At the Zoo

Patriots and faux exhibit and binge on synonyms of liberty printed on beer and underwear
Advertising what should be unspoken and inspired to pervert and romanticize
Preludes to the parades and finale above us all
Weeks of saturated irony
Cuckoo bird irony and BBQ
As they reform Phoenix, rebirth of distractions and thievery
Predators in ally ways pursing America's diamonds and legs

Then gunpowder
Gunpowder of colors and cuckoos
Layers of streets in gunpowder
Towns built of gunpowder
Sky is gunpowder
We are born addicted to led and gunpowder
Gunpowder ****** in the air
Success, display and diversion and more gunpowder to ingest.

The Grand Finale
The Volta of the evening
The hammer of the judge
*** appeal of death and nature flexing it's muscles-  
show us some skin!

Covering your ears
Eyes fastened-
Ready to burrow back to mothers womb
Binged and free
Chinese celebration hijacked
Red, White and Blue
And a moment of silence  

Orchestrated onomatopoeia in heaven
Chorus of arousal on Earth
Band marching war machines in hell

The showdown of 241 years!
This freedom we are all grateful to only talk about

Only free to battle shackling intoxication
Men and women tugging extra weighted offspring
Sulking for indoors and portable addiction  
Chanting three letter obedience
God being counted by his blessings
Fear and Statism in every breathe for salvation from our stick swatted enemies
Checkpoints that serve and protect asking for a toll;
liberty synonyms.
Arresting the too free

At the Zoo,

The cuckoos regaining reality.
The phoenix red eye and held under oath
To the next day where we are back
To hate each others freedom, again.

i know the information is already there, i could read it all, become a walking encyclopaedia, so well informed for a conversation on the matter, but why specialise and leave the thrill of emotions of being less informed, always eager elsewhere, indeed not necessarily informed, but given the chanced bewilderment - to have wondered, rather than regurgitated.

upon reaching this exhausting day, how many
whiskey bottles and beer bottles has it been?
i do not know, but suddenly the
joy of being sedated by the content
became apparent that i was simply
exhausted by being sedated -
but why would i suddenly
clasp the thought of futility because of this?
there would be no point.
- i'd never apply the theory of evolution
toward man, man's too ingenious for
such a crippling theory, esp when
encapsulating so much time in that
ugly aesthetic - just by example,
was man supposed to become a *******
like that, finding something and then
turning it against himself?
just today i heard about the cuckoos
and their hosts the reed warblers -
now the theory of evolution i can understand
like that, because it's in *real time,
it's a useful theory to watch the battle
between cuckoos and the reed warblers,
or the cuckoos and sparrow-hawks -
the fascinating way, as if by magic the eggs
change colour and pattern,
the reed warblers' eggs have a specific pattern,
the cuckoo lays an egg of a similar pattern...
but what is the required diet for this?
it's not like these birds can use some sort of
telepathy - looking at an egg long enough
for it to "magically" change colour or pattern;
yes, the reed warblers' eggs have changed
pattern over the years as a way to fight the
parasitic cuckoos - now that's a perfectly
acceptable glorification of the theory of evolution,
these are lesser creatures, shorter lifespans,
it's in real time, and in such a way it does
not overpower man, the theory doesn't become
a Frankenstein monster, turning against its
"creator" / explorer in the realm of thought -
it can be applied against all the biodiversity
out there - but the question is still:
how does the reed warblers' eggs change pattern
to fight against the cuckoo eggs
and vice versus?
no, it surely can't be dictated by telepathy -
but how could a diet of any kind be know
to the cuckoo to change the egg patterns -
but then again... maybe telepathy does exist
between host and parasite - woman and foetus;
what a crude relation, no wonder there are
many negative symptoms during pregnancy,
i think it might be with a woman making this
comparison of the foetus being a tapeworm,
although salvation, the umbilical chord,
it's not exactly a tapeworm with a sucker attached
to the intestines... we're born blind for a while,
our **** muscles are weak, bladder too, and so is our
oesophagus (pulp food, milk), and seemingly
boneless because toothless, their development
outside the waters in the flammable
air, of infuriated fire and restless chasms of
the oceans, to the ravaging rumble of the earth
itself trapped in vacuum, in a twinkle of the Orion.

The prologues are over. It is a question, now,
Of final belief. So, say that final belief
Must be in a fiction. It is time to choose.

I

That obsolete fiction of the wide river in
An empty land; the gods that Boucher killed;
And the metal heroes that time granulates -
The philosophers' man alone still walks in dew,
Still by the sea-side mutters milky lines
Concerning an immaculate imagery.
If you say on the hautboy man is not enough,
Can never stand as a god, is ever wrong
In the end, however naked, tall, there is still
The impossible possible philosophers' man,
The man who has had the time to think enough,
The central man, the human globe, responsive
As a mirror with a voice, the man of glass,
Who in a million diamonds sums us up.

II

He is the transparence of the place in which
He is and in his poems we find peace.
He sets this peddler's pie and cries in summer,
The glass man, cold and numbered, dewily cries,
"Thou art not August unless I make thee so."
Clandestine steps upon imagined stairs
Climb through the night, because his cuckoos call.

III

One year, death and war prevented the jasmine scent
And the jasmine islands were ****** martyrdoms.
How was it then with the central man? Did we
Find peace? We found the sum of men. We found,
If we found the central evil, the central good.
We buried the fallen without jasmine crowns.
There was nothing he did not suffer, no; nor we.

It was not as if the jasmine ever returned.
But we and the diamond globe at last were one.
We had always been partly one. It was as we came
To see him, that we were wholly one, as we heard
Him chanting for those buried in their blood,
In the jasmine haunted forests, that we knew
The glass man, without external reference.

Overcrowded a hollow sound

In the circumference of birdsong

Rising with the Sun

As roosters crow morning

Wake-up calls

There in Cebu / House

Full of family

Pieces of my other me

Feeding many mouths

That overcrowded feeling / not again

A nest that homes

A clutch of poor

Cuckoos

Consuming, so many babies

Paradise islands

Third world poverty

Not so far away

White man and money

A supposed land of milk & honey

Beyond the tundra snow

Bleak / must speak English

The beautiful broken

The overgrowth of crowding

it's called city life

Unlike Manila

Although artifice and hollow

Full of the fragrances

Colored by Birdsong

Oh beautiful life / I am drowning

In the thicknesses of pollutant

Mouths speaking

ill

Humanity misbegotten / Understood

We connect with nuttin'

“nothing is the cure

When nothing was wrong

With you”

Birdsong in twilight

Xylophone-stars across the ocean blue

Teeth of night

The cold chime

Befallen

In the infinite / magic of you

Oh love I let me

Overcrowd

Still this loneliness

Feels so very loud...

Then I hear / halcyon Birdsong

The soft feelings of truth

Oh love!

Oh god!

Oh my!

*Goodness you.

The swell of your feverish hands over mine.
Sweat soaking into my skin.
I’m clutching every part of you I can grasp,
Every part of you I can fit into my palm.

We’re sitting beneath the hollow tree,
Beneath the ocean of a sky,
Beneath the screaming black-billed cuckoos.

We don't say a word because we don't need to;
Just silent prayers burned between us,
Scarred into pale, malnourished bones.

I look at you as your sloe-eyed gaze
bores into the mountains of clouds swimming above us.

I want to kiss you,
But all I can do is lay my head on your shoulder,
Wishing I could build a home out of your collarbones.

I don't ever feel safe anymore.

Except when I’m forgetting everything, with you.

At dusk,
I tried to unlearn the way the gold in your skin,
Possessed your face in scintillant rays of spots.

I could count each one if I had the time,
But you’re already turning your spine stuffing back away from me,
And skipping back home

Without the bother or concern to look back.

it's 10:20 a.m., or a.d. for that matter,
i'm drinking for a sloppy mistake
i call ease, in circumstances that
are rather necessary for my balancing /
juggling act... the alarm on the clock just went off
but i woke up two hours earlier, listening to
b.b.c. radio 4... talk of birds (cuckoos /
winged parasites the specialist says) and
hindu assimilation into western opera via goa;
i'm watching a pair of sparrows build a
nest in my neighbour's guttering;
they noticed me perched on the windowsill
puffing out smoke, so they figured,
no better safety than under the watchful
presence of a dragon;
and indeed the chinese and the welsh
drew dragons long before any bones
of dinosaurs were unearthed;
it wasn't necessarily instinctive,
but a premonition, i.e. prior to the motion
of accommodating such a truth,
or truce, however you mind it;
so an eventful morning, while i stress over
the fact that i have two sleeping pills left
in the reservoir, and am about to phone
up the surgery to, "hopefully" getting a
triage appointment with the medical
bureaucrat / general practitioner (who
gets the entitlements of the status 'dr.'
and a 'dr.' salary, while the surgeons doing
all the ***** butchery gets less and only
a title 'mr.', i guess paying them less is
a motivational tool, look at all the pauper
artists of the Renaissance for a comparisons,
the pope and all his riches could never
enrich the message of our father);
so a pair of sparrows flying in and out
of the shrubbery, he brings back a beaked
piece of twig, she brings back her presence,
i don't know who to attach the
number of caterpillar legs i.e. who's
doing the leg-work to, i know she's the oven,
but why isn't she chopping twigs off?
she's just randomly flying to and fro -
and indeed man imploded, he knew
the hunter gatherer, the beer brewer, the plumber -
she exploded with the numbers,
and only in times of war was she conscripted
as equal and equally able in the realm of
man's autism of provisions of profession,
into that deathly hollow of obsession -
the prostitutes just laughed the whole thing off,
you could see them from 20 miles off:
ha ha he he... but boy were they *******
when they received an ****** on the job...
the highest reconciliation, and yet the lowest ebb,
the futility of the matter,
having gone through all that trouble
using skin creams to create a fake arousal
and actually reach the peak of being aroused
via an ******...
well i did once **** a girl with a dry *****...
obviously i'd proclaim it as ****,
i have to... we watched the film the machinist
prior - when you have *** with a girl
who isn't aroused but she still wants to,
then we'll have a talk about the precautions
that prostitutes take when having ***
without psychological intimacy,
oiling themselves up with skin cream
to ease the matter of engagement.
but still, two sparrows building a nest,
because they know a dragon perched on the
windowsill puffing out cigarette smoke
is formidable enough for a cuckoo or
predatory affairs curbing the multiplicative
chances of defence tactics being used -
and as man, we have become that in a sense,
we provide a multiplicative evaluation of things -
yes we are, yes we were, yes there's more to come -
but in terms of addition, there's hardly an
explanation at hand... i mean you diminish the
chances of addition by citing maxims of those who
added to the history, but that's still a multiplicative
evaluation - you haven't ventured into the realm
of adding something to the feat and fate of humanity,
you're still there, a maggot on a fishing hook-curl;
so whether you (x) to humanity and seek the algebraic
fascination of questioning to the extent of not really
answering, or whether you (+) to humanity and become
yourself, an algebraic fascination that asks and answers
in baby-steps... there are still two sparrows
building a nest in my neighbour's guttering.

Sitting by the window,
The maiden looks out to the garden.
Running fingers through her hair,
Twirling, twisting, curling, braiding.
And the cuckoos sing while spring flowers bloom,
As the morning light hits the dew kissed leaves.
She lets out a sigh, almost a whisper,
Dreaming, wondering, wishing, crying.
Rapunzel, waits, by the window,
For spring to find its way into her life.
Rapunzel, waits, to let her hair down.
To see the end of this strife.

A flock of steel grey and white doves flapped up from the neighbouring roof in sudden excitement and fluttered up into the sky as though at the sound of an inaudible gunshot.

They worked their wings with great joy and they circled high, one following the other, sparkling and feather-light.

They circled on and on, weaving ever-evolving patterns in the sky, circling now closer overhead so you could see each one of them tilting the beak sideways listening to the wing beats of the others, and with subtle paddling variations of the wings merging seamlessly with one another.

They circled on and on and away, taking their flight to levels beyond concepts. They turned into specks of pure delight in the grey evening sky and, with the light of the heady regions playing on their wings, became invisible flickers of nothingness, dissolving from memory. They wheeled back into view yet again, drawing strands of some invisible filament from a drifting cloud.
 
The sun was behind a big bank of rainclouds in the west. The whole line of the horizon west had caught fire and the clouds were billowing up like black smoke from a massive conflagration. They trundled east like a herd of wild elephants conquering a valley…

A sudden squall disturbed the trees, exciting cuckoos, sparrows and crows out of their perches. They flew from branch to unsure branch, but only the crows cawed. The doves were still circling high in the sky, wheeling in and out of the east-bound rainclouds.

They wheeled with the high-altitude winds, sometimes the wind blowing them off their course, but each time the faltering happened, they dipped or climbed together to navigate the choppy ether, effortlessly weaving newer formations in which the wind too joined to make the whole. 

The clouds galloping east were invading the whole sky: they rolled forward, the breakers curling in with the onward ****** of the massive clouds from behind. The wind among the trees had fallen silent. The whole earth seemed to freeze with the expectation of the first drops of the downpour as the clouds passed overhead…

It did not rain. The clouds seemed to be holding back, not allowing the rains they carried to condense and spill. They held back and rolled on and on, as though they had to reach somewhere very fast…They rolled on and on and the light began to grow dimmer by the second, until it seemed night and heavy shadows would soon embrace the sky and the earth...

And then there was light! It had neither shape nor dimension; it was like a flower slowly flowering, petal after petal unfolding—the clouds were lifting their blanket in the west and the sun was coming out and now shining in its full glory in the western horizon.
And the doves were now circling closer and were not of this world. 

They descended gliding radiant on still wings, the deep violet of the rainclouds behind them, their beaks soft and shining. They came swinging down, bobbing up in smooth arcs at touchdown and flapping their wings twice or thrice to gain sure-footed perch on the old rooftop.

They perched in a row at the very top of the roof where the tiles folded pyramid-shape and they were all facing east and crooning. They perched transmuted on the rooftop and they were all gazing happily at a glorious rainbow straddling the eastern sky, all seven colours sparkling.

They crooned as though excited it was their work; the entire sweep of the rainbow was their work!

A cuckoo began to sing and it was raining rainbows somewhere far in the east.

When my height is matched only by my age,the sage told me, 'that I will have found an ecstasy so rare,that no one will ever, have ever been there.
I count the rings as if I am a tree
but ecstasy eludes me, as I knew it would.

I could have counted grains of sand and after,started on the rice or carved upon a cuckoos egg,something very nice,just to let the cuckoo know,that we know why she builds no nest.

I have festered long enough and boiled up in the glare of a staring midday sun,it's time and time has just begun to interest me,
never mind the ecstasy, that will come as surely as the night begets the day,one day my day will arrive in all its splendour.
This is the agenda that I look towards the sky and pray for,
a gender difference in her magnificence and I would bow before this maiden,laden as I am with all these wantings in my head.

I read once in a book,
that all it took was just a look and then we're trapped,wrapped inside her spider web,carried off and eaten in her silken bed,but I would like to try it anyway,come what may my day will run before the settings of another sun and I will taste that which is fun or I will die,
in contempt and contemptuous of my inconsistency,I allude again to my search for ecstasy and is it that my eyes or indeed my body fail me,when she hails me from her sanctuary?
and I see only what I want to see,
something that the sage had been careful not to tell me,
fruitless.
On the tree of evolution, I am just some insects ignorant secretion and as I wait for some predetermined 'who dares wins'completion
I count again the rings.

The crow and the cuckoo look alike
Even the cuckoos are hatched by the crow
But they sing a different song
They can not live along

salt and camphor look the same
But their tastes are different
Salt is meant for adding taste to pudding
Camphor is meant for a god's worshipping

We can’t decide anything by its looks
Nor can we judge a human by the sweet talks
We should observe how he walks
In trying conditions the way she acts

From ten thousand valleys the trees touch heaven;
On a thousand peaks cuckoos are calling;
And, after a night of mountain rain,
From each summit come hundreds of silken cascades.
...If girls are asked in tribute the fibre they weave,
Or farmers quarrel over taro fields,
Preside as wisely as Wenweng did....
Is fame to be only for the ancients?

I do not see the hills around,
Nor mark the tints the copses wear;
I do not note the grassy ground
And constellated daisies there.

I hear not the contralto note
Of cuckoos hid on either hand,
The whirr that shakes the nighthawk’s throat
When eve’s brown awning hoods the land.

Some say each songster, tree and mead—
All eloquent of love divine—
Receives their constant careful heed:
Such keen appraisement is not mine.

The tones around me that I hear,
The aspects, meanings, shapes I see,
Are those far back ones missed when near,
And now perceived too late by me!

I know I'm crazy..
Cuz, so said the doc
I'm sure, I'm crazy.
I love you and here's my ****.
But first, the daisies.
They're, I am, only for thee.

Said I was sweet
But no way in hell.
Slammed the door
What was I thinking?
Why'd I ring the bell?

Oh, the heartache, the agony.
Stupid, stupid, stupid Billy..

What'd I do? Can't go on living..
Think! For once... For once.
Razors! Yes!! Get 'em. Cut 'em.
Wrists lay limp and bleeding.

I tried to fly, far far away..
Landed where the cuckoos lay..

We sit in a circle. We're expected to talk.
Nurse in tight uniform, can't help but gawk.

Billy? Start the discussion, today?
N-no Mam. Got n- nothing to say.
Day after day after day after day.

In comes, the crook Murphy.
Nurse Ratched hates him..
Born a miscarriage, he liked to say.
Been away, said he, for a long time.
Girl he ******* was 15, going on 35.

Stole our cigarettes, turned the music down.
There's a game tonight, n I'm going to town.
Course, he didn't.. Fountain's too heavy.
Least I tried.. Did that much, I tried, didn't I?

They all hated him.
Envied him, but wouldn't say.
See, they'd all volunteered.
While Murphy, he really was crazy.

He became my mentor and i his protégé..
I laughed. I played. Had fun. I gambled.
I even stood up to Nurse Ratched.
That was the first time. **** it felt good.

Murphy knew. And told me too..
I wasn't crazy, don't need to stay
I didn't need doctors, nor lil pill gray.
I needed, a warm body, to make love to..

But how? And Nurse Ratched?
Why bother her? Why tell her?
She'll call a friend.. She'll call my mother..
She won't get it, Murph. She never does.
Billy, my boy, has she ever, the Big Nurse?

My friend was leaving. Party ensues in the cuckoo's nest.
Drinks, music, pretty ladies.. Crazies were in wild wild west.
Murphy whispers, she laughs. Heads my way, takes my hand.
I look back. Thank him silently. Craziest, kindest soul in all the land.

I wake up naked.. I'd made love. It was a new day.
Nurse Ratched looks at me. Like embers, her eyes were lit.
Aren't you ashamed, Billy? I was happy.. No, I say.
She says she's worried, how my mother would take it..

Emotions hit me from all directions.
Fear, guilt, shame all at once....
I beg her, Please don't call my mom
Have mercy please, won't you, Big Nurse?

All these days, I thought I was crazy..
In comes Murphy, makes me happy..
I wasn't crazy. I needed love, I was hungry.
Murph, was going out. He was a free bird.
He saw the whole thing. He didn't. Heard me cry.

It was kind of him to try on my behalf.
He's just a kid, he said, to all the staff..
But, I knew no one would cut me some slack.
Ratched wouldn't budge n I'd face the flack..

I'd had enough of this ****...
This life, this ****** pursuit.
I ain't crazy. Cuz Murphy said so, goddamit.
I lived, blissful, ecstatic. For just one night..
Wasn't that enough? Wasn't it alright?

I cut my wrists again, deeper this time..
No more drama, no pantomime..
I lived n I loved. Tis time for me to die.
I'm not crazy.. Not crazy. Or am I....??

For I am insane
but not on my own
you did this to many others
taught us to love, trust, believe
you were mean as hat guy named steve
I loved you in the end
I loved you so much it made me insane
you control my thought, word, and dos
i'm just a brain dead puppet to you....
aren't I?
but the truth is I am you....
right?
you took control and I cant tell what to do
if I go on like this
ill be all gone
as soon as you can
unless I ruin your plan
im in the cuckoos nest
it happens all the time
just one last step.....
and....
ill.....
d

i actually did own a doberman pinscher called axl... yes: no e in the same. ****** was mad, what do you expect? his ears were sliced so he could look like some urukai orc of isengard... try trimming the ears of a human being: to then pretend "think" they'll be wiser... that part where they chop of the tail of a doberman? i wasn't around when that happened, i can clearly picture the plastic surgery on my axl... so what am i going to say about circumcision? makes the ******* mad! they're sending ****-picks to people... how about i just watch you smile? is circumcision the ideal motivation for preserving life? like you need the complete vuvla to be attracted by it? ******* surely isn't fun with that revision... just as much as saying: a billion ching changs... or we could do away with the lips and call these people the todkompflächeln; personally? i'd begin the aesthetic surgery on the ears, maybe making a few "elves" would help the situation... otherwise m.g.m. gets no mention, because those ******* don't even know what ******* with one feels like: i can peel mine back for *******... but you can't cloak with one during the grand practice of: taking a ****.

billions... it's starting to look very much like a *****,
given the character names... i mean: wags?
next season is bound to invoke the nick
*****... it has become an existential prison,
since the moon landing: bye bye
the brothers grimm and the fairytale...
i know this because someone has already
made the same conclusion...
billions? who'd i like to doppelgänger?
   mike wagner... scalp him, skin him, whatever,
i am trying to believe that i don't have
that wry smile of his when writing this,
the cheaky chappy type of smile,
what i can tell you is what happened yesterday
after my drinking session ended...
spring's impeding, *******, i'm going to
watch more television since i'll be sad having
moved from, what could be best described
as alaskan funfair... night by the 5pm mark...
i sometimes get the shakes...
but only out of anger, that boils down to
my neighbour complaining that i sometimes
lose the plot and say things aloud...
the boundaries i'm crossing is equivalent to a bird
singing in the night...
    but last night, was, spectacular...
   i forgot what chess even was...
   i had heidegger's *ponderings ii - vi
(in hardback) on the windowsill...
                       i had a crescent version and a complete
version of amitriptyline (25mg)...
       nurse! scalpel i'm getting a headache!
    ami-tri-pty-line (ptee line? or pti lean?
yes, lean, no fat on it;
   so as i was about to get the sucker punch
i was playing imaginary dominos
even if just that, or throwing invisible dice,
exchanging positions of these two pills
            and four swan (brand) filter tips...
i do remember saying something into the night,
what it was? i don't know.
            so it was either dominos or "throwing"
dice on a book on the windowsill,
moving the one complete pill and the other
bitten off crescent (what's that? about 13mg?)...
and the filter tips...
                and it was on a hardcover surface
of a book on a windowsill...
             i knew i would take the plunge at
some point, the question was when that would happen;
i don't know what i had to even cherish
the grace of thought at that moment...
the next oddity came with an empty glass
and trying to balance it on the parapet ledge...
it turned out to be a case of fractions...
     the tipping point stood at: two thirds...
it would never be done in halves, and certainly not
quarters...
              see... mm... money is fascinating
as a concept, how it was arrived at;
  i can know the man who invented the lightbulb
(jefferson, right? ol' tommy)... money?
   no clue... who could have "blinded" the greeks
to the extent where we stand now?
      the more i drink the more i think that this
cann't lead to any sort of accomplishment other than
the stated words...
    i do really retract into speaking verse that
i never write down... it's there one minute, gone the next;
but that domino / dice thing with 1.5 sleeping pills
and 4 cigarette tips (yes, i can roll a cigarette
like a machine, so the tips were not ***** by tokes
to remind people of marmite / vegemite of australia
colouring): i smoke cigarettes thinking about a sun-tan.
why was i doing this?
don't know, what's the point of playing domino
or throwing dice to gamble?
                     there is a chiral point to be made,
or at least a parallel point...
         a chiral-parallelism, as is the case with concept
of parallel per se...
such that title suggests i stole "something" that actually
steals...          hollywood and cuckoos...
      there are always two ways of saying the same
thing: moving forward, however dichotomous those
sayings are...
                  since that approach later turns into
a dualism that then eats at psychologism and morphs
into monism and: we're back at square one.

I let you go,
like the waves rolling on the shore,
and a little boy who lost his footwear,
crying scared to go back to her mother
where he had lost the gifts.

I let you go,
like a couple of ashy Prinia birds
dancing among the bamboo branches
sing loudly in the breeding season, build nests and lay eggs,
but replaced by the eggs of cuckoos that grew and were cared for with love.

I let you go,
like cities that have long since died
the quiet and lonely
and people left
and no one ever came back to occupy.

I let you go,
like the paintings of pain
from wounds that bleed and lose
displayed at art exhibitions,
and everyone was amazed to see.

I let you go,
like a memory in a photo album
from loved ones first,
yellowed full of blotches of teardrops,
worn-out dusty and looks real.

I let you go,
like an angry poet
in front of half-finished poems
who have been lost for words for a long time
to be reassembled.

I let you go,
like falling rain,
and a boy running around looking for shelter
with wounds on his right hand
holding tightly to the thorny rose.

I let you go,
like a book
and sad stories
which has been left for a long time
after reading all night.

Once again,
I let you go,
as a most perfect poem,
that I have written,
from the remnants of memories in the head.

i used to think i had a ******* problem,
                                                        as in: being addicted to it.
                       i used to ******* while taking a ****
on the toilet while watching either photographs
   (that's class, first rate, old school) or the odd video;
but then, something strange happened,
   maybe it's relatable to the promiscuity hierarchy of birds...
crows? never seen them at it,
                                       robins? never seen them at it.
woodland pigeons (with their distinct dog collar of white
around their necks)? never seen them at it.
ducks? never seem them at it.
      swans or canadian geese? never seen them at it.
it's those rats with wings! that's what londoners call
urban pigeons! ******* are ***** as a chance of gangrene!
and cuckoos! those ******* are ***** as ****!
                      so you see, there is a decency in the kingdom
of birds...           sparrows... well only in spring,
and you can see them do it, if they decide to build a nest
really close to your window... but i can excuse them...
because they're (and i have seen them do it) ****
but then there's the whole nest-building process.
    i'm cool with that... but those urban pigeons and cuckoos
are blimmin' disgusting.
      anyway... the most fascinating thing happened to me,
i turned all cenobite (a.ka. monk) after doing an exercise
that might blow your mind... it was a bit like:
  how on earth are you going to stop ******* yourself?
hmm?
                    it's not that easy to be frank...
   well...           watch a video of a pregnant woman putting on
a show on any the **** websites... no, not videos
            where she's being ******... soloists...
                you ******* to that sort of performance for about...
i'd say 10 times... and afterward... it's home and dry...
                   your ***** start to shrink, becuase they're becoming
condensed with *****... and that's that.
       oh yeah, when you abstain they shrink, becoming
    more and more chestnut hard... the more you *******
       the bigger they are... and emptier...
        hold on, 'old on... testicales are storage spaces...
                                                       ­     so what produces them?
and that's philosophy in a nutshell... asking really naive questions
for which there are already answers for, probably,
                 but awe, is not in certainty, it's in uncertainty.
once again, if this can be considered a "cure" with regards
     to *******...
       a pregnant woman soloist... like she might squeeze her
******* and milk flows out... or she might rub her foetus-enclaved
   abdomen...      (a) it's not a turn-off
               but          (b) it's a turn-off from ******* per se.
thank god this has happened... i was looking for it for
ages! i'm no urban pigeon or a cuckoo! over-sexualised and what?
                lamenting if you're not getting any?
           but that is exactly the exit strategy in an over-sexualised
culture... a pregnant woman doing a solo performance.
thank you, oh very much thank you,
                     i'm leaving with elvis, evlis has just left the building,
i'm bowing out, it was nice for the past 22 or so years,
     i'm starting to wonder: have i ever had a slush puppie?

“Sanity is not statistical.”- George Orwell

The tour guide elucidates black and white scenery.
Unamused clients grow weary of following blindly…

Beyond the barren trees lies a horizon of dirt.
The patrons’ eyes assume a bedraggled trail
Ostentatiously drawing them into its depths.
Unable to sense the malignity; compliance is inevitable.

The seemingly infinite nave reveals a peculiar door,
Hexagonal in shape, displaying no visible ****.
“This heavily armored door hath been open since
the dawn of pandemonium. Enter if you dare,

my humble insanitorium.”

Their dreams have intruders,
Infiltrated by an obscure entrance
Remote in the fact that even they
Are ignorant to its location.

The intruder takes hold of,
their brains, hearts and blood.
Drives them to brink of insanity
Then leads them back home.

Metamorphosis: their messiahs
Were once smiles and gold
Now they are maggots, cole
And decayed linen for skin.

They are the peaceful violence
That occurs among the leaves
Existing for a short time in beauty.
Than drying up and withering away.

Obscurity is a terrifyingly beautiful renaissance
A peculiarity that rock them to the core.
The ghosts that occupy their souls,
And the cavern that’s missing from them
Experience is theirs to have or to lack. For they
haven’t much time before the dirt takes them back.

An elegant yet dismantled courtyard comes into view.

They.
Know not of the geometrics that seem
To have replaced the techni-colour trees.
Once overgrown in the tainted court-yard
Roots overharvested and interconnected,
A corn stock maze burnt to the ground.

She.
Used the finest twine, sharp and strong.
To tie her soul to the cage that houses her heart.
“Two mad rabbits were dancing by a tree.
Before one vanished down the hole,
I swear he looked right into me.”

They.
Watch in dismay as her chest is scalped.
The unsound artist tugs (she does not protest)
Bones shatter and he eats the remains.
Soft fingers caress the pulsating red ball.
All the women cry as he claws at her soul.

An aghast audience enters the house in
Hopes of a less unsettling spectacle.
A tiny jar sits on a wooden table, curiosity
Causes a member to remove the lid.

“To exist in the subconscious is more terrifying.
The flame’s lick the nimbus and I am calm.
An angry cockroach lodged in my trachea.
The soil is more sinister than it was yesterday.

An abstract design, the lines infinitely overlap.
The drawing continues and I try to unravel,
the circles and squares but I simply cannot.
They are now in my blood, a pentagonal paradise.

It would be lovely to hold my heart in my fist.
Squeeze it until the blood becomes a fourth
Of July spectacular. The circles and squares would
Be emancipated from the charred remains of the jar.”

Prying is never rewarded. The jar goes up in flames.
The great herd is lead to a theatre-like abode.

The tourists snap pictures as they assume their seats,
The Insanitorium’s owner makes a gut-wrenching speech.

“I’m wandering aimlessly through the in-between.
The face-painted crowd watches with open mouths.
As I search for and seek out self-fulfillment.
On the edge of their seats, waiting impatiently,
For my humble home to self destruct.

They gnaw on my self-worth, ripping and tearing
My well-though out decisions into tiny,
Unmanageable quadrants that I cannot repair.
The herd is well aware of what lies along the line.
But I strayed long ago and am of a different time.”

The applause drowns out the sound of the speaker’s screams.

The patrons are lead through a dimly lit hallway,
Another peculiar door materializes, triangular in shape.
The room is a vessel for conscious and unconscious ramblings
Of minds left to rot and decay like rabid corpses.

“Enter respected patrons and feast your eyes upon the truth.”

The first trembling hand finds its way to the door.
A striking man is seated, muttering cloud-cuckoos.
His hands and feet bound to the ancient wooden chair.
The blade hovers above his hard skull threatening to fall.

His brain is dissected; life-long deception is evident
The black cats in his mind are visible to probing eyes.
Sinister felines stretch their brittle bones; it is not
Long before they’re biting and scratching his insides.

Like all apparitions, the vision returns to the dust from which
It was created. It’s true home among the asteroids and
The planets that contain the same star dust that once
Composed flesh and bone. Not Reduced, but reused and recycled.

Before the disappearance is final, he chokes on his last words…

“A pearl that is flung,
From the stars overhung
Will dislocate like a plastic doll.

Alas…

One pearl turns to millions
And a million turns to dust.
The doll’s expression ,
remains stagnant.”

The tourists are angry and appalled at what they have witnessed.

They have not come to the harsh realization,
That in order for a man to see, his eyes
Must be pried open. Stunned into epiphany.
Become aware of the demon residing behind them.

“You are not sane devil woman,
For your tour reveals horrors of many kinds.”

The woman’s mouth contorts and her eyes darken.

“All entities, dear guests, hath been drawn
from your own mad minds.”

on this page i write pain, and the html censor revises it with flower... need for a positive vocabulary feedback of life in general?! what is this hippy ****, what's the point of writing the raw when you're revised as well done, missing the Tartar alt.?!

variations on E.C.T. as catalogued by
Sylvia Plath in the Bell Jar -
Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest -
mute Indian the winner in that one -
Hubert Selby Jr's Requiem for a Dream -
or perhaps from?
never mind - the mild electric chair
for therapeutic purposes, gamer crew and
the virtual reality mask - so many profess
to needing one - IQ enhancing stereotypes -
but there's me with a bottle of whiskey
and some spare time -
the professionals speak of an undoubted
pain threshold -
so instead of outright killing each other
we masked it behind outright necessity of
turning **** sapiens into guinea pigs -
clap... clap... clap... clap... and that clap
already resounds prior to this marking and forth
toward another century of the desert of
Darwinism - ever hear that joke?
a chemist, and physicist and a Darwinist
enter a bar - a chemist orders Hapsburg 98% proof
absinthe, a physicist order a shandy,
while the theoretical biologist (Darwinist)
orders a gene atlas and pseudo **** safety pins to mark
his route should he be drunk, and should be,
but isn't, he's on a rampage of walkie-talkie steroids
befitting only the tongue - raps and raps
without rhymes - 'buddy, drink something!'
'i'll drink a smoothie of aborted fetuses,
in that Christian calendar: the feast day of a would
be Mozart', oh hell, a would-be ****** too...
you have to much capacity and the claustrophobic
area of expression, believe me, they won't let
you fill your full potential -
take to rank, take to surgical instructions -
the man in charge at Oxford says:
please don't use frightening words electroshock therapeutics -
but i swear that's what it was?
treating momentary lapses in apathy - angry,
jealous, psychopathy - i.e. people uncomfortable
with the idea of Σ (totality, given neurology and
the brain myth, found elsewhere, or in / as total) / soul -
leave them be, we need psychopaths to give us
consumer gratification for the and in with the existence
of corporate sister nationhood -
well, unless you want a start-up in the sense of
a French Revolution - that one's booked:
only in America - elsewhere we're just Palestinians,
throwing rocks and paper-drones at metal -
testing out Newton and not the Einstein's parabola -
algebraic notation *x (time) hyphenation y (space) -
which means given algebra there's a third missing,
from Kantian standpoint of 0 - a z... god?
or, wait, refrain from Darwinism's anti-social collective
of a personal will - oh i don't know, improvise!
but what critique came to Communism (post-theoretical
socialism) came to the project of a multiculturalism -
this time round it wasn't the Pope that undermined it -
still, people confuse an attack on Communism
with an attack on Martial Law - the actual critique
came against Martial Law years December 13, 1981 to July 22, 1983,
we feared the Soviet invasion - why do you think
my communist party member grandfather lives
without complaint? of course the first to complain
are the farmers - before them the nobles drank,
got bored, cured boredom with borderline paedophilia -
the bemoaning - the king ****** me last at Versailles -
i lost my virginity and i subsequently lost my
ideal, i defined reality with a symptom.
so once we warred and killed each other -
but since we're a bit more pacified these days -
we decided to internalise warring with each other,
and instead of killing each other we decided to
experiment on each other - the reinterpretation of
E.S.T. into E.C.T.; prices start at £89.00 for the basic
kit to imitate death row simulation... you the funny
thing is... once you've experienced a brain haemorrhage
you became a slight sadist - you want the pain to come
to finish you off - some say the soul is bound to bones -
animation, pure and simple - that the non-existence of
soul is proved by the remain of bones - but that's
whiffed away with the Hindu practice of cremation -
and that's dark comedy given the Nazis -
it's almost like the Nazis wanted to end the debate,
the already Gothic practise of burial and bone-keeping -
as if invoking the geometry the soul would pick up first,
the abstracts of mechanisation, the canvas readied for
ether muscles and juice - ****** ended up
Hinduism on amphetamines; ****, i think i lost a bracket (
somewhere... oh well, i guess i must end with ).

At the Matra, in a country,
Lives my elder and dear auntie,
Warmhearted, hardworker and hale,
She is from whom I know this tale.

A bumbling deerling on a day,
Went astray onto the highway,
He fell over a fallen trunk,
Breaking his leg with crack and clunk.

While the poor was sadly weeping,
The old lady stopped there, seeing.
Taking him up, right to the lap,
She took the fawn home for a nap.

Curing him and cherishing him,
Not just healing his broken limb,
But giving him fresh hay, water,
As if she were his dear mother.

Katy the cat and Doug the dog,
Nestled to him next to the stove's log,
Sharing humanely their one nest,
They could not hurt the little guest.

The fawn's leg is quickly mending,
He could dance without pretending,
He could dance since he is not *****,
However, he wasn't in the mood.

His doleful brown eyes in the far,
Are hanging on the morning star,
While the morning's red-purple lights,
Are playing on the mountain's sights.

Evening winds are chasing the haze,
Then, they get lost in the hills' maze.
"My fresh crops are waiting for you,
Come home, deerling! We all love you!"

Tears sprang into the deerling's eyes,
He wished to go back, without lies,
Only if his mother wouldn't worry,
Only if his auntie wouldn't pity.

Day and night he wants to go back,
Whither the smooth grass is his snack,
Where are fancy fields of flower,
Waiting for their deerling brother.

Where squirrels are jumping around,
Woodpeckers are hitting the trees' crown,
Cuckoos are singing gay sonnets,
And ants are wearing heavy puppets.

He's waited by the stream, by the wind,
By the running clouds there sky-pinned,
By the dewy blue-bell flower,
By the fields in colour-shower.

The old dame is weeping for him,
However, she won't hold back him,
Each one has a home to live in,
Being deer woods or human housin'.

Escorting him until the gate,
The dame must tip-tap back and wait,
Waving to him until seeing:
"Farewell, my dear little deerling!"

Pacing slowly, ambling stilly,
Door is clacking, curtain's swishy,
She is watching her dear from there,
For last, he may look back to her.

Her helpless little animal,
Hurries more and more his footfall,
And then, as fast as the lightning,
He is on the mountain, climbing.

But on the top, under the sky,
He turns back to say a goodbye:
"God bless you, field, and my old dame" -
Like the wind, he left as he came.

The summer fleets, the leaf falls down,
Every beech tree balds its ex-crown,
Snow blankets the houses, the lawn,
The old lady's living alone.

Nature's waking up, flowering,
She doesn't forget her deerling,
The Earth is turning once and twice,
The gate is knocked by someone nice.

She looks out the window lattice,
What a strange nightly guest that is?
Moonlight beems upon the country,
She opens wide the wooden entry.

Her hands opens in hugging blow:
A deer, deerling and a mother doe,
Standing there, then letting them in,
Her heart's beating, recognizing:

Her deerling became a deer dad,
Having a son now being sad:
His forefoot's broken a little;
They visited the hospital.

He asked her with his bare eyes:
Please Dame, cure my son with your ties,
Don't let him crying dear auntie,
May God return you your bounty.

Mist is afore them, fog behind,
They dressed the cape of night to hide,
Leaving their little in her arm,
Knowing, she will cure all his harm.

The little got cured one by one,
He was almost able to run,
And before the beech throws its mast,
The young buck is in the forest.

At the Matra, village border,
The Old Dame within the portal,
She's not alone why she would be,
Cold or hot, she's a busy bee.

She's surrounded by bucks and does,
They're coming back as visitors,
Winter-summer, from year to year,
They bow their head to Mother Deer.

The village folks loving her too,
They give her nicknames, one or two:
The Old Lady within the dear,
Or just simply Dear Mother Deer.

Red poppy, carnation, sage bloom,
Are decorating her mild room,
In big vases and little jugs,
Rainbow colours like made of drugs.

A flower from Steven Peter,
Another from Flower Esther,
A third one from Johhny Seral,
Surely, they'll be good persons all.

The wild flowers followed by songs,
The room's full of musical tongues,
Children singing is far and near,
While laughes and cries Dear Mother Deer.

At the Matra, in a country,
Lives my elder and dear auntie,
Warmhearted, hardworker and hale,
Her golden heart is in this tale.

Salt loaves wait the little deerlings,
Swiss rolls wait for the new-comings,
Be her guest, you too, I just say:
This is the tale's end; run away!

The dull leaves
cry and crackle as
the sharp winds strains
their stalks.

They flutter through
the wayward wood
like the ever searching cuckoos.

Ochre, the sad oak gleams, barer
in the morning rays.

Diamond frost melts once more
into the crisp leaves which,
from crunchy embers, soften
as they drench

Satin turns to pumpkin
and mahogany
as melancholic
November approaches.

You exist, as the seconds tick

conscience on the words, being read

the world is still, your soul at peace

countless thoughts swirl inside your head.

But right this second, across the Earth

a being sleeps , caught in a dream

at the other end, where the sun's emerging

a child awakens, to a cuckoos scream.

At this very moment, in a different land

tears are flowing down anothers cheeks

& as you read, under a different sky

a human smiles, at a memory

soon this moment, you spend in time

will cease to exist, like fading mist.

& this split minute, spent like a dime

is a distant memory in your mind.......

In the pitched tent
the red coated troupe
and yellow buttoned clowns
drown within the spectators  laughter
like cuckoos spit
lost in their swirl
I imagine morris dancers
perfunctory as whirling dervishes
far surpassing  the circus masters revel

i love this quote, esp. the way it’s orientated in terms of functionability of deciphering the timing and what-not:

"a  poet is an unhappy being whose heart is torn by secret sufferings, but  whose lips are so strangely formed that when the sighs and the  cries  escape them, they sound like beautiful music... and then people  crowd  about the poet and say to him:  "sing for us soon again;" that is  as  much as to say, "may new sufferings torment your  soul."  ~soren  kierkegaard
it’s:

a. ambiguity par excallence given that no one has yet sorted out
    quotation markings in the english language -
    so why does the “ “ enclosure really deviate from
                                                        “           “          “
proper usage?

oh it means quoting aloud what you could think of...
how about starting with ‘a poet...’
no? oh well,
but how did the english language begin with
using both “ “ notation and ‘ ‘ notation?
no diacritic on e o a c r and so many others...
typical stiff upper-lip bits and pieces...
- not content with the polish / irish (joyce’s ulysses) notation.
- i am sure of it.
- you’re not more sure than the reality of such blatant misjudgement.
- really?
- really dee dee indeed e.
- by hoghorn and the grunting snout!
- smoking cigarettes smoked outside, whiskey drank indoors,
   i’m really feeling a tango will precipitate.
- first good night of the thrill of a chill this year.
- i entered the supermarket with blood-red hands.
- it rained, remember?
- it did, and the air eased the chiseled of ice breathed into.
- are we really one but representing two?
- it’s the neo-fiction model,
   not first person third party smallprint
  sign the contract get satellite t.v. for 2 years and not the legal 1
  to mind changing the provider.
- o fortuna!
- dressed in a straight-jacket announcing the x-factor fudge-packers
   of taste by populist consenus.
- my that’s witty...
- it’s not, i borrowed it from psychiatric books:
   two schizophrenics in the nest of cuckoos’ borrowed eggs...
- technically and with proper terminology?
- see that dust over there as if it was winter in auschwitz?
- yep.
- that’s called the ready model / safe model,
   we’ll never get rid of it in either first or third person narration,
   we need to invite gymnastics into the realm of typing & typos,
   get the first person splits-aware...
- right on - tom petty’s last dance of mary jane...
- ever see stoners dance?
- yeah, once, when they abstracted the word dance
  and visualised it for the sake of giggles...
- exactly...
- what now?
- now you pretend to be the protagonist and
   i pretend to be the narrator
   and we mingle, leaving us with the only acceptable equation:
- narrator steals from the protagonist the limelight!
- yes!
so now that we have the whole problem sorted into tight
boxes, we can reclaim the bulge of plato in the demise of existentialism:
i speak the truth... although truth is “truth,”
it’s technically ~truth... ah... that’s better... better notation
that “truth”
which gives me worry though... so the guy who said the bit
about poets is approx. the guy who said the bit about poets?
that’s doubly confusing...
- i will tell the truth with ambiguity...
- but how can you if you take to be an ambiguity per se?
so if an approx. man said an ambiguous thing in relation to
a definite thing... an inapproximate replica of the man
said an in-ambiguous thing in relation to an indefinite thing...
vomo maxim;
the truth is bewildering within the realm of proximity:
the prefix-affixes do their dues to add to the confusion:
it’s a ceremony down the middle so nearly missed
but not so nearly meddled with:

definite article                                                         ­ indefinite article

red
                                                    ­                                  mars
                          ­                                                            fire
­                                                                 ­                     sunset
                                     ­                                                 apple
          ­                                                                 ­           cherry
                                               ­                                       (burgundy
                ­                                                                 ­      crimson
                                                         ­                              pink
                                                            ­                           coral
                                                           ­                            salmon)

                                                    ­                                 sea
azure
artichoke
asparagus
fern
admiral
brighton lauerel
aegean
arctic  
storm of the gray earl (etc.)

whatever... i'll just pour myself another whiskey and laugh it off.

Wily wisp
thin and crisp
Build a clock
full of ticks
Wrap around
twist inside
Pendulum
Quartz
Cues and cuckoos
Twelve and naught
Age begot  
a grandfather-ghost-clock
Thirteen chimes
Three times

Animals and nature

Colored rainbow paint the sky,
Birds sing and fly.
Snakes waiting for a snack,
Hungry and fat rats.

The horizon with gold,
Pleasure for the old.
Living in a flat,
Horses and the sun set.

Crocodiles having a bath,
Cuckoos on the grass.
Dogs in the same lodge,
A man’s lost in the fog.

Cats sleeping on the sofa,
Cows drinking guarana.
Bees looking for the moon,
Mosquito’s to bit you soon.

Warmest regards.
Victor Marques

O in the garden of my youth
A bird sings aloud
O darling,arise,arise.....arise!
Opening your eyes
Filled with the
Sleepiness of
Good love
O the love that
Becomes your sole guide!
O darling ,awake,o awake
O today
In this night
So playful!
Awake in the
Sweet songs
Which herald
The maniac beauty
Of phalguna(spring month)
O in that
Song ,that
Lovely strain
Of first love
O you
The doubter
Of the first flush
Of love
O in my garden
The sweet cuckoos
Call out
O darling awake,o awake!
Awake in a
New glory!
O in the fragrance
Of new bakula flowers
O in the germination
Of the seed
Of the sweet
Soothing wind!
O in unseen
Secrecy!

O today in the
Overflowing floral
Decor
Awake in sweet
Shivering shyness

O in the bed of my heart
In my sleep
O listen
The sweet flute
Plays
In the depths
Of my heart
Of my inner
Soul
O darling,awake,o awake!

A naked branch awaits the spring
    when vernal vigour will awake
      the cuckoos calling on the wing.
A naked branch awaits the spring
    like distant soundless whispering
      around the icy listening lake.
A naked branch awaits the spring,
  when vernal vigour will awake.