Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Given the apparent magical surrealism that the months of April is the month of fate for and death of writers, artists, dramatis, philosophers and poets, a phenomenon which readily gets support from the cases of untimely and early April deaths of; Max Weber, Miguel de Cervantes, William Shakespeare, Francis Imbuga, and Chinua Achebe  then  Wisdom of the moment behooves me to adjure away the fateful month by  allowing  me to mourn Gabriel José de la Concordia García Márquez by expressing my feelings of grieve through the following dirge of elegy;
You lived alone in the solitude
Of pure hundred years in Colombia
Roaming in Amacondo with a Spanish tongue
Carrying the bones of your grandmother in a sisal sag
On your poverty written Colombian back,
Gadabouting to make love in times of cholera,
On none other than your bitter-sweet memories
Of your melancholic ***** the daughter of Castro,
Your cowardice made you to fear your momentous life
In this glorious and poetic time of April 2014,
Only to succumb to untimely black death
That similarly dimunitized your cultural ancestor;
Miguel de Cervantes, a quixotic Spaniard,
You were to write to the colonel for your life,
Before eating the cockerel you had ear-marked
For Olympic cockfight, the hope of the oppressed,
Come back from death, you dear Marquez
To tell me more stories fanaticism to surrealism,
From Tarzanic Africa the fabulous land
An avatar of evil gods that are impish propre
Only Vitian Naipaul and Salman Rushdie are not enough,
For both of them are so naïve to tell the African stories,
I will miss you a lot the rest of my life, my dear Garbo,
But I will ever carry your living soul, my dear Garcia,
Soul of your literature and poetry in a Maasai kioondo
On my broad African shoulders during my journey of art,
When coming to America to look for your culture
That gave you versatile tongue and quill of a pen,
Both I will take as your memento and crystallize them
Into my future thespic umbrella of orature and literature.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, an eminent Latin American and most widely acclaimed authors, died untimely at his home in Mexico City on Thursday, 17th April 2014. The 1982 literature Nobel laureate, whose reputation drew comparisons to Mark Twain of adventures of Huckleberry Finny and Charles Dickens of hard Times, was 87 of age. Already a luminous legend in his well used lifetime, Latin American writer, Gabriel Garcia Marquez was perceived as not only one of the most consequential writers of the 20th and 21ist centuries, but also the sterling performing Spanish-language author since the world’s experience of Miguel de Cervantes, the Spanish Jail bird and Author of Don Quixote who lived in the 17th century.
Like very many other writers from the politically and economically poor parts of the world, in the likes of J M Coatze, Wole Soyinka, Nadine Gordimer, Doris May Lessing, Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, V S Naipaul, and Rabidranathe Tagore, Marguez won the literature Nobel prize in addition to the previous countless awards for his magically fabulous novels, gripping short stories, farcical screenplays, incisive journalistic contributions and spellbinding essays. But due to postmodern global thespic civilization the Nobel Prize is recognized as most important of his prizes in the sense that, he received in 1982, as the first Colombian author to achieve such literary eminence. The eminence of his work in literature communicated in Spanish are towered by none other than the Bible, especially  in its Homeric style which Moses used when writing the book of Genesis and the fictitious drama of Job.
Just like Ngugi, Achebe, Soyinka, and Ousmane Marquez is not the first born. He is the youngest of siblings. He was born on March 6, 1927 in the Colombian village of Aracataca, on the Caribbean coast. His literary bravado was displayed in his book, Love in the Times of Cholera.  In which he narrated how his parents met and got married. Marguez did not grow up with his father and mother, but instead he grew up with his grandparents. He often felt lonely as a child. Environment of aunts and grandmother did not fill the psychological void of father and mother. This social phenomenon of inadequate parenthood is also seen catapulting Richard Wright, Charlese Dickens, and Barrack Obama to literary excellency.Obama recounted the same experience in his Dreams from my father.

Poverty determines convenience or hardship of marriage. This is mirrored by Garcia Marquez in his marriage to Mercedes Barcha.  An early childhood play-mate and neighbour in 1958. In appreciation of his marriage, Marquez later wrote in his memoirs that it is women who maintain the world, whereas we men tend to plunge it into disarray with all our historic brutality. This was a connotation of his grandmother in particular who played an important role during the times of childhood. The grand mother introduced him to the beauty of orature by telling him fabulous stories about ghosts and dead relatives haunting the cellar and attic, a social experience which exactly produced Chinua Achebe, Okot P’Bitek, Mazizi Kunene, Margaret Ogola and very many other writers of the third world.
Little Gabo as his affectionate pseudonym for literature goes, was a voracious bookworm, who like his ideological master Karl Marx read King Lear of Shakespeare at the age of sixteen. He fondly devoured the works of Spanish authors, obviously Miguel de Cervantes, as well as other European heavyweights like; Edward Hemingway, Faulkner and Frantz Kafka.
Good writers usually drop out of school and at most writers who win the Nobel Prize. This formative virtue of writers is evinced in Alice Munro, Doris Lessing, Nadine Gordimer, John Steinbeck, William Shakespeare, Sembene Ousmane, Octavio Paz as well as Gabriel Garcia Marquez. After dropping out of law school, Garcia Marquez decided instead to embark on a call of his passion as a journalist. The career he perfectly did by regularly criticizing Colombian as well as ideological failures of the then foreign politics. In a nutshell he was a literary crusader against poverty. This is of course the obvious hall marker of leftist political orientation.
Garcia Marquez’s sensational breakthrough occurred in 1967 with the break-away publication of his oeuvre; One Hundred Years of Solitude which the New York Times Book Review meritoriously elevated as ‘the first piece of literature since the Book of Genesis that should be required reading for the entire human race. The position similarly taken by Salman Rushdie. Marquez often shared out that this novel carried him above emotional tantrums on its publication. He was keen on this as his manner of speech was always devoid of la di da.so humble and suave that his genius can only be appreciated not from the booming media outlets about his death, but by reading all of his works and especially his Literature Noble price acceptance speech delivered in 1982.
Tyler Nicholas May 2013
The choir girls on rooftops sing
songs of thanksgiving in
harmonious gleam
while the children dance
in vibrant gyrations
underneath the olive trees.

A fire burns while people cheer and chant,
and folk songs flutter like ash.
The sparks fly as burnt wood collapses
and the king takes his throne.

He addresses his court
with eager voice
that echoes across the fields
and all eyes and ears are keenly fixed
on his majesty.

He speaks:
"My people, my friends,
my enemies, my lovers -
from all lands far and wide -
will you open your eyes
and see your live like this?

There is no bloodshed or death
and I can see your lungs expand with each breath.

Now, please fill your cups
with the strongest of wines
and let music ring
with the loudest of chiming.
Let peace fill your souls
and love cloud your minds.

Lay down your swords,
pax et concordia
for love is the strongest of wards."
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
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.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
the world's at their feet, they can claim postcards
from anywhere - yet they too are at the world's
something or other - the world shat them out
and they described it politely
as worth the travel... or the world regurgitated
them out and made them say
Rome was infinite  in the aristocratic practice
of an **** of anorexics -
the best rhetoric i ever heard
was from a bulimic aristocrat
from Pompeii... hot lava streaks of
half-digested fledglings
of a chiselled rock-face of partially
climbed for a reward of a cupcake...
it took porridge to the new extremes!
seriously - the un-celebrated
masculine with masculine enticed
us into accepting **** without lactose
sugars and a cougar **** of fancy -
trans ****** **** because the masculine
form was asked to be damnable
in homosexual practice -
at least homosexuals practised the celebration
of whole male embodiment, the male
form was celebrated - it isn't now, to be
honest - the male beauty is debased,
once by feminism secondly by trans-gender
politics - of "free speech",
free speech is gone... it went down the sewers
with a ship of pirating rats profiteering from
cowardice and the capitalistic motto:
every tail waggling for the dodo coccyx
to be minded! hushed, the rats jumped ship,
the last idiot, the captain remained,
started snorkelling up pride in the one
constellation he wished to avoid, not east
nor west... but the deepest south of a sinking
ship... the depths gave him reprimand for
honour - an assurance in the form of
costa concordia's schettino breaking
the lineage of accepted convent for the upkeep.
Yo, Beremundo el Lelo, surqué todas las rutas
y probé todos los mesteres.
Singlando a la deriva, no en orden cronológico ni lógico -en sin orden-
narraré mis periplos, diré de los empleos con que
nutrí mis ocios,
distraje mi hacer nada y enriquecí mi hastío...;
-hay de ellos otros que me callo-:
Catedrático fui de teosofía y eutrapelia, gimnopedia y teogonía y pansofística en Plafagonia;
barequero en el Porce y el Tigüí, huaquero en el Quindío,
amansador mansueto -no en desuetud aún- de muletos cerriles y de onagros, no sé dónde;
palaciego proto-Maestre de Ceremonias de Wilfredo el Velloso,
de Cunegunda ídem de ídem e ibídem -en femenino- e ídem de ídem de Epila Calunga
y de Efestión -alejandrino- el Glabro;
desfacedor de entuertos, tuertos y malfetrías, y de ellos y ellas facedor;
domeñador de endriagos, unicornios, minotauros, quimeras y licornas y dragones... y de la Gran Bestia.

Fui, de Sind-bad, marinero; pastor de cabras en Sicilia
si de cabriolas en Silesia, de cerdas en Cerdeña y -claro- de corzas en Córcega;
halconero mayor, primer alcotanero de Enguerrando Segundo -el de la Tour-Miracle-;
castrador de colmenas, y no de Casanovas, en el Véneto, ni de Abelardos por el Sequana;
pajecillo de altivas Damas y ariscas Damas y fogosas, en sus castillos
y de pecheras -¡y cuánto!- en sus posadas y mesones
-yo me era Gerineldos de todellas y trovador trovadorante y adorante; como fui tañedor
de chirimía por fiestas candelarias, carbonero con Gustavo Wasa en Dalecarlia, bucinator del Barca Aníbal
y de Scipión el Africano y Masinisa, piloto de Erik el Rojo hasta Vinlandia, y corneta
de un escuadrón de coraceros de Westmannlandia que cargó al lado del Rey de Hielo
-con él pasé a difunto- y en la primera de Lutzen.

Fui preceptor de Diógenes, llamado malamente el Cínico:
huésped de su tonel, además, y portador de su linterna;
condiscípulo y émulo de Baco Dionisos Enófilo, llamado buenamente el Báquico
-y el Dionisíaco, de juro-.

Fui discípulo de Gautama, no tan aprovechado: resulté mal budista, si asaz contemplativo.
Hice de peluquero esquilador siempre al servicio de la gentil Dalilah,
(veces para Sansón, que iba ya para calvo, y -otras- depilador de sus de ella óptimas partes)
y de maestro de danzar y de besar de Salomé: no era el plato de argento,
mas sí de litargirio sus caderas y muslos y de azogue también su vientre auri-rizado;
de Judith de Betulia fui confidente y ni infidente, y -con derecho a sucesión- teniente y no lugarteniente
de Holofernes no Enófobo (ni enófobos Judith ni yo, si con mesura, cautos).
Fui entrenador (no estrenador) de Aspasia y Mesalina y de Popea y de María de Mágdalo
e Inés Sorel, y marmitón y pinche de cocina de Gargantúa
-Pantagruel era huésped no nada nominal: ya suficientemente pantagruélico-.
Fui fabricante de batutas, quebrador de hemistiquios, requebrador de Eustaquias, y tratante en viragos
y en sáficas -algunas de ellas adónicas- y en pínnicas -una de ellas super-fémina-:
la dejé para mí, si luego ancló en casorio.
A la rayuela jugué con Fulvia; antes, con Palamedes, axedrez, y, en época vecina, con Philidor, a los escaques;
y, a las damas, con Damas de alto y bajo coturno
-manera de decir: que para el juego en litis las Damas suelen ir descalzas
y se eliden las calzas y sustentadores -no funcionales- en las Damas y las calzas en los varones.

Tañí el rabel o la viola de amor -casa de Bach, búrguesa- en la primicia
de La Cantata del Café (pre-estreno, en familia protestante, privado).
Le piqué caña jorobeta al caballo de Atila
-que era un morcillo de prócer alzada: me refiero al corcel-;
cambié ideas, a la par, con Incitato, Cónsul de Calígula, y con Babieca,
-que andaba en Babia-, dándole prima
fui zapatero de viejo de Berta la del gran pie (buen pie, mejor coyuntura),
de la Reina Patoja ortopedista; y hortelano y miniaturista de Pepino el Breve,
y copero mayor faraónico de Pepe Botellas, interino,
y porta-capas del Pepe Bellotas de la esposa de Putifar.

Viajé con Julio Verne y Odiseo, Magallanes y Pigafetta, Salgan, Leo e Ibn-Batuta,
con Melville y Stevenson, Fernando González y Conrad y Sir John de Mandeville y Marco Polo,
y sólo, sin De Maistre, alredor de mi biblioteca, de mi oploteca, mi mecanoteca y mi pinacoteca.
Viajé también en tomo de mí mismo: asno a la vez que noria.

Fui degollado en la de San Bartolomé (post facto): secundaba a La Môle:
Margarita de Valois no era total, íntegramente pelirroja
-y no porque de noche todos los gatos son pardos...: la leoparda,
las tres veces internas, íntimas, peli-endrina,
Margarita, Margotón, Margot, la casqui-fulva...-

No estuve en la nea nao -arcaica- de Noé, por manera
-por ventura, otrosí- que no fui la paloma ni la medusa de esa almadía: mas sí tuve a mi encargo
la selección de los racimos de sus viñedos, al pie del Ararat, al post-Diluvio,
yo, Beremundo el Lelo.

Fui topógrafo ad-hoc entre El Cangrejo y Purcoy Niverengo,
(y ad-ínterim, administré la zona bolombólica:
mucho de anís, mucho de Rosas del Cauca, versos de vez en cuando),
y fui remero -el segundo a babor- de la canoa, de la piragua
La Margarita (criolla), que navegó fluvial entre Comiá, La Herradura, El Morito,
con cargamentos de contrabando: blancas y endrinas de Guaca, Titiribí y Amagá, y destilados
de Concordia y Betulia y de Urrao...
¡Urrao! ¡Urrao! (hasta hace poco lo diríamos con harta mayor razón y con aquese y este júbilos).
Tras de remero de bajel -y piloto- pasé a condueño, co-editor, co-autor
(no Coadjutor... ¡ni de Retz!) en asocio de Matías Aldecoa, vascuence, (y de un tal Gaspar von der Nacht)
de un Libraco o Librículo de pseudo-poemas de otro quídam;
exploré la región de Zuyaxiwevo con Sergio Stepánovich Stepansky,
lobo de donde se infiere, y, en más, ario.

Fui consejero áulico de Bogislao, en la corte margravina de Xa-Netupiromba
y en la de Aglaya crisostómica, óptima circezuela, traidorcilla;
tañedor de laúd, otra vez, y de viola de gamba y de recorder,
de sacabuche, otrosí (de dulzaina - otronó) y en casaciones y serenatas y albadas muy especializado.
No es cierto que yo fuera -es impostura-
revendedor de bulas (y de mulas) y tragador defuego y engullidor de sables y bufón en las ferias
pero sí platiqué (también) con el asno de Buridán y Buridán,
y con la mula de Balaám y Balaám, con Rocinante y Clavileño y con el Rucio
-y el Manco y Sancho y don Quijote-
y trafiqué en ultramarinos: ¡qué calamares -en su tinta-!,
¡qué Anisados de Guarne!, ¡qué Rones de Jamaica!, ¡qué Vodkas de Kazán!, ¡qué Tequilas de México!,
¡qué Néctares de Heliconia! ¡Morcillas de Itagüí! ¡Torreznos de Envigado! ¡Chorizos de los Ballkanes! ¡Qué Butifarras cataláunicas!
Estuve en Narva y en Pultawa y en las Queseras del Medio, en Chorros Blancos
y en El Santuario de Córdova, y casi en la de San Quintín
(como pugnaban en el mismo bando no combatí junto a Egmont por no estar cerca al de Alba;
a Cayetana sí le anduve cerca tiempo después: preguntádselo a Goya);
no llegué a tiempo a Waterloo: me distraje en la ruta
con Ida de Saint-Elme, Elselina Vanayl de Yongh, viuda del Grande Ejército (desde antaño... más tarde)
y por entonces y desde años antes bravo Edecán de Ney-:
Ayudante de Campo... de plumas, gongorino.
No estuve en Capua, pero ya me supongo sus mentadas delicias.

Fabriqué clavicémbalos y espinetas, restauré virginales, reparé Stradivarius
falsos y Guarnerius apócrifos y Amatis quasi Amatis.
Cincelé empuñaduras de dagas y verduguillos, en el obrador de Benvenuto,
y escriños y joyeles y guardapelos ad-usum de Cardenales y de las Cardenalesas.
Vendí Biblias en el Sinú, con De la Rosa, Borelly y el ex-pastor Antolín.
Fui catador de tequila (debuté en Tapachula y ad-látere de Ciro el Ofiuco)
y en México y Amecameca, y de mezcal en Teotihuacán y Cuernavaca,
de Pisco-sauer en Lima de los Reyes,
y de otros piscolabis y filtros muy antes y después y por Aná del Aburrá, y doquiérase
con El Tarasco y una legión de Bacos Dionisos, pares entre Pares.
Vagué y vagué si divagué por las mesillas del café nocharniego, Mil Noches y otra Noche
con el Mago de lápiz buido y de la voz asordinada.
Antes, muy antes, bebí con él, con Emmanuel y don Efe y Carrasca, con Tisaza y Xovica y Mexía y los otros Panidas.
Después..., ahora..., mejor no meneallo y sí escanciallo y persistir en ello...

Dicté un curso de Cabalística y otro de Pan-Hermética
y un tercero de Heráldica,
fuera de los cursillos de verano de las literaturas bereberes -comparadas-.
Fui catalogador protonotario en jefe de la Magna Biblioteca de Ebenezer el Sefardita,
y -en segundo- de la Mínima Discoteca del quídam en referencia de suso:
no tenía aún las Diabelli si era ya dueño de las Goldberg;
no poseía completa la Inconclusa ni inconclusa la Décima (aquestas Sinfonías, Variaciones aquesas:
y casi que todello -en altísimo rango- tan Variaciones Alredor de Nada).

Corregí pruebas (y dislates) de tres docenas de sota-poetas
-o similares- (de los que hinchen gacetilleros a toma y daca).
Fui probador de calzas -¿prietas?: ceñidas, sí, en todo caso- de Diana de Meridor
y de justillos, que así veníanle, de estar atán bien provista
y atán rebién dotada -como sabíalo también y así de bien Bussy d'Amboise-.
Temperé virginales -ya restaurados-, y clavecines, si no como Isabel, y aunque no tan baqueano
como ése de Eisenach, arroyo-Océano.
Soplé el ***** bufón, con tal cual incongruencia, sin ni tal cual donaire.
No aporreé el bombo, empero, ni entrechoqué los címbalos.

Les saqué puntas y les puse ribetes y garambainas a los vocablos,
cuando diérame por la Semasiología, cierta vez, en la Sorbona de Abdera,
sita por Babia, al pie de los de Úbeda, que serán cerros si no valen por Monserrates,
sin cencerros. Perseveré harto poco en la Semántica -por esa vez-,
si, luego retorné a la andadas, pero a la diabla, en broma:
semanto-semasiólogo tarambana pillín pirueteante.
Quien pugnó en Dénnevitz con Ney, el peli-fulvo
no fui yo: lo fue mi bisabuelo el Capitán...;
y fue mi tatarabuelo quien apresó a Gustavo Cuarto:
pero sí estuve yo en la Retirada de los Diez Mil
-era yo el Siete Mil Setecientos y Setenta y Siete,
precisamente-: releed, si dudaislo, el Anábasis.
Fui celador intocable de la Casa de Tócame-Roque, -si ignoré cuyo el Roque sería-,
y de la Casa del Gato-que-pelotea; le busqué tres pies al gato
con botas, que ya tenía siete vidas y logré dar con siete autores en busca de un personaje
-como quien dice Los Siete contra Tebas: ¡pobre Tebas!-, y ya es jugar bastante con el siete.
No pude dar con la cuadratura del círculo, que -por lo demás- para nada hace falta,
mas topé y en el Cuarto de San Alejo, con la palanca de Arquimedes y con la espada de Damocles,
ambas a dos, y a cual más, tomadas del orín y con más moho
que las ideas de yo si sé quién mas no lo digo:
púsome en aprietos tal doble hallazgo; por más que dije: ¡Eureka! ...: la palanca ya no servía ni para levantar un falso testimonio,
y tuve que encargarme de tener siempre en suspenso y sobre mí la espada susodicha.

Se me extravió el anillo de Saturno, mas no el de Giges ni menos el de Hans Carvel;
no sé qué se me ficieron los Infantes de Aragón y las Nieves de Antaño y el León de Androcles y la Balanza
del buen Shylock: deben estar por ahí con la Linterna de Diógenes:
-¿mas cómo hallarlos sin la linterna?

No saqué el pecho fuera, ni he sido nunca el Tajo, ni me di cuenta del lío de Florinda,
ni de por qué el Tajo el pecho fuera le sacaba a la Cava,
pero sí vi al otro don Rodrigo en la Horca.
Pinté muestras de posadas y mesones y ventas y paradores y pulquerías
en Veracruz y Tamalameque y Cancán y Talara, y de riendas de abarrotes en Cartagena de Indias, con Tisaza-,
si no desnarigué al de Heredia ni a López **** tuerto -que era bizco-.
Pastoreé (otra vez) el Rebaño de las Pléyades
y resultaron ser -todellas, una a una- ¡qué capretinas locas!
Fui aceitero de la alcuza favorita del Padre de los Búhos Estáticos:
-era un Búho Sofista, socarrón soslayado, bululador mixtificante-.
Regí el vestier de gala de los Pingüinos Peripatéticos,
(precursores de Brummel y del barón d'Orsay,
por fuera de filósofos, filosofículos, filosofantes dromomaníacos)
y apacenté el Bestiario de Orfeo (delegatario de Apollinaire),
yo, Beremundo el Lelo.

Nada tuve que ver con el asesinato de la hija del corso adónico Sebastiani
ni con ella (digo como pesquisidor, pesquisante o pesquisa)
si bien asesoré a Edgar Allan Poe como entomólogo, cuando El Escarabajo de Oro,
y en su investigación del Doble Asesinato de la Rue Morgue,
ya como experto en huellas dactilares o quier digitalinas.
Alguna vez me dio por beberme los vientos o por pugnar con ellos -como Carolus
Baldelarius- y por tomar a las o las de Villadiego o a las sus calzas:
aquesas me resultaron harto potables -ya sin calzas-; ellos, de mucho volumen
y de asaz poco cuerpo (si asimilados a líquidos, si como justadores).
Gocé de pingües canonjías en el reinado del bonachón de Dagoberto,
de opíparas prebendas, encomiendas, capellanías y granjerías en el del Rey de los Dipsodas,
y de dulce privanza en el de doña Urraca
(que no es la Gazza Ladra de Rossini, si fuéralo
de corazones o de amantes o favoritos o privados o martelos).

Fui muy alto cantor, como bajo cantante, en la Capilla de los Serapiones
(donde no se sopranizaba...); conservador,
conservador -pero poco- de Incunables, en la Alejandrina de Panida,
(con sucursal en El Globo y filiales en el Cuarto del Búho).

Hice de Gaspar Hauser por diez y seis hebdémeros
y por otras tantas semanas y tres días fui la sombra,
la sombra misma que se le extravió a Peter Schlémil.

Fui el mozo -mozo de estribo- de la Reina Cristina de Suecia
y en ciertas ocasiones también el de Ebba Sparre.
Fui el mozo -mozo de estoques- de la Duquesa de Chaumont
(que era de armas tomar y de cálida sélvula): con ella pus mi pica en Flandes
-sobre holandas-.

Fui escriba de Samuel Pepys -¡qué escabroso su Diario!-
y sustituto suyo como edecán adjunto de su celosa cónyuge.
Y fuí copista de Milton (un poco largo su Paraíso Perdido,
magüer perdido en buena parte: le suprimí no pocos Cantos)
y a la su vera reencontré mi Paraíso (si el poeta era
ciego; -¡qué ojazos los de su Déborah!).

Fui traductor de cablegramas del magnífico Jerjes;
telefonista de Artajerjes el Tartajoso; locutor de la Esfinge
y confidente de su secreto; ventrílocuo de Darío Tercero Codomano el Multilocuo,
que hablaba hasta por los codos;
altoparlante retransmisor de Eubolio el Mudo, yerno de Tácito y su discípulo
y su émulo; caracola del mar océano eólico ecolálico y el intérprete
de Luis Segundo el Tartamudo -padre de Carlos el Simple y Rey de Gaula.
Hice de andante caballero a la diestra del Invencible Policisne de Beocia
y a la siniestra del Campeón olímpico Tirante el Blanco, tirante al blanco:
donde ponía el ojo clavaba su virote;
y a la zaga de la fogosa Bradamante, guardándole la espalda
-manera de decir-
y a la vanguardia, mas dándole la cara, de la tierna Marfisa...

Fui amanuense al servicio de Ambrosio Calepino
y del Tostado y deMatías Aldecoa y del que urdió el Mahabarata;
fui -y soylo aún, no zoilo- graduado experto en Lugares Comunes
discípulo de Leon Bloy y de quien escribió sobre los Diurnales.
Crucigramista interimario, logogrifario ad-valorem y ad-placerem
de Cleopatra: cultivador de sus brunos pitones y pastor de sus áspides,
y criptogramatista kinesiólogo suyo y de la venus Calipigia, ¡viento en popa a toda vela!
Fui tenedor malogrado y aburrido de libros de banca,
tenedor del tridente de Neptuno,
tenedor de librejos -en los bolsillos del gabán (sin gabán) collinesco-,
y de cuadernículos -quier azules- bajo el ala.
Sostenedor de tesis y de antítesis y de síntesis sin sustentáculo.
Mantenedor -a base de abstinencias- de los Juegos Florales
y sostén de los Frutales -leche y miel y cerezas- sin ayuno.
Porta-alfanje de Harún-al-Rashid, porta-mandoble de Mandricardo el Mandria,
porta-martillo de Carlos Martel,
porta-fendiente de Roldán, porta-tajante de Oliveros, porta-gumía
de Fierabrás, porta-laaza de Lanzarote (¡ búen Lancelot tan dado a su Ginevra!)
y a la del Rey Artús, de la Ca... de la Mesa Redonda...;
porta-lámpara de Al-Eddin, el Loca Suerte, y guardián y cerbero de su anillo
y del de los Nibelungos: pero nunca guardián de serrallo ni cancerbero ni evirato de harem...
Y fui el Quinto de los Tres Mosqueteros (no hay quinto peor) -veinte años después-.

Y Faraute de Juan Sin Tierra y fiduciario de
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2014
This is the game, set and matching end-piece to what is known as:

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/385266/poetry-round-find-your-self-within/

by way of an introduction....

T'is season to move forward,
back to old acquaintances renewed,
sand, water and salty sun,
three lifelong friends who,
Auld Lang Syne,
never ever forget me

I get drunk on their eternity,
their celestial beauty,
and they, upon my tarnished earthly being,
muse and are bemused

unreservedly and never judgingly,
share shards of inspiration unstintingly,
we share, never measuring
this captain's humanity, his human efficacy,
by mystical formulae of reads or hearts

grains of sand, water wave droplets and sun rays,
and his beloved words, derived there from,
all only know one measure...
immeasurable

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/699991/adieu-my-crew-my-crew/
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Pilgrimage (Reunion)


at last to begin,
to begin the 'at last,'
this reunion occurs
this first day of June
where on my
body's flesh colored calendar,
X red-marked,
deeper than any real cut of despair


this morn, leave for familiar parts,
embarking 100 steps to that
Adirondack chair,
my name, my self,
(oh god at long last)
so often, long lovingly
revealed unto you


the garden's sundial welcomes me,
Prince, Guardian, of the gate to the green,
the green steppe way to bay and beach,
a brief song of "ring around the irises,"
blooming around him,
he issues,
to celebrate his own glory recalled,
his own purpled prosed long ago one ecrivez'd,
by having the third mate
ring the greened worn,
bronzed ship bell
upon conclusion of
his raising of the gate


shorts and T white hair shirt,
costume de rigueur
of this Peconic pilgrimage,
turban and baseball uncapped,
stepping humbly
toward that worn wood throne
where carved are
the initials of
my poetic friends,
and his vast modest,
Concordia of poetic essays


Those odd disordered
collection of aleph bets
that have been prepared for this hour,
are sun dappled,
breeze caressed,
wave watched,
a fresh redressing after a
dum hiems,
a long dark winter


all rise up welcoming with voices
tremulous yet oratory,
sing with a love so spectacular ,
Handel's Messiah Hallelujah Chorus,
au naturel


the armies of ants declare this a
Truce Day,
parading before me in formation,
the rabbits race
in elegant uniforms,
white tailed bemedaled, dress grays,
announcing their  showoff arrival
with a new across-the-lawn
land speed record


the dear **** deer,
familiar families and generational,
look upon this human and
grumble while chewing our shrubbery,
an act of sherwooded lawn high robbery
but perforce acknowledging our entrance,
by uttering a Balaam blessing/curse,
a neutralized
"****, they're back"


the seagulls on the dock,
sovereign state observers from
Montauk and the far island city,
sent by the mother winds superior,
observers and reporters to nature everywhere,
Summer Season of Man Has Begun


a few white wakes disturb the water's composure,
the early low arc'd sun has not peaked in strength,
at 10:00am, the temp just breaches 60 Fahrenheit,
the beach sand untrod, no unlasting human impressions,
no children's red pails yet to them decorate,
amidst the sea life's detritus and smooth licked pebbles


Enough.


each tree ring and grass blade demands a verse,
an all my own tributary accolade,
this too much to accommodate


a year ago I issued an invitation,
do so again for my word is my bond
my responsibilities, my *******,


there are chairs for all
on my righted round and my motet left,
here, there are
no Americans,
no Canadians,
no Aussies or Brits,
or Indians and Fillipinos,
no African or Asians present,
East nor West,
None Invited here,
Only Poets


even those hardy pioneer
West Coasters, a proud lot,
and my Southern family drawling,
and perhaps lessening the mourning
just a touch, a minute modicum,
all sit quiet in the admixture
of poets come to celebrate
the blessing to have been tasked,
to write from and of places we visit
in the cerebral,
and to imbibe each other's words


Three Hundred and Sixty Four Days ago,
I wrote :

We sit together in spirit, if not in body,
You join me in the Poet's Nook,
A few frayed and weathered Adirondack chairs
Overlooking the Peconic Bay,
Where inspiration glazes over the water,
And we drown happily in a sea of words...

I am exhausted.
So many gems (poets)
to decorate
My body, my soul

I must stop here,
So many of you have reached out,
none of you overlooked.

Overwhelmed, let us sit together now
And celebrate the silence that comes after the
Gasp, the sigh, that the words have taken from
Our selves, from within.

Once again, in your debt


Again,
I await your beckoning wave of hello,
greet you in your mellifluous native tongue,
iced drinks at the ready,
the opening ceremony already started,
when all are seats taken
we commence officially,
with a blessed

*"Now, let us begin"
See the banner photo...paying off the promissory notes owed to myself
John F McCullagh Jan 2012
When the Costa Concordia met with a reef,
it was certain some lives would be lost.
As she listed to starboard at eighty degrees,
Her Captain was first to get off.

Captain Schettino was schmoozing some blonde
when his ship began veering to shore.
He was unwilling to go down on his ship,-
The blonde? yes, but hold the encore.

It seems his chief waiter hails from the Isle,
the Isle with the ship eating reef.
They drew close to shore so he’d wave to his wife
an excursion that beggars belief.


The Coast guard responders where shocked and amazed;
They just couldn’t believe what they saw:
The Cruise liner Captain, paddling furiously,
beating women and children to shore.


Unlike Captain Smith, who stood at his post,
hearing “ Nearer my God to thee.”
The tune that Schettino will sing his bambinos
is “Nearer to Shore take me!”

He’ll spend time in jail, but the punishment pales
when compared to the scope of his sin
This sailor has fallen from grace with the sea
in his dreams let their screams never end.
A little Walt Whitman, a little Yukio Mishima  A comic poem with a hard underlay of anger.  The ship is the Costa Concordia
Hermes Varini Oct 2022
FEODALI SEPTIMA ALTAQVE METALLI AC SOLIS MEA HIC VINDICTA
PROFVNDVM DENVO HVIVS HASTILVDII DICITVR FVLMEN PROFVNDE MEVM
RVBRA IN LAPIDE HIEMIBVSQVE AC MEO IN METALLICO FEVDO
QVIA SICVT AVTEM ALTAS INTRA HASTLVDII MEI FLAMMAS
SCORPIONIS FERRVM ILLVSTRAT SIGNVM AC ARGENTVM LVNAM
ITA FEODALIS MAXIME OVERMAN MEO IN CLYPEO SIVE SPECVLO
ILLVSTRATVR ILLE VIR FEODALE EXTRAMVNDANVS HIC FVLMINE
ET SIC SECVRIS ILLVSTRATIVA ERIT MAGNÆ EX IGNE VLTIONIS
MEO HIC IN CASTELLO MVLTARVM SANGVINE OBSIDIONVM RVBRO

FEODALIS IMAGO HOC EX SPECVLO DVELLI MEA

SIVE

ΔEYPO TO ΔE EMON EIΔΩΛON AYΘIΣ
ΠYΡΦOΡΩ ΚAΤΟΠΤΡΩ KAI EN TH ΜAΧΗ

AC FEODALE MEO SI OVERMAN FVLMINE HOC IN DVELLO

FEODALES CVM FERRO HIC MEÆ SANGVINEO TERRÆ

ALTE EX IGNE NVNC ET IRA CVM RVBRA CANO IN SPECVLO CHALYBE MEA

FEODALIS SIT MAXIME OVERMAN AC SANGVINE HVIVS CÆRVLEO IGNIS

MEO IN HASTLVDII HOC CHALYBE SPECVLO FVLMINE DIGNVS

AC FEODALEM CVM PLAGAM HASTA IMAGINIS THORACATÆ ACCIPIEBAM MEÆ

PRIMORDIALIS EX FVLMINE CONDITIO OVERMAN ET IGNEM FERENS RVBRVM

EX FEODALE CVM IRA MEA NECNON FLAMMA HIC RVBRA

FEVDI NIHILO SECVS HIC TONITRVO CVM VOCE MEI

DE FEVDO FVLMINIS IN FIDE RVBRIS MEO

FEODALE HIC MEA VEHEMENTER FORTITVDO OVERMAN HOC NOMINE ALTA FVLMINE

DE FEVDO MEO HOSTIVM MEORVM ET MEA CVM SPATHA PROFVNDE RVBRO IN SANGVINE TINCTO

FEDODORVM FVLMINE RECVRSVS POTENTIÆ HIC MEORVM AD SIDERA ALTO

FEODALIS OBSCVRATA MEA CVM VMBRA HOC FVLMINE PROFVNDA NOCTIS REFVLGENS LVNA

AD FEVDIS LONGE CVM MANSIT VINDEX OBSCVRVS OCCVLTVSQVE DIRECTVS ET FEODALI SOLI

ET FEODALE ARIETIS HOC SIGNO SATVRNO CVM PLANETA SPLENDENDO

FEVDO AC PROFVNDE RVRBA NE ÆRVGONE CVM SECVRIS SED SANGVINE MEO

ET FEVDA CVM MEA HOSTES SINE TRIVMPHO ADORIVNTVR MEI

FEODALE OVERMAN EX SPECVLO CHALIBE ILLE DOMINVS VLTORQVE HIC MEO IN DVELLO

FEODALEM IN VVLNERE SIVE VLYSSEI SANGVINEO TENEBIT LAMINAM

QVA RE

FVLMINE MEO RECVRSVS POTENTIÆ

EX FEVDO MEO AC HASTILVDII INDE FVLMINE RVBRO

GRÆCA HIC CVM VOCE SIVE FVLMINE SPATHAQVE ALTA

ΠANTH KAI ΠANTAXOY KATOΠTPΩ THΣ AΣΠIΔOΣ

EΞ TOY ΠYPOΣ TO EMON EIΔΩΛON O OVERMAN

ΩΣ ΠPOΣ TON ΔE TITANA H ΠΕPIOXH EΣTIN

ΠPOOΔOΣ KAI ΔE KAI ΓONIMOΣ ΣTAΣIΣ ΩΔE

QVA RE DENVO

THΔE O ΔE ΑIΟΛΟΒΡOΝΤΗΣ ΒΑΣΙΛΕYΣ OY

EΠI TΩ ΘPONΩ TΩN ΔE AΣTEPOΠΩN NYN

OY TO KRATOΣ KAI H BIA TOY ΔE PYROΣ

QVA RE MEO FVLMINE EX HASTILVDIO DENVM

NEMO VIR EST VIR NOMINE HOC ALTO

DONEC SPATHA SCVTOQVE CEPERIT AC PERCVSSERIT MVLTA

SIC RVBRO OVERMAN DIXIT MIHI SIVE TO EMON EIΔΩΛON FVLMINE

FEODALE CHALIBE HIC IN SPECVLO ET IGNEO HOC CVM SIGILLO

QVA RE DENVO

HASTILVDII CÆRVLEO HOC CVM IGNE DEMVM MEI

OVERMAN REX HIC SPECVLO SIVE PVGNÆ SCVTO SPATHAQVE MEÆ ILLE

ET SIT QVOD EST IN SE EX OVERMAN REGE FVLMINE

MEA DEINDE IN SPECVLO SVA METALLICA MANVS OMNIPOTENS SPATHA

QVA RE DENVO

MEO HIC CVM SCVTO SIVE CLARISSIMO FVLMINE CHALIBEQVE DVELLI SPECVLO MEI

VBI EST IMAGO FEODALE FVLMINE MEA HOC IN DVELLO CVM PVGNAE ROSA

STAT FEODALIS OVERMAN TO ΔE EIΔΩΛON GRÆCO CVM NOMINE MEO HIC EX FEVDO

ET CVM MVLIER FORMOSA SOLE AMICTA HOC LOCO HILDEGARDA NOMINE MEA

AC INTRA FLAMMAS SENSVALIS PRÆSENS ILLA DENVO HOC LOCO PHVLCHERRIMA ALTAS

FEODALE ANTE CARNALEM NOSTRAM CONIVCTIONEM ANTE LVCIS ADVENTVM IGNE SACRO

DEINDE FVLMINE OVERMAN DENVO NOMINE MEO

FEVDA CVM MEA AC IGNEA CVM MEA MAXIME SECVRE EGO

COMES IV DE ARMANHAC ET DVX DE MONFORTZ ARMATIS ADORIVNTVR EQVIS

FEODALIVM SPATHA RVBRA CVM SANGVINE QVA RE HOSTIVM MEA

AD FEVDI SIDERA MEI POTENTIA SECVREQVE

ESSE SIVE POTENTIA EST OVERMAN

ET CVM EGO SPATHÆ MEÆ FVLMINE HOSTES MEOS

SICVT FEODALE ALTAQVE IRA CVM MEA

GERALDVS DE PLASAC ET WILLELMVS DE ARTENSA CVM GIDEON DEGLEMIS SCOTVS

ET PETRVS DE COLSORN ET GERALDVS DE JORNAC

AC MARTIS ÆNOBARDVS TREVIRENSIS COMES RAPAX IMPLACABILISQVE

GENTES QVI MAGNAM IN EAMDEM ACCEDEBANT INFAMIAM

ET GAVBERTVS DE MARTEL ET PETRVS GVIDONIS DE AVTAFORT ÆQVALITER

IRA CVM MEA METALLICO EX FEVDO

ET PETRVS DE ESPARTINAC CVM RAMNALDVS MALMIROS ET GOFERIVS DE VIGENOR

AC DEMVM BERTRANDVS ET AVDEBERTVS COMITES FEODALE IN TERRA

EGO SPATHA SCVTOQVE IN FVLMINE CVM DICO ALIQVID HOC DVELLO ADIBAM

EST OVERMAN REX QVI VERE DICITVR IN SPECVLO MAXIME VLTOR

RVBRA DRACONIS SEPTEM CAPITIBVS HAC IN SPIRALE ILLE CAVDA

FEODALIS VIDEX QVI MAGNAM HISTORIÆ DONAVIT POTENTIAM HOC SCVTO SIVE METALLICO SPECVLO

FEVDORVM EX IRA MEORVM CVM FEODALE HAC VISIONE MEA HIC FVLMINE MAXIME DISTINCTA

FEODALEM APVD CASTELLVM DE RIBEIRAC HOC TEMPORE IN MANV PRIORIS ARCHAMBAVDI INDIGNA

FEODALE MEA CVM SPATHA VEXILLAQVE FEVDI HIC MEI EX FVLMINE CRVORE RVBRA

FEODALIS METALLICVS DEINDE EGO AMICTVS AC RELVCENS CHALIBE HOC RVBRA IN SANGVINE PVGNA

FEODALE MEMORIA SPATHAQVE CONTRA HIC REMINISCOR

GERALDVS DE SALIS ET AVDEBERTVS DE BIGORRHA DECANVS NOMINE GRIFAGNVS HIC INDIGNE

ET GVIDVS DE MONTAGNAC MARTINAS SIMVL VLGERIVS DE VRGEL ABBAS INFAMIÆ ILLE CVSTOS

ET ARCHAMBAVDVS DE TRAHINAC ET AMLARDVS VICECOMES DE CONBORN ANNO MCLXXVIII

AC DENVO EGO WISIGOTHORVM GENERE SECVRE MEA REMINISCOR

FEVDI HOC IN DVELLO EGO ARMATVS DEMVM MEI CONTRA ITERIVS DE WARO

EST SPECVLVM CORPVS FVLMINE DIAPHANVM AD RECIPIENDVM DISPOSITVM PERSONAM OVERMAN NOMINE MEAM

EX CHALIBE EI RAPRÆSENTATAM HOC CVM MEO EXTRAMVNDANO CRVORE AC RVBRO IN FEVDO

FEODALE MEA HAC SPATHA VBI HELIAS DE AIENNO ET GERALDVS ET GAVFRIDVS DE TELLOL

PARCITE HOSTES MEI NVNC PROCEDERE HOC MEO MINIMVM IN DVELLO

FEVDA DE SICARDVS RASA CVM RAIMVNDVS DE AVINHO ILLIC TONITRVO VICI ET GOLFERIVS DE LA TOR

FEODALIS EST OVERMAN DENVO FVLMINE IMAGO SIVE TO EIΔΩΛON RVBRO

SECVNDVM ESSE AC SECVNDVM RATIONEM MEA HIC METALLICA

ET IGNIS ACTVS DEMVM INTER OMNIA ILLE VINDEX PERFECTISSIMVS

FEVDORVM ATQVE EX IGNE MEORVM ALTO

QVOD VERVM SICVT OVERMAN EST FVLMINE
SEMEL EST FVLMINE SEMPER VERVM

AC VTRVM POSSIT SEMPER TONITRVO OMNE QVOD HOC IN TONITRVO POSSIT ILLE VLTOR

FEVDORVM ATQVE EX IGNE MEORVM ALTO

QVIDEM PRIMVS STATVS AD OVERMAN ASCRIBITVR
AD ESSE SICVT POTENTIÆ ESSE SECVNDVS

ET TERTIVS MVTATIONI IN POTENTIA INCREMENTO TOTALITER MEO EX SPECVLO DVELLO

QVA RE EX FEVDO MEA MAXIMA IRA MEO

SIT PER OVERMAN FEODALEM VLTOREM FORMA
EX IGNE HAC VINDICTAQVE MAXIME LIVIDA

EX FEDVDORVM ATQVE IRA MEORVM

MVTATIO SIVE REVOLVTIO SIVE POTENTIÆ INCREMENTVM AD INFINITVM IGNEVM

FEODALE CVM FVLMINE EST OVERMAN

QVA RE DENVO

FEODALE CVM MODO VOCEQVE DENVO

OVERMAN EST MAXIME OVERMAN

SIVE

FEVDIS VERVS VIR EXTRAMVNDANVS AC VNICVS REX VINDEXQVE SVPREMVS

FEODALE SICVT MEO FROFVNDE HIC EX IGNE ADHVC

AC FEODALE HIC STAT AC VINCIT IN PERSONA OVERMAN NOMINE

FEODALIS SPATHA HARMONICA POTENTIÆ ET FORTITVDINIS TRIAS MEA

FEODALES SIVE FACTA AC CONCEPTIO AC PRINCIPIVM MAXIME IGNEVM

EX FEVDO REVOLVVNT HISTORIÆ CVM ÆTATES ET TEMPORA

DE FEVDIS SIVE IN POTENTIÆ RECVRSV DRACONIS RVBRIS IGNE SPIRÆ

FEVDORVM EX FVLMINE O ΔE ΟYΡΟΒOΡΟΣ HIC HASTA SCVTOQVE MEO

SIVE MEO DE FEVDO

FEODALEM SERPENS QVI SVAM DEVORAT SINE FINE CAVDAM

AC CVM FEODALE HIC EX MEO SIGILLO VOCE SEPTIMA IGNEO LIBRI

FEODALIS MEI ANNO MCLXXXVII SANGVINIS ALTI

ET FELIX HIC MAXIME VICTOR FVLMEN RECVRSV MEVS

SIVE MERIDIE HASTILVDII ALTO HAC CVM MEA HORA

IN TEMPLO SPATHA DICO VOS HOSTES MEIS ALBO

HVIVS EX FVLMINE HASTILVDII AC MEO HOC IN SPECVLO

FEODALEM SPATHAM CVM DESTRINGO MEAM HOSTIVM HIC SANGVINE RVBRAM

EX SPECVLO OCCVLTI FVLMINE MANIFESTATIO SIVE ΦAINEIN AC KPYΦIΩΣ OVERMAN

SIVE REMOTA AB OCCVLTIS ERVMPIT ILLE TONITRVS NATVRA AC TO ΦAΣΜΑ SVIS

FEODALE HIC FVLMINE AC HASTA MEA SCVTOQVE

SEPTEM CAPITIBVS APPAREAT DRACO

SIVE

FEODALIS O ΔE ΔΡAΚΩΝ APOCALYPSEOS RVBER

DE FEVDIS ALTE MEIS AC MEÆ HAC IGNEA CVM PROPHETIA TONITRVOQVE VLTIONIS

RVBRVM IN CERTAMINE RIVELATVR OVERMAN NOMINE SIGNVM

FEODALES ÆQVO CVM ADORIOR BELLATORES IN MEMORIA AC VVLNERIBVS

SPATHA SCVTOQVE IN OVERMAN SVPREMA ESSENTIA

FEVDORVM HOC IN TEMPORE HASTILVDII ALTO

STAT METALLICA MEA FVLMINIS PERSONA IGNEA CERTAMINIS ROSA

FEODALIBVS HIS SPATHIS INTRA PVGNÆ FORMAM AC CÆDIS

FEVDALEM SCVTO TO EIΔΩΛON POLITISSIMO CHALIBE CONSPICOR ILLEM RECVRRENTEM

VIDICEM ILLEM SIVE IMAGIMEM MEAM HOC IN HASTILVIDIO HIC METALLICAM

EX FEVDO MEO GRÆCO CVM NOMINE METALLICO AC MEA CVM HASTA

KEPAYNOΣ EI Ω OVERMAN

AΛHΘΩΣ TO ΠYP TΩN ΔE TITANΩN

KEPAYNOΣ EI Ω OVERMAN

O ΠYPΩ TA ONTA ΣYΣTHΣAMENOΣ

KEPAYNOΣ EI Ω OVERMAN

OY TO ΠYP TEΛEITAI IΔIAIΣ ΔYNAMEΣI

KEPAYNOΣ EI Ω OVERMAN

TO ΔE ΠΡΩΤΟΝ ΚΙΝΟYΝ THΣ IΣTOPIAΣ

KEPAYNOΣ EI Ω OVERMAN

O ΔE IΣXYPOTEPOΣ ΠAΣHΣ ΔYNAMEΩΣ

KEPAYNOΣ EI Ω OVERMAN

O KPEITTΩN TΩN ΔE KEPAYNΩN

KAI TΩN EΠAINΩN ΩΣAYTΩΣ

KEPAYNOΣ EI Ω OVERMAN

H HΛIΩ ΛΑΜΠΡA KAI ΦΑΕΙΝH AΣΠIΣ

QVIA

DE FEVDO AC SVB HOC TEMPORE SEPTIMO CVM WANDALIS NOMINE GENTIBVS

DESTRVCTIO OCCASVS EST OVERMAN FVLMINE

FEODALIS HOC IN SCVTO SIVE DVELLI SPECVLO MEI

ATQVE

FEODALIVM TERRARVM HIC NOMINE AC INTERCESSIO MEA EX FVLMINIS SIGNO RVBRIS

SVPREMVS INDE RECVRRENS POTENTIÆ INCREMENTO OVERMAN VINDEX

REX SIVE AΝΑΞ HOC IN HASTILVDIO GRÆCO CVM APOFTHEGMA MEO

FEODALI MEIS HIC FERRO AC HASTA VINDICTÆ

EX IGNEO MEO HASTILVDIO PLANETA MARTIS HIC NOMINE RVBRO

FEODALIS OVERMAN SIVE METALLICVS MEA HASTA SCVTOQVE IMAGO IN SPECVLO

VINDEX ILLE DEORVM HABET IN SE IGNEAM CVM FVLMINE NATVRAM SVPREMVS

QVA RE DENVO

FEODALE FVLMINE HAC TERRA IGNEA EX SOLE NIHILO SECVS FEODORVM METALLICO

SIC MEO DEFINITVR OVERMAN SPECVLO ILLE VINDEX QVI MAIOR EST QVAM SVBSTANTIA VIRI MAGNVS

FEVDI MEI IRA MAXIME NVNC ALTA ET SANGVINE MEO CÆRVLEO SEMPER

AC CASTELLO MEO CVM VEXILLA VENTIS RVBRA HIC HIEMIS

TALIS COMPOSITIONIS STAT SPECVLVM NOMINE QVALIS EX CHALIBE MEVS MIHI OVERMAN VINDEX

EX FEVDO QVA RE DEMVM MEO

FEODORVM FVLMINE MEORVM AC CASTELLI MEI RVBRA VEXILLA DENVO

FEODALE MEA CVM VOCE DENVO VOS MEIS SPATHA HOSTES IPSA

AC DE FEVDO HIC MALEDICTIONE VENTIS HOC TONITRVO MEI MAXIME ALTA

MAXIMA RATIO FVLMINE AC ACVMEN MVTATIONE MEVM

BERSERKR SVÁ GYLÐIR ÞAR MEÐR ATGANGA JAFN-SNIMMA

SIVE PLENILVNIO LVPVS

FEODALIS CVM SPECVLVM VINCIT SIVE CHALIBE POLITISSIMO DVELLI SCVTVM MEI

AC IGNEO SANGVINE CVM MEO HIC VVLNEREQVE FEODALE HOC DVELLO

PVRISSIMVS EST OVERMAN ALTO IN NATVRIS SVIVS FVLMINE AC RVBRO

FEVDA MEA CVM THOR DEVS SECVRE MALLEOQVE LAVDAT PROFVNDE ILLE FLAVVS

IMMIXTVS STAT ILLE NONNVLLIS ACCIDENTIBVS SINE ELEMENTALI MATERIA VLTOR SVPREMVS

FEODALIBVS VEXILLIS REGIS CVM PRODEVNT FVLMINIS OVERMAN NOMINE

STAT MAXIME FVLMINE CORPORALITER AC MAXIMA MEA CVM IGNEA NATVRA HOC SPECVLO PVGNÆ

FEODALIS MEVS CVM TRIVMPHVS EX IGNE AGIT PROFVNDO SANGVINIS MEI

AC NEC MIRERIS DE HOC HOSTES MEIS SPATHA RVBRA MEA VEXILLAQVE ET DRACONIS

MAGIS CERTE QVAM ALTERIVS HOC LOCO SANGVINIS ELEMENTI

FEODALIBVS EX MEO CASTELLO DENVO SANGVINE VOSTRO CVM TVRRIS TINCTO

QVA RE DENVO

FEODALE CVM VOCE EX CIVITATE VBI DRACONES SVNT ET SEPTEM TRIONES THVLE HIC NOMINE

FEODALIS NEMO ME HOC LOCO LACESSIT PROCVL IMPVNE SPATHA

AC FEODALIVM SECVRE SIVE FVLMINE TERRARVM SANGVINE TINCTARVM EX MEA VINDICTA VOSTRO

NVNC PRODIT DRACONIS MEVS A SEPTEMPTRIONE RVBRIS ORDO

FEVDIS MEIS CVM RVBER BELLI FVLMEN AC RECVRSVS DONABANT POTENTIÆ LAVDES

FEODALIS ERGO OVERMAN HABET IN SE FVLMINIS NATVRAM EX SPECVLO PVGNÆ

FEODALE RECVRSVS MEA FVLMINE ET VIRTVTE ALTA SIVE IRA

FEODALE HIC IN SPECVLO SIVE DVELLI SCVTO CHALIBE MEI FVLMINE POLITISSIMO EX FVLMINE

TΩ ΔE EIΔΩΛΩ ENTAYΘA

EX FEVDO MEO DENVO GRÆCO ET RVBRA HAC IN LAPIDE IGNE INSCRIPTA

FEODALE NECNON HIC ET NVNC SAPIENTIA CVM VOCE LAVDIS

INTRA HASTILVDII MEI ANTIQVO CVM NOBILI NOMINE FLAMMAS AC MEA CASTRA

NVNC PONO TALIS COMPOSITIONIS SPECVLVM FIERI ET FORMÆ POLITISSIMO FERRO MARTIS PLANETÆ

QVOD TOTA COMBVSTIBILIS FIAT IGNEA VNA LVX ITA QVOD FEODALE MODO

APPOSITVM CASTELLI VEL OPPIDI VEL CIVITATE ALIQVA SINE FINE OPPOSITVM COMBVRAT EVM

FEODALE MODO SIC OVERMAN DIXIT MIHI HOC DVELLI SPECVLO MEA SPATHAQVE

SIVE TO ΕIΔΩΛΟΝ PROFVNDE EX IGNE FLAMMAQVE ILLE MEVS

FEVDORVM MEORVM HAC DEMVM CVM VOCE FVLMINE GRÆCORVM MAXIME PROFVNDA

AEI H ΜHΝΙΣ ΤΩΝ ΔE ΘΕΩΝ O ΔE OVERMAN EΣTIN

THΣ ΔE ΠOΛEΩΣ TΩN IΕΡAΚΩΝ OY O ΤΙΜΩΡOΣ

AYΘIΣ KAI ΔE ΩΣTE IΕΡAΚΩΝ ΠOΛIΣ

FEVDA HIC PRODEVNT RVBRA EX VEXILLA MEA BELLI ALTAQVE VENTO MALEDICTIONIS MEÆ ALTO

IN QVO FEODORVM FVLMINE MEORVM

FEODALE SANGVNIS SIGNO MEI HOC IGNE DVELLI RVBRO

VIRTVTES CONVERTVNTVR ELEMENTORVM AD FINEM

QVI STAT OVERMAN NOMINE IN INCREMENTO SIVE EX FLAMMIS POTENTIÆ RECVRSV

FEVDI MEI SIVE CASTELLI LAPIDE MAGNA AC MVLTIS OBSIDIONIBVS RVBRA

SICVT ATRAHENDVM EST ADAMANTE FERRVM SICVT AD OVERMAN POTENTIA DENVO IN INCREMENTO

FEVDO AC SCVTO CHALIBE DENVO POLITISSIMO SIVE SPECVLO HAC IN PVGNA MEO

VBI OVERMAN REX MIHI APPAREAT SIVE IMAGO TOTALITER SVPREMVS MEA

STAT MAIORITAS IN OVERMAN EX FVLMINE ALTORIVM RESPECTV ETIVM MAGNA

FEVDORVM ALTA MEA CVM CONCORDIA VEXILLAQVE DENVM

FEODALE MEA HIC SPATHA CVM POLITISSIMO CHALIBE MEÆ PVGNÆ HIC SCVTO

AC FEODALIS CVM SEPTIMA QVOQVE MEA HORA APOCALYPSEOS RVBRÆ ALTA

IDCIRCO H OYΣIA SIVE ESSENTIA TONITRVO OVERMAN EST FVLMINE

EXTRAMVNDANVS VIR ILLE CAVSA QVÆ MAXIME ESSE DEDIT VNICVS

ILLE REX H OYΣIΩΣIΣ FVLMINE NOMINE MEO HOC IN HASTILVDIO

NECNON YΦIΣTAΣΘAI VINDEX ILLE IN HASTILVDII SPECVLO MEI METALLICVS

QVA RE

VT IAM EX FVLMINE VOCIS FEODALE DIXI

EST OVERMAN FVLMINIS SVBSTANTIA MEA A QVO ESSE OMNIVM PROFICISCITVR

FEODALE CVM VOCE NECNON ALTA VENTO MEA HIC VEXILLAQVE

ET SIT MEA TRANSMVTATIO AD OVERMAN POLITISSIMO CHALIBE SCVTO SIVE SPECVLO CÆRVLEA

FEODALE OCCVLTO PLANETA CHALIBE POLITISSIMO NECNON EX FVLMINE

QVIA FEVDALE MEO CVM SANGVINE INSVPER

FEVDORVM VLTIO AC VEXILLA CASTELLI SVPER TVRRES DRACONE MEI RVBRA

PVGNÆ PVLCRITVDO IGNE NOCTIS OBSCVRÆ

VBI PARTA MEÆ SPATHAE SVNT MAXIME MVNERA

FEVDVM CVM MEVM HOSTES NON OCCVPANT MEI ARMIS

FEODALIS IVSTITIA SIVE OVERMAN

AC EX FEVDO IGNEO MEO

FEODALIS PRVDENTIA SIVE OVERMAN

AC EX FEVDO IGNEO MEO

FEODALIS FORTITVDO SIVE OVERMAN

AC EX FEVDO IGNEO MEO

FEODALIS TEMPERANTIA SIVE OVERMAN

AC EX FEVDO IGNEO MEO

FEODALIS FIDES MAXIMA IN OVERMAN SIVE POTENTIA

AC EX FEVDO IGNEO MEO

FEODALIS SPES SIVE HAVD SPES

SED FEODALIS VOLVNTAS RVBRA POTENTIÆ

AD OVERMAN IGNE CVM ANTIQVO SEMPER DIRECTA

AC EX FEVDO IGNEO MEO

FEODALIS PRINCIPIVM IN FVLMINE OVERMAN NOMINE EX CHALYBE

AC EX FEVDO IGNEO MEO

FEODALIS FINIS SIVE FEODORVM VINDICTA RVBRORVM

AC FVLMINE DEMVM EX MEO FEVDO IGNEA MEA SPATHAQVE

FEODALE MEO EQVO MAXIME ARMATO CVM HASTA BAIART NOMINE ALBOQVE

STAT OVERMAN PROFVNDE

COMPOSITVS ILLE RVBRO AC TERRÆ FVLMINE SIVE VINDEX IMMORTALIS ET REX

DE FEVDO METALLICA EX ANIMA CORPOREQVE HOC PVGNÆ SPECVLO SIVE SCVTO

FEVDI MAXIMA EX VLTIONE ET GOTHORVM ET QVADORVM ET LANGOBARDORVM MEI

DICVNTVR HIC OVERMAN ET VALIDVS VIR SANGVINE

A MATERIA AC MAGNITVDINE SEPARATI POTENTIÆ

ET DVPLEX SIT NVNC IMAGO OVERMAN NOMINE MEA RVBRO IGNEQVE

FEODALE HIC ETIAM GRÆCA CVM VOCE AD SIDERA FVLMINE DIRECTA

TO EMON EIΔΩΛON KAI ΔE TO EMON ΕIΔΟΣ

ENTAYΘA ΣYN TΩ ΔE EΓXEIPIΔIΩ

KATOΠTPΩ KAI ΔE ΚΕΡΑΥΝΩ TΩN ΘΕΩN

AΔEΩΣ O ΔE OVERMAN AΝΑΞ

ET FEVDVM RESVRGIT NVNC MEVM HOC SANGVINIS LOCO MIHI VNICVM SPATHA

QVOAD

MAGNA CVM IRA EX FEVDIS DE MONTSEGVR MEIS CATHARORVM HIC NOMINE

FEODALE MEO IN HASTILVDIO ET PROFVNDE PRÆTERA

STAT FINIS ID FVLIMINE CERTEQVE

IN QVO EX OVERMAN

FODALEM AD NOCTEM REGE ILLE VINDICE MEO HOC IN SPECVLO

ET CVM SOLE FEVDI MEI AC MEA HIC CAREVLEA CVM DVELLI HASTA

PRINCIPIVM MAGNVM FVLMINE FEODALE CVM DENVO NOMINE

MAXIME NON QVIESCIT

POTENTIÆ MEO HIC ET NVNC RECVRSV IN FEODALE ATQVE VNIVERSALE

AC FEODALIS MAIORITAS SIVE POTENTIÆ VOLVNTAS ATQVE RECVRSVS AD OVERMAN FVLMINE

EX FEODO MEO MVLTIS CVM OBSIDIONIBVS NOCTIS FVLMINE MEÆ RVBRO

NON POSSIT QVOVIS MODO SINE OVERMAN EXISTERE SVBSTANTIA

FEVDALE HOC IN LOCO AC HAC SAXOSA IN INSCRIPTIONE ITERVM

NVNC AD SIDERA ALTA CVM FLAMMA AC TONITRVO MEA IPSA VOX

MANABAT CHALIBIS PLANETA MEVS OCCVLTAM POTENTIAM ILLIC OCCVLTVS

FEODALIS ATQVE DENVO FVLMINIS GRÆCORVM VOCE IPSIVS

AC RVBRO MAXIME HOC METALLICO MEO IN HASTILVDIO

ΩΣ EΦHN EΓENETO OYN

OΛΩΣ ΔIA THN ΔE EMHN ΜΟΝΟΜΑΧIAN

EΞ TOY ΔE KEPAYNOY EΚΕI ΚAΤΩ EN CKYΘIAI

TO ΔE ΣYΜΒΟΛΟΝ THΣ EMHΣ TIMΩPIAΣ
ΔIA THEΣ BAPEIAΣ ΦΩΝHΣ TOY ΔE ΠYPOΣ
ΔEYPO EMH ΦΩΝH O ΔE OVERMAN AΝAΞ EΣTIN
EN TΩ ΔE KYANEΩ BAΘEI Ω HΔIΣTH ΔYNAMIΣ

FEVDI MEI HIC CONCORDIA AC DENVO HOC IN HASTILVDIO

FVLMINE ΔIA TO EIΔΩΛON AVT OVERMAN AVT NIHIL PVGNÆ ALTVM

FEODALE DVELLI CÆRVLEO IN SCVTO CHALIBE POLITISSIMO SIVE SPECVLO SANGVINE MEO

QVA RE CVM FEODALE MEA IRA DEMVM

FEODALIS OVERMAN NVNC PRODIT HASTILVDII EX FVLMINE MEI CVM IGNEA ROSA

MEA DEINDE CVM SECVRE HIC INCISA INSCRIPTIONE LAPIDE GERMANICA DVELLI

NU DÆGEHWELC SWĀ HÆÐA BEÐEÞ BRYNEWELMUM,

QVA RE

FEODALE CVM ARGENTEO DE AQVINO CALICE AMARIORE SVPRA FLAMMAS REGIONIS

VBI RICARDVS IPSE DVX AC GAVCERAN DVRTZ HOC IN FEODALE TEMPORE MEO SIMVL

OBSCVRAS EX IGNE FEODALES DONAVERANT FALCONIS MIHI VEXILLAS

QVA RE DE FEVDO MEO

ET SANGVINE SIVE SEPTEM CAPITIBVS NECTAR DRACONI

FEODALE RVBRÆ EX IGNE DENVO NOMINE APOCALYPSEOS ARMIS CONCORDIAQVE

FEVDORVM CVM ALTA DENVO ARMA TERGO HIC MEORVM

FEVDA CVM SANGVINE PROFVNDE VBI LVCENT HAC DEMVM TERRA IGNEO MEA

H ΔE EMH ΚΥΛΙΞ ΔIA THN EΠIΦANEIAN

KAI ΔE KAI ΦΩNH AΛHΘΩΣ

G. R. A. I. L.

SIVE FEODALE FVLMINE AC FEVDIS CVM MEIS CÆRVLEO

GRATE REX AQVITANIÆ IGNE LIBER

SIVE

EX FEVDO CVM FOEDERE SACRALIS IGNIS MEO

FEODALE IN POTENTÆ RECVRSCV SIVE FVLMINE ANVLO

MEO IN SPECVLO SANGVINE CHALIBE POLITISSIMO SIVE SCVTO ET FEVDI

AC DENVO FEODALE CVM ANAGRAMMATE HIC EX IGNE ALTO

V. X. D.

SIVE EX FEVDO MEO

FEODALIVM ET SANGVINE PROFVNDE HOSTIVM TINCTO MEORVM

VINDEX XYSTO DÆMON

SIVE EX FEVDO MEO AC EX FLAMMAS FEVDI ALTAS MEI CVM IGNE ALTO RVBRAS

AC FEODALE ALTA SANGVINE CVM VOCE ET GRÆCORVM

O ΔE OVERMAN

TO EMON ΔAIMΩN AEI

FVLMINE AC SPECVLO SIVE TΩ EIΔΩΛΩ

SIVE EX FEVDO DENVM MEO

ET FEODALE CVM VOCE HIC GERMANICA

AB MEO EX FVLMINE FEVDO PROXIMA MAXIME

ŌFER-MANNES GECWED

QVIA

FEVDORVM CVM DENVO MEORVM IRA

REDDE MIHI POTENTIAM SPATHA OVERMAN NOMINE AC RENOVATIONEM SANGVINIS FVLMINE

FEODALIS VBI VOX IPSA SCVTO RESVRGIT ALTA IMPERIALIS AQVILÆ FVLMINE EX THVLE

FEVDO INSVPER MEO VEXILLA GERMANICO CVM PRODEVNT SAXONES QVADIQVE GENTES

FEODALE DENVM MEA VENTIS VOX A SEPTENTRIONE ATQVE EX FEVDO MEO ALTA

HWÆR NIHTES SWĀ WITODLIC ANDSWARODE WRÆCEND-WILDĒOR!

ÞÆR SĊĒAWERE WÆS HĒAH-EALD BEALDE SWĀ MĪN DREOR,

HWÆR ON WANRE NIHT ÁSCÍNEÞ SWĀ ŌFER-MANNES GÚÐWÉRIG HLĒOR!

ÞÆR UNDER HERE-GRĪMAN SWĀ ANDSWARODE NORÐAN-HREÓH,

HWÆR DÆGSCIELDE ÆÐELCUND ŌFER-MANN OFERCYMÞ, SWĀ ĪSERN-FEORH!

ÞÆR HEAÐUFÝRUM GIET BÆLÞRACUM ÆRNDE SWĀ MĪN RĒOD-EOH,

HWÆR BORDHREÓÐAN SWĀ NU MĪN LĪĠETU-WRECEND, SWIÞE SWĀ IC DRĒOH!

ÞÆR CWEALMCUMUM FÝRDRACUM ÆTĪEWDE SWĀ WUNDOR-BLĒOH,

HWÆR SWĀ SE ŌFER-MANNES RĒOD LĪEĠDRACA GIET ĀSÆĠDE ON HŌH!

EIΔΩΛΩ OVERMAN.
Set in A.D. 1187, and propounded in monumental characters, as engraved in the rock, this epic of mine in Classical Latin, Ancient Greek, Anglo-Saxon and Old Norse tells of a superhuman clash between two knights who are in fact the same person. The alliteration focuses on the roots "FEODAL-" and "FEVD-" indicating "feudal" and "feud", as repeated with different declensions. From one single mirror battle action, chief philosophical notions of mine thus surface, all centered on my notion of Overman, alongside various historical and metaphysical symbols, as the Grail itself (“G. R. A. I. L.”, as an anagram, with an added meaning). The title EIΔΩΛΩ OVERMAN reads "The Overman through the Image" ("EIΔΩΛΩ" instrumental dative of the neuter "TO EIΔΩΛON", "image", also "phantom", "spectre" and "wraith", depending on textual circumstances). My own Return of Power event is mentioned ("MVTATIO SIVE REVOLVTIO SIVE POTENTIÆ INCREMENTVM AD INFINITVM IGNEVM"). An influence can be noticed from the song of Bertran De Born († 1140-1215 ca.) "Bem Platz lo Gais Temps de Pascor".

TO EMON EIΔΩΛON KAI ΔE TO EMON ΕIΔΟΣ
ENTAYΘA ΣYN TΩ ΔE EΓXEIPIΔIΩ
KATOΠTPΩ KAI ΔE ΚΕΡΑΥΝΩ TΩN ΘΕΩN
AΔEΩΣ O ΔE OVERMAN AΝΑΞ

reads:

My own Image and my Demeanour,
Here, with the Dagger,
Through the Mirror, and the Thunderbolt of the Gods,
Boldly the Overman, the Ruler (“AΝΑΞ”, also “King”, Latin “DVX”).

while

NEMO VIR EST VIR NOMINE HOC ALTO
DONEC SPATHA SCVTOQVE CEPERIT AC PERCVSSERIT MVLTA

SIC RVBRO OVERMAN DIXIT MIHI SIVE TO EMON EIΔΩΛON FVLMINE

FEODALE CHALIBE HIC IN SPECVLO ET IGNEO HOC CVM SIGILLO

No Man ("VIR", also “Hero”) is a Man with a High Name called (worthy of this Name)
Until with the Sword and the Shield has received and given many Blows,
This, through the Red Thunderbolt, the Overman, as my own Wraith (Image), has told me
Here, into the Feudal Mirror of Steel, and with this Seal of Fire.
Amy Russ Nov 2010
I just want you.* You are my thoughts, my dreams, my voice. Leading me from the Hell of this lifeless world into a Heaven that is underneath you; you take my body and erase my mind and fill it with you. I just want to run to you. I worship only you, my Dionysus. Only with you can I shake off this rust and be human. You are my Savior.

You have ensouled me...

Let me cradle you in my skin. Let my darkness overcome your light and fill you with a devotion that rivals the Angels in their love for their God. Be devoted to me: let me be the only one in your sight, in your body. Give me your essence. Dream only of me, letting me be your Haven and Harbor. Think of me as the Light At the Otherside of the Shore. Melt into me.

We are Concordia. We share life only when our mouths touch: only inhale when I exhale and only exhale when I inhale...
John F McCullagh Feb 2012
I used to have a dollar and a dream-
The dream still lives, but now it costs me two.
I have to ante up, though times are lean,-
my only chance to make my dream come true.
I’m not adept at picking combinations
of numbers that can produce a win
I think my ship is named “Costa Concordia”-
which may explain why its not coming in.
I agonize over number combinations-
while angry people wait on line behind.
I settle on my anniversary date;
Its never paid off yet, but give it time.
My friends all say I pay the “stupid tax”
I wait for that last laugh that will be mine:
A lump sum of a hundred million bucks,
or twenty smaller payments over time.
For many, its the retirement plan
Satsih Verma Jan 2017
Peace at stake,
it worked.
Withdrawal of rubber dolls
playing with fire.

Empty bowls in lunar month.
Concords were flying very high
noiselessly crossing the peaks
of great grudges.

Pure golden hair –
of grief.
It really was miracle.
Bald eagle was waiting.
Enough time to steer a ******.

The irresistable desire
to rub with a paranoid.
Extracting a genius from mediocre genera.
Life had become too genteel.
Il était une fois à Rimini aux portes de l 'Enfer
Un poème de Dante sur la comédie humaine
Gianciotto Malatesta était vieil époux de marbre boiteux et jaloux
Francesca da Rimini, jeune épouse de glaise virevoltante et volage
Et quoi que leur union soit un mariage de raison
Ils engendrèrent très vite deux enfants pour sceller leurs sangs
Une fille Concordia, un garçon Francesco
Mais le malheur en amour tient à peu de choses,
Parfois seulement à la différence d'âge ou de minéral.

C'est avec son beau-frère de bronze tendre et chaud Paolo Malatesta
Que Francesca exprimait pleinement toute sa glaise romantique.
Il n'en fallut pas plus à Gianciotto
Qui les surprit luxurieux en plein adultère
Dans un baiser anthologique tourbillonnant
Où se fondaient la glaise et le bronze
Pour les renvoyer de son poignard et de ses flèches
ad patres méditer sur l 'inconstance
Gianciotto les occit sans cérémonie
Alors qu'innocemment ils lisaient Lancelot du Lac et Guenièvre
En se jurant de façon courtoise amour pour toujours
Au grand dam d'Arthur.

C'est le destin fatal des Muses
Que d'accointer les Muscs des Poètes
On a tôt dit qu'elles musardent
elles butinent butinant voletant avec la grâce des chevrotains
Entre ombilic et verge
S'enivrant de musc de tonkin ou kabartin
Liquide et chaud, boisé et ambré
Oh la belle liqueur épicée et rieuse !
C'est le destin fatal des Muscs que d'accointer le Miel des Muses
Et cueillir leur racine d'angélique-archangélique aux vertus aphrodisiaques
Clopin-clopant sifflotant d'allégresse et de désinvolture
On a tôt dit qu'ils sont volages, à la recherche de perpétuels frissons
Et on a tôt fait de les mettre à l 'index
De les libérer pour mieux les remplacer
Par des graines d'ambrette et un peu de civette
Entre péché et damnation c'est la voie tourmentée et voluptueuse
Qui mène à la pluie de flammes
Où flânent les Muses ferventes amatrices des odeurs nues et exquises des péchés !
Et les Muscs perpétuellement nus et volcaniques dans leur Cercle des Luxurieux !
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
oh, lookie 'ere, they actually want our
expertise of "rhetoric" without rhetoric?
really? are you sure?
has man's advancements become
overbearing with the size of the populace?
my, what a crying shame!
i am almost bound to collect
tears from these eyes,
and combine them with the seas
to gather the quote from
samuel taylor coleridge poem:
water, water everywhere, but not a tear
to drink...
salty enough for you, *******?!
sucker this punch, from the aquatic
desert you hobo!
    i'll have you make the least
of your mistakes, i.e. craft the last
questioning soul on titanic,
excluding the sombre and sober
mechanic.... **** the captain,
along with concordia...
you do the math of accounting
for judases... mind you: judas was heroic
compared to "st." peter..
  i am one for scribbling out from
the gnashing jaws of satan,
personally i think judas to be heroic,
the friend that betrayed right out
in the open, than hide his betrayal...
   come on, you think that a guy wasn't
unpopular that he required "identification"?
so you really believe the walking on water
crap?
      ask me about defying physics,
but ****** well sure am i:
that you won't!
        the size of man's populace,
and the worth of labour gearing up to
auschwitz 2.0...
            who can tell?!
          man's labours will become all
the more obsolete with man's populace...
work will not be deemed necessary,
but fickle, or "lost" interest...
   work will become a hobby...
arbeit werden zeitvertreib -
and no more will be said,
         or be needed to have been, said;
only the most inquisitive labours,
only the most inquiring of labours,
only the per se labours,
those distinct handling of tools -
the arms that leave the devil with the least
amount of questions...
the "suspecting" loss -
   the unsuspecting "lack" -
        joiners & the "schemers" -
                the frozen traditionalists -
and the quick-quill equipped stand-offs
of brooding bureaucracy;
as we were: layer man by number alone,
and he will not become the number
worth employing -
while you layer man by worth of employment
alone, and he will not become
the employable kind, namely that the work
he "stumbles" upon, will have no
existential demands,
     other than for the blackmail
argument already suggested:
as the "necessary" argument to have;
words can reclaim a tinge of arithmetic
sometimes, even i write sentences sometimes,
that have no bearing,
but in having "no bearing" are accurate,
only that, upon rereading,
they were once clearer having been written,
than having been re-read;

p.s.

work was simpler in being understood
with less people than with more people,
and, subsequently:
less work being worth understanding
given the lesser good of more people -
for it is hardly a compliment
to advance as much as we have,
and to subsequently encourage a rise
in populace...
  why have children, if so many jobs
are becoming mechanised, automated,
obsolete, or simply made in china?
you can't have a surge in the number
of ethnic population, if you don't have
jobs for them! no jobs, no poo-*** pie!
******* dumb-arses.
Ryan O'Leary Aug 2018
=======================Costa Concordia========================
Ryan O'Leary Jul 2018
In this light, our amber
   sunset, Bonnieux has

    all the hallmarks of a
  Costa Concordia, or an

  abandoned container
ship at anchor in some

   forgotten delta where
     alluvial silting has

   candle waxed it into an
    oxidized monstrosity.
Ryan O'Leary Sep 2018
In this light, our amber
sunset, Bonnieux has

all the hallmarks of a
Costa Concordia, or an

abandoned container
ship, anchored in some

forgotten delta, where
alluvial silting caused it

to causticly corrode into
an oxidised monstrosity.
Bonnieux is a perched village
in Provence, with a N.W. aspect.
From Lacoste which is S.E. facing,
the optical metaphor as described
in the poem, is quite visible at sunset.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
sure...
             if you called this the urban area
of Chelsea...
           i could stick my nose
outside my window
and sniff out a perfume of
        angst...
but this is Essex air...
         you stick your nose
out in these pinching crab-like
cold nights,
when the moon apparently walks
sideways?
           it's not fear you
interest yourself with...
     ask the Jordanians...
    and i'll tell you of the cold...
verhungern...
     i can **** my nose into
the cold air and expect you
to reply: fear...
         no, not really...
           there's something something
brooding far beyond a concept
of fear that might be comfortable,
equivalent to an armchair...
         there's a: feeding ground
brewing...
                 i can sense it in sniffing
the air at nearing 8p.m. on
a february night...
              there is no greater
antidote to the abstract of fear,
as the reality of: hunger...
             can i contest bile?
                        well...
                poo'h whittle fwy...
                   do i get the digestive
impetus, in, our outside m'ah
body?
            mind you, just itching
to "know"...
                   i leisured the
cinematic point of a sinking titanic,
finding the judas in
the engineering corp that
originated in constructing
this whale is another...
           laugh all you want...
costa concordia?
                   did that judas of a captain
hang?
            there's only one reason
people hate working...
they abhor taking on
responsibility...
               great for murking
oneself in the comedy
   gravitating toward the
   "professionalism" of lawyers...
as if they could ever be gifted
grammar teachers...
i'd sooner learn
how to do my shoelaces up from
******* al-qaeda
   than what's currently
on offer...
       which is:
                     silvio berlusconi
(81) mingling with
               francesca pascale (32)...
you do the math...
            hey...
good luck petting a gerbil
   calling it the masculine only female
genital nick names...
            can you smell it
though?
         no no... it's not angst...
      i'd like to call it a hungern...
                      you smell it?
  see, in northern europe my ethnicity
was called vermin, probably by
pakistani origin...
               but if you stick your nose
out the window in essex in february;
do you smell it?
                               this is the point
where i like to think
of the mothers of these smirking *******
in their ******* pajamas
they wear in public...
                  just an idea...
                       because when did
a ******* ****, ever condense to make
a mark on boston?!
                you smell that?!
     i'm still sniffing the air...
                   still can't tell **** from
a squirrel **** riddling this air;
smack on the gob alright...
              but please do so,
   i'm tired of hitting myself on the face.
Ryan O'Leary Aug 2018
Morandi.


Mirza had a vision, where-
-upon, a bridge, the span of
life, became the metaphor
for the contraction of death.

Falling from the altitudes of
egotistical achievements,
because art imposed its will  
on the practicality of simplicity.

Mirza’s vie-aduct exposed
the flaws of human frailty,
of mediocracy, and of our
poorly constructed minds.

Those great Concordia’s,
squeezed like Melodeons,
on the inclement rocks, by
relentless tides of repetition.

But should I compose a poem,
thus permitting, rhyming metre's
as a means for harmonious
visibility just to appease? If so

It is you traversing my page
It is you following my guidelines
It is you trusting my punctuation
It is I, who is liable for accuracy!


Ryan O'Leary. ©

For the living victims of an
unforgiving dead.

R.I.P. Genoa.

Ps.

My crossings of this bridge
are what my memory is
currently trying to erase.

— The End —