seed made him sleep,
and he drove away thirst with simple draughts of water.
Gluttonous vultures may live and kites, tracing spirals
in air, and jackdaws, informants of rain to come:
and the raven detested by armed Minerva lives too –
he whose strength can last out nine generations:
but that loquacious mimic of the human voice,
Parrot, the gift from the end of the earth, is dead
The best are always taken first by greedy hands:
the worse make up a full span of years.
Thersites saw Protesilaus’s sad funeral,
and Hector was ashes while his brothers lived.
Why recall the pious prayers of my frightened girl for you –
prayers that a stormy south wind blew out to sea?
The seventh dawn came with nothing there beyond,
and Fate held an empty spool of thread for you.
Yet still the words from his listless beak astonished:
dying his tongue cried: ‘Corinna, farewell!’
A grove of dark holm oaks leafs beneath an Elysian *****,
the damp earth green with everlasting grass.
If you can believe it, they say there’s a place there
for pious birds, from which ominous ones are barred.
There innocuous swans browse far and wide
and the phoenix lives there, unique immortal bird:
There Juno’s peacock displays his tail-feathers,
and the dove lovingly bills and coos.
Parrot gaining a place among those trees
translates the pious birds in his own words.
A tumulus holds his bones – a tumulus fitting his size –
whose little stone carries lines appropriate for him:
‘His grave holds one who pleased his mistress:
his speech to me was cleverer than other birds’.

(C) the  P. Green translation

parrot, that feathered mimic from India's dawlands,
is dead. come flocking, birds, to his funeral:
come, all you godfearing airborne creatures,
beat ******* with wings,
   mourn, claw your polls, tear out soft feathers
(your hair), and pipe high your sad lament.
Philomela, nightingale, the ancient crimes of Tereus
which you lament is long past -
    divert your grief to the obsequies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique.
all wind-borne voyagers through the clear empyrean
lament now, and above all his friend the turtle-dove
they lived in complete agreement,
    their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes or Argos, that Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while fate allowed.
yet of no avail your devotion, your rare and beautiful
plumage,
your adaptable mimic's voice;
    not even the care that my darling lavished on you -
poor Polly, paragon of birdhood, is dead.
so gree his feathers, they dimmed the cut emerald;
scarlet his beak, with saffron spots.
no bird on earth could copy a voice more closely
or sound so articulate.
fate, jealous, removed him - that unaggressive creature,
that talktative devotee of peace,
with his tiny appetite , whose love of conversation
left him little leisure for food,
who lived on a diet of nuts, used poppy-seed to encourage
sound sleep: kept his thirst at bay with nothing but water.
quails spend their whole life fighting -
maybe that's how they reach a ripe old age.
carnivorous vultures, kites gyring high in the heavens,
weather-wise jackdaws, prophets of rain to come,
are all long-lived - while Minerva's bête noire, the raven,
can outlast nine generations. yet Parrot is dead,
that loquacious parody of human utterance,, that bonanza
from the eastern edge of the world,
greedy death almost always pickss off the best ones early -
it's the third-raters who reach a ripe old age.
Thersites attended the funeral of Protesilaus;
Hector was ashes while his brothers still lived.
what point is recalling the desperate prayers my sweetheart
uttered?
some stormy sirocco blew them out to sea.
six days he survived, and then, at dawn on the seventh,
his thread of destiny ran out.
yet somehow, though dying, he could still find utterance,
and the last words he ever spoke were: 'Corinna, farewell!'
beneath a hill in Elyium, where dark ilex clussters
and the moist earth is for ever green,
there exists - or so i have heard - the pious fowls' heaven
(all ill-omened predators barred).
harmless swaans roam after foot there, there dwells
the phoenix, that long-lived, ever-solitary bird;
there Juno's peacock spreads out his splendid fantail
amid the billing and cooing of amorous doves;
and there, in this woodland haven, the feathered faithful
welcome Parrot, flock round to hear him talk.
his bones lie buried under a parrot-sized tumulus
with a tiny headstone bearing these words:
r.i.p. Polly: this tribute from his loving mistress:
articulate beyond a common bird

the thought of LEMONS or perhaps
the IDEA of lemon...
then again: i can't refrain from
ORANGES and LIMES...
and the shy-sunlight of autumn
and the blooming of apples...
and operas...
             "someone"...
                              what pretty pies of
unfuckable wonders await...

divert your grief to the obsequeies of a rare and modern
bird: poor Itylus' case was tragic, but antique
(antiquated?).
all wind-borne voyagers through tge clear empyrean
lament nowm abd above all
his friend the turtle-dove, they lived in complete
agreement
   their bond of faith held firm to the end.
what Pylades was to Orestes of Argos, that, Parrot,
turtle-dove was to you - while Fate allowed,

i'm not even going to bother with a "bananna C"...
i woke up wild-awake with ideas...
brimming with Tao...
"non-doing" id est: point PROVEN
or rather point SERVED?!

Russia and China are clashing...
or rather sparring...
they're having their civilization-state
agenda being put in place...
while there's a "culture-war" in the "west"...
right... James Bond...
so we're refrrering to nation-stattes
as post-nationhood...
  "states"...
                    precursors to the globalist agenda
of fake space exploration via the ******* telescope...
if Russia and China are civivilasation-states...
then... whatever culture "war" is investing in:
or rather: digressing into... impliies
the FSA (federal states of america)
             is a culture-state...
                                                ­                 no?

personally? i don't like the current h'American culture...
it's absolute *******...
no! i'm not going to translate any more of Ovid...
i already read the better translation...
i found out only two minites ago that
i prefer drinking to having ***...
and keeping an eye on cats is just as rewarding
as rearing children: if you allow yourself
to give them a personality...

           so Russia is a civilisation-state...
while America is a culture-state...
                    well... no wonder...
                                            America is the zenith
that could be: but doesn't have to be
preserved...
the culture-state-of-the-sand-*******...
i wish: the Arabs clocked in lucky...
sitting on so much raw ill of oil...
bounce bounce libido bounce bounce...

hmm... "inner monologue"... i had that "thing"
once... i kost it... turning psychotic...
then again: within the confines of having
an internal monologue? i was passive...
       i was a passive agent...
                         upon losing it: having my soul
evaporate: becoming an "N.P.C."...
i became an active agent...
i opened my eyes a second time...

           i think my inner monolpogue became blocked
by:
został wyciszony... bo zaczoł być cykliczny,
tzn. nie po prostej:
       wymarł według koncepcji
sprawiedliwości...

even i know: the gods uttered the words:
shut the **** up! we know you're right!
but we're playing roulette!
shut the ******! we're playing cards!
shut up!
wait! wait your turn!
**** me, given the prowess at attaing
a concept of the differential of space comparing
time... i.e. speed... i'll be karma-happy
once i die...

i'm not translating the rest of that Ovid...
a girl's parraot died... great!
now i'm thinking about:
a bicyckle is a terrible idea... to ride...
on the roads towards St. Paul's... i think i might
require a horse!
i need a horse! bring me a hood, a hoof,
an apple and a toothbrush!
the last place i'm thinking about moving
to is California...
   and thank no god for that...
just the people who already live there.

III.

i sooner discovered the rare B-sides of Red Hot Chilli
Peppers than having realised... oh right...
they release two albums after By the Way...
i completely forgot about those two...
               guess i'm not as big a fan as i thought i was...
Go Robot... it's not oh so wo terrible now, or anymore...
oh woah woe... what a whale to ride into the night...

sometimes it just happens, a sort of blend of an Ezrra Pound
and a Charles Olson moment, poem, moment-poem...
it stretches for three days and you just don't want
to finish it... you kept repeating yourself writing seemingly
aimlessly with no focus...
at this point writing becomes theraputic...
by the simple act of writing: not theraputic regarding
what you're writing about: memories of frustration and
complications having finished Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus...
unlike those joyous frustrations with Samuel Beckett's
Watt...
                  and on the third day "he" finished painting
four metal chairs a new colour of copperhead...
a copperneck painting chairs copperhead...
to me the colour of copper is more appealing than
that of gold...

if i still had that inner-monologue people speak of
i wouldn't be writing this,
that inner-monologue fantasy i once was a proud owner
of: i.e. the closest "thing" to the idea of soul
was also filled with so many doubts...
i simply don't care what the supposed benefits
of it were... that whole no-inner-monologue ergo
one's an NPC (non-playable character)...
    i remember that that when my first psychotic episode
slammed me on a rampage i started to see DIFFERENTLY...
it was as if a veil was lifted from my eyes...
if i didn't write terrible poetry back then...
i most certainly wrote very little...
             the inner-monologue doubts... a plethora of them...
no? psychosis = the osmosis of soul...
   the body has remained... the devils said:
but these idle hands and this idle intellect have to stay...
we'll pass on the message with your soul
as it leaves your body...
call it whatever you want:
   res vanus or the silence of the "mind"...
that's how you become more of an active agent...
it might be called writing but i call it digging...
a tunnel toward some variaton of: marrying Hades
with Tartarus...
                after all... Venus is the daughter of titans...
and she's the only Titan among the Olympian gods:
such is her perfection... almost on par with
   the patron of philosophers that's Sacred Sophia:
who entertains the foolishness of elder men
without being able to tell them apart from boys...

IV. if i were to translate Amores II. XI

would i be willing to add a D in the translation sequence?
i don't think so
there's no need... i like comparing the two i already
made available...
i just wanted to stress how unbelievable Latin is...
compared to the modern tongue, for example English...
how compact it is!
- and course, i prefer the second translation...
     it... exfoliates!
                     this is the point for me where i truly appreciate
Ovid to be on par with Horace...

side by side walking through the zenith-nadir of
man...

   i'm finally come across a sequence of events that
make me unwilling to stop typing: perhaps if i get
drunk enough and stumble on my first typo
perhaps a series of typos would end my ambition...

do i think men in the west are living
in a land of libido-insomnia? i think they are...
whoever said that watching one type of pornogrphy
soon spirals out of control and men start
scouting for more extreme *******:
hello outlier A! hello outlier B!
where's outlier C? oh... he's coming...
at a time when women are supposed to be these
sexually liberated creatures while men
are either STAGS with harems or limp biscuit *****...
thank god i managed to catch the train
of having the ***** of walking into a newsagent
and buying a pornographic magazine to ******* to...
stashed about six in a folder behind
the radiator in the bathroom at 21B Beehive Lane,
Gants Hill...
                         mind you: i started prematurely...
8?
     i switch off with western ****** antics:
people are either having too much ***: ergo the kinks
or not enough of it...
outlier in the middle: when it's too hot
i leave the insects to do their lineage pride...
cooler temperatures: *** like rubbing sand-paper
on a ****** paint-job...

                         makeshift boney **** of the hand...
well: at least ******* makes me more interested in
the **** than **** ***...
but i did the opposite... i need to keep a sack-of-sanity
atop my head...
beside adoring the Katakana...
i very much adore Japanese tamed sexuality...
     グラビア アイドル (gurabia aidoru)...
back in the day when the English tabloid newspaper
the Sun had a page 3 girl...
back to basics... a show of *******...
    a show of cleavage... perhaps even the breast
like the eye... the sclera of the rounded breast...
the darkened skin at the iris and then the pupil
as the ******...
  floral patterns of the *******...
                  back to basics...
                           a photograph of a naked woman
and all the imagination at work: what wouldn't
i want to do with her?

well... if you begin pleasing yourself while concentrating
on the kiss between Venus and Cupid
in one of Bronzino's beauties of paint-strokes...
you're hardly going to go down a rabbit-hole
of "hide and hide": wihtout seeking it out...
people and thier kinks...
while a minority: dodo-project sexuality of
homosexuality is celebrated: garnerded unto the guise
of "pride": i can't stomach shame...
but hey: look at me! i'm about to parade my sexuality
like and ******* latex-clad gimp readied
for being given ***-favour-orders...

outlandish! god-forgiving god-fearing...
  hardly every god-loving...
           a settling in of a blue that's not the sky
but a melancholy... i'm finally willing to end this
"diatribe"... to start afresh... again and again...
like mixing: Dreams of a Samurai with
Hans Zimmer's spectres in the fog...

                      my ***: going back to figuring out
the premature adventures into ***...
one boy passing on the secrets of *******
to another while sharing a bath:
the cruel curiosity of the circumcision:
in a secular environment: without the kippah
or the niqab: the submission of the women...
i will not give up the "sheath" to my "sword"...
i will keep my teeth with my twirling tongue...
if ever an improvement on the aesthetics?
clipping the ears of Dobberman dogs...
banning clipping the clipping of their tails...
but still: the preserved atrocity of male circumcision...
i could agree...
once a woman is devoted to her man...
a circumcision like putting on a wedding ring...
noble swans... oh noble swans...

a melancholy that's sort of azure...
amass enough water and you will see blue...
amass "too little": freeze it...
a paleness somewhat grey...
but then the icebergs roaming that are
the Cistercians...
            all i need right now is for some lonely
dog to start barking into the night...
or the cackling "laughter" of a fox...
    
    but all those sexless lives...
            "lucky" me for taming my consumption down...
where would i be without it?
i didn't ask for a *******...
i wa offered it... i will never forget how she clamoured
for the opportunity...
she couldn't stomach being rejected twice...
she just had to clamour like a crab in a crab bucket...
even if she thought she thought she succeeded:
she was the spare wheel...
what i've learned... i prefer one-on-one interactions...
but i gave in...
   it would have never worked out:
not like it "works out" in pornographic flicks...
the sharing of saliva and other juices...
we're responsible adults...
unlike in the pornographic flicks...
          two women: one man...
the changing of condoms...
                           i had to think quick:
there's only one way i will not be undermined...
snuggling up to the one i really wanted
to spend an hour with...
                       kissing neck and cheek...
while she did a hand-job...
   the other just sat there sort of idle...
                          until i figured out... those *******
could be of some use...

- i couldn't pull off a Jesus look...
long hair and a beard is not my "thing"...
even with a sly undercut...
i chose the better option.... short hair, a beard, yes,
but a "fu manchu": an elongated love-spot...
competing with the length of the beard...
i really "don't understand" why i have no memory
of my chin and neck...
it's like there was never the idea of using
water as a mirror... perhaps poor Xerxes lashed
at the Aegean for hiding his reflection
when he had one of those Narcisstic moments
of anguish: he forgot how he looked like...
but then the sides of the moustasche also drooping:
elongated... that work much better than
a beard and long hair...
it's so unfashionable these days...
i don't get why men think beards and long hair
"work"....

then again i never figured out why Khadira
wanted to have unprotected ***...
  how she insisted that it was just plain o.k.
for me to ******* into her...
how i snapped and dived in into her pandamonium
of multiples springs of irritated ****...
all slobbering with oyster-tongue
and knose...
                               all that informed me...

companionship? what a rare commodity...
it's enough to have a mother to know
how a woman's company can quickly sour
the already sweet grapes...
one word: tell a man he's LAZY...
while he's just tired of being pushed and shoved...
if a mother can do that to a son?
what could a wife do?
                          and i'm come across curiosities of
men who waged wars with their mothers...
at the Tyson Fury boxing match...
i was trying to calm the **** down a guy
who was having a panic attack after being
"abandoned" by his mother...
who bought the tickets... and drinks...
i squeezed him hard... told him: but i'm here for free!
nay! i'm here and getting paid for it!
blah blah...
               i hate seeing panic attacks in men...
it makes me either feel like
more than a man or less of a man...
it makes me think of the men prior
with shell-shocks... or women exploiting
the challenges of p.t.s.d.

                                    i've seen so many people fake
a mental illness... i've spoken at length
to them... how easily open up to their own struggles...
while i'm left alone with whatever ones
i have...
                   maybe because my "mental health issues"
have morphed into philosophical caviats
implies that i'm immune to outright sharing
the details... and boring people to death...
so i listen...
        i listen...
                            in one ear out the other...

i remember days in high school when we would love
to change the subject, create a game:
SLAP-BALL... imitation of Tsar Peter III prior
to tennis... an imitation court... with a fence between us...
or just playing BLACKJACK...
cards... that was big... we understood that ignoring
women was best done with / by playing cards...
at one point: i remember it to this day...
Samuel Richards grabbed Ian Goodman's neck
and pinned him to the floor...
we tried to intervene...
i don't know whether it was about the actual
game of cards or whether it was about
Sam bailing out... he was about to move to France...
and ****** off from pur in-group...
started playing basketball with the black-boys...
forgot he was supposedly the "PUNK" in the school...
i remember skateboarding with him...
he actually stole his mother's credit card and bought
a skateboard for me...
but his ******* MOHICAN was ****...
it didn't entertain the entire length of his skull
meeting his spine...
but we did walk back from Romford
toward Ilford this one night...
underage drinking... singing Backstreet Boys songs...

ha ha...
         time is a museum of melancholy...
while space is a museum of furthering whatever is left
of leftover potential...

i'm so despondent about this life having to end...
today i cycled up to the traffic lights
on my ******... ******?! £125 viking road bike... say the word
****** one more time... what was i facing?
a solitary man in an Aston Martin...
behind him? some solitary guy in a Porsche...
right... "alphas"...
i'm on my bicycle... but these two guys
in those choicest of motor-examples?
that's the thing with "competing" in life rather than
sport...
     i like my bicycle... i love my bicycle...
i am yet to wash away the blood from my head
from the crash...
i don't have a broken leg: i just have an outgrowth of bone
on my shin where my bone should have cracked:
i love milk...

competing with these men... **** me...
i was thinking about the Porsche guy...
nice game... but it's not playing cards...
i taart myself up: compete...
what do i get? i get a Porsche...
     but then ahead of me there's this guy
in an Aston Martin: mate! i'm ******!
oh blue blue Hue... the Aston Martin looked like
the bomb that is already was...
the Porsche? the Porsche looked like
a ******* Ford Mondeo by comparison...
Civic Extra... if that's even a car...
i was sort of happy to by cycling...
i figured... well: i'm not using my legs...
to walk... i'm peddling...

ever heard the expression "push-bike"?
i heard that only recently... what a werid coupling
of words... a motorcycle is distinguished from
a a bicycle by the term: "push-bike"
this half-brain-dead coworker...
what the **** am i pushing?!
it's just as weird as calling it a peddling-bicycle, no?
eh?
but what am i pushing? a bicycle is a bicycle
a turtle is a turtle... i still have to figure out
what's being pushed...
what comes first? the donkey, the carrot, or the stick?!

mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
mawn the lawn: sieve the sand...
keep nurturing the spacing between numbers
but also keep lost track of the alphebticaal
queue...
never the type to rehash a refurbishment
of SPAWN...

           i simply don't want this day-dream to end...
around me people cowering into sleep...
i'm left in limbo...
            between consetllations and the scythe
of the moon... dearest: moooooon...
i'm itching to break the silence with a howl...
but first: the thirst of a dog barking...
i hear a dog barking i'll start to howl!

aren't we simply becoming the same
tired people of old?
              more impetus...
more gravity! more fire! more tides!
more the quaking of the earth!
more whirlwinds! more! more!
one Pompeii is not enough!

                       almost one litre of whiskey
into the session and i'm sober-tense...
i'm starting to think that entertaining
hell is not a bad "gimmick"...
                  there's the imaginary hell-crowd
and there' some also doubly-imaginary
crowd of people that yet to be bound to imitation-migration
focus...
           next time you ask me:
i'd rather be eating ice: crunching on
ice than drinking water...
i want to burn my tongue...
licking ice...l i want to burn my tongue
licking ice: but first i want to be dipping
it in coridnader-cumin-chilli-turmeric mix-up
of spiders...

i want to first bruise my knees before
i lick them clean...
i want the strict juices of: not tomatoes?
red is red: ergo blood is blood...
vulture ****...
there's an open window:
there's an evaporating night too...

best refrain: 6 by 6s refrain on 9s...
since? there's plenty of 0s / oopses...
by this "flesh and blood"...
i heave this sand and timer
like: i was sadly woken up with
an inheritance of salt...
boiling blue bloods and boiling gravy...
a smile that reads: clenched teeth...
a smile so awkward that
it make^ a parrot think twice about
imitating human speech.

^a notable typo, i think i might require an editor
(insert a snigger); two alternatives:
1. it might make a parrot think twice,
2. a smile so awkward that it makes a parrot think twince...
all depending on the tense.

N'chosi bashana co tyu raitiko
Sa lawa K'foga to yasho m'koko
A'wari Manala potesy sko'ma
N'gesi, Nigosi, Namasi choma
Amali tokr'rme dun'krenksi gawet
Dol'trenti moraki alkanti un'get
To yasho potesy salaka colo
N'chosi sa lawa n'gesi d'yro

Know what I'm saying?

No rosto leproso da noite, ventos giram cartas como quem não quer nada/ Ou talvez vultos guardam melancolia no quarto branco/ Oh! tão bom beber hálito gelado da lua junto aos antepassados, lá se vão fugidios das estrelas; sete são. Os mais jovens, no rio, colhem cristais & dançam ( ritual veludo puro, sombra azul circula)/ Rápido, múltiplas festas ecoam do infinito, este cínico pastor poda asas feridas; mãos sagradas dos mortos & dos mitos/ Bebemos & cantamos, no colo floresta desnuda/ Neste banquete vermelho, virgens dão o toque úmido & todos os santos saboreiam o útero/ Sob o aconchego do delírio a loucura desfila, santa de todos os dias!

O dia que chegou tão depressa ao seu final,
Trouxe-me a certeza de uma noite fria e pálida,
Onde chego à cama, e espero ver-te ali deitada,
Pelos tempos fora, sinto a certeza desse sinal!

Foram três longos anos de vazio, tais como os teus sinais,
As estrelas que carregas nos ombros, são juntas na tua lua,
São profundos sonhos de um golfinho que a ti, se junta, lua tua,
Imensas vezes, a olhei, para te ver a ti brilhar em vendavais!

Hoje percebo porque sentia e via o meu quarto sempre vazio,
Quando chegaste em dia de temporal, na noite sadia e vadia,
Estava eu junto daquele precipício, esperando sair desse presidio,
De cores sem tom, de cheiros sem fragância, naquela estadia!

E assim nas voltas que dei, das estrelas que vi, tu chegas-te,
Mesmo na hora que tudo parecia perdido, desenhada perfeitamente,
E de todas as preces e palavras que preguei a Deus e ele me advir-te,
Trazendo-te a ti, contornada de perfeitas coisas, cantando acusticamente!

E assim percebi que a força que têm a cobardia de destruição,
De um coração como o meu, perfeitamente bom e agora teu,
Me dá ganas de pegar em ti, ao meu colo teu, deitar-te no céu,
Decorar as estrelas, contigo no centro, meu quarto cresceu, paixão!

Autor: António Benigno
Escusado será dizer-te a ti, que te vejo, sabia que virias, não te imaginava chegando, mas surpreendentemente, tudo que lhe havia pedido, ele me trouxe triplicando, abusando mesmo de galhardia, e eu agora me contemplando, porque tudo que me trazia, era muito mais do que lhe pedia. Liliana, lhe peço agora mesmo, que meu coração mereça sempre, tudo aquilo que Deus me prometia.

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                                                                         eatly couth i
                                                                        n Into-Dust co
                                                                       ats of polite var
                                                                      nish and their ha
                                                                     ats hang at precise
                                                                    their teeth ivory and
                                                                   the smell of their colo
                                                                  gne catches back at the
                                                                 throat wearing finest silk
                                                                s (but time, time looks bru
                                                               tally through their and prim
                                                              shoes and trousers. knees sag
                                                             eyes hang instantly
                                                                                                 languor w
                                                           ears them like cheap perfume and
                                                          laughter unsuddenly from nowhere
                                                         crisps the cheeks of everywaiting sou
                                                        l creeks with soon to be dirt bones and
                                                       amongst them sprouts something gener
                                                      ous. Less close to nearly dead, and has (l
                                                     ike a frond has) demure sturdy waifish. its
                                                    timber is clothed in blonde lips and eyes lik
                                                   e waking almost never(no like daffodils; yes l
                                                  ike more them) only daffodils, they are not so b
                                                 right, nor as agile, i think but who knows i was o
                                                nly a boy who, from across the street noticed, a girl
                                               pressed between death,
                                                                                                     laughing like a *****

unlike some psychadelic advocacy
concerning chimps...

   how about "hunting"
for chanterelle or honigpilz
  and then pickling them?

no good?
     well... my idea of an evolved
chimp, or taking psychedelics...
wrapping a leather belt,
over your eyes...
    beckoning the absolute night...

that the simple,
silk, or cotton blindfold of
the Versailles court, simply can't,
replicate...
   no latex... no condoms...
leather belt,
   prior to a boxing glove
hiding the knuckles in
st. Andrew's X...
    but then... over the eyes...
leather...
    
and yet... people ingest
psychedelics...
  yet... do not feel inclined to
pay secular respect of:
NOT HAVING TO *******
WRITE ABOUT THEIR EXPERIENCE!

having read what was or wasn't
said?
         let them pass the needle...
i'm pirate ******* happy
with a bottle of *****...
             no... my psychedelic
experience?
    wrapping a leather belt on
my head and over my eyes...
   now...
oh my, oh my my my...
     i'm starting to see the lost
excess of colo(u)r!
          i'm seeing it!
   i must have been a Daltonist
all along!
              given:
how can you actually add...
to the given colours?
      
i've seen one sadist give an LSD
tab to a cat...
        
     i'd love to give such an example
of a "human"...
   the mad cow disease virus...
just to see him break-dance,
and find himself...
   with a few broken extensions,
should he survive...

my idea of psychedelic drugs?
a leather belt,
  strapped to my head,
heavily over my eyes...
     preventing me to blink...
given...
that i see the world in colour...
my absolute psychedelic
experiment?
                pitch-black,
and then...
         a return to: alice in wonderland
eyesight.

Sentado e descalço, sobe um banco de madeira preta,
Pintei o quarto de verde vivo, igual ao vaso do quintal,
Contrastando com a cor amarela da flor que parara de crescer!
Queria ver aquela flor mais verde que o vaso que acabara de pintar.
Apressado como de costume e porque admito é feitio meu,
Pegava desajeitado e pouco reflectido com vontade de florir,
O amarelo perdido daquela planta que me havia já esquecido,
Não era tinta vazia, que ela queria, mas carinho de minhas mãos,
Peguei nela caída, encostei-a a mim e disse-lhe que gostava dela,
Suspirou-me ao ouvido e perguntou-me porque não a levava comigo,
Encostei-a a mim trouce-a cuidadosamente ao colo para dentro de casa,
Dei-lhe um copo de água e aconcheguei-lhe a terra do caule,
O adubo que ela recebia de mim, em carinhos fizeram-na adormecer!
Sentei-me no banco quase seco de tinta verde e pintei as calças,
Adormecendo como que um pai olhando seu filho dormir!
Sonhei pela noite fora e quando acordei, aquela flor amarela,
Que eu havia trazido comigo, sorriu-me nos olhos estremunhados,
Acordei feliz e cheio de alegria porque em seu olhar a flor vivia.
Por vezes a vida descabida de pressa por coisas vazias,
É tão bonita quando na calma do tempo um carinho te dá alento.
E eu voltei a pintar todo dia e em cada dia que passava a flor crescia,
O amarelo que lhe percorria o ser mudava de cor para a cor de esperança.
A cada dia, eu dormia mais feliz, porque sentia seu cheiro chegar a mim.
Essa flor um dia pegou-me nos olhos e pediu-me de novo carinho,
E eu olhei-a, da maneira que sempre quis cheirá-la e encostei-a a mim,
Enquanto dormia!

Autor: António Benigno
Dedico à minha vida que nem para nem anda!

Esperava docemente uma brisa de ar quente,
Peguei-te na mão e levei-te, tirei-te os pés do solo,
Aproveitei e senti o teu cheiro suave e fluente,
Admiração vinda dos teus olhos, em mim ao colo!

Levar-te-ei sempre comigo, seja qual for teu peso,
Nem que sejas leve como passarinho livre de dor,
Nem que teu fardo seja tão pesado, duro e coeso,
Minhas forças se unirão, confortando-te de amor!

Serenamente provar-te-ei um dia mais distante,
Contemplando teus cabelos brancos grisalhos,
Vendo tuas rugas da cara e das mãos, ofegante,
Beijando-te a alma e o chão sobre teus olhos!

Um gostar, amar, suspiro de amigo e de amado,
Serei sempre companheiro, do teu movimento,
Adepto cativado, pela tua voz e teu ar atento,
Seriam dúzias de verdades, de amor adequado!

Que nunca precises de um beijo e não te dê dois,
Que nunca te faça bem rir e eu te não conte piada,
Seja a noite de abraços e os dias verdes logo depois,
Seja o vento numa tarde de calor, refresco, amada!

Autor: António Benigno
Código de autor: 2013.08.13.02.16

My hear(t),
lik(e) pots a(n)d pa(n)s on a suburban street at m(i)d(n)ight,
quiv(e)rs up into my collarbon(e).

(I)t is heavy with the wei(ght) of carrying you into the new year.

That ki(s)s, that kiss of d(e)ath, dies a slow and (ve)xed death.
E(n)ough to paralyze but not ****.

My (s)k(i)n still tingles where the fuzz of your face ta(x)ied my cheek.
Screaming sensation,
— a surrendering of sorts.

The sequin top loses it's beading and the paper hat gets bent,
But like my (f)avor(i)te every season sweater,
I'll ne(ve)r outgrow you.
Even i(f) I d(o) have to hold my breath to keep yo(u) in,
you a(r)e (th)e colo(r)s I s(ee) when I close my eyes.

You wan(t)ed and you got.
And I still (w)ant what I didn't get.

Maybe this (o)ne. Maybe the next (one).

uh im rude like awakening knock those out who fakin'
flakin' like  they frosted i leave ya exhaushted
hard to see me when them black ants
crawlin' over eye visions cuz my visions
dehydrate your precisions
stingin' ya harder the bees like wind to breeze
ya cant slow me yall haters below me
bring force like kinobi just show me
yo head so i can fill it with led down goes yo bread
tears in the hearts of families fatalities bring joy to me
emcees beware ya in for a scare no truth or dare
pause ya like a stare first glare ya see
im in ya shadows check my plateau ruthless as Don Vito  
evils we see no remorse for those who try to show
out they *** we never chased the cash
we burned out like brass true with me class
yall dont want clash dancin' with the titan fast as lightening
strike so compellin' enticin' frightening
no late night news can fused or abuse
our images we mass murderers lowerin' percentages
of those in advantage we bringin' mo' carnage
than the average savage live in havoc
dont thread the best unless ya wanna die like the rest
ease my stress with totes of canibus while yall diss
im chillin' like maximus full potential
we never bought out chips just sought out
takin' over islands reestablish demands
with illegal contrabands one man stand dont need no fan
feel me i be the straight loco true colo ******* by nature
too a few bites from forbidden manzana
makin'  miracles like ana from lyrical content
bites critics like piranhas sound the black madonna whos gonna?
stop me once i began the tears
so you imitators
commentators beware

I went to the Bookstore today
    (can't do tablets or laptops
    when smoking cigars
    and
    ...also hate tv...don't like
    the way it makes me feel
    or other people look)
In downtown Boulder, Colo
Which, if you've never been
Displays fresh prints of Dave Eggers
And Edward Abbey
    In an 1899 erected structure
        That formerly hosted
            Ballroom dances
                Orchestras
                    And secret societies
It's not Powells in Portland, Ore
    (old school state abbreviations...
    deal with it)
But it's better for me
    Because I'm here
And it was a beautiful day
Even after losing at chess
    to a brilliant fool
    just outside
I couldn't help myself
    From browsing the poetry section
        In its entirety
(Only here for the $3.75 copy of the Poetry Foundation's monthly)
And I noticed an increase
    In fresh copies of Hafiz
    Same for Bukowski
    And Ginsberg
Keats was nowhere to be found
Typically, Shakespeare, Whitman,
    Wordsworth...are everywhere
I wondered if the American compilation
    by Garrison Keillor
    is worhwhile
There were dozens
    And dozens
        Of masters
            That I have not spent time with
Not "spent time"
Perhaps read a bit
    But not, connected with enough
    that I could say...I got it
    Not a fully aligned get
    But an education
        And appreciation
            To one who has pushed the craft
            in their own way
Or left me weeping
    at brilliance of love and language
But I resisted said temptation
    Of rampant reckless bookbuying
        And got my magazine
But on my drive home
    In the far East reaches of the county
        (Boulder's real estate no longer
        grants us commons much access)
    I stopped at tiny used book shop
        Bought an old copy of
            D. H. Lawrence poetry
                for a few bucks
And by the time I got home
To take inventory of tea
    Of coffee
        Of wine and cigars

I was rather pleased
    Pleased with myself
For I looked forward
    To the read
        To the sky
        To living soul free
            Once again

Vamos matar o presidente;

Vamos enterrar o João Goulart;

Porque o mundo está confuso;

E está sem estrada pra caminhar.

Estou aqui desde às 19:00 de ontem;

Só escrevendo como você me machucou;

E de como não consigo me submergir;

Dos seus olhos castanhos.

Preferia, continuar escrevendo sobre a Kampf;

Pelo menos, era uma paixão;

Que apenas iria acontecer no Dia de São Nunca.

Já você;

É uma paixão confusa e promíscua;

Que irá voltar;

Com os dois filhos no colo;

Reclamando: Falta de amor.

E quando eu disser ''sim'';

Você será um poema que não vou saber mais escrever.

You snooze
You lose
Fest ~ of all
the bore ring
Around the Collar
Me A-muse-D.

não pode ser justo que eu tenha nascido nesse mundo com a culpa de uma vida inteira que ainda nem vivi que antes de ter chegado meus olhos já tivessem visto tudo o mais que eu não pudesse suportar e carregado tanto peso em minhas costas pequenas costas de criança frustrada interrompida silenciada com medo sem nem saber o porquê era o peso de uma mulher pesada amargurada despreparada sozinha cansada invalidada com medo era também a ironia de que aquilo que eu mais temia a mulher pesada que me tinha em seu colo era também o que eu mais viria a precisar desde o leite e da pedra a mulher pesada aquilo que eu mais temia a que me tinha em seu seio era também o que eu viria a me tornar sem escapatória sem saber que eu já havia me tornado muito antes de existir e a culpa tão grande a culpa desde o leite e da pedra

a criança chorando em seu colo
não pesava nada
perto do peso que era ser
mulher
a maternidade
era só mais uma ferida aberta
nas suas partes secretas
pra não deixá-la esquecer
que ela não era ninguém
além do rombo em seu ventre

eu costumava sonhar em me tornar o mar
imenso e vasto como tal,
com a mesma selvageria caótica
que é viva e dissemina a calmaria

e se eu puder ser mar
receber-te-ei como um dos meus
que banham-se em meu colo
enquanto se libertam das âncoras mundanas

às pressas de escapar desse não-lugar onde me esconderam
me vi na areia, em mutação
preto no branco gritando e a natureza fundindo
eu me vi fruto da miscigenação

eu me tornei mar
e agora tenho um amante
que queima em meu horizonte
mas se esconde ao anoitecer

na manhã ele retorna
e logo põe-se a iluminar
todas as almas pretas
que ainda procuram um lar

escapei do esconderijo
que era um tipo de prisão
pra que ninguém mais seja preso
longe da escuridão

por isso enquanto eu for mar
te deixarei livre, na leveza de existir
te emprestarei meu amante
pois sei da tua vontade

vai ter calor no teu corpo em todo amanhecer

felizmente hoje eu sou mar
então recebo-te como um dos meus
e lhe convido a nadar

como quando tigres enfeitam a maçaneta dos ventos
e cobrem o fio de náilon sobre a camada espessa da terra.

logo eu que pairo sobre as montanhas cobertas de neve de açúcar
chego cansada pelos montes de veludo e sopro todo ar que um dia foi de alguém.

escuto os sons que meu pai grita da garganta seca e consumida pela vida falha dos danos em nó.

sigo firme no divã que um dia foi de minha vó que morreu nos braços de deus enquanto vomitava em uma bacia de metal em formato de baço.

eis que um dia pensei: sou feliz e não sabia que era.

um dia quando tudo se cair pela metade na esquerda irei confusa dormir sob os véus dos espíritos que pairam na terra secreta e silenciosamente dominam a mente de pastores homens.

há de um dia ser tudo amor e mais vívido como quando quadros pintam a si mesmos na calada do dia em pleno raio de sol das três e quinze da tarde enquanto tomam café gelado sem leite.

minha mãe um dia travou em pé e encarou a guarda de um poderoso pai e padeci de medo mas superei a realidade que o mundo um dia me trouxe.

quisera eu dominar a xícara de licor sob os pés de caixas simbolizantes e soprar uma lágrima pelos ombros que um dia foram meus e de mais ninguém.

haja fé suficiente na vida dos que ainda não foram e procuram por paz no meio do caminho tortuoso de outra dimensão.

um dia uma nuvem vai cair do céu e parar sentada no meu colo; e quando a tesoura que usarei pra corta-la sair da gaveta, gritarei quatro vezes: esse mundo não é teu.

O eco que a dor faz em meu peito,
e eu sei que eu sou o próprio responsável,
por sangrar assim...

Eu não consigo lidar,
lidar com tanto e tão pouco,
ao mesmo tempo que eu quero um fim eu não quero.

Se a gente pudesse pelo menos fingir que tá tudo bem,
Quem sabe não fica?
Eu não sirvo pra despedidas, não assim...

Se a gente pudesse ficar um pouco mais aqui,
deita no meu colo, eu te conto uma história pra dormir,
mas fica aqui.

Eu não sirvo pra despedidas meu amor,
Eu não sirvo pra pontos finais,
A gente poderia ser uma vírgula.

E depois a gente vê o que é que faz...

to my detriment...
      
    (i) wouldn't have thought the concept
of orthography was alive and well
in the Victorian episode of
english history...

    but who can blame me...
after all... orthography simply became
a concern for "spelling mistakes"...
never mind the fact that...
   translating english into h'americana
can find yourself

obliterated - or rather: dumb-founded
at some examples of "unnecessary" letters...
e.g. colo(u)r...
             and i always thought that...
diacritical markers of distinction
were the prerequisites of claiming
orthography...

   i was wrong... so wrong in fact...

                                  +
                       B   I   L   S   T
                              U   M
                          P   S   H   I
                              S.   M.
                           A    R    K

i really didn't take more concern than
is usually necessary...
    Mr. Blotton...
                 said it was only...
   a failed sudoku crossword / pseudo-anagram...
neither: i hope...
              Mr. Stumps: the rock-"owner"
of Cobham...

              'bill stumps, his mark'...
ah yes... the orthography of a "missing" lambda...
but i would have to imagine...
as is the case:
sometimes the u precedes the o...
or the plague... or not really bothered but:
there is a clear difference
when the sound is the same...
can i infer a variation of meaning
from a "missing" L?
   bill... bill... there's the lesser william:
i.e. *****... and so **' come
the w mutated into a b?
lesser still: but of concern nonetheless:

how was **** arrived at from richard?
orthography...
when... all it takes is bil(l)?
                      a mammoth task...
esp. should there be a "missing" mam(m)oth
to begin with...
    it sounds as it reads but...
there's no "higher" reason to infer...
that a mamoth is not a mammoth...
unless: m'ah-moth...
                    but if it's orthographic:
it's also aesthetic to boot!
        a mamoth is not a mammoth because...
an ardvark is not an aardvark...
   and Aaron... and Aaron...
stutter? ah'aron...
                        stutter and a gem of timidity
when it comes to clicking: cccccook...
             bounce a riddle: not so... quick...
bry-dle...
                       the ridler & co. is not:
the riddler & co.
                                 but the added: D and so too:
added and not: ad(d)ed...
                      ad hoc...
                                       it was the year...
oh... i'm guessing 1997...
           the prodigy had released:
   more music for the jilted generation...
an event at the Victoria train station... terminal...
when OurPrice was still the sort of
tesco-metro of ****** megastores...

did i buy it? no no... i was still a "kid who'd
most probably **** their bed" when
en vouge came out with a single...
don't let go...                                 sold!

notion of orthography: furthered...
    pół - half...
           half of what?
   poow...
   literally... / missing from the L and...
' missing from the o...
               otherwise... pociecha: comforting...
punkt: point...
                     ah... this obscure of the most
obscure... under a russian umbrella...
  loitering blister of former life...

to boost concerns...
how am i to be sure that... e.e. cummings
was not... a welshman?
a cornwellian?
                  when reading:

       ygUDuh
             ydoan
                     yunnuhstan
          lidl yelluh bas

we could try... i'm pwetty pwetty     'ssured
that welsh is a protected language:
a u.n.e.s.c.o. heritage sight of: wriggles and lapping...
tongue: mind you...

hellish punctuation...
one of those: lesser arts...
          and all the space in the world:
escape from Alcatraz / the paragraph...

in velsh then!
       basic things: i eat coal...
                                   eh bwyta glo...
       roses are disgusting
              when rhymed:
           rhosod mae hatgasaf
                            pryd odli (fioledau)...
         come tomorrow:
   time will become the wind...
                       dewch yfory,
    amser ewyllys dod yn y gwynt...

gwynt - wind...
   ddaear - earth...
      dwr - water...
                tân - fire!

          that whole hazelnut of:
too many consonants from eastern europe...
yes: and so little in wales:
that Y had to, "sort of"... take on functions
of: why i... a llafariad?
         i.e. a voul... a vool...
                    an owl... a vowel...

Shakespeare? not now... not now...
  by the looks of it: no theatre... not ever...
thea-ter... you'd say: thea-ter...
but you'd write: thea-tre...
and then say: properly: anything
thea-trical...

               this of course is not...
something concerned with:    naws... nuance...
i must most certainly bring in some
welsh... to... for lack of a better... want...
that part of language most alive:
slang...
                      well... welsh for me will
have to... become a "sort of"... new shlang...

   it's wet it's gloomy... but to me it will be:
   gwlyb... otherwise: glib... and of course
cousin glum...
                    
   such is... what itself has allowed...
       and i: the hands that became a treason
to the body and the mind...
ventured to... satisfy...
                        these words... of origins
unknown...
               idle hands: hardly anything more
than idle words...
               how nature abhors a vacuum.