. give me enough *****, lime juice and pepsi, the right song, and i will show you a control-environment psychotic episode...

sometimes, it's not about what you
know, versus who you know -
notably? when you're aiming at knowing
yourself...

      and psychosis?
   the synthesis of a soul while within
the confines of a body?
       one such example is walking
under two street lamps,
and spotting two shadows,
   immediately investigating,
whether or not, someone is walking
behind you, with a stalking
proclivity...

  you turn around -
  nothing but a hallowing voice
on the slightest of breezes -
the kind that barely motivates
branches to bow...

       - everyone knows that
the italians are famous for their pasta,
just like the french are, for their buns...
some Pakistani makes a joke
about the western love for cabbage...
esp. pickled cabbage -
mashed up with wild mushroom
to make up the filling for slavic
dumplings...

       sure... how's the turmeric?
i've been dying for the turks
working in kebab shops
to elevate the lamb doner (kebab)
using pickled cabbage -
  like they might use pickled
chillies -
       oh look... both are muslims -
the Ottoman's might have
figured out the southern slavic
palette, having occupied
the Balkans...

          we do more with potatoes
than a mere boiling down
to, what could never become an Irish
famine...
   first?
     there's the *****...
    nothing quiet unlike the whiskey
perfumery of pict-land of Scotland...

     Silesian potato doughnuts -
usually served with a cabbage radish -
pickled -
          and a thick pseudo-Hungarian
sauce...
   the potatoes are boiled,
then mashed,
   then sliced into 4 portions,
1/4 is moved aside,
      potato flower is added in equal
volume, and one egg...
   then it becomes mashed bashed
and given the skin
     tenderness of a drunk's wife's skin...
cut and molded into little doughnut
shapes,
   the index finger is inserted
into each one,
          and then each "infantry" member
is boiled,
till ready, i.e. floating on top
of the salted water...
             and there you have...
        Silesian potato doughnuts -

and there is a variant - potato hooves...
same ergonomics -
but instead of potato flower,
plain flower -
               i can't remember the proportions...
also boiled...
         but best cooled,
and subsequently fried -
for a crispness -
         mingled with honey
and something the Hindus know
that the Slavs also make -
     not exactly quark cheese -
   but getting there - more flaky...

    mind you...
   the whole out of Africa story?
   given that so many Roma live and trade
in Poland?
            perhaps having incorporated
the Africans into your pre- and post-colonial
nations, the genesis story would
begin with: out of Africa...
  
        and they swam across the mediterranean...
funny...
    you's sooner see a white competitor
in the 100m sprint final,
   than in the 100m final of
     the breast stroke / butterfly / etc. final...

no...
      i place my origins in India...
moving across the platitude of Siberia...
i have more in common with
Raj origin story... than i have anything
to do with: Zulu and the pinnacle
of Giza...

     i place my origins there...
         and those potato hooves?
they have a name in Italian...
       they're called gnocchi...
served with parmigiano-reggiano
       & pesto...
    never fried,
          and subsequently hardened -
next time i hear the cabbage
joke from some copper-skin
about a group's palette...
       having, actually enjoyed
the other group's palette?
             skin is a base no one works
from to make obsolete
     and redundant bigotry...
    we don't have to share
the same physiognomy...
  but sure as **** we can share
a meal;
        like among the russian drinkers...
i honestly quiet enjoyed
their dried fish ***-bits
to nibble on...
    because, whoever said that...
beer was to be accompanied by
peanuts?

Turquoise in the morning light
The treetops are alive
With the myriad of birdsong
As the swirling mists arrive
And the shaft of brilliant sunshine
Penetrates the greenish gloom
To illuminate the craggy ridge
In a honeyed, golden bloom.

The rabbits head for burrows
Retreating from the night,
A flock of teal, in unison,
Explosively take flight,
There’s a freshness in the morning air
A tingle to the skin
And the twinkle in the blue eyes
Lets a secret smile begin.

Autumn in the country glade
The russets and the gold,
The song of early crickets
In the leafy knoll takes hold,
There’s a brilliance in the crispness
In the piles of windblown leaves
And the healthy crunch of underfoot
Invokes a sense of ease.

The peacefulness is calming
The solace in the sound
Of the distant song of blackbird
In the tall oaks that surround
And the velvet feel of morning
Thrills the mind to warmly hum
To the glory of occasion
In the warmth of Autumn sun.

Marshalg
Beneath the reds and golds of Autumn leafage.
14 May 2012


© 2012 Marshal Gebbie

the tectonic plates
in me
are shifting
     as our continents
approach collide
my ocean is
getting closer
to the mountains
on your landscape
  tallest grasses blowing
         in wild demon dance,
                shaking their
          heads as heated
storm approaches
oven-baked air crackling
    with its own
         electric currents
Nothing can stop it
it's a magnetic force
              one to be
                   reckoned with
               surrendered to
as dust foams
like ocean froth
around our heads
clinging to us in tiny
starlit fragments
and soon will come
        the slick dive into
             wordless waters,
                    just skin on skin
        slippery mouth muscles
like entwined snakes
flick-flicking, shiny
in eye-lit cherry moons
Take my hand.
Just pull me in.
Enfold me,
          without talking
watch as my aura
rushes into you,
first a delicate whisk
             of cool light
to slake the thirst
of coal-licked caverns
then sparks
and bubbling oxidation
turning into liquid brushfire
Hold your palm
to my chest,
as if to keep
    my heart steady,
        my glowing flare of halo
  pressed into your
clavicle, taking in
the embryonic beats
soothing my torrid ache,
infusing minerals
in vitamin-laced libation
It is time to simply bask
in the new
crispness of radical
shake off
           the silt and salt
and rise up
into the spheres
      of memory
      of soulspeak
of collapsed time zones
budded breath
spiraling up
in curls,
       diaphanous
dark mist
ascending
                 into
           light

There is no smell in all the world,
None in the North or South,
None in the East or West,
None in the lowest places,
None on the highest peaks,
Like that smell filling the air,
Filling the house,
Filling my senses,
That smell of spaghetti frying,
Frying in the morning light,
The smell so different from when it was first cooked,
Moving the senses,
Moving the mind,
Anticipation in scent,
The sauce sizzling,
Changing,
Changing in the frying pan,
As the noodles turn crisper,
Crisper,
Crisp,
With that crispness like no other,
The noodles,
No longer white,
Made yellow,
Yellow from the sauce,
Fried onto them,
One with them,
Flavours seeping in,
And the sauce,
Orange now,
Red orange but clearly orange,
No longer the bright red it was when it entered the pan,
And as the sauce and noodles change,
Reach that perfect point,
The smell just right,
The colour just right,
The texture just right,
The sizzling reaching the perfect crescendo,
Then, and only then,
The spaghetti no longer stirring,
Evened out,
Temperature lowered,
And carefully,
Slowly,
To keep them on the top,
The eggs break,
White running among the noodles,
Filling the gaps,
Turning from clear to white as they hit the hot pan,
Yolks floating on top where they should be,
The perfect drop,
And the odours as the white changes,
Filling the air with new scents,
Mingling with the ones already present,
And then the salt, disappearing on the surface,
The black pepper,
Black flects,
Scattered evenly,
Perfectly,
The smell of pepper joining the egg and spaghetti,
And a splash of Tobacco Sauce across the whole,
That hot smell,
That bright red colour,
And the silver lid slips on,
Over the top,
Hiding,
Protecting,
Cooking the whole,
Until it is done,
And the lid set aside,
The whole onto a plate,
Perfect to the senses,
The smell,
The colours,
The texture,
Perfect,
And the first bight,
Heavenly,
Like nothing else on earth,
Almost sweet,
But still savoury,
Strange to those knowing bowled pasta,
Strange to those knowing simmered sauce,
Strange to those knowing fried eggs,
But the tastes,
Perfect,
Blended,
Strange but familiar,
Many memories,
Images,
Experiences,
All coming together like the different parts of the fried spaghetti,
And the fork through the yoke,
As it runs down,
Bright yellow into orange and red and black and white,
Perfect,
Amazing,
Done.

~The Smell of Fried Spaghetti by Bethany Davis, June 19, 2015

Eternity is closed !
- come back another day with
flower smears for eyes and sincere
passion on your
palms          (weathered)

I need another Russian Doll -
Princess to frequent curtains
fashioned from fire & lead
equaling out to crimson folds
which mysteriously call to
the mystical hierarchies of
imagination

Silent requirements signal beneath the steps
which welcome
one (a stranger/
an Ibis-Beak cane & dark coat
stamped with August rain)

They arrive unexpectedly, as if to play the game
of cliches, they carry promises fashioned in foreign ports
tapping my knee
instead of my shoulder
having only known or recognized
entombment
                               (there is no hyperbole which lacks within
                                Nature's haunted heavens)

My strange visitor leaves / glass umbrella
in hand / to privacy / our brief interaction begins & ends with simple eager undertakings implemented
in the afterword  

What is in another's contemplation of me?
whiling in manifest Theosophy -

- Thought form -
Primal child-rage / whisp of violet smoke &
inksplotches abolished, mutually panting.
Our decorated
four-legged hunter
has arisen and impatiently
craves for the Earth to partner at last with
the Sun

..The Sun a blazing dime
I can smell crispness
in the air

deli meats and cheeses
i look past them at soft crinkling smiling faces


and i drink my java
warms up my hands and ******* and i sweat
in my coat


walking up and down the isles

I see trail mix
and sunchips

and sweet sweet sweets
the yummies

that i adore

chocolates
especially

dark chocolate cocoa orange cherry strawberry berry red brown

it's the sweetness and saltiness
of summer time ice cream

It's the cold crispness
of carrots and snap peas

It's the warmth and comfort
of big muffins and a plate of hashbrowns
at Perkin's
after a stressful morning



spice smells
of pad tai noodles


sourdough bread, fresh baked
crunch crunch on the outside
soft hot squish
inside
(save that part for me, i eat them separate
-you laugh)

how many times did we
laugh
about how you ate that bug
and we were never picky



cherries
all those cherries.





we ate nutella
on bread,

washed it down with cold organic orange juice
from a cafe neither of us had ever heard of

and tofu
tofu tofu

always cooked perfectly (we wondered how they do it)
(i still don't know)

chocolate, melting slowly

"you missed some."

-------just an excuse to kiss me.
i giggle


peanut m&m;'s

turn my tongue colors.

Watermelon at a potluck
wedding cake
cheesy potatoes
and an extra helping of bread
(we laughed so hard at the white bread, squished into a cube)

ruby red
made you wince

I drink it straight from the bottle
and smile

remembering every kiss
that tasted of grapefruit
in that tent

every kiss that tasted of salt
from the eggs?
or from the sweat on your lips

the sweat on your lips.

we kiss more
i smile into your lips
i remember that, especially

we never got sick of each other
nutella on everything, now.
especially on s'mores


i smile with every memory




i put my hands in pockets, the cold rushes to meet my face
in the ice cream aisle

i cool down as i graze
through the tubs or corn syrup and double churned triple churned
cream with extra fudge

sherbet

i chuckle to myself


memories memories
of sitting up high
with you,

sand on our toes
chocolate caramel fudge coffee
on our tongues

love

in our hearts


you remember.

the taste of that summer

I met you in the time between embers and aries
when the sky darkens early and the leaves decide to depart from branches
when the cold grey dreary fuels me emphatically
and the cold crispness reminds me I am so delightfully alive
In those fiery red orange embers to the grey bleak aries
was I thus enflamed and envigorated by you
When I met you in that time between embers and aries
and we traded soft whispers and heated glances,
salacious banter and satisfied stares
in that time between embers and aries
where I hungered for all of you
exuding avaricious energy
to slake myself with your scent
and delight in the way my fingers dance through your hair
and revel in the way I trace my desire across your skin

my embers and aries are stained with you

Sitting outside in my grandpa’s veranda,
he passed away before I could appreciate his presence;
he wished for me to come see his art;
his garden, a green maze of trees and bushes,
from marigolds and periwinkle to mango trees and whatnot.

As I lay here on the mat,
close to my grandpa, I might gladly add;
seeing the ants crawl up on the periwinkle blooms
and wild butterflies dancing overhead;
with a bulbul on a mango tree branch
and crows chattering near food dumps;
with a sweet scent of marigold in the air
and crickets chirping in the background;
with a mongoose running on the broad fence
and a squirrel eating rice that my grandma kept;
with the sun rays hitting my face through the trees
and a couple of flies hovering beside my novel;
with a moment of pure serenity,
that brings a peaceful calm to this tranquil space;
my heart feels full and my soul at ease.

As a gentle breeze whispers by,
my hair seems to be afloat.
As the fresh air clears my mind,
I feel alive like never before.
As I hear children playing nearby,
memories of my childhood days come alive;
one of the best moments of my life;
in this veranda forever entwined.
As I feel a soft breath of crispness on my face,
I reminisce about the times I had lived with him;
the village isn't as bad as it seemed.

This is the land where my ancestors lived;
and where I feel his presence still,
he must be smiling sitting on the chair beside me;
finally, content that I appreciate his accomplishment.

Pringles with presentation in flavor
The chip itself is something to sliver
One bite and you know the taste is fresh
We look and you know you need to buy
All it takes is one try
The crispness being at its best
Other potato chip competitors in their contest
Lays with no one can just one
Wise got you in their eye
Utz we got you covered
But neither one can explain why
The Pringles P being perfection
The consumer being the indication
You will agree yourself
There is no comparison with anybody else
The goodness with the man with the beard
Pringles with how your taste will preserver
It’s the crunch on yes and the flavor that says it best.

I watched through tears
--That streamed like the one out back
And the scattered clouds
--The ones that floated overhead for years
A twilit ridge inurn the sun.
It was one of those rising hills of my youth,
One my infant eyes always thought
Gave birth to the moon
Time and again.
With its innocent face smiling
That worldly crispness is lost
And the foggy past is far more defined.
Who are these forms I've lost?
They are but phantoms,
(I tell myself)
And now intangible, those memories
Acidic and dusted with sugar
Held suspended and taunting, like
Feet at the mouth of an open casket.
The cold, bitter knives of impersonal
Reunion
And rejuvenated promises
--Only now remembered, only now forgotten—
Illuminated once again
In the dark.
Passing onward and through
--Like our time together—
Exactly like wind through these **** dead branches
And this grave: winter-bare.
I remember the vivacity
How enlivened the sky, that I
Each day for granted took
And how so much smaller, in my youth,
The mountains afar looked.
But there is no home,
It died when I left.
The poison I fought
Has become the blood which pumps the heart,
Now corrupt,
Antithetical.
Nothing is more colorless, not sky,
Nor hill, nor moon,
Or ever more formless
Than what I once called home.
Now that only exists is deteriorated
A rotting house:
Four walls and a roof to keep
Hatred dry,
Windows and lamps, so
Hatred has eyes,
And all the people that
Hatred hates most.
How cozy it must be to sleep in
One’s own bed, no?
To have some stable place,
And an ounce of certainty?
As for me, that will never be
Again.
Though the house is open,
Lock, room, and all
The home is closed forever
Without a proper epitaph.
Vain death.
Vain,
Vain,
Death.
Now all I can only turn back
And flirt with shadows
Just outside my arms
Walk with images
Shifting, growling, and oh, so dark
--mere abstraction
--future so stark--
With no companion but defeat.
I can’t hug a memory,
Nor cry on recollection’s shoulder,
Nor can my mother or sibling console me,
And I cry alone.
Maturation is merely widening a distance, so
I should let them go,
Bid them adieu
Because, I can't be homesick
For a home
I can't go back to.

it's largely based on the introduction, drunk poetry of Bob Dylan's blonde on blonde, or Dave Bowie's heathen albums that can be treated as fully-loaded novels with missing charting song, you can champ the narratives akin to nearing ancient symphonies making Nietzsche more of a German Chopin than an idea formation, excusing himself with too maxims; yep, Bob Dylan's blonde on blonde given Nick Hornby's care for the music in what's a fluke of care for piquant fidelity, country and blues, bought at a supermarket; or avoid both and head straight for Ticlah's si hecho palante.

for some strange reason i woke up early,
usually i miss the morning staying up
till 5 or 6 a.m., like a vampire scared of sunrise,
winter is my most productive period,
summer my least productive,
spring and autumn are seasons when
magic happens, just today the oak tree was
brushing away its flowery bloom
before the fat yoke of chestnuts would fall
a few months later, the spring bloom
of pink or white was already tailored for
the excess greenery of summer, over a period
of two days the flowers withered and
the green leaves appeared.
she once complimented on my cooking skills
and my taste of music, notably *tool,
i first met her when we got together in the
student flats and two girls were *******-up
frying pancakes... the dough stuck to the
frying-pan... so i said 'you need to put some
oil into the mixture!' hey presto a Michelin star
on my attire rather than Victoria's crux
of a soldier... that's how it goes with philosophy
nothing pompous i promise you,
Plato misquoted Socrates talking about
looking funny at men who sought brothel comforts
(the norm in Amsterdam, no guilt, no tabloid spice,
o.k. o.k. Leo Getz style, 'it's like going to the gym,
she was South American, plump, she had a little nergo
boy fetch beers for her clients, she kept the window
open so passersbys could hear her moan after laughing
at my addressing her genitalia with may i taste the fleshy
floral patterns? ah ****, didn't work, you get to write
about *** and it just ends up a string of cliché
like philosophy and the maxim - prostitutes and the
Gemini lips, try kissing both at the same time);
i'd be funny-looking at the other route of philosophers,
mainly through the army, i'm all lazy eye cross-eyed with
those *******... (i do "pending" interludes since
with drunk finger playing the keyboard i tend to
delete by accident about 1 poem for each 10, heartbreaking
experience) - lost the drift, i must be in Birmingham:
no river... no flow. standard model always included
rivers for people congregating, in the countryside
a church would be enough, but for urbanity a river...
this phenomenon of canal cities like Venice is
truly staggering, call it the Maldives of the west,
the Maldives of Europe, 100 years from now
it will probably be more than a Glastonbury fashion
statement of donning farmer John's galoshes.
i've lost the plot... fun-*******-tastic!
oh yeah, the pancakes... well after falling in love
with organic experiments i learnt to love cuisine,
well d'uh cooking, my flatmate just cooked risotto
after risotto until i started pulling rice grains from my nose...
esters and perfumes, the smelly ****, like pickled cabbage,
the grand joke of british asians...
yeah sauerkraut and chicken escalopes are the grand
joke, although try shoving asian spices under your
armpits and you'll be walking the catwalk of Versace for
sure (hey man, stick has two ends!)...
it's an escalope and that's hardly the profanity of
a chicken Kiev, also called a schnitzel... but not schabowy...
you know there's this great aesthetic joke concerning
polish graffiti about the orthography of ****** / phallus
in poland? yep, the variations: huj, hój, chuj, chój...
technically they all sound the same,
they're found next to the anarchists' A and swastikas
on communist apartments.
she wanted so so much, i was at the end of the third year,
and there she is, moving out of her student accommodation
to live with me in my private flat (rented)...
i mean, great... but i'm about to sit my final exams
to get a piece of paper telling others i'm qualified...
what a ******* mess: i know a 3rd of examinable material
i was studying i'll fail, physical chemistry is not my
strong point, organic i can ace, inorganic i can do well on...
but she's there, full-on intense teen... it's a juggling
act that requires a clown, rather than a man,
i'm not saying i'm perfect, but there's too much idealism
in her that requires a hefty stash of pecunia bratus
(money trees)... ah i wish, but had i wished it
i would be writing such uninhibited poems...
up-to-speed... on today's menu!
that's the culinary abhorrence of poetry, remembering
ingredients in recipes rather than rhymes,
for example Thai green curry, and the ***** curry,
the former with spoonful of green Thai sauce to replace
the use of lemongrass, and lime leaves,
actually the limes we replaced with lemons,
the Thai sauce was added, the garlic & ginger paste used,
onions, mangetout added last to add a crispness on the bite,
new potatoes avoided, half a jar of Thai green curry paste,
Thai fish sauce, not salty enough soya sauce was added
(both light and dark), coconut milk of course, caster sugar,
chicken (well, d'uh), basil... yes... basil! lemon zest
and rice, chilli powder!
the second curry involved: cumin seeds, fennel seeds,
a cinnamon stick, garam masala, chilli powder,
turmeric, chopped tomatoes, sugar, chicken stock,
chopped coriander... all in all this is a culinary attack
of poetry, it's not clearly an ancient revenge,
but when i was younger i was instructed to memorise
a poem, aged circa 7... the poem in question was
school bell, i didn't get why we had to memorise it,
it wasn't anything spectacular, i protested,
gave an oath in swear words against my classmates,
got told off... culinary principles invoke the need
to memorise recipes rather than poems,
curbing the influence of fast-food outlets...
i rather remember the ingredient lists of dishes than poems...
indeed i did make these dishes today,
but only because i switched the radio off
and inserted bought art into the device:
Tom Petty's and the Heartbreaker's greatest hits
and !!!'s (chk chk chk's) myth takes album.

concrete flinging monkey that i am:
albeit albino -
tinged with himalayan salt hues...
   well this little detail of my working
limbs: concrete -
3 parts of sand 1 part  magic dust:
some water -
here's a dead-earth dough -
it's not a pizza it's not a pizza dipped
in caramel to be subsequently
deep-fried: it's not a scottish ingenuity
project for a heart-attack:
after all... a mars bar battered is missing...
oh my little edinburgh...
one of those nights and mornings:
having finished watching the matrix
trilogy and expanding on:
joys of 5am: being awake prior to
the cockerels shooting out their salutes
to the ***** of white noise and fat
on leaves glistening in: an abyss of a yawn -
the crags and st. arthur's seat:
big ******* volcano sleeping
in the middle of the town...
          such crispness of urban life...
the streets so devoid of noons and...
  buying that carton of cornflakes
      and some milk and enjoying a double
variation of crispness...
well concrete flinging monkey as i
were today: doodling my slow
in the garden... digging a trench for g.i. joe
soldiers in my take on world war I...
so the weeds (morning glory esp.) would
take to teasing its presence from my
neighbour's backyard...
  obviously there was a spider: a glutton
of a eye-fest... whether it was just finishing
its delight or...
           the moth: i guess it was a moth
had a missing head...
  so grand slurp champion was *******
all the details...
   i nudged it once, i nudged it twice...
that bulb of: bottomless pit torso that
probably arrives at secreting a web...
i nudged it once more...
nothing...
no nervous scuttling or having to parachute
onto a sponge of its exoskeleton...
i arrived at the posit: my little world
and my inquisitive lense of the microscope...
apparently a spider will not mind
being nudged by "the hand of god"
should it be eating a moth...
    hardly a lazy sod:
                  what's there to admire the a priori
argument:
   it's not like a spider learns
to become the architect of a web -
it's not like dogs learn to swim...
                     throw a dog in the deep end
and watch the gruff ruffian tread!
duck beast...
                    no... apparently you can try
and try to agitate a spider in the middle
of his meal... even after...
after the meal? the spider had to eat
up some cotton...
    like a bear might prior to undertaking
hibernation... to clog up the ****...
the spider started nibbling on some
of the web...
    and i guess they do that...
go hunting with a web:
                  at the opportune moment...
a day's worth at best to pass the time...
once the meal is over
they figured out to clog up the nutrients
with some of the web...
   can spiders take a ****...
but unlike agitating a hungry spider...
which will scuttle the moment it
is brushed with a tip of any sort...
this well fed specimen took things... lightly...
i could have... done...
the extension of "scrutiny":
buried the ubiquitous bulldozer of fangs
that concentrated on the guillotined
head of a moth in a dollop
of my concrete...
                       i just find it impossible
to **** moths... hell... some night
i'd a proud caricature of man in what
become a nursery -
            come sunrise i don't know whether
i am the graveyard
my mouth the last "search" for these...
        "refugees" from the torment of the night...
conversational overtones in this:
"poetry": it's not something to
make memory architecture of rhyme...
rhyme alone is not enough...
lyricism - i am not gorging on wishing
for a Keats replica...
that it might rhyme and be better
ingrained: a burning coal of fluid ink...
or that horrible alternative of: the haiku...
mash up: i write for the sake of not being
able to afford the paint the canvas
the brushes or the superstitious agony
of what's already preemptive in such
an undertaking...
                     but it's better tested:
      from this day's depth and its
eyes made most pertinent -
      (this shouldn't be hard...
all i have to look for is a -ent suffix
to match)
           toward some forever incessant...
my own limbo toying with body:
to later succumb to an anybody...
                lazily rhymed -
    lazily staged: for all the gold
of the leprechauns... k k k k koch:
                                  chasm and a miasma...
by god's sexless and the devil's
**** and furry *****...
   i want to rhymes...
i wants to rhymez...
               rhymez likes ping-pongs...
in another tongue:
the plural of echo: is not ecce for a cappuccino:
etch 'ere...
         crescendo bother: blues...
i forget there's painting involved...
no crisp solidified sounds:
   a tongue lapsing up a lisp and a labrador
cow-traffic of moo: st'...
                        from colour to a sound...
an alphabet ring-a-ding-ding...
in another tongue the plural of echo:
              ech...
                     not... m'eh... or eh... for an E...
which is first sung and later cited: eeee (longating)
e-ha!-o...
              not e.e.k.o.
                             prune juice fermenting
from drinking: god this brain this sponge...
spiders and spiders...
        spiders and spiders...
first inconvenience is also a staggering
remedy: failure on my part...
hangover from a love that lasted...
well... from april through to september...
           obviously impossible as i couldn't
just see the need to "pet" tarantulas...
           me and my fickle arachnophobia...
it's sometimes there: it's sometimes not there...
and "there"...
hell... if a louis zukofsky can play
the tender part of aristocratic verbiage:
here i come towing a guilty expansion
project: under the proposed guidelines
of: democracy... had i a tongue with
a sidewinding penny to boot...
that i might lisp or spit point blank
an empty fill: and... there would be an
academic career waiting for someone
as i might: provide... postmortem...
                 it's not an agony of
the overlooked...
it's just an agony of agony...
   for some per se pressure to peruse one's
own lack of detail...
to have to complicate the demands
of an audience as a...
  "back-up plan": B-project...
                         in seeking redemption:
or gravity -
   all i know is that i'm not a narrative
architect - i'm too poor to paint...
or rather: i have a photographic memory
and i'd rather make food that cezanne
wouldn't want to paint:
or debase by eating...
          could you paint still life
these days: no... not very: not really...
but i am not a journalist... either...
primarily so...
             i am a democrat on the level that
i would be happy to live
outside of plato's republic:
it's not like plato ever convinced that
figurehead of Syracuse...
                  so... spoilt eggs...
chicken strutting flamingos...
     red's an oopsie come blue and purple
is born...
that's not true...
green and yellow will yield blue...
fair enough...
               but as sure as death: i am...
big credit to punctuation as a revision
of: not anti-rhyme: but certainly not pro- it...
    because i'm constipated on this
type of exertion...
i want as much of the holy fire of lyricism
to burn a mark on the cinema of
memory...
   but... alas: here's my 2nd best take
on this not being tabloid journalism...
               - so how come everyone started
to write: cute?
i mean: if not a cute rhyme then...
some variation of the exasperated haiku?
  - sputnik...
           in sight a digression rubric...
it's the same idea:
   - sputnik
   - moon shards
    - elevations of comparisons
   to match up to a meteor crater with
a slice of apple crumble...
    - sound is most certainly not colour...
- could i call nouns primes:
  or numbers? odd... even...
             red elepahant 1 G
              blue sky 0 K
              horrible hat 9 pro
circus envy... esp. clown envy...
                        this couldn't possibly be...
tabloid journalism...
or "poetry"... it's how far democracy
allows itself the pursuit of: ideals
with a hint of veto... for the pardon
of the status quo hierarchy...
                 concrete flinging monkey...
- robert duncan: nee san francisco -
i write by eyes alone -
i neuter the sounds employed
to challenge like neither *** -
best unscripted and that...
       metaphor of metaphysics
                collage of misnomers -
at best...
                     having to sit with
a slab of lard on your head at noon -
       this least grammar this last exasperation...
a furniture of a "poem"...
an earthworm's guide / guise of the tongue...
wriggling away at the benign...
        postcards and a slick licking of
postage stamps...
                 i forget to pause: i pause...
i paint with this bothersome blood of ink...
the crisis at the revisited crux...
stale europe dying h'america...
                i have yet to read anything
i have written aloud...
   i have yet to read anything i have written
aloud...
i have yet to read anything
i have written aloud:
resonance...
                    revelation 13:5...
          the beast was given a mouth to utter
proud words and blasphemies and
               to exercise its authority
  (for forty-two months)...
time a forgotten space...
or at best: a concentrated suffice of it...
a most bearable 10am in september...
i'd like to think i can't be
exasperated... or i might just:
jest at overt-punctuation...
          - written as pure eyes and
a beethoven towing deaf-        -ness...
    too much of: jack of all trades...
- we once had a "pardon" of handwriting,
in that we once employed a quill
and a detail of ink -
but not now but not now
of this clicking machinery like
chickens' pecking grains or letters...
         spiders and spiders and all those
freelance romantics...
a democracy of language that can
escape a caging formality to the endearing
dear sir, kind regards essay / letter...
language in a tuxedo...
language of escapism...
that one might treat a watermelon
as driftwood... or the crucifix as such...
  - that this can be a language that cannot
be a mechanised slaughter -
  for a throw-away: a 20th century admiration
for some variation of the "up-to-date"...
i am having to diminish
the base of an argued for: carpenter...
by bone... by bone... by each...
carrying of the vowels without:
the pentagram soliloquy -
           that could only be a variation
of rhetoric without an eagering of an audience...
this ingrained son of sam
this glittering blood feud of nights...
a line of an exasperation...
and each and every akin to this "maxim"...
because this is not tabloid journalism...
and it's not because it's
a democratic avenue of would-be squalor...
my niche partitioning
between those literate and those:
hardening a candyfloss of tortures:
       born air: settled in a tomb of fire...
born water: settled in the double sediment
that's once a breathing air comb
into frets of grain...
and earthworm wriggling...
now cement... malicious albino ape jester:
my little evil at the passable concern for
salt and the himalayas...
in that i work on the worth of:
teasing clone i - not in english not in english:
but in english...
  in this... tongue that's a best
butchered body of... a scrutiny that's
almost a... verifying anatomy... best:
   brick by ******* stacked...
a harbour of anathema and dangling
posits of: walking-9-to-5 abortions...
            high cue: but otherwise there's always
a managing of a queue...
that's bottom brass and godhad grey...
with a tease of a concept of hair...
balding snow on tomorrow's mountain...
- that i never hear what i write...
that i see it...
            i see "it" borrowed from somewhere
that has to be revised and revisited and
so-forth backed up renewed into
a ******* Guggenheim... renewing:
          new yorker slang and formalities of
rent... and... shackled up with...
dirtying the shells of oysters with...
prior the lemon and the glug of
the slugging: a word for lessening tourism of
Penzance... or anywhere in south wales:
cornwall...
         i tried loving the russians...
i tried loving the russians...
but then i had a mirage of a girlfriend
that had to tame tarantulas and i was
an arachnophobic tease -
                 - that in poetry the narrator is "somehow"
not the protagonist...
disembodiment via a section by
section - this limit of a candle...
this the kidney... this the heart...
but a "polyphony" of chicken hearts
towed into a broth...
          that poetry doesn't allow
a narrator... that i want to pick out a mask...
and i want tabloid journalism to spew
out of me...
this little detail this grammatical
arithmetic - sound of A...
and the syllable tease of a consonant -
impromptu question:
              asked in between: "in between":
what is a consonant K...
then again: in borrowed rome:
KAY is not the greek kappa...
what is the nurture of over-naming
and what are synonyms?
                      layers upon layers and
this is not a purity of jargon-jesting...
spiders and spiders...
                    - such that i believe in the anonymity
of readers and how i don't expect
a comment section:
   that bukowski made poetry pop
for: a gary snyder admirer...
  
  or - how one hundred arrows were sharpened
on flesh: and were dimmed...
because to crown this crude
metal creed against a stone....
and had to make coagulation of
frothing bloom -
extracting pauses to make a living
with taking wheel:
              burning rubber and burning
kites...
             burning threads and shoelaces...
dissolving sugar into
caramel...             an oyster that became
a tongue.... and a tongue...
its uttermost silence that could be
wrapped up back into a clean
residue of: biting / nibbling
for a piano... because never at a...

           such is the concept of rhyme...
that one can beg for guillotines
to... supposedly... "end".

from latin: a letter i can see...
a word i can: lip-read!
               not this... vanguard
of sanskrit and the glagolitic.

translate the letter to a status of a number...
whole: holes...
from nothing the sieving project.

Lonely little elven girl, sitting in her yew tree seat,
Around fair lips your words do curl, in a way that's pretty and neat.
You dance and prance and shine so bright.
In beautiful circles you do twirl, you dance to your own heartbeat,
Silently you jump and whirl, the swift ease of your bare-feet.
You are the most brilliant star at night.

Traveling little mermaid, on your way to find your love,
Your heart has been remade, as you gaze at the stars above.
Swim as far as you can with daylight.
On your shoulders your hair does cascade, long and of
The softest strands it is made, more gentle than a dove.
Lay your head to rest in the moonlight.

Peaceful fair young princess, your prince will surely wait,
On your heart is a deepness, a light and heavy weight.
Close your eyes but not your sight.
The morning air holds crispness, as you silently sneak out the gate,
Run because you feel the nearness, leap in the arms of your soul-mate.
Hold your love and hold him tight.

Quite silent dreaming one, don't lose the things you admire,
Always let the imagination run, and with your heart conspire.
Let your dreams take over tonight.
Speak aloud any question, and let the answers transpire,
Inner depths have been awoken, you darling precious sapphire.
Fall in love under starlight.

I adore the crispness of an apple,
Thin, breakable skin
Encasing **** flesh,
Hiding danger in small doses.
Its dewy, red skin,
Could ****** anyone -
From Eve to Snow-White.
A bite and you're done for.
It's a dangerous fruit
To get from a stranger.
A witch in disguise,
An old lady,
Or God.

But you?
You didn't offer me apples.
You offered a single pomegranate,
Hard to crack open,
But hides dozens of nectar-filled seeds.
A single one won't do the trick,
So why not have some?
Just a little.

You?
You opened it,
Wide and inviting,
And watched me get
Addicted to the unsuspected,
To the soft and juicy insides.

You?
You watched me count the seeds,
Almost obsessing over
The delicateness of each one.
Blessing you,
Praising you,
Before biting into one seed,
Or two,
Or a dozen,
Or ten thousand.

And I?
I followed the pomegranate's many, many seeds
Feeding and feasting
Right from your hands.
Finding pleasure in the poison,
Innocently falling captive,
Taking the bait,
As you march me straight to hell.

It was too late when I realized,
Apples are for witches,
Pomegranates are for worse.

Tears of creation
fall from the overcast blanketing
of the billowy, white fields overhead,
blended with a requiem
that only the absence of dawn could manifest,
and kissed upon
by the ever-fluorescent canvases
of smoke, and flame
that carelessly intrude
upon the horizon.

Oh,

how fastidious is the misting
that blesses this premature day,
invoking a spontaneity
within the mundane clockworkings
that symbolically define
the average,
the everyday
and the norm.

Glorious is this sight to behold.

Not only by our soulpanes,
but through the remainder;
our entire spectrum of sensory awareness
that we are so gifted to have received,
yet,
rarely do their values go little more
than depreciated.

The refreshment
that quenches our starving skin,
and slowly enfilms us
with the caressings of unrequited purity.

The dampening of the air
that perpetually enthralls
even the most tolerant
resisters to aroma.

The crispness;
unadulterated,
and without perversions of the modern day;
enrapturous are the resonant entrails of the strata
that ever so gently envelop,
and awaken our slumbering buds.

And finally,
but without conviction,
the resound of symphonic harmony,
abound with the alluring enchantment
that,
in seamless refrain,
could only be achieved
by such a reverent miracle of nature.

These are the moments in which I revel.

And blessed be Her,
who benevolently grants us
with such an immaculance
of cornerless beauty.

Graceful, and sacred is the oasis in the sky.

The steam on out breath
Mixes with the smoke from our lungs.
Our cigarettes burn,
Whispering through the crispness.
Frozen air
Bites our fingers tips.

You look so pretty with your hair pulled back

We are present,
Desperate to forget.
Why are stars so intriguing?
Maybe because we can sympathize,
They burn through the blackness.

the various colours of the autumn leaves
as one of nature's rhythms change with ease

the crispness of the air and the morning dew
creates a need for inner warmth inside of you

this time of year is so invigorating
as we harvest crops of our own creating

I love how the seasons have an ambiance of their own
Mother nature showing us her emotional tone

Weaving one into the other, this natural rhythm
Giving us a sense of her effortless decisions

may we take the lesson of this effortless flow
as we shift our awareness of inner growth

Reality is pretty funny
Between the strains and pains
And hunger pangs
And people who think bangs still look good
When they never did
Not even in the eighties

I've just been looking for happiness
And I found it in the most unlikeliest of places
A morbid place of loss and sorrow
Called Burger King
I bought some onion rings
And they were crispy enough!!!!!

Still I lose
Still I hold onto
What I never held in the first place
And I lose my faith
And I lose my hope
But I still find a place for humor

I still laugh

And I'm the king
Who you want to be
I'll have empty hands and empty pockets
But everything is mine

So grab those onion rings
With both hands
And let the crispness guide you

Red Leaves moving by the river
Red leaves blowing in the breeze
Billowing in dusty circles
Settling down just how they please.
Red leaves falling from the maple
Falling down like scarlet rain
Painting Autumn tones for lovers
Making way for winter’s pain.
Feel the crispness of the evening
Watch the ***** frost gather there
Crunching through night’s frozen pasture
Billowed breath in morning’s air.
Running down the road in gum boots
Kicking up the piles of leaves
Making waterfalls of redness
Tensions flee and worries ease.
How I love the feel of Autumn
Stillness in the afternoon
Watching long clouds rich in grandeur
Golden sunset, crescent moon.
Winter comes with gales and thunder
Lightning flashes in the trees
Red leaves flailing in the windstorm
Graceful Autumn bows ....and flees.


Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
30th May 2008

not one flake on my outstretched hand
the snow can't decide when to fall
despite Doplar's predictions
a chill is in the air
the first feel of winter
the taste of pine trees
traveling on the breeze
downhill to my front porch
permeating my senses
invading my nose and tongue
coming out of my ears like steam
sticking evergreen needles
into my mind's eye
'tis the season to be cold
draft's crispness creeping under the door
sending a shiver up my spine
slipping sleepiness into my yawn
with two feet of snow soon to be on my lawn
time for storm windows and fatwood
and to check my chimney's flow
as Meteora lights my fire

She's on my shoulders, her chin snug
on my crown; her hands;
little-strong, clasp
my neck.

My man's fingers & thumbs circle
the glass bones of her ankles.

I am her daddy. Hers.

I imagine the feel of me through
her feelings. She chuckles
at the roughness of my whiskers. I'm the stuff,
in this moment, of her childhood

memories to come: The faint
crispness in the beginning-distance
of her life. These are the days
before her brother will be born.
He is due in August.

These are my last days of this particular

closeness with her. Quickly a glisten

in the corner of my eye builds
to clear silvery wobbles, suddenly pigeons
clap up from the corn, the smooth
heavy-blue sky sheets
electric-flash, her hands cling

a little harder as the dark
clouds rumble.
My cheeks itch with trickles.

As the storm hovers above her she says
with her small-voice clarity -

'Daddy, I won’t cry.'

I cannot hear.
Sound has lost its crispness.
Articulated consonants
have merged into blurred murmurings.

The loss was not sudden.
No cataclysmic happening
but rather a gentle deterioration
of a faculty, once taken for granted.

Normal conversation, once a joy,
has become a struggle.
Repartee, chit chat, a little banter
is no more.

The quality of sound
once reverberated and filled spaces;
now I have no spaces – just tinnitus,
constantly grinding away.

To be sightless is to be aware,
with other senses sharpened;
but deafness leads to
introspection, loneliness and deep despair.

The half blind wear their glasses
and look so very wise.
The deaf man, with his hearing aid,
dithers.
                                          

I should know.


                    ~

Today I am grateful for the kindred spirits who walk around with
contented smiles tracing their lips for no reason
other than the blue sky above
free from blemish save for the few whispish clouds
clinging to the fringes of its domed expanse.

Together we - my kindred spirits and me -
breath the free air.
Its crispness rushing past teeth
over tongue and down throat
into lungs drying out the slippery skin it brushes on the way.

The wind in our chests is fleeting, transient;
never overstaying its visit.
But its hurried exit doesn't leave us empty or sad
for the wind always returns,
never wanting to be parted too long
from the close proximity of our beating hearts.

I'm sat at my window the snow softly falling,when I hear the telltale "clickity clack" of a pair of heels.
I imagine the wearer, tall by the time lapse in clicks,
wearing warm well cut clothes, due to the weather.
Her heels beat a tattoo, loud in the night time silence.
Echoing into the dark.

Hush, do you hear it? A softer step, masking its existence in time with her heels. No? Listen at the deep silence, stabbed by the staccato stilettos,
there, a soft crush in the snow. Her heels have quickened their tap,tap, tap on the pavement, the snowfall has also quickened, and so has the soft crushing steps of a man.
My heart imitates her stilettos, dread clutches at my core.

There it is the muffled scream that stops the stilettos,
snow is voicing a struggle, it's fresh crispness creaking and crying.
These noises are not new, they're why I sit at the window,
listening for the female, the male, the footsteps, the scream,
knowing that in the morning the news will feature the man dubbed
"The stiletto shredder".

Me, go as a witness you say, how?
He does what he does outside my window knowing I can never tell,
I'm his perfect witness,
I'm blind.

Tiny things that strike your fancy
Any verse which hits a note,
Messages from all and sundry
Extracts from your favourite quote.
Moments from a treasured movie
Recollections from the past,
Sunday roast from Grandma’s oven
Sights and sounds and smells that last.

Memories of moonlight saunter
Arm in arm with newfound love,
Barefoot where the sand meets water
Lost to all... but stars above.
Walking in the hills at daybreak
Crispness of the frosty verge,
Feel the pounding pulse of living
Feel the joy of being... surge.

Tomatoes from the garden plot
Rich and biting, acid red,
Delicious on hot buttered toast
With liberal salt and pepper, spread.
Gazing at your baby daughter
Softly pink in muscled arm,
Wondering what future holds
For her in love and wealth and harm.

See the grasses thrash to windward
Hear the pounding surf cascade,
Lines of gulls in steady hover
Thunder breaks at lightning fade.
Old friend’s letter, unexpected
Tells of hardship over time,
Loss and sadness unconnected
To good fortune, found in mine.

Tremor in her frail, white fingers
Dancing of her rheumy eyes,
Sharing yesterday’s good tales
To bring a joy to aged disguise.
Lavender in gentle velvet
Serves the honey bee her gold,
Nodding in the balmy breezes
Reminiscent perfume, old.

Cup of tea for all the Aunties
Dear old Fred has passed away,
Sadness... but we all agree
He made the most of every day.
Sun ball on the far horizon
Melting orange, richly gold,
Sinking to the seascape, gone
To let the moonlit night take hold.

Marshalg
Sitting on the Taranaki sand with my love, with nibbles and a glass of wine
Watching the enormous, Autumn sun melt into a flat, flat sea.
April 2012

© 2012 Marshal Gebbie

It's Rainy Again. The Four Day Storm Is Lethargically Pulling It's Rain Filled Belly Across The Sky. The Air Smells Of Crispness And Decaying Leaves; Dampened By The Warm Droplets Of Water Which Collected Upon Them. The Clouds Cast A Gray Shadow Among The Mist Filled Air, Making Even A Smile Seem Somewhat Gray And Tasteless. The Dawn Is Quiet, The Retreat Of Songbirds Evident, The Scent Of Fall Prominent; Clinging To My Clothing. My Eyes Linger, Tracing The Rigid Edges Of The Storm Above. The Masculine Brim Of The Thunderheads Reminded Me Of The Storm Inside Your Eyes, One I Have Witnessed Many Times. One I Have Danced In, Took In, Loved You In. Though Now, Only A Drought Lurks In The Borrows Of My Soul, For You And Your Storm Have Deserted Me, Leaving Nothing But A Calm And Tangible Gray.

Dante’s dance of death arrives
Sparrows take to air
And massive nimbo-cumulous
Soar to lightnings vivid flare.
The final page is almost read
Incredulous am I
That Lady Luck has touched my soul
Allowing me to cry.

To watch a scarlet sunset sink
Into a sea of green
And feel the chill of evening stroke
My mortal fascade’s sheen.
Cavorting fillies canter
In blue nightfall’s velvet pall
Whilst the crystal tones of crispness
Peal from distant blackbird's call.

The magnificence of feeling
Permeates my very soul
And the factored life impermanence
Magnifies the spirit’s hold.
A sensate wave of gladness
Washes over all I see
And the brilliant joy of being
Lifts the fear of death from me.

Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
21 August 2010

Like an albatross around my neck it sits in the room.
Devoid of warmth, lacking a purpose.
It defeats me every time I enter.
The clean white sheets greet me with a mocking crispness.
Clean, virginal, untouched, unused sheets.
My energy and resolve are depleting,
what I nearly was is fleeting.
Time to concede these empty sheets are never to be filled.
Time to retreat, concede defeat and take the cradle apart.