Lancaster bore him—such a little town,
Such a great man. It doesn’t see him often
Of late years, though he keeps the old homestead
And sends the children down there with their mother
To run wild in the summer—a little wild.
Sometimes he joins them for a day or two
And sees old friends he somehow can’t get near.
They meet him in the general store at night,
Pre-occupied with formidable mail,
Rifling a printed letter as he talks.
They seem afraid. He wouldn’t have it so:
Though a great scholar, he’s a democrat,
If not at heart, at least on principle.
Lately when coming up to Lancaster
His train being late he missed another train
And had four hours to wait at Woodsville Junction
After eleven o’clock at night. Too tired
To think of sitting such an ordeal out,
He turned to the hotel to find a bed.

“No room,” the night clerk said. “Unless——”
Woodsville’s a place of shrieks and wandering lamps
And cars that shook and rattle—and one hotel.

“You say ‘unless.’”

“Unless you wouldn’t mind
Sharing a room with someone else.”

“Who is it?”

“A man.”

“So I should hope. What kind of man?”

“I know him: he’s all right. A man’s a man.
Separate beds of course you understand.”
The night clerk blinked his eyes and dared him on.

“Who’s that man sleeping in the office chair?
Has he had the refusal of my chance?”

“He was afraid of being robbed or murdered.
What do you say?”

“I’ll have to have a bed.”

The night clerk led him up three flights of stairs
And down a narrow passage full of doors,
At the last one of which he knocked and entered.
“Lafe, here’s a fellow wants to share your room.”

“Show him this way. I’m not afraid of him.
I’m not so drunk I can’t take care of myself.”

The night clerk clapped a bedstead on the foot.
“This will be yours. Good-night,” he said, and went.

“Lafe was the name, I think?”

“Yes, Layfayette.
You got it the first time. And yours?”

“Magoon.

Doctor Magoon.”

“A Doctor?”

“Well, a teacher.”

“Professor Square-the-circle-till-you’re-tired?
Hold on, there’s something I don’t think of now
That I had on my mind to ask the first
Man that knew anything I happened in with.
I’ll ask you later—don’t let me forget it.”

The Doctor looked at Lafe and looked away.
A man? A brute. Naked above the waist,
He sat there creased and shining in the light,
Fumbling the buttons in a well-starched shirt.
“I’m moving into a size-larger shirt.
I’ve felt mean lately; mean’s no name for it.
I just found what the matter was to-night:
I’ve been a-choking like a nursery tree
When it outgrows the wire band of its name tag.
I blamed it on the hot spell we’ve been having.
’Twas nothing but my foolish hanging back,
Not liking to own up I’d grown a size.
Number eighteen this is. What size do you wear?”

The Doctor caught his throat convulsively.
“Oh—ah—fourteen—fourteen.”

“Fourteen! You say so!
I can remember when I wore fourteen.
And come to think I must have back at home
More than a hundred collars, size fourteen.
Too bad to waste them all. You ought to have them.
They’re yours and welcome; let me send them to you.
What makes you stand there on one leg like that?
You’re not much furtherer than where **** left you.
You act as if you wished you hadn’t come.
Sit down or lie down, friend; you make me nervous.”

The Doctor made a subdued dash for it,
And propped himself at bay against a pillow.

“Not that way, with your shoes on ****’s white bed.
You can’t rest that way. Let me pull your shoes off.”

“Don’t touch me, please—I say, don’t touch me, please.
I’ll not be put to bed by you, my man.”

“Just as you say. Have it your own way then.
‘My man’ is it? You talk like a professor.
Speaking of who’s afraid of who, however,
I’m thinking I have more to lose than you
If anything should happen to be wrong.
Who wants to cut your number fourteen throat!
Let’s have a show down as an evidence
Of good faith. There is ninety dollars.
Come, if you’re not afraid.”

“I‘m not afraid.
There’s five: that’s all I carry.”

“I can search you?
Where are you moving over to? Stay still.
You’d better tuck your money under you
And sleep on it the way I always do
When I’m with people I don’t trust at night.”

“Will you believe me if I put it there
Right on the counterpane—that I do trust you?”

“You’d say so, Mister Man.—I’m a collector.
My ninety isn’t mine—you won’t think that.
I pick it up a dollar at a time
All round the country for the Weekly News,
Published in Bow. You know the Weekly News?”

“Known it since I was young.”

“Then you know me.
Now we are getting on together—talking.
I’m sort of Something for it at the front.
My business is to find what people want:
They pay for it, and so they ought to have it.
Fairbanks, he says to me—he’s editor—
Feel out the public sentiment—he says.
A good deal comes on me when all is said.
The only trouble is we disagree
In politics: I’m Vermont Democrat—
You know what that is, sort of double-dyed;
The News has always been Republican.
Fairbanks, he says to me, ‘Help us this year,’
Meaning by us their ticket. ‘No,’ I says,
‘I can’t and won’t. You’ve been in long enough:
It’s time you turned around and boosted us.
You’ll have to pay me more than ten a week
If I’m expected to elect Bill Taft.
I doubt if I could do it anyway.’”

“You seem to shape the paper’s policy.”

“You see I’m in with everybody, know ’em all.
I almost know their farms as well as they do.”

“You drive around? It must be pleasant work.”

“It’s business, but I can’t say it’s not fun.
What I like best’s the lay of different farms,
Coming out on them from a stretch of woods,
Or over a hill or round a sudden corner.
I like to find folks getting out in spring,
Raking the dooryard, working near the house.
Later they get out further in the fields.
Everything’s shut sometimes except the barn;
The family’s all away in some back meadow.
There’s a hay load a-coming—when it comes.
And later still they all get driven in:
The fields are stripped to lawn, the garden patches
Stripped to bare ground, the apple trees
To whips and poles. There’s nobody about.
The chimney, though, keeps up a good brisk smoking.
And I lie back and ride. I take the reins
Only when someone’s coming, and the mare
Stops when she likes: I tell her when to go.
I’ve spoiled Jemima in more ways than one.
She’s got so she turns in at every house
As if she had some sort of curvature,
No matter if I have no errand there.
She thinks I’m sociable. I maybe am.
It’s seldom I get down except for meals, though.
Folks entertain me from the kitchen doorstep,
All in a family row down to the youngest.”

“One would suppose they might not be as glad
To see you as you are to see them.”

“Oh,
Because I want their dollar. I don’t want
Anything they’ve not got. I never dun.
I’m there, and they can pay me if they like.
I go nowhere on purpose: I happen by.
Sorry there is no cup to give you a drink.
I drink out of the bottle—not your style.
Mayn’t I offer you——?”

“No, no, no, thank you.”

“Just as you say. Here’s looking at you then.—
And now I’m leaving you a little while.
You’ll rest easier when I’m gone, perhaps—
Lie down—let yourself go and get some sleep.
But first—let’s see—what was I going to ask you?
Those collars—who shall I address them to,
Suppose you aren’t awake when I come back?”

“Really, friend, I can’t let you. You—may need them.”

“Not till I shrink, when they’ll be out of style.”

“But really I—I have so many collars.”

“I don’t know who I rather would have have them.
They’re only turning yellow where they are.
But you’re the doctor as the saying is.
I’ll put the light out. Don’t you wait for me:
I’ve just begun the night. You get some sleep.
I’ll knock so-fashion and peep round the door
When I come back so you’ll know who it is.
There’s nothing I’m afraid of like scared people.
I don’t want you should shoot me in the head.
What am I doing carrying off this bottle?
There now, you get some sleep.”

He shut the door.
The Doctor slid a little down the pillow.

Ulysses was left in the cloister, pondering on the means whereby
with Minerva’s help he might be able to **** the suitors. Presently he
said to Telemachus, “Telemachus, we must get the armour together and
take it down inside. Make some excuse when the suitors ask you why you
have removed it. Say that you have taken it to be out of the way of
the smoke, inasmuch as it is no longer what it was when Ulysses went
away, but has become soiled and begrimed with soot. Add to this more
particularly that you are afraid Jove may set them on to quarrel
over their wine, and that they may do each other some harm which may
disgrace both banquet and wooing, for the sight of arms sometimes
tempts people to use them.”
  Telemachus approved of what his father had said, so he called
nurse Euryclea and said, “Nurse, shut the women up in their room,
while I take the armour that my father left behind him down into the
store room. No one looks after it now my father is gone, and it has
got all smirched with soot during my own boyhood. I want to take it
down where the smoke cannot reach it.”
  “I wish, child,” answered Euryclea, “that you would take the
management of the house into your own hands altogether, and look after
all the property yourself. But who is to go with you and light you
to the store room? The maids would have so, but you would not let
them.
  “The stranger,” said Telemachus, “shall show me a light; when people
eat my bread they must earn it, no matter where they come from.”
  Euryclea did as she was told, and bolted the women inside their
room. Then Ulysses and his son made all haste to take the helmets,
shields, and spears inside; and Minerva went before them with a gold
lamp in her hand that shed a soft and brilliant radiance, whereon
Telemachus said, “Father, my eyes behold a great marvel: the walls,
with the rafters, crossbeams, and the supports on which they rest
are all aglow as with a flaming fire. Surely there is some god here
who has come down from heaven.”
  “Hush,” answered Ulysses, “hold your peace and ask no questions, for
this is the manner of the gods. Get you to your bed, and leave me here
to talk with your mother and the maids. Your mother in her grief
will ask me all sorts of questions.”
  On this Telemachus went by torch-light to the other side of the
inner court, to the room in which he always slept. There he lay in his
bed till morning, while Ulysses was left in the cloister pondering
on the means whereby with Minerva’s help he might be able to ****
the suitors.
  Then Penelope came down from her room looking like Venus or Diana,
and they set her a seat inlaid with scrolls of silver and ivory near
the fire in her accustomed place. It had been made by Icmalius and had
a footstool all in one piece with the seat itself; and it was
covered with a thick fleece: on this she now sat, and the maids came
from the women’s room to join her. They set about removing the
tables at which the wicked suitors had been dining, and took away
the bread that was left, with the cups from which they had drunk. They
emptied the embers out of the braziers, and heaped much wood upon them
to give both light and heat; but Melantho began to rail at Ulysses a
second time and said, “Stranger, do you mean to plague us by hanging
about the house all night and spying upon the women? Be off, you
wretch, outside, and eat your supper there, or you shall be driven out
with a firebrand.”
  Ulysses scowled at her and answered, “My good woman, why should
you be so angry with me? Is it because I am not clean, and my
clothes are all in rags, and because I am obliged to go begging
about after the manner of tramps and beggars generall? I too was a
rich man once, and had a fine house of my own; in those days I gave to
many a ***** such as I now am, no matter who he might be nor what he
wanted. I had any number of servants, and all the other things which
people have who live well and are accounted wealthy, but it pleased
Jove to take all away from me; therefore, woman, beware lest you too
come to lose that pride and place in which you now wanton above your
fellows; have a care lest you get out of favour with your mistress,
and lest Ulysses should come home, for there is still a chance that he
may do so. Moreover, though he be dead as you think he is, yet by
Apollo’s will he has left a son behind him, Telemachus, who will
note anything done amiss by the maids in the house, for he is now no
longer in his boyhood.”
  Penelope heard what he was saying and scolded the maid, “Impudent
baggage, said she, “I see how abominably you are behaving, and you
shall smart for it. You knew perfectly well, for I told you myself,
that I was going to see the stranger and ask him about my husband, for
whose sake I am in such continual sorrow.”
  Then she said to her head waiting woman Eurynome, “Bring a seat with
a fleece upon it, for the stranger to sit upon while he tells his
story, and listens to what I have to say. I wish to ask him some
questions.”
  Eurynome brought the seat at once and set a fleece upon it, and as
soon as Ulysses had sat down Penelope began by saying, “Stranger, I
shall first ask you who and whence are you? Tell me of your town and
parents.”
  “Madam;” answered Ulysses, “who on the face of the whole earth can
dare to chide with you? Your fame reaches the firmament of heaven
itself; you are like some blameless king, who upholds righteousness,
as the monarch over a great and valiant nation: the earth yields its
wheat and barley, the trees are loaded with fruit, the ewes bring
forth lambs, and the sea abounds with fish by reason of his virtues,
and his people do good deeds under him. Nevertheless, as I sit here in
your house, ask me some other question and do not seek to know my race
and family, or you will recall memories that will yet more increase my
sorrow. I am full of heaviness, but I ought not to sit weeping and
wailing in another person’s house, nor is it well to be thus
grieving continually. I shall have one of the servants or even
yourself complaining of me, and saying that my eyes swim with tears
because I am heavy with wine.”
  Then Penelope answered, “Stranger, heaven robbed me of all beauty,
whether of face or figure, when the Argives set sail for Troy and my
dear husband with them. If he were to return and look after my affairs
I should be both more respected and should show a better presence to
the world. As it is, I am oppressed with care, and with the
afflictions which heaven has seen fit to heap upon me. The chiefs from
all our islands—Dulichium, Same, and Zacynthus, as also from Ithaca
itself, are wooing me against my will and are wasting my estate. I can
therefore show no attention to strangers, nor suppliants, nor to
people who say that they are skilled artisans, but am all the time
brokenhearted about Ulysses. They want me to marry again at once,
and I have to invent stratagems in order to deceive them. In the first
place heaven put it in my mind to set up a great tambour-frame in my
room, and to begin working upon an enormous piece of fine
needlework. Then I said to them, ‘Sweethearts, Ulysses is indeed dead,
still, do not press me to marry again immediately; wait—for I would
not have my skill in needlework perish unrecorded—till I have
finished making a pall for the hero Laertes, to be ready against the
time when death shall take him. He is very rich, and the women of
the place will talk if he is laid out without a pall.’ This was what I
said, and they assented; whereon I used to keep working at my great
web all day long, but at night I would unpick the stitches again by
torch light. I fooled them in this way for three years without their
finding it out, but as time wore on and I was now in my fourth year,
in the waning of moons, and many days had been accomplished, those
good-for-nothing hussies my maids betrayed me to the suitors, who
broke in upon me and caught me; they were very angry with me, so I was
forced to finish my work whether I would or no. And now I do not see
how I can find any further shift for getting out of this marriage.
My parents are putting great pressure upon me, and my son chafes at
the ravages the suitors are making upon his estate, for he is now
old enough to understand all about it and is perfectly able to look
after his own affairs, for heaven has blessed him with an excellent
disposition. Still, notwithstanding all this, tell me who you are
and where you come from—for you must have had father and mother of
some sort; you cannot be the son of an oak or of a rock.”
  Then Ulysses answered, “madam, wife of Ulysses, since you persist in
asking me about my family, I will answer, no matter what it costs
me: people must expect to be pained when they have been exiles as long
as I have, and suffered as much among as many peoples. Nevertheless,
as regards your question I will tell you all you ask. There is a
fair and fruitful island in mid-ocean called Crete; it is thickly
peopled and there are nine cities in it: the people speak many
different languages which overlap one another, for there are Achaeans,
brave Eteocretans, Dorians of three-fold race, and noble Pelasgi.
There is a great town there, Cnossus, where Minos reigned who every
nine years had a conference with Jove himself. Minos was father to
Deucalion, whose son I am, for Deucalion had two sons Idomeneus and
myself. Idomeneus sailed for Troy, and I, who am the younger, am
called Aethon; my brother, however, was at once the older and the more
valiant of the two; hence it was in Crete that I saw Ulysses and
showed him hospitality, for the winds took him there as he was on
his way to Troy, carrying him out of his course from cape Malea and
leaving him in Amnisus off the cave of Ilithuia, where the harbours
are difficult to enter and he could hardly find shelter from the winds
that were then xaging. As soon as he got there he went into the town
and asked for Idomeneus, claiming to be his old and valued friend, but
Idomeneus had already set sail for Troy some ten or twelve days
earlier, so I took him to my own house and showed him every kind of
hospitality, for I had abundance of everything. Moreover, I fed the
men who were with him with barley meal from the public store, and
got subscriptions of wine and oxen for them to sacrifice to their
heart’s content. They stayed with me twelve days, for there was a gale
blowing from the North so strong that one could hardly keep one’s feet
on land. I suppose some unfriendly god had raised it for them, but
on the thirteenth day the wind dropped, and they got away.”
  Many a plausible tale did Ulysses further tell her, and Penelope
wept as she listened, for her heart was melted. As the snow wastes
upon the mountain tops when the winds from South East and West have
breathed upon it and thawed it till the rivers run bank full with
water, even so did her cheeks overflow with tears for the husband
who was all the time sitting by her side. Ulysses felt for her and was
for her, but he kept his eyes as hard as or iron without letting
them so much as quiver, so cunningly did he restrain his tears.
Then, when she had relieved herself by weeping, she turned to him
again and said: “Now, stranger, I shall put you to the test and see
whether or no you really did entertain my husband and his men, as
you say you did. Tell me, then, how he was dressed, what kind of a man
he was to look at, and so also with his companions.”
  “Madam,” answered Ulysses, “it is such a long time ago that I can
hardly say. Twenty years are come and gone since he left my home,
and went elsewhither; but I will tell you as well as I can
recollect. Ulysses wore a mantle of purple wool, double lined, and
it was fastened by a gold brooch with two catches for the pin. On
the face of this there was a device that showed a dog holding a
spotted fawn between his fore paws, and watching it as it lay
panting upon the ground. Every one marvelled at the way in which these
things had been done in gold, the dog looking at the fawn, and
strangling it, while the fawn was struggling convulsively to escape.
As for the shirt that he wore next his skin, it was so soft that it
fitted him like the skin of an onion, and glistened in the sunlight to
the admiration of all the women who beheld it. Furthermore I say,
and lay my saying to your heart, that I do not know whether Ulysses
wore these clothes when he left home, or whether one of his companions
had given them to him while he was on his voyage; or possibly some one
at whose house he was staying made him a present of them, for he was a
man of many friends and had few equals among the Achaeans. I myself
gave him a sword of bronze and a beautiful purple mantle, double
lined, with a shirt that went down to his feet, and I sent him on
board his ship with every mark of honour. He had a servant with him, a
little older than himself, and I can tell you what he was like; his
shoulders were hunched, he was dark, and he had thick curly hair.
His name was Eurybates, and Ulysses treated him with greater
familiarity than he did any of the others, as being the most
like-minded with himself.”
  Penelope was moved still more deeply as she heard the indisputable
proofs that Ulysses laid before her; and when she had again found
relief in tears she said to him, “Stranger, I was already disposed
to pity you, but henceforth you shall be honoured and made welcome
in my house. It was I who gave Ulysses the clothes you speak of. I
took them out of the store room and folded them up myself, and I
gave him also the gold brooch to wear as an ornament. Alas! I shall
never welcome him home again. It was by an ill fate that he ever set
out for that detested city whose very name I cannot bring myself
even to mention.”
  Then Ulysses answered, “Madam, wife of Ulysses, do not disfigure
yourself further by grieving thus bitterly for your loss, though I can
hardly blame you for doing so. A woman who has loved her husband and
borne him children, would naturally be grieved at losing him, even
though he were a worse man than Ulysses, who they say was like a
god. Still, cease your tears and listen to what I can tell I will hide
nothing from you, and can say with perfect truth that I have lately
heard of Ulysses as being alive and on his way home; he is among the
Thesprotians, and is bringing back much valuable treasure that he
has begged from one and another of them; but his ship and all his crew
were lost as they were leaving the Thrinacian island, for Jove and the
sun-god were angry with him because his men had slaughtered the
sun-god’s cattle, and they were all drowned to a man. But Ulysses
stuck to the keel of the ship and was drifted on to the land of the
Phaecians, who are near of kin to the immortals, and who treated him
as though he had been a god, giving him many presents, and wishing
to escort him home safe and sound. In fact Ulysses would have been
here long ago, had he not thought better to go from land to land
gathering wealth; for there is no man living who is so wily as he
is; there is no one can compare with him. Pheidon king of the
Thesprotians told me all this, and he swore to me—making
drink-offerings in his house as he did so—that the ship was by the
water side and the crew found who would take Ulysses to his own
country. He sent me off first, for there happened to be a
Thesprotian ship sailing for the wheat-growing island of Dulichium,
but he showed me all treasure Ulysses had got together, and he had
enough lying in the house of king Pheidon to keep his family for ten
generations; but the king said Ulysses had gone to Dodona that he
might learn Jove’s mind from the high oak tree, and know whether after
so long an absence he should return to Ithaca openly or in secret.
So you may know he is safe and will be here shortly; he is close at
hand and cannot remain away from home much longer; nevertheless I will
confirm my words with an oath, and call Jove who is the first and
mightiest of all gods to witness, as also that hearth of Ulysses to
which I have now come, that all I have spoken shall surely come to
pass. Ulysses will return in this self same year; with the end of this
moon and the beginning of the next he will b

a contradiction contracted in
lowest terms are
you.
[it’s metal edges]

your beauty is
of
a
garden
(suspended at mid-
clouds), to enter
and

to say

that in such a
variety of
flowers
there
can not
be
one that
attracts
you

to pick it

to dismantle it
and
to
neglect
the
rest.

[it’s plasticized segments]

you know how to
quickly imprint
yourself
on me

when

you laugh
at times
and
conversely
you weep
and

you are like

those skies
that shake me
to my core

when

they are
blinding
on one hand
and
violently bleak
on the other

so

clearly
fractured
they shake
me pierce
me
pierced
i am
by

you.

[it’s just thinned points]

imagine if
a chameleon
started
to
acquire
each
gradation
of
another
creature
in the form
already
similar
to
it:

where
could
he
ever
escape?

[it’s inconstant semicircles]

(i can not
delineate
you
it is like
sketching
a tidal
wave
nobody
can:

painters

invent them)


[and it’s shoved arches]


i’ll tell you
of
a
woman
her soul
shattered
and

subsequently

imprisoned
splinter by
splinter
in hail
stones

she

fell
and
she felt
herself
crashing
at the same
instant
millions
of times

however

she
never
went
insane.

[it’s torn curves]


(and I know well
how a continuity
interrupted
succeeds
to make
you
fumble
convulsively
but it’s not
enough
for me to
restrain
myself
don’t
ask
me
to)

[it’s petrified vertical axes]

what i see
is
a cross
section of
enclosure
handfuls with
disconcerting
efficiency
consisting
of prisms
and

you know how to decompose

yourself inside
an innocence
delimited
you proceed
by inconstancies
you lacerate
metabolizing
you struggle
silencing
and

i could
only
teach you
one thing:

gray is not
a faded
version
of
black.

"I tried. I tried. I tried."
A scream so desperate it turns into the grating whine of a whipped dog. The begging in the eyes and the white of gripping knuckles.
"I tried, I promise I tried."
The damage is massive. I cradle the shoulders of the full-grown man in my left arm, my right hand hovering helplessly across where half his body used to be. It's too much. He's shaking, trying to pull himself into my chest, based on the feel of his hands. I find his eyes. He's begging, repeating himself with agonizing desperation. I grip his face firmly in my right hand, smearing blood and sweat. The pressure on his jaw slows his words and he is staring at me with the deep-eyed trust of a loyal hound, sinking into the promise of my unwavering gaze.
"You did well," I murmur, giving his head a gentle shake to emphasize my words. I blink to clear the pooling in my eyes. His mouth is open, slack, but he tries a smile. He is choking. On bone or blood, something I cannot see. His legs **** convulsively, but he doesn't seem to notice. He keeps my eyes. I gently rock his head with my hand and his eyes grow absent. His legs grow still.
I weep into his mangled chest.

The crushing waves obliterated me as
the air had settled
stale
my sea was not
black
nor smooth
as glass

but
stones of thought
sent it rippling
as you

you

you twisted the moon in your favor

the wail of
gut wrenching
thoughts

gusts

through the corridors of my mind
       tornado memories
crack my eyes

I stare at my clenched hands
slowly
turning purple from the surging pain
of
remembering

I will
whisper
your

your

name for the first time in days
run it over my teeth and tongue so
slow

I'll savor the bittersweet taste making sure not to swallow
it whole
Shocking black
into a hue of navy blue
My heart sputters
choking

on sharp splitting pain
Convulsively, impulsively

reaching out
my broken fingers for you
They meet frozen
fractured
glass

I shift my weight and I shatter

slipping

slipping through the crack of your abyss.

Outsiders, we have our own exiles, and
the terrors of walls and fences.
The human touch
electrifies, convulsively. Shock. Wash
your hands of it all, the beggars, the crows, the
dispirited continual winter. We want
nothing more than an island

a ditch to dive into

an unmarked grave.

Mercurial Ambrosia / Profitis Ilías and Cinnabar

From the rudiments of the votive offerings that were outlined from the Megaron, a grammar was looming that sought terminologies in the lexicons of those who would intervene in the ruling party of the same patron twin; in such a symbiosis by naming him Mandragoron.  Vernarth came already ready after the fringed platform of the Acrotera modules, and in his affirmation of how he will appear before the plinth of Athenea and Zeus, who were awakening from a reminiscence of the Nemeton Druid, to go in the responsibility of the active life of austerity, and in the greyish roots of Zeus's oak that was rummaging, attend to the lively brushstrokes of three-dimensionality of the "V", which could be seen concentrically in the Pergamon frieze. The "V" emerges from the sculptor's cardiac center of escape and perspective, in the polys-perspective of gigantomachy where Athenea apprehends the suffering Alcyoneus by the hair in a deadly belligerent perspective and in convulsions of Satanic enthronement; Alluding to the apocalyptic epistle of Saint John the Apostle, on the vertical optics of the great Maker of pnemo-images or aerial nuances in the semi-open eyes of the giant suffering in Alcyoneus, with lost encumbrances from the maternal power of his matron Gea, for a polytheistic empire and adverse towards the border of the Christ anointed in unison, and of the better-known reliefs of the Athenea panel. Her contracted forehead and her belly convulsively are constricted, which only leaves us suffering and mortal fear. In the arranged thing the giant loses contact with the mother of him Gea of him; Disappearing land leaving you vulnerable. The sacred serpent of Athenea will **** Alcioneo by biting him on the chest (ibidem Vernarth's suffering pectoral from Bumodos, Tel Gomel.)

Nike will consummate the victory, and then from the exhausted stadiums of the Pergamon amphitheater, Wonthelimar will bring the Victory with the other "V" of the goddess Nike, also borne by Athenea Nikephoros. From this duplicity both are transposed into Vernarth's "V" as an initiatory pseudonym; that will graph the reinforced twin of the Hellenic genesis of Wonthelimar, articulating from this Prótypo with the genesis of the cardinal Mandragoron that will be architectural and deified Vernarthian hierarchy:

Cardinal Mandragoron

- North : Vóreios  (Zefian Boreal)
- South  : Nótos    (Austral of Borker)
- West.  :  Dyticá   (Sunset of Leiak)
- East    :  Aftó       (Equinoctial of Kaitelka)

The Cinnabar Tsambiko, had bushy inclinations with the Mercurial Ambrosia, for the good of large metropolises of Mercurial Pollen, for those of a single deity coming from polytheistic Pergamum, in a flaw that is centrally concentrated in the monotheism of the Mandragoron, which will rise from the rocky of Mount Profitis Ilias from the height of the rhizomatic basalts, to condemn those who betray them, if they are stripped of the Lepidoptera. In the same way akin to a bucolic immortal, in dietetic miraculous, for basal ingenuities of nomenclatures, from the focal point of indigestion that dies with the digestion of sacred food, led by healing perceptions and sensations of the well-known world of ferment. It could be a Backoi, Kykeon, or Nepenthe, preferring to be swallowed by the Titans, to later filter honey that evaporates and volatilizes towards the Sulphurous Cinnabar, containing the bi-compound and sacred Mercurial Ambrosia, to later be disposed of with a vile gargle to the disposition of mortals who were to be immortal like Heracles. From this mythological infundity, the potion for Vernarth is abstracted from smearing it on his nose and on his pectoral, so that his wound that did not heal does not rot...; perhaps his Hellenic heart in rubble anticipated the destruction of future archaeological works. Or perhaps to imbue it in the chest of Achilles, like Vernarth, but it would be so as not to resist fasting. Liquids with entomology and Lepidoptera from Gethsemane in flocks come to clean the scabs of the heroes, who are only able to resist such effusion and subtle prophylaxis, stinging Prometheus a single sip in this new Mercurial Ambrosia.

The dust billows around my torso, a pool of blood

‘Neath my head. My ragged breath gasps in the cold winter air

As i heave convulsively on the soil.

A roar tears out of my being, my eyes wide, bloodshot and hungry

And a violent sweat breaks across my brow.



The pathetic, weak form of my mortal self returns

Once again im forced to submit to the puny, worthless,

Wretched will of the Other Man, He who chooses to reside in the light

He who chooses to live a half-life in the rays of the sun

While i grant his most sacred, his most intimate desires

Billowed in the darkness, hidden from the world.



The ghost of a little girl’s screams shrieks through the morning mist

And I feel the goosebumps of pleasure break across my body, even as

He recoils in fear and disgust. I try to coax him, to gently drive him to the edge

From where He shall drop back into the anonymous, mundane filth He had risen from

And i will finally have the entire claim over this vessel we share.



He resists me, denying me the control and power i desire, a shade

Of the morally sound, just man he had once been.



Nothing remains now that we share,

I am His secret disease, His grotesque pride, His stellar achievement

As He is my shame, my disgust, the entity i wish to destroy with my bare hands.

How i long to feel the blood of Jekyll flow between my fingers, how i long

To take over this body we share, to extend my dark, contagious blood lust over the remnant

Of his once innocently pure mind.



And all of a sudden i feel His will crumble

I feel his sturdy control deteriorate, and the last traces of His being

Whisper to me pathetically, begging me not to unleash

The wild, furious joy coursing through my veins.

His final words ring in my head, fading away as i feel my strength return and the adrenaline rush take over

All His morals, all His guilt, all His sorrow

Nothing can hold me in check now.



I am the one who arose from the deepest pits of Man’s darkest desires

I am the embodiment of all that evil, all that is powerful in Man

And I am the one who shall prevail now and forever.

Cradling her newborn in her arms
resisting his obvious charms
hesitantly approaching the steps
taking a long, deep, breath

Whispering a prayer
“God give me strength”
placing her son on the ground
he not uttering a sound

Then his body shakes convulsively
she knows her addiction is his
she knocks on the door and runs
not stopping to see who answers

Scouring the news next day
headlines resonating within
they’ve called him ‘Billy’
to her he’ll always be Paul

There weaning him of the stuff
and looking for his mum
that will never be her
she’s done the right thing

Thinking of his brilliant future
makes her heart sing

the saturday vibe in the press - headlines acknowledging Putin
making propaganda entries from his base in Edinburgh...
****! was i there for three years? do you think they
trained me in espionage while i spent
a month in Russia? well, no
Ian Fleming here - so it's up to a coin toss.
apparently the left is suffering in England,
wouldn't you know - total shambles -
will we see a footprint of recognisable
England on the continent? hardly...
too much involvement in cockle spaniel
involvement in ******* up to the two
blondes across "the pond", fair enough,
good t.v. here's me reading about
a really bourgeoisie woman getting
prim tuck the 4 cuckoo pregnancies
show offs of scars and Cesareans -
i had mine on the shoulder blade aged in my teens -
i preferred scars from a tattoo -
first you turn into colonial pomp
then you wish for a tribal warlord tattoo on your
buttocks - but somehow scars differ -
please pick up the dry-cleaning while you're
booking a yoga class -
so they say the mid-life crisis -
oddly enough i'm having a crisis also,
every time i take a **** the male cat i own needs company -
i'm on Napoleon's quote and he's on the windowsill -
i drop the ****-bomb and pet him;
a cat's weak areas: the base of the tail, just where
it connects to the body - but the ears are more -
your palm and the hand connection to the forearm -
carpals to cartilage - up the ulna-radius -
purr purr purr - yawn - purr purr purr - yawn - plop -
i never asked for company in such scenarios,
but he's so affectionate, apparently human excrement
is sweet for cat scent - cat excrement? ******* toxic ****!
the **** is a gag-mask! ****! **** ain't any better...
but human have the strawberry fields with what's
left-over other than ash of a cremation.
prior to? at the supermarket - for my usual...
i know the man... down syndrome...
his mother nearing 80 - at the cashiers, i walk in,
change my ****** expression... i don't know,
maybe i raised my eyebrows or winked at him -
i've met him before, i might have said my name
while we tried to talk in his front garden -
so i do my mime - and off he goes... silent
prior he starts to convulsively repeat:
MA! MA! MA!
                           i pick up a bottle of whiskey
(MA! MA! MA!)
               then a bottle of beer
(MA! MA! MA!)
                     then a bottle of coke -
the MA! continues - you can hear it resounding
in the supermarket; i say... why hasn't L'Oreal
investigated the genetics of down syndrome?
you see 'em?! you see 'em?! his mother is nearly 80
but his face is like a baby's buttocks!
they should really get the geneticists on the topic,
extract an anti-ageing cream from down syndrome -
perfect theory for any capitalist adventurer -
no shame, no morals, no conscience -
go on, feed that Frankenstein.
so while i'm on the automated checkout he keeps
looking at me and pointing at the exit door -
let's face it we're talking Darwinism - and interpretation,
i have absolutely no clue what he's talking about,
i just interpret it on the positive scaling,
for these people don't really age, they have barely
a wrinkle's worth in them,
or in contrast a maxim: either the fish... or the aquarium -
i choose the aquarium, **** the fish -
he's pointing to the exit with the syllable MA
in saying to others: the man who found the exit and
was ridiculed for it. i must have said my name once
to him - he wasn't looking at his mother, and he was
pointing at the door - truly, such is a scientific nature,
you don't go below the shallow surface of appearances -
you can thus understand the depths of uncomfortable
shallowness in other people who can target meaningful
conversations with you that turn out to be total *******.
that man, probably aged 50 but disguised by
his down syndrome aged 20 will probably make
innovations in anti-ageing creams some time in the future,
while L'Oreal begins to employ geneticists to uncover
the Dorian Grey genes for a ****** cream.

I sometimes wonder
what it'd be like to go into
the ocean, and never come back.
To swim out and sink
and let your lungs fill
while your body convulsively
fights in a desperate attempt for air.
To feel yourself slowly slip away
and become part of the black cold salt water
bobbing with the current
decaying
little fish nipping my toes
but I'd be gone.

It was not my first time drunk, not even close
but it was the first time that the floor span as a child's spinning top
and faces swam in my too-dark-too-bright-toomuch vision.
It was the first time I lost my footing and my back crashed into the wall sliding down until my knees hit my heaving chest and my palms pressed white against kitchen tile.
It was my first time crying into the shoulder of a boy I don't know, ripping my apple-bruised heart out of my retching throat and pushing it into his ***** numbed hands.

(after that my memories become manufactured by the later retellings of others)

something about the roof shingles being cold against my back but the stars being warmer than my smile ever was. Something about a phone call to a girl I once loved apologising over and overandover for falling for another. Something about a text at 1am that had my cheeks blushing and my stomach clenching convulsively around Gin and Guilt.  

(something more a little something more to drink)

Later, the boy who clumsily cradled my heart and my head in his lap, will tell me that I smiled at him through tingling teeth and told him that I would rather die than wake up in the morning.

The waters of the East River were blue,
bluer than I'd ever let myself expect,
bluer than the sky today.

The sight of the lights and shadows
Swimming over the passengers wasn't something
I'd known I was missing.

A few uncharacteristic craning necks;
I wasn't the only one
Newly displaced from below-ground.

Outside,
It was bright enough to color-blind;
The view from the window
For one moment
Rendered a monochrome tableau
Of New York's industrial past.

Then the red brick buildings,
Precarious window units and
Makeshift curtains of every color.

Between these-
Between these--
Heart-stopping views of
Sun-washed streets like rivers,
The sunroofs and food carts
Glinting like silver scales
In the early evening glare.

Each time I surged forward,
Gripped the overhead pole convulsively,
Drank in that view
As greedily as anything;

I'd never loved the city
Like I loved it from fifty feet up.


And the walk home was
Novel from the west;
Suddenly the sidewalks ramble-wide,
Suddenly the parks,
Suddenly the people.

A block from my apartment,
A teenager looped his finger
Through the dangling handle
Of my grocery bag as we passed-
Pulled gently,
Not tugging away,
Leading me into a turn.

We were facing each other then,
Even as our feet carried us in different directions;
"Can't I take you out?"

His youth and my mood made it charming-
His wide eyes and narrow shoulders
Held none of the threat
That comes with a man's stature-
And I couldn't help
But soften the no with a smile
Before carrying on
Towards home.

i focus so much on the fact that i almost died in this house
no matter how i strain against those memories
no matter how i shake
convulsively
completely out of control
the trauma
making my muscles
tremble
and i scream in my little,
beautiful,
warm,
snow encrusted cottage
by the stream
that i am so thankful for
trying to put a positive spin
on the fact that i lost the battle between a fresh start
and deadly memories
in this innocent house
that is undeserving
of the anguish
i brought with me
in boxes
that i never fully unpacked

and though my mind is diseased with the thought
when i am alone in the afternoons
that i almost died here
in this little shoebox room,
that some of the most horrific memories of my life
are here

i also
stayed
alive
here.
in this little cottage
by the stream
that i am so thankful for.

and every place i almost left
eternally
i somehow found the resolve to stay in.
and though through each house
may still slink reminders
that make me shake,
i must focus
and remember
my determination
to spread kindness
like this little house
with the warm floors
the quiet windows,
the gentle stream.

Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous  lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.

We walk towards a deserted cemetery
Between weather beaten tombs and spectral souls
You wrap your arms around my waist
Rousing a shiver as I lean against your chest
We dance between the depths of the dark
Under the pastel skies above
With Silver moonlight Caressing our skin
Wilted petals beneath our feet
The silence of the solitary night
Splintered by our sonorous heartbeats
When thick fog engulfs us
Your soft lips press against mine
I feel a chill as time stands still
Wishing this moment would never pass by
As the iridescent mist receeds
An icy wind ****** my skin
I ponder and wonder where you are
I see your waning silhouette against the pallid sky
Reality stabs me ruthlessly
I tremble and quiver convulsively
Upon seeing you beside the withered old tree
Resting beneath the earth heedlessly
Turned into Grey ashes
Just a fragment of lasting memory

Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous  lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.

Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous  lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.

Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous  lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.
© Matthew Goff

Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous  lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.

Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous  lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.

Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous  lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.

Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous  lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.

© Matthew Goff

Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous  lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.

Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous  lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.

Are you anxious, my dear evening? Are you not my closest friend? (Where is your cousin, my memory?) Can you not wait until that one afternoon, when we will pounce upon the horizon, like cats in heat, and tear the sun apart limb from limb? We will leave its sensitive shine to sweat upon pathetic days no more! Yes, the evening is a villain I’m proud to call my friend. Her ways allow much more room in the playground for mischievous  lovers, than those dull afternoons spent thinking about breathing. Where is your cousin, my memory? She has served a type of convulsively appreciative use for my feelings and continues to parade around my daydream swing set. Nonetheless, she has always remained a spectral participant in my life, pregnant with regret, and punctures my comfortableness with the sweetest of stings, leaving a taste with me she knows I’ll never forget.

The hatching tempest
drinks convulsively of
her voice
drowns in thunderous
wit the flimsy temptings
of his heart

Not even feathered hope
will oversummer her assail
nor provide respite from her sands

Ô, Enkindled Time...
Please! Please! Don’t forswear his shriveled ash!

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––­–

Against your snowy nape
he catches the reflection
of a withered mien
Blindfolded by the starch yet
thinking he’s enveloped by the starts
he’ll abandon his abode of solitude and freeze
and die

As every night,
when even sound’s asleep
The most terrible storms
overturn/run and take
his heartfilled eye

Forever encumbered by the window’s lie