.you can never really write any poetry by not covering the "heartbreak" the loss of your own "printed" words: how much different is the internet, from "real" life? just asking... since: internet banking & internet shopping... to lose a poem / pre-scriptum is not exactly the same as losing a person to mind: father's day... i cooked the dinner, i took out the trash, i wrote an invoice... i guess that's much better than leaving a card of greetings... and, come to think of it? why are we the sort of people subjugated to nostalgia, with but also "without" a history? aren't we subjugated to nostalgia and a history as a "fiction"? the beginning of the 21st century, the end of the 20th century... the 19th century germans associated themselves with a nostalgia for ancient greece, we're the only people who have an inbuilt nostalgia "safety-mechanism"... the only people in time who are nostalgic about the life surrounding their own existence slot, which doesn't have a trans-temporal dynamic... i remember times when we would be teenagers... spitting on people from car-parks on imaginary tonsures, buying *****-magazines from indian cornershops, or belgian freebies of non-insinuations, white lightning cider while sleeping over at youth centers playing snooker throughout the night... even at school: attending a catholic school with the irish east enders... uniforms, sure... a chequered shirt: blue, red, white... tag? made in canada... and if only capitalism worked as it once did, made in canada? lifetime of a shirt? 20 years... now? made in china... not exactly real cotton, is it? 2 years... before ironing the shirt *****... once upon in gants hill, st. valentine's park, and the pub, recently closed, decent karaoke... in the park? golf, basketball, rowing boats in the large ponds... when the jews were there... gants hill roundabout... the hanukkah torches... jews scuttling wearing trainers come rosh hashanah: jews can't wear leather on rosh hashanah (judgement day)... shy like rats... when the jews were there (gants hill, ilford)... the park looked great... tennis courts... now, when neo-Bangladesh moved in? ****** place. what else do i remember from my original pre-scriptum that i lost? oh, that once time in gants hill... walking into a kosher bakery with ****** knuckles, having tested them on a canvas of a brick wall, buying some dough-fused-sweets? with the girl selling the sweets bewildered by fear? i like the look of fear in people when tested by uncertainty, and bleeding knuckles? later? climbing over the park fence, taking a **** while squatting in the darkened palace of the park, walking into a brothel, having my wallet stolen, not reacting in what would have been justified... high school... we wore uniforms... so no high school h'american culture trap / culture... school uniforms are the best idea, there's no chance to "shine" in telling apart the rich kids from the poor kids... there's only the standard... walking to a supermarket, past a thai surprise... sports bra, short hair... walking back... she's still there pretending to talk on her mobile to someone... you take her home with a few beers... play her some jazz... take her into the garden, the moon is a beauty... you **** her... hand in her underwear and you're still gambling... before the emergence of the nag hammadi library and the whole androgynous vogue, the thai were already readied with the lady-boys... when i reached in and found nothing but oyster... would i have stopped finding a wink-wink slouching worm? slap a trans in the face? no, not really... a thai surprise is, a thai surprise... i would have considered doing my first ****... "lucky" for me she was a she... a girl... ****** her in the garden under the moonlight... gave her my hoodie, which she drowned in... finally... the level of interaction where the female is not a mantis, i.e. a female larger than the male... she drowned into my hoodie as i walked her home... i like the familiarity with the mammalian, not resorting to insect superiority of females... these days... i find that males are strictly mammalian... while females? they are borrowing insect-esque ontologies... well, darwinism allowed the time-frame... males are mammals... females are insects, behaviour-wise... two time frame i do not appreciate the english for... darwinism is prime.... cultural-marxism my ***... what about cultural-darwinism?! no?! that doesn't exist?! cultural-darwinism is as real as cultural-marxism, and, in the former sense? it really does belong to the conservative right-wing politico spectrum! might i add? isn't psychology merely pop philosophy? i find psychology riddled with rubric cohesion, it's all oh so "self"-evident! i abhor psychologists... these gypsy philosophers... medicine-men with no pharmacological shadow of power... to prescribe drugs... arguments, persuasions, but no dialectics... psychology will forever be, for me, a philosophy primer, short-cut... pop philosophy... psychologists can treat people who have never read a philosophy book... r. d. laing... i remember this one instace... me and a fwend of mine travelled into central london, went into a bookshop shy of trafalgar sq., i spotted an edition of: the scarlet and the black by stendhal... i told him: i will trade you linkin park's debut album, if you buy me this... the transaction was made... the one book i read after seeing a film adaptation starring rachel (rakhel) weisz and ewan mcgregor... ra-kh-el: not ray-chel... we used to be humans once... at high school getting bullied back... putting pins on chairs once we got up, sitting on them... playing bulldog in primary school, slap-ball, tag, playing cards at lunchtime... 16 fatty boy... one summer in poland, comes back aged 17... the irish girls take an interest while eating a pomegranate... what was the success of your diet? don't go to the gym... excess skin, an aesthetic surgeon is not what you need... there are only two ways to lose weight... either via swimming or by cycling... cycling is the best... lose weight by also toning your body... gym is a bad idea... by going to the gym you are straining exclusive parts of your body, either the torso, your hands, etc., jogging? unless on soft ground, bad idea on concrete, arthritis... cycling or swimming... lose weight... tone at the same time, the skin is allowed the required time to adapt to shrink, and forget what propped it up in plump form with all that excess flab... ugh... i hated being attractive to the opposite ***, i never used it to my advantage! imagine... an irish lad comes up to me, on behalf of some girl while i'm donning a french braid: you look just like johnny depp in blow, impersonating george jung... 14 year old girls walk up to you asking what shampoo you're using... herbal essences... i never used my looks... *******... now i'm a heavy drinker... so much for looks... first girlfriend? a fwend had to call me telling me she called him that she felt butterflies when i dropped her at the train platform after a day's worth of dating: tate modern, edward hopper exhibitions, cinema: troy, starring rose byrne (briseis) - honestly, a man can go crazy over curly hair... and then a restaurant date... that **** just flew over my head... i wouldn't have noticed... honestly though... i missed the whole h'american cultural excavation genesis in high school... catholic... uniforms... jesuit army-esque formation... now, i'm ageing... i'm starting to find the company of cats to be: clingy... my shadow included... i once thought that dogs were needy... i'm starting to think that cats are worse, esp. the maine **** breed... "lonely" or "loneliness" doesn't really resonate with me, esp. when thinking something "feels" like a variation of claustrophobia: hence i write... without a dialectic in place, ever since plato wrote his dialogues... what is philosophy, primarily? isn't it an off-shoot of "claustrophobia"? we write because we are seeking escape from congested thinking, a variation of "claustrophobia"... now imagine a schizoid character... having to focus on an imaginary dialectic, actually... having dialectics enforced on him, with no clarifying exodus to posit a gensis with! now, a clingy dog i could understand, given the overpowering status of the leash... but a clingy cat, when there's no leash involved?! shoom! right over my head... gone, somewhere into the distance!

what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions hype...
and didn't?
and instead took to patience?
it's free...
   where once,
a game would cost you 20 quid,
and a month's worth
of narrative,
back then, when games
resembled books,
when the gaming industry
was heavily influenced
by literature...
and now?
   the game's free...
sure...
it's "unfair", it's biased...
when you don't engage
in imported gambling
of succumbing to what, this is the part...
were i cite...
   the weimar ******
critical condition...
       a daft punk troop
of a song,
  end of line....
blow-up a hot air balloon...
worth of blaire whire...
play the tambourine
like a ******* video...
there are,
quiet, simply,
no nazis coming...
fashionista faux pas
examples...
i'm alive,
but i'm dead,
i just forget to don
a strap-on...
  "oops"?
   that **** go down well
with
the "in"-crowd...
usual... metropolitan...
verbiage surge of answers....
   many a fetish after...
we arrive at the sensible
aspect,
"toxic masculinity"...
when guns n roses wasn't,
and nirvana was just plain
gay...
              and then...
whatever that happened,
happened..
                 and people were like:
come to the "new" tomorrow,
there's always a yesterday,
in a dream,
in some phil collins
wannabe
studio...
or... some other random ****
that
excluded peter gabriel.

                 i died:
and just about right:
my harvest had come.

great book reviews...
"toxic masculinity"...
so all masculinity is
about a clockwork orange?
   if it is?
can i be pro abortion
anti mongolian horde?
yes? no?
  which is it?!
neither...
   **** me... that's just bad
luck...

                               sundbeds,
sunflowers,
tulips,
sunglasses,
    plenty of staged
eager nights...
boring political affairs...
and...
         when gaming was
more about the narrative...
and never,
ever, about the microtransactions...

point being...
it's a game within a game...
time, is the prime concern...
you play a game,
by waiting...
you wait: by playing a game...

  microtransactions
are...
you ever move a sim3 avatar
to a computer,
and make it play a computer game?
what's on the macrocosmos spectrum?
you....

               "back in the day"...
you'd spend a saturday morning
engrossed in a gaming narrative...
metal gear solid,
tenchu, final fantasy solid...
20 quid...
and you played the narrative...
and a game became equivalent
to the worth of a book,
resident evil,

            you paid for a month's worth
of gaming,
you exchanged tips,
you sometimes bought a cheat book
because of the homework,
and that was your saturday morning
before hitting the shopping mall
or, whatever...

the current dynamic of
microtransactions in gaming?
i never, ever, do...
i'm an old gamer type...
i see the potential of extending
the life-expectancy
of a game...

   as long as you don't buy into
the microtransactions gambling habit?
as long as you play the "game"
within the game?
the game is an assured classic,
akin to chess...

              you have to play
the waiting "game"...
             time...
                           that's all it is...
whether war robots,
    or dawn of titans...
        comparison...
  you know that the best fruit,
is fruit, allocated
to the geography of it being sourced
seasonally...
you can't actually get better
strawberries,
than english strawberries...
from england, come june / july...
no ******* point sourcing them
from spain in late march / april....

    same thing with gaming...
the modern games haven't made any
elaboration...
apart from dislodging the player
from the concept of narrative...
**** me... that's almost an improvement...
given that now: time is the counter
measure, and the gamer...
   is having to invest,
in a narrative, outside of the confines
of the game,
once upon a time,
games had time-narrative
constraints...
     now: there's time,
and there are gamer narratives,
excluding them from time-narratives,
of a game...
         it's almost a faux pas...
more like a wet-*****...
****** pinky lodged into an ear,
an april fools' day scant...

        if you hacked passed
the microtransactions...
       and didn't have the chance...
microtransactions are like
the old school cheat hacks...
but not quiet, but somehow quasi-,
       a modern microtransactions,
would be a cheat magazine
thorough-through
a game like final fantasy VII...
you have homework,
but you still want to complete the game...
modern games...
modern games...
there's an "end gole"?
  what modern game is worth
"completing"?
    
   again: tron, ready player one,
back to the future...
star wars just became dead
to me...
   sick people will plague hard-working
people, with a quasi-gambling
addiction,
needing to make microtransactions...
and they will,
my father was plagued by
an impostor, claiming to be a
tax office official:
and what if, that person had
an authentic position at the tax office?!

when gaming was for gamers,
the games were bought...
there was a narrative...
but now... now games don't have a narrative...
why would they?!
   who the hell plays games for
the narrative these days?
i know that on the crapper,
i need a game that allows me
to experience live-stream
interaction with non-bots...

       and these old gamers,
who still invest their money
in literature-esque-games?
so i was the sad one,
investing in vinyl?
   aren't the classic ******* gamers
just as bad,
investing in prepackaged
narrative gaming
experiences?
             a game with a narrative...
yeah... me buying vinyl
is: b'ah b'ah bad...
       what sort of game is alive and well...
when there isn't a crowd pushback
for the currency of microtransaction?

the narrative is time,
   the longer you endure the inadequacy...
the more you realise:
you're basically playing
the same game,
but in your scenario:
it's free...
   in some other ******'s scenario:
it cost him 70 hundred quid...

personally?
   i love this microtransaction dynamic...
concerning the people who
do not engage with it...
it's the perfect antithesis
   of what ruined the music industry
with genesis: napster...

you really are, playing the ultimate
game,
time...
         the one sort of commodity
that games,
without a clear narrative construct,
"forgot" to mention in terms
of them being exploited...
to their full capacity
of the one "commodity"
they "forgot", or rather,
couldn't "sell"...

              a tenchu PS1 game could
have lasted me a month...
now? a free game,
like war robots...
with absolutely no NPC?
hell... i'll be 90 and still be playing it;

what else? applause!

A presence
presenting
a continuous torment
torturing
incessantly
until, even with cessation
only a tenuous self
is present
leaving only the resin

The maniacal
manifestation
is an infestation
festering around in my head
Its existence,
a creation
created at inception,
hacking my brain
Forever a trap
creating a
maniac

Acrimonious
to all mankind
Not acting
like a man
Not one word
that's kind
Committing crimes
and getting oneself
committed
A deviation
creating a deviant
Shifted values
due to a devalued
self

An esoteric
essence
seemingly sentenced
on this journey
by judge and jury,
not by one's peers
because the many
not able
to peer
into this individuality
The duplicity
of duality
that is my reality

Challenging myself
to a dual
One in which
I both
win and lose
But in the end
not breaking even
or coming out ahead
Always ending
further back
instead

Its back breaking
and always aching
Pain from which
not capable of
faking
Effort I’m taking
Of myself making
Time for a new king
For kinsmanship
is aloof
And this man’s ship
has sailed away
Sipping a port
at a shipping port
And yet
slipping away

Deeper still
In the depth
of still water
Sinking
into the abyss
Lost and gone
But not missed
Is this the end
of our fable?
Or will our “hero”
enable himself
and in the end
be able
Deciding who to be?
Cain or Abel?
For the hurricane
is hurrying along
Its aim always the same
Constant pain
A payment he feels
for the displaced
placement
which just in case
is placed
same place
he went

Ink in the face
A disgrace
When suddenly
encased in his brain
are racing thoughts
of a plan
he’s ace’n

A label of insanity
given by those
who claim sanity
when the reality
is their thoughts are free
and optimize
a sanitized
and homogenized
batter
And in the end
it doesn’t matter

Offering suggestions
in which they
feel threatened
Pathways congested
and protested
Testing them
Even worse,
bested
A problem beset
upon them
Time to steady
the flock
Roll n’ Rock
Inoculations we’re getting
Start the injections

“It’s been an honor”
Mounting my Lipizzaner
A disarmer
A charmer
The armor
‘mi amor’
Leaving me
wanting more
But as they keep score
the task is daunting
A life that’s haunting
with such splendid decor
-
Yet, can’t take any more
Their taunting
is leaving me sore
So to the atmosphere
I open that door
and flying up above
I soar

Forever more
Feel pain no more...

Not funny but this was written on 4-15-12 exactly a year to the day


I re-post this for our last battel field Boston these words are nothing but as you read you will find the one who lives in them and He is everything all the comfort and hope we can ever want


Sorry if this seems at first confusing all my friends on facebook and Redbubble will get it right away as
I asked them to use their love and caring to pray for my hurting distraught friend at her time of great
Loss if you are hurting it will help to at least a degree or it will help at times of future loss

Well dear sweet precious Addy this brutal day is at an end I hope you sleep well I prayed for you and
Kathleen’s son way into the night at first I was terrified you weren’t going to get my post and you would
Enter as I told my wife you would enter the lion’s den the lions all have familiar names pain sorrow
Grief and many others and they maul with cruelty without pity I didn’t want either of you to take those
Fatal steps without your armor not to be to descriptive but reality waited with a blast I tried to diffuse the
Coffin the grave and headstone never could I do it immeasurably my fight for you could only be in the
Smallest victories comfort mined at times like these is like uranium white silver metallic with almost
A power that can’t be harnessed the same as loss of a love one what blow back again the same as a
Nuclear test one problem you don’t get the protection of a bunker no just suffer the blast in your
Body mind and heart you are stepping into the shoes the same as young woman who lost her father
That as she described him he was the light of her life our paths crossed on line when I thought she
Was a classmate’s wife her story of her dad touched me deeply I’m going to add that piece here plus
The comfort I tried to write for my friend that was more like my brother when his mother died I will
Include a small background so it wail make more sense let me add those here the first was Fathers story
What you read here is her hearts knowing and the undying love that it created and that continues.
His precious hands were removed from earthly things. A great and gentle man his greatest possessions his family. I only knew him from his business and the fact that one of his beautiful daughters married a classmate of mine. Then much later by error I made acquaintance with another of his daughters you can tell a lot about a person from the actions of his children. She told me that he passed away and that he was the light of her life. With God’s help I would like to pay tribute to him.
A light did shine it was magnified by the eyes of a daughters love. He took his journey he went above his ship was the care they shared he the captain made the course straight and true he didn’t slow her run until heaven was in plain view they would have cheered but it hard to see through eyes filled with tears. All the wonderful years seemed to be eclipsed by the sickness that came it seemed an angry wind from their lives this stalwart precious soul it did rend. It left the greatest empty hole it took the longest time to fill and then with the sweetest cooing the grand babies made the hole enlivened not the terrible twisted knot that had the family bound but without being able to speak a word grampaw was found. If you looked in their faces his smile is bound to bundles only heaven can design. I’m not saying they asked him how to work these miracles yet this is true he watched with intense interest and was happiest since his departure he knew that back through time and space healing was for all time secured. Their stoic acceptance could now be laid aside the family could run in softer climes know the sweetest of times that were thought to be forever gone.
Love spills down from heights distance is only on a map in peoples heart its no farther than the end of your finger tips. Images are so strong not because we have great minds it’s easy to make these rich finds when your love and its power shake the foundation of the universe is it not said that love is the greatest power. Oh how so many in dark shadows cower when they possess the power to ignite the world on fire. From heart to heart it does dart the wildness of the spirit is told blotting out all of the cold. Yes there is winter but also the spring. The light spoken of is no longer beholden to earth and so the family is free by love he joins his light to the Christ the all glowing light
Life force by haldenton
To all who have lost heroes
This was written to Eva’s son Bill to help him at her passing. With this writing I took him back thirty years when he was in the truck wreck that killed his dad his recovery saved his mother I hoped by him being reminded of that now it would help him the same way.
Tribute to Eva Wafford Life force
For all who lost heroes
In your soul freshly the wind of death did blow.
Cold eerie shadows marched against your tender broken heart.
What defense could this onslaught repel agony’s volcanic flow.
Ominous well filled with grief from this weight no relief.
The child the grim reaper did spare.
Only after leaving the body bruised and in despair.
From this broken body drops of mercy started to make the mother well.
I held your trembling frame today this memory rings sweet as a bell.
Streets and houses without number fill the land.
I can’t help when I look to recall memories grand.
Now they are but dreams that ache in the night.
Images that over ride the present in their glory I take flight.
Brush aside caution raise your voice as a trumpet.
They live only in yesterdays even so indelibly they wrote their stories.
We hold our children we cling only a moment as mist on the summit.
Your life Eva continues to build the next generation.
Your voice is heard in the breath of your grandchildren.
Wonders they spin from golden thread, now that you have gone ahead.
Your spirit glows in the fire that warms the house against winter.
Summer’s cool breeze not sent by chance she doe’s tenderly incite.
Death silently said what I already knew.
To me you were always immortal you were bigger than life
Many were the days when the wind of storms blew
those who know us feel the calm; this is only your life on review

One more
Simply Jim
Old Abe said it right ‘It is right and fitting that we speak these words here to honor these lives so honorably lived. I can say that about Jim and this also he was a prince among men if I do this right the words will convince you.
He had a gentle way and nature he spoke softly but a softness that flowed to you like ribbons that bounced in a little girl’s hair how delightful. He should have been a doctor his hands his mannerism was ideal for that job. I guess thats what made him stand out so strongly like a gentle calm breeze if you came in a panic his soul would float down around you like a parachute first it safely brings you from great anxiety and exaltation to a graceful landing then gently envelops you in its silken embrace. I had this privilege of watching him inter act with his wife as I said and truly he was a prince and I was the beggar that benefitted richly from the sidelines God knew my needs.
He was called from this life but all the days he filled before his home going are the sustaining force noticeably seen felt with keen awareness you know that a gentleman passed this way. In the lives left behind there is a blend of sadness and astonishment you realize you are looking at the work of a master workman who left behind a tightly and perfectly fitted family this unfortunately is sadly rare in this society that boast of its accomplishments.
As a friend his breadth and depth was sufficient you weren’t a burden he had a way of dispelling trouble making you understand with wisdom and unerring judgment then with ease you could extricate yourself from the problem. His heavenly father filled him with tenderness it stood him and others well in a somewhat crabby world. If you’re pressed and anxious about life take from this life expressed. A portion of the good will you need use it as a defense Jim couldn’t be everywhere but God saw fit to make an original that you can duplicate benefit from and be a part of his ongoing legacy. Thanks friend for a life lived well

Well hurting one in the earlier part of a writing I said I am God’s battle field reporter and medic
These writings are my bandages and gauze God gave me great big hands and I fill them with
Salve with all the love I know I gently apply it to your broken hurting wounds mingle it with
Tears that are not always mine alone but His mixes with mine one day He will abolish all tears
Until then this is our duty your heart we hear and we can do no other God bless you Addy and
Your nephew and all others who find this helpful

Mirrored Pool


Wonder for all the hurts

First I knelt just to see my reflection then the depths started to reveal first the flowing thoughts were
Restrained and then a bubbling seemed to dislodge from greater depths hard truths churned with
Violent twisting but the motion made it impossible to turn away there were great large white clouds
From depths then even above the pool they rose fourteen stories high the sensation was you were
Standing outside clear air intoxicating views the pulse of many were throbbing in your ears their
Thoughts and dreams were known and their sorrows were weights that pulled you from the heights
It was a colossal game of tag and you were it first reaction fear then the appearance of bundled gifts
Broke down the fear it was promise in different sizes that met the required needs it was like a divine
Warehouse had just made a delivery there were cards with names and writing gave clarification tears
And smiles intermingled then the outer knowing postulated the difficulty the puzzle an enormous
Streaming that was now congested and it was beginning a vortex all was understood now human thought
With doubts was pulling the answer into this destructive hole where was one to find the lever to stop
This action that would disallow was the answer to touch the water bring the finger to my lips possibly
A blazing thought would occur that would strike the mind no all that brought was words that had the
Letters jumbled they made no sense unless there is a special book that is alive in it the letters and words
Are already set but they cover every act in the human condition the broken can pour over the pages
You won’t find thorns to repel your efforts there are thorns but they will speak and assuage your hurts
At the most basic and needed levels the points of your hurts will begin to dissolve from your eyes to
Your mind this inward rush and power will dislodge even spears driven deep by enemies carried for
Years you searched in vain over sad and lonely paths and days now you journey is at an end thorns of
Suffering for another produces profound power and mercy go in peace beloved one another bears your
Burden now maybe words cut you at depths you can’t even identify what if there is an antidote in a
Book you pick it up with trembling hands your body tingles from the knowledge that this is ancient texts
It will have a revival of appreciation in this world of texting but with gentle fingers and eyes that glow
With respect as you see the wisdom and the love cannot be denied you leave the world you know and
With total abandonment you swim in this sea of words until the your tears spill on this rich world of
Words those cruel barbed words that pierced tender skin and have bled internally all of these years
Begin to dissolve with stories and accounts of betrayals then the swells love and mercy you read about
Restoration not always found after apologies are given but the teaching of forgiveness strikes a cord
You have been made free from your prison the tangles of life are great as a great black cloud it hangs
Over head many are its troubles this isn’t mild but the disruptive made to strike and pierce deep the
Hidden that steals the morning blessing while other feast your hunger and unrest only enlarges a
Tormenting unquenchable fire a slow burn this is a forest being burned at the thermal level the hidden
Roots a slow process destructive but not so visible agony torture I have seen men crawl in war or fire
Fighting that where all else is lost you will know greater thrills than any other living soul with the
Desperate and those heavy burdened unable to stand a word will flow it puts out fires and gives
The luxurious buoyancy heaviness changed to joy the bouncy laughter every outward blast attack
The enemy launches is within its pages they are repelled overwhelmed by love you suffer unduly
If you don’t hold this fortress this informative book of stratagems that have made everyone a victor
Who has ever found themselves at their wits end no place on earth has a contingency plan though it
Will make the greatest claims all is just empty air when life as it too often does ***** the very air of life
Out we practically are unconscious but this help this rescue is activated by one name it’s not just a book
But the word is a person what a pool you will find what a reflection will engage you beyond your hope
To imagine just say Jesus all will be total peace your heart will know no more sorrow peace will surpass
Sorrow love will disallow the specter that was once a constant it will disappear it will return to the
Darkness from which it came stand in this newness totally free abide by still waters as the good
Sheppard stands by bless you



Disgrace

This land void of devotion gone is the church steeples.
Replaced by voices and shadows of drug dealers on each corner.
Now they are the keepers, lost cities, death stalks its peoples.
Nothing is sacred in this polluted and diffused land.

No longer hallowed be thy name, it’s as if he never came.
Forgotten is any standard of moral excellence.
The once high ideals only represent a fool’s parlance.
Man declares I throw off these restraints only to find darker chains.

The book that once guided this great land.
We now betray with each waking day.
Our hearts and mind it did ignite, now it’s word we can’t stand.
Powerless and feeble we stumble, anxious ever moment.

Just to remember is not enough, best confess our pride.
Make sacrifice with our lips, to burn on altars on high.
There is a short season for all to make amends to regain our stride.
March on to glory with it burning on the inside.

You don’t have to be astute in business to see the sound investment.
Bring your poverty of spirit leave with the riches of his last testament.
It offers the greatest rate of exchange.
Light for darkness, life for death, selfless love for selfishness.


Streaks of Jefferson


In freedom’s blessed glorified sky through streaks of immortal gold his visage we behold
He looks upon the fields of liberty that he and the founding fathers sowed he sees the

Richness America has become he also beheld her struggles catastrophic wars abroad
And the most painful the one that divided the nation marred it with southern and northern

Blood saw the affable the sad giant Lincoln take the reins of discontent hold them by
Shear will and with uncommon sagacity guided it back in line to fulfill its destiny as the

Powerful fount that would always pour forth waters of freedom for all of earths peoples
Total unconditional acceptance of liberty and all the fruit it bears to establish a

Government like no other this golden grain has waved under bluest skies and brightest
Sun light its rich harvest has gone to darkest prison cells Mandela was sustained by it

For twenty nine years and by its moral purity it fed the lives of those that over threw
Apartied and Mandela finally freed by principals it avows rose from prison clothes

To wear the mantle of president of his country and the honor of the man instilled
Quality that transcended political office Jefferson not to be disrespectful to his progeny

Whispers today’s politicians could do well to look on this African model of good
Stewardship of public trust with that Jefferson faded back into the mist pray that’s
Not the fate of this country






--------------------------------------------------------------­------------------

Steven my boy,

We coasted into a medieval pub in the middle of nowhere in wildest Devon to encounter the place in uproarious bedlam. A dozen country madams had been imbibing in the pre wedding wine and were in great form roaring with laughter and bursting out of their lacy cotton frocks. Bunting adorned the pub, Union Jack was aflutter everywhere and a full size cut out of HM the Queen welcomed visitors into the front door. Cucumber sandwiches and a heady fruit punch were available to all and sundry and the din was absolutely riotous……THE ROYAL WEDDING WAS UNDERWAY ON THE GIANT TV ON THE BAR WALL….and we were joining in the mood of things by sinking a bevy of Bushmills Irish whiskies neat!

Now…. this is a major event in the UK.

Everybody loves Prince Harry, he is the terrible tearaway of the Royal family, he has been caught ******* sheila’s in all sorts of weird circumstance. Now the dear boy is to be married to a beauty from the USA….besotted he is with her, fair dripping with love and adoration…..and the whole country loves little Megan Markle for making him so.

The British are famous for their pageantry and pomp….everything is timed to the second and must be absolutely….just so. Well….Nobody told the most Reverend Michael Curry this…. and he launched into the most wonderful full spirited Halleluiah sermon about the joyous “Wonder of Love”. He went on and on for a full 14 minutes, and as he proceeded on, the British stiff upper lips became more and more rigidly uncomfortable with this radical departure from protocol. Her Majesty the Queen stood aghast and locked her beady blue eyes in a riveting, steely glare, directed furiously at the good Reverend….to no avail, on he went with his magic sermon to a beautiful rousing ******….and an absolute stony silence in the cavernous interior of that vaulting, magnificent cathedral. Prince Harry and his lovely bride, (whose wedding the day was all about), were delighted with Curry’s performance….as was Prince William, heir to the Throne, who wore a fascinating **** eating grin all over his face for the entire performance.

Says a lot, my friend, about the refreshing values of tomorrows Royalty.

We rolled out of that country pub three parts cut to the wind, dunno how we made it to our next destination, but we had one hellava good time at that Royal Wedding!

The weft and the weave of our appreciation fluctuated wildly with each day of travel through this magnificent and ancient land, Great Britain.

There was soft brilliant summer air which hovered over the undulating green patchwork of the Cotswolds whilst we dined on delicious roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, from an elevated position in a medieval country inn..... So magnificent as to make you want to weep with the beauty of it all….and the quaint thatched farmhouse with the second story multi paned windows, which I understood, had been there, in that spot, since the twelfth century. Our accommodation, sleeping beneath oaken beams within thick stone walls, once a pen for swine, now a domiciled overnight bed and pillow of luxury with white cotton sheets for weary Kiwi travellers.

The sadness of the Cornish west coast, which bore testimony to tragedy for the hard working tin miners of the 1800s. A sharp decrease in the international tin price in 1911 destituted whole populations who walked away from their life’s work and fled to the New World in search of the promise of a future. Forlorn brick ruins adorned stark rocky outcrops right along the coastline and inland for miles. Lonely brick chimneys silhouetted against sharp vertical cliffs and the ever crashing crescendo of the pounding waves of the cold Atlantic ocean.

No parking in Padstow….absolutely NIL! You parked your car miles away in the designated carpark at an overnight cost….and with your bags in tow, you walked to your digs. Now known as Padstein, this beautiful place is now populated with eight Rick Stein restaurants and shops dotted here and there.

We had a huge feed of piping hot fish and chips together with handles of cold ale down at his harbour side fish and chip restaurant near the wharfs…place was packed with people, you had to queue at the door for a table, no reservations accepted….Just great!

Clovelly was different, almost precipitous. This ancient fishing village plummeted down impossibly steep cliffs….a very rough, winding cobbled stone walkway, which must have taken years to build by hand, the only way down to the huge rock breakwater which harboured the fishing boats Against the Atlantic storms. And in a quaint little cottagey place, perched on the edge of a cliff, we had yet another beautiful Devonshire tea in delicate, white China cups...with tasty hot scones, piles of strawberry jam and a huge *** of thick clotted cream…Yum! Too ****** steep to struggle back up the hill so we spent ten quid and rode all the way up the switch back beneath the olive canvass canopy of an old Land Rover…..money well spent!

Creaking floorboards and near vertical, winding staircases and massive rock walls seemed to be common characteristics of all the lovely old lodging houses we were accommodated in. Sarah, our lovely daughter in law, arranged an excellent itinerary for us to travel around the SW coast staying in the most picturesque of places which seeped with antiquity and character. We zooped around the narrow lanes, between the hedgerows in our sharp little VW golf hire car And, with Sarah at the helm, we never got lost or missed a beat…..Fantastic effort, thank you so much Sarah and Solomon on behalf of your grateful In laws, Janet and Marshal, who loved every single moment of it all!

Memories of a lifetime.

Wanted to tell the world about your excitement, Janet, on visiting Stoke on Trent.

This town is famous the world over for it’s pottery. The pottery industry has flourished here since the middle ages and this is evidenced by the antiquity of the kilns and huge brick chimneys littered around the ancient factories. Stoke on Trent is an industrial town and it’s narrow, winding streets and congested run down buildings bear testimony to past good times and bad.

We visited “Burleigh”.

Darling Janet has collected Burleigh pottery for as long as I have known her, that is almost 40 years. She loves Burleigh and uses it as a showcase for the décor of our home.

When Janet first walked into the ancient wooden portals of the Burleigh show room she floated around on a cloud of wonder, she made darting little runs to each new discovery, making ooh’s and aah’s, eyes shining brightly….. I trailed quietly some distance behind, being very aware that I must not in any way imperil this particular precious bubble.

We amassed a beautiful collection of plates, dishes, bowls and jugs for purchase and retired to the pottery’s canal side bistro,( to come back to earth), and enjoy a ploughman’s lunch and a *** of hot English breakfast tea.

We returned to Stoke on Trent later in the trip for another bash at Burleigh and some other beautiful pottery makers wares…..Our suit cases were well filled with fragile treasures for the trip home to NZ…..and darling Janet had realised one of her dearest life’s ambitions fulfilled.

One of the great things about Britain was the British people, we found them willing to go out of their way to be helpful to a fault…… and, with the exception of BMW people, we found them all to be great drivers. The little hedgerow, single lane, winding roads that connect all rural areas, would be a perpetual source of carnage were it not for the fact that British drivers are largely courteous and reserved in their driving.

We hired a spacious ,powerful Nissan in Dover and acquired a friend, an invaluable friend actually, her name was “Tripsy” at least that’s what we called her. Tripsy guided us around all the byways and highways of Britain, we couldn’t have done without her. I had a few heated discussions with her, I admit….much to Janet’s great hilarity…but Tripsy won out every time and I quickly learned to keep my big mouth shut.

By pure accident we ended up in Cumbria, up north of the Roman city of York….at a little place in the dales called “Middleton on Teesdale”….an absolutely beautiful place snuggled deep in the valleys beneath the huge, heather clad uplands. Here we scored the last available bed in town at a gem of a hotel called the “Brunswick”. Being a Bank Holiday weekend everything, everywhere was booked out. The Brunswick surpassed ordinary comfort…it was superlative, so much so that, in an itinerary pushed for time….we stayed TWO nights and took the opportunity to scout around the surrounding, beautiful countryside. In fact we skirted right out to the western coastline and as far north as the Scottish border. Middleton on Teesdale provided us with that late holiday siesta break that we so desperately needed at that time…an exhausting business on a couple of old Kiwis, this holiday stuff!

One of the great priorities on getting back to London was to shop at “Liberty”. Great joy was had selecting some ornate upholstering material from the huge range of superb cloth available in Liberty’s speciality range.

The whole organisation of Liberty’s huge store and the magnificent quality of goods offered was quite daunting. Janet & I spent quite some time in that magnificent place…..and Janet has a plan to select a stylish period chair when we get back to NZ and create a masterpiece by covering it with the ***** bought from Liberty.

In York, beautiful ancient, York. A garrison town for the Romans, walled and once defended against the marauding Picts and Scots…is now preserved as a delightful and functional, modern city whilst retaining the grandeur, majesty and presence of its magnificent past.

Whilst exploring in York, Janet and I found ourselves mixing with the multitude in the narrow medieval streets paved with ancient rock cobbles and lined with beautifully preserved Tudor structures resplendent in whitewash panel and weathered, black timber brace. With dusk falling, we were drawn to wild violins and the sound of stamping feet….an emanation from within the doors of an old, burgundy coloured pub…. “The Three Legged Mare”.

Fortified, with a glass of Bushmills in hand, we joined the multitude of stomping, singing people. Rousing to the percussion of the Irish drum, the wild violin and the deep resonance of the cello, guitars and accordion…..The beautiful sound of tenor voices harmonising to the magic of a lilting Irish lament.

We stayed there for an hour or two, enchanted by the spontaneity of it all, the sheer native talent of the expatriates celebrating their heritage and their culture in what was really, a beautiful evening of colour, music and Ireland.

Onward, across the moors, we revelled in the great outcrops of metamorphic rock, the expanses of flat heather covering the tops which would, in the chill of Autumn, become a spectacular swath of vivid mauve floral carpet. On these lonely tracts of narrow road, winding through the washes and the escarpments, the motorbike boys wheeled by us in screaming pursuit of each other, beautiful machines heeling over at impossible angles on the corners, seemingly suicidal yet careening on at breakneck pace, laughing the danger off with the utter abandon of the creed of the road warrior. Descending in to the rolling hills of the cultivated land, the latticework of, old as Methuselah, massive dry built stone fences patterning the contours in a checker board of ancient pastoral order. The glorious soft greens of early summer deciduous forest, the yellow fields of mustard flower moving in the breeze and above, the bluest of skies with contrails of ever present high flung jets winging to distant places.

Britain has a flavour. Antiquity is evidenced everywhere, there is a sense of old, restrained pride. A richness of spirit and a depth of character right throughout the populace. Britain has confidence in itself, its future, its continuity. The people are pleasant, resilient and thoroughly likeable. They laugh a lot and are very easy to admire.

With its culture, its wonderful history, its great Monarchy and its haunting, ever present beauty, everywhere you care to look….The Britain of today is, indeed, a class act.

We both loved it here Steven…and we will return.

M.

Hamilton, New Zealand

21 June 2018

.how  dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...

)            that's all i wanted to disclose...
what comes now,
is all the unnecessary details
that would constitute a prose piece...
albeit in cascade - for the ease
of the eyes bunddled up in a
claustrophobia of a paragraph:

i know: the mere word 'dignified'
seems rather obnoxious...
but... how dignified it is,
to take a walk at night...
esp. when one is recycling leftover
bottles of whiskey, whiskey,
beer... whiskey...

after reading Knausgård vol. 1 -
with his father strapped to the house
with his mother drinking himself
to death...
perhaps i'm also akin...

but... there's "****" to do in between...
good god! mein gott!
greta thunberg! run! i said run idiot!
run to the recycling center with
those glass bottles!
success though: cutting the ingestion
by over a half...

current bank balance?
nearing 2 thousand pounds...
and there's the garbage to sort between
the recyclable and the non-recyclable...
there's the tending to keeping
the house clean...

there's a remnant spark about giving
a toss about some sporting event...
there's cooking a dinner...
but... it seems i miss the man who would
find about an hour and a half
to walk the streets at night...

somehow i missed it -
but... i imagine the sight of a week's worth
of empty bottles in the wardrobe...
i've had enough and...
i call the dog that's the dignity to take
a walk at night...
to never overthink anything except
thinking - that i can leave in the basket
of nothing...

sometimes the ego-automaton jumps
in and makes my walking meditation
fuzzy... that's where i find this mythological
ego of psychology -
ego the anti-narrator...

which implies: not myself... reflexive...
not my, self... the reflective circumstance...

and there's no familiar presence
of an mp3 player (broken, ****** lasted
for 3 years, good enough lifespan)
and no headphones...

perhaps i was anti-radio some time ago...
i've amassed a decent personal library
of audio... but now i rarely use it
having made a discovery of the gramaphone
and vinyls...
and being the late 20th century colt...
i should still be ripping c.d.s onto
mp3... but...
i just wanted to check out what i was
missing...
perhaps... the crazed sound of passing
cars, will indeed, never replace
the cobblestones and hooves...
but... there's a right to heave a sigh...
for no apparent reason other than:
i've met myself this very first time
having aged...

this is not a time for west coast
1990s pop punk or punk rock or whatever
they called it... when you would
either run in gallop jumping
in a jonathan edwards style...
or looking down and walking into
a lamp-post... this is no time to be
refreshing the cinema of youth...
with the offspring's ignition...

not when you're walking: and trying not to think...

also of today: my jewish newly converted
to islam neighbour came round
asking about my mother's slight bout
of depression concerning...
her recent hip-replacement...
and what's still in the post...
the aesthetic surgery...
after all: what surgery, proper...
is also a plastic surgery - an aesthetic...
obviously the muscles and the bones
are intact... but there is always a chance
that waste tissue will be removed...
fat... etc. and it hasn't even been 2 weeks
since the surgery...
and she said: your mum should look
at my surgery scars...
i lifted up my t-shirt and turned
to show her my back... namely my
right shoulder-blade...

and i said to her: you know why i didn't
get aesthetic surgery on this mark
of cain? that's the same reason why i don't
have tattoos...
nothing against tattoos...
i have the only tattoo i need:
a mark of cain and some historical tattoos...
dates... that i keep close to me
from my time in the pedagogy meat-mincer
effort... how it began with the romans: per se...
later began with hastings 1066...
but it would never begin with:
the first battle of Tannenberg (1410)...
so you don't know how i think my mother
is exaggerating?
it's a good thing she's my mother...
she can have her ******* pass...
i'd give her the same ******* pass if...
we were married for 35 years and...
she was a woman i could grow with...
otherwise? the ******* pass i reserve for
children...

i subsequently signed her will...
yes... she came round looking for a second
witness for her will being made official...
or ****** bureucratic paper...
but nonetheless official...
i didn't mention the fact that...
the two witnesses that have signed the paper:
need to be present simultaneously...
i asked her... what's my occupation?
oh... right... i'm a scribbler...
a chicken-scratcher... writer of no
guild... a writ pusher...  

but all i wanted to write was...
i'm not a fan of the haiku...
esp. the western haiku... or a maxim:
i abhor maxims...
but if you put Kant into the juicer
and you spit out the congested
categorical imperative...
and it doesn't sound like the original, should:

act only according to that maxim whereby you can,
at the same time, will that it should become a universal law.

id est:

act only according to that haiku whereby you can...
at some distant point of time,
convene for it be a shared experience
in the ratio of a 1:2 point of seperation...
2:4 4:8 8:16...
but that's not really a categorical imperative
to begin with... what sort of "idiot" would strive
for a maxim to become a universal law...
universal laws are maxim spin-offs...
or i'm just blah-blahing too much...
waiting dear god: for the razor's edge (and drowning)...
or a punchline on stage in front of a dumb / mute
audience...

o.k. 5-7-5...
syllables... given the japanese don't use
letter but have syllables instead...
again: i'm not a fan...
if it took my long enough...
i'd find my 5 syllables and my 7 and again
my 5 syllables...
but i am a westerner...
i deal with letters... i don't deal with syllables...
unless they are prefixes akin to trans-...
meta-... anti-... post-...
the western adoption of the haiku implies
the boredom achieved from too many
sonnets... is the haiku the new sonnet?

i'll try... but i'll need to open a dictionary
for this effort...

water knee deep truce (5)
to the drowning man imploring (8)
signature the soul with this last breath (9)

or however many... it's just a passing thought:
i don't know how it would be worthwhile
to think inside a box... standing outside it
to begin with...
a haiku and no punctuation:
if you're going to be puritanical about it...
no punctuation?!
no diacritical markers?!

the Kant reference is just to ease up on:
who the hell would live by a maxim,
a stand-alone maxim at that...
one maxim to make it into the realm
of gravity...

there's the plethora of aphorisms that
are observations that... well...
let's just say it's no an imitation game... (

since how the hell does:
how dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
all of the above?
darwinism in images:

stopped climbing trees...
stopped being furry...
stopped dreaming about snakes...
stopped fearing snakes...
stopped wrestling with tigers...
stopped king kong versus tiger gorgon...
jumped into a whale...
came out sonar Jonah with hell'io Job
to boot...
stopped climbing trees...
took toward the complexity
of climbing rocks...
esp. boulders... later desired
the great big button of a cookie i.e.;
desired the moon...
brewed some moonshine...
build the mirror corridor
at Versailles...
dug up lazy dinosaur bones of
that thick glutton splodge and...
retired the horse... drove a car...
etc. etc.: came across
the happy birthday of death by
gregory corso and said:
that be one of the best recitations
of poetry i have ever heard...
in youth and Paris and Paris was
the signature...

all of this but there's still...
how dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
more to the point...
how dignified it is, to walk at one's own
leisure...
a bottle of england's finest ale...
theakston's the old peculier in one hand...
a marlboro cigarette in the other...
how dignified it is...
to walk: but to also walk... at one's leisure...
not running a marathon...
not... running the concrete or the tarmac
dry with new year's even resolutions
to loße mass... (yes... since weight involves
gravity blah blah)...

this auto-correct science factoid rubric
around each corner...
i can only admit that walking...
is a sport for gentlemen...
cognitive ping pong ensues...
a solo game... perhaps...
it's not a matter of sport...
or attempting gentlemanly stature...
which could be the case...
say... if i were 75... years old...
but...

that's all fine and dandy... the psychology
behind darwinism 2.0
not even copernicus made it that far
with his "revolutionary discovery"...
or not that Ptolemy was still...
index... bibliography and historical
constipation when attempting to be
democratic and historical...
in a single poo'em... with no rhyme...
and certainly no overt-technique biases
to: "identify with"...

it's still an image burning in my head...
the gorilla that would / could wrestle
a lion to sleep with a ripped-off jaw...
the thumb-king of the jungle
and the savannah...
and of course the donning of the conquered's
mane...

but beside all the discoveries in the past
and the present...
i will find myself smirking...
laughing to myself...
that someone will find this too...
i can't stress it enough:

when i see people driving their cars...
some fast, some slow...
walking onto a bus is not a leisure activity...
it's not even a dignity...
it's a time-warp... a short-cut...
besides the point...

even this brain sometimes allow for
the dignity of walking to be eclipsed...
what its sometimes-odd bursts of egomania /
megalomania or all those other:
traits of the rational man...

perhaps this is the first day i've truly
appreciated the sensibility of walking -
much more in that: it became a dignity...
like the time i found the antithesis of narcissus
in my shadow...
once upon a nightly promenade
in the english outer-suburban labyrinth...
20 minutes walk from the fields,
grazing horses... foxes, badgers and...
no wordsworthian naturalism... i.e. the idyll...

superior intelligence, the fork,
the knife, the screwdriver the *****...
the hammer and the nail...
the scythe, the sickle and the lollipop...
the telephone the radio the television
the soap opera addicts...
the bedsheets the bed the cushion
the shampoo and soap...
all of it... but none of it at the same time...
with what comes a priori and with
what comes a posteriori...
the dignity of walking...
perhaps the only state of grace...

perhaps less "abilism" and more - upon reflection...
a mother strapped to a bed
after a hip-replacement surgery?
i.e. in a personal, very personal,
non-Teheran specific vicinity?!

perhaps the most basic meditation is required...
nothing grandiose...
nothing temporal or non-temporal...
something basic...
i.e. spatial... a meditation on cross the street
like a mindful hedgehog that you are...
and not panic driven like a mother goose
with her nursery...

walk long enough and you can even
experience bouts of spontaneous amnesia...
which is not related to actual memories
and their totality...
more in the immediacy: amnesia ex cogitans...
amnesia out of thinking...
10 minutes apart and you can almost
forget what you were thinking of...
10 minutes more pass... the labyrinth spits
you out and you recover from that temp.
bout of crucible amnesia: to forget what you
were thinking about...
which is a variant to that other escapism
of day-dreaming...
since you're walking... and no day-dreamer
is synonym of the thinker who also walks...

this variant of escapism comes of its own
accord... perhaps it's an ontological built-in-mechanism
that when you couple walking with thinking...
you'll most certainly experience these
bouts of "amnesia"... which of course doesn't
include walking in circles... but in a labyrinth
of your unconscious motives...
that the body is dissociated from a conscious will...

since... what sort of thinking exists
on a treadmill... or during running... to begin with?

how  dignified it is, to simply take a walk at night...
dignified in that: one is not so much able
to come across one's best ideas there...
but that one can simply come across... cogitans per se -

yes... i.e.: to be free from cogito ergo sum...
to come across the res cogitans medium...
only while walking...
and not like Descartes imagining oneself
sitting at a desk of doubt...

i find no better alternative: walking opens up...
thinking-in-itself... sometimes that's merely translated
as: being... it does not specify / reveal itself
as a: necessity of narration...
thinking is not narration is not thinking...
if you have experienced the ugly spontaneity of
the ego... in that vein of psychology's
three-tier meta-brain dissection of the mind:
subsequently the soul... blah blah...

now i see... this has become a sit-down meditation...
it has to end...
now that the arms have been employed for
a period longer, than the legs were employed
for, prior.

that's 3 weeks without a keyboard,
that's 3 weeks on a dual-detox -
         that's that: roughly: antagonism
of: once upon a time...
           there can only be one Hans Andersen,
and as the story goes: ol' granny
   passed on the tales, without which:
no talk of posterity, and seances at
the theatre; alternatively: what if Kierkegård
opted for opera, rather than theatre?
    well: horrid is the task of dropping names,
as if being a village idiot, in that
capacity: giving directions... no such thing!
  nonetheless: a horrid task...
3 weeks... without this horrid world-entanglement...
amphetamines in the wild west,
                   and yet... everything slows down...
that's 3 weeks without such ''luxury''...
    and would you believe it?
3 weeks went by: in a blink of an eye.
             strange, or what 21st century writers
fail to recognise: the ******* canvas has changed!
any-single-one-of-them bothered to scrutinise
this new canvas? anyone?
     ah yes, it's still in its adolescence -
it's still: Dostoyevsky, scuttering in the grand
dungeon: that's the Moscow underground.
             the canvas! the canvas!
                             and indeed, if this be some
bellowing horn, from the depths of some forsaken
place... i'll go into the street, and sabotage
civilisation with graffiti...
                     then again: i have the least
expectations, such that capitalism works...
poetry... and what investment have you made?
nil, or almost nil... evidently: zilch!
      ah, but to have invested in canvases,
a studio, paints, brushes... see... no one sees
investment in poetry: primarily because the poet
has done the minimal...
            unless of course it turns out to ****
with a hot poker something once resembling
nations... which now resides in the insane asylum
(even though those, have been abolished)
                           , nation - ooh! what a ***** word!
the left irksome sometimes uses it:
in theory: the nation-state...
                        and then there's the resurgence of
ancient Greece... in a sing-along:
maybe 'cos i'm a Londoner... brother! brother!
Athenian! Athenian!
                                       but we are born into
a Spartan wedlock... no one really bothers to
**** our gob with Shakespeare...
    then again that is the schizophrenia (alias
dualism) in humanity... thus, to be frank,
psychiatry can be congratulated, it has provided
one useful term... and i will use it, over and over again,
in a non-symptomatic way, because, i find,
it stands, as if the Olympic Graeae (Zeus, Poseidon
and Hades) eating the carcass of some inhabitant
of Tartarus...
                               evidently: tartar steak...
doubly evident: tartars, or the remnants of mongols,
settled in crimea, and elsewhere in the Ukraine...
   tartar                      tra-ta-ta-ta... ku ku ryku!
a ja fu! krecha! a ja znow... fu!       radowitą
uprzejmość... skłaniam...  
    or what i call: rising spontaneously from the depths...
polymaths applauded, the tribunal resides in
bilingualism... trenches... history... perspectives
and current affairs... wicker man media...
                        so... an example of pedantry?
ó....               that's an orthographic dignitary -
        an aesthetic muddle... as is
c-ha                               contending with samo-ha...
     ch                            came from antagonism of
cz                                   which was later antagonised
by č               in česka.... say that: hen party
bound to Prague... in the Czech republic...
                                          ch      k..­.
i am, quiet frankly... standing at the feet of the tower
of babel... and i'm looking up, and i see
correlations, and i see decimal marks,
which, when given enough geography,
can seem like England and the isles,
       and central Europe...
    Iberia? phantom of Seneca...
  eureka! let's begin, once again...
  why is there a continuum beginning with
Plato and Aristotle?
                                           we could become
reasonable people... told to deal with madmen...
we could claim beginnings with Seneca...
and Cicero...
                      and why? the Romans loved poetry...
the Greeks antagonised Homer...
            the Romans loved Horace, Virgil,
                           Ovid... perhaps we should really forget
beginning with Plato and Aristotle...
       the former has become a church,
the latter a dentist's assistant (minus the ancients'
concept of a joke).
                      evidently i have to finish off reading
Seneca... his educational letters to Lucilius....
      moralising ******* that he was, thus, perhaps
a nibble at Cicero? but i must say:
                           it has to begin somewhere,
so not necessarily in stale-bread Athens...
                      and having such perspectives helps
in claiming casual conversation?
   assuredly - if it doesn't involve talking about
the weather...
                                which is always a great mystery
   if it's given enough aurora.
   onto the mystery of dialectics,
as discovered by Alfred Jarry in his Faustroll
Pataphysics contraband...
                                                nag­ging agreement...
nodding without approval... (chapter 10) -
beginning with αληθη λεγεις εφη
        (you speak the truth, he replies) -
   and ending with ως δoκεì
                              (how true that seems)...
and then some dub-step...
        know nothing dROP! boom! jiggy jiggy,
get the rhythm.
   as i always find it hard to look at
    diacritical arithmetic...
                                  given the following
represent a prolonging: hangman:
       å, ā and ä...
                             esp. in Finnish -
stratum: hedningarna täss on nainen.
                        rolling yarn, plateau, two dips;
and i will never say something profound...
i'll just say something no one else has said,
benefit of the doubt? somewhere, someone,
                                      kneels at the same altar.
  such are the distinction - invaders from the
north, and invaders from the south...
                                           even with
crusading Golgotha mann -
the times? many bats, supers, spiders,
but not enough readings of thomas mann...
                              easily befallen into prune-nosed
high-airs... it comes with the diet of literature...
   unfortunately.
                              and with yet another book:
i have burried yet another living person
i could have had a beer with, and conversed.
it always happens, every time i read a book
i have to attend a funeral... by reading a book
i have burried someone alive...
                          shame, in all frankness...
    i will sit in a congested train, touch a breathing
body, and consecrate the touch with
a warring genuflect - harbringer of a Teutonic
passion for initiation: a komtur's slap across the cheek.
   chequers played with passions...
           and some have to be approached like
caged animals, their vocabulary as cages,
                and the whole world before them:
cageless!
             some have indeed become so encrusted in
their daily: routine, that it would take a zoologist
(thrice oh, begs some sort of diacritical marking)
rather than a psychologist to understand them...
    like the darting dupes they are, enshrined in
20% gratis! smile! have a nice day! boxing day sales!
all but pleasantries, fathoming the grave.
   stiff vocab and all other kinds of perfume...
                           a king and his charlatan knights,
who are merely ditto-heads.
                  and not of this world, afresh -
among the nimble hands prior to birth -
surely there is: more grandeour in birth
   that entry via a ******...
                            the greatest pain of ****...
and when the ancient treaty was signed
under the name: Augustus Cesarean - or
recommended for a need of aristocracy -
    it was, for a time, the mana magnetism:
and such was the rule of poetry:
rather than a crown, donned the laurel leaves...
donned the laurel leaves...
    and such was the covenant from ancient
foes when trying to assimilate the Jew...
three kings from Babylon,
                         the child in Egypt...
          no good tides from Nazareth...
         a crown of myrrh - later overshadowed
by dogmatic sprechen, simpler: thorns...
yella things... or rzepak, Essex is filled with it...
rzepak... so why bother adding a dot above
the z, when you get capricious and use rz to
denote the same?! thus a science:
voiced retroflex fricative... Stalingrad!
                       can you really stomach this kind
of jargon? if it wasn't for science fiction:
science would be twice removed from gott ist tot,
*******' worth of pondering, given the close
proximity rhyme... nothing that rhymes should
ever be taken seriously, it should be hymnal!
                         Horatio! mein lyre!
   mein Guinness leier! rabbi krähe -
     and they deem that ****** white when talking:
thinking? i'd prefer Cezanne in real life -
   maggot wriggling and all...
                                          as much eroticism
as bound to a dog slobbering its testicles:
which means ****-all in an almighty stance
   for a dollop of halleluyah in Nepal.
well: pretty talk, pretty pretty pretty: i feel pretty,
oh so butter-fly-e.
                                    2 week stance,
***** in autumn... but so many Swiss hues
coming from the same concentration of decay!
shweet!  zeit-ser!        and that's me talking
kindergarten german: innovation begins with
a fork and a spoon, should the tongue come to it...
            i see a poem,
i see something worth bugging... c.i.a.,
f.b.i., hannibal's lecture in Florence, Venice for
the rats... bugging... shoving...
  shovelling... necro grounding, rattling...
    windy via north... Icelandic...
drums along incisors of abstract gallop:
violins... fringes of the mustang... airy airy...
all regresses toward the Vulgate...
         like ****, like said, and the only pristine
stress comes with vanilla ice-cream,
or a medium-rare beef ****! hmph!
                         fa fa fa excesses with that hurling
puff...
                      and i did finish Kant's
critique of pure reason... minus two calendars...
but, so help me god, the 2nd volume was hiding
under some corner...
                           thus, from transcendental methodology
came plump apricots, plums and pears...
             sweet decay fruit baron...
              and it's called sugars in the intricacy of pulp...
lazily grown, dangling on that caricature of
a formerly known: full crop of wheat-crude fringe.
    2 years... honest to god!
         but so many books in between...
i was given a recommendation...
i cited it already... kraszewski's magnum opus...
29 books...
                       although that's history fictionalised...
but nonetheless, it really was about
     the cossack uprising in the 17th century...
   and it was, as i once said, something i can forgive
sienkiewicz - the film version,
as in: i will not read a book once it has been adapted
to a movie... it's self-evident that too many
people have read a piece of work and are gagging
for a conversation... but where's the playground?
           ******* cherades!
  chinese whispers and a Manchurian candidate!
  i thought as much.
                          and whenever it's not a preplaned
escapade, what becomes of the day?
     was it always about a stance for carpe diem?
  syllables: di                em.
                            carpe is said with more lubricant.
corpus diem. well, that's an alternative, however
you care to think about it.
                and whenever you care to think about,
the proof is there: mishandling misnomers:
poets as tattoo artists... although no one sees the ink,
signatures on a reader's brian (purposively altered,
toward a Michael Jackon he-he, and other:
albino castratos the church venerates!)...
   that's 3 weeks in a catholic country...
  3 weeks... if only the football was better,
      i'd be called Juan Sanchez...
               but, evidently, the football is bad...
     so it's catholicism on par with a sleeping inquisition...
no one really expected Monty Python to conjure
that one... because it never really took place,
not until a trans-generational exodus
postscript 2004... once western brothels were exhausted,
and the Arab started ******* a hippo...
              then it was all about lakes and rivers
and Las Vegas 2.0 in Dubai!
                     you say quack... i say:
                                                    easy target.
and they did receive a blessing from Allah...
enough ink to write out Dante's revision of the Koran,
and some Al-Sha'ke'pir to write a play called:
the Merchant of Mecca.
  last time i heard, when the reformation was
plauging Christendom, no one invited the Arabs...
these days i think the little Lutherans of Islam
watched too many historical movies...
me? pick up a crucifix and march to Jerusalem?
  and is that going to translate into:
   blame the populists! blame the nationalists!
it's like watching a circus... why is the Islamic
reformation asking for third party associates?
                  i was happy listening to
the klinik... albums: eat your heart out...
time + plague...
                             once again: the world narrative
gags for enough people to conjure up
     a placebo solipsism... and that's placebo
with a squiggly prefix (meaning? how far
that ambiguity will take you) - ~placebo...
well: since existentialists were bores...
it's about time to head for Scandinavia
   and ask: is that " ''                 for passing on
an inheritance, or better still: ripe for
acknowledging ambiguity?
                          and if you can shove this
  into your daily narrative... you better be
a connaisseur of chinese antiques...
                frailty... then again, theres: ******;
well hell yeah *****'h, it's a murky underwold
after all.
                     and yes: that's called a petting word...
some say hombre, and we'll all be amigos
and muskateers at the end of the story.
                                    finally... i feel like i'm writing
a poem that i'll never end...
              why? it was supposed to be about
how John Casimir of Sweden championed
  the crown away from his brother Prince Charles
(volume 1)...
                      the bishop of Breslau...
a recluse... couldn't ride a horse...
    then again: nothing worthy imitation...
beginning with a donkey...
                               the transfiguration of palms
into whips... 2000 years later
talk of Hercules is madness... that other bit?
complete sanity.
                              well... if that be the case...
the book is there... i signed it, 2nd volume of
Kant's critique...
  
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | Y| | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |

        an oak... in a forest of pine...
an oak in pine wood...

then onto the wood of sighs:

aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
          (somehow the surd escapes,
and later morphs into, but prior to)

a short script: variation on MW...

      pears' worth of blunting runes:
opulance s and ᛋ - versus z,
    congregation minor: the interchange, ß,
buttocks and *****, minus phantoms of erotica.
yet, taking into account trigonometry...
sine (genesis 0), and cosine (genesis 1),
or            M                                   W
(no Jew would dare believe the Latins have
the second 'alf of the proof: that loophole of all
things qab-cannibal-mystic - cravat donning
mystique - a flit's worth of sharpening,
or dental grit... flappy tongue,
flabby oyster, lazing for a crab's palette)...
so?

1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

of course there's an

This time for Oklahoma



I re-post this for our last battel field Boston these words are nothing but as you read you will find the one who lives in them and He is everything all the comfort and hope we can ever want


Sorry if this seems at first confusing all my friends on facebook and Redbullble will get it right away as
I asked them to use their love and caring to pray for my hurting distraught friend at her time of great
Loss if you are hurting it will help to at least a degree or it will help at times of future loss

Well dear sweet precious Addy this brutal day is at an end I hope you sleep well I prayed for you and
Kathleen’s son way into the night at first I was terrified you weren’t going to get my post and you would
Enter as I told my wife you would enter the lion’s den the lions all have familiar names pain sorrow
Grief and many others and they maul with cruelty without pity I didn’t want ether of you to take those
Fatal steps without your armor not to be to descriptive but reality waited with a blast I tried to diffuse the
Coffin the grave and headstone never could I do it immeasurably my fight for you could only be in the
Smallest victories comfort mined at times like these is like uranium white silver metallic with almost
A power that can’t be harnessed the same as loss of a love one what blow back again the same as a
Nuclear test one problem you don’t get the protection of a bunker no just suffer the blast in your
Body mind and heart you are stepping in to the shoes the same as young woman who lost her father
That as she described him he was the light of her life our paths crossed on line when I thought she
Was a classmate’s wife her story of her dad touched me deeply I’m going to add that piece here plus
The comfort I tried to write for my friend that was more like my brother when his mother died I will
Include a small background so it wail make more since let me add those here the first was Fathers story
What you read here is her hearts knowing and the undying love that it created and that continues.
His precious hands were removed from earthly things. A great and gentle man his greatest possessions his family. I only knew him from his business and the fact that one of his beautiful daughters married a classmate of mine. Then much later by error I made acquaintance with another of his daughters you can tell a lot about a person from the actions of his children. She told me that he passed away and that he was the light of her life. With God’s help I would like to pay tribute to him.
A light did shine it was magnified by the eyes of a daughters love. He took his journey he went above his ship was the care they shared he the captain made the course straight and true he didn’t slow her run until heaven was in plain view they would have cheered but it hard to see through eyes filled with tears. All the wonderful years seemed to be eclipsed by the sickness that came it seemed an angry wind from their lives this stalwart precious soul it did rend. It left the greatest empty hole it took the longest time to fill and then with the sweetest cooing the grand babies made the hole enlivened not the terrible twisted knot that had the family bound but without being able to speak a word gram paw was found. If you looked in their faces his smile is bound to bundles only heaven can design. I’m not saying they asked him how to work these miracles yet this is true he watched with intense interest and was happiest since his departure he knew that back through time and space healing was for all time secured. Their stoic acceptance could now be laid aside the family could run in softer climes know the sweetest of times that were thought to be forever gone.
Love spills down from heights distance is only on a map in peoples heart its no farther than the end of your finger tips. Images are so strong not because we have great minds it’s easy to make these rich finds when your love and its power shake the foundation of the universe is it not said that love is the greatest power. Oh how so many in dark shadows cower when they possess the power to ignite the world on fire. From heart to heart it does dart the wildness of the spirit is told blotting out all of the cold. Yes there is winter but also the spring. The light spoken of is no longer beholden to earth and so the family is free by love he joins his light to the Christ the all glowing light
Life force by haldenton
To all who have lost heroes
This was written to Eva’s son Bill to help him at her passing. With this writing I took him back thirty years when he was in the truck wreck that killed his dad his recovery saved his mother I hoped by him being reminded of that now it would help him the same way.
Tribute to Eva Wafford Life force
For all who lost heroes
In your soul freshly the wind of death did blow.
Cold eerie shadows marched against your tender broken heart.
What defense could this onslaught repel agony’s volcanic flow.
Ominous well filled with grief from this weight no relief.
The child the grim reaper did spare.
Only after leaving the body bruised and in despair.
From this broken body drops of mercy started to make the mother well.
I held your trembling frame today this memory rings sweet as a bell.
Streets and houses without number fill the land.
I can’t help when I look to recall memories grand.
Now they are but dreams that ache in the night.
Images that over ride the present in their glory I take flight.
Brush aside caution raise your voice as a trumpet.
They live only in yesterdays even so indelibly they wrote their stories.
We hold our children we cling only a moment as mist on the summit.
Your life Eva continues to build the next generation.
Your voice is heard in the breath of your grandchildren.
Wonders they spin from golden thread, now that you have gone ahead.
Your spirit glows in the fire that warms the house against winter.
Summer’s cool breeze not sent by chance she doe’s tenderly incite.
Death silently said what I already knew.
To me you were always immortal you were bigger than life
Many were the days when the wind of storms blew
those who know us feel the calm; this is only your life on review

One more
Simply Jim
Old Abe said it right ‘It is right and fitting that we speak these words here to honor these lives so honorably lived. I can say that about Jim and this also he was a prince among men if I do this right the words will convince you.
He had a gentle way and nature he spoke softly but a softness that flowed to you like ribbons that bounced in a little girl’s hair how delightful. He should have been a doctor his hands his mannerism was ideal for that job. I guess thats what made him stand out so strongly like a gentle calm breeze if you came in a panic his soul would float down around you like a parachute first it safely brings you from great anxiety and exaltation to a graceful landing then gently envelops you in its silken embrace. I had this privilege of watching him inter act with his wife as I said and truly he was a prince and I was the beggar that benefitted richly from the sidelines God knew my needs.
He was called from this life but all the days he filled before his home going are the sustaining force noticeably seen felt with keen awareness you know that a gentleman passed this way. In the lives left behind there is a blend of sadness and astonishment you realize you are looking at the work of a master workman who left behind a tightly and perfectly fitted family this unfortunately is sadly rare in this society that boast of its accomplishments.
As a friend his breadth and depth was sufficient you weren’t a burden he had a way of dispelling trouble making you understand with wisdom and unerring judgment then with ease you could extricate yourself from the problem. His heavenly father filled him with tenderness it stood him and others well in a somewhat crabby world. If you’re pressed and anxious about life take from this life expressed. A portion of the good will you need use it as a defense Jim couldn’t be everywhere but God saw fit to make an original that you can duplicate benefit from and be a part of his ongoing legacy. Thanks friend for a life lived well

Well hurting one in the earlier part of a writing I said I am God’s battle field reporter and medic
These writings are my bandages and gauze God gave me great big hands and I fill them with
Salve with all the love I know I gently apply it to your broken hurting wounds mingle it with
Tears that are not always mine alone but His mixes with mine one day He will abolish all tears
Until then this is our duty your heart we hear and we can do no other God bless you Addy and
Your nephew and all others who find this helpful

Mirrored Pool


Wonder for all the hurts

First I knelt just to see my reflection then the depths started to reveal first the flowing thoughts were
Restrained and then a bubbling seemed to dislodge from greater depths hard truths churned with
Violent twisting but the motion made it impossible to turn away there were great large white clouds
From depths then even above the pool they rose fourteen stories high the sensation was you were
Standing outside clear air intoxicating views the pulse of many were throbbing in your ears their
Thoughts and dreams were known and their sorrows were weights that pulled you from the heights
It was a colossal game of tag and you were it first reaction fear then the appearance of bundled gifts
Broke down the fear it was promise in different sizes that met the required needs it was like a divine
Warehouse had just made a delivery there were cards with names and writing gave clarification tears
And smiles intermingled then the outer knowing postulated the difficulty the puzzle an enormous
Streaming that was now congested and it was beginning a vortex all was understood now human thought
With doubts was pulling the answer into this destructive hole where was one to find the lever to stop
This action that would disallow was the answer to touch the water bring the finger to my lips possibly
A blazing thought would occur that would strike the mind no all that brought was words that had the
Letters jumbled they made no sense unless there is a special book that is alive in it the letters and words
Are already set but they cover every act in the human condition the broken can pour over the pages
You won’t find thorns to repel your efforts there are thorns but they will speak and assuage your hurts
At the most basic and needed levels the points of your hurts will begin to dissolve from your eyes to
Your mind this inward rush and power will dislodge even spears driven deep by enemies carried for
Years you searched in vain over sad and lonely paths and days now you journey is at an end thorns of
Suffering for another produces profound power and mercy go in peace beloved one another bears your
Burden now maybe words cut you at depths you can’t even identify what if there is an antidote in a
Book you pick it up with trembling hands your body tingles from the knowledge that this is ancient texts
It will have a revival of appreciation in this world of texting but with gentle fingers and eyes that glow
With respect as you see the wisdom and the love cannot be denied you leave the world you know and
With total abandonment you swim in this sea of words until the your tears spill on this rich world of
Words those cruel barbed words that pierced tender skin and have bled internally all of these years
Begin to dissolve with stories and accounts of betrayals then the swells love and mercy you read about
Restoration not always found after apologies are given but the teaching of forgiveness strikes a cord
You have been made free from your prison the tangles of life are great as a great black cloud it hangs
Over head many are its troubles this isn’t mild but the disruptive made to strike and pierce deep the
Hidden that steals the morning blessing while other feast your hunger and unrest only enlarges a
Tormenting unquenchable fire a slow burn this is a forest being burned at the thermal level the hidden
Roots a slow process destructive but not so visible agony torture I have seen men crawl in war or fire
Fighting that where all else is lost you will know greater thrills than any other living soul with the
Desperate and those heavy burdened unable to stand a word will flow it puts out fires and gives
The luxurious buoyancy heaviness changed to joy the bouncy laughter every outward blast attack
The enemy launches is within its pages they are repelled overwhelmed by love you suffer unduly
If you don’t hold this fortress this informative book of stratagems that have made everyone a victor
Who has ever found themselves at their wits end no place on earth has a contingency plan though it
Will make the greatest claims all is just empty air when life as it too often does ***** the very air of life
Out we practically are unconscious but this help this rescue is activated by one name it’s not just a book
But the word is a person what a pool you will find what a reflection will engage you beyond your hope
To imagine just say Jesus all will be total peace your heart will know no more sorrow peace will surpass
Sorrow love will disallow the specter that was once a constant it will disappear it will return to the
Darkness from which it came stand in this newness totally free abide by still waters as the good
Sheppard stands by bless you



Disgrace

This land void of devotion gone is the church steeples.
Replaced by voices and shadows of drug dealers on each corner.
Now they are the keepers, lost cities, death stalks its peoples.
Nothing is sacred in this polluted and diffused land.

No longer hallowed be thy name, it’s as if he never came.
Forgotten is any standard of moral excellence.
The once high ideals only represent a fool’s parlance.
Man declares I throw off these restraints only to find darker chains.

The book that once guided this great land.
We now betray with each waking day.
Our hearts and mind it did ignite, now it’s word we can’t stand.
Powerless and feeble we stumble, anxious ever moment.

Just to remember is not enough, best confess our pride.
Make sacrifice with our lips, to burn on altars on high.
There is a short season for all to make amends to regain our stride.
March on to glory with it burning on the inside.

You don’t have to be astute in business to see the sound investment.
Bring your poverty of spirit leave with the riches of his last testament.
It offers the greatest rate of exchange.
Light for darkness, life for death, selfless love for selfishness.


Streaks of Jefferson


In freedom’s blessed glorified sky through streaks of immortal gold his visage we behold
He looks upon the fields of liberty that he and the founding fathers sowed he sees the

Richness America has become he also beheld her struggles catastrophic wars abroad
And the most painful the one that divided the nation marred it with southern and northern

Blood saw the affable the sad giant Lincoln take the reins of discontent hold them by
Shear will and with uncommon sagacity guided it back in line to fulfill its destiny as the

Powerful fount that would always pour forth waters of freedom for all of earths peoples
Total unconditional acceptance of liberty and all the fruit it bears to establish a

Government like no other this golden grain has waved under bluest skies and brightest
Sun light its rich harvest has gone to darkest prison cells Mandela was sustained by it

For twenty nine years and by its moral purity it fed the lives of those that over threw
Apartied and Mandela finally freed by principals it avows rose from prison clothes

To wear the mantle of president of his country and the honor of the man instilled
Quality that transcended political office Jefferson not to be disrespectful to his progeny

Whispers today’s politicians could do well to look on this African model of good
Stewardship of public trust with that Jefferson faded back into the mist pray that’s
Not the fate of this country

1967 san francisco is transformed into city of missing children haight ashbury brims with scraggly orphans thousands sit on street curbs live in cars hang out on floors of shops roam streets parks sleep on sidewalks unthinkable social cultural phenomenon Odysseus embraces madness walking through different neighborhoods going without food sleep in golden gate park floral smells so strong he can taste flowers kids openly pass joints acid doses trip dance make music laugh Odysseus is risk-taker but he is not street smart along with flocks of totally wasted kids street hustlers abound Odysseus sets down backpack beside eucalyptus tree rests when he wakes backpack is gone he is penniless disconnected hitchhikes across bay to berkeley less congested more manageable meets some runaways like him but not like him they squatter in abandoned house off telegraph avenue maybe 20 hippies crashing in house Odysseus adopts enormous closet hidden in back bedroom as his space has small window feels like sanctuary sometimes he comes home finds 5 or 6 kids sleeping in closet in a way people in house become his family tribe some of people are suspicious especially older secretive man with 2 tongue-tied underage girls whom he claims are his daughters Odysseus suspects veiled ****** exploitation girls are lovely yet behave frightened repressed life on street does not come easy telegraph avenue overflows with lost souls searching to hook-up fragrance of frankincense drifts amidst music drug deals rip-offs bullying brawls hierarchy from hell’s angels down Odysseus stays high dances sometimes panhandles “i live in commune with 2 pregnant girls” whatever cash he collects scores acid **** subsists on diet of gum candy sunflower pumpkin seeds sometimes ketchup with french fries his acne crescendos he learns if he drops acid daily by third or fourth day he cannot get off no matter how much he doses tries peyote cactus buttons after waiting nearly hour to get off he suffers stomachache dizziness projectile vomits finally flies into freaky hallucinations he swallows mescaline capsules feels sick to his stomach forgets about his nausea trips for 9 hours tries psilocybin mushrooms laughing straight through night experiments with stp trips for 3 days Bobby Stern and Martha Quigley come out from chicago to visit they are curious about the scene need to hook up Odysseus introduces them to his friends shows them telegraph avenue he turns and they have vanished he does not know where they have gone everybody is losing everybody new kids show up everyday oakland **** named red rat kidnaps Martha is heiress from distinguished chicago family their disappearance makes chicago papers after week Bobby and Martha manage to escape they never reveal to Odysseus what red rat did to them radio plays doors’ “light my fire” and jimi hendrix’s "purple haze" Odysseus has crush on beautiful blonde Patty she  ran off for summer from her parent’s home in sunset section of san francisco Odysseus and Patty hang out go see country joe and fish in provo park on sundays hitchhike into city watch Jefferson Airplane play for free in golden gate park hitchhike to marin see Grateful Dead jam at muir beach dude hands out free acid Odysseus is total acidhead acid reveals everything in new intensified light *** on acid is beyond *** wilder than *** more primal *** so intense it transcends limits of eroticism acid helps Odysseus realize his true self his pain sadness tears lies crazy-*** side first tingling tremors in stomach chest hands then initial flashes of sparkle traces of color echoes of giggling laughter lucid thoughts sometimes he swallows such large doses all he can do is stare out at white light what is it about massive hits of acid? measure of how fierce his spirit? self-punishment? escapism? he wonders why he so desperately needs to escape from what whom? himself? Mom’s numerous efforts to convince him he is mentally disturbed? Dad’s fists? escape from real world to where? Odysseus hangs with Pluto skinny 16 year old ****-addict golden wavy hair rotting teeth finesse with girls Pluto claims crystal **** enhances *** more than acid needles frighten Odysseus he lets one of Pluto’s girls hit him up with methamphetamine feels sudden overwhelming rush through head body forgets about needle before it ever leaves his arm having been initiated Odysseus begins scoring with Pluto’s girls Pluto knows tons of girls Odysseus loves feeling numb free being out of control not giving a **** getting ****** ****** by pretty girl if he could have his way he would go from ****** to ****** with pretty girl all day every day deep in drug induced state because drugs lower inhibitions allow them to explore some sick disgusting stuff that is paradise for Odysseus he is rapidly slipping into street life drug addiction wakes up with ants crawling in his hair witnesses numerous fights freak-outs 2 different kids o.d. while he is present lots of creepy stuff  by early august realizes he might wind up dead soon or rotting like Pluto Odysseus has spirit but troubled by what he sees troubled enough to return home go back to school he feels lost desperate alone not thinking plots drug deal swindle double-crosses some people guilt and shame for conning people haunts him for years he gives Pluto half the money tells him to share with Patty with his cut buys ticket back to chicago Penelope is first to greet him she gives him big hug comments “you need a shower and shave real bad!” his hair is wild scraggly beard Odysseus holds on to her he has missed his little sister glad to be near her feels panicky his parents will punish him Mom and Dad are relieved but agitated their worry and shame at his flight have turned to anger resentment they rationalize he selfishly ran off merrymaking for 3 months they sternly make plans for his next semester while Odysseus was away in california Penelope has ****** ******* for first time in back seat of Jed Zurbeck's black pontiac Penelope in secret goes to see doctor for pregnancy test doctor recognizes Penelope’s last name calls house Odysseus answers phone doctor asks to speak with Mr. or Mrs. Schwartzpilgrim Mom picks up phone doctor informs her Penelope is pregnant all hell breaks loose doctor makes house call with Mom and Dad present offers 2 options for Penelope “you can be picked up by limousine on state street and blindfolded you will be taken to an undisclosed location where abortion procedure is performed then re-blindfolded and returned by limousine to state street or you can report incident as **** and get signatures of three physicians then have abortion in a hospital” Mom and Dad choose to report it as a **** fabricate story about Penelope walking home from school and being grabbed pulled into alley by black man who rapes her Penelope is made to tell lie three times deeply disturbs her after abortion is done in hospital Dad makes Penelope swear not to admit abortion to anyone insists she tell Jed Zurbeck she made up stupid lie and she was never really pregnant Penelope obeys and tells no one

Stuffy nose
Stuffy head
Feel like my mind is breaking down
My lungs are pushing out this phlegm
Maybe I should quit  ciggies
But the ciggies won't quit me

Staying high makes me feel better

But the stuffy nose
And constent blowing of it
Makes me lose my breath
And it won't stop

I love to bike
I love to be outside

Congested feeling

Oppressed feeling

Sometimes you feel you shouldn't say anything
Sometimes you feel like you need to say everything.
But being who you are you can't.
If you did you would barely stand.

Some people make you feel small and congested
Others they make you feel your life is a blessing.
But you know that you're already beaten.
You convince yourself you're not a ******.

People tell you you're quiet and you need to speak up,
You get hurt and stay quiet but they don't tell you you're tough.
You stop talking for a while and people don't ask you what's wrong
Because you're usually that quiet, even for this long.

It's tough being a shy kid, growing up that way.
People always assume you don't have much to say.
But then we can surprise them, with poems like this
We can tell them something different, even though we're just kids.

What if I tell you that
This world is going to end
And that end is not too far,
You probably won’t believe me.
Allow me to take you to a journey
A journey to the end of the world.
A world without a hint of greenery.
A world with all sorts of armaments but no food and water.
A world congested with people.
A world infected with diseases.
A hot world on the verge of a cold war.
A world with numerous machines but no fuel to run.
A world with no shred of humanity.

I need to finish the story for convenience I have the original Aftermath to be read first on the bottom
What was not stated in Aftermath was my concern for my writing you can’t write with two legs
Screaming when I got to the hospital my kidneys were of a concern eight alieve three times a day about
Thirty aspirins something like Tylenol didn’t count them no relief my mistake I would bang my ****** leg
Against the wood of the desk that would make it crazy for a few seconds so I finally had to stop for over
Two months well the devil won it seemed when I talked to my cousin I was at eighteen thousand reads a
Little while let me break in here for a second I know I’m talking about numbers it isn’t ego if I come in
Contact with any of you in any setting and I pass you by with just a glance I am your sworn Godless
Enemy I have just joined the cruelest damnable assassins Hell has ever released on the world I know
What awaits the lost even the Apostle Paul worked fervently because he knew the end cost of God’s
Holy severity can I do less I look but I take in all manner caring thoughts but without fail I am led to that
Future now no one even gives the last day a thought I will put this in as an excerpt this is the dream I
Had when I was seventeen or it starts this way your life began in the great head waters at Eden they will
End at the mouth of eternity. I was given a view into the celestial I was just a teenager while a sleep this
Dream came I looked into the heavens and saw two great wheels made of stars the hands of God started
To pull the wheels down as I continued I knew what was occurring God was stopping time. The wheels
Stopped then God turned to the seamless darkness grasped it and started to lift as he did it tore away
Reveling the bright true world of the spirit that was before hidden this was alarming since I hadn’t made
My peace with him Not long after this I was seventeen working at the refinery I just walked out of the
Boiler room into the section that was known as the flathead when a voice said time is finished all life and
Its concerns flowed out leaving me with the greatest sadness other men standing by laid down their
Tools and started milling about mindlessly on this wise in some manner this will happen all over the
World the great enterprises so important to man and society will halt government rule and authority
Abolished in an instant majesty and power will take the reins the river previously known will be
Empowered its first charge make the deserts bloom as a rose…

And I take the liberty to insert I am a person of deep feelings to make the case I wrote two pieces for
Roberta Merrifield’s birthday sorry your flowers are late then I forgot your card this was talking about
Her friends as flowers each of them need to go to their door and imagine nine hundred people standing
There reading about their lives that are filled with grace and beauty and earthen treasures that are in
Vessels of clay but to see them truly you will be speechless so I return to the numbers so it was
Eighteen thousand a little later when I couldn’t stand the pain any longer I called my retired preacher
Uncle and our pastor brother Russell I explained to them about being whipped and my writing had to be
Shut down it was thirty five thousand reads then so keys were stilled my lifeline to needy souls was at
A deadly stillness so then two months later I wrote fourteen pieces bringing the total to four hundred
And fourteen pieces and then Gods love demands the his heart be represented this is the one I am
Pleased about the most I wrote a piece called the mirrored pool over four hundred souls read this I’m
Sorry this is too important to excerpt it in you are not obligated to read I leave that to your discretion

Mirrored Pool
Wonder for all the hurts
First I knelt just to see my reflection then the depths started to reveal first the flowing thoughts were
Restrained and then a bubbling seemed to dislodge from greater depths hard truths churned with
Violent twisting but the motion made it impossible to turn away there were great large white clouds
From depths then even above the pool they rose fourteen stories high the sensation was you were
Standing outside clear air intoxicating views the pulse of many were throbbing in your ears their
Thoughts and dreams were known and their sorrows were weights that pulled you from the heights
It was a colossal game of tag and you were it first reaction fear then the appearance of bundled gifts
Broke down the fear it was promise in different sizes that met the required needs it was like a divine
Warehouse had just made a delivery there were cards with names and writing gave clarification tears
And smiles intermingled then the outer knowing postulated the difficulty the puzzle an enormous
Streaming that was now congested and it was beginning a vortex all was understood now human thought
With doubts was pulling the answer into this destructive hole where was one to find the lever to stop
This action that would disallow was the answer to touch the water bring the finger to my lips possibly
A blazing thought would occur that would strike the mind no all that brought was words that had the
Letters jumbled they made no sense unless there is a special book that is alive in it the letters and words
Are already set but they cover every act in the human condition the broken can pour over the pages
You won’t find thorns to repel your efforts there are thorns but they will speak and assuage your hurts
At the most basic and needed levels the points of your hurts will begin to dissolve from your eyes to
Your mind this inward rush and power will dislodge even spears driven deep by enemies carried for
Years you searched in vain over sad and lonely paths and days now you journey is at an end thorns of
Suffering for another produces profound power and mercy go in peace beloved one another bears your
Burden now maybe words cut you at depths you can’t even identify what if there is an antidote in a
Book you pick it up with trembling hands your body tingles from the knowledge that this is ancient texts
It will have a revival of appreciation in this world of texting but with gentle fingers and eyes that glow
With respect as you see the wisdom and the love cannot be denied you leave the world you know and
With total abandonment you swim in this sea of words until the your tears spill on this rich world of
Words those cruel barbed words that pierced tender skin and have bled internally all of these years
Begin to dissolve with stories and accounts of betrayals then the swells love and mercy you read about
Restoration not always found after apologies are given but the teaching of forgiveness strikes a cord
You have been made free from your prison the tangles of life are great as a great black cloud it hangs
Over head many are its troubles this isn’t mild but the disruptive made to strike and pierce deep the
Hidden that steals the morning blessing while other feast your hunger and unrest only enlarges a
Tormenting unquenchable fire a slow burn this is a forest being burned at the thermal level the hidden
Roots a slow process destructive but not so visible agony torture I have seen men crawl in war or fire
Fighting that where all else is lost you will know greater thrills than any other living soul with the
Desperate and those heavy burdened unable to stand a word will flow it puts out fires and gives
The luxurious buoyancy heaviness changed to joy the bouncy laughter every outward blast attack
The enemy launches is within its pages they are repelled overwhelmed by love you suffer unduly
If you don’t hold this fortress this informative book of stratagems that have made everyone a victor
Who has ever found themselves at their wits end no place on earth has a contingency plan though it
Will make the greatest claims all is just empty air when life as it too often does ***** the very air of life
Out we practically are unconscious but this help this rescue is activated by one name it’s not just a book
But the word is a person what a pool you will find what a reflection will engage you beyond your hope
To imagine just say Jesus all will be total peace your heart will know no more sorrow peace will surpass
Sorrow love will disallow the specter that was once a constant it will disappear it will return to the
Darkness from which it came stand in this newness totally free abide by still waters as the good
Sheppard stands by bless you

So the success against the evil one stands like this while he body slammed me the number of
Souls touched has risen to sixty three thousand five thousand while I was in Braidwood so I
Thank the father whose love and concern never wavers by Christmas I am hopeful I will reach
A hundred thousand if I make heaven I don’t want to see you at judgment and hear you say the
Words of that old song he knew I was lost but said nothing to me!!!!!!!!!!

The Aftermath
Please read this to see in my limited way I want to show you your true worth and value and you will see
what the devil never can get.
This is what I would stand and testify in church but what I have to say is lengthy here it can be read or
Not I would first say this to love souls is agonizing it comes with pain and great tears I went to the site
Where they started the church years ago on my Grandma Brown’s front porch as I set there I pleaded
With God to help me make a difference I turned and looked down the old street that held so many
Memories of course Tommy and Elise and Glena are the only ones that remain but I looked farther
That’s when God moved wave after wave of hard rocking sobs that lasted for thirty minutes or more
And after getting back home some will say this is foolish and I’m the first to know we can’t take the devil
On by ourselves but overcome with emotion I turned from the computer and spoke to evil its self that I
Was declaring total war for souls this is what it has cost me so far at the time I had one open wound on
My shin above the ankle two appeared directly above the first one then one to the side and then I knew
What was to come because I have sleep apnea I sleep in a recliner I knew the sores would ring my leg
And they did you can’t lay your leg out on the ledge with open wounds with nerve endings screaming
Then it jumped to my other leg so that was the first volley when I write I get lost time doesn’t exist many
A time daylight would surprise me coming through the window then the onslaught increases I go to the
Hospital I got there in early afternoon they got me in the room at ten thirty but just before a lady comes
In and takes my blood pressure it is close to perfect and then she comes back in five minutes and tells
Me take these three blood pressure pills trusting her I take them well about twelve or one they come
Into and take my blood pressure they had driven it down to seventy over thirty and plus my first
Experience with morphine I was sick and strangely loopy I wasn’t in the bed I couldn’t lay my legs
Down and no one else was in the room only one bed I did set at the end of the bed with it all the way up
In the back I put my head on it and slept comfortably one funny they have it posted call don’t fall I didn’t
Do this on purpose but when I was pulling the drawer out of the stand it came out with a wonderful
Crash Steve the male nurse made record time from down the hall at the nurse station he lunges in the
Room it wasn’t humpty dumpty just the drawer I couldn’t tell if he was relived or ticked off then it was
Their shot back over the net intravenous antibiotics five days needed a doctor from disease control to
Release me then there version of cons scarring kids with tales about prison to keep them messing with
Drugs scared straight now was scared healthy I walked out the same as I walked in I got a bill for thirty
Thousand well at least I didn’t have a bad heart then it was eleven weeks at the wound center this was
Where I met as I lovingly call them my healing angels they finally got all twelve open sores to close then
for the rest of the problem it was six weeks three times a week forty five miles to and from hundred
Degree heat every day you have to pay a hundred and seventy dollars yourself for the compress wrap
Material then you turn around a pay for compress socks that insurance doesn’t cover least the inside is
Pure silver so missed the Olympics but I got silver in fact every six months I will get silver again this is
Kind apropos I asked the compress wrap therapist where Lymph edema comes from and I will spare you
The pictures but the infection and lymph edema pictures even grossed me out but interestingly the
Therapist said an ancient king in Israel had the disease hello devil no cure just mange it from now on
This is the biggest cut of all someone else has to put them on I have always been called a free spirit
Try to take off on your own and what say hey stranger would you put these on my leg it’s like trying to
Put a baby squirrel skin on a full grown body the therapist does speeches internationally with a doctor
From India she asked permission after taking pictures to show the audience I wouldn’t want to see that
Show give the devil his due he is good at being bad I crossed swords with him he rampaged all over me
I didn’t include everything I have gone through and that doesn’t include my poor wife but I am profane
Corrupt undone should I speak to you of such great things as eternal verities matters that involve where
You will spend eternity there is the cleansing of the word the cleansing of changing my corrupt nature to
His by the spirit but know this no one will ever approach or in any way defile the very ones that as the
Finest gems will be placed in his Holy diadem this takes the cleansing of suffering and brokenness with
The heart Broken for souls and the most necessary of all this nature that is too much like the evil one
That’s what he doesn’t get the more he beats up on a person he is doing God’s work of purifying the
Most elemental evil that must be scourged if I touch you it has to be purist intentions of holy deign
We are awash in the lowest dregs dare I say quick sand only holiness can enable us to traverse this
Killing place of a dark and ever turning evil that compounds itself the devil will never lose the majority
On The Broad way that leads to destruction but there are the blessed few that stop and say oh no this is
Not for Me I was his child and I will be again thanks for the load you made me bear serving you devil now Only Love will be the weight I feel it comes by a great price of God Himself and His people

I need to finish the story for convenience I have the original Aftermath to be read first on the bottom
What was not stated in Aftermath was my concern for my writing you can’t write with two legs
Screaming when I got to the hospital my kidneys were of a concern eight alieve three times a day about
Thirty aspirins something like Tylenol didn’t count them no relief my mistake I would bang my ****** leg
Against the wood of the desk that would make it crazy for a few seconds so I finally had to stop for over
Two months well the devil won it seemed when I talked to my cousin I was at eighteen thousand reads a
Little while let me break in here for a second I know I’m talking about numbers it isn’t ego if I come in
Contact with any of you in any setting and I pass you by with just a glance I am your sworn Godless
Enemy I have just joined the cruelest damnable assassins Hell has ever released on the world I know
What awaits the lost even the Apostle Paul worked fervently because he knew the end cost of God’s
Holy severity can I do less I look but I take in all manner caring thoughts but without fail I am led to that
Future now no one even gives the last day a thought I will put this in as an excerpt this is the dream I
Had when I was seventeen or it starts this way your life began in the great head waters at Eden they will
End at the mouth of eternity. I was given a view into the celestial I was just a teenager while a sleep this
Dream came I looked into the heavens and saw two great wheels made of stars the hands of God started
To pull the wheels down as I continued I knew what was occurring God w

to willingly listen to some russian punk...
they call themselves:
Sierpień - well... Sierpien -
нь is floating around somewhere -
august... август....
perhaps the ****** word "rhymes"
with sierp (i młot) - sickle and hammer...
pień? trunk - stump of wood...
etymological fascination...
august where no emperor augustus
ever stood... unless a Kaцпer...
sier(p) - sickle
(p)ień - stump of a freshly cut tree:
or trunk...
hence the birth of a name
of a month: harvest the trees...
and we are talking about a russian
post-punk goth-punk band...
almost more congested and less
atmospheric the cure...
old kaц the hangover comes in and
says something with a mirror
and fog...
but i'm sure... living under the much
despised (ras)Putin regime would
never give you such music...
look at the people of the...
look at the free peoples of the western /
hinterlands!
no... thank god the view count is only...
what? 3,880 views...
it's an oyster affair...
Sierpien - Cмeрдит дo caмых звeзд (2016)...
people can still produce art of this sort?
is a (ras)Putin required? really?
democracy per se...
power-struggles from among
the populace...
ever hear the petitions of schizophrenics
in the western lands?
a holy grail status for some...
the "nuanced" *****...
or bilingual...
but this album current saved me from
a despair... a friday night is happening
somewhere... and i'm more than happy
to not be there...
i don't even know what's popular
in terms of music in the hinterlands...
the bellybutton of the world: London...
doesn't exactly spew out pointers
to digest what's new and pop with
the crowd...
how long did it take me to hear about
psy's gangnam style?
a good half a year... but then it was already
playing on repeat...
perhaps not in a way that...
once upon a time... Microsoft wanted
to use R.EM.'s it's the end of the world
(and i'm feeling fine) for an advert...
and R.E.M. refused...
i can't exactly see any use of an advert...
but for the past decade...
perhaps... the outliers of dubstep:
distance, vex'd... burial...
10 years have passed and i don't even
know what music people listen to...
like i said... i'm listening to something...
only about 4K people also listen...
notably in Russia...
i'll translate...
śmierdzić do samych zwezd... gwiazd...
smerdit do samych zwezd...
10 or so years later i'm at this point...
there's no need to invoke Ms. Cмeрц
but it almost never figured for me...
ц somehow borrows from щ...
that's of course ч is related to ш...
to stink of **** up to the stars...
that's how the album name,
"sort-of" translates itself...
in the past 10 years...
this is probably the sort of music i should
be listening to...
i would somehow abhor myself
being the fully integrated western mongrel...
allowing my soul to die and
this language to dictate the fashionista
dictums "from above"... like a good puppy...
origins mostly focusing on...
Lebanon... the old Raj...
i honestly did think that: the de factor default
implication of the word: integration was
to speak the language...
this is not the great h'america where
you'd call it an alliance to a patriotism...
this is england... where people are not
exactly responsive to the word patriotinism...
and whenever it is used...
it's the ugly word nationalism...
so... this is not an extension of thinking
that can be "accomplished" akin to somewhere
in h'america...
this is england talking to itself in me...
or rather... me... looking at england and trying
to find the sort of footing for a tango...
born 4 hours shy of warsaw doesn't help,
either...
still... as names go...
no one was a cooler name for their capital...
come on... war-saw...
beats washington d.c. -
but... loon'don... that's mighty close...
all the democratic arguments aside...
i'm listening to these political commentators...
and i'm wondering...
what sort of music are they listening to?
i'm still looking for a playlist
i inherited that included bands like...
it's dire to even begin to name them...
the best i found are still...
demdyke stare... and that's not really
being pretentious... vomito *****...
but "once upon a time" music could make
a man stay up into the stillness of the night,
far beyond the night,
he might have sometimes glimpsed
a new unfolding as he would go to bed
from the graveyard shift with
some neglected words being seized...
i've just skimmed through u.k. top 40 chart...
i can't relate...
i can understand just having the vote...
but to have the vote...
and be left... in this barrage of...
i understand that man is a political animal
and somehow social...
but a vote is enough...
no wonder good culture hasn't "happened"
in the past 10 years...
i don't like being informed of culture
via the prism of: it's all or not political...
i don't like being
polarised i don't like being politicised...
all i have is one vote...
and i'm nearing 34 and seeing how...
since i haven't already used it...
it's pretty much a redundant affair...
as long as the status quo is there...
as long as there's a status quo...
and there's the shady bureaucracy cushioning...
but how can one expect to find
a tartar stake of sustenance...
when everything resembles an english
sunday roast: with the beef being over-cooked
over, way over well-done?
the meat is butchered twice...
once as the cow... second time as a piece of roast!
i'm not fond of criticism...
bad... i know as a foreigner but also as
a citizen... only the pakistani grooming gangs
are sacred cows in this, this whittle english...
past allegience to soviet russia?
because, what? russian post-punk takes
my fancy...
one! one benefit of a doubt...
justin bieber's jazzy interlude in:
love yourself... and that's it...
i decided for the: leave me alone button...
and for all the vitality of the western ways
i'm left either the window-licker prized oscar
nominee or some lethargic melancholy prone:
a decade on and a decade without
the better part of me...
i somehow own about 10 pairs of shoes
but every time i only walk in single pair...
until they are worn,
until i can almost imitate:
no borrow metaphor from the african
continent... my second mother siberia...
and the indo-europeans and whatever tag!
tag it necessary! caucasian and la la land...
this was political... before it even started...
even whether there was a demand for my vote...
the tide came, the tide went,
i wasn't given so much as a sniff of civil rights...
my civil rights had to be political rights:
in a redundant format best described:
as a vote... opinions first, vote later...
by then the vote is already a confirmation
of how many more ***** will sink
to this level of: humpty-dumpty...
a culture can thrive when power is clarified...
there's no culture when the only
despotism is the finding the lost
in the labyrinth of bureaucracy...
since i base my focus via Kant... yes...
these are idealistic words...
because idealism is - the already focused on
status quo... and again...
the status quo... perhaps even stasis qua!
- but i'm not listening to current music...
from a "certain" place that once could
salvage the rest of the world of bodies
with its beacon of soul...
not "current" as in: where meat is more mince
than steak...
it's all fine and dandy...
to have the provisions at your disposal...
but you can't expect an annual supply of carrots...
or meat... to feed the mouth that neither
opens, nor bites, nor chews,
nor swollows, not ******* saliva
for the premature process of digestion...
you can't expect this most perfect supply & demand...
something has to be missing for
the soul to have... the realism of the fact
i am bound to a robotic / unconscious body...
what conscious decision do i have...
over the already calibrated heart?
the delusion that the brain... is somehow...
freed from what?
psychological metaphysics?!
i have an automated digestive system...
and an automated ****...
i don't exactly know when i'm going to ****...
but i do **** - and with so much pleasure so...
that i would forgo all homosexual exfoliations
for the mere pleasure of...
easing a **** out of that ******* bang hole...
than allowing a vaselined cockrel in...
quiet a disgust pecker of high ambitions...
when it comes to enjoying
massaging the prostate muscle when sitting
on the throne of thrones...
i am trapped in an automated body!
the only aspect of me agreeing to evolutionary
biology is to invoke the soul...
as something ex "nihil" in coprus...
from "nothing" in body (intact)...
hello intellectual safari of the thesaurus
and the synonym chasers...
from under the Iron Curtain...
once more... thrown under the Silicon Curtain...
but there is something in me that
allows me to escape the already well oiled,
this well calibrated body... shy of being
merely treated as baggage...
there's something that allows me to restrict...
when i will **** out a full bladder...
from time to time...
but this is still oh so mechanical...
the fickle nature of man's own self interests:
the only mirror i could find
to compensate the complexity
of deus ex machina...
i'll last 10 minutes with a swollen bladder...
until i give way...
that's when i know that i am rebelling
against the mechanical nature of this body...
- nonetheless the conversation run down
a different route...
i want to be, as i once was...
politically starved... give me the vote and lace me
with civic duties... minding culture...
don't give me this politico journo-*******...
this spare straitjacket of "opinions"...
opinions that do not hone in on a dialectic...
but a dichotomy...
while under (ras)Putin there was a resurgence
of post-punk... brutalism debauchery...
in the vest of the west...
do i really have to give gil scott heron over?
see? what power do i have?
i have.... a chance to glimpse how a culture
can thrive... musically...
no... oh no! no Vlad... you're not getting off
that easy...
Tchaikovsky - 1812 Overture...
tell me... as a cat might look you in the eyes...
and cats do... when you find it uncomfortable
to lie... a cat will look you in the eyes
when it knows the agony of you telling
the truth... too frequently...
now... tell me...
of the 1812 Overture...
how close was Tchaikovsky teasing...
plagiarising... la marseillaise?
oh i think: this close ||.
i still don't know: listening to classical music...
is supposed to make people,
"somehow" smart?!
- just like Beethoven hides / licks /
alludes to the crescendo of
ode an die freude that is to come in the 9th symphony...
lots of crashing plates and banging
templates of cooking vessels in between...
a crescendo is almost like...
but not quiet... no... it's never exactly a chorus...
but Ode an die Freude is revealed
in a subtle way somewhere in the vicinity
of the genesis of the 9th...
i'll ******* duel over this remark though...
if it takes blunt knifes and spoons...
so be it...
negate: Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture does
not allude to La Marseillaise!
*****, test me! i swear to god -
you tell me this russian кaцaп is not alluding to?
what sort of culture are to speak of,
as citizen... if we have to be...
worthwhile less the already invalid vote...
and more the sway-ghost-vote of...
ditto-heads and less and less...
i remember when i would start a conversation
with girls on the basis of: so...
what music are you into?
has... the don mclean prophesy come true?!
the only music is the democratic opera
of the inability to hush competing interests
of the less than homogenous, cerebral hive?!
wow! believe me when i state:
i would truly rather shun my state of being:
stunned!
to me... people have forlorn to "worry"
about petty, ahem... "petty" cultural worries...
this political transfusion, verbiage,
look... a broken arm of a word that used
to resemble pref-                 ending in
the loose limb that ends with 9...
scary language... informal language...
not exactly the english standard: terse /
whimsical... "way-hey-hey-ha-witty"...
hardly anecdotal: mein herr kapitan!
oh but this is certainly a cultural desert...
i'm still doing my best to shake off the 20th century...
what's it called... what's it called...
you are... ah! 20th century inheritence...
not that i'm by any measure a man
of the 20th century...
come the year 2000 i was still a mid-way
between child and man...
2020... 34... i am a 21st century man...
as i also have circa 10K of student debt to pay off...
but this is england...
a chemistry degree gets you nowhere...
i always fancied the Leibniz route...
a garbage man... perhaps "the librarian"...
the street-cleaner...
10K worth of pounds of debt...
paid? when one earns over 15K per annum...
bless ol' england... this debt will be written off
after 30 years...
i really wanted to find a job akin to being
the street-cleaner...
i wouldn't even mind... seeing as how i could
come home and write a rhythm
of a crooked guitar... perhaps doing some work
in the industrial sector...
the scottish widows' h.q. roof, near st. paul's?
i did that... well... part of the team...
industrial scale roofing...
whatever... this is not going to become
"yet another" autobiographical sketch...
a degree in chemistry led me nowhere...
some lucky fist-first-think-fewest landed
their english B.A.s and:
"the authorities" would never let them starve
having... their poo'ems better read...
oh i wish i could think without having
itchy fingertips and what words i want
to say when i however have to say the mundane
formality of the everyday...
i'm the sort of jack spicer *******...
that i cannot work with this lexicon beside
what's always greeting me with a welcome return
of surd applause...
i can't speak the everyday language
of the everyday -
even my punctuation is suspicious -
an *****-nilly I.R.A. bad device...
i can hold the hounds of bark, leash, girdle and muzzle
until they finally find the dog...
but not until i have feasted upon
the blank canvas that will never see any colour...
but this x-ray of hiding faint hues
working in the subtle grey-of-no-grey area
that comes with these words, these bones...
i have to drink...
to find these words... and an echo prior
to the cave... this being the cave after i heard
the echo... even among drunks i couldn't
speak such words, such sentences...
under them the drunks cower...
and... this is the better part of a friday night...
i best exclude myself to this page
of rummaging... because even if i drink...
i wouldn't find a conversation among the drunks
to compliment this! to compliment this
with an immediacy of a dialogue -
a shared experience...
better i write this... and wait for a delay...
better i wait for a delayed response...
in the quantum sense of:
when observed a wave... when not observed...
a particle.
science as this cohesive orthodox litany of
dogmas to undermine religion...
science is more vogue than religious dogmatism...
science is modern...
it will only and has only succumbed
to modern finicky... vogue... science is...
hardly a... blind sighted hive brain-drain focus
of the replicas and clone surds nodding...
this language... would never be spoken among
the drunks...
i hardly think it would or even does:
deserve a stage... perhaps only if i wore face paint...
if i were truly an entertainer...
but these words deserve more than a stage...
they deserve an: umbratempus...
zeitshatten... a time-shadow...
cień czasu... (время тень)..
regurgitate something to me, akin to:
T4T (oliver baez bendorf)...

see! i knew нь was floating around...
it comes... back... full circle.

and all i ever wanted, was to work in a music shop, to compensate my fancy moving away from Stendhal's scarlet & noir, and into the domain of Nick Hornby's high fidelity... well... that died a very Belgian death, very much akin to euthanasia.

at least i don't
bleach people to mere
pronoun usage.

and yes,
i treat the tetragrammaton
as a superlative,
esp. given
i am akin of Atilla -
and the Visigoths...
such that i am:
of the invading "horde",
because of he
the so-called culture
i see no civilisation on the horizon...
i see no Baroque...
            i hear no Bach,
and will never hear a stance
such that the music be composed...

because what is happening
in no circus of nouns...
people are being bleached,
they are being leash bound
to walk into a pet barbers to get their
hair "done"....
         i am not the one
regarding them as sole
pronoun exhibitors...
   there they are: merely pronoun bound...
and should i call them black,
or care to call them copper skinned
akin to the Indus peninsula...
                       i have forgotten
the agitating "they"...
            
i don't have a cartesian dualism
to mind...
i simply have my own dichotomy
to attend to...
   as Voltaire said: each to his own
garden; and a pair of shoes.
    
once again...
  geometry will never scope beyond the orb...
there is no geometric study to
suggest a shape for the universe...
now we know: there's no thinking
outside the box,
  even if that might ease your "claustrophobia".

  and i rather call a person by their
self-identifying characterisation
that reduce myself to a liberal
censor clot of only managing other people
in the pronoun category, auto-suggestive
of a *we vs. them...

       i don't see how that makes us
liberal, that having forsaken descriptive
approaches, we incorporated
the additive approach carte blanche
as a guide to treating everyone akin
to being dubbed albino.

   i like talking about ******* a brown-skinned
girl...
    i like talking about ******* a Thai girl...
i like putting cardamom in my curry,
or my cinnamon...
  or my everclear - heartspark dollarsign -
and thus about the time i
gave to flying the kite of full, manly,
****-refraining autonomy...
to the wind itself.

  just when we were about congested,
and lated constipated...
        i wrote this, like a clerk
might, in the bureucracy of the failing
Roman Empire, akin
to the reminiscent W. H. Auden...
      on pink'oh paper that turned boredom
into the origami of paper-aeroplanes...
  neat, folded, against the envelope
requirements... thrown right into
the lap of don quixote,
       recycled, shredded by a windmill...

as if about just apparent...
        at least this dream, this utopia
didn't originate with me...
    oh sure, i believed it...
that we could house the entire ethnically-diverse
populace under one roof...
   i believed it, the world told me to believe it...
i'd love to believe it thrice over...
   i mean, i'd love to have
    duo-ethnic children,
        who spoke four languages...
in the least three...
    but **** how that gets swept under
the rug and forgotten along
with Aladdin...
   it just gets boring, all that masochism
of being an anti-racist social warrior
but at the same time calling oneself
a white-trash stereotype transcendent.

that's me about to puke,
and write my name in diarrhea ink,
followed up by doing the same in
gonorrhea ink.

what happened at the end of the 20th century
was a very well believed
in dream, even though it was a butterfly...
and lasted no more than a few years...
it was worth it... it's when i had my childhood...
and i could have even been a roofer until now
should there be someone who said
they were overworked in a supermarket...

it was very nice for a bit,
great to believe in... how suddenly 2000 years
of history could be forgotten and
let us live in a togetherness...
    but like today, Syria and a civil war...
civil wars are unique...
  a Syrian barber tells a Syrian butcher
to *******...
     and would it be necessary for
     an English politician to get involved?

unless they're selling both
  Israeli uzis (the country where the ***
originated, yep, Israel)...
          i'm not a Syrian civilian...
so what the **** are all these tourists
talking about?! i don't care if they come
from Westminster, what are these tourists
talking about?!
                  i'd like to be a Syrian civilian
first, before i give my opinion...
        i'm not giving a single opinion
as a tourist that was ever in Syria,
or a one: waiting to visit it in the "near" future.
******* tourists...
     you have to use a blunt knife carving
this piece of history...
not point using a well sharpened knife
cutting with eloquence and absolutely
no profanity... given the excesses of ****...
   i say: oaths! oaths!

The Rain falls warm.
It's humid and the shirt
sticks to my *******.
How much has fallen
into my collective bucket
during the pass hour
Of heavy monsoon rain?

I gulp chunks
to replace water
in this futile work cycle.
Adiabatic landscaping
in a stifling heat,
within some complex
feed-forward loop.

The cigarette burns
beneath a protective dome,
my cupped hand.
Particulates drift away into
the hazy mist, embedding
itself in breath,
and choking congested,
fluid-filled lungs.

I watch a tiny display
showing small spiking memes
feeding forward to what?
Will it be an apocalyptic
firing storm  or a recognition
gestalt, inhibitory spikes
triggering attenuation.

I drink again the rain.
Can I supervise Win-Lose
games? Am I learning
some wrong algorithm
while drunk on heavy water,
in Futile cycles?

With my open hand
I take Virgil's lead
into our Gradient descent,
urging him on, afraid
our alpha steps are too
small, and the time too
short. There is a constant
fear of being trapped
in some eternal,
local minimal.

Nature, nature, dear sleek, bland nature;
Thou art the very love I seek,
The very art when my soil's weak,
The lifeless grass that clearly speaks,

Nature, nature, my feverish, sweet bland pasture;
Look at but the greasy grass around thee,
And take a glimpse of the soul in me,
Console my tears through my poetry,

Nature, nature, the witness of joys and sorrows;
With thou gone, life matters no more,
All shalt be dead like ever before,
Dead before the sight of lonely hours,

Nature, nature, my sweet grand nature;
This idyll, like my undying past love,
More promising than the Unseen above,
A love and a hate, a tear and a smile,
Whose charms made me giggle for a while,

Nature, nature, canst but thou see the poet in me;
Buried deep down in my febrile sanctuary;
A silent place my love shan't ever know;
A delight only to me, and my wordless tomorrow.

Nature, nature, I am dying in my delirium;
Looks like I'm daydreaming again,
That the whole world is but a small poem,
That looms and grows over today's rain.

Nature, nature, but that's the daydreams of a poet;
That the world's skin is covered in soot,
And so is its arrogant roots,
That once severed and soaked my foot.

And so I hate it with all might;
Long for it to fly off my sight;
During the tremblings of the nights;
And the fury of our tight winds.

Oh nature, once my sweet old friend;
I hath lost my conscience again,
And thou, once handed to me a blanket,
Ah, that doth thou remembereth?

Nature, nature, my darling old candle;
Who awoke me with handfuls of sweet kisses;
But hath now died and is not smiling again;
A rival that was ostentatiously a friend.

Nature, nature, my ceremonious old light;
Thou shalt steal me at the end of the night;
There is a shade behind the fruits of yon twilight;
Thou shalt hide there, and astound me with fright.

Nature, nature, words and blandishments down the line;
This diabolical and conscious soul of mine,
I hath been lifted into a turbulent state,
Where all is unfair and against such fate.

Nature, nature, beyond thee I cannot see;
Beyond whose all seems brown and futile;
Despite their tremendous originality;
All is bland to such physical rigidity;

Nature, nature, ah, why all tranquil hath gone;
I travel in agony by myself alone,
I, a poet, in whose heart are scars,
From parting with my love's nuptial stars,

And on whose departure, nothing was to stay genial;
At whose goodbyes I couldst not stand cordial;
Him, whose laughter had been kind pleasantry,
And poetry, whom I'd wanted to wander here with me.

Nature, nature, in t'is whose bloodied sight I set off alone;
By my ears playing a deformed old song;
Into the world my poet's soul shan't ever be married;
To whose souls I'm just a myth, a wicked soul intoxicated;

Nature, nature, to whom I am just a pile of debris;
That be torn by one easy leap,
A breathless snap and clouded mutiny,
And none be left, of me and my poor poems.

Nature, nature, beyond these waning northern gales;
Still there is no more than the pale,
Perhaps our past is like those of untold tales,
Like that of Wayne, a dear from cold Wales.

Nature, nature, but I shall be back;
A ship journey's awaiting me by the red sack,
And I shan't be prone to their hatred,
I shan't be deterred, nor get hurt,

Nature, nature, these storms grow insolent outside;
Mocking my indolent soul and black hair;
Streaming down my warm yellow skin;
Surging up my generous pink spleen;

Nature, nature, and the suns shield me no more;
'Tis the cold and white that matter,
Not even an umbrella for my frost,
All of us here are shattered and lost,

Nature, nature, I am roaming like a foul ghost;
With all the dirt of humanity on my face,
And all their sins I hath vastly borne,
But they are gone, and I screech in cold, alone,

Ah, nature, and now that thou hath deleted me too;
Like a pianist rejected by his own songs,
Which he hath, and hath been doing for long,
With a violin that knows not what true fame looks like;

Nature, nature, it loves only those insincere;
Who are too hard and dark on their own hearts;
With congested hate loathed by calm scripture;
A music that they shan't notably dance.

Nature, nature, and listen to once more;
All is dark and I hath only thee have left,
I am suffered by t'is sleepless haze,
Entranced only by whose sightless grace,

But ah, if thou hath disgraced me too;
If to thee that no inspiration a poet canst give,
I may divorce thee and soon shall leave;
I shalt again embrace my long-lost oppositions;

For I shalt be hurt should thou disgrace me too;
Like a long corpse plainly dismembered,
Like a painting whose colours hath waned,
Like a spirit that hath fainted;

Like a touch of grey, bitter oblivion;
Like an angry pompous heart and vision;
Like a severely wounded wisdom;
Like a battered rainbow in its gloom;

And after dusk I shalt emerge again;
With a vain anger, as cruel as crystals;
Being reborn as an immortal star;
I shalt tear thee and thy hearts apart;

Ah, nature, and with the whole world too fishy and foul;
Where but I seek to find the poet of my soul,
And as all embrace turns to grow cold,
Whilst dawn is the hate of my enemy,

Nature, nature, and with a plain laughter so clear,
Still they speak of me with hate;
Like thou wert once unjust to me,
Unlike the very God I could see,

Nature, nature, once my friend nature;
Thou too loathe me for evermore,
For I must go, and calm my self alone,
Treat my ill by the summer's murdered song.

its cold here
my heavy eyes droop
the teacher drones on
I blow my nose, so that I can breathe
in, out, in sneeze out in, out, in, out, sneeze
I'm at the back of the room
isolated
java 2, the elite
sitting alone in a java 1 class, so I don't have to pay attention
Mrs. is teaching stuff I already learned
She hands me packets to work on, on my own
the trees look so green, I love the spring
may, almost, summer
summer coming soon, not soon enough
tap tap tap tap the keyboards click click click
ugh my nose is so congested
my eyes are so heavy
sleeeeeep I just need sleep
I have to packets I need to work on, but I can't focus.
can't focus, can't breathe
my hands are tired from typing
I'm too tired to focus on reading
so what to do, what to do.
I'm wasting time, but who actually cares
I'll get the work done, just not today
summer come sooner, I need some warmth
warmth, my bed is so warm
this classroom is cold
i'm cold
bed, bed, sleep warmth
how will I ever get through this day?

9/20/18
9:26 am

The people I meet in dreams don't remember who I am. I knew you back then, I say. You know me. But I think about the ways I am different from then, how fear made me shift in ways I can't describe.

There isn't enough time to tell the stories of my becoming,
as I am still becoming.

Winter is my season. No stranger is the cold, dry air to my nostrils. The wind whips my face, lashes for every breath taken for granted.

Ice awakens ancestral knowledge,
not of human origin but geologic time.

When did we become vessels for truth? For the words on my lips crawl from a well of pain, fragments bubble to the surface.

Pieces to a puzzle only I can solve.

I wonder, does the core of our planet feel the way we do? Does she writhe in pain the way we do? Is she lonely, like me? Does she feel alive when the sun beats across her face, and does she dance across space to feel alive, like I do?

Earth wept when we plotted her demise, victim to the narrative of a civilized society. Human progress is nothing but power and glory.

How have I been so complicit in your suffering, I ask.
The Earth remains silent.

/   adverts say: living with your parents... BAD... FIRE... BAD... NOT IVF CHILD... but what would you make of a man, in his 50+... who applies for a neighbour complaint, about a man he's complaining about, while making a complaint, to the mother, of the man he's complaining about? surely it can't be the old fashioned unfathomability of fear... if he can't approach me... why does he boast a complaint on a canvas of my mother? hmm... might have to look into this... /

and i thought i was living next to an englishman....

but wait...
  what i thought, turned out
to a misnomer...

i was living next to...
a ******* ****!

  (bronson style approach
in giving the gift of
the gab):

so he comes over that i'm
smoking outside my window,
and that the smoke
is somehow, "magically"
flowing through the window
into a room where his
new-born sleeps...

ha ha!
   "new-born"... the ****** is
50+ and his bride is 40+...

there are two alternatives
to a psychiatric waiting room...
a brothel, where the body speaks,
and a dark forest: where you
can scream insults, rather than
mutter them under your breath...

with this **** of a man,
this castrato wannabe cossack
of an, "englishman"...
   i thought i'd go one further...

beginning with...
so he complained to my mother,
but didn't complain to me?
does he believe in property rights?
there's a "his" air that
   otherwise gives us a parallel
expression of life?
      the **** high or sumthin'?
well i know he's not punjabi...
**** reeks of black pudding
and microwave dinners...

          **** says something?
says what?
                 oink?
  **** it... let's eat everything
on him... apart from the snout...
might get a lurking kuru
infection...

so an absolute ****, with and without
a ******* sack: one could
attempt to call "it" an
example of an englishman...

anti-psychiatric treatment:
1. a brothel for the body,
2. a darkened place on
the outskirts of urban society
to give out a: shout out to bronson!
kant! you ******* chewing-gum
aspect of phlegm!
  you ***-crack of a dodo alzheimer's
with a cocktail of down syndrome!

so i'd ask...
   if your "child", or should i say
herr pinguin, you're so over-protective over...
why don't i see a baby buggy?
or why doesn't the baby ever see sunlight,
or ever leave the ******* house:
O mighty landlord of loft essex!
don't be afraid to show us the ******...
we don't mind retards...
but it's not you're complaining
about me smoking, outside my own
window, inside my own bedroom,
like you might be harbouring
the next usain "ya man" bolt!

imagine an england when the next
english native... thinks the white, immigrant,
is treated, as if the native is:
king pompous philip zee dritte!
   or whatever charlie will become -
hope he does...
  but when, every, ahem,
  englishman thinks i'll wipe his
***, in my own home,
  while he'll appear stupendous
gorging on curry and kebabs?!

       i'm about this close        | |
              to ****** this ****... with my thumb;
and this is my neighbour we're
talking about.

i.e. he owns the dictate of personal
property rights?
   because he gave birth to a *******
pokraka?
        yeah: blame the hunchback
for breeding upright children...

  and they say the mood in america
is bad...
      mood in england,
with these sort of "englishmen":
    i'm starting to think of
a liver + kidney pâté: of the rare sort...

     because the ****** doesn't own
our shared air!
      i rather smoke a cigarette out my
window than in my room!
his room... is non-inclusive in the matter!

but then again... they say venezuelan
living arrangements are congested...
sure... in england?
   it's just constipated.

to me, the Cartesian saying had to be relegated to shrapnel,
i treat the cogito
                                           ergo                       sum
like i'd treat atoms, brushing and
signaturing each other with
a stabilised unification
under the name: helium, or hydrogen.
evidently that's also a term
for three dimensional space
and the cohorts of chaos that come
from it.
           but something worries me,
intrinsically it's what i would simply
term: the automation of thinking.
basically? it's blood hard to stop thinking,
to do yoga to intricate being
in nothingness,
    as Heidegger suggested:
non-being is a tier below nothing,
      and i guess automated thinking
comes from non-being,
because there's this intrinsic manifestation
of instinct found in all sport activities
that doesn't allow thinking to take place,
no footballer thinks about his exertion
on the football pitch, no golfer maps
out a system of thought to *** the hole
in one...
                some would even say
that thinking is a form of laziness,
          i find that the whole notions turns
out to be a **** up affair of concern,
the mere notion that thought is automated
    and cannot be barricaded against
its relentless battering our very being
is due to the fact that so many of us
do not attain the all that glitters is gold
particularity of fame...
             it's not that we are doubtful,
but that we are mindful / thoughtful,
a few of us make it to the top of the sardine
can, but so many of us are minding
our own business on this placebo earthenware:
yes, i call this a placebo urn of things
needed (people always rave about nouns
anyway, call it slang, or whatever,
it trends, hashtags and the outdated
forms of phone numbers - calling big brother
eeny, meeny, miny, moe) - i could
swear it's so, but then again, maybe not so.
still (what a crass digression),
coming back to the Cartesian shrapnel...
           basing in on weights and measures -
it's so tiny, that expression,
                      we can think the realistic
and only express a centimetre of the world,
we can be the realistic and only
express a centimetre of the world,
  and then we can think the illusionary
and express a mile of the world,
        and we can be the illusionary and express
   a kilometre of the world:
toward the basis of fame and contentment of
  the shadows...
       yes, we have achieved a "death" of history,
by simply stating our recreational pursuits
being more important than our
need for historical eventuality and crisis, and change...
we have stated a "death" of history
via our population size, our ability to combat
diseases (whether infantile or of a certain maturity),
yes, we have established a congested world,
which facilitates nothing quite like a herd
(cattle mentality): hence the modern concern
for alienation... we're created a collective manifestation
of insects, or as one might suggest
  this is yet another geocentric and heliocentric
concern for us... although relegated to
egocentric and the collective ethos of comrades -
but given the former has been eradicated
as it was previous known: communism -
      in economic vocabulary it's all but gone,
but still exists in the sports: yet again,
the re-surfacing of abolishing automated thinking,
namely, automated collision with the daily
activity - either competitive or mundane,
    as we all soon realised: if automated thinking
is not eradicated by automated doing
     we end up mentally distraught -
our own thinking alienates us and even progresses
to symptoms that have no viability
       concerning a drowning man, nonetheless
we're actually drowning.
i can hardly think that nothing is an abyss -
       to me thought is an abyss (cat meows,
i write, the fermentation of wine goes on in
four jars to my left, bob, pop, bob, pop,
and daniel licht is playing to the fatty *****
that's my brain) -
                     i knew that ponderings ii - vi
would get my creative juices flowing:
finally! a book on philosophy that i can comprehend
within that bilingual complex i've established!
or: this much can be said upon
giving a supermarket cashier a signed copy of
my actually printed works
     and hearing a compliment with eyes
waxed with glee (Tarah);
           now i have 100 copies to push,
become akin to a drug dealer with poetry,
           and that's not going to be easy
without p.r. and all that jingly marketing qualms.
still, what's there to be done
        if not that there is something to be done,
even if it's nothing, or a pebble on a mountain:
which is why there is so much
   potential in individuality, but also so much
angst - instead of doing crosswords we have
other riddles to be bothersome about,
   but so few even get a ?         to be concerned with.
again the Cartesian shrapnel equation,
              so much is staged on it in terms
of how thinking becomes automated, robotic
to the point of making children succumb to
    premature depression -
      back when premature dementia was the hit
on Broadway or in an Estonian lunatic asylum
in the 19th century,
when we first received our psychiatric vocabulary,
now it's the young who are odd
   and it is premature depression,
          a bit like the black plague, against
all hopes, a single identifiable folly.
             and where the best rewards?
solitude, where else?
                          for all that swindling of the talk of species
and competition within / without,
        always one ******* says:
                           i am the zeitgeist - always one:
are there really benefits to realising that
****** equation? are there? to feel alive, to feel
conscious, or the madness of Nietzsche's reversal
stating that he's a thing that simply, exfoliates
necessary thought?
           thought is primarily a moral ought -
the should i or shouldn't i?
        it's intrinsic, inherent and simply: just there...
or in the unlikely event, a step into the abyss
   and subsequent pathologies of the enabling of
   a destruction of the soul: as manifestation
of a transgressively transcendent embodiment
of pure body.
                 so, against all duality, i simply fathom
that ****** thing as shrapnel,
     curiously via (as i already might have said):
so much thinking doesn't precipitate into being,
     and so much being doesn't precipitate into thinking -
or of those who adorn mental silk fabrics and Solomon rings,
         and those who have to pay for elocution
lessons due to their ****** endeavours -
      yet again, alignment with Thesaurus Rex,
cue: down Synonymous Avenue
                     because how many times are we sharpening
our narrative trying to feels less inclined
                 to exfoliate in the exotica of what's
the necessary verbiage, and escape into single
identifiable meanings, without poker, without politics,
without sexualised ambiguity?
for me language should work, not be desecrated
to fun: it, should, work;
                     or here i rest my ambitions,
without any poetic dogma - or to make poetry unrecognisable
when stated, for no reason to discredit
   the systematics of poetry: but for reason
                        Kraken wrangler on language -
as much as Nietzsche might have said about
      philosophical systems and their errors and lack of
honesty: i say as much about poetry careful to
be identified as such: metaphors, imagery blah blah -
all things that make people conscious of what
they're reading is actually what they're reading and say
it's poetry - as i said to the supermarket cashier:
enso (Japanese,
marcon purposively missing) - to write while standing up,
and so the reader is standing up,
         not a novel you take to bed,
                     and read for months on end,
dozing off, or sneering at "uneducated" people
on the train...
                         i might as well be writing instruction
manuals for the sadistic training of ballerinas -
              one cut, one incision, and get the **** out;
or at least that's the idea -
      learn to spell, work on punctuation variations,
    learn to tie your shoelaces... and don't believe in
the word edit.

I fret torpidly in my lair;
Your scent is around, but I've seen nobody.
'Tis sordid about me, with rolls of dutiful smoke—
and unleashed winds growling about unseen.
Beside me here stands a perfect mirror, a perfect glass,
But nothing seems imperative, nor talkative, nor patient;
Everything is just silent—what a robust fear—foolish impediment.
Ah, if only can I fast **** this petulant temperament—
do you think I shall feel better, or magnified?
I feel that myself is like a wind:
Thin, fragile, and constantly diving and swelling upwards.
Even my narrative is about to betray me;
Vehemently indeed—should this happen,
I might be able no more to write any poetry—
As my chest above there hysterically bellowed, I shall be pushed upwards—
Upwards, upwards, I am curling upwards—like we all naturally are,
Over the earth, along the oceans, and their sample images of Paradise;
Every single day, at noon, and against this midnight sky.
 
My darling has left, and thus I have but Him in my shabby hands;
With skin marred and scratched and dried by the rude winter;
Ah, say, but who says that winter is clever and polite?
Like my love perhaps is, she is but a relic—or even statue, of blunt disgrace—
She is neither merry nor cordial; she never is aromatic, and flaws us with its brutal haze.
 
I am alone, alone, alone, and totally alone—
O my love, my love, my love, where can I peruse
your felicity just once more?
I have but loved thee all along;
I love thee as magnificently and preciously
as I loved thee one year back and yesterday.
You are my purplish, reddish, greenish, but incompatible moon,
You are comparable still, to the joyous soul of this stained poem;
by whom my love has thrived, by whom I can always replenish.
I shall rise you again within my dreams;
I shall face myself within your sour vapour—but never let you fade.
I shall let you halt my paint, and brush dirt upon it;
I shall let you scatter your grossness over me, and acquire even your sins;
But as long as you are there, over me, I am not scared but keen;
I shall not be mesmerised, nor even heart be broken and pained.
May my heart break, so long as it has its consolation floating by.
 
Ah, and who, beside this breakable moon—can claim my erupt forth;
To comfort my sleep and give solace to my shrieking doors;
And throw unheeded calm into my quiet walkways;
While looking me in the eyes as we step sideways.
Who can ambush my chest along this hairy path;
With a charm far stronger than yon behind the grass;
Who can heal me, and who can heal me not,
Ah, have I but still the courage to make this right?
I shall look for you again amongst the city roars and rumblings;
I shall look for you again in the mornings—and amongst the bleakness of evenings.
 
Look, my love, how the rainbows have a turquoise face today;
So beautifully crafted and charted like the skies of yesterday;
I should fall asleep now, but still—I don't want to be lulled alone without you;
Even though you are faraway, I can still feel your breath and air.
Your absence, as I hope then, shall fast perish;
For I want to grow old not by the countenance of miseries.
I want to be injected into your space now—as maelstroms of sleeps greet me again,
And as the clouds of heaven start to feed on me;
I shall feel light again, and thereby not turn grey;
I shall feel that you have welcomed me back;
I shall feel your breath tingling by the sides of cheeks;
I shall feel my hairs anew—as they raise against the corners of my neck.
 
And there we shall play together against the sky;
Against its pedal who anew blooms in wan suspicion;
Ah, my love, I shall entangle you then—in my varied, and multiplied visions;
I shall tell you the funniest of one thousand lies.
I shall give you only the finest of kisses, and jokes;
I shall startle you by my poem and my beautiful black locks.
Ah, thee, to you whom I have written this poem, and shall always do;
To you whom I have loved, and have to this day admired;
To you for whom a forest of grace and salutations has been dreamed;
To you for whom my heartbeat grows, and fastens and slows,
To you for whom I woke up today, and open my eyes tomorrow;
 
To you whom I have loved in the name of Him;
To you for whom I lit the glitters of the sky;
To you for whom my heart was startled and passed justly by;
To you for whom my palms sweated and eyes started to cry;
 
To you for whom griefs disperse into brighter saturations;
To you for whom life continues, and gives birth to more immediate sparkles;
To you for whom I have celebrated my soul; and made one true promise;
To you by whom I have halved my heart, and without whom shall never 'come the same anew;
 
To you for whom all favours are spelled, and words dedicated;
To you for whose grins I shall wait again forever;
To you whose eyes are darker than the midnight river;
To you by whom my belief shall stay strong, and consciously devoted;
 
Ah, you, my love, so this remorse shall fall over me and back again,
With creases I curse, and remarks that my ruined chest censures;
Abhorred by the moon, and its very own celestial abode—
Which shakes and stretches along the crimson universe,
I have thrown my life into your horizontal, and longitudinal spectrums—
In both superficial and artificial ways, you have haunted me.
Ah, but still—cannot I erase your name from the fruit of every essentiality;
You are the sweet tyranny of my soul, and the leaves of my very gay sensibility;
You are the throne of my love; you are the specified satire—
though but funny and not—you are my destiny.
 
Like a vinyl birch tree that howls when stabbed, I have become your prey;
I shall wait for you at dawn and give my whole self to you at dusk.
I shall wait for you to claim my destined—and prescribed heart;
I shall wait for you to finish your abominable task,
As long as you can emerge for me—and listen to my poems and follow what I say.
 
And like a scar that stays for long in one's fair skin;
You are stubborn though things not go well;
Ah, let's now confess that your heart needs me;
But still—you are too proud, and far too docile, to admit your sin.
The question now is: how should we ever eradicate love?
Love is a prison, I know, and it is the most unforgiving jail;
It is merciless and painted by colours of abomination;
And nothing in it is plentiful—like Him in the shivering sky;
It is where tears crowd and gather—as I have perused;
It is where insolence and crudeness unite—even when not provoked.
 
Ah, my love, but have I fallen into this snare of love—whether or not I want it;
And your gaze is still the sole sweetness I hope to meet;
Never is my love sweeter—or petite, than a grain of wheat;
You are the foreverness for whom I shall sweat;
 
And in the loss of you lies my venomous assassination;
And I am wary now—and afraid of facing this everlasting trepidation;
Your shadows shall never go away, and for this I can be wronged;
For when I am dying—shall my mouth be falling asleep and recite your song.
 
My art has torn; it has been filthily murdered.
Its fervour was lost in, as you saw, just one wave of scenic mortality—
But still, the true essence might still be there, as it was once fertilised—
As by you, my Imagist, my Wilde, I was terrifically astonished by you.
You are my painting, my picture, and even the shared portrait of my self.
You share my veins, as how I supposedly hold some share of your blood.
Ah, and I remember now, how your warm blood did once touch my wrists—
So engagingly, so thrillingly, so brilliantly.
My heart, my head, my mind—all were brutally consumed by thee.
 
I want to die by thee, but you pierced my heart—
and in brief, made my spine grow dead tears;
Everything grew worse and I was manifested into your bitter triangle;
I was your lonesome moon who got forgotten soon;
Ah, it seems that yon French lady is better than I am—
With her curly hair and tittering oceanic eyes,
She was the filter of your noons, the storms
And devilish desires of your nights.
She was as gusty and spooky as the windblown thorn;
poisonous were her words, but still, you carried yourself to her.
I fretted and screamed and my blood gurgled—
but I guess I was fortunate still;
for I had the chance to keep myself pure and chaste
while you unstoppably sinned and defiled yourself.
So you were disgraced.
 
And you were enduringly consumed by your own fires;
The fires to which you confined yourself;
Not the calming, sooting, leafy bonfires we use in winter;
but ones you will also greet in the earth after.
Ah, thee, I felt but disgust towards your molested heart and deeds;
You grew for yourself, instead good ones—sick, avoidable seeds.
At that time, I swore to never ever share any more of my blood with you;
I would looked for one more honest, playful; one decorated with more virtues.
 
But still—as I said before,
I have again decided to sit and pray for you.
While my love for the other is not true;
It has faded and you are irreplaceable still;
You are congested, invalid, and not new;
But should you come back again to me;
I shall receive you with open hands
And one seal of heartfelt goodwill.
Ah, my love, look at the smiling heavens above—
As night deepens and snowfalls come low,
I shall think and think again about our postponed love—
Which, perhaps—though happens not amongst the jumble of this juvenile night,
Shall come again when dusk is cleared, and the first bud of spring leaps into sight.

My cogitation suffers inside
Pleasured by neglected infections.
I will damage your insides
Leave you naked and misdirected
Naturally Im taught to take what's mine
Leave emotions uncollected.
Push aside honest lies, unfaithful dreams,
You die inside every time you fail to speak.
Im the darkness you love
The disaster you carelessly seek
The trouble you need,
The obsession that initiates your thoughts to bleed
Lets leave our fantasies to be teased
Beg for the sin of love on our knees.

My only regret
I didn’t stick it out with you
Promised I’d fight
But when things got congested and tight
I walked out
Wish I never did
Wish we didn’t live on two different soils but we did

My only regret
I didn’t leave you when I had the chance
I couldn’t eat
Nights without sleep
Never thought something like this would happen to me
I was faithful since day one
But that still didn’t stop you from cheating  

My only regret
Falling in love
Again
Despite the thoughts in my head
Warning me
Don’t do it
Falling in love is stupid
And when it’s over your going to feel useless
Realizing love is a combination best served without you

for all it's worth, this "clear" distinction between subjectivity, and objectivity, well... it has no place in america... america doesn't understand that its "free" speech bias is too ingrained in subjectivity... in emotion... america doesn't know dialectics, simply because it always cites there being a distinction in debate: americans! come on! they're hot-headed cowboys, and not old & senile socrates types! all he really said was: i'm on my way out, why not? you say too much, you end up saying nothing... then again: you say nothing: but then give a look, and ****! a tolstoy novel drops from a frank sinatra song: as carelessly, as a penny.

don't know about you, but this is how i feel,
most of the the time,
having digested a few minutes of
a youtube video...
    might as well **** on me, kick me
a few times, then pour petrol on me,
then **** me with a wine bottle -
while holding a gun to my head,
threatening me: you ****** don't moan:
i'll pull the trigger...
    literally? i find looking at ***** more appealing
than hearing this *******,
i'd rather spend the night with the essex
foxes laughing into the night, all the night
through... or dogs barking...
why? well... i swear to god i'm in
a *thesaurus prison; esp. coming from h'america;
i'm bored, this verbal diarrhoea is
******* me off: can you please shut up?!
can you please shut up: 'cos i'm trying to think!
i know, i know it's an unfamiliar concept
to you *******, but some of us:
actually do, enjoying this faculty,
   the "non-sense";
i don't see the point of arguing for free speech,
it just end up a thesaurus debate,
wait, better: a thesaurus prison -
  out goes the dictionary -
and yes, the "art" of rhetoric / sophism =
hates the dictionary -
  in all honesty, i'd love for someone to
make the "schoolboy error"
  of asking for a meaning of some obscure word...
i'd love to see it taking place...
    but my prime beef? the spin,
the thesaurus prison of free speech law making:
can't you be content with the freedom to
think, that you have to throw a banana tongue
into the broth?
        i'm a man, so yeah: i sometimes
sound incoherent, perhaps grunting to say
yes, or shrugging my shoulders to say no...
but i don't like this thesaurus prison
of the american dedication to the freedom to speak...
it really does come down to a game of a thesaurus...
look at it as this:
   all this glorification of individualism...
that's celebrated, right?
     the concept of individualism is sat on
a peddle-stool, and glorified...
    the first icon, bowed before, sacrificed for...
but enter this "freedom of speech" *******...
and yes, the thesaurus prison
  of what "free speech" invokes...
  the shittest, most boring game ever allowed
to run the "upper" tier of civilisation:
i'd prefer the freedom to **** in congested
public places...
    you know, it's more painful to have to restrain
a **** on a crowded train than
it is: saying some ******* non-dialectical
prompt?
    the freedom to speak whatever you want,
well, sometimes it doesn't attract dialectics -
and that's crucial...
   if you're not a ****'s worth of a "maxim",
and you don't attract the bothersome
cloud of flies that's dialectics: who, the, ****,
gives a **** what you have to say?
  there's no point in having a freedom
of speech: if it sometimes, only sometimes,
attracts dialectics...
  and who can guarantee that happening
every, single, time?
  +, all this talk of individualism?
   hence the thesaurus prison and a complete
mind-**** to add...
  some american called solipsism
a mental illness...
        oh, right? you sure?
  don't you think the concept of synonyms works?
individual : solo -
           ism : ism -
      not akin?
             if solipsism ≠ individualism:
i'll shave my head, tattoo my *** in hieroglyphs,
and put on a transgender persona
asking people around me to call me
sandy; ****, the bothersome ***** just
became double the bothersome,
and turned into gnats.
   and yes, the only "voice" i like to hear:
is the one that downs a ***** ms. pepsi
sharpshooter...
          what's the point of "free" speech:
you have no dialectical interest in the speech?
might as well wish for
a helium breath rather than a carbon dioxide
breath, and blow up enough balloons
for a girl's birthday, filling up an entire
room with them: to surprise her.

In good nature
or a manipulative experiment,
I continued to devour
your last leftovers
from boxes signed
in your name,
as average roommates do,
cluttering the sink
with such vile remains
under murky waters, stagnant
from congested plumbing,
all in hopes to one day
hear your voice.

this day was dark
lost sunshine and broken realities
clashing in a congested space
on this day
there was no dawn
only raindrops
time had forgotten its job
mouths had forgotten thier smiles
on this day, fire was crowned king
merciless
ripping through bones
mutilating skin
today, my nature has brought me death
the distant friend
now gazing into my eyes
on this day, I do not run from him.
arms wide
embracing falsified truths.
fight no longer embedded in my being.
this day, is the day.

I sit, misty-headed, contemplating change;
Wondering what constitutes that narrow goal.
Because I've come to realize something strange
That cannot connect its parts to the whole:
Change may require forgiveness to the man
That took from me the desire to forgive.
Yet I do not say he abandoned and ran
Instead he gave me choices he wished to live.
And, like a child, he struck ignorantly
At that which seemed to cause him the greatest pain.
A boy, grown into a man, if he could see
Me. A man walking with his head high in the rain;
A warm voice that caresses the souls of those
That need a strong word whispered into their ear.
A man capable of strength. A man that flows.
That recognizes weakness isn't a tear.
So, whenever your childish life is done,
You're welcome to be a father to your son.

/             conversation over a bbq dinner
being given the information
over a new M.I. movie..
i really think tom cruise
should have won an oscar for -
        born on the 4th of july...
without bias,
   but given the oscar award for
the grunting and heaving,
and minimal dialogue / monologue
of leonardo's the revenant?
the world is a cul de sac...
  and what remains of it...
is a shitshow worth, of a congested street
with nothing but, paupers /
            window-shoppers to be lined up;
mannequins coming alive
     and taking to disco dancing
the hell out of having donned
       a boney m afro;
                 drunk, squinty eyed...
   looking around, surmising my
                    thought with...            huh?!
it's a good thing i'm this good at
drinking, never having dropped acid.

~~
In touch of you,
one day, thousands of dreams grew on me
after that you left me in halfway
then little by little I have almost forgotten my dreams
forgotten that dreamy highway where there we walked together

Today I'm walking alone,
so alone,
towards an unknown way,
where there I hear my wounded dreams
and my love calling me,
calling me as if they are in a trap
As if they are in a cage
where there I see a narrow way,
I never go through such a way,
very congested,
little bit hazy,
too shadow,
dark,
and a few footsteps that I have seen
where there my dreams calling,
my lost love calling,
calling too loudly

Again I feel my heart has overflowed
floating over my lost dreams,
flooding over my lost love

I'm walking through that narrow way
little by little that sound has seemed strong,
little by little I have heard her voice to grow long
may be I am so close to my love,
so close to my dreams
my right hand moving,
moving through the dark
I try to break the shadow,
try to catch my dreams
I have become tired,
Try to take a little breath
and finally,
I break the shadow,
shatter the dark
and finding her within the dark
seeking my dreams within the shadow
but I can't see anything,

Yet the clock moving on--
still I'm uttering her name
and dreaming within my thousands of daydreams
where I had left one long spring--
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen


---------------------------------
হাজারো স্বপ্ন ও একটি ভালবাসা
---------------------------------
তোমার স্পর্শে
একদিন যখন হাজারো স্বপ্ন
বুদবুদ করতো--  
তারপর মাঝ রাস্তায় রেখে
চলে গেলে তুমি--
আস্তে আস্তে
ভুলে যেতে থাকলাম সপ্ন গুলোকে,
ভুলে যেতে থাকলাম সেই স্বপ্নের রাজপথ
যে পথে হাটতাম আমরা -

আজ আমি একা
বড় একা-
এক অচেনা রাস্তায় হাটি,
যেখানে শুনতে পাই,
আমার আহত সপ্নেরা,
আমার হারানো ভালবাসা,
আমায় ডাকে-
শুনে যেন মনে হয়
তারা বড় অসহায়,  
মনে হই তারা বন্দী,
সেখানে একটা সরু রাস্তা দেখতে পাই
এমন রাস্তায় আগে কখনো যাই নাই
খুবিই দমবন্ধ করা-
খুবিই দুর্ভেদ্য-
ঘন ছায়া,
অন্ধকার,
ঔইখানে কিছু পদচিন্হ দেখি
সেখানে স্বপ্নরা ডাকে,
হারানো ভালবাসা ডাকে,
উচু স্বরে ডাকে-

আবার হৃদয় প্লাবিত হয়
যা ভাসছে হারানো সপ্নের উপর
প্লাবিত হচ্চে হারানো ভালোবাসের উপর

আমি সেই সংকীর্ণ রাস্তা দিয়া হাটি
আস্তে আস্তে শব্দগুলো স্পষ্ট হয়
আস্তে আস্তে  তার সুর সুনতে পাই
হইত আমি ভালবাসার খুবই কাছে
হইত সপ্নের খুবই কাছে
ডান হাত সরছে
চলছে আধারের মধ্যে দিয়ে
চেষ্টা করি ওই ছায়াকে দূর করতে
চেষ্টা করি স্বপ্নকে ধরতে
দারুন ক্লান্ত,
চেষ্টা করি একটু শ্বাস নিতে
এবং শেষে,
মুছে ফেলি ওই ছায়া
বন্ধ করি ওই আধার
খুজি ওই আধারে ভালোবাসা
খুজি সপ্নকে  ওই ছায়াতে
কিন্তু পাইনা খুঁজে কিছুই-

এখনো ঘড়ির কাটা ঘুরে
প্রতিনিয়ত তার নাম উচার্রণ করি  
সপ্নদেখি শত সহস্র দিবাস্বপ্নের মাঝে  
যেখানে আমি ফেলে এসেছি দীর্ঘ এক বসন্ত--
~~
@মুসফিক উস সালেহীন

State Fair, Kentucky 2013

by Yoko Molotov and David Willams


It’s time for the State Fair,
today is the last day of summer.

love all the animals. pet all the animals.
cook all the animals. eat all the animals.

inflatable prizes on a stick, slowly deflating,
it’s the childhood's defeat-
they are lying lifeless in the backseat.

guess your
birthday,
weight or age
within 3 days,
20lbs, or 3 years.
junk on tables for looks at-
key rings, magnets and stickers.
Formal complaints.

white people.
Starving ducklings leap and fall
while snotty babies squeal at them.
Obama, I'm a friend of Mitch.
donate 3$ to the GOP.
I fed an estranged Grandpa
roasted pecans.

country people. concrete floors.
legs. legs long and legs glossed.
Thousands of people and two thousands of crocs.
pillars of ivory, blue and dimpled.
sunburn, wife beaters, and university shirts.
(THAT'S IT, I'M TELLING MEMAW, your shirts are beautiful)
beautiful lips
and toothless maws.

half-hearted, half-heated corn dogs and overpriced
beers, I can never finish an ice cream so
I usually leave the cone lying to be
sat in.
Dead bugs in a box and bug puke in my mouth.
A salad made from blue ribbon tobacco and light bulb tomatoes.
everything smells like popcorn, **** and tradition.

Joseph's Dreamcoat worn in some nobody's county.
you're my favorite gingerbread girl.
lover's quarrels are illegal, thanks.
everyone has the right to be miserable, thanks.

bovine pet request,
dumb static and docile eyes, do they ever change?
does any of it really change?
at some point all the cows petted will be digested and shat out.

congested aisles, shoving and trampling,
the mobilized morbidly obese in carts
WWJD?
a fat stone in a brainless trout stream.
the failing pan salesman hawking his wares,
no one in attendance, wearing a headset (a real go-getter)
and holding his pan like a flag.

the really poor families come to the fair
because it's cheap entertainment,
and it's cheap tradition.
and these struggling families
trudge proudly in faded Kmart attire-
an exhibition the pretentious call
"people watching".

separating oneself from the herd of undesirables,
a pasty man
with his head awkwardly on a pillow,
trying to convince an apathetic and bloated crowd
the perfection of his product,
his head a bit like road ****.
he's selling but the
crowd walks on-on-on.


Was there more guano under the bridge or beyond the gates?

I can still recall
The oddest things
About our embraces

The warmth of her blotchy cheeks;
Swollen like water balloons
Beneath my fingers

The scent of tears and perfume
A salty fume of womanhood
Swirling in my nostrils

The clogged up tone of her congested sniffles
Vaguely feminine snorts
Bouncing around my ears

I can still recall
The oddest things
About our embraces

They were all
So
Sad

Wonder for all the hurts

First I knelt just to see my reflection then the depths started to reveal first the flowing thoughts were
Restrained and then a bubbling seemed to dislodge from greater depths hard truths churned with
Violent twisting but the motion made it impossible to turn away there were great large white clouds
From depths then even above the pool they rose fourteen stories high the sensation was you were
Standing outside clear air intoxicating views the pulse of many were throbbing in your ears their
Thoughts and dreams were known and their sorrows were weights that pulled you from the heights
It was a colossal game of tag and you were it first reaction fear then the appearance of bundled gifts
Broke down the fear it was promise in different sizes that met the required needs it was like a divine
Warehouse had just made a delivery there were cards with names and writing gave clarification tears
And smiles intermingled then the outer knowing postulated the difficulty the puzzle an enormous
Streaming that was now congested and it was beginning a vortex all was understood now human thought
With doubts was pulling the answer into this destructive hole where was one to find the lever to stop
This action that would disallow was the answer to touch the water bring the finger to my lips possibly
A blazing thought would occur that would strike the mind no all that brought was words that had the
Letters jumbled they made no sense unless there is a special book that is alive in it the letters and words
Are already set but they cover every act in the human condition the broken can pour over the pages
You won’t find thorns to repel your efforts there are thorns but they will speak and assuage your hurts
At the most basic and needed levels the points of your hurts will begin to dissolve from your eyes to
Your mind this inward rush and power will dislodge even spears driven deep by enemies carried for
Years you searched in vain over sad and lonely paths and days now you journey is at an end thorns of
Suffering for another produces profound power and mercy go in peace beloved one another bears your
Burden now maybe words cut you at depths you can’t even identify what if there is an antidote in a
Book you pick it up with trembling hands your body tingles from the knowledge that this is ancient texts
It will have a revival of appreciation in this world of texting but with gentle fingers and eyes that glow
With respect as you see the wisdom and the love cannot be denied you leave the world you know and
With total abandonment you swim in this sea of words until the your tears spill on this rich world of
Words those cruel barbed words that pierced tender skin and have bled internally all of these years
Begin to dissolve with stories and accounts of betrayals then the swells love and mercy you read about
Restoration not always found after apologies are given but the teaching of forgiveness strikes a cord
You have been made free from your prison the tangles of life are great as a great black cloud it hangs
Over head many are its troubles this isn’t mild but the disruptive made to strike and pierce deep the
Hidden that steals the morning blessing while other feast your hunger and unrest only enlarges a
Tormenting unquenchable fire a slow burn this is a forest being burned at the thermal level the hidden
Roots a slow process destructive but not so visible agony torture I have seen men crawl in war or fire
Fighting that where all else is lost you will know greater thrills than any other living soul with the
Desperate and those heavy burdened unable to stand a word will flow it puts out fires and gives
The luxurious buoyancy heaviness changed to joy the bouncy laughter every outward blast attack
The enemy launches is within its pages they are repelled overwhelmed by love you suffer unduly
If you don’t hold this fortress this informative book of stratagems that have made everyone a victor
Who has ever found themselves at their wits end no place on earth has a contingency plan though it
Will make the greatest claims all is just empty air when life as it too often does ***** the very air of life
Out we practically are unconscious but this help this rescue is activated by one name it’s not just a book
But the word is a person what a pool you will find what a reflection will engage you beyond your hope
To imagine just say Jesus all will be total peace your heart will know no more sorrow peace will surpass
Sorrow love will disallow the specter that was once a constant it will disappear it will return to the
Darkness from which it came stand in this newness totally free abide by still waters as the good
Sheppard stands by bless you

First Kiss (Act II - Miami Vice) A Rock Opera

Rachel's plane set down at 2:45 at the Miami Dade Airport.
She was anxious to get off of the plane after a 6 hour flight,
and of course the concourse was jammed full of smiling faces,
weeping faces, noisy children, old people, fat people, tall people,
Cubans, Europeans, Asians, hustling and bustling about.
Rachel and Daniel had of course exchanged photos so they both
knew exactly who they were looking for. Rachel of course was a
bit overdressed having left the UK in 40 degree rainy weather,
only to arrive in balmy Miami where is was 82. After finally
being able to stand and gather up her carry on bags, she
anxiously started down the aisle to exit the aircraft, up the
exit ramp and out into the gate receiving area. After a few
panicky moments, she finally spotted Daniel, and when their
eyes finally met, she felt a new bounce in her step and an
excitement building in her body, as both their faces were covered
with huge smiles. They finally reached each other and embraced,
a long, long embrace. They finally stepped apart from each other
and just stared at each other in disbelief. “is this really happening”,
Daniel asked Rachel. “yes, finally” Rachel said half laughing, and then
they kissed. For the first time their lips met and they both meleted
into each others arms, forgetting for the moment that they were in
a public arena, though most of the people were busy with their own
lives and paid little attention to them except for a few smiling glances.
That first kiss was all and more of what each had expected. The fire
of love was burning inside each of them at that moment, just waiting
for an excuse to burst into flames.
  
They scurried down the wide concourse aisle and headed toward
the escalator down to the baggage pick up area. Walking hand in hand,
looking at each other with still those big grins on their faces. They
finally were able to secure Rachel's luggage and headed out the door
to the parking garage where Daniel's car was parked on the 3rd level.

As they started to cross the busy 4 lane road to get to the garage,
Daniel suddenly looked up and saw a vehicle traveling at a much too
high rate of speed for this congested area. He grabbed Rachel's arm
and pulled her back as the car went speeding by. A couple of shots rang
out from the passing vehicle and barely missed them bouncing off the wall
behind them. They both looked at each other totally startled.

The night was ringing, with violent sounds,
the echoes of turbulent dreams were flying,
being chased by villians, like foxes and hounds,
through the streets, hear the voices crying

seems he had been, a witness of crime,
he was offering his service to the city,
the cartel found out, he was taking the time,
his interventions would allow for no pity

duck your heads, run for the cover,
these beasts of violence, will sure take your life
hide with the Feds, save your lover,
be wary of traitors, they cut like a knife
      
the wailing of sirens, tear through the night,
warnings of immanent danger for you,
seek out the dark, stay out of the light,
you and your lover with your love so true

duck your heads, run for the cover,
these beasts of violence, will sure take your life
hide with the Feds, save your lover,
be wary of traitors, they cut like a knife

Still thinking of that First Kiss ….

Gomer LePoet