I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all
    oppression and shame;
I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with
    themselves, remorseful after deeds done;
I see, in low life, the mother misused by her children, dying,
    neglected, gaunt, desperate;
I see the wife misused by her husband—I see the treacherous seducer
    of young women;
I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be
    hid—I see these sights on the earth;
I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny—I see martyrs and
    prisoners;
I observe a famine at sea—I observe the sailors casting lots who
    shall be ****’d, to preserve the lives of the rest;
I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon
    laborers, the poor, and upon negroes, and the like;
All these—All the meanness and agony without end, I sitting, look out
    upon,
See, hear, and am silent.

It's just one ****** up little circle
Full of hate and degradations,
Malicious meanings
and confused connotations
That keeps us chasing after
Futile fires.

It hurts more and more
And more and
more, but
feels
as if time is speeding by
without your doing.
Your complacency
is at fault.

You feel yourself burning.
You are the ashes
Of a dying flame,
Not the Phoenix.

This writing was found in Italian among
my father's papers, when he passed away
___________
*Dedicated to F. Murray Abraham, whose
performance as Shylock, rent open my chest.
and with deep apologies to Shakespeare*
and gifted to Liz Balise
__________

The True Tale of Shylock's Pound
(Did Shylock pay his pound of flesh?)

A peculiar circumcision,
into the Jew's chest
shall now be commenced,
by the Medico Legale of Venizia,,
his instruments blessed, ready.

Dual purposed, to extract  
an accursed payment,
in service to the Court and
in furtherance to man's
greater scientific knowledge.

Incise a body prone before him,
but it's not a body at rest,
the cut, the trademark coroner's
inquiring and most appropriate Y,
(his pleas to Yehovah go unanswered)
shall be executed just so,
both as legal tender,
his debt to pay,
and to answer queries varied,
shall we,
this living body, dismember
while coincidental, alive.

Tho we injure with pleasure,
t'is recorded fair,
t'is at the behest of a
court-ordered scientific inquiry,
ordered to measure,
answer questions
from the trial's record
that having been posed
to the Duke,  
and for answers,
impatiently,
the Court and Duke,
now awaits:

By the unholy virtue of his
guile and trickery,
a trifling pound
shall be ours,
for the Jew's resource,
and fortune
have been most
legally reversed.

His due, most legitimate,
more than forfeit,
is now ours to keep.

Hath a Jew hands,
organs, dimensions,
senses, affections, passions?

If you ***** the Jew,
doth it bleed?

How much doth a Jew's
pound of flesh weigh?

Doth it weigh more or less
when his unholy soul
yet contaminate
his writhing body?

What color doth his heart,
exposed, reveal
or simpler yet,
does the accursed,
this dog's vessel,
even a heart contain?

What powers the Jew's cunning,
inspires his deceptions,
so he prospers despite  our
many constant degradations?

Come wise councillors of
most notable lineage,
let's us put our heads together,
like the olden Egyptian sorcerers
who tried yet failed.

Have at it skilled Da Vinci, you
and your scienziato brethren,
do assay well the potions
that doth taint the Jew's blood,
so that we may,
his secrets maketh,
our own notions.

Come Medicos,
discover how the Jew
maketh precious stones
from coals, spit and hate,
for the bene proviso of the
citizens of our city-state,
dearest Venice!

Our brothers who from
Spain and Portugal hail,
have much knowledge
in these matters,
so let make haste,
cut deep and true, Doctors
the Jew physic treasures discover,
lest the Spanish Alchemistos
the secrets earn,
their inquisitories reveal
how Jews turn
dross into ducats!

Take measurements fine,
observe most accurate
his corde vocali,
the infernal instrument
projecting these shrieks, cries,
so horrible peculiar,
we need to ascertain
the wherefore of such
wails and moans.

All knoweth,
Jew cries are lies,
yet they haunt and crucify
our most perfect, noble demeanor,
**** them.

Attention pay, dear ones,
examine with great care,
the tongue that populates
his now most deformed features.

Its secrets many,
for it speaks guile
so fluently and elegante,
and in so many lingua,
a skill, our brothers Borgia
hold exceedingly valuable!

Our introspection today
in Heaven's service performed,
this pound,
its value exceedth
its countermeasure in
gold and jewels

When has Justice
and science
simultaneous,
been served so well?

Only one quest remains
unknown and alas,  
as yet unresolvable:

**What maketh a Jew,
this Jew, all Jews,
choose death
over our warm and willing embrace?

Sideways comments,
subtle degradations of character
masked as jest,
knowing the sliver of truth
that reveals one's thinking,
convenient forgetfulness
meant to pull me lower,
but it won't.

No.

Questioning motives as
I keep my plans,
my moves,
to myself
for fear they will set in
motion more copycats.
I see you all.

Hands reaching from their own
drowning depths to pull
me back under
into the place I
barely escaped from
as it is,
but I won't.

No. I will never return.

I will go further than most of you dare.
I am not afraid
of progress or
your negativity,
it only fuels the fire.

Applying these concepts to everything,
so I must wonder,
what it is she wants
from me?
Friendship, companionship,
words,
I have for free.
These she has from me already.

Though I have no reason
to suspect otherwise,
strategic paranoia
dictates I must
wonder.

Pain and payment saturate me
Beyond the better disbelief of this
Leave my body on the pavement

Pray this degradations done separating
Whispers heard through closed doors
Leave me in a blatant panic attack, panting

Your head on my chest, i think of us
Keeps me warm so wont you write soon?
all i asked of the guardian angels

She said you will be a much better author than I, I smiled and said
I know you will be fine

Micromanage
Micro---(soft)
Telescope for viewing
Possibilities endless

Limitations.
Degradations.
...feeling microscopic

I'm. Tired.

Tired of being worried about what people think
Exhausted from searching for their approval,
For it doesn't mean anything.
Changing yourself so people like what isn't you.

It saddens me that we do this.
For there is no alternative for most of us.

We can't tell the others.
Because the pity parties makes you seem frail.
And with many of us.
We lose the very thing that makes us who we are and our happiness with it

Though, through all the complications and degradations,
We tend to be dependent on them.
Desperate for another's company.
It affects you in such a way you make terrible decisions,
In fear of losing your future traitor - I mean friend.

I know you'd say I'm lying.
But deep down you know the truth.
At least, maybe in the future.
You'll forget about this and learn to find yourself...maybe even love yourself

as a child
Posted on March 14, 2014

come in dreams, the shape
of your face remaining.

there is a line now,

dreams and aspirations.



words and degradations.



lines deepen, water etched.



window open, birds sing.

mostly foggy here today.

sbm

stand back to spite the craving, look on as from afar.   people, some write hymns & mantra others watch tv, not the news.               oh no not the news, the truth is too depressing, a bit near the mark.





i guess yours sleep in bed, loved and cherished.                                              others love and cherish , yet their families sleep in mud,                                                                                                   on streets.



the words came suddenly. an odd day, no gentle people to woo thee, day of stress,      and horror, you watch the news.                                                         a day of reality, the reckoning that nowhere is safe.



come in dreams, the shape of your face remaining. there is a line now,        dreams and aspirations.   words and degradations.                                                                                   lines deepen, water etched.







the rain falls round our houses.







how small.

how white

the child,

skin rinsed

with tears.

salt in the wind.

©sbm

yes, i sometimes do: the odd star-gazing... not because i find solace in the constellations - although: truth be told: how did man arrive at a pyramid or triangle: or any other geometric proposal if not via the stars... i look up... i see them bewilder me and thrown me into the pit of geocentrism - by night this is what the eyes require to digest... take a peep at... come to think of it: i have written this for eyes solely: i think (therefore i doubt) i have left my tongue somewhere where onomatopoeias are best uttered: where words have no power... *** in a brothel - i like to think that all brothels are scented with an allure of a perfume that's very much all: bourbon "stink": by stink i'm inviting a texture rather than a scent per se... it's sticky... it's almost gluttonous: how these two opposing bodies can flesh out an architecture of diabolical pressures with a tenderness: that upon touch is a wilting passing by. Yes, these stars... these fazes of drifting between stages of amazement coagulated with utter dumb bewilderment - their sanctity of faking animate illiteracy - as any sensible stone might: a breath of god a devil's eye - they are forever "sensible": unmoveable... yet give them enough years and they are predictably chained to the same canvas. I can't object to what i'm forever subjected to... these stars these pressures of time... so to deviate... i took a stroll through my garden in this glorious wealth of night... to admire my work on the cement work of a newly erected fence... that i had to dig a miniature trench and fill it with cement so that my neighbour's **** garden would not penetrate my bias against weeds... the rains have been plentiful... no **** sprouts on my side of the fence... armed with a flashlight i chanced upon looking down to see where my foot were toying with step and perhaps some mythology of chess... what did i shine upon? well... the graces of the night welcomes a **** sapiens dreaming about origins of **** similis... that's all the night is worth: a sleeping fellow at the pivoting crux of membranes - i too desire a night filled either by a vacancy of dreams: therefore a lack of... or at least something to give my fatty sponge of a brain: illumination ill conceived... two slugs: feasting over a corpse of a third slug... that i must have strapped to a pressure from my foot... and how... gloriously spectacular: this feast of two slugs on a body of a third... some of the consummate part thus exposed almost looked: appetising in a sense that: seafood appears when... given unto a dissection prior to... the cooking hands... yes.. yes... STAR gazing... only for a little while... L is just sort of a right-handed... while delta is most certainly just shy of an equilateral triangle... pity that a square was never given a "letter": beside the point! up up above these stars these dreams of an exhausted geography of the world... the tamed and the less so projects of ennobling "barbarians"... but of course little ol' life beside man feeds off the night... a wise fly will take refuge on a leaf of ivy beside a ripe fist bundle of teasing burgundian blood fruits... even if shining a light upon it, it will not stir or dare movement... shine a light upon the slugs... the younglings will fold their eyes and peep from a fatty covering of their slurpy gut / glut... but the higher ranks 'un will continue their festive **** of cannibalism... for someone who still managed to see how the countryside operated... the ergonomics of keeping chickens for both eggs and flesh... how chasing one poor judas around the yard... yielding a stump of wood an axe and... the last electricity of a rolling of the eyes and the extension of the tongue from out of the beak... until... the body was carried away to be plucked from its feathers and poached for a soup... the remaining chickens would start up a frenzy... jumping onto the stump dancing voodoo... pecking at the head and slurping up the gushed out blood... for all that's night: oh look! prime visage to counter the constellations has decided to take up a promenade: peruse of the sky... scythe baron that coming upon her zenith will turn from an illuminating autumnal bask in yellow to a bone carving whiteness... half illuminated while half hidden... this star gazing... but little of the night i've rented for an hour beyond a predictable pattern for days to come / to salvage... such "things" happen below mere minor stalking a sensibility of cravatte attired smocking donning type of societally accepted conversation: such things as csns only breed mirrors and ghosts for their brood... and have to discourage an ownership of them from a genesis: one born from the agony of thought: is to never find repose in the well-established furore of an aging body... the original splinter is this: gruesome advent of over-adjectivity... from the sensible pleasure of the night... to this base life ladden toil for toil: oculus per oculus... such greasy masters of sloth roam the critter domain of the night... such slurp base degradations of what's edible and what's not... i come to the conclusion that: not all is this forced **** of prizes, of amnesias, of... i kept myself forgotten upon a third descriptive usher-ing of detail... yes... from such heavenly sanctity of an above... to such debasement cold... thrown among a harvest of potatoes... it has been an absolute pleasure to revel in: the demands themselves presented... perhaps what's missing is... an haiku for the coroner? i gladly think, that that's all that's ever missing: to make enough puncture into canvas, page... silence.

he rubbed his eyes
and said you just think that way
so you always have an answer ready
which may well constitute
a state of pure distraction
in a dog lick dog kind of world
at Cathode Ray's tanning salon
scene of criminal degradations
with multiple jaw grinding *******
from a terrestrial point of view
I'm not sure high above the clouds
is the place to find anything
certainly not a mirror to be had
much less a cinema projector
with scenes of domestication
Reginald sneezed his false teeth
into his dinner plate as an augury
probed prodded palpated
looking for the intelligentsia
in the oracle's personnel roster
their attempts to overthrow evolution
led to a cornucopia of calamity
at the crossroads of conundrum
traded their opposable thumbs
for a certifiably reliable statistic
the atmospherics garbling
the ivory tower transmissions
and made anyone look like a prophet
and bearers of unintended consequences
left my friends hanging from lamp posts
adulterers heretics and infidels
cataleptics ablaze with legend
trained by undulating biblical harlots
tending their hornet infested gardens
avoiding the irredeemably antique
remaining inexact to a criminal degree
in the war between belief and certainty
my script supervisor just pulled the plug
he's not from Sesame Street
he's from Bastille Boulevard
the artist is bait and accident prone
opaque as an 8 ball at high velocity
caroming through every nave and vestibule
bladder control found again
in the midst of bourgeoisie panic
a meditation of involvement
I'm going where

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
the disorder of discovery is tolerated