"ecce" poems
so, with israel being re-established...
why do we, us,hit
europeans... even need to bother
establishing authority,
utilißing the new testament?
i quiete like the old testament
logic of:
oculus per oculus
(eye for an eye)...
because the saxon concept of
justice: i rather see...
the implosion of
blackstone's formulation...
the 10:1 imploding to the 1:10
ratio of...
a shawshank redemption...
there is... redemption...
since! there's no justice within
the post scriptum of
the hillsborough disaster...
watching people walk, the lunatic walk,
20 years later?
disorientated by the court
of justice?
re-dem-ption...
the whole aspect of: innocent until proven
guilty is horrid!
this... saxon vernacular of
that branch of philosophy that's
bogus...
namely... within origins
of the forbidden fruit...
i.e. and you know?!
really?!
no... but i'll **** to make
a standing pivot of a pawn
on a chess-board.
savvy?
who, among the europeans...
actually needs such artifacts
as new testament texts, credo,
orthodoxy, sign of the cross
greek exports?
the state of israel has
been re-established...
i don't want anything to do
with this judeo-grecian banality...
you can have you little affair over
n
e w
s...
don't worry... i'll make sure that i'm
watching... people tell a lie...
yeah: hum hum bubbly hum-hum...
am i, or are there any arizona
inbreds?
who, the hell, needs, the news testament,
within the confines of history,
dispossessing europe of it,
of an established jewish state?
one book among many...
hence the scent of a yawn...
when entering a library...
i'll do one gesture, and one gesture
alone... inclined to a replica...
ecce libra!
i wash my hands from
having any investment in it.
**** the greeks can have it...
they can keep it, cherish it,
but they better not spaghetti the old testament
with their... "ingenious" plot...
not when the nag hammadi library
emerged...
no... not now... not ever...
i detest this greek book of overt
symbolism...
their pristine alphabet,
their diacritical application,
with the pseudo-romans toying with: deaf...
or blind... whichever it is...
sandpaper... instead of a kangaroo pouch...
of inflated... soft... flesh?
i'll rip your heart out
and feed it to my neighbour's dog,
beside a bowl of water.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
Of the dark past
A child is born;
With joy and grief
My heart is torn.
Calm in his cradle
The living lies.
May love and mercy
Unclose his eyes!
Young life is breathed
On the glass;
The world that was not
Comes to pass.
A child is sleeping:
An old man gone.
O, father forsaken,
Forgive your son!
3.3k
Captive of the city.
A walk between the drawing and the camera, a drawing and a camera.
Blindness is about understanding gesture.
Stereoscope Sound Scenes Systems
Blue lines form the links between
the black cats suggesting, what we know is that we do not.
Forget me the sweet song
rising from her ashtray
be gone hearts frayed afraid.
Coma Cluster
Coma Cluster
Coma CLUSTER
COMO cluster
CLuster cOma ClUsTeR CoMa
Soma simply trying to muster
Domino Christos no longer allow my suffer
ECCE ****
IN The GARDEN of ever EARTHLY delights
Strings
Filaments
Voids
Soap
bubbles filling a sink
slide through
Pop. Pop.
I float above stronger than a rock
my blue black burning body
love
emirates
emanating
Red-Shifted
For You
though dust clouds interfere
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
The Knitting Needles Museum
has a prudish name
that frightens the schoolchildren
and obscures the oppression
of desperate and ***** women
The torture museum
and the war museum also
lack the inspiration
from a muse
They are monuments
and should be called that
With the unbuilt museums
of destroyed art and
ancient cultures, they can
fill a street in any city
'Ecce homo', behold man
the noble beast, the master
of things and nothings -
virtual and vanished
worlds that are unlivable
Jan 4, 2023
Jan 4, 2023 at 4:04 AM UTC
it is mid summer I stumble like a woman
in which people have never seen the woman
ecce mulier
the summer sky opened up
there will be no more earthquakes or wars
it is nice lukewarm and easy going
things don’t tumble altogether towards the center of the earth
neither the lovers’ eyes nor the jealousy that haunts them
because they are happy
nor the love for your neighbor because it is envied
*
sing a song you fiddler man
for the girl from the white little house
here where I am allowed to be myself
the others are not sincere when a lonely woman
lives as if in a train compartment
rises and falls together with the moon
(I could have caught it in my bread basket
to cut a slice of it but I am not craving)
I am too simple without secrets
my whole life I got older in a stays ball dress
singing to myself from the window
praying to my angel to make me stronger
*
how many wishes can I pretend to possess
when I have never wished something for real
it was always something more important more painful
closer to me the one without beginning or end
something that could have been
you are my brother you are my sister
I am the one who draws the gate’s bolt
even if the garden is deserted
things must stay in their place laws must be respected
fences have to stand up
*
I shall buy lottery tickets to win at least a hope
if my astrological sign is lucky
if there were enough comets going around
trying not to die like a soldier
I am neither man nor gardener to plough for the seed of my dreams
nor monk to sing halleluiah
ecce mulier my lord
the pain is stronger on my waist
on the upper and lower halves I already froze
enough for you to pass over on foot without breaking me
*
I went astray in another world
I will never be at home I will never part completely
I’m a shadow’s bride but whose I don’t know
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
Here as I sit
At this empty café
Thinking of you
I remember
All those moments
Lost in wonder
That we'll never
Find again
Though the world
Is my oyster
It's only a shell
Full of memories
And here by the Seine
Notre-Dame casts
A long lonely shadow
Now, only sorrow
No tomorrow
There's no today for us
Nothing is there
For us to share
But yesterday
These cities may change
But there always remains
My obsession
Through silken waters
My gondola glides
And the bridge, it sighs
I remember
All those moments
Lost in wonder
That we'll never
Find again
There's no more time for us
Nothing is there
For us to share
But yesterdays
*Ecce momenta
Illa mirabilia
Quae captabit
In aeternum
Memor
Modo dolores
Sunt in dies
Non est reliquum
Vero tantum
Comminicamus
Perdita*
*Tous ces moments
Perdus dans l'enchantement
Qui ne reviendront jamais
Pas d´aujourd´hui pour nous
Pour nous il n´y a rien
A partager
Sauf le passé
Tous ces moments
Perdus dans l'enchantement
Qui ne reviendront
Jamais
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 6:02 AM UTC
Y, desgraciadamente,
el dolor crece en el mundo a cada rato,
crece a treinta minutos por segundo, paso a paso,
y la naturaleza del dolor, es el dolor dos veces
y la condición del martirio, carnívora, voraz,
es el dolor dos veces
y la función de la yerba purísima, el dolor
dos veces
y el bien de ser, dolernos doblemente.
Jamás, hombres humanos,
hubo tanto dolor en el pecho, en la solapa, en la cartera,
en el vaso, en la carnicería, en la aritmética!
Jamás tanto cariño doloroso,
jamás tanta cerca arremetió lo lejos,
jamás el fuego nunca
jugó mejor su rol de frío muerto!
Jamás, señor ministro de salud, fue la salud
más mortal
y la migraña extrajo tanta frente de la frente!
Y el mueble tuvo en su cajón, dolor,
el corazón, en su cajón, dolor,
la lagartija, en su cajón, dolor.
Crece la desdicha, hermanos hombres,
más pronto que la máquina, a diez máquinas, y crece
con la res de Rosseau, con nuestras barbas;
crece el mal por razones que ignoramos
y es una inundación con propios líquidos,
con propio barro y propia nube sólida!
Invierte el sufrimiento posiciones, da función
en que el humor acuoso es vertical
al pavimento,
el ojo es visto y esta oreja oída,
y esta oreja da nueve campanadas a la hora
del rayo, y nueve carcajadas
a la hora del trigo, y nueve sones hembras
a la hora del llanto, y nueve cánticos
a la hora del hambre y nueve truenos
y nueve látigos, menos un grito.
El dolor nos agarra, hermanos hombres,
por detrás, de perfil,
y nos aloca en los cinemas,
nos clava en los gramófonos,
nos desclava en los lechos, cae perpendicularmente
a nuestros boletos, a nuestras cartas;
y es muy grave sufrir, puede uno orar...
Pues de resultas
del dolor, hay algunos
que nacen, otros crecen, otros mueren,
y otros que nacen y no mueren, otros
que sin haber nacido, mueren, y otros
que no nacen ni mueren (son los más).
Y también de resultas
del sufrimiento, estoy triste
hasta la cabeza, y más triste hasta el tobillo,
de ver al pan, crucificado, al nabo,
ensangrentado,
llorando, a la cebolla,
al cereal, en general, harina,
a la sal, hecha polvo, al agua, huyendo,
al vino, un ecce-homo,
tan pálida a la nieve, al sol tan ardido¹!
¡Cómo, hermanos humanos,
no deciros que ya no puedo y
ya no puedo con tanto cajón,
tanto minuto, tanta
lagartija y tanta
inversión, tanto lejos y tanta sed de sed!
Señor Ministro de Salud: ¿qué hacer?
¡Ah! desgraciadamente, hombre humanos,
hay, hermanos, muchísimo que hacer.
1.6k
It’s night. Deepest darkest blackest night.
I feel the pinch and fear of one hunted,
the prey run out of options.
No help is given, though plainly demanded.
The thin veneer of civilization threatens to give way.
There is no escape from the knot in my stomach
because we’re hemmed in at all sides
and I’m panicking at the facelessness of my enemy,
as I evolve from woman to female.
What is the world where we aren’t what we thought we were?
From adults to children. From children to animals.
Stepping backwards. A warped progression.
Sterilize. Maintain. Control. Clean. Safe.
The world seems to whisper as if someone(thing?) is listening…
Big Brother(Sister?) the walls have ears(eyes?)…
KingdomPhylumClassOrderFamilyGenusSpecies.
AnamaliaChordataMammaliaPrimatesHominidaeHomoSapiens.
Two legs doesn’t mean you’re safe from
acting like you have four.
****
sapiens
Ecce, **** Fiat lux.
or else we’re doomed.
Intellect to instinct.
Man to mammal.
Walk on two legs now, can you afford to lose them?
Ad insaniam, ut illuminabit…
Vel in flammis tandem finis.
SUM EST.
Chaos is closing in. Can you cope?
Mar 6, 2012
Mar 6, 2012 at 12:53 AM UTC
I won the race,
tail me.
I lost my balance,
Don't right me.
I won second place,
bewail me.
I lost the toss,
Don't kite me.
I won the ribbon,
impale me.
I lost my cool,
Don't ice me.
I won the job,
avail me.
I lost the argument,
Don't cite me.
I won the bid,
assail me.
I lost the battle,
Don't fight me.
I won the vote,
hail me.
I lost the my way,
Don't slight me.
I won the lottery,
blackmail me.
I lost some will,
Tread lightly.
I won the case,
bail me.
I lost the cross,
Don't indict me.
I won the girl,
unvail me.
I lost some teeth,
"So bite me!"
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
The way to bliss is a line
chiseled through the abyss
of time leaving sublime
characters to stumble
through the twilight of
autumn’s unadorned
years.
Fear and apprehension
wreak havoc on time’s
sublime reclamations
Geseme‘s tranquil breeze
failed to ease the suffering
of the Christ while his
cross is behind the loss
of humanities ability to
coexist.
Perhaps atonement will
come with the sunrise.
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 1:08 AM UTC
the only book you can plagiarise from is the dictionary; enter plagiarism: platonic definitions of a single sound.
spa spa spawn a spandex bubble on the rims for elongating width
in french inches of the waist.
but i liked my walk, took the scenic: empty street, night, solo,
solo, night, empty street -
not many donkeys sweating tears -
not many relations to see: i understand money in
the manual labour professions, but outside
of manual professions? don't have a clue... have a poker though
for a ***** you randomise whatever you want in that:
never read a philosophy book that utilised grammatical categorisation
efficiently: aristotle started it all off with nouns (proper names),
naming and layering as i might call it:
but who the hell needs plato these days given television:
oh right, that's why: shout into a cave the worded nuance...
what do you get? ecce echo.
i appreciate god as an omni-relevant vocabulary / shouting into plato's cave
provided me with thus:
noun, plural i's or is, i's or is.
1. the ninth letter of the english alphabet, a vowel.
2. any spoken sound represented by the letter i or i, as in big, nice, orski.
3. something having the shape of an i (floating head on a total amputee).
4. a written or printed representation of the letter (sound) i or i.
5. a device, as a printer's type, for reproducing the letter i or i.
well so much for those paper folding idiots of shadow:
i shout i into plato's cave the idiots are still talking in sign language
having been fed images throughout and no phonetic symbols
of breaking knuckles.
pronoun, nominative i, possessive my or mine, objective me;
plural nominative we, possessive our or ours, objective us.
1. the nominative singular pronoun, used by a speaker in referring to himself or herself.
noun, plural i's.
2. (used to denote the narrator of a literary work written in the first person singular).
3. metaphysics. the ego.
that's many more echoes to come - plato was ridiculous counting
six fingers on the shadow hand doing all the masturbatory
talking into rabbit population truths in australia.
oh **** i just shouted red into plato's cave and i heard synonymity come out!
what's crimson? words with many meanings have rats in the armpits of armchairs,
those eager dental riggers of bucktooth chew
made fudge into glue within dental analysis conclusive in lance stance
of a knight in rusty armour wishing it was oiled up copper.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
http://tinyurl.com/ja52pq4
or some said: Lawrence of Arabia?
yeah, sure,
as long as Egypt remains Egyptology:
and the Balkans or quasi-Slavs known as
Serbs and pardoning Ottomans
do one in on the Kosovo tribalism
akin to: Albania here -
yeah, i too was going to buy
Allah-Las's third album,
but then i thought about the Napster
generation, then thought about Judas
and then thought: well...
you turn.
*when Ramses destroyed Syria...
you're?! you're a catastrophe!*
second that.. never mind the ****
or the caring ***** in uncle,
great-grandchildren.... and that surrogate auntie
named Alice.
i gave my enemy a copy of *ecce **** -
missing luck in terms of all those yesterdays -
i never had the Golgotha crowd
to create Evangelism or Islam
which i count akin to Ma Ma Malachi's
trip to Delhi he never had: stinking Calcutta:
oh i don't mean the food, i mean the Swedes:
who the **** puts iron into their curry?
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 12:24 AM UTC
/ nietzsche wrote
his *ecce ****
book...
now?!
apparently we're all supposed
to write a book, entitled
mea culpa... (?)
i just want an authenticity
of using the index,
index finger,
and being able
to point...
without sacrificing
the ownership
of a shadow attachment...
and how
does the víšégrād group
(oh i'm into linguistic
sabotage,
writing such a word,
treating it as a bomb,
and knowing the "nuance"?
well...
the manchester mob,
the panic,
and what is the concept
of islam if not advocacy
for literacy? no? really?!)
invite the bulgars... (?)
like a birth of a 2nd. yugoslavia...
or the shift of
the 2nd holy empire
to the, "left" in copernican
"terms"...
there are the narrators,
the observers,
the critics,
and the: chanced eyes on the mess...
no... in the collectivist / corporate
mind-sent?
mea culpa is not on
the agenda...
"we" have already
stressed the situation past
the mea culpa:
come: ecce ****
and the crucifixion /
guillotine.
come the bulgars...
and why am i not expressing
an intellectual ben hur
of an index finger?
managed to punch myself
20 times in the face
and give myself a plum beneath
the eye?
so what's wrong with
"flexing" attributing
the tongue to an index finger
"exasperation"?
so few books are actually
ecce **** orientated...
always the mea culpa,
never, never, ever,
tua culpa:
ergo?
ecce ****
shh...
quiet...
just mention the concept
of mea culpa
to elißabeth fritzl
how much of masochistic
"moralißing" does it have
to take place, trans-temporal
and justifying
the mono-spatial realm
of a "past", and, "now"
before being crucified
is no longer deemed
the same as labouring with
a hammer, or a chisel?!
i say that: metaphorically
frothing at the mouth.
firt i learned to throw a punch
onto my face...
give myself a plum just beneath
the eye socket:
now i know the mea culpa mantra,
as i know the existence
of the index finger, being
differentiated from the fist...
and?
the tua culpa mantra.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 10:13 PM UTC
you would never say about a Kandinsky: where's
the Mondrian?
luckily we have enough information
about Goldberg's sardines,
without asking another poet (other than O'Hara)
to sniff out Billingsgate - and so too:
if Burroughs said: all writing limps behind painting
by 50 years - enough said,
hence came speedy Gonzales
with his shotgun and his canned paint...
and i know just as much as sardines in
see-through tins -
well: it was worth a joke,
someone was bound to **** into a champagne
bottle at some point, and celebrate:
in abstract - or to the point:
in concreto - ecce artifex!
at least enough
humility would be worth the same dosage -
specialisations are such:
demanding concepts as aboriginal
in anthropology -
likewise anthropological:
schizophrenics in urbanity - after all...
a concrete jungle - like any half-wit
and butt-naked in the Amazon...
applause for
comrade Gagarin and Laika -
and if Darwin wrote in
cyrilica - then it too would have been
Mohawk and Brain - salutations and applause -
and if ever in doubt:
call it versailles - to denote all forms of
luxury -
i know: versailles better hides luxury
than the hermitage -
or as King Duck could say
being a burden on the Vavel Mount -
even the Vavellian
dragon died from laughter, even though
he was given a sheep stuffed with sulphur -
and drank the Vistulla dry...
but only when King Quack was laid to rest:
and the volk - the naród said:
Katyń 1 - Smoleńsk 3...
and there was even
a composition by wojciech kilar.
so then... 50 years lagging?
disorientating? muddled, spaghetti loops?
well, as the introduction already mentions,
painters can't write - suddenly everything
has to have geometry!
any geometrical instrument
in an art's class is seen like a Sunni in Iran -
or a Buddhist, at a Bar Mitzvah:
boom-town slap-head -
choppy waters, brightly illuminated
by the polished
cranium sheen.
so why except a Mondrain from a Kandinsky
?!
what a brain-drain!
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 3:18 PM UTC
Written in respose to 'The Garden' by John W. **** on hellopoetry.
Paradise is lost
Who can restore it's splendour?
Who is worthy?
In frantic despair he stared
A myriad faces stared back
No muscle flinched
No eyelid flickered
Like the silence before the scream
Eyes fought to make out
Even the tiniest of movements
Despite the massed numbers
Above, below and all around
The stillness was gigantic
And he knew then, the end of hope
The final appeal had been dismissed
And cold horror wrung out the air
Until the grainy finger of an old man
Pointed, resolutely to the right.
To a lion whose muscular frame
bore a victor's wreath of torn briars;
whose eyes spoke judgement and mercy.
'Ecce homo' declared the old man.
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 2:44 PM UTC
We all were bums and walkers through hell or we are children yet to recall
these tales, trails better marked than Hansel could imagine marking on his own.
We agree, words are well spent:
to buy tears to place the final bit of salt into the sea, in remembrance of passing over and passing through on hands and knees and standing, comforted,
beyond the door.
woe, woman, concha weep for me…
doncha
weep for me
I been beyond the door before I knew there's no knocker on this side
Mus'be more'n one door, one to knock and one to open,
beyond which are you?
Beyond the knocked on one am I.
I carry my own value as gravity determines things,
weigh that for what it's worth. Worthy, eh, what it's worth as a skill,
worthship, citizenship, partnership.
Jan 24, 2021
Jan 24, 2021 at 5:45 PM UTC
Tantum tempus temporis
quoniam aliena femina in meo cubiculo dormivit;
ecce illi quantum dulce somnus est.
Quanta etiam libera somnia sunt.
In alia aetate mundum certe rexit
vel optimo regi in matrimonio fideliter ducta est
qui iuxtus flumen psalmos luce lunae scripsit.
**** me iri foras egressum et spatiatum
Nihil occurit hic, nihil umquam fit.
Praeterea si incedat iam volat me narrare;
habeo nihil, praecipue erga quicquid erat.
Viam cepi aviam
qua celeres non superant;
dignis praemia sunt
qui verbum veritatis distinguere possunt.
Hospes solus me docere potuit
praeclaram orem iustitiae contemplari
et videre oculum pro oculo, et dentem pro dente.
Nisi duo homines in mansionem,
Est nullus in viso; verem exspectant,
proinde quasi ver plaustro accederet.
Mundus deleretur ea nocte
sed meae amicae aequum esset;
illa meo cubiculo dormiret *** revenirem.
Meridiano me promoveo
adhuc in obscura parte viae;
in angustos corruere
et constans manere non possum.
Alius mea ore dicit
sed solum meo animo audit,
calcas omnibus etiam tibi feci
quibus tamen careo.
Ego et ego
In creatione quo ingenium alicuius
nec alicui ignoscit nec excolit.
Ego et ego
unus alteri dicit nullus et videre
imaginem meum et vivere possit.
From "Bird's Nest In Your Hair" by Brian Jobe
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 10:03 PM UTC
Ecce enim in
iniquitáte generátus sum,
et in peccáto concépit
me mater mea,
and the cloister
smelt of incense,
the mulberry tree sheltered us
at teatime on the garth,
the theologian monk
slipped his tea as anyone else
speaking of Aquinas,
I sipped tea gazing
at the Hugh drawn-faced
mouthing his tea,
furrow browed,
Gerald spoke of Wittgenstein
over his cup of brew,
you can have me
she said any which way
you please,
rain in the distance,
dark clouds,
biscuits on plates
on the trolley,
the French monk took one
and ate it
with such delicacy,
I fingered the rosary
in my pocket,
the silver Christ
smooth on fingertips,
she flower like,
blossoming before me,
I was born in sin as all are,
the bell chimed a quarter
from the clock tower,
we sipped beneath
the mulberry tree,
ate biscuits,
sipped dark tea.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 4:14 AM UTC
Delivered to inviting hands
With one breath;
Then sculpted in a parent's arms
To feed on sweet caresses,
Inhaling life with one kiss,
As prologue to her song;
She'll carry on.
Mature. Secure.
Bound and forged
In infant iron.
She hears, listens, then deduces,
To apply their teachings
When cut loose;
Lessons she will reproduce
To set her free,
Unfettered by mediocrity.
Like the Sphinx,
She crawls,
Then stands to think.
At times, we know,
She'll forget
Steadier hands
Held her *****
She will fall again,
Then stand and walk,
Perhaps with Pride;
And should she fail,
She knows she tried.
First steps lead
To stage or field,
And honours
On her battlefields;
Protected by
Parental shields.
She'll receive
These life-long gifts,
Then start anew
At age six.
If she walks alone
She'll find,
Friends can make
The walk divine.
She'll filter them,
Some in, some out;
And trust a few
With her life;
Avoiding others
She's learned aren't right
By socializing,
Not over-protected
Or compromising.
Her early years
Sow the seeds
Of second breaths
And good deeds;
To balance friends
With second looks:
The cover can't
Disclose the book.
Most of all,
She'll understand
She grew and grows
With helping hands.
And when she stands
With womankind,
She'll extend
Her hands
To all mankind.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 2:55 PM UTC
Naked, he now stands before his maker
There’s no more pretence, no more lies
He carries no longer, his banal repartee
He waits, supplicant to hard probing eyes.
As a young man his heart had been so dark
He’d cursed and fought in the streets
And any young lady who’d caught his eye
He’d seduced her between the sheets.
Could he have lived a far better life
Surely, in decency everyone would
Now he never passed by on the other side
Doing the very best that he could.
And with age grew the man who now stands here
He hopes he’s made up for those days
A lifetime since then helping others
Might make up for his earlier ways.
Still the eyes probed him ever so deeply
Though the result we shall never know
Till the day that we have to stand there
When at last, it’s our time to go,
©Joe Wilson – ecce quomodo moritur justus…2015
‘Behold how the just man dies…’
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
When silence stays alone
in the hollow of the eyes,
would you come?
In the audacity of
beauty and pain, when
the moon does not rise.
Like beggars the clouds
roam, parting the
sky for a glimpse of a vision.
We will speak like
strangers not looking into the eyes.
Not quite sure―
you blinked. Time to return
back the gifts of ocean
profound and deep.
Pearls, tears and half-angel.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 1:28 AM UTC
Only when another’s death is imminent
does the human spirit fly into action
with the haste of common sense,
to provide aid to the afflicted.
All moments that preceded this single moment
were still governed by reason, rules,
and law and order.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
Am I winning?
Have I won?
Am I living?
Yes, I am.
Am I living?
Yes, I am
Have I lived?
Yes I have
Lo, and be hold
beholden’ on
this is the future, my future, your now,
you may change what comes next,
but my bit of this idea was thought
some time ago.
----
say stretch, tendere, eh, say stretch
yo’ sorry ol’ attent-attention
three sibling boys march past me
counting cadence, 30 per
hup two three
--- why is this so easy to see
as real in any
boy I ever knew, the boy who leads
is 12, the sarge is 8, pfc is 5,
War, The idea of war, itself, an imagined
anthropomorph
in many fantasy experiences, in tranced
story-wise, tuned to the game
as to life, these see war as game theory,
rage from another age
lurks among the liars, there flattened
on the inner edge of the wall they wished
to form from fear and hate idea viruses.
Yes, Seth’s original strain, pure conjectural
objects orienting precepticons…
Can you see me now?
Am I living?
Yes, I am.
Ecce **** Augmento.
Yah. You may say… whoso ever
or who so
ever or whosoever makes peace
appear
as here, at this point, in time
we think of as then and now, you know.
Wake up, take your watch.
Nov 24, 2021
Nov 24, 2021 at 7:40 PM UTC
Chabrier, nous faisions, un ami cher et moi,
Des paroles pour vous qui leur donniez des ailes,
Et tous trois frémissions quand, pour bénir nos zèles,
Passait l'Ecce deus et le Je ne sais quoi.
Chez ma mère charmante et divinement bonne,
Votre génie improvisait au piano,
Et c'était tout autour comme un brûlant anneau
De sympathie et d'aise aimable qui rayonne.
Hélas ! ma mère est morte et l'ami cher est mort.
Et me voici semblable au chrétien près du port,
Qui surveille les tout derniers écueils du monde,
Non toutefois sans saluer à l'horizon
Comme une voile sur le large au blanc frisson,
Le souvenir des frais instants de paix profonde.
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