...............his
between    chains & carnations
my silent disavowal to the night
the tethered  ropes of humanity
the pulp that ripens & rots
   before the first bite
    before he get’s to have it all
     the promise of an america   (lost era)
    we all fall
       amongst the bricks & poets
   the machines & hoplessness
     the starvation of the heart
            once we could all
  finally reach across
the earth
    it falls
it ruins of rhyme
with too much reason
  too much of everything
      left the future with nothing
yet here we lay
     dreaming of a big pay day
   ******* hope
    from between my legs
i love you
i love you
         ‘til I go away



6/12/11
b4 midnite sunday

What is it to be free in an unfree world?
Madness, as the only escape, is what I have chosen.
Madness in the sense of unrest,
Disavowal of the properties proscribing my actions
I smoke and drink to put off life
to ensnare nothingness with breath
and feel contingency take its hold on me
I want wine, furies and song to be my epitaph
and grasp at meaninglessness with two sweaty palms

I am not comfortable and never shall be
with this notion of decidedness and squalor of the mind
yet it is I

I know little of the great works and can hardly hold a pencil

This is where I meet myself, a worker, unfit for labor
exposed to existentialism and sick

I shudder, alone forever

Good things given to and wasted on me

I am death encapsulated

i used to care so so much
for this world,
but then a cat on a street taught me
to do otherwise,
there i was, by the lorry bins
on an estate, and there he was,
autistic as he was,
i stopped, he gestured his five whiskers,
i asked afoot at the crucifix: 'may i pass?'
he gestured with a blank stare that
i was granted...
so i passed... i didn't want the poor
****** to feel displaced...
or as in vision: a giant Venus over-flowering
of genitalia descending onto Plato's academy
into picture like a roof - asking - will the argumentation
seize to continue?! a floral goddess could
not enlightened these stone hearts,
so descent of a goddesses' genitalia comparable
to a flower could not weaken and make root
of weeds and later flowers into these hearts,
and i know so... oh i know so...
i know the strength of this brotherhood -
it's akin to a tear hearing the islamic call to prayer...
and the competing disavowal of an engagement with
women, simply for their despotism in the realm
of the household, which only women of blue Indians of
the former Raj know how to avoid, via sway unto
Bengali en-route to the Himalayas.

in this city's jungle haze
the mortar shells bricked gallows' glaze
every pause for which a breath was shed
has returned now to this blankest page of night
the constant newborn night that wants your haloed angel dead
(above)
from the feline night returning
the baritone blues
stalk halo's yearning
every lissome hustler
knows the answer
cuz he's got it in his blood...
blowing silk cut smoke
before God's greatest flood
(below)
now sapped in amber's
wedded stasis
a knife edge wrought
keen for the basis
of a clean cut amputation
of ***** lustrous hesitation
(equals) (static)
in gutted hovels by the hour
archangels sing of
God's illuminations
and sweetest disavowal

A tempest moulders in the distant air,
Obscured by darkness, thick with arrogance;
The intermittent rumblings make aware
That night of fright that skirts our sentience.

There is no use in preparations now,
The wrath impending is without withdrawal.
Would only we had heeded nature's vow,
The worst might not descend in disavowal.

Yet here we stand in pooling ignorance,
The very atmosphere our own regret,
For as the price of foresight's hinderance,
We stand to fare this evening sopping wet.

A tempest moulders, filled with looming light.
That we expect it shall not ease this night.

Every day I bare my soul
I must suspend my disbelief,
eradicate the need for affirmation
behind my every breath
so I can sing that
yes, I am alive and well
and worthy of something,
though I know not what.
These words must be trained
to spring from the shadows
unafraid to shout to the puppetmaster
their disavowal of its ownership
because they speak the truth,
the treasonous truth
from which I try to hide
but cannot
because they must be heard.
They will be heard
because for the first time
in these years of existence
I have the courage to declare that
yes, I am alive and well
and worthy of something,
though I know not what,
and still you are here.

pointing easterly,
azure skies of course
   this afternoon.
washlines drenched in
  high-sun,
precise contraptions
    deter spread of
anomalies seen daily.

  you tell me
hare's the fool
  you had once in your
 fledgling hands and died.
hare's foot
   is luck more than
imaginary.
  when no one is looking but
always i, keening in the total
    image -- it cannot
be you, impossible
   under ineffable skies
and twilight-erased  mud;

moments are   disavowal.
   you    like   the sound
so withdrawn   from  contestation,
  so easily your accurate self
liking   the   captured  dissonance.

you know   a fine day when
   it happens,
slow ****** of the vertical,
   highest  time to quit, bid for
a sequestered   place   free
      and absolute in variables: x is the lie.
all the intimate
    dark   you   pulse  with   the life
of   beautiful  horses

          gaining lightsome distance,
an approbative signal of technicolor
    painting   your   face  with   all
       things basking.
                     truant.

i can't understand why immigrants tear out their mother tongue and perform a ridiculous act of integration... the whole: "english, born and bred" - oh yeah, eskimos in saudi arabia, igloos made from solidified sand! i'll eat an english breakfast, i'll support west ham, i'll give into shamelessness, whatever you ask... but i wonder: wouldn't these immigrants be better integrated if they at least managed to retain their mother tongue, while speaking the language of integration? disavowing the mother tongue breeds a disavowal of the culture being immersed in... disavowal of the mother tongue breeds contempt for the culture one integrates into... the day i stop speaking western slavic, is the day you cut my tongue out, and make me eat it! i ask you: is it not better to retain your mother tongue, and imitate the culture you live in, or, is it better to disavow yourself from the mother and embrace the father, the land, while at the same time faking integration? i know i'm faking, because i am merely a: mimic in situ... but at least i have the decency to respect my origins, which translates into: not desecrating my foreign surroundings... how many of these terrorists can recite the quran, with the recitation being in: necessary arabic? i respect the culture i appropriated by respecting the most important aspect of my own origin culture: the mother tongue remains, even though i am beyond the fatherland... you lose that: you lose any sense of decency - for both cultures, even within the proximity of the shared european experience - no such conundrum for an englishman learning french, is there?*

i remember a drawing my ex-girlfriend
showed me when i was revisiting
edinburgh for the graduation
ceremony and was helping her write
an essay while she was wriggling out
a joint for me for the supposed "added
intellectual" stimulation...
  her then new b/f, high on l.s.d. walked
in, looked at me,
   with a look of a budding fear -
   as if: something was imminent or at leaat
about to take surreal dimensions of
extensions...
        i was dope eyed and to think of it:
only remember it now.
the drawing of her dream?
  her kneeling, arms outstretched -
with a sword lying on the ground...
apparently me, standing before her,
my back turned in the drawing,
holding a sword...
            my epitome of the meaning
of either judgement, or: mercy...
  rarely do people peer through a window
of someone's snapshot of the psyche -
it seems hard to imagine
  the dream-narrator as nothing more
than an automaton -
     as if: there is no choice in what we
wish to dream of...
                     but also:
we never seem to experience dreams
in the first person, that ever apparent
third party of the person sleeping.

“It can be a very spontaneous state,
In restraining the inner spirit of angst,
A plethora of pain held within,
Parallels of a withering acumen,

Once in a wonderful sense of serenity,
Or was it a birth of total disavowal,
One cannot feel the venture aforesaid,
Comeuppance breath within my soul,

Need I succumb to such relentlessness?
As the inner souls foment impertinently,
Shall I reconcile to the assuage afore me,
As my soul unleashes it’s invigorating remedial,

As my spiritual guidance formulates camaraderie,
Now proficient anodyne of once a dreaded angst,
Shall I now attain that of a once absent love?
Whether this shall be for naught it is affirmed,
A reticence of my spiritual soul has been ameliorated”
By Andrew Guzaldo ©  11/26/2019  #174