As night hath stars, more rare than ships
In ocean, faint from pole to pole,
So all the wonder of her lips
Hints her innavigable soul.

Such lights she gives as guide my bark;
But I am swallowed in the swell
Of her heart's ocean, sagely dark,
That holds my heaven and holds my hell.

In her I live, a mote minute
Dancing a moment in the sun:
In her I die, a sterile shoot
Of nightshade in oblivion.

In her my elf dissolves, a grain
Of salt cast careless in the sea;
My passion purifies my pain
To peace past personality.

Love of my life, God grant the years
Confirm the chrism - rose to rood!
Anointing loves, asperging tears
In sanctifying solitude!

Man is so infinitely small
In all these stars, determinate.
Maker and moulder of them all,
Man is so infinitely great!

THE PROLOGUE.

This worthy limitour, this noble Frere,
He made always a manner louring cheer                      countenance
Upon the Sompnour; but for honesty                            courtesy
No villain word as yet to him spake he:
But at the last he said unto the Wife:
"Dame," quoth he, "God give you right good life,
Ye have here touched, all so may I the,                         *thrive
In school matter a greate difficulty.
Ye have said muche thing right well, I say;
But, Dame, here as we ride by the way,
Us needeth not but for to speak of game,
And leave authorities, in Godde's name,
To preaching, and to school eke of clergy.
But if it like unto this company,
I will you of a Sompnour tell a game;
Pardie, ye may well knowe by the name,
That of a Sompnour may no good be said;
I pray that none of you be *evil paid;                   dissatisfied
A Sompnour is a runner up and down
With mandements* for fornicatioun,                 mandates, summonses
And is y-beat at every towne's end."
Then spake our Host; "Ah, sir, ye should be hend         *civil, gentle
And courteous, as a man of your estate;
In company we will have no debate:
Tell us your tale, and let the Sompnour be."
"Nay," quoth the Sompnour, "let him say by me
What so him list; when it comes to my lot,
By God, I shall him quiten every groat!                    pay him off
I shall him telle what a great honour
It is to be a flattering limitour
And his office I shall him tell y-wis".
Our Host answered, "Peace, no more of this."
And afterward he said unto the frere,
"Tell forth your tale, mine owen master dear."

Notes to the Prologue to the Friar's tale

1. On the Tale of the Friar, and that of the Sompnour which
follows, Tyrwhitt has remarked that they "are well engrafted
upon that of the Wife of Bath. The ill-humour which shows
itself between these two characters is quite natural, as no two
professions at that time were at more constant variance.  The
regular clergy, and particularly the mendicant friars, affected a
total exemption from all ecclesiastical jurisdiction,  except that
of the Pope, which made them exceedingly obnoxious to the
bishops and of course to all the inferior officers of the national
hierarchy." Both tales, whatever their origin, are bitter satires
on the greed and worldliness of the Romish clergy.


THE TALE.

Whilom there was dwelling in my country                 once on a time
An archdeacon, a man of high degree,
That boldely did execution,
In punishing of fornication,
Of witchecraft, and eke of bawdery,
Of defamation, and adultery,
Of churche-reeves, and of testaments,                    churchwardens
Of contracts, and of lack of sacraments,
And eke of many another manner crime,                          sort of
Which needeth not rehearsen at this time,
Of usury, and simony also;
But, certes, lechours did he greatest woe;
They shoulde singen, if that they were hent;                    caught
And smale tithers were foul y-shent,         troubled, put to shame
If any person would on them complain;
There might astert them no pecunial pain.
For smalle tithes, and small offering,
He made the people piteously to sing;
For ere the bishop caught them with his crook,
They weren in the archedeacon's book;
Then had he, through his jurisdiction,
Power to do on them correction.

He had a Sompnour ready to his hand,
A slier boy was none in Engleland;
For subtlely he had his espiaille,                           espionage
That taught him well where it might aught avail.
He coulde spare of lechours one or two,
To teache him to four and twenty mo'.
For, -- though this Sompnour wood be as a hare, --        furious, mad
To tell his harlotry I will not spare,
For we be out of their correction,
They have of us no jurisdiction,
Ne never shall have, term of all their lives.

"Peter; so be the women of the stives,"                          stews
Quoth this Sompnour, "y-put out of our cure."                     care

"Peace, with mischance and with misaventure,"
Our Hoste said, "and let him tell his tale.
Now telle forth, and let the Sompnour gale,              whistle; bawl
Nor spare not, mine owen master dear."

This false thief, the Sompnour (quoth the Frere),
Had always bawdes ready to his hand,
As any hawk to lure in Engleland,
That told him all the secrets that they knew, --
For their acquaintance was not come of new;
They were his approvers privily.                             informers
He took himself at great profit thereby:
His master knew not always what he wan.                            won
Withoute mandement, a lewed man                               ignorant
He could summon, on pain of Christe's curse,
And they were inly glad to fill his purse,
And make him greate feastes at the nale.                      alehouse
And right as Judas hadde purses smale,                           small
And was a thief, right such a thief was he,
His master had but half *his duety.                what was owing him
He was (if I shall give him his laud)
A thief, and eke a Sompnour, and a bawd.
And he had wenches at his retinue,
That whether that Sir Robert or Sir Hugh,
Or Jack, or Ralph, or whoso that it were
That lay by them, they told it in his ear.
Thus were the ***** and he of one assent;
And he would fetch a feigned mandement,
And to the chapter summon them both two,
And pill* the man, and let the wenche go.                plunder, pluck
Then would he say, "Friend, I shall for thy sake
Do strike thee out of oure letters blake;                        black
Thee thar no more as in this case travail;                        need
I am thy friend where I may thee avail."
Certain he knew of bribers many mo'
Than possible is to tell in yeare's two:
For in this world is no dog for the bow,
That can a hurt deer from a whole know,
Bet than this Sompnour knew a sly lechour,                      better
Or an adult'rer, or a paramour:
And, for that was the fruit of all his rent,
Therefore on it he set all his intent.

And so befell, that once upon a day.
This Sompnour, waiting ever on his prey,
Rode forth to summon a widow, an old ribibe,
Feigning a cause, for he would have a bribe.
And happen'd that he saw before him ride
A gay yeoman under a forest side:
A bow he bare, and arrows bright and keen,
He had upon a courtepy of green,                         short doublet
A hat upon his head with fringes blake.                          black
"Sir," quoth this Sompnour, "hail, and well o'ertake."
"Welcome," quoth he, "and every good fellaw;
Whither ridest thou under this green shaw?"                       shade
Saide this yeoman; "wilt thou far to-day?"
This Sompnour answer'd him, and saide, "Nay.
Here faste by," quoth he, "is mine intent
To ride, for to raisen up a rent,
That longeth to my lorde's duety."
"Ah! art thou then a bailiff?" "Yea," quoth he.
He durste not for very filth and shame
Say that he was a Sompnour, for the name.
"De par dieux,"  quoth this yeoman, "leve* brother,             dear
Thou art a bailiff, and I am another.
I am unknowen, as in this country.
Of thine acquaintance I will praye thee,
And eke of brotherhood, if that thee list.                      please
I have gold and silver lying in my chest;
If that thee hap to come into our shire,
All shall be thine, right as thou wilt desire."
"Grand mercy," quoth this Sompnour, "by my faith."        great thanks
Each in the other's hand his trothe lay'th,
For to be sworne brethren till they dey.                        die
In dalliance they ride forth and play.

This Sompnour, which that was as full of jangles,           chattering
As full of venom be those wariangles,               * butcher-birds
And ev'r inquiring upon every thing,
"Brother," quoth he, "where is now your dwelling,
Another day if that I should you seech?"                   *seek, visit
This yeoman him answered in soft speech;
Brother," quoth he, "far in the North country,
Where as I hope some time I shall thee see
Ere we depart I shall thee so well wiss,                        inform
That of mine house shalt thou never miss."
Now, brother," quoth this Sompnour, "I you pray,
Teach me, while that we ride by the way,
(Since that ye be a bailiff as am I,)
Some subtilty, and tell me faithfully
For mine office how that I most may win.
And *spare not for conscience or for sin,             conceal nothing
But, as my brother, tell me how do ye."
Now by my trothe, brother mine," said he,
As I shall tell to thee a faithful tale:
My wages be full strait and eke full smale;
My lord is hard to me and dangerous,                         *niggardly
And mine office is full laborious;
And therefore by extortion I live,
Forsooth I take all that men will me give.
Algate by sleighte, or by violence,                            whether
From year to year I win all my dispence;
I can no better tell thee faithfully."
Now certes," quoth this Sompnour,  "so fare I;                      do
I spare not to take, God it wot,
But if* it be too heavy or too hot.                            unless
What I may get in counsel privily,
No manner conscience of that have I.
N'ere* mine extortion, I might not live,                were it not for
For of such japes will I not be shrive.           tricks *confessed
Stomach nor conscience know I none;
I shrew* these shrifte-fathers every one.          curse *confessors
Well be we met, by God and by St Jame.
But, leve brother, tell me then thy name,"
Quoth this Sompnour.  Right in this meane while
This yeoman gan a little for to smile.

"Brother," quoth he, "wilt thou that I thee tell?
I am a fiend, my dwelling is in hell,
And here I ride about my purchasing,
To know where men will give me any thing.
My purchase is th' effect of all my rent        what I can gain is my
Look how thou ridest for the same intent                   sole revenue
To winne good, thou reckest never how,
Right so fare I, for ride will I now
Into the worlde's ende for a prey."

"Ah," quoth this Sompnour, "benedicite! what say y'?
I weened ye were a yeoman truly.                                thought
Ye have a manne's shape as well as I
Have ye then a figure determinate
In helle, where ye be in your estate?"                         at home
"Nay, certainly," quoth he, there have we none,
But when us liketh we can take us one,
Or elles make you seem that we be shape                        believe
Sometime like a man, or like an ape;
Or like an angel can I ride or go;
It is no wondrous thing though it be so,
A lousy juggler can deceive thee.
And pardie, yet can I more craft than he."              skill, cunning
"Why," quoth the Sompnour, "ride ye then or gon
In sundry shapes and not always in one?"
"For we," quoth he, "will us in such form make.
As most is able our prey for to take."
"What maketh you to have all this labour?"
"Full many a cause, leve Sir Sompnour,"
Saide this fiend. "But all thing hath a time;
The day is short and it is passed prime,
And yet have I won nothing in this day;
I will intend to winning, if I may,               &nbs

Are you determined or terminated.

Will you push,
Will you shove.
Go in strong,
Come out soft.
Go in weak,
Come out free.

Will you push,
Will you shove.
Or will you pull,
Like the strongest.
Gods of men,
Men of children.
Blades of bats,
Books from trash.

Will you grow.
Will you go.
Like the strongest
*Gods of men.

I am the past and I am the present. I am the digger of graves and the conveyance to them.
I am the string; connected to the puppets that wield my blows.

I am the thing they call, “Havoc” I am the Blue Monkey.

The key to my cage, that which sets me free is your disinterest, your apathy and hate. My freedom to roam unabated is your ignorance, and retribution’s ****** slate.  Man’s violence upon himself is my ignorant inspiration, and I revel in the thought of his de-creation.

I can be found in city and town, in far flung reaches around the world. I can be seen in newscast scenes, I can be found in the eyes of a starving child. My name is celebrated in ball ammo flight, and the pungent aroma of smoke and cordite.

I am the flame set to irreverent crosses; lighting the sky with racist delights, I am the tailor of white sheeted banners so bias. I am the unjustified 13 knots of retribution, fashioned on the hangman’s noose.

I am the thing they call “Havoc” I am the Blue Monkey.

Complacency is my friend, Revenge, my *****. Blood letting my delight, to even senseless scores. My hands are soiled with the lives of many, and I have been given freedoms in place of your outrage. Look around in farm and town, in village and city streets, my presence is everywhere…

Keep sleeping; keep sleeping,
For when you awake, I shall have to go.

I am the vehement articulations of opinion and rhetoric, and in spite of your diatribes,
It is they that give me wing. I am the developer of future battlefields. I was the architect of the Auschwitz oven, the builder of the Berlin wall. I was the sharpened blade of Tutsi, Hutu cleansings. I am the mix master of Jim Jones’s cool aide. I am confusion; I am disassociation, alienation and empty pride.

I am the thing they call “Havoc” I am The Blue Monkey.

You will find me in back alley shooting dens, on skid row’s bleeding pavement.
You will find me in lonely fields and dark forests, within the graves of the murdered unknown. You will see my reflection in broken mirrors, for I celebrate their fall,
And I will revel in the screams of your unheard call.
They call me destruction; I am your neutron bomb. I am the wings of the Enola Gay at thirty thousand feet, reaching out to touch you. With nuclear, holocaust treats.
I am dynamite, TNT, I am the thought imposed in political superiority. I am the IED
On the path of Man’s sacred journey.  I am travail and tribulation.

I am the thing they call “Havoc” I am the Blue Monkey.

I am the summation of all your perceived wrongs, and yet you tarry about,
Clanging self-righteous gongs,
You see, but you are blind, you listen but do not hear. Instead you wallow in the pits of self loathing and determinate fear. And in that fear, it becomes quite clear that indeed your hearts are closed, for to open them wide would cause your heart to collide with the awful truth about me.

Yes, keep sleeping; and sleep well,
For when you awake, I shall have to go.

For I am the thing they call “Havoc” I am the Blue Monkey…

Should I become a middle school math or English teacher?
Leave my bed early in the morning and return with test papers to grade.
With what authority will I persuade those kids to sit still and perform
      calculations and interpretations.
I won’t be allowed to teach A Good Man Is Hard To Find. Nope, it’ll be
      Catcher in the Rye, Lord of the Flies and Slaughterhouse Five. Novels
      that annoy.
Poems and math are magic. Words and numbers are things no one has
      ever seen or heard or touched.
But the administration keeps them separate. The curriculum’s
      determinate.
The kids are beautiful but combustible. When middle school lets out at
      the periapsis of Earth’s orbit, that’s the face of joy.

The purpose of school is to introduce us to the world’s innumerable
      wonders. The periodic table, World Wars I and II, Huckleberry Finn
      and Jim.
Once a gaggle of teenage girls bet whether I wore boxers or jockeys. I felt
      ambushed and unlucky. Also a bit afraid.
There’s little love lost between the students and the teachers. Expect to
      forget and be forgotten. Information.
I remember Mr. Killian my chemistry teacher. So boring about something
      I now find so interesting and important. He wasn’t boring; I was
      boring.
I remember Mr. Christensen my history teacher. He was fat and funny but
      taught as little as possible. I was known to laugh so hard I cried.
I remember Mr. T my calculus teacher. He dressed everyday exactly like
      Gene Kranz in mission control. I was confused past help so he didn’t
      help.
I remember Tone Kwas my music teacher. He said I was the worst
      trumpet player he’d ever tried to teach and switched me to
      sousaphone. He was right but so what! Playing badly is the best
      riposte.

(not a poem i guess but eh)


–

Space keeps falling to the sides. I try to concentrate, - I mean, I make a token effort every now and again,- but concentration, fixation is always in terms of something external, something I'm not sure I can deal with.  I roll over and go back to sleep.

–

'Where's the flour?'
'Where you left it.'
'Which is where?'
'On the table. What you want it for anyway?'
'Which table?'
'Haha. The generic maple with the ugly-*** spandrels. What are you making?'
'You think we could afford that? Nah, it's like, faux-pine or some ****. And like muffins.'
'Oh good, there's banan's that need using up'
'No no, like, other muffins. Crumpets and such. Got any golden syrup?'
'I think there's some maple.'
'No, it's like, ply, I swear.'

–

I haven't moved in days. I need to. He'll come eventually and I don't want him to see me like this. Plus, I need to locate that smell. I can't have guests over with it here. I'm just not sure where it is though. I  feel like it's on my left arm when I’m in the middle of the room, but off to the right everywhere else. It's.. acerbic, but fermenting, like vegetables on the onset of rot but not quite there yet. Not that I know; I haven't moved in days. I don't want to smell it again. Also garlic, definitely garlic.

–

We visited the inland sea the other day. The hundred years since last time hadn't changed it one bit. The beached clay was brittle under the midday sun, and the cracking footsteps fragmented it into a hundred hexagons.
               'I hear a strain of the pathogen is airborne. It's only a matter of time now'
A group of tourists park up by the shore. A child holds out their arms and runs in small circles.

–

The corridor keeps flashing. And maybe spinning. It's hard to tell, the colour change starts at a different point each time and there's no discernible rhythm to it. You keep pacing up and down. I feel self conscious that you want to leave, but then again, you did show up unannounced. You shake the snowglobe disinterestedly. The fragments burn like molten static.
'Stop that. I feel like I’m vomiting spiders.'
'You're being dramatic.'
'None the less.'
'Don't worry; you'll get through it. The world is transitioning, and this is just motion sickness.'
'I know that, I didn't say I was worried, I said I wanted it to stop.'

'sorry'

–

We'd always go for a walk at night if we felt we needed to talk. It was an unwritten rule. The veil of amber filter let our more timid thoughts breath in the nebulous darkness. Stark daylight was always too suffocatingly real, and that was the one thing we were never allowed to be; real. You'd always talk superficially if we discussed personal matters. That day you did a one-third spin clockwise and faced my side, and talked grandeloquently, hammed up like on a stage. You gave an embarrassed smile and blew a kiss for the invisible audience. I always felt jealous of those nothings, those non-existent beings, that got to figure into your world.

–

'Christ it's warm today. I can't think.'
'so don't bother.'
I spin in the chair. Whooosh. Whooosh.

–

It's the end of a 6 hour shift. A customer, a mother in her odd thirties, was angry that a sale item was out of stock, like sale items always are: She'd only gone out of her way to shop at this store because of the advertised deal, and we had taken time out of her busy schedule under false pretence. Her child stared at the ground intensely, his eyes watering. I tried to imagine the situation through his eyes, to try and ground myself; to remain both present, but stable. She insisted on speaking to the manager. It's a relief really; He's a skeevy ****, but he at least knows when the customers are just there to start ****, and responds accordingly. He comes over, asks what the problem is. It turns out I entered the code wrong and the item was still available after all. He gets one from out the back, handles the transaction, says have a nice day and apologises for me and everything, and I just stand there blankly; I’d had the graveyard shift the night before and honestly I’m beyond feeling right now, but when she mutters 'dumb *****' as she turns away a tight feeling still twists in my gut anyway.
I come home and leave the door hanging open framed in the setting sun and just drop my bags in the hallway. You're in the kitchen, hunched over a workbench eating out of a mug.
'Whatcha having?'
'Cornflakes.'
'….Cornflakes?'
'Yep.' you pivot as I approach. 'corn..flakes.' you hold out the packet.
'coooornfllllakkkkkkkeeeessssss' I start laughing.
'coooornfllllaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaakes'
we chorus the term in groaning monotone, and I grab the packet out your hand and throw it down and violently stomp it into the ground with every non-energy I have left. You just laugh and egg me on, repeating 'cornflakes! Cornflakes!' in crescendo, ostinato. The satisfaction of each crunch gives me the drive to smash them further, and corn dust spills out of the pulverised cardboard and gets everywhere. In the end I’m panting, my face is a mess of tears, and I collapse over onto it and just roll, bathing in the glorious fragments of reconstituted mulch.

–

'They say another ice age is coming.'
'They also say we'll be swallowed by the sun'
'well, it's true.'
'Yeah, but which'll happen first? I need to know to dress accordingly.'
'Tunnel's up ahead'
'I know, I see it.'
I deliberately swerve to the side and speed up, changing back at the last moment.
'You know I hate it when you do that.'
'What, don't you wanna die together with me? Here and now? Immortalised, as if our existences actually meant something?'
'like Diana and the nameless chauffeur?'
'******* exactly.'
We step out onto the hill, frozen **** tufts breaking underfoot. It's cold as hell but the skies glittering. You get out the telescope you borrowed off your rich *** sister.
'I think that's Jupiter over there.'
'Pfft, Jupiter.'
'What?'
'What's the blankest space you can find?'
'Hmm.. that way?'
You point it in that direction. 'Look'
I stare into it, but it's hard to keep focus while shaking from the cold. You keep adjusting and asking ,’See anything?', eventually some hazy distortion comes into view.
'See, no matter where you look, there's always something there.' You're trying to sound eloquent. 'Even when it seems like you're drowning in nothing.'
I stand back. 'That's terrifying. I feel sick.' I try to breathe but it's shaky and shallow. I stare into the ground, but I can still feel it; the blaze of the myriad innumerable heavens burn into me. Their judging gaze pierces through me and tears me to shreds.  

–

'You know, I think I read that Spinoza thought that consciousness is manifest in the ability of finite beings to continue persisting in and of their own will over time.'
'Doesn't that make a toaster more conscious than us?'
'Yeah, you don't say.'

–

We were twelve and at the department store. It was strange. I'd never taken the bus by myself to just hang out in town before. I always feel disorientated and light-headed in crowds so it had a strangeness; waves of apprehension cushioned by the homogeneity of it. one can be truly alone in a crowd; floating in a sea of otherness, where each gaze is no longer a signification of anything, but a warm static. We were among the aisles of a department store, in the toys and tacky house ornament section. Like, the junk you buy children and grandparents for their birthday. **** that you'd only attribute to people whom have no discernible qualities of their own. We were looking at snow globes. We kept trying to shake them violently enough so that the scene framed within would become entirely lost to the fog; it always felt so disappointing when clarity returned and things re-became what they were. I remember saying, 'I wonder if it tastes like real snow', I don't remember, It was stupid, I don't know why I said it, it sounded cool in my head. But you responded, that I remember, by taking the thing and smashing it against the concrete floor, and pouring out all the fragments into our hands. We tried them together and coughed and choked in laugher. It tasted awful, entirely unsurprisingly. On a rush you stuck one in your pocket, grabbed my hand, and we promptly left the store, and my heart was palpitating, it felt like all the rules, all the natural laws that had prefigured my world were crumbling, and I was terrified, trapped in the gaze of my mothers look of disappointment when we'd be inevitably caught, somehow watching me from its potential future, and I'd no longer be allowed to visit you but it was okay because I was here with you now in this moment and we were alone in this faceless mechanical place crumbling around us, and when we left, and no sirens buzzed, I felt sick with excitement at the unbounded possibility present in everything in every second. I cringe thinking back on it, and feel ashamed at finding such meaning, feeling such unabashed wholesale virtue in indiscriminate destruction, but sometimes, sometimes I still shake that snowglobe as hard as I can, till everything determinate is lost in haze, and I still feel a wave of comfort wash over me.

–

‘We’ve been walking for ages. you know where we’re going, right?’
‘It’s just up ahead. I swear’
‘You swear?’

‘I mean, I’ve only been there once before myself.’
‘****. This way?’
‘Wait-‘
‘What?’
‘Huh. Nothing. Sorry, I thought I heard a car coming.’
…
…
‘I think that’s the ocean?’
‘But.. aren’t we heading inland?’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah, I swear.’

–

We're in your room. Your reading on your bed and I'm in the swivelly chair by the desk, pretending to work, but really we're just chatting, talking about.. something. Whatever. It was probably stupid, laughing at our own jokes, as always, catchphrases repeated till they loose all meaning. It's been a long day and honestly we're both too tired for coherence by this point, but the lack of effort lends the air an easy comfortability. But then suddenly.. Suddenly you stare into my eyes as if you're looking at me and it's somehow different, an intense gaze that I can't escape, as if you somehow found something located there, something fixed in those abyssal pupils. The feeling is overwhelming and terrifying. I am grounded, ripped into the prison of being and frozen static like a dumb animal transfixed in headlights: I am outside myself facing in, and I’m falling away. I pull you in and kiss you to escape; now, it is your touch that is fixed, your smell, your taste, and I breath a sigh of reprieve. You hold my back as I fall into you. I lace my fingers through the buttons in your shirt and feel the faint pulse of your flickering heartbeat. At once an ever-changing epiphenomena, and a calming rhythmic certainty. I vacantly tug at the buttons and your expression changes, gone is the feeling of suffocating questioning, but one of transfixed observation. Your touch is not a reaching out into something, but a continuation of yourself; I am an instrument of your lust, an extension. Holding me in your arm, you nervously run your hand down from my nape and trace my bra from the strap over the line of my breast. The lightness of your touch is a painful tickling and I push myself into you further, my thighs wrapping around yours. Your touch shoots a burning into me, not painful, but like glowing kindling, or the warmth of a blanket; an immanence, a retreat. I let my mind go blank and we continue; you fumble with my bra as I fumble with your belt. We're both shaking but too far gone to notice, too distant to care. The dry freeze of the night air contrasts your damp heat. You clasp me as you trace your hand under my skirt and I feel your arm brush my thigh. I tremble slightly at the sharp coldness of the damp cotton coming unstuck. After a stretching moment of awkward liminality, I feel you pass into me. It's a burning smoothness, distilled liquor. The rubber is an alien feeling, and for some reason I imagine myself as a giant balloon; a malleable featureless surface, filled with emptiness. I feel myself through the threshold of your presence and I am afraid; I am a boundary which encompasses nothing, and by your passing through I fear that I will be pierced; I will burst and out will flow an obsidian wind that will wither you to nothing, but it will keep coming, an endless torrent that will subsume the world and turn everything to desert, and the only way to save you is to keep it bound up as tight as I possibly can till my heart feels like burning metal, and I feel my tears land on my hand tightly clasping your shoulder. You ask through wavering breaths if I want to stop, but I shake my head; if you left now I would be caught and torn open; no, instead I subsume your undulations into myself; till the rhythm is as oceanic noise; a surface rolling located miles above a lightless motionless centre.

–

The pale green lamplight flickers. A nausea, tepid, but understated. The sentience of moss; an almost motionless drone, but the sense of unfolding. The corridor seems larger than it once was. Blank reflections harrowing accusations, mechanically indifferent but piercing; an alarm clocks wail. I lie still, I lie still. The buzzing repeats. I lie still. I am flowing, seeping through floorboards into the pores of the earth, into colonies of worms and I am lost and free, a motion, a multiplicity, pure form without the anxious drudgery of parts; pure alimentary canal, pure Elysium absolution. The flickering quickens and gets brighter. A pulsating light, a strobe, a beat frequency wavering behind vision. The liquid earth, saturated by light, hardens and dissolves. And 'I' am lost among the ruins, a vague memory of a sentiment. A nostalgic grief, an asphyxiated longing. I reach out to you desperately in the drag of the undertow, but you are the chalk of faded bones; cast to the winds centuries prior. A thousand years pass of blanket darkness, and a unitary bell rings. The flotsam batters against the temple gates. Debris collects in cracks, and my pieces are among them. I cling to retention, and return. I am cold sweat outlining the floorboards, the feeling of clenching before vomiting, repeated endlessly.

–

A few weeks after, turning off an avenue onto the main road, I see you. You're crossing, coming this way. It was bound to happen eventually. I bite back the moisture forming in my eyes and try to remain faceless. You suddenly change your trajectory, and hit the side of a car. It honks at you and you dodge around it. I allow a bitter smile to myself; the fact I can cause you such disorientating discomfit indicates I still mean something to you. Even if it's just a discomforting anxiousness, something beyond the boundary to be avoided, I have causal powers, extension; I can see my flicker of presence in you even now, even if I cannot for the life of me find it within myself. You run around and I walk straight. It's empowering; I can remain fixed, even if the torrent of the world flows around me. At that moment, I feel the indubitable strength to persevere. I am stronger than this world; I am stronger than you. But then, just as suddenly, the feeling folds upon itself and is gone. I felt solidified, just now, by the fact that I was the one that remained in this random encounter. I won, you lost. but Won how? With the ability to pretend that I can exist alone, in a world that means nothing to me? The ability to maintain a solid spectral façade, when underneath, scratching away under the skin, I contain nothing? To continue terrifies me. Knowing that I have the strength to continue terrifies me. That last thing I ever intended was to outlive you. I feel the world drain away from me, and yet I remain, left standing, alone, in a of realm of perpetual nothing.  

–

I feel sick

a hundred years pass in the cavity of the desert. Merchants make trade off raided materials and makeshift weapons. A library is burned. A soldier, wanders freely. An insect buzzes around his face. He darts about the place in annoyance, but it remains. He can't shake it. He closes his eyes. It's still there

I feel sick

the sun burns bright arrhythmic  clicking.  A late twenties couple go clothes shopping, however the child is hungry and will have none of it. Lunch is suggested. They are jocular about the decision, but feel an uneasiness about the indulgence. The air is saturated and dries

Should it come to this, without remorse? Like that orange, feeble
and deciduous, while we waited with binoculars through that gray on gray
afternoon for the owl to spread its wings. Perhaps it did, past dusk,
behind the trees, under those vaguely baleen-formed clouds.

The clouds cast shadows on other clouds, as if holding them up against reality, even for our affirmation. Did you think of me this morning, over your Life cereal, and did you miss the fruit?  The “organic wholeness?” What is the determinant thing that dissolves?

The dissolution of the self-contradictory comes from the dissolution of the determinant thing. Arguments formed in apartments over a bowl of cherries or a bowl of ****, or some such. Loss of a determinate thing (under Article 1262, par. 1.) is the equivalent of impossibility of performance in obligations to do referred to in Article 1266. We are left with the form of a bowl, perhaps a ginger bowl, or some form of lost lacquer.

The distinct lack of skyscrapers from SoHo up through Chelsea was said to be a function of Manhattan bedrock. But modern materials seem to have overcome that problem. Getting on the subway, he heard someone say “…as if each word is born with another word, and spends its life on lines looking for the perfect rhyme". "You know they mate for life," he thought, "the swans. If one is killed, the other often dies of boredom.”

Farewell! Thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know’st thy estimate,
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
    Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter,
    In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

Would life to some be for others deceased
The greed of man is the Devil in awe
Open and eager to satiate the beast

Allied; redundant rebels fast become feast
A thriving surmise from a snarling abhor
Would life to some be for others deceased

Stiff media outlets quietly policed
Less of a *****, more of a *****
Open and eager to satiate the beast

Dynamic complex entity, undefined common thread in the East
Internal displacement clashes with border decor
Would life to some be for others deceased

Bray Lampwick; Bray! Add volume to the doom release
Crooked anticipation of the determinate straw
Open and eager to satiate the beast

If the potent and equipped old grip is continually greased
Our trades will deduce the national core
Would life to some be for others deceased
Open and eager to satiate the beast

Craig Steele

“…knowledge of the beginning and the end, and of that all-pervading Reason which orders the universe in its determinate cycles to the end of time"
- Marcus Aurelius's definition of the sage

*I’m starting to think poets are bleeding ink
Longing for true understanding, an oath on the stand
Mentally sinking in quicksand, trials never finish
Fear of diminishing quicker than our escape plan

Seeking wisdom in time for our demise,
and as we're writing our words, our fears are in disguise
Intricate word-weaving, we’re prisoners of the moment,
spilling ink on the paper and anxious for our atonement

The dream of a dreamer’s quick to take him places
A limbo of the unknown, and filled with many faces
Endless deliberation with the jury of the mind
Furious and made in a hurry, truly “one of a kind”

But truthfully one of many, and so it’s up to you
Live an Epicurus life, happiness is a truth
Patient examination of nature is natural
A masterful snap of the mental camera is factual

The sage’s knowledge of reason is unilateral
Theory of forms and as Plato had put it
It’s reason you see before you that offers spatial relationships
Properties seeming apparent - hope you relate to this

Believe nothing you hear and half of what you see
Our fears are found in the lines written by you and me
So keep the words coming, never stop pursuing wisdom
Enlightenment of the soul towards a new beginning.

it seems to be the quiet moments
the unspoken actions
that build the foundation
of who we are

it is only the time behind
closed doors and drawn curtains
that prove you to be
whatever you may be

Thoughts are bubbles;
Drifting.
Always changing;
Shifting.
Words are concrete;
Permanent,
Limiting,
Determinate.
The mind can think and feel.
The mouth can only steal
the morsels that the brain creates;
the lips then mutilate.
Dreams with totipotency
crash to Earth woefully.
If we dictated
what our minds have slated
rather than the deplorable mess
that comes out more often than less,
A different world we would live in.
With ample free thought to swim in.
We'd drink it in, not spit it out.
We'd coexist, express our doubt.
Put an end to censorship
and start a human relationship

Shroud, halo, aura of smoke
Swirling round my disposition
I watch as an exhalation casts a shadow as determinate as my own.

My family –
My family –
Yes, we are a family.
But
When push comes to shove
The memories shroud like smoke
And I cannot see through.

My family:
Four isolated individuals
Thrashing in the ocean
Grasping each other in the hope of staying afloat
Is how it has always been.

If four corners make a square,
Is each corner defined as “segment of square”?
Or can the four points reach into a rectangle infinite
Stretching perpetually further from one another?

Outside of my window is an oak
In the autumn, this oak becomes a yellow dandelion tree erupting with splendor and where it was once meek and young with flat green leaves, now there is fire!
And every other tree its disciple.

Walking on leaf littered concrete
I step over hundreds of bodies.
Their irregular coloration seems to beg –
“I am not finished yet.”
I wince with every crunch underfoot.

Walking through darkness
Alone, again
And I return
I return to the place I always do
The place that keeps me when I sleep
But does not keep me safe –

Jugula nigra drops its fleshy fruit,
Encased, one nut –
Enough nutrients for several generations.
Ink stains my hands black
As I tear away the husk
Obliterate the shell
Desperately seeking that which is not rotten.
I didn’t find it.
Now, when I walk, I look straight ahead.

Seeking a solution for the void to fill the emptiness
Running outside,
Around, and around, and around
Until I retire to my wooden square
I pace nervously
I pace
I pace
With niether conviction nor righteousness.

Another leaf, unfinished with life,
Aborted by the tree.
I cannot see one more.

I suppose I had wanted to reconcile
These leaves with these branches
But I am powerless.
I am a ghost.

Perhaps these words will float away,
But likely, they will reverberate in my bones
For life.

Outside of my window is an oak
Its leaves have dropped.
The fire has been extinguished.
I close my eyes
And let one thousand poplars swirl me away.

the entirety of the english tongue's
"finalities" are nothing but,
banalities...
                  and yes, chris isaack,
could have been the new elvis...
  try or no try, there was no
train from st. petersburg to moscow,
and however women love party...
men are always in love with
a wrinkle...
  what of thinning hair,
         men age into lizard people,
women age into the graeae...
      the last one laughing stands...
   i'm thinking of conjuring pasta with
a poached egg akin to heston...
but it is as it is...
that gateway into the affair,
heidegger,
     VI, LVI,
   we really do live in an unquestioning
age...
     i love that phrase:
spiritually determinate...
no one is actually asking a question,
everything is "seemingly" intact,
readied for some glorifying plateau...
but we live in times when there is no
question, worth answering to,
in that there are too many answers,
and hardly a question to craft a usurp action
(usurp-tion)...
                    the tragedy being that:
we don't live in a questioning age,
we live in a paraphrase age,
             in an age worth reclaiming
an "original"...
                        you can fry lard all
you want, but after a while the game is up
having tasted the butter...
       chris isaak was the new elvis,
but he wasn't, because he got the J.F.K.
treatment;
retrogative in an age of completely unquestioning,
an age where the only question is
questioning perpetuated?
there's a possessiveness of "being there"?!
apart from journalism?
can dasein ever reach a dasein's dynamic?
thank **** not a lot of pdf. existentialists ever
read kant...
            i'd be worried had they ever done so...
sartre's novels are fun, his thinking though?
about at dry as an overcooked doughnut...
but we really do live in the age of a lost question...
          aetate quaestio amissa;
and for an age filled with answers, as ours is...
i find it obnoxious, too certain,
       too "truthful",
but also too fricative in what scientific
     fictionalisation provides...
    summa ut...
          age of a question omitted,
                  summed up to perpetuum sors:
id refero qua quaestio
    ut quaestio qua refero,
                 *** finis ping pong logica.
            and it is true:
why are we left so completely unquestioning?
as heidegger noted with my own
reinterpretation,
why is history simply a delayed end,
                   as it is: a falsified beginning?
falsified by the count of:
   the unglorified estimates of poetics
being allowed the burden of the images
cleaving to a claustrophobia of space...
we can't live for the next 100 years
by being satiated by the already "certain"
answers...
we never managed to call the planet
mars inhabitable, when we already stated:
earth was once uninhabitable...
   the once upon a time schematic needs
revising...
      i never bother a latin friction of
a "dictionary": i write pig,
i snorkel in piggish, and then i snort
a hog's affair of "compensating" grammar
in english grammar schooling (private)...
we live in an unquestioning age,
    an age riddled, rather than filled with:
all the answers...
      if i were my own, in the contemporary sense,
of being sharing a tempo history,
i'd begin to sound the bells of suspicion...
  i never warmed to this age,
it's neither road nor highway,
but a cul de sac...
                 and i will never warm to this
age, i will always be nefarious towards it...
because it has been oh so blatant in treating
a case of awe, as a worthy take on the carousel.

the comfort zone is not a place.
you can't touch, hear or see  it.
instead, it's that amount of grace
the universe will remit.

but, if you should be found outside
this determinate that's not 3d,
there is one truth that can be implied
you're with splendid company

STUDY

Stop procrastinating and avoiding.
Time management is the key.
Under the pump with assignments.
Driven and determinate.
You’re secretly screaming inside, for help to escape.

© By HF-Whisper
16/10/2020 13:42PM

two-faced-coy before god:
does god throw dice?
perchance the question might
be asked, if i had the most "mundane"
job of experiencing
the transit of humanity in its
fullest...
      some minor role,
like a road cleaner...
  oh hell, i could tell you about
the transit...
and the dead fox i dragged into
the minor wilderness
from saturday to sunday...
begging the onlookers to not
pry their eyes at my unfathomable
gesture of: "concern"
for the sanitary worker being given
a break from "duty"...
yes, i skinned and weight the
******... no!
i weight him though...
came to across nearing 10kg
worth of a mature maine coot
cat...
            and since:
  the fox-spirit has furthered my
allowance on the "poor"
sanitation worker not woken
to alleviate the "concern"
of the public...
           almost puked pushing
my snout into its roadkill...
but instead of blood...
        i attempted to make vague
the odd signature of:
iron...
            lost in gushing from
the fox snout...
     now... i'll write what i've
lived... since i'm not being
paid: **** ALL! for it...
                 does god toss dice?
depends... been meditating
the concept with nine "magic"
squares worth of, but one "random"
take on a kabbalistic thought...
and you know what i thought?
borrow the sorrows from
other tongues, and make them unz!
hell before heaven forgot
babylon, and the fate of man was
not so immediate akin
to the other "formalities":
i too might exhaust taking to
heaving, rather than minding a soul...
again... does god toss dice?
   by now the sudoku square
is already assertive of the power
of nine, and further,
to the power of six,
  with each side being made as
sacrificial torso of the former,
prime, power spectacle...
       indeed the q'ah'baah...
a ******* meteor shower...
and not one source of worship that
exhausted the lizards...
         seeking blame is so
autocratic...
  but the mea culpa plea?
          so *******... un-democratic...
      does god throw dice,
to explain the fate of a mortal gamble?
or rather...
   is there but a coin flipped that
is determinate,
in having two of the same
faces embedded in the deciding
                       "whim"?
a harem of more slaughter that could
make even Herod blush his
***** region,
had he the affairs of bleachings
the cranium hairs of his
                supposed, ancestry...
desire: and the fed lie...
          by no consent is an indulgence
to be punished: if it was fed
by a lie...
              and so:
   no truth entrenched be allowed
special assertion of compensation
be acknowledged:
  by merit, no merit alone,
        and if... be neither nor allowed:
a grievance...
      made ample when experienced
in tutoring youth...
to shame the grieving party,
  and make it distinguishable from
the gaining party...
      rule of adolescence...
             does god, throw dice to make
impetus over lordship of
the only gamble that's the gamble
"neglected" in nature?
       my: the reality of poor lamb...
coin flip...
             my...
       the metaphor of wolf, incarnate!
ego breeding / feeding grounds
of the loss of plagiarism of
                a willing man, impetus!
does god throw dice...
  or does the chance of the already
gambling god...
   make up for the barking dog
accomplished by either
        heads... or tails?
                            kings... or subjects?
the french revolution was
a stranger concer for
making gambles...
               given that the tails one
the argument... against the echo of
sobering heads
that envisioned horns being
attached to their bargaining: status...
rather than... limitless politico:
of gambling with it...
   avoiding the schema of ******...
now...
   tell me...
what will the tails say this time
round... if they hear that the whole
point of equilibrium and waterfall
is in exacting of the order of the tails
not breeding in the agony of
              arisotractic
disconcern, for...            trans-*******
growing limbs without
movement?
      oh i'm sure the ****** have all
the answers...
         which are worth an hour of body...
but only a second in
aritocratic cultivation of the moral
(th)ought...
               all other animals have
been bred upon the rigid dynamism of
the entertaining exposure of chance...
only man...
        transcended it...
          against god...
      and at the same time could not
                 consolidate it within himself...
at last... not mere egyptian...
    devoid of the biblical affair with twin
torn at birth Aztec...
        i hardly think the story would have not
been better with:
the Aztec gallows...
                and this, Egyptian: "tomb"...
but does god throw dice?
            as far as i am concerned...
he's certainly holding the qa'bah in his hand...
   heads of monarchs...
                                    or tails of plumbers?!
the concept of the devil
overthrowing my curiosity of wrath,
sitting upon the cranium-throne of creation
leave them to their own:
           slouching future...
   and what better way to guise the currently
apparent, than the remaining
"joy" of having gambled on an "existence":
with their, predictable...
                          self-flagellating
            tree-stump's-worth-of-"pardonable"
sense of exploration...
                         yes...
i can almost imagine the crucifix
slowly morphing into a budding tree,
with laurel leaves surrounding it...
                                        does god play dice?
perhaps we could make use of
a coin that only had a tier for the use
inter-monarchy: tails-tails...
and a coin that only had a tier for
the use of inter-populace:
                           ah... as we already have...
unless people forget...
     England owns the head of Elizabeth...
since the concept of monarchy
is unchanged...
                      while Poland has a currency
with several heads of the former state...
                     Jagiełło to name the least...
oh but the rosey future is
not the aim of this stalling reality,
   once all: are accounted for...
all and none, a future bound to one:
nonetheless...
          in accordance:
let joy not buckle,
           before the young buck's play...
all in good, and reverent time...
these times require more fervour!
     more!
                 more!
                        the plight of
the roman empire, was never nero's ploy!

what became of real-time language:
an over-baggaged monstrosity
of nuance -

                    and of course:
all those beautiful handwriting
examples -
   lost to the digit of
an A whereby, once upon a time...
there would be some idiosyncracy
attached...

graphology, was it?

              - but yes, over-burdened
by nuance:
how - you almost have
to explain the joke,
to see a low-hanging fruit
of a punchline...

the camel broke on the nuance,
it buckled before it
even arrived at the eye
of the needle...
                   and...
the rich man squeezed past
a penny...

only today, after remaining
for over 24 hours,
i started thinking
of the schizophrenic quadratic
equation,
genesis: subject-object
dichotomy...
rather than the mind-body
duality of Descartes...

        and i tried to invite
myself to be entertained:
you know...
   the more i found myself
being, ahem, "offended"...
the more i found my heart
to increase the threshold
capacity for the variety
of feeling...

     a-pathy...
             less...
             without a pathology
and more...
         pathology-in-itself...
yes, i know the letter
with the hyphen a-
   implies "without"...
   but there never really is
an a-pathy...
            so? pathology-per-se...
i can't even begin to
understand why feelings
are so alienating
to some people of cold
logical concerns...
           sure:
   if someone has to succumb
to... mouthing-off...
            when feelings
cannot feed of the succor
of the grand silence...

my heart my anchor -
even if my mind, my ship -
        is sinking into
the yawning gnash of the waves
of existence before me...

only today, a film about
r. d. laing from 2017...
me?
         less about l.s.d.
and more:
    a tongue riddled (rather than
plagued) by metaphors...
   or...
          trans-***?
  hey, hello...
     how about you meet
the meta-mind?

         but such a complete disregard
for feelings?
what other feelings?
the grand oratory feelings
of being: "one of the tribe"?
the logistics of the +
    in 1 and 1 equals 2?

           i too once had
the faculty of treating my thinking
as a labyrinth basis for
a fraction of, reality's narrative...
but i lost that, capacity...
now all my thinking is
a spiral,
    devoid of an ethic that
would require something more
than:
               and what would
a hypothetical autism of
solipsism (man) think of all this?

bouts of the hermit stuppor...
conversations with one's
own shadow...
  and... trying to topple what
has survived from:
ensuring the word: philosophy
is excused the peddlestool
of pretentious cloaking
and staging for a theatre of...
'not another decade of
unanswered questions!'

    in handwriting,
on a napkin...
    'if i were sane enough,
i'd be entertained by the
speculative reality of, physics...
because what is physics,
once the determinate act of
the bhagavad gita
has been cited...
      of no god but of man
the argument: regarding
"who" is to play the dice...

it's almost "wrong" to claim
the sanity of people
who are entertained by
a speculative reality of physics...
unless you've read enough
or became engrossed in
enough science fiction...
that... that isn't speculative
reality... is it?

       so i'm mad...
               and more attune to
something called...
   engrossed reality (of philosophy)...
but again...
    that is such a pretentious word...
a charlatan's word,
a sophist's word...
                but i am haunted
by questions... no one can answer me...
for every step physics takes
forward,
       ethics takes two steps back,
and metaphysics takes
three steps back...

- and yes, a rigid vocabulary
helps...
   to make the "words in between"
fluid...
               gaseous ego,
gaseous god,
                       suckling parasite
at the end of the umbilical cord
the grand nihil...

primarily:
    you can spend 7 hours in bed,
listening to a radio station
from Kielce, radio FAMA...
    toiling in sweat and in
a spiral where once was a labyrinth...
with an empty heart...
and... get up to find
a dwadzieścia groszy
             coin in your bed...
      if i only found a radio station
as good as this...
i wouldn't have bothered
collecting all these *******
hoarded bricks of either
compact disk or vinyl...
       alas...
             irony...
      you only find a decent
radio station...
                    once you started
to not bother buying your own
d.j. coffin...

     what was that quadratic
about, though?  
   to internalize 'weeling and not
externalize "thinking"...
         i don't know...
              numb heart shield
of 1 + 1 = 2...
             reality instructor of:
swam, and didn't drown...

come the inner-circle joke...
       yet what is more... "interesting"...
the feelings of the individual,
when they do not morph
into the feelings of... mimic...
        surely...
             it is good to be in possession
of an agitated heart,
  prone to... throbbing of feeling
which are not coinciding with
feeling...
   whereby said feelings...
need to be... internalized...
eaten raw on the count
  of the throbbing count...
muddling the mind...
but not to the point where
the muddled mind is allowed
to translate itself into
a tongue that... primarily wants...
a telepathic-congregation
of: the zoo of zombies let loose
on the suspect...

        i say:
forget eating the bread and
drinking the blood...
i say:
   eat your own heart first...
         and... enjoy the silence.

STUDY BREAK

Stop procrastinating and avoiding.
Time management is the key.
Under the pump, with assignments.
Driven and determinate.
You are secretly screaming inside, for help, to escape.

Brain overloaded; break time needed.
Refresh yourself for bit.
Exercise for some fresh air.
Although don’t avoid it, too long.
Keep up the good work,
                                       Now, get back to it.

© By HF-Whisper
16/10/2020 13:48PM

Time .................
Quantifieable....
Changes every thing .
Created with mankind in mind,
Yet  blind to our needs
The advent simultaneously
Self Incorporated synergistically,
Integrated instantly
Secret allotment ,never know the amount ....
Time, sacred,precious ...to us it's tempral,
To the animal kingdom
It exists on a whole different level
Essential component of "THEE"
TRICHOTOMY "
SPACE
TIME
MATTER
no space ?
No place for us ..
No matter?
Its what were made of.
So if we only had space to move about and matter to exist
It actually wouldn't matter ,
No time to do anything .
Appears we need all three
In order for existence to exist.
Would you believe time is part of mass conspiracy ??????
Well think on this gravity affects mass .with no solid form in its way
Would continually fall or be falling .....well as the world turns
We along with it are always falling horizontally  ......
So we set values to archive events
So in essence time ............. Is it real or
just another form of gravity a constant dilation
in continuum
Blessing or curse
Debatable
Contingent upon vantage I guess.
Could be both
Although  somewhat manageable.
Entombed chaos....
Still seems to be a luck of the draw
A sundry of descriptive adjectives,which one is
applicable ?


Perspective is objective
So at the same" time "
becomes
Both Collectively and personable thus  divisible and multidimensional  

Individually indefinite document
Recorded twice
Once when confusing  lucidity saunters in ,
second at existence end.
"Time" is the quintessential
Determinate!
........
Solitary
I feel a burgeoning affinity for,
  .... A lore
An anomaly ,
In perpetual inflation ,
Unpurchaseable yet it's spent
Plus it's what we do with it
That helps us to see what's in store.
Sporadic  
Fickle and far in-between
Froward looking
I can see scheduling
Orientation like a quantum
Combination lock code aligning
I get giddy in organizing
And arranging to maximize
Some for free........
A ransom fit for a king.
To be continued in deux time.

I'm riding my vasectomy to Mexico to speak Mexican with Mexicans; to out-chess-play and to out-grease and to dance frenetically around hat brims in Ol' Loredo with my best conchie-confrère & his cheeky chica...In my place, en México, I shall abide by the colorful laws what rain down from Distrito Federal. Pre-determinate factors and ultrasounding boards, alien to Canucks, flavor my spoilt dressings, menticidal mindlessness, jettisoned topsoil & localized scatterings.

SLAUGHTER NIGHT — The massacre in the Katyń Forest (Russia, 1940) & the Palm Sunday massacre at Ponce (Puerto Rico, 1937) eluded Madge Bellamy (June 30, 1899 – January 24, 1990) & Lewis Mumford (Oct. 19, 1895 – January 26, 1990)...I suspect that I am related to Margaret Philpott (better known by her stage name Madge Bellamy). I find no trace of the great Lewis Mumford about & around me. Lewis wasn't motherly strictly because he had mum in his name. I'm sure of my certainty. Running away is a running theme with me and not because homosexual-typesets demand privileges, not dissected, righteously-constricting ploys. A man has the right to wed a marriageable woman. Wed then bed is now bed don't wed. Normal people MUST STOP selling their babies to perverts (not only to homosexuals). Kentuckians have the fewest teeth and the highest concentration of sodium fluoride added to their drinking water. Things that weren't a long time ago are becoming a long time ago. My Nipponese plums are yellowing. If we get a sustained freeze now all is lost. This is the 3rd warm winter in a row. Like Lenny Bruce said: "Tell your husband nothing, even if he has pictures. Just say it was some *** hairdresser." Possums & beavers are nice but Jerry & Wally ****** aren't really brothers!