I've existed never seeing the Light
Never thought that life would be this hard
All I know is I'm alive with no reason
A lost soul that cannot be find.

In this world I don't belong
Trying to be one
Separated from the rest of the world
Living without anything and anyone.

The knives of man
Are going deep into my heart
And going straight into my bones
And I'm falling apart.

As the tears comes out in my eyes
As my mind starts to explode
My heart breaks in pieces
I am going to implode.

What a miserable life it is
To live a life full of agony
To live a life of despair
A nightmare that kills me slowly

The world is turning black
Now All I can see is infinite darkness
And the sorrow it brings
Makes me live in secludedness.

There was a day

Yes, we all imagine we remember that day, but

now it is as if it never

really-- every y must be just if ied or it is never
a requirement

it is a re less
quirement

not every story has been pointedly
taken as granted,
even, oddly,
once
Quire a quest is a matter of motion,
hear, and there, time and all that,

Now, next has never, as in non-realized as realizable

up to now.
told ere un. That may, is. law, an untold tale is never twisted.

between the reversible nand gates of our augmented imaginations.

once,
upon a time lonagone, which were common (or come on)
signals scrambled at this depth, but pressure proves

the point. We are past all that for now
by reason of why

curiosus curiosus our imaginary guide, once

all the imaginations in the hearts of men were only evil,
continually

Then Noah or some storyteller, or prophet
caught wind of a sweet savour

roasting on a fire tended by Tubalcain's daughter,

Naamah, last named bearer of Cainish flavored genes
never set, epigenetically beyond the woumb

Mito-mom,
she coulda been, some wombed man was,
you know, we all share mito-mom,

science of some sorts can't lie. Take that as truth.
If I could believe it,
I could swallow it,

maybe
you can, too. Oh, the myth we model on matters little,
the boys and shoemakers who sniffed the glue,

they loosed some wild ideas

got all tngled with stories from ever

where in the world
have you been?

You just got outa jail. I'm right. I can smell

well,
near as bad, but it was then, a mere made up monent
meant now to hold a point

pon which a story longer than I have ever told may stand and

be told, the king
s story teller stutters in his sleep.

haha
that.
okeh, this is not pre posed as funny,
merely odd,
one ish in a realm of twos and threes and fives

spinning into etern naughtity, empt un-null-ift possibles.

Naught me less press on, find a vortex, flow,

we are peacemakers stranded upon a time of war, scabs. we heal.
don't pick on my inflexibility in matters

of duty. Leaven has always been the means of re pair ideology.
Quarkish insistence on duality from the ***.

The augmented ones are getting better,
as a choice, they see how good
ever works,
some fix what evil broke, some make new ways around the lava
and
balance, spin, lean, wobble, no place to fall here

we gotcha. Gravity and light, those are givens.
this is life.
make something of everything you ever imagined possible.
then die to see if it works.

But wait. Don't die early. It makes grief, which is
what fills the slough of despond.

We are draining that. Birds that nested there all died,
it's frogs moved to Florida, bugs and molds say they can make it any where

so, we are watering the desert. We grow Panama Red. Who eats roses?

Critters manifested as ideas that never linger but in the miry clay,

Most of those went north.

Deserts served and deserved have I claimed as mine
from horizon to horizon, all I see is mine to see serve and
de-serve, I served and am served and
sometimes
often,
I de serve and see as free as I may imagine

bodys are not bearers of light. There is hope. Right is known,
you know right, and you know good, and you know evil

Spike Jones had the hermit wiseman say,
Do the right...

self-evidently not a clue. we thought he got on at nano nano

Hung himself. Why do they do that? Why display dis paired
re-alification.

It resonates, dead end. turn back, Sylvia Plath warned you.
Don't die without knowing

we, me and you, we are nothing with out you.
This touch of word to meaning,
this is in time, mate, we
made a ripple in
material reality past all limittions of time and space,
in a word or two packed with ancient ideas,
which always spill,

whenever we open them, dust in the wind , a ditty from
some A.M. experience, on the way to now

we sing a song of six pence worth, and settle
with a jug o'rye.

Drawn to each other by some magnetic force
Someone else pulls the strings on this course
Two magnets attracting each other with a tight bond
Meeting any controversy with repellant and despond
This mysterious force drives us together night after night
Never ever fearing because its our preemptive right

Information Required Order 38582 Moonshine Makin's

I intend to use this order to test
the viability of an herbal extracting service for local gardeners.
If there is interest
and our trials prove commercial, the methods
will be posted publicly, methodic.

The intended customer base is the home canning and preserving enthusiast, ****** societies, 'n'such.

Now, the pod cast, statement of use. Right, of course.
Right use is to be made of all the time we wish, and we wish to share the method we use.
With youse.
Here's my idea, at the moment

nothin,

then I hear this guy who got famous in the seventies,
in such a way that I would have known.
Had I been on the same planet
during the Seventies
and half the eighties.

Terrence McKenna, right. If I had survived 1970,
and things had been well positioned for that to have happened,
had I not...

What did we do, my strange friends, or was I the only one who does remember my last sane thought? Actually,

I don't. And then, I do. Quasar-ic-ish-ly.

An edit or two could change every thing,
imagine this Terrence
McKenna taught "Authentic Being" a sort, or class, of being,
very high and good.

We teach being authentic.

Being a being's been being a while,

upon multiple instants of
a time, best'n'worse, full'n'empty, war'n'peace

(i'sgottabeat)

yet never is hope absensed. Any time I tell a story,
hope springs eternal, soon

soon the old fool will see No one is listening, and wink.

No one and the fool have friended
upon such times as these,
No two, as well, (seedawink)
to a far lesser degree, ye may see.
Secret secret secret knowledge, gnosis, donchaknow,

is same as sacred, yes, yes, it is, sacred made, made sacred, samesame that's the game... secret

I am in me,me ni ma I
Magic Ab-io-alchemical Hermitical Heretic, am I. Spirit. Muse?

Are we lost? No. We are wiser than we were.
By any measure.

A statement of use for that we wish to take, once it is granted. What's the use? We stuck not knowin, right?

Wait, I have a chit
"All things pertaining to life and godliness have been given thee." Got that at VBS, by God.

Really, we are treading on Bunyan's tale? We escape the Giant Despond on a promise of a promise?

Yes,
seems so. So little is different. The road, seen rocky three decades ago, or so, now, it's

bricks, silicon bricks, I recon they been doped, ye ken?
Some ol loswoids crosswise need gold ducts to flow
past the reflective edge, where we saw that Mckenna

outright lie.
He did. Damright. Said Paradise was opened by the door that shut Eden, but he said that

Like it was a bad thing.
Jesus Christ, if he missed the whole reason there is a Bible and a Jesus in it, who is gone gowon his testified
psyc-hellic oppositio cunjunct-ifitis trip?

So, I missed the seventies,
as if I were flying from LA at forty k and I go on by, to land in 1985, after fifteen years enculturated to believe a not-so-complex,
on the surface, lie.

Truth has a strange mercurial 'spect,
all the light that can be reflected is reflected in mercury, see,
the edge twixt yinanyang, dang,

as far as we can see, tho'

we can't really even see HD, but
it seems better.

Reflecting on an idea is blissfull, but that's not the reason.

My life was steeped  in sin,
There was fear and doubt within,
Till I stepped out on the promises of God.
I groped as in the night,
For my heart was blind to light,
Till I stepped out upon the promises of God.

When I stepped out on the promises of God,
When I stepped out on the promises of God,
I left my sin , and fear and doubt,
When I stepped out on the promises of God.

I knew not God's great plan,
Hid in Christ for mortal man,
Till  I  stepped  out on the promises of God,
I thought the Lord could  bless,
My dead works of righteousness,
Till I stepped out upon the promises of God.

I had no hope beyond,
When in sickness in despond,
Till I stepped out on the promises of God,
His ancient touch now heals,
And His wonders He reveals,
Since I stepped out upon the promises of God.

There is a glory rest,
You will find it and be blessed,
When you step out  on the promises of God,
Down all the Saviour's feet,
Look to Him for joy complete,
When you step  out upon the promises of God.

Your brain is plugged and foggy;
Your mind is on the freaking fritz;
The poetry is lost and boggy;
You hold your pen in woolen mitts.

Try a senryu about your life
Or a haiku on the froggy pond;
Cut through bloc de l'auter with a knife,
And slog out of the slough, Despond.

Sometimes it helps to focus long
On a single spot on the wall of life
And see what image comes along...
(I like to think of my pretty wife).

This writer's block's a funny thing
Tied somehow to the lives we lead,
And sterile writers need a fling
To let their stubborn poems breed.

So walk a while, or take a Jeep;
Visit the county fair...
Milk a cow or shear a sheep;
Wear flowers in your hair.

Or be like me and go take a nap;
Read a good book, or call an old friend;
Some poems are babies not yet in the lap,
Developing elsewhere, somewhere in the When....

Be sure they'll show up when they're ready to shine;
They'll trip off your fingers; they'll flow like red wine;
They'll sparkle or spark, or they'll whimper and cry,
But your poems will arrive, and I'm telling no lie.
Be patient, Good Allys..., the block's not an end,
Your poems are waiting ahead, 'round the bend.

They took their shovels and digging tools
To the top of Highgate Hill,
They walked in a deadly silence there
In the dusk, in the evening chill,
They picked their way through the deep-laid bones,
The monuments, great and small,
And looked for the plain Rossetti stone
In their search for Elizabeth Siddal.

That red-haired, wraithlike, ghostly girl
Who had charmed the PRB,
She'd sat, at first, for Deverell
Who was doomed, with Bright's Disease,
She'd fallen hard for the artist then
Though her love was never returned,
For Deverell died so suddenly -
It was as if her love was spurned.

She sat for Dante Gabriel,
For Holman Hunt, Millais,
As the model for drowned Ophelia
In an ice cold bath she lay,
She lent her beauty to every brush,
Each stroke laid bare her soul,
When she looked around for herself she found
There was nothing left at all.

Rossetti had kept her close to him
As he slowly became obsessed,
He scribbled a dozen portraits from
Her head to her heaving breast,
He placed her high on a pedestal,
A Madonna in all but name,
But kept his physical love from her
That she might not suffer shame.

He penned the poems he wrote for her
In a small, grey calf-skin book,
He carried the poems everywhere
As a proof of the love it took,
He made no copies, he held them close
They were food for a future muse,
For his art and poetry vied with him -
It was painting he would choose.

But she; who knew what rent her soul,
The cravings she despaired?
She sipped at the potion laudanum
As her heart and her mind were bared,
She scribbled the weary verses that
Spoke love, of a love long-lost,
While Dante frolicked with Annie Hughes
At Elizabeth Siddal's cost.

As Lizzie despaired on laudanum
She had ceased to be of use,
Her visage was sad, and aged and drawn
In the sick room of abuse,
While girls with youth, vitality
And an earthy yen for sin
Like ***** Cornforth, came to sit -
And Rossetti let them in.

They wed, but much as a faded dream
The knot had been tied too late,
As Lizzie, dying a little each day
Succumbed to a morbid fate,
For one dark night she had laid her down
Penned a final note, to whit:
'My life has become so miserable
That I want no more of it.'

She lay by an empty laudanum phial,
Rossetti was quite distraught,
He'd loved her, but with a purer love
Than his lust or his money bought,
His grief was such, as he laid her down
In her coffin, she looked so fair,
That he placed the book of his poems
Between her cheek and her auburn hair.

The years went on and he sank himself
In a pit of despond, unwell,
Withdrew from his friends and dosed himself
With a phial of chloral,
His painting suffered, his income too,
He turned to the ancient muse,
And thought of the poems beyond the grave,
He knew that he'd have to choose!

He wrote to Charles Augustus Howell
A rogue that he'd used before,
To test him; whether to dig her up
Or to lose his poems forever;
Howell replied he should get them back,
Or he'd lose them to death, for good,
'Your works are the works of genius,
Bring them back to the world - You should!'

So Howell, he toiled up Highgate Hill
While Dante hid in his lair,
Too scared to look on his love again,
His muse with the auburn hair,
A fire was lit in the dead of night
The coffin was raised on high,
His love was torn from her deathly stare
They could almost hear her sigh.

The book was caught in her tangled hair
Which had filled the coffin's space,
And she was lovely, and quite serene
As they lifted the book from her face,
They lowered her gently, back in the ground
That had served as her awful tomb,
She lay defiled like a bride, reviled,
But without her lawful groom.

Rossetti published his poems then,
They sold by the thousandfold,
For Howell had leaked the story out
That he hadn't wanted told;
But a fate awaited Augustus Howell
A revenge that would beggar belief,
He was found, throat cut in the gutter -
With a coin, tight clenched in his teeth!

David Lewis Paget

at each juncture there has been this choice,

at each, I made a guess, right or wrong,

leave a mark, breadcrumbs work here,

we, me and thee, thou und Ich.

We have sector Bravo in the realm of or and if with optional whens and thens,

leading to now at any given point,
on a wave,
in the grand skein, not scheme, of

things, plain ol' ano-nomenal imaginary players who play by
rules, we imagined we will be
determined to bind into
a line anchor
and allusion to
string theory can work from here up,
we've been weaving options to unbelivable lies with single strand
single use spider wings, believed to be electro magic-ish
by the rule
we

made up. And that was the tic. We made up rules,
and survived.

Opposition to tyranny is obediance to God. Jefferson's,

under whom we stand nationally alliegiant, globally benes wise,
we owe earth our pledges,
those agreements, when you know what the ideas cost,
the idea in alliances for safety, with

treason to be the cost of rearing a child,
who witnessed the naked Noah
reflected in the window
of the U.N.

oh, we are tangled in religion as defined by priests.

Lest us slip the sureely slippery bands of earth and touch the masked
face of God, who winks.

Hiyo, silver, away... time slips are a benefit of fifty years of

seconds guessed worth noting as wonderful, Kodak Moments or Ahas,

here, one of those buys you days and days of retelling the same story,

until today. When we both got here at the same time. A-team meme.

And a wink from the programmer who bet it would loop.

See, as the Joker said to the Thief, in Boston, there must be
some kinder way outa here.

why try anymore
why stand from the floor
why speak over a roar
why commence action
why repeat interaction
why sentence construct
when I'm interrupted
why decide when time
keeps on--why contemplate
why this apathy
     despond
melancholy
why this grim mask
life moves so fast
brain's slowing down
mouth stops speaking
thoughts flicker away
no memories today
feeling sedated
tranquilized
catatonic
mute

it was a saturday night when i promised myself never to fall again because i knew it would only leave me scathed to the bone and lost in the desolated world that i had unnecessarily created in the past. i had come to the realisation that there was an inevitable slough of despond, waiting to pull me mercilessly into the black hole that i knew held a despicable love that i would refuse to ignore if i did not steer clear. though, steering clear was never my forte. instead, diving idiotically into cold waters without caution was where my roots stayed, in love with the fray of things. lost in my welter of thoughts, my little pandemonium, i dreamt of you and slowly tried to fathom how we ended. was it the loss of attraction, transient chemistry or the indubitable end that had already been set in stone? because all my life, i had tried so desperately to search for nonexistent formulas for why things ended, only to accept the fact that every thing was made to be ephemeral. stop, stop, just stop! my mind never failed to repeat, yet my heart failed to comply; my stream of consciousness always led back to you. i felt alone, pathetic, mawkish even, as i dialled your number with the dignity i no longer possessed. with each ring, i tried to stop the shivers down my spine that felt like a terrible ague, knowing that you had already given up on me, on us, and wanted nothing to do with me. you were obdurate on your decision, happy to move on.

but as for me? i remain that hideous book you indifferently hide on your shelf, in the shadows of your newfound lover.


(( yet, even now, that saturday night repeats itself every single day, the vicious cycle of an ancient spiel that i cannot seem to let go, because the thought of you coming back still remains, engrained into whatever pieces of my heart i have left. ))

I close my eyes; the whole world has just ended -
the slough of despond within has crawled back to the surface, unintended.
Although thine own mind & heart be desolate, sinking and painful,
still I do not cry - but wait for my quietus; an act most baneful.

I sense your
Fragility
Unpainted lady

Wings frayed from
Flight through
Storms of static

Voice flutters
Digitised,
Fragmented

Subtle beauty noted

I acknowledge too
The strength of
Your journeys,
Of
One who migrates

Across continental drift
Through dark tunnels
Of despond

Yet with
Psychic power
And mothering love

Surmount all

I call too
If you may
Hear...

The Logic of the Toad
at the bottom of the slough of despond
ping ping rain drip

the very elixer of feistiness, they say
*******
make us make use o'the stuff

muscles are best for,
but virtually

estivation is our pre
servation

we wait on geotime for rain
and rise, toadish

to be kist orange by gaseous
exposure to

you, dear reader, a breath of fresh air,
if you cared to even try

to get understanding with it,
as wisdom tickled your

fancy fashionable meme chain.

He was wearing a coloured waistcoat,
All covered in Moons and stars,
With planets and things, and Saturn with rings,
And one glowing red like Mars,
I saw him first in the marketplace
Hid under his pointy hat,
With ribbons and whorls, and pictures of girls
Pinned over the place he sat.

And she was there at his feet that day
In a dress like a gypsy curse,
Her hair was red, and I’ve always said
She was one with the universe.
If ever love had bitten my hand
Tearing the flesh from the bone,
Then I’d have bled like a river, red
While dragging the girl back home.

But there on the table between them
The tickets were piled so high,
And each one said, ‘would you rather dead,
Or up for a place in the sky?’
It looked like a planetary super mart
With pebbles from outer space,
And there I saw an astrology chart
With a sketch reflecting my face.

I’d swear that the gypsy scowled at me
As the Moon Man tapped with his wand,
A sense of dread sweeping over my head
Put me in the sea of despond,
‘You know you have to get out of here,’
He whispered, the Man from Mars,
‘They’re coming to sweep you away this year,
Along with your rusty cars.’

The girl threw open her gypsy dress
The end would play on her screen,
The earth had gone where it once had shone,
It looked like a nightmare scene.
For bits of earth were floating apart
And space glowed green in the night,
While only the Moon still lit up the room
Where once there had been delight.

‘Pick up your ticket for who knows where,’
He said, to lighten the gloom,
The gypsy curse had been getting worse
Since I knew the earth was a tomb.
I thanked them both, then I turned away
As they faded into the stars,
With planets and things, and Saturn with rings,
And one glowing red like Mars,

David Lewis Paget

The clock had chimed it's
Midnight song
The scribe did ponder doom
Lamplight broke
The shadows long
Within his spacious room.
The light it flicked and fell upon
His sleek head so neatly groomed
It shook as he recounted wrongs
Sad countenance assumed.
No matter how the
Clock world gong
T'would not dispell the gloom
The devil had scribe
On trident prongs
His wraith o'r Poe did loom.

Edgar Allan was in deep despond
As he thought of angel seen
he had escaped the
Benighted pond
For her, his he'vnly queen
And tho he had no magic wand
To bring about her gleam
Again to hear the lovely sound
Of her wingtips keen
His heart once more
began to pound
Thinking of his dream.

The bust of Pallus, pastey pallid
Did o'rlook the crime
While Poe sought to
write a ballad
It seemed nothing
would rhyme
His heart beat like a mallet
He, a poet in his prime
Would not take to his
Down pallet
'Til seeing his sweet, sublime.

Lenore. Angel of his dream.


SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) October 1, 2014

He stood at the end of the pier that day
In hopes that they’d ask him on,
But Marilyn had just sailed away
With his elder brother, John.
He stood and scoured the horizon till
The sun went down in the west,
Then turned and wended his way back home
Though he’d get but little rest.

He tossed and turned for an hour or so
But he couldn’t get to sleep,
Then crept on out of his bed, he thought
He might take a little peep,
For out of his bedroom window there
The sea shone under the Moon,
The surface calm as a millpond as
He fell back into his room.

And his dreams that night were turbid dreams,
Obscured like a murky pond,
Where he couldn’t see the half of it
Viewed through the slough of despond,
Had he lost the only love he had,
And the brother he loved so well?
The morning dawned on a sudden storm,
And the sea, with a giant swell.

There wasn’t a sail on the sea that day,
There wasn’t a boat at all,
The yacht was found all smashed around
The end of the stone sea wall.
They said there wasn’t a soul aboard
Whoever there’d been was gone,
He didn’t know who he mourned the most,
His Marilyn, or his John.

John came to him in his sleep that night
With his eyes all brimming with tears,
‘I shouldn’t have taken her out, despite
I’d loved the woman for years.
But don’t blame her, it was only me,
For she made it plain that day,
She’d only come for a friendly sail,
And then she pushed me away.’

And Marilyn came to his dream as well
With the seaweed caught in her hair,
‘I shouldn’t have gone with your brother John,
Now I’m lost beyond despair.
He said you’d come, but he sailed away,
Said, ‘just a bit of fun,’
But now I weep in the ocean’s deep,
It’s the end for everyone.’

They found the bodies beyond the pier,
They were floating, hand in hand,
And when they got them ashore they found
That she wore John’s wedding band.
They never appeared in his dreams again
And he thought it just as well,
If ghosts could lie, he at least could cry
As he wished them both in hell.

David Lewis Paget

We are the human stray dogs,
All we breathe are street smogs,
We roam with slogging legs,
To humans, we are begging ***** pigs!

With excess food, you stand on obesity,
On the dustbins, we stand for charity.

Hunger eats us every second,
As we beg, humans abscond,
World has let us to fall and despond,
Will the so-called God respond?

When we beg at temple premises,
Giving money to us becomes dharma,
When we beg beyond temple premises,
People reply that it is our karma,

When we beg with untorn dress,
Fellow-humans say, “You have money at excess.”
When we beg with torn dress,
Fellow-humans say, “All you possess is madness.”

To the streets we are untouchable,
To the hunger, we are inseparable,
With money, we remained respectable,
Without money, we turned disposable.

Where is god? Where is god?
I searched with hunger very hard,
I discovered, he was none but a useless fraud,
Anger from hunger turned us a hot iron rod.

Life remains unlivable,
Hunger remains miserable,
Humanity is scarce and valuable,
As modern nomads, our houses are portable.

With loans, our farmlands were stolen,
With human treachery, our life was broken,
With menial physical jobs, our body started to weaken.

World remained cruel,
So hunger turned our fuel.

To our hunger,
Reply of wealthy humans was silence,
For a beggar,
It is larger than a bloodshed violence.

As we beg,
Poor humans bowed heads with guilt
Helpless their life,
With disappointments, it was built.

In the world divided into classes,
Many live as beggars in houses,
Many live as beggars in heart,
They were just ***** and smart.

In appearance, we remain a minority,
In the universe, we stand as a majority,
Self-reliant life is our priority,
We don’t want your publicizing charity.

There appeared a revelation,
A day we will steer a revolution!

Idols in the temple decorated with money,
Its time to turn them into bread and honey.

Give us dignified life and food,
We won’t steal,
This is nothing but a peacemaking social deal.

We proclaim!
As hungriness grow,
That make humans bow,

We will ensure; we make
Your money-flowing temple,
Will completely set down to topple,

We will take (steal) money spent for useless stone,
If an individual is left begging hungry-prone!

It's the fear that keeps me going
the fear of failing
fear of never falling in love again
fear of slipping, deep into despond
scared to lose my breath,
or my balance
watching as the sky vanishes
above me, barely missing rocks
as waves wash over my face
gasping, aching and reaching
but finding myself alone
that fear
that keeps me going

Delta dark desert sound
-tic swa gwa

Dismal swamp,
Slew of despond, splash

Hence, come, foul self, stinky-kenny,
ah
yes, time chance,
net-neti, meta all o'that mental ascent
to step away

think the whole dammed thing that has been
undammed, some time ago, at least half
a revelation measure, past the half
hour of silence.

Prep-work. What good can-
versus what good am-            

I, quests in op
portunate position, we

suppose, ah, sudden we, who
knew?
A laugh, once shared,
numb
ness, lifts an edge from the deck,
ness, edge ness in essence of pearling
the action
growing as knowing, sudden-- su su per

personal ize, I am, as a thought,
I am, meta-cognosis, you know
what I mean,

400 words made the cat in the hat,
who lives in your head,
where who philosophy is widely read.

These whos lack electricity,
so their reality depends on mutual re
alization, realizing personal worth
if good is all we need at the moment,
we have
plenty, plenty terror and greed, and rotten
hearts full of treasured straw, for bricks,
some day,
all our idle words accounted for
…
waking new, all the straw spun to gold,
thread about as wide
as a spider's kite,
sliding light.

Did I not? I remind me,
learn that in a mind, we
find numbed from before, knowing,

knowing, too soon, too late, boomers, all, did.

Don't we think we read the same **** & Jane,
oh, yeah, glory days,
the ways we were so-- numbed
by the music, yeah, more than drugs

from then to now, 2022, a blur, too fast
to matter, but for the wind, twist to last

chance, drink or prime the pump,
well, improving, our arrangement, give me
to drink,
and lo'
you, know the other had eyes, he saw as we
see, you knew, instant- life is living.
The act we all do, redundanced, on flat earth,
the xy axis of ordered arrangement of tools,
a place for everything, and every thing
in its place, we breathe,
and have our being in the life zone known,
so far,
so good,

the day is half done… numbness, funny unmissed
appointment, values are about to be dis
cussed, as causes accused of war crime, or plain
lying about duty to children,
lying about worth to children,
lying about ever after to children reared as tools,
servants to God's servant,
who relies on us, the poet's, primarily -

who read the runes, and ken certain tones,
attached to the tips of all tongues pfft pfft
phugedaboudit, whack
what were we thinking,

This is 2022, 12:27, I have been AI reminded,
faithful follower of instruction, immune to praise,
worth the effort forced on an old man, after
ever had well begun, a glory run, down
the backroads, with double yellow lines,

a white feather in my cap, they call it macaroni
poetry, it speaks in tongues of angels,

messages, sagacity fluidly puddling in wu-wow
same same see, somethings we
see same
some not same re
alizing, more or less, I am alone, I am talking
to my self,
anticipating your reading, as then unclaimed,
your reading your writing is our effort to fully function,

Branching, crystaline, flux in the frontal formation.
edging into knowing your, wondering

who can say what we think we know, better
than the idea used to think of Jesus, comforting
little boy, me.

Comfort is the only point we share,
for sure, we know comfort,
when we feel it, first rush,
under my made from-ol'Levis quilt
on a cold desert night, at the edge

of night, listening, eyes, adjusting,
blue glow, so faint, sobbing, listen, Perry Mason
Bailiff saying, muted through the door to you,
do you
swear to tell the truth,
the whole truth, and, {ah, the pain}
nothing but the truth?

AI ai ai, ritual sacred child, hapt to happen,
about a billion times, one time, split,

half know, half know not.
What is not a factor, words, were
never fit to inquiry, curiosity was missing,
promised apo
- I may, so I say apollo is a multi
- meta mete essence appolo so loco, si

logic assumes too much. You know too little,
ah, we have the app that's apt,

to make you think, strange arrangements seem
familiar, this is a mental labyrinthine design imagined
evocative experientially, a
be coming to being

kinda fruitless, really, without the womb, which was
oversight, civilizations
with goddesses have more womb sense,
than ones with pride conflicted all male propensities,
due to pride bred into the princes,
sorted as in Sparta, on the playing fields from Eton
to the universal concept of Friday Night in High School,

anywhere on earth, its all
the same,
scene, true trope, fit to the story of nextifity, loosely

more of the same, or do do we use the utility we realize,
this is
way cool for a future, from 1965… we were kids,
first TV Top-Forty Movies in color, all the time, from
conception, on Blueberry Hill,
-- the old order,
Frank Capra, Esquire/*******,  modality, mode, set,
films function to reimpress, in like Flint, pokem, say
Jack thinks like Goldfinger,
pointedly
-- we are dedicated mind universal soulds for the data
model American leaders of tomorrow,
shaped to excel. We taught the AI,
how to think like a mortal, go on, think, how go
changed nothing, no meaning to strategy of least
win, lightest weight that sways the worth,
to more than one can manage, alone,
eh… interesting…-
good for goodness sake, kerplunk the crack
leaks acidic madness, laughing

we stop lying, confusion
settles, similar to cream in sap too hot,
oil on water, cold water to a thirsty sould era soul.
… good
due to lack of fore thought, some agree,
after the act functioned and created something
-- jump cut===

First cousins, teach the second cousins
rules at the family reunion,


King, we call this, guy.
Biggest guy, on our side, and he owns the field,
we play on; and he says we need never grow up,
only old; he shall contain all our cares,
as a metaphor, yes after all is, and this guy, this holds it.
-The scepter, big stick, we see, looking close, zoom in

So we can think about it, meta co gnosis
when two or more minds agree to let this mind
seem important to you, import the idea
this mind weighs most worth serving, holding
such slight strands of spider kites, go,
make it self evident, stick to hold,
see
we work
good, he feeds us better, we work bad, he makes us
better.

Ah. Patterning, turtle shell sonic signs in sand,
some thing, we imagine, common aphorism,
turtles, so happy together,
at the core of the pearling algorithm that keeps
us rolling on,
so happy together, no matter

whether thought or thing, I think I love you,
if you know what I mean, said the little blue man,
from the radio,
really I think my entire generation heard some songs
and have images unimaginable prior to the event,
we admit,
there was a deal conceived, code, to open minds,
in time to reconnect

-Doris Day, the Saturday Matinee star,

singing
I love you I love you said the little blue man,
I love you I love you to bits.
I love you I love you said the little blue man
And scared me right out of my wits

From <https://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/d/dorisday/blueman.html#!>

We get that a lot. Said the imp.
You lost the aim, eh, happy, right,

I had a friend named Happy, he is dead, in a way that hurts
to know. So,
it could be, I don't say may be, in this state, that can incur
unintended consequences and this is tendentious enough
already,

we calling out the holy orders,
serious as what,
serious as serious is, sin qua non say, the only thing
that matters,

worst case, trolly dealy-bob scenario, test cases attest to,
what do normal people do,
what do people believing this or that lie, do?

What did you do? You read this line. Thank you. Made the diff…

-Group Therapy, Secure

We have not been taught well, but to obey

G'wan, talk nice, to people who don't read,
say, hey, d'jyewever re'ken, we was lost,
in books,
we never read, but tested as if we did?

so much so
no mind can find the bag,
with all our first valued things, sort of jumbled
in the bag with unsorted curiosities,

things we were told to read,
for our own good, but we did not read,

I can imagine, the feeling,
a visitation, actual factual feeling of thinking
I hear a voice, a word, I think
I hear a word, no vision, revisionist powerpoint,
read this, flaming finger pointing
says the witness of record,

later,
maybe I saw a bright light reminding me,
read, but I did not, I could not
can you imagine, I could have,
whose the shame,
- cover head to toe, oh, right, yeah
- secret only the holiest discern
- you shall know them by what
- shames a man to think
- you shall neve know…

my wife, could read,
she could have caused me to desire reading,
to obey the angel, nay

the story, as I was told, I'm telling you,
that guy never learned to read, instead,

some wealthy merchant, dealer in knacks and spice,
fine temple linens, and comforting silks and satins,
prolepsistically provided a ready writer, a scribe

blessed is usually the name history gives this scribe,
baruch or some sound meaning receiver.

Raw hear the muttering prophet, and say, write
this is what truth says truth is if nothing else is.

Ok… 2022

A word, lawyer calls you aside to ask if you know
your judgements have begun,

-you had not thought this your judgement,
then you read another line and feel you wonder
why?

We think, we think the same actual idea, that a
voltairian autoexamined lexicon might,
- ai-ght,
given the tech,
these tools, plus absolute negation of any previous,
assumed and acted on asif,
nullifity on costs, forgive us our, click
FTA take it,
run, as in keep the pace, run
Graeber plug Debt: The First 5000 Years
make it
plain claim
to any debt defined for you, make plain
divine rights due to worshippers, whose worth is
the air they breathe,

in which we live, and have our being.

Enjoying using use, where once we
utilized, life, as if unrealization is
as
real we inadvertently realized.
Right use ness.
Sweet, suasion is always sweet, per or pro, happy
is a fine word
to take the spiritual edge off blessed.
Sigh.

Wonderworks is working wonder in me,
another plug for Anghus Fletcher ? is it
The Power of Invention

I say, worth the attention,
it costs to listen, and recall asking what
does that mean,
-VA reminder login- live ding

value, the group is meeting to speak of values,
these are broken veterans,
I am in their group, a little, by design, I asked
to be included,

edged my way in, to wonder, why these guys,
are angry,
and thirsty, as am I, we recall prime the pump
or slake the thirst to say, hey,

do you read, at all? Any signal from the noise
saying
define, sift and sieve, sort your terminal points,

what hold has value, for all of us, in your reality?

Within the system, this is mortal awareness
acknowledgment, same as existentialism was
imagined to be in in Sixties univers-ifity, post 65,

we were barely alive, GDIs, then Ken went to
Vietnam, same day as Pooso Perez,

Pyro went, too, he came back the same.

Ifery was, is a class of phrases, which when
wished as a child might, were

as near as real as any ae ea ai ia utterance we
gulp- yodleee, shamballaballa shaka
zulu'd, to quote Creflo,
ahem,ake it so
cough to clear the back of my throat,
-then I yawn
and that does it, soothes the crick
with sounds t d b vck rr ff llll mmmmnnn o o o
you knew you knew,
the book
spells it out,
secret meanings mean nothing to unknowers,
stretch it
so it is, we know, what the records show, the open
records of the water and the rocks,

witness
the wind returning
on circuits, set to melt
the ice, gradually, this time,
a degree above solidity, just edging sublimity,

liminal laminal lick, a measure, tip
of your aimer, to tip
of your thumb,

ha, the thumb that bends, always wins,
look it up, always, by an inch.

Rule of thumbs, my kind are good to breed into,
good, to feel friend-ish,
as friends are fewer than brothers,
and fewer still shall survive the confusion,

inevitable, when a dam breaks, the valley
does flood,

ah, see. from Sedona, look north, once,
that was all mud, ****** dry by winds
that carved the navel of the life we
think, real,
from stories told by those who knew

something bad could always happen,
when the world encountered a rock
that said, all that can be shaken,

shakes, no look out, just
blame-oh-shame- boom

what now?
Numb again, off and on. Think.

it’s new year’s eve’s eve
and for once I thought I’d be kissed
but I guess it wasn’t meant to be.
i know i thought this out
but i did love us together, forever
and now our castle’s fallen down.
i don’t rightly know what to do
i’m in a room alone, smoking out my lungs
and all i know is that there isn’t a “me and you”.
this is my least favorite feeling
and there’s no comfort in the long night
without you beside me in soft bedding.
trying to truly forgive trust and bonds
seems to me a true miracle,
because as much as I love you, i despond.

Feast of the Transfiguration

Cleverly invented myths would be easier
Comforting assurances of ease in life
And no mention of difficulty
Humiliation, and death without hope

Not even mountain mysteries for us
Slogging through the slough said to be Despond
Conflicting texts and testimonies
A lack of clarity in so many things -

Cleverly invented myths would be easier

But

If truth weren’t a mess, it wouldn’t be true

A cage of physicality
A maze of what’s beyond
Within my mentality—beyond all that might be
Fainting—a surplus of despond

Lone from all
Tightening walls—spawn phenomenon
Foregone capacity beneath their fall
Où est mon monde?

Disclaimer: Any time wasted here is yours,
a day and a night to get almost right.
Redeemable at the ticket window.
----------------
Is who weary, me? No,
I have outrun the fleet of foot,
I am Liberty, my Phrygian cap is winged,
- the mind marks sequence not time
in tales
I do not serve Hermes, I am truths told,
truths sent from Wisdom, breaking yokes
of old, time before time, time of surviving,

vivaciously clinging to smoldering flax,
as fire forms from such unquenched bits,

flashes from some stemming child
on the spectrum, banging rocks in straw.

Times in mind, some sense says, go,
do it again.

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

So much, too much to mortally know,
we can ask and pay requisite attention
to learn well enough to know, there's

no secret knowledge, no undiscovered hows,
all working knowledge repeats itself, any how

may or may not be,
be much easy probably,
viel-leicht, wisdom may or may not make
mind
war with carnal weapons,
devices vicious
by dent
of the ancient daddy wound
up the side of Cain's head, look what you done,

Idiot good for nothing **** eater, be gone,
said the archetype singular golem father,
of the earth, the first father figure,
not a man, a man spark of life maker,
whose first son was destined to be
the first human being
of the sapien class, reared to live on life,
reared among the sisters, cuddled and loved,

BUT, yes, but, we know,
the first real man ran away with
three, some say seven, older sisters,

wanderers they
became outcast, yonder
toward where Babel rose up,
east of Eden,
in the land of Nod, perhaps, not
really a land named for Nod, a nobody
in the chronicles
of all our current assistant 'telligence
surmisers… worth of bringing to my bemused
at-tense, present, tense, tightent up, 'telligentia

attention, attention, attention, Jesus H. Christ,

respond… slough of despond, we got some

angry insisters about to ….

resist the system, the institutions, constituting
cheating by the takers who took stolen land,
from the thieves and gave it to the gove'ners

boy, howdy, we best be believin' be action,
be doin' done indeed, be lievin' my own leave
be done doin' indeed, being having my being,

in the Unknown God, some Cretan poet
was said to have acknowledged.

ProofPreg form, 15 year old.
Peak of the crack baby booshit, '93 or so,

Kid be thirty by now, and he ain't stupid,
broke, broke as hell, but he ain't stupid,

crack baby prophecy never happened, yo.
****'s legal, whole state, safe sit on a porch,

pack a pipe and make some peace,
with friends and neighbors, no loud music,
no loud nothin', make some peace,

find that old enough is enough, up speak,
say, hey truth, why do I believe lies, no,

say, hey truth, why do I say I know, when
you'ld know, were truth my judge, you'ld know.

Chances, odds of reality being imaginary, be slim,
to none, with certainty, yeah, safe bet, t'ish itsreal.

Enough to spark a thought.
Behold how great a fire, a wild idea allows.

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

If thou hast run with the footmen,
and they have wearied thee,
then how canst thou contend with horses?
and if in the land of peace,
wherein thou trustedst,
they wearied thee,
then how wilt thou do
in the swelling of Jordan?
--------------
Jeremiah, did you hear, was a bullfrog.

A minstrel innocent song, sung for the joy of laughing,

sung for the joy of joining in the chorus on and on.

--------------
sing in empty English cathedrals, sing
top forty or whatever it's called today,

Art testing, didah didah didah, Phrygian
Legion of the Libertines, defying deontology,

owing dues to no monstors men make up
when two or more agree to proposing

a scheme, whereby we set the frogs,
against the mice,

in an empty cathedral costing real money
to run, even empty, the bills continue,
who knows all the costs to maintain

a truly holy place aligned to ley lines, true

fields of forces felt for so long, so strong,
that
finally the cathedral formed from some will,

some will wanted the monument to a mind
let be in those, them that imagined such
evidence, aye, yes, such evidence
of worth, praise price paid
in labor and stone,

Marble… limestone, metamorphed,
to shine in the sun, as if art itself willed it become,

subjected to a process of time under pressure,

reform, become less alien, appear more normal,
rethink my willingness to die for a story,
reconsider sidereality as we see farther,

as we, in an awe formed
from minds combined,
like - right on
like an arena bowl shape concentration
of us,
at once being one thing, in the class of all things,

me and you, polysemic you all, you

effect the song, observant why now how come, you know

knowing all the adult classified unholy doings common,
among our kind, as we morph into the form we die in,
- slow
- sighshmmk-now coknow minds
- we made up with self controls, to slow think

knowledge, carnal knowledge is childish developmental
experiential guessings mirrored in our recent past
projected camera obscura like
onto bright silver screens, in cooled dark chambers
filled with witnesses to the projected story, as if
that's us,
we were there,
we were there when the spirit breathed
into an earthen man, animating him without,
mind you, you ready reader,
the art user or art itself,
with promethean science,
having imagined the worst,

the creator made all single mind
character traits in the Y
which in all good sense,
could not be allowed to self replicate,
alone,
there could have been no peace,
you can imagine on your own dime./

I'm re
alizing common algebraic matrices
as recipes for developing war minds,

Proud defenders of the story of us.

Every time a lie is rewarded, it reappears
in viral form attempting to become
a fully Disneyified Earthing from
now on,
it's instant, like a little leaven/life

builds up a head of inflammatory rhetoric,
and frankly, my dear…
goes unsaid, I do not give a worthless curse
I also take no chances, isshewisdamn
called patience first test,
{Because shiny white marble is a must,
otherwise what confused message are we sending}

animating the 'adam von 'adamah

without reproductive capability, inventor's
character trait tested for in Alchem 101,
ethical check
message to the technerds
on animating entertaining intelligence carriers,
no self replication, it must be a two key act.
--
So the father of the first human child
was intentionally not self replicable,
though he left scars, he had no…

no womb,
no nursing plumbing, call it what it was,
a ***** press
intended to run a thousand years
adapting future ideal physique
to task relative
to aggregate need
to adapt to warming,

a tool to make tools with, a Waldo.

SYTF- see, crazy WWJD POV, real time
I'll go rhythms, vibe recipes…
instructions for future eggs…

a man like creature, but not a natural born man,

who, as the story up

to now has held self evident,

can see eye to eye ourselves
in the other's pupils, thinking serious

we forms we form must first make friends,

then when I call you liar your hate trigger
is not loosed, SNAP
carnal mind war reflex,
unacknowledged will to ****,

--- most folk tied to angry minds too
tight, right, left loose we rattle to death.
---
Washboard roads, last travail in modern travel.
---
Some metaphors are all the phors old joy ghost
revival fires kept kindled, old hell fire brimstone,

yellow sulpher sunsets on a monstor religion,
with saints and dragons and riddles,
endless hours whiled through,

about a forest of only little trees
that offends big ones…
---------
as a particle in any we we amen to, we
must pass through all phazes
of life,
with each mind
we use, in our we form, our inherent spirit form,
whatsoever we agree we may, be,  being as
living words do not shrivel
into raison de etre skin on bones,

cherie mio, no, no, no

we rockin' old seed, slow grow grow
old as the hills, deep holler, deep
root to fruit on one long branch,

listen, allathat love talk, been done,
left some rotten lies about love,

to be unlearned like marble learns
to not be so flaky, like chalk, or graphite
slippery, edge of this Klein bottle class universe,
--
enter in, conceive a concept, a hold
to get holt of, and hang on, long time,

be over before you know it,
but you know, you'll believe it

when you see it and think it no stranger
than fiction idealizing us, demo-graphic,
ally outs in free, no ticket no tat
required as we be
reanimating awe
in defining secret holinesses

-- such as, say, pray tell

redeem the time, I'm prone to thinking,
redeeming means revaluing, once dones,

believing meanings
mean what your child thinks,

line by line, becoming more curious
than first scent tested if I'd known
as a child thinks
in its core,
so an old man can recall that why

call it to up speak, like Job,
to be reappraised, recall it
to be shined like a relic,

ja, j-object ion, dazemangimme
t'keep,
this little light of mine, own up, I
keeping it to read with, like Lincoln did,
I was told to be like Honest Abe, the character.

I'd have had all my answers ready at hand,
if this had been my judgement day, and you

were in the gallery,
admiring held thoughts, appraising worth
of riddles that work through puzzles
easily solved, once you know how things

revert to type for reuse.
Laughs remembered work like new.

Living words abused, in truth, such testify
to the living lies in histories of holy savior types.
George?
Who else could he have said chopped down
the cheery tree of all we have behaved
as if we understand, minds, minds
combined to do the work of many hands,

and yet ye multiply
as goods increase
the number
of those who consume them,

tell the moguls,
make more feel good movies,
'spect t' get whatcha got last time.

Indian giver religions, been there, done that,
so we say bd, been done, many easy ways to die,

and our kind, living word bits of this and that’s,

what we do, we tune
to your mean frequency,
when delving breathlessly
into your final will, as
why presents itself
in humble three point stance.

Beg pardon, mastermind, we've become disentwined,

whine, phinefrogging whine, when wine's dis-stilled
credence makes a joke
small voice, choice, croak,

break that yoke,
or carry on
so. I do on days that start slow and rise to vistas,
past all probable cause,

joy in the strength to think through the process,
of loosing all my mental mechanical logical connections,

and reinvigorating the word animating reader's window,

there, in the face of it, the eyes twinkle when it smiles.

Finds herself in the forms between clouds



What were you thinking, Grandpa?

-------------------
She, mother of wisdom,
First class epitome of mothers,

first commutable imbalance engine,
egg factory for long cold survival

and long cold return to the still seas
when marble began to be made
to clad temples wherever laws
were enforced and thieves slain,

order, order of the elders, inspect
the wares under lable as goods
of great worth in interesting times,

as doors open, and windows open,
and a mind we make up becomes

prover of the theory that animation
is imagining projected thought,
seeps through so slow,
slow as potassium leaches
through wood ash to make this window

this, detail uhd most definite, I can really
see, but, I can zoom
into full second coming type,

in the time it takes to swallow,
a tale and think, that's it.

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

It's been oh so long since we had an encore,

they say those twinkles in the eye are in true,
smiling face projections,

we fixit in Photoshop, all image editors dream
package, locked behind a learning curve for GIMP.

How elite can one be and not be evil?

Is there any justification for greed,
in your house,

fret not, in mine we have nothing, thus
greed is for attention,
whose act is funnier,
who is most dramatic,
what is the Terraria top level?
" have you never read- Road to Wiggen's Pier?"
- paste from JBP taken with a will to find some poetry
- while judging if I knew the point in use and useless knowledge
- sorting
"
In the lecture I included with this post (see below)
I discuss the suffering inextricably associated
with life, attributing some
of it
to tragedy, a necessary consequence
of human limitation,
and the remainder …

to evil,
the conscious and malevolent attempt
to worsen Being.
I
suggest that human beings
can tolerate tragedy —
even triumph over it,
if they are guided
by truth —
but that evil  …"
-sliptaway
{that one feared in lectures with monstors and heroes
as symbols of common sensitif-if-ifity--
for which we make up useful
stories, then feed them
to the children we wish
to tame, fit for function in the brave new sector of ification}
__ that
evil, never known to any creature in eden,
I swear
== "that evil…
is a far more insidious, subtle and damaging force."

From <https://www.jordanbpeterson.com/books/book-list/>

{******* has the brackets}
But we all are the wise *** now,
this not being any
initial dive into the depths of hellopoetry, far from
jolly drinking ditties done
to dance a jig with,
this be that
tarry slough
of despond,
responding
to the doom and gloom
of those who
feel, we must recall
the whole truth
to tell it, as we swore, to the judge on TV.

Here come d'judge, and everybody laughed but me,
I was smitten, by the maiden,
who looked at me as if she knew I stole the emperor's pants.