Ah, Yorkshire, thou art purer than Coventry;
and thy promises whiter; than my fluid poetry.
Thou art braver, prudent, and all the way more intelligent;
thy lands are mightier; and perhaps in every possible way-more imminent.
Thou art sincere-and so more delicate than wine, and thoughtful;
Thou adored my words, and made everything else healing, and more beautiful.

In my heart but there might have been no Yorkshire at all-
had I attended not one Coventry last fall.
I witnessed not-at t'at time, all t'is rude twilight-and toughness and madness;
and every chapped breath it had in its roughness, and hilarious-though indeed fake, felicity.
No soul has even bits of a heart, here, to forgive others' soreness,
No being wants to share; no human lives in joy, nor simplicity.
No delight indeed; as I stream my way through every roads;
Everyone is either busy with their selfishness or their coats.
No living is cared for; for humans are phantoms at night and on morns;
Vulnerability is mocked, and demised and often slyly torn.
Ah! Coventry is but a sphere of hell!
For even hell is still lighter when has it not hellfire;
As well cities are, when there is no scoundrel nor liar;
But Coventry is not at all tender;
Its wicked gasp is alive, and never to heartily surrender.
It falls for glory; it bows to such fears for pleasure;
And wanes by the light of whose death; the end of whose allure.
But thou art true-thou art as shy as every flash of virtue;
Thou art indeed-everything t'at is solemnly agreeable and brand new.
Ah, and just now-I had dreams of a fine image of thee;
Smiling within thy fullest verdure, bushes, and lavish undergrowth.
And thy summer is but vivid and friendlier;
Healing every sore heart, and turning 'em all, merrier.
Thou adored the nouns and verbs I wrote,
and admired such simple notions I quoted;
Thou shine upon me-asthe light that shall makest me grow
and the promising dim, faraway region, that lets me glow.
O, Yorkshire, this is still but too early in the transparent evening;
But I am deeply endorsed yet, by t'is poetry writing-
And with thy soul that remains but too witty,
Tearing me away, but with loveliness-
from my cautious present engagement,
Thy charms might be just too hard to bear,
for thy tongue is too sweet;
and thy veracity too chaotic, ye' imminent.
In thee shall I find peace-of that I am convinced,
Peace whose soul is calm, neat and on all occasions, careful-
Unlike t'is bustle which is at times perpetual, and sorrowful;
Unlike t'is very city of Coventry,
Which is damp with exultant bareness, and haziness,
In many ways exalted, but indeed too proud;
And its tongue which is blurred with sin and poison-
Its all-too-loud excitement makes everything but faint,
And at times sends my heart to exile, sends my heart to pain,
In every possible way too unlike thee,
With an imagery, and coaxing voices so sweet
Thou shall leave all my poems bright and freshly lit,
Even though I am still here, even though we are still yet-to meet.

Coventry is too proud and vibrant-yes, too vibrant,
Amidst its own foolishness, which sadly made itself formerly too elegant.
Too elegant to me-in various shapes, and keenly cloaked in unseen deceit,
But only by some beings, whom I was to meet, and my breath to greet.
And as I wake up to an early morning hour,
the plain summer strangely makes me thirst for honest water.
And should I love still-one intelligence t'at is so bitterly repugnant?
I shall certainly not; I shall turn to thee, Yorkshire, who is truer ye' far above, tolerant.
Ah, Yorkshire, but honesty is something Coventry promises not;
for its soul has been maliciously beheaded, and twitched,
It has been paled, corrupted, and despaired-
by its own claws, derived from the jaws of those evil souls
Veiled by their even still inhuman, disguises,
And shall still be wicked, otherwise.
In t'is sea of hate, and these waves of despondency,
I shall think of thee with tantalising depth and scrutiny,
Though thou art still imprisoned in my soul,
Thou who hath flattered and accepted me as a whole.
But Coventry is-still, accidental with some of its bindings,
For mortal as thou art, itself, and is unable to escape its fate,
Still I canst think only of the beauty of thy linings,
And upon thy lands shall I venture to fill my plate.
Ah, Yorkshire, remember that virtue is in thy hand,
but neither is vice-thy dormant enemy, is in its therein,
Virtue who is vile to all of t'is world's inconsolable men,
like in Coventry, as deemed it is, unreasonable and ungenerous, within.
Virtue which is tragically abandoned, in its pursuit of honour;
virtue which was rich, but flattened, and dismayed and disfigured
within the course of one unsupervised hour.
Ah, York, Yorkshire, when shall I ever taste the grandeur
And the very superiority of thy dignity?
For in yon picture, thou art still but a comely neighbour,
Which endorses and attests to my mute, yet unaffected-virginity.

Ah, but Coventry shall despise thee, and with its stubbornness
and overwhelming pride, shall jostle and taunt thee;
Shall defect and isolate thee-when I am but by thy side,
But God be with me still, and blind shall not, my virtuous sight.
Detesting and confronting thee for the remainders of years-as 'tis to be,
Which for thee lie ahead; as how hath it deluded me-just now!
I, who, disconcertingly, placed my heart within its sacred vow,
hath been robbed of my satisfactions, and utmost fortune,
All were perused in centuries and gone in one moon.
Ah, Yorkshire, shall I continue my poetry here-but call out endlessly to thee?
And shall I abandon this tiny caprice of mine-which is a fine, tiny desire of glory
And let myself on the loose, and for evermore be in search
of thee, whom I shall've lost-under the very indulgence of their mirth?
O, I think not!
For I shall mount my poetry-and achieve my silent dreams,
I shall take him with me, if allowed am I-to conquer him,
And make him and thee mine, just like I hath made my poetry,
And be thy light; and thy spiritual and endless reciprocal adoration
All day and night, at the end of our quest for destiny
Wherein I shall dwell, and thrive as my intellect be granted-its long-lost coronation.
O, Yorkshire, for within thy hands now I shall lie my faith-
and trudge along thy forking paths, unto the light of my fate.

Ah, Yorkshire, I am infatuated with these paintings-
these very paintings of thy lush green lands,
And of myself wandering and skulking idly about thy moors;
With my best frock, and his fingers, the one I love, entwined in my hand
As lights procured and on our storming out of yonder wooden doors.
I am shining like a bee is-upon the sweet finding of its honey;
but in whose tale 'tis like thee-to sweet and unpardonable to me.
Be with me, Yorkshire, and be with me forever, only,
As I leave behind this faint malice and commence my journey;
I shall be with thee, and my poems shall be free,
And t'is bitterness of winds shall be no more tormenting me,
Furthermore-be them what they desire to be;
But let me write; and play my song as beautifully as yon naive bee.

Ah, Yorkshire, and wait, wait again for me;
But before let me sink again into a deep sleep,
and tease thee again in my dreams;
Read me once more-the very passages of thy indolent poetry,
Take me out of my stiffness; swing me out of abhorrent Coventry.
Coventry shall be envious, and waiting forever for thy demise;
but honesty is honesty-and one that has no lies,
for thy virtue is clear as thy Western gem,
which is to God, shall always be virtue, all the same.

Mirror! Mirror!  On the wall
Though art the cause of many a fall
What with them endless hours adjusting and re-adjusting
Visages to desired perfection mindless of the misgiving.
Wearing masks in a variety of color
In a bid to entice a bachelor
With whose heart she’ll most disconcertingly hold ransom
Anticipating a blossom
Of a methodically engineered relationship
Minding her speech lest a Freudian slip
Nips at the bud
Her good “fortune” exposing her as a fraud.
Perfect imperfections, perfectly mirrored
By an imperfect mirror…**absurd.

As the lights went up,
And consciousness creeped its way back in.
He found himself in a puddle of filth,
Mud, blood and other unspeakable things.
Trying to move brought a searing lance of agony,
Yet quite disconcertingly only through half his body.
Looking down he saw the shaft of an arrow,
Protruding from just below his navel.
Thats when he realized why he couldn't feel his legs.
Yet the more pressing matter was what seemed to be
A gaping hole in his chest, that slowly but steadily was leaking his life's blood into the earth. A bitter jolt of fear and panic gripped him, so tightly he could scant breathe. he couldn't remember where he was or what he may have done to come to this. He was young and had so much he would have liked to do with his life. A hitching gasp that turned to a sob escaped his chest as he remembered anne, he would never see her again. Yet as the cold of death crept into his body, he remembered.
Sunny days where he spent time on looking at clouds hand in hand with anne. the warm summer nights made all the warmer be their fire, and when the fires ebbed they lay intwined and would watch the stars as they made their slow steady way across the sky.these are the things that he clutched desperately to himself as he stepped into the darkness that comes to all living things. As the sun broke the horizon and sent its gentle rays floating across the meadow. the warm light found cooling skin, and on his face a small smile remained.

they are infinite in number

from our most frightening childhood dreams
to terrible nightmares in our later years
born from guilt, disillusionment, trauma, shame

they glare at us all of a sudden

apropos nothing they flash into our minds
disrupt what little peace we may have found
in our busy lives

when they arise from their sealed chambers
undo the locks we put on them
    to keep them quiet and remote

we have to face them
    eye to dreadful eye
    face to frightening face

then   gradually

    surprise

the closer our  stare
the more we are aware
that all these faces share
what we find hard to recognize

they look
    quite disconcertingly
like us

maybe we should
    rather than banish them away
acknowledge them  as what they are

the different facets of our selves
that we present to our world
from day to day

The only natural poem I have consciously been involved in-
The site, not just the reporting-
was when I happened upon a sheep gazing at me
in a field immediately off a motorway in Norwich.

This was not planned, yet it was
disconcertingly poetic.

Life whispers it's potentialities, it's immovable eros
the way billboards make us aware of our melancholia.

"Your hair is flaxen"
No, your hair is just damp. "Flaxen" reminds
us of a language that according our reading of poetry
existed long before our ancestors could read.
It does, however, sound more complimentary,
therefore more sincere,
therefore more comforting
than "damp."

I wear all my pretentious vocabulary and sentimental heart-stirrings
like a cross dangling from my neck
pretty as the plastic emotions I express
Because of my dearth of enthusiasm as opposed to experience
Because of the transparency of my speaking without first attuning
to the spectre of blood which no longer clots my lungs Dominika
but now sullies my hands.

But I wash and wash, and am clean, cleaner than most.
And my cleanliness infuriates you Dominika,
it breaks your back to see me so elevated among the wrecks.
When you speak there is no air that leaves your lungs to pollute the air
there are all only words whose sounds make the other sounds commonplace.
Whereas I am all white, brilliant, brutal air.

I've calculated the effect this has on your sense of self
Dominika, of your progress, of your place in the narrative
and though you hate me for implying so if I explained
You wouldn't understand
Dominika
I made it that way.

I’d love you violently if I had you
I’d watch your violets turn to dust and seem like new
(Until I had you)
The ones you left behind with your ever-seizing dialogue
This is a mere apocalyptic log in which
I tear apart those moments before turning crazy
I went crazy for
you,
your dead violets
and like petals—strewn, your
disconcertingly
violent mind.

by: William A. Marshall

I disrobe and survey
noiseless instruments so
austere rather dreary
colored walls that reflect
unemotional elements I
ask for another blanket
so sterile a fragrance
like nothingness fill my
nose eyes float disregarding
back to the strangeness of
time moving as sounds of
feet flap in the corridor
I wait then as a subdued
knock at the door my
immortal sketch filters this
time but I broaden with
unpredicted comfort receptions
you can only receive when people
are not well an agreeable scene
professional mollycoddling
no fussy clinging of inseams
that ruin atmospheres
I go head on into obscurity
as a nurse asked in a puzzled
way about my faith she
was confused by my notes
about Dostoyevsky
I provided in that portion
of the form she wanted
to know irrespective of what
the other staff told her
I shook my head with
acceptance responding with a
vague originality the back of my
mind thinking what if I don’t
return - a way that is disconcertingly
adequate and peaceful and quiet
I notice my garments stuffed
into a clear plastic bag
to be received by somebody
upon my possible reemergence
locating a theme in time
and a lack of difficulty with everything
not interfered with but
unexpectedness actually the minutes
move away knowing that I will
not remember spike introduced
to vein as they examine the
drips of dose inhalations mounted
in my face muffled voices
fade the syringe is plunged
I know the train is now
approaching down the
track but I am not uneasy for
some reason talking more
about nothing while people move
the morning flows mechanically
without me like water
in a brook never to be
seen again chatting melodically
then calmness where I had
gone that wintertime morning
I can’t remember all I was
content though on that cradle
I know it was suitable late the process
had taken and imagined into an abode
that I no longer recall smiling
knowing it was a delightful place
where people take you into
their care peeking slowly then
through the fog when I glanced at
my wife assured by the cup of coffee
that she offered
and recovery rinsed over me
a return to my existence like returning
from death

the strangeness of seventeen sets in as the seasons start to shift
i am stuck in the surreal stage of dwindling childhood and attempted adulthood
contradicting feelings being meshed into one disconcertingly dysfunctional body
i feel i am incapable of fully indulging in either my youth or my approaching adulthood
i feel i am incapable of being anything at all

the naïveté of nine has faded with the wood of my windowsill and i am no longer so sure of myself
pressures of eighteen loom in my future along with deafening doubts of
both my emotional and literal abilities to provide for myself
every morning i wake up in twisted bedsheets and wonder
whether teenage me is who i always hoped she’d be, or if something went wrong along
the winding road of change and growth and weak attempts to be better

so much i wish to do, so many ghosts of the past i wish to crush
haunted by the gloom i let in at such a young age, it never truly leaves me
i wish i could stop the clock from it’s monotonous tick-tick-ticking
and i wish i could stop the sun from disappearing beyond the foggy horizon
(i have so much to learn before night falls)

Words plummet from my mouth disconcertingly.

Does water think about what it's doing
Before it goes over the falls?

Chapter III
The Roosters crow in Persepolis

His disloyal mortals came from 70 km from the Iranian city of Shiraz, Fars province, near the place where the Pulwar river flows into the Kur (Kyrus). Its construction and destruction would be provinces that will be submitted until the conquest of the Persian Empire submitted in October by Alexander the Great. Persepolis was converted into harem rooms and bizarre magnet *** between slaughtered Gods. The transitions from the porticos to the sides are joined by angular towers in the Apadana of profane knots. The two great doors remained open for eternity, moaning salts of endless assets of predefinition and recharge in their ill-fated destiny.

Here were Vernarth's comrades groggy with preparations and attire from the slabs of Mars upon their shoulders, after tempests of oracles from the scorching sun on their heads. Anahita; goddess of nature, pouring out the blessed waters of nature that washed with morbid rains the bodies of those who died in the cheating battles with the roosters of Zoroaster, slicing the palanquin where he sat enraptured in polytheism Ahura Mazda almost like a cloister and hat, ad portas to wear the monarchical robes of Macedonia, before his kingdom defeated by the subjugated constitution of golden blood of Alexander and Vernarth linked to his Macedon or Zeus, fully Hellenic that ran the vast paths strolled by its reefs of muted streets, of basaltic cobbled stones and obsidians between vintage havens and fans. Accurately to reside later in the house of Hera and its windmills, of the fertile blood of the Aegean and death, or a narcotic poppy capsule, for matchmakers in the mills of the south pole of Tel Gomel, as a new foundation of their new lands for Hellenic Macedonia and the matriarchy of Hera.

In Tel Gómel vertical hope, fraternal Alikanto in addition to Beelzebub, were encouraged to leave towards a rough road of the encounter in the stormy and cloudy morning, even of discouragement and morality were alone in the footsteps. From Persepolis, once sacred, in great splendid rows, the calm of the Cosmos could be seen disturbing, of how the earth sowed the rigor of reign to delimit the overwhelming Fold of the Macedonian.
She stood ***** over the fire warming her mitts and shields, she thinks of her beloved wife Valkerina, and sets out to ride her steed that shook her head disconcertingly from so much cross rein on her long way to Gaugamela. After mowing down so much grass and chewing dream poetry, he thought about his beloved Valkerina, how he would wait one day to be together with the windows open, and then to be with the doors closed. From upstairs to the mandrake at night after drinking Convital wine, setting fire and cooking, talking until the greeting is mistaken for a sunrise with deep feng shui disorder. And from the magenta drunk night the constellation of Orion with the image of the candlestick that rests in its angular and calloused hands. Valkerina did not demarcate to stop incense spaces for her Hellenic warrior, go to her offensive in a fair fight.

As Persepolis comprises an enormous palatial complex on a monumental terrace that supports multiple buildings that had precise protocol, ritual, emblematic or administrative functions: audiences, royal apartments, treasure administration or reception, Valkerina always assisted the wounded of great confrontations. Near the terrace were other elements: royal tombs, altars, and gardens where she lay in the afternoons near the base of the graves of her cremated ancestors at the expense of the vultures' claws gargling acid. There were also the houses of the lower city, of which almost nothing visible to any visiting eye left today. Many bas-reliefs carved on the steps and doors of the palace represent the diversity of the peoples that made up the empire. Others consecrate the image of a real protective power, sovereign, legitimate and absolute, where Xerxes is designated as the legitimate successor of Darius the Great. The multiple royal inscriptions in cuneiform script of Persepolis are drawn in Old Persian, Babylonian, or Elamite. They are recorded in various places on the site, intended for the same purposes and specify which kings ordered the removal of the buildings. Especially in the arms of the ****** of Alikanto that run almost inciting to leave from where they should be, as an anti tatoo, enemies of their own being of the true protective gods.

Only 52 kilometers away, in the surroundings of Nurruguma that could be identified as Gaugamela, from the Neolithic to the present Ottoman period to the present day. Since then, so many lines of numbers of attendees could not be seen with their legitimate blessings and indulgences for this great event of warlike promise. Vernath on Alikanto,  as a single rider facing the horizon. He rode awake when his horse galloped; he rode asleep when his horse walked slowly. With only one eye open when the sand wind hit his face and his great War Animal presence until this great feat that is his regression session of man in several lives incarnated from the current periods until 352 years B.C.

Before reaching the neighborhood of Alejandro Magnus, you have to go through 36 oases where you will be attended by odalisque angels. They will place the energy probes of Macedonia of the immortal lineage of Macedonia, with extensive alchemical probes of the Bumodos River, on the front of his breastplate, to assist him in the conflagration of his existence placed at the great risk of being degraded by some arrow with poisonous of sudden physical death.
The great celestial umbrellas were opened with their straps on their backs, their arch stretched by Hera when I consecrated his espousal to Valekiria in the pilgrimages of Saint Corinth with its substantiated liturgical Doric columns, of which cycles, characters and before the recipe of poets are mentioned tragic, alluding to Theban cycles in the presence of Oedipus to Corinth son of Zeus.
Alikanto comes from the Blood of Horses of the Cordillera of harsh winters in the transverse valleys where the Amazon Luccica; her mother fed the herds of hazelnut and oatmeal lace to the herds of Chilean Thoroughbred Horses. Alikanto means "Fire Hoof". Its ceremonial premise is the back room, before leaving the ritual of insulting Judas in Lenten periods and preparing trips with resinous black flour, Patagua tea, bacon and two sentries with winchester on the massive cord to the adventure sands in Horcondising. He had wide legs with fever and his elbows were like ratchets to cut through the masked enemy grievances. On his forehead is the sphinx of the Mandragora; species of florae anthropomorphic irregular pom-pom, which every year took him from his head and took him through the black forests to shout howls of new lives to save eternal glories of endless agonies by the nine moons of Sudpichi, raining lagoons on the back of their embraced ancestors.
His namesake Beelzebub means "The Lord of the Flies because in the sacrifices the meat was left to rot until it covered itself." He is, among other things, the lord of darkness, the unmentionable, the very demon of the Philistines Beelzebub!! ... Its name means in Greek Ox head, nickname that the animal apparently received for the rounded appearance of its dolichocephalism face and the considerable width of its forehead, where a white spot in the shape of a pineal star also shone.

To be continued… / under edition