Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell? I humbly crave,
Let me once know.
I sought thee in a secret cave,
And ask’d, if Peace were there,
A hollow wind did seem to answer, No:
Go seek elsewhere.

I did; and going did a rainbow note:
Surely, thought I,
This is the lace of Peace’s coat:
I will search out the matter.
But while I looked the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden and did spy
A gallant flower,
The crown-imperial: Sure, said I,
Peace at the root must dwell.
But when I digged, I saw a worm devour
What showed so well.

At length I met a rev’rend good old man;
Whom when for Peace

I did demand, he thus began:
There was a Prince of old
At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase
Of flock and fold.

He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save
His life from foes.
But after death out of his grave
There sprang twelve stalks of wheat;
Which many wond’ring at, got some of those
To plant and set.

It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse
Through all the earth:
For they that taste it do rehearse
That virtue lies therein;
A secret virtue, bringing peace and mirth
By flight of sin.

Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,
And grows for you;
Make bread of it: and that repose
And peace, which ev’ry where
With so much earnestness you do pursue,
Is only there.

You call me a friend, as you pull out a knife you stab me in the back.
Not once but twice, friends for life but that's a straight up lie
you don't have a clue about ride or die.
Every couple months you brought somebody new into our group
But at the end it was always me and you.
Asked for my forgiveness when you sinned. Had me questioning like who am I?
But once to many times
I said,... "don't worry its fine."
Who would had thought you were plotting behind mine.
Took the dirt from where you digged out my grave to throw on my name.
You said it and you meant it till death do us part.
You wanted to steer and me not be there for the ride. You wanted the name and everything that came You were my partner in crime,
who you let blind your eyes. You didn't see my vision. Et tu, Brute? You betrayed me like Brutus
did to Julius.
Like judas did to jesus.
You kissed me on the cheek for several gold pieces.
Tell me if
You don't get the anomaly of my metaphor. If this was juice I'm Raheem and your Bishop. Is crazy how much I actually miss you.
All those new people and I'm the only one wishing you. ..... well wherever you are..... whethere is heaven or hell.
What you did was betrayal
and in my grave you buried yourself.
Til death do us part you said it and you meant it.
But here I stand
Hennessy on hand
With the same gun that held the bullets in your lungs.
This was a friend of mine
Till death do us part
In heaven or hell I'll be your ride or die... bang

A governor it was proclaimed this time,
When all who would come seeking in New Hampshire
Ancestral memories might come together.
And those of the name Stark gathered in Bow,
A rock-strewn town where farming has fallen off,
And sprout-lands flourish where the axe has gone.
Someone had literally run to earth
In an old cellar hole in a by-road
The origin of all the family there.
Thence they were sprung, so numerous a tribe
That now not all the houses left in town
Made shift to shelter them without the help
Of here and there a tent in grove and orchard.
They were at Bow, but that was not enough:
Nothing would do but they must fix a day
To stand together on the crater’s verge
That turned them on the world, and try to fathom
The past and get some strangeness out of it.
But rain spoiled all. The day began uncertain,
With clouds low trailing and moments of rain that misted.
The young folk held some hope out to each other
Till well toward noon when the storm settled down
With a swish in the grass. “What if the others
Are there,” they said. “It isn’t going to rain.”
Only one from a farm not far away
Strolled thither, not expecting he would find
Anyone else, but out of idleness.
One, and one other, yes, for there were two.
The second round the curving hillside road
Was a girl; and she halted some way off
To reconnoitre, and then made up her mind
At least to pass by and see who he was,
And perhaps hear some word about the weather.
This was some Stark she didn’t know. He nodded.
“No fête to-day,” he said.

“It looks that way.”
She swept the heavens, turning on her heel.
“I only idled down.”

“I idled down.”

Provision there had been for just such meeting
Of stranger cousins, in a family tree
Drawn on a sort of passport with the branch
Of the one bearing it done in detail—
Some zealous one’s laborious device.
She made a sudden movement toward her bodice,
As one who clasps her heart. They laughed together.
“Stark?” he inquired. “No matter for the proof.”

“Yes, Stark. And you?”

“I’m Stark.” He drew his passport.

“You know we might not be and still be cousins:
The town is full of Chases, Lowes, and Baileys,
All claiming some priority in Starkness.
My mother was a Lane, yet might have married
Anyone upon earth and still her children
Would have been Starks, and doubtless here to-day.”

“You riddle with your genealogy
Like a Viola. I don’t follow you.”

“I only mean my mother was a Stark
Several times over, and by marrying father
No more than brought us back into the name.”

“One ought not to be thrown into confusion
By a plain statement of relationship,
But I own what you say makes my head spin.
You take my card—you seem so good at such things—
And see if you can reckon our cousinship.
Why not take seats here on the cellar wall
And dangle feet among the raspberry vines?”

“Under the shelter of the family tree.”

“Just so—that ought to be enough protection.”

“Not from the rain. I think it’s going to rain.”

“It’s raining.”

“No, it’s misting; let’s be fair.
Does the rain seem to you to cool the eyes?”

The situation was like this: the road
Bowed outward on the mountain half-way up,
And disappeared and ended not far off.
No one went home that way. The only house
Beyond where they were was a shattered seedpod.
And below roared a brook hidden in trees,
The sound of which was silence for the place.
This he sat listening to till she gave judgment.

“On father’s side, it seems, we’re—let me see——”

“Don’t be too technical.—You have three cards.”

“Four cards, one yours, three mine, one for each branch
Of the Stark family I’m a member of.”

“D’you know a person so related to herself
Is supposed to be mad.”

“I may be mad.”

“You look so, sitting out here in the rain
Studying genealogy with me
You never saw before. What will we come to
With all this pride of ancestry, we Yankees?
I think we’re all mad. Tell me why we’re here
Drawn into town about this cellar hole
Like wild geese on a lake before a storm?
What do we see in such a hole, I wonder.”

“The Indians had a myth of Chicamoztoc,
Which means The Seven Caves that We Came out of.
This is the pit from which we Starks were digged.”

“You must be learned. That’s what you see in it?”

“And what do you see?”

“Yes, what do I see?
First let me look. I see raspberry vines——”

“Oh, if you’re going to use your eyes, just hear
What I see. It’s a little, little boy,
As pale and dim as a match flame in the sun;
He’s groping in the cellar after jam,
He thinks it’s dark and it’s flooded with daylight.”

“He’s nothing. Listen. When I lean like this
I can make out old Grandsir Stark distinctly,—
With his pipe in his mouth and his brown jug—
Bless you, it isn’t Grandsir Stark, it’s Granny,
But the pipe’s there and smoking and the jug.
She’s after cider, the old girl, she’s thirsty;
Here’s hoping she gets her drink and gets out safely.”

“Tell me about her. Does she look like me?”

“She should, shouldn’t she, you’re so many times
Over descended from her. I believe
She does look like you. Stay the way you are.
The nose is just the same, and so’s the chin—
Making allowance, making due allowance.”

“You poor, dear, great, great, great, great Granny!”

“See that you get her greatness right. Don’t stint her.”

“Yes, it’s important, though you think it isn’t.
I won’t be teased. But see how wet I am.”

“Yes, you must go; we can’t stay here for ever.
But wait until I give you a hand up.
A bead of silver water more or less
Strung on your hair won’t hurt your summer looks.
I wanted to try something with the noise
That the brook raises in the empty valley.
We have seen visions—now consult the voices.
Something I must have learned riding in trains
When I was young. I used the roar
To set the voices speaking out of it,
Speaking or singing, and the band-music playing.
Perhaps you have the art of what I mean.
I’ve never listened in among the sounds
That a brook makes in such a wild descent.
It ought to give a purer oracle.”

“It’s as you throw a picture on a screen:
The meaning of it all is out of you;
The voices give you what you wish to hear.”

“Strangely, it’s anything they wish to give.”

“Then I don’t know. It must be strange enough.
I wonder if it’s not your make-believe.
What do you think you’re like to hear to-day?”

“From the sense of our having been together—
But why take time for what I’m like to hear?
I’ll tell you what the voices really say.
You will do very well right where you are
A little longer. I mustn’t feel too hurried,
Or I can’t give myself to hear the voices.”

“Is this some trance you are withdrawing into?”

“You must be very still; you mustn’t talk.”

“I’ll hardly breathe.”

“The voices seem to say——”

“I’m waiting.”

“Don’t! The voices seem to say:
Call her Nausicaa, the unafraid
Of an acquaintance made adventurously.”

“I let you say that—on consideration.”

“I don’t see very well how you can help it.
You want the truth. I speak but by the voices.
You see they know I haven’t had your name,
Though what a name should matter between us——”

“I shall suspect——”

“Be good. The voices say:
Call her Nausicaa, and take a timber
That you shall find lies in the cellar charred
Among the raspberries, and hew and shape it
For a door-sill or other corner piece
In a new cottage on the ancient spot.
The life is not yet all gone out of it.
And come and make your summer dwelling here,
And perhaps she will come, still unafraid,
And sit before you in the open door
With flowers in her lap until they fade,
But not come in across the sacred sill——”

“I wonder where your oracle is tending.
You can see that there’s something wrong with it,
Or it would speak in dialect. Whose voice
Does it purport to speak in? Not old Grandsir’s
Nor Granny’s, surely. Call up one of them.
They have best right to be heard in this place.”

“You seem so partial to our great-grandmother
(Nine times removed. Correct me if I err.)
You will be likely to regard as sacred
Anything she may say. But let me warn you,
Folks in her day were given to plain speaking.
You think you’d best tempt her at such a time?”

“It rests with us always to cut her off.”

“Well then, it’s Granny speaking: ‘I dunnow!
Mebbe I’m wrong to take it as I do.
There ain’t no names quite like the old ones though,
Nor never will be to my way of thinking.
One mustn’t bear too ******* the new comers,
But there’s a dite too many of them for comfort.
I should feel easier if I could see
More of the salt wherewith they’re to be salted.
Son, you do as you’re told! You take the timber—
It’s as sound as the day when it was cut—
And begin over——’ There, she’d better stop.
You can see what is troubling Granny, though.
But don’t you think we sometimes make too much
Of the old stock? What counts is the ideals,
And those will bear some keeping still about.”

“I can see we are going to be good friends.”

“I like your ‘going to be.’ You said just now
It’s going to rain.”

“I know, and it was raining.
I let you say all that. But I must go now.”

“You let me say it? on consideration?
How shall we say good-bye in such a case?”

“How shall we?”

“Will you leave the way to me?”

“No, I don’t trust your eyes. You’ve said enough.
Now give me your hand up.—Pick me that flower.”

“Where shall we meet again?”

“Nowhere but here
Once more before we meet elsewhere.”

“In rain?”

“It ought to be in rain. Sometime in rain.
In rain to-morrow, shall we, if it rains?
But if we must, in sunshine.” So she went.

One morning, Howard was deciding what he was going to cook for today's lunch. Howard was not the worlds best cook, he mainly enjoyed buying ready meals to eat, Fishermans Pie was his dearest. But today was to be different; a change; he would make something from scratch. He decided that Carbonara met his fancy, so he got up from his wearing sofa, and made his way to the half filled book cabinet. 'How to make Pasta', the book read. It was a result for Howard. He clinched his hands on the closed book, and bought it into the front room.Howard opened the book to the contents and turned to page 21, 'Carbonara Chicken Special'. Howard firstly read the ingrediants needed, then popped to the local convinience store to fetch the things he needed. When he eventually started the meal, he was on task and ready to go. So he prepared the sauce, and the pasta, and the chicken. Then put it in the oven, a fourty-five minute wait.Howard was knackered by this time and thought he'd have a quick lye down..."BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP"!!!!!!!!!!!!!   This incredibly loud noise was coming from the smoke alarm, startaling Howard! He rushed to the kitchen to discover masses of smoke dominating the room. Howard glanced up at the the clock to discover that he had been sleeping for over an hour. The pasta was ruined and had to be thrown away.Howard was starving though. So he went over to the freezer, grabbed a microwave fishermans pie, and heated it up. As he sat down to eat the meal, he thought to himself; ' Well I gave it a go, one step closer eh'. Then digged into his seafood.

I digged the ground with a shovel
The length is 2 meters
With 1 meter width
And 6 feet deep

I put down my deceased dreams
Inside the grave
I finally swallowed the harsh fact and the painful faith
After I broke down in tears

My dreams were
To live with you
My dreams were
To put my lips against yours
My dreams were
Putting a ring around your ring fingers
And my dreams were
To love you forever

But unfortunately, my dreams now are just memories

As Poets we tend to find beauty in the horrid.
We put fear in love but still
fall for it.
Far from the beauty and the beast
we find beauty in the beast.
Like a double homicide, suicide
And a love letter left behind;
  
"How could you! if I love you even now when I contemplate our deaths I still want to be laid a rest by your side. As for him, his body can burn and be turned to ashes. Or should he be buried in a open casket thirty feet deep so the heat can moist the skin and help it rot  away. The stink for the filth he is. Let the dirt cover up what the worms and the magets will eat. God please for give me for the actions I will shortly take, yet these are not my sins. You showed me the path of peace but today the devil over took me. If you can't find it in you to forgive me then then you're not righteous.  She is my wife and not even in death we'll be apart."

That love is so deep it cut through the skin swift like a samurai sword. No pain as the blood gushed from the neck like it hit a vein. Love so strong it sprung hate... so deep that pierced through the skin with a double edge knife. Not once not twice but thirty-three times as if death was sent by christ. Not one cut was precise.
That's the beauty in poetry
As two body lay a rest
Floor covered in red
Sirens approach
In blood he writes
If Picasso would had never displayed his art the world would had never known him
A bullet in the magnum
As he laid next to his wife
kissed her with trembling lips one last time
Digged the gun deep into his mouth
So far deep he gagged then
plaow.
Last bit of blood splatter

The beauty of love and hate
A poet a artist master-take is finding beauty in death as in life.

There are a lot of important things needed to be happy in life,
that stop the dark rising and save the mind from strife,
like hilarious acts and moments we find funny
and as much as it pains me to say a bit of money
so we can do other fun things like go on a night out,
singing the hours away with a beam and a shout,
or a sweet song that glistens around the head,
or an engrossing book to read in bed,
ordering a take away and gorging can give a thrill
or back to back box sets on a Netflix and chill,
and just as crucial as having a top mate to phone
is having a place that one can call home.
Having an abode to go to when employment is done
or a domain to grab some water to quell the heat of the sun,
a space to collapse when infused with inebriation,
when getting tired of tracks, a warm safe station,
a place to get ready when revving to go out in the mix,
yeah, you were all of the above dear Flat Six.
Yeah, I’ll hold my hands up, you've been a ace place in which to live,
okay you were full of damp and the bathroom wall flimsy enough to give,
and when the verdant Eden outside was chopped down it made me mad
but you were only a short walk from my Mum and Dads.
You had plenty of perks,
fab tree out back and close to work,
a 24 hour garage a stone's throw away,
that sold the ***** at night and day,
you were near a cracking paper shop that had had 2 bottles of wine for six quid a go,
suffice to say, el vino did flow.
Your living room was massive enough to play big with a cat
"always a good time here" etched on your welcome mat.
Under your roof was awesome, you engendered joy with ease,
effortlessly making great, just like the cleanest breeze.
Now although you as a building yourself is a important component in amaze
other factors also make a simply brilliant phase,
Like when friends came round for fun and revelry
after we had left the club just after three,
we'd all pick up the ingredients for a ***** do
and jump, and groove with soothing coo,
the ether resplendent with "I love you!"
finely balanced between boom and cautious,
chatting committed, gabbing voracious,
sunk into fun under your light,
the wonder of spun on Saturday night.
Now, it wasn't just at the weekend when friends came to say okay,
there were some sweet gatherings on a Wednesday,
no women, no, just a range age of men,
it could only be mid week Breadren,
we could be having a conversation about how New York seems most tourable
when a voice pipes up, "by the way bel ami my cousin has cancer and it's incurable."
There could only be one guy who brings such depressing roars
the harbinger of gloom known as Two Doors.
He'll bleat on about how his niece has no womb and is totally barren
and next to him lives a kingpin drug baron
"they are shifting units at a furious pace
and ski in more in more wizz than ******* Scarface."
He'll change the subject in the blink of an eye
and go from talking about love to who's going to die,
he doesn't like most women, thinks they are a squawking flock,
he loves men though, yeah, he really likes ****.
A mate can come out and say sobbing he doesn't want to be with a lass
while Iain does think, "Ross, let me in your ***."
His friend could weep and cry with a whimpering cough
while all Iain thinks, Ross, **** me off!
Never mind Grinder, get on my fleshy old man log."
The third guy Martin is off shooting up in the bog.
Yeah, lots of people talked in your four walls
but you provided the space for those stupendous *****,
you were brill in December, springing in May,
really awesome in September, probs cos that's when Louise came to stay.
You held our pre festival clutter with happy behest
and often covered in bottles on Monday, a big glassy mess,
oh you had everything, simply one of the best.
As I’ve said, Flat Six you as the area were great
But a paramount importance in that was housemate.
You see some people can bond and connect in the hub of a club
but when sharing an address each other up the wrong way they can rub,
although they can go to a gig and have the most divine of laughs
when they abide in the same abode they go together like low ceilings and giraffes,
arguments start over the heating not being turned off
or who hasn’t took the bins out or who’s had some of the others food to scoff,
they bleat that “you shouldn’t have gone out for that night on the *****
And then made noise when you got in as you knew I was trying to snooze!”
or “why did you have that night on the coke, you see more of Charlie than an oompa loompa
and have World War 3 over a borrowed jumper.
So yeah, it's sweet when you find a shared space dweller
and who you think is swell and you get on really well,
as when after a day at the office and you perhaps want to chill alone
when they rap on your door to discuss the day you're glad their home,
skating through conversations with the p of pace
raucous at pontificating and waiting in the listen space,
bringing the talk with dazzling natter,
singeing the fork with frazzling chatter
to ensure the words cooked go down warm,
go down a treat, go down a storm,
discussing that wowing tomorrow is pay day thrill
and who was to blame for the initial breakup of Ross and Rachel,
top gabbing, it was brill!
Someone who when the elephant in the room is sniff
you both realise it quick and score in a jiff!
And never entertain the waste that is a tiff,
not for us the sign of a rift
simply super, a kind of bliss,
see I love Joe Flat Six, I love him to bits!
Although, like you  and your constant mould
he wasn't perfect (like everyone), if the truth be told,
you see if you follow all the biblical teachings you've been taught
you'd think he would have thought,
"I can help myself to the dental care and washing hygiene, it don't matter that I haven't bought,
I can use what I deem, Si's not the selfish sort,
he'd give me the last drop of his shower gel if he could,
he defiantly would,
so do unto others as they'd do unto me
and as I’ve got this human cleaning fluid for free
I’ll leave him some plentiful dollops on the side so he can bathe in a Lynx Africa infused sea
and I can leave some mouth polish laid in the shape of a cleansing leaf
so he can keep the fillings to zero in his teeth
then I can take the rest as I’ve been true to my sacred beliefs."
Yeah, that's what he could have done.
Instead he grew horns and committed a Luciferian act
and thought "I'm taking all of that!",
Sartini, you Devilish ****.
Nar, I bet you didn't even think that at all,
you were too busy imagining going out and having a ball,
beautifully bouncing off every wall,
riding the waves of Wet Dreams with total aplomb,
spinning tunes while high fiving Tom,
cool as ice cream and hot to trot
country hopping and swigging spirits by the tot,
at least Shannon seems to have diminished, that ****** robot!
she had more wires than C3PO's thighs
and glazed over R2D2 eyes
fair dos you digged her metallic allure
but did you really want to make love with the Terminator?
Ahh but who cares about a bit of shower gel and your cyborg fawning
it was great singing along as the day was dawning
And obvs I know every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end
But it’s only natural to miss living with one of your best friends.
So far be it from me to encourage your narcissistic gaze
but Joe you can add top housemate to your list of fortes!
So dear Flat Six to summarise
I’ll miss sitting out your back in summer rise
looking through your big tree with my eyes
at the Saturday sun azure blue skies,
I’ll miss that whatever there is to unfold
won’t happen over your threshold,
I’ll miss coming in your space with loads of beer
And chill with tunes while mates appear,
I’ll miss the midnight moving across your floor,
miss my key going in your door,
miss that it’s not your clock telling my time
miss that you’re not mine when I say “who wants to go mine?”
But now you’ll always be more than an address and a collection of bricks
I’ll always love you,
dear Flat Six!

i write this from experience, not really
the one to save the drowning man
who would still, rather,
catch a razor blade to stray the gills,
i find that people are afraid of poetry,
so afraid on the play of words
that they invented grammar,
so i ask: in between laughing at
a telepathic joke that can't materialise
anything feely, after all it's just nothing,
and nothing can't materialise
in any cartesian extension of what
thought provides, which is exactly that:
in cartesia logistics the extension is soul,
where the substance is thought,
and the third part i'm not too clear about
writing... i envelop sartre as a novelist
but i dare say... he's a **** philosopher;
nietzsche matured in my youth,
i read the human comedy on the tube,
attracting homosexuals:
a different kind of voyeurism - what book you reading?
different with newspapers...
is that a monday? by jingles the uvula bells!
i thought i heard northern irish lingo!
by jimmy fitz patrick you did...
send into the green marshmallows,
i scented seaweed i yoda did...
bad grammar and no poetics...
i provide you with the choicest of the least cha cha cha...
i take pun, i take noun,
i take verb, i take metaphor,
i take conjunction, i take pronoun...
free bulbs free bulbs free, bulb! ha ha!
basically you take poetry and sacrifice the isaac
on the altar, the altar is not alternative,
the cats are curious: why does he sleep so long
like us? he drink alcohol and goes against
the prescription dynamism, he's a salmon,
swims against the current, dollops sleeping pills
with alcohol... dies of a weak heart heart attack in
fiji or kenya... make poetry amusing again...
please... don't make it a transition of language
from a weak **** / bladder into teenage feminism
so you wish i'd never *******, wishing i'd
always *******...
well no fucky fucky Thailand not Taiwan
got my bra on and my strap-on... missing a c-ring...
about as ***** as the tower of Pisa...
venice seems nice... nice to auto-shove the dirt
into the digged hole for a mausoleum of mahogany:
shining smooth... no five o'clock shadow to dim
the neon effect on the polished goods grieved over
supremely beyond the maxim of ash
and reductionism in the taj mahal...
nordic necrophilia is not exactly cannibalism
of the easter islands... they left no trace,
bunch of french nosed stone tyrants who sneezed
rather than coughed the truth out:
they did the inverse extinction of the dodo....
reduced to cannibalism they were:
no merchants of mecca or venice you see...
trade died before it could spawn...
but since i lost the track of things i better remind
myself that i'm about to be engaged with
writing out the index of my precisely arranged
"bibliophobia," i.e. the index of my library;
but you know what... some muslim school friend
of mine suggested a rekindling of the wartburg festival
of 1933 just based on a salman rushdie novel?
odd... it happened just before electricity
took over from the blitzkrieg parameters under
zeus' orders...
having written this... i actually don't know what
i laughed at... something to do with telepathy:
projection of pathology as ego insertion into someone's
own substance of being (thought); otherwise
known as pigmentation... well black on white,
diluted if not fading brown in sepia...
contrast in alabaster.

This is a deep poem
Way deeper than the ocean
Deeper than that the hole you dug
Much deeper than the hole I dug
Me & you digging can't compare to how deep this is
If everyone in the world digged with us, this poem would still be deeper
A poem so deep that a black hole isn't near close to how deep it is
This poem isn't going anywhere
Because you don't really know where you're going to end up in life
This poem symbolizes absolutely nothing
Because nothing it put together
And this poem doesn't have any meaning to it either
So stop reading this
and go live your life
So you can find a meaning to that
Because you sure won't find it here
Because this isn't a deep poem you idiot

In deep skies preaching storm clouds
Swinging between life and fate
I lost all the faith I captured from
My most nurtured brutal days
To my inherited nightmares.
The wrath of my stale sand
Cried for my world's flipped smile,
The turning tides wrapped a tempest
Inside the ballads of my December nights
And I finally digged my dreams inside.
I pulled myself over the floor
Before sinking down into the waves
But the concern remained over rejections
And the crimson heart waited
To defeat my drained destiny
But I crashed and failed again !

Bored living in the tombs
Those turned to names of cities
Where we live and visit until
Too many of them are carved on stones
Openly standing books
Echoing our names on the bills
Sent by devil or in Dave's name sometimes

Street signs, silent police?
Scary if you know they were those
Underground names now holding posters
Directing you to your tomb home
Until a square-meter palace is sold to you
These revolutionary thinking reformers
Who called themselves gravediggers

All names have to be digged out now 'cause
They are running short of lands to continue
Urbanization. Hear what they say:
You could die eternally but this cemetery
Can only be used for 70 years, legally
Your cinerary caskets will be displayed
In sky-high buildings, closer to the heavens

Lucky if yours is made of sandalwood
Carved and painted as Red Mansion where
You could have wonder-ful dreams
Your friends and enemies could smell
The phosphorous glowing in the wind

Feb 17, 2016

last night  i had a dream about you
thank god it wasn't true
she and i were fighting just us two over you
i was sure to be winning
she had her faced smashed in
her eyes had my fingers digged in
yet she was still the one to win
crazy how my heart felt, full of hate and resent.. thank god this wasn't true
what happened next was the one for the true win to your soul
she and you had texts back and forth
never had words put me in such feels, in such tears with fear
you told her you loved her
that's something you never told me
that's something i always wished to me you told
something i always hoped for

whats worse is waking up to knowing you're still gone and still no longer mine
why'd you have to go? guess it just wasn't our time
whats worse is you walking away without even saying goodbye
hard looking back and knowing you were once my lullaby

these memories still hurt still sting looking back
reminiscing on the day you said you'd catch me if i fall, guess you let me slip through the crack
now you got me here wondering if everything was my fault
can't believe i wrote you poem after poem showing you my love
i even wrote bout how you taught me how to love, just wish i knew then that it was all false
now all i have is a lesson lived, lesson learned
i know now to never love and to never fall.

Im not gon' write a poem about you.
Uh uh.
I'm not about to allow you to make me FEEL
And allow you to fill
Me up
In such a way that my subconscious has to throw you up and onto a page
Nope
I'm not about to write a poem for you
Nooo siree, you see I've made that mistake
Prior.

When I was young and silly and hopeful.

I went and bought a fancy pen
The kind that writes so smoothly and makes my cursive extra pretty, but you know it bleeds?

I thought the ink that dripped from MY pen once it soaked through
It would sort of seal  us in the paper
Like I said, I was mistaken so
No.

I'm not about to write a poem for you TOO

And just leave myself exposed?
I mean who knows
if I replace those little tiny "o"s for hearts over my "i"s when I dot em that soon you could care less
For the stress on my esteem after you're mean leaving the apples of my cheeks with salty tears streaming down them
So naw'l
I refuse to tell the world how you made me blush when your lips found them.
Or how we had so much in common
It was raining but we just kept walking
You made me laugh until I was coughin'
I ain't gonna do it
I've learned its better to not let you soften-

my heart

But instead I mold bricks
cause it seems noone wants to actually bring any GOOD to it.
Seems 9 times out of ten all they want to DO
Is to do IT
when all I want is you to put
my hand in yours and stare into my eyes and search my heart and not my thighs
I'm not gonna try

And make this something more than what is was.

Just because of what I felt the warm and fuzz of flirty words spoken over Patty melts?
It was nice.
But I dont think that warrant's you a poem.

Not an admonition of my humanness
Not another proclamation of my foolishness

for allowing myself to think,
dare  I say hope
that those two hours of my precious life were 2 not wasted?
And Not worth the energy for me to store the memory
in the best way made for me to preserve it?
A poem?
How am I supposed to know that you deserve it?

But how can I resist within that moment?

After reflectin' on my day I find my mind keeps
pressing replay
on those two hours in Ferndale
And how we talked until nightfell.
Forgot to feed the meter cause what is time?
Hell I was frozen by you, guy.
I digged my nose into your life and just kept goin.
  
You had the audacity to inquire about my dreams and all my passions
and what makes me get up outta bed every morning

So I HAD to ask you back

And I listened
And I enjoyed what you said
And as we parted ways I had to immediately LIE
and document it in my head
Under "non-important"

It was nice

But don't let yourself get excited

Felt like I was on cloud 9 but gotta hide it
Come off the high
Cause what if in the end it's unrequited?

and I'm upset with you
Regretting you
No.
HATING you for letting me feel slighted
Yeah you tried it.

I mean YOU didn't.

At least not yet...

I just don't wanna write another poem that I'll want to forget.

I looked in the mirror and when I looked in the mirror, I didn't see nothing wrong with my pretty face,
But when I stepped out my mother's place,
I digged in my book bag to get my iPad out and to
Take a look at myself in my iPad camera,
I looked at myself in the camera, and I ended up seeing what I didn't like, because what I see in the camera is what everyone on my school bus would see and everyone at my school would see. Because I realized I still had mascara on my eyelashes........
My mirror showed me that I didn't have nothing on my face,
Nothing black, brown, but when I looked in the camera, I seen that I still had makeup on and I didn't have no wet tissues with me to wipe my eyes and the rest of my pretty face..

One night when being in a dream so sweet,
I heard my mind to call me visit,
I opened the door of my deep subconscious,
To catch the hidden love and beauty.
Oh what I saw and what I heard,
The masterpieces and lovely words,
They stood there sparkling, crystallised
Like pure diamonds on the door of Paradise.
So stunned and proud I digged more deep
Wordless beauty and shining rooms,
It came to me and astounded I was,
Oh, this precious Paradise lives in my senses.
There is so much unknown in the depth of life,
And yet every creature acquires that art in mind.
Do find the hidden treasures of love and beauty,
They will be there behind the valued door,
Waiting on the quiet till you reach the entrance,
And create a masterpiece which will live in history.

your eyes are a piece of heaven
they carry an angel inside them
your heart is a diamond
i digged so long to find it
when i hugged you
i felt like i'm in paradise
i feel safe and happy in there
Your words are like the revelation
that came down from the sky
your smile could relieve
a dead soul
you're not a human like us
you're something different
from another soul
from another universe
from another planet

I kissed you on the hand
as our toes digged deep in the sand
I kissed your naval
and again
and again
and again
we rolled in the tide
and I felt your skin on mine
Naked and free
naked and free

the crafty hyenas
laugh and giggled with
uncontrolled maddness
throughout the
coarse of the meal
as their
bone crushing teeth
ripped and digged
through the
flesh of
their shock prey
make their bellies full
conducted their hunt
in broad daylight
right in front of
the lion pride

I am walking in a garden of roses
They are beautiful, as they are blooming filled with color and life
They could take anyone's breath away
But not mine
To me they are all the same
To me they are just flowers
Because i am searching for one rose
The one that i can never find
Being in the depths of the dirt
Maybe some new roses has grown out of her
But they can never be as breathtaking as she was
The most beutiful rose of them all
She has withered many years ago
I remember when i first saw her
She was full of sharp thorns, yet she was enchanting, almost...
Almost inviting me to go there to take a bath in her mesmerizing blue aura
That day she was as blue as the sky in a fresh spring morning
I dived into her sky flooting all over it
Without even my recognition i became enlighted as never before
Then Nüx has blessed the azure with her captivating, yet dangerous kiss
But i promised her to come back once every month
The next month when i saw her she looked like a river in the deepest woods
Then one month later she looked liked a small lake on the top of a snowy mountain
Then she looked like a never ending ocean
Then she looked like a stormy night
And everytime when i saw her she got a bit darker
She was still fetching but she has changed
She wasn't that playful and lovely anymore
Then one day when i went to see her all i could see was her black petals and her dead flowers battleing with the old pictures in my mind of her blooming with turquise clarity
So i got my self a knife
And i cut her blackened throat
I was bleeding all over because of her spikes but i didn't care
I digged her a grave in the middle of the garden of roses
Put her in to the dirt and covered her with my tears and blood
It was exactly ten years ago
Now i am free again and i came back here
And yes i am sure
The last time alive she was just as black as the dirt around her now
As the garden of roses surrounds us i can feel their jealous looks
But i don't care about it
I just lay my head next to grave
Next to my beloved one
And now i am just as black as the dirt too
And i will stay here with her
Forever now

2/3/2015

I'd written a poem about a
man I kissed once
real cool cat
digged the poetry,

memory smell's like autumn.
"How topical," he said on the phone
when i showed him.

Dug deep I digged this dirt and dragged down dark dermal tissue,
Diamonds in the rough.
Picked and plucked I perused polished pieces of painful porcelain, piercing pockets in my peripheral parts, precious pearls and petals I peeked and pounced.

Bleeding black blood from bored brackets in body's bursting bark,
I grasped golden, gleaming glory. Gazing greedily like I'd gotten God by his good gourd,
I let needles nick nocks into niche nooks and night nothings knap nooses around my neck, my needle in the haystack.

My night, my might, my one of a kind,
My Kim.

In the grey fogs of the cities -
Like mushrooms in the moist,
There grow beggars in the corners,
"Just a penny, sir!" - voiced.


You may find them in any genre;
Old men next to a jar,
Sad blokes without roof nor goods,
Lads playing a guitar.


All they want is only a coin-
Giving them needs morals;
Only God knows, you may be there,
Begging with them for alms.


                       ---


Every time, I bypass by one,
My throat knots in a ball;
I feel an urge to seek coppers,
Always giving them all.


However, once it happened that-
I ran out of changes,
When an old gypsy woman was
Looking for my wages.


She blocked the entry of the shop:
"A coin, may God bless you!";
I excused: Now, I'm short of posh
While trying to get through.


                       ---


She grabbed my arm and hugged my waist:
"My dear, my kids need food!"
Get out of my way, you witch! - thought,
"Witch?! You'll pay for b'ing rude!"


I was shocked: What, she read my mind?!
She spat between my eyes,
Hugged me harder than a python-
While murmuring weird rhymes.


"Pale face - hard heart, now you will pay,
Pale heart - hard face, you'll own!"
I fear'd if there were watching crowds,
But none, I've seen none, none.


                       ---


The witch's gone as if never been,
Leaving my eyes in pain;
Taking my sight away, to say:
Oh my God! Am I sane?!


No doctor could cure my blindness:
"Nah, you must pretend it."
Then, a charlatan informed me:
"You're cursed, I'm sure of it".


Knowing being cursed let me sick;
"You'll need her to be cleansed",
But how to find her in Paris?
Been blinded and uneased.


                       ---


I digged through the darkest quarters,
Meeting gypsy kings and hags;
Though, they were all laughing at me:
"A witch-beldam who begs?!"


My dispair led me to the shop:
Maybe, I'll find her here;
Time has strained my face and my heart,
Begging there year to year.


"All I want is only a coin-
Giving me needs morals;
Only God knows, you may be here,
Begging with me for alms."

I met you in January -
When the sun wasn't shining
The skies were dark and cloudy
The voices in my head were tuning to my usual distrust

You were afraid and sympathetic towards my tremble
Your deep voice and comforting words were sinking in my usual distrust

You tossed undisguised words that were annoying but painless
You digged my ground to understand -
And believed in all my words
No judgments, no false assumptions were made -
Excluding the father part

It felt like a ray of light was shining through my dark clouds
You lit up the darkness
You gave me hope again
March, 2018 -
Was the last time we met

The Fern
A Poem by Rosa Jamali
Translated from original Persian to English by the Author

I was a seven-story being, covered in  scarce species of a plant
And it was a funeral ceremony
and I was the only single mourner
First I grabbed a gemstone from this very soil,
And then sealed and knocked it over my forehead
I returned and had a glance at my homeland again and I wept.
My father was the phoenix ; My mother a restless Goddess in Shusha and Hegmataneh and on the tomb of
Mordechai
But God was with me
My far-sighted binocular eyes are a camera in  this deep darkness, a whole dark loophole!
And I’m the dumb and voiceless Myth of clashes of spoons and forks at the dinner table
Deity of The Nawab Highway , heading the cemeteries
At East End of this city ... What’s pouring over your head blow by blow and nonstop, incessantly?
What is this entire dirt and filth in thorns and dust?
Which is covering things in a very slow pace, gentle and soft!
What's it like? What could it be?
The fairies had nested on my dark hair,
And I had washed the fairies, drained them, brewed them like rice.
You knew the time well , the moments are lingering, it's yawning and sleepy,
That very frozen moment and then absolute silence
While with my wounded nails on the stove, I was boiling over the saucepan!
When I covered the whole scene of the Revolution Square and erupted like a volcano
Perhaps I had just kept my face pale with bleaching ...

I am the Fern
The Orphan Land
The Stepchild
Fostered Land
Burned,
And forbidden
And infected with all kinds of diseases, fake gurus, lies and manipulations

What has captured your heart and attached you to this land, brother?
The country which has been completely burned, half buried and the other half contaminated with Lead,
The somkes are left...

The Fern I am!
The Goddess of growing wild flowers,
The Lady of thorn and thistles
Upon the sorrow of the Talisman woven into my country,
And how I digged the mountains,
What have you done then?
Only a handful of soil which has been displaced
Makes me bewitched forever
Ashes which have been sprinkled over Bozorgmehr and Yazdgerd and the Great Republic
My ashes which have been spread over the seas and over the far oceans
And I have been resided in the waters of the River Tigris forever
The stale smell of dampness;
The spider which has nested right over my head
And you had foretold all this ,
You had already seen it...

The Naming ritual is over.
Turn off the lights. Tomorrow is a Saturday,
Oh, I will not sigh!
Mirrors have grown over my index finger!
For I have wept the waters of seven seas in six thousand years
And I have taken refuge in the corner of a chair in fury

The sidewalks are deserted.
Passers-by are the perpetual dead
And this deserted Military Zone
Has no longer been residential.

I yielded to the winds
And packed
Giving away my body
And giving my soul to the windshields  
It came to pass in a second when I became a yardbird
A captive for thousands of  years
To the bitter end,
My words were ashes and carbon dioxide; coal...
The Fern is an ill-bred wild seed, off the rails that is not given a name, not called by a name
It's exactly like a lettuce leaf:  not happened to be named,
But it's peeled,
Misshaped, warped and deformed
Why should it be named in the first place?

I thought it was but it was not
a rainbow with a golden spot
marked by a cross,

and I am at a loss now
to explain
is anyone or only
me to blame?

I dug
I dag
I digged
dogged as I am
never found the treasure
I remain
the poor man.

Life goes on or so they say
not sure of that
though
at least for today
it will
and they also
say
Oh, still the tempest in my heart
take of me a piece and let
us part
as friends.

Life may go on
but it also ends
unless of course you're
an immortal.

Through these shining hours
I've cruised
bruising for a fight

the night
wins by a knockout
every time.

Holding into past tenses
Like I'm some war solider
Sitting in the cemetery ,facing his lover's grave
Holding into their love letters .
But I'm no solider
And you are in no cemetery to be found
Still grieving your rushed goodbyes
I'm one haunted temporary home
Didn't know you would have lasted that long
Wasn't scary for you when you first arrived
Ringing my door bell
Waiting for your respond.
Time passed
I digged my own grave and yours
When you politely asked
Here alone , you left me
in no where  to be found

Something sad in my bone and winter settles on the marble tiled floor. No one speaks here. Everything is quiet and now quieter because of the cold. And by speaking I mean, that one I admire and that one people fleetingly are fond of. You know those talks one craves, getting it? Then my feet touch that floor and the winter slowly scuffles its way up through my structure. So much that it's upon my sleeve, approaching towards the red turned, gloveless fingertips. Time was passing. But my mind asks the same question everyday and now, " Are you gonna write today?" I sneak out leaving a main door slammed with an enormous wave of wind to gaze at the stars. But there are no stars today. Then I boil some eggs for the old, exhausted , regular looking street dog who wanders around Ramu's chai stall everyday, waiting for some bread crumbs or food leftovers from customers and passersby. But we weren't that kind. We never bothered. Why would we waste a walk to a mad dog over Saturday night plans after juggling between work and home for whole six days? And the dogs are smart, he'll figure. Now suddenly you wanna feed him Mahek. You'll take all the walks it takes . But he is somewhere else today. "He filled the ground he digged. That's where he used to sleep." Ramu showed me. He left. Probably because no one cared. And I'd lost two poetries by now. I dial a friend to meet up over coffee and make up for my wrong doings. She didn't answer. I kept trying. She didn't pick once. I show up at her house, but she abandoned it six months back. No one in family joins my poem recital on the terrace. So I recite to the empty chairs, picturing a sudden yet satisfying eruption of exultant approbation from an imaginary audience.
But the real question was, "What should I write about today? ". The stranger dog who left the city tonight, about the stars that never came , about the family I have always disappointed, about the growing misery that's zilch compared to my blessings or the past that always makes me laugh. About the grief that people call " staged" or a father who works all day for his children . Or a mother who I am thankful for. Or maybe about how all this has long been over.
So, I don't think I should write today. Because this isn't real pain. "Your tears are fake and your actions are staged. You 're too weak. You can't survive in your poetries. You can't create a world of your own because sometime or the other, you'll stumble upon the reality. Just come back , Mahek. There is a sun outside because it's meant to be. Not because it wants to secure you in its warm embrace. Not that. "

But you know, the dog came back.

you know, two doors down,
a bunch of youthful sikhs are having
a weener get together party,
sounds like friday at the mosque:
no women allowed;
and they're standing there in
the garden, smoking joints,
laughing & trivialising,
**** on the read: i call them.

and there's me, little ol' me,
solving a sudoku puzzle and drinking
some *** on the side, while listening
to the ultimate template for "m.g.t.o.w.",
and thinking, am i part of this movement,
to be the reversal cartesian dynamic
that hasn't kicked in?

vocals on gorgorath,
and the story behind it...
i see hell as silence,
mainly? no throne of god,
nor hallelujah angels...
i have to make this pig latin...

ego videre infernum qua silentium

  and i do... see hell as silence:

   videre infernum qua silentium...

heaven?

      rephrasing: audio... for pedantic
***** involved.

so i have thus: sikh party two doors
down,
i don't mind them...
    i'm sure as ****, the fan gets involved,
i start to gurgle the brew,
i tilt my head back, with a neck still
intact..
  and gurgle the brew...
        mind you, these neighbours killed
my cat...
               i'm not begging, i'm not asking
for a response, i'm just saying...
  what happened, happened,
    i have the north winds to attest to...
no sikh is going into my house
and say: make us a kuppah...
no, *******, turn your turban cloth into
a napkin, and have
your jimmy-jimmy daal....
you ******* idiot... oh? it didn't translate?
how about i voodoo my cat's remains
in a woogie-boogie promise
of: the haunted house?

     i **** as hell digged up a grave,
you "think" i'm about to joke?
let me fiddle with my nose for a bit...
you know how disrespect for humans
is born? when the "idiot" disrespects
the non-edible, petted forms of animal...

you make grievances with
non-edible pieces of meat
that men are associated with...
you're asking for the name of the seasons,
plus a choir of angels to untie you;
boo-shakalak-kee-sha!
  what did i find?
these turban brigadiers, these
blue indian, these pakis...
they have only one motto:
strength in numbers...
    but when they hear a white boy,
gurgling alcohol out of the window,
as if imitating drowning,
tilting his head back giving the perfect:
macaw signing in the sea...
these olive skinned virgins either play
*****, or call for backup "plans"...

*** yer plantain, but not yer bananas:
sure short, a ******* wake
across the whole of the caribbean...
called the havana autumn:
lost leaves, dry dung,
    monkey 'ave a throw's worth
of a bullet 'andy.

what? you gunn'ah **** on the pineapples
any'who? ******* will,
i'll be right there,
shitstorming your *** whether
there's an irma or her **** jose -
***** i'll witch-broom your ***
right off with a woop, telling my
neighbours: i've done so;

and yes, the internet is not a cul de sac,
you don't get to play
radio 4's the archers here...
sorry, i was wishful thinking for a sitcom
too... turns out...
    the phonebook is exponential in size,
but also too erratic in terms of
fluidity / fluctuation of capitalised on
use.

i've already transgressed the applicable diacritical
markings, i've already hidden the
slavic "grapheme": sz in š -
    (in english that's a sz with a H - a sheep).
         language has to first become
mandible - "erroneous" -
                    it has to be bribed, it has to be
changed, it has to evolve into something else -
  and that's how it happens -
           matthew, matthias, mateusz, mateuš -
i can hardly claim self-love:
                                           but i adore my name;
i'm actually fascinated with names -
       whoever calls their daughter peaches is
to me: unimaginative.
                         i abide by no school-rubric
strictness of what ought to be diacritically
         acceptable -
             i transcend this base of implication -
and some words from the native tongue -
  kawa (kava) - coffee -
     cukier - sugar -
         mleko - milk
       woda (voda) - water
            wódka (vódka) - ***** -
           when - łen -
            łamanie - wama'nie - the breaking -
   orzech laskowy - hazelnut -
   again the graphemes rz (ż) and ch (H) -
              and that's truly an orthographic
statement.
                    
   scales of a dragon, tooth of a wolf:
witches' mummy; maw, and gulf,
        of the ravined salt-sea shark;
root of hemlock, digged in the dark;
liver of a blaspheming jew;
gall of goat, and slips of yew,
      slivered in the moon's eclipse;
nose of a turk, and tartar's lips;
   finger of a birth-strangled babe,
   ditch delivered by a drab,
                   make the gruel thick and slab:
add thereto a tiger's chaudron,
for the ingredients of our cauldron.

  as ever, macbeth and the three years
in edinburgh bribe my thoughts concerning
the first time atop arthur's seat -
   a city that's also the perfect compass -
overlooking the firth of forth -
     i knew exactly when looking
to the east, when exactly looking to
the north, and west, and south.

      besides the already said -
manhattan boils, and i'm simply bored -
  it's has becoming a boredom expecting
what's to be expected -
                 that's the problem with terror -
it no longer dreams big, the unexpected
has already become the expected -
    terrorism has become normalised -
   when it was al qa qa ida -
  has become no no norman -
     who the hell names their son: norman?!

ah, only 8 dead, that's nothing,
                 i'm just tired of the tirade -
should it, or shouldn't it come along...
              beside "being" defeatist -
             it's just the plain sight boredom of
the said narrative -
                   who will tire first is the only
question i have to ask,
  but never will ask...
       it's simply tiresome to defend the "good"
muslims...
            **** it, throw the whole lot of them
into the same bucket and start shooting
the same fish in a single barrel...
                          some people believe
that authentic plagiarism is an artform per se,
this is true:
  plagiarism isn't easy,
   i wrote one sociology essay by plagiarising
at university, i did it,
   because i wanted to check whether the computer
program in effect could actually detect
a plagiarism... funny... it didn't...
i got a first by carefully utilising a thesaurus...
it could have been a reverse result
                 of kasparov vs. deep blue...
but this isn't a case of plagiarising
   the berlin attack -
              the kaiser wilhelm memorial
    church at breitscheidplatz -
       you become tired of the excuses -
      after a while you are given the opportunity
to finally cut the throbbing membrane mark -
there is and there will be the distinction
we're entrenched in the: us and the them...
      added the fact that i don't agree
on the crux banality of history -
   historiology is nonsense to me -
     the anglophone is over-stretched with what
it "accounts" for as "genuine" history -
      big bag, dinosaurs, cavemen, monkeys...
stretch armstrong or what?!
                           i prefer the much simpler
view of history, namely, that i have already planned
a shortening -
  whereby historiology is replaced by
   etymology...
                         hence the interlude of native
words:
            chrapać - snore -
                   sen - dream -
          śnić - to dream -
                                  kaszel - cough -
and the debate between
        kasłać and kaszłać -
                        or the readied laziness
with a grapheme - agrippa -
              chequers and cappuccino -
grapheme assured - not roman siamese -
                    but nonetheless graphemes...
once more: the fluidity of language -
   one again: not all rules are made to be left
orthographically unbroken,
      ask a silesian about his mongrel
                     germano-pollack tongue -
                                           or the kashubian;
perhaps the rules of the orthodox tongue
rigid and schooled remain in a vault
in warsaw, but outside of warsaw:
                   the tongue is no iron -
            the tongue is clay,
                 and moulded in the image of
    the one wielding it, to his desire:
            lingua est non ferrum -
        lingua est lutum -
                        ludere deus /
                     das zunge ist nicht eisen -
     das zunge ist lehm -
                                           spielen gott.