It is December in Wicklow:
Alders dripping, birches
Inheriting the last light,
The ash tree cold to look at.

A comet that was lost
Should be visible at sunset,
Those million tons of light
Like a glimmer of haws and rose-hips,

And I sometimes see a falling star.
If I could come on meteorite!
Instead I walk through damp leaves,
Husks, the spent flukes of autumn,

Imagining a hero
On some muddy compound,
His gift like a slingstone
Whirled for the desperate.

How did I end up like this?
I often think of my friends'
Beautiful prismatic counselling
And the anvil brains of some who hate me

As I sit weighing and weighing
My responsible tristia.
For what? For the ear? For the people?
For what is said behind-backs?

Rain comes down through the alders,
Its low conductive voices
Mutter about let-downs and erosions
And yet each drop recalls

The diamond absolutes.
I am neither internee nor informer;
An inner émigré, grown long-haired
And thoughtful; a wood-kerne

Escaped from the massacre,
Taking protective colouring
From bole and bark, feeling
Every wind that blows;

Who, blowing up these sparks
For their meagre heat, have missed
The once-in-a-lifetime portent,
The comet's pulsing rose.

My head is filled with voices
Each have something to say
Telling me to make different choices
Each wants to get their way

I am trapped in a box of confusion
Inhaling water of a million oceans
My broken parts have suffered complete immersion
My heart has dealt with a thousand erosions

The voices chew through my nerves
Like acid
Their tone of voice swerves
Their faces placid

I have a gift for pretending
Keeping this smile on my face
As if my world was not ending
Even though that is the case

the creases worn upon my hands -
stretch back,
run the course of lifetime past,
others shaped as they shape me
and
contra to erosions role,
the lines, they deepen, expose the soul:
unlikeness built, carved egos sum,
a monument to blindness done.
but times advance, quells not critics eye,
erosions role resumes anigh.
and what i am, i have become
is carved away - rent to the dust

She kept staring at the full moon
Her friend, confidant, fixation
Regretfully, I learn later, her escape
I kept talking in eerie silence
And keeping company to no effect
She like a bird tethered in a cage
I remember that night
Solemn the scar
Fourteen years hence
We were parked along a beach in Hawaii
Paradise one would think
Man and wife
Gazing in the opposite direction
I learn later our lasting vacation
Somewhere in the distance
Happy palm trees dance to the music of the waves
Whitecaps accentuate the moonshine of the night sea
Statues of tall mountains stand sentry
Separated by a treeline
Rolling hills, bare picket fences
And a defining moment
In the darkness and contrast
In·con·gru·ous
I see a few horses approaching our view, us
No doubt curious
My wife jests, as her eyes, depart the moon
Her reverie, her prayer pause
As the inside of the car shrivels
My heart braces
Her words, one by one
Denouncement at its finest
As she looks back at the horses, then me
"Even the poppies are in love
They're so stable"
She says this over and over
For my effect
Her eyes glassy
Her voice but a whisper
Steel, still
Drawing the horses nearer
Where soon their eyes
And noses peek through the fences of gloom
Big and brown,
Neighing
She begins to tear
Again
Sad and red
Real childlike
Her past begins to flash
Where she says something to the effect
That she once worked the corner of 42nd steet
In San Francisco
A bombshell went off
The horses sank in their seats
Lava spewed from my head
Mount Robertson in ashes
No votive candles could save her
Or us
Her angels on her shoulder
Lost to her rescue
Only albatrosses
Sinking
Sinking, us
Again in reverie
"Even the poppies are in love
They're so stable"
On and on
"I once worked the corner of 42nd Street
In San Francisco"
Her words, again, like ice
Melting
Reverberating in my mind
Where did I go wrong, I thought
Melancholy on the rocks
That night a man
And a moon cried
The sublimity of her message
The pantomime
The mock of steel
The planted seeds
The turning point
I can only gaze at the rolling hills
Now with two horses hoofing it back to safety
The darkness
The lost rebuttal and love
Her full moon
So prophetic
My teary eyes and mind could only wander
Past the happy palm trees
To the pieces of the puzzle
"You don't love me any more"
Deeply, I dug, wanting to find the answers
As her eyes and fingers quickly curled my lips
My insides a mess
She blows out my candle
Takes away the shovel
I knew
She knew
No words needed to be expressed
Only these
"Even the poppies are in love
They're so stable"
Soon it seamed,
Seemed
Stitches of our love ripped apart
That car that was once parked along the beach
Paradise searching
Now more suited for a funeral procession
As we  bereave the aloha attire, hotel, vacation and then the airport
As two ships departed in bereavement
Rudderless, without sails
Our port becoming a pretense
The living room couch soon my refuge
Saturated with my tears
Faithfulness and honor
Her bi-polarity worsening
Sadly
Truly
I didn't know at the time
If only I had known
Had some understanding
The winds at war
Of what was in her harbor
More of the anchors of doom
Holding her down
The barnacles, erosions of her mind
I could have helped
I will always remember that night
Fourteen years hence
Two horses short of being stable
And the battles in my mind
The tears
The waning days and months
Where the seasons and time felt lost
A year later,
A morning dawn
Mourned
I looked into her vacant eyes
The stillness
She was finally at peace
No longer tethered or caged
There was a full moon the night before

Logan Robertson

3/04/2019

In my head
I am the Russian Roulatte
In a tee *** I beg for trust
When poured out
The foam becomes of your mouth
I do buisness in China
Shipped to Pueto Rico
Make tongues flip as sharp
as a Nurican Dominican
Jitter till hearts stop beating on top of Italian pool tables
I steal breathes from science who believe in what is not in the Bible
I am your Russian Roulette
Make a feline spray a *** spot in here ******
Make a King errect New Your late night star lights when they stu'n
Change the tune in your song
from spittin rap versus to singing to God that you was wrong
I beat the drugs
Put a end to your habbit
So when you feel you cant utter a verse I'll let you howl like a suffering rabbit
Because no one knows how to use me right
I am the only bullet tucked in to take away your life
As soon as I leap forward to your attention you will be adoment to a pension
Stire clear
I am here
No intentions but to terminate erosions
Respect what I may
Careful when you choose to play
You must reconsider the outcome
I am
The Russian Roulette.

© the Russian Roulette S.T. Rebel of Eden

Love will grow in me sideways, a supine pine
sapling, shoveling mountainous glaciers of stone

embedded into my boiling erosions, melting
the anaerobic hot mud into a calmer froth.

We may kiss at the precipice of the abyss
our love has inevitably chewed through itself.  

And I will likely palm our weathers
into a river-swallowing sea

and you will hate me; desert of a future
companion’s ship—can I

swallow my dominance; that devotion
could bloom from this love’s wilderness,

foresting in perennial fullness,
prospering in the shared bed
rock we have carved into orchids.  

At the place where I will bury my bones
in the murderous entrancement of another,

taiga could storm from the soft ring of fire
between twenty interlocked evergreen fingers.

I never had much of an ability to be anything except an emotional disaster. I didn’t spend a lot of time outside of my head, and when I did it was usually to dive headfirst into the head of someone else. I spent the vast majority of my daily life in a broken-down shell of myself masquerading as someone that had their **** together. For some reason, people accepted the facade. That’s what they usually ended up liking.
    I always regarded myself as a disease. I had an incubation period that was relative to how long it took someone to get me to trust them. After that, the cells of my disease would rapidly multiply and explode, permeating the membranes of all of their senses and rationalities. My disease would break through the double-helix of their DNA and integrate itself in the fragile bridges of their nitrogenous bases, reflecting adenine for their thymine, cytosine for their guanine until finally the helix reunited, delicately interconnecting the chromosomes as I spilled out all the worst sides of myself.
    The infectious agents of my toxicity would then slowly descend the ladders of hydrogen bridges and filter back out through the phospholipid bilayer to swim freely into their bloodstream, swimming through their veins to seek out the nervous system. Freely hopping along synapses, my disease gently touches neurons and triggers proteins buried deep inside their nuclei, causing the slow degradation and eventual apoptosis, killing off the ability to recognize that I am not a normal person.
    The electrical impulses spread from axon to axon, igniting a ridiculous idea that I am no disease. The toxins follow the impulses, riding along the shockwaves. The toxins arrive in the mind and slide off the branches of electricity to hold fast to brain proteins, forcing them to take on the shape of the toxins and eroding holes in all the neural processing centers that govern reason and logic, robbing the person of the ability to detect all the red flags I wave frantically in front of their faces.
    The toxins slide into the erosions and stand upon the corpus callosum, the delicate connection between the cerebral hemispheres, and wonder at the magnitude of the destruction they cause. They take a running start and leap from hemisphere to hemisphere and back again, skipping between the associative areas and primary cortices so the immune system cannot ever catch them.
They settle in the prefrontal cortex, the seat of neural power, the orchestra of complex thought. The toxins settle deep into the gyri and sulci, wedge themselves into the folds of all the grey matter.
Once infection is over, once I have eroded the very cytoskeletons that hold their cells together, they breathe, “I love you.”

i choose to be a misfit, it's part of my artistry. i choose to be a misfit, a pirate and a bandit. a slave to my ministry. i outwit your chemistry and scream from the pulpit. i awoke to explosions and time lapsed erosions. the air filled with fire and rainbow smoke. i couldn't find my breath, the bed was ablaze. i inhaled the nightmare and began to choke... just then, things went fragmentary. i was more than just a dignitary. i found myself in a cinerary, facing someone legendary, and they were me. so i looked up my apothecary, knowing that i should be wary. i quickly dispensed with commentary, avoiding all things monetary. but nothing's free. speaking briefly of the goings-on, i stopped to berate the hangers-on. my mouth wove a verbal marathon, it was a virtual phenomenon. lost in my ego. restless, like the myrmidon, i was unsure of my prolegomenon. when i heard the ringing carillon, i went for a swim in the phlegethon. like abednego.

I am at random,
And the lines formless
In my mind:
A lover and the pain,
A cat and a dying master,
Memories while walking
Among the tombs,
The names are faces.

And the void is a mind globe
Spreading itself into a sphere
As the sweat scourges my forehead,
I wipe my third eye:
      Hours leapfrog from page
To page,
   The sound of poetry is among
Everything I have known,
    A dispersed word translates
Me for the verse,
    But I am insubstantial,
Much as my thoughts.
In my room,
     On my desk,
I brood over the wind of yesterdays
Erosions,
I am nailed to a tree,
Deep into a lifeless tree,
I am no poet saint.

     I am not here nor there,
And when all the words have convened,
      I will find a piece of myself
In every poem,
    Though I remain incomplete.

Even the diviner was bemused by these channels, lost in my palm
Amidst the faults and erosions the like as November
Where, banal, it caught these skipping stones, day-to-day, arranged
For the radical saccades to pass, engross, my attention through the magic,
I now stare at Delphi, what binds the assumed catches
Bound, itself, to shy
To shy away from their centers.

But, now and then, my eyes will sojourn from my wanton ways
Through terraces of an empty map,
Where, by degrees, are shown their invisibilities in place of illustrations
Accoutered as décor, but fact, hastening a spider’s game:
Fixed in a drawer, renewed, splayed, drawn at constant.

These pickings, righteous, at a nail and toying on a salty lip,
Quiver, from the rector, day and night, pronouncing
Idle me, idolatry, standing at spreading concourse,
Till, evermore, my stumbling thoughts lose themselves
In my hand.

The hand.
The palm.
Lost channels flood themselves silt-rich waters boatful and boastful
Take on the name of fjord and trinity,
At which I stand, beside myself, and him, beside himself
More engrossed by far-flung ecstasies,
Quite-clear those instabilities, reaching for liquor—mid-shelf.

I could, perhaps, blind myself to the valleys—simple marked sleight of hand
But, travail those four peaks and their straining caps of snow
Unknown, it is but the larger picture, sewn to sinew runs of hair.

Too much, I plead for direction or sign, getting lost in mirrors or rhyme
These new utterances in the back of my throat, where, precisely,
Is the seat of pride,
Each a reckless trail back to the temples of uncharted weathered skin
—The vaguenesses that she enthralled, as to what I am read
Thinking nothing at all and, he, the friend of ever
Under the same stars to the north, south, in every direction.
So helpless, cold shaking and pensions of the moon, anon,
I read as the distance, empty candescences that thirst to know
Exactly what they should have known, where clairvoyance falls short
Steps, like quite brushstrokes: one at a time, wide, unending.

A multitude of memories
Everlasting stories
A series of episodes
Chapters in me explode
Pages after pages
Complicated thesis & stages
A book written by me
Philosophical & logical key
Spiritual & magical
Thee author & executive
The chief, captain of thee ship
Founder, astounder, I ponder
Wonder electric I thunder
Sparking in my brain
Moving rapidly insane
Above the average mind
You might say
Traveling far away
In dreams, witness screams
Beams & dynamite explosions
Erosions coming out my physical
The realm is mystical
I dream of you & the chapter
Changes the premises
Ending with hugs & kisses

the wet summer
Crowns the head of a psalm-
    Unlacing it's proverbial season
The sun adjusts it's pilgrimage
    Making the images of the world:

    From green to yellow to orange
In a foliage of wind and water and ice
    The season begins
On the five senses;
What I see is what I feel
And the thoughts begin a momentum,
   Impending dazzlement
In the erosions of trees,
  Sculpting winds
Falling to the untouchable clarity,
    The soul and earth join,
These endless things
   At the cusp of change
With that familiar feeling.

The fresh wind we knew that was millions of years older than me or than you,blew
stiff against the boulders that formed padded shoulders against the grey chalk cliff.
A conservation effort by the council and crew to save for posterity,the guardian of land and of sea.

The cliff wouldn't care it would wear down in the end,erosions's a trend ,you can't stop it,just slow it and the cliff seems to know it
as it slowly slides to its mother,
the ocean.

what an improvement, if they keep it up, working from: Κατά τον δαίμονα εαυτού, toward rituals - they'll be remembered in history, just like aphrodite's child, and i guarantee this to be true; you really have to build an edifice of religiosity.

stray dogs...
                                    you heard me,
poland is filled with stray dogs,
homeless dogs,
   homeless cats that live
in the cemetery and wait
for the next burial...
   no stray dogs in england...
i was the one who finished off
the roof on the battersea shelter
laying the slabs on the extension...
it's god awfully strange
returning to a monochromatic
society,
        you feel, what's the word:
bleached?
           it can be sometimes
irritable, but then again:
i'm bound to read a book in
polish immersed in the language
proper, without some english
background noise to
disturb me...
    the day when english psychiatrists
mishandled the case:
the day when bilingualism was
actually "schizophrenia" -
i could sue the n.h.s. if i wanted,
how can you misdiagnose
bilingualism as split-*****-for-a-brain?
       when i visited london
the only face i can now remember
is that of a homeless person -
  all the other faces are either
boring, or myopic blurry...
              not worth the storage space
in the memory compartment;
i have a child to tell me what's
worth keeping,
  the once obedient child says:
you've been taught what requires
forgetting...
all the lesson in school are
erosions of your psyche...
                you learn, but by learning
you clog the river of thought
(flumen cogitatus) -
        unlike the *labyrinthus cogitatus -
schooling erodes memory,
   pythagoras is a bit pointless
given newton and projection -
and other trigonometric guises of
expansion...
        ****** schooling, schitty life:
the only option being:
   learn from yourself, by yourself,
and feed that learning to no other than:
your self.
               the english, what can you say:
how did the greek establish a need
for diacritical marks, while the english,
in their pompousness didn't bother?
the ambition to remain of latin stock
fizzed up in their heads...
even the greeks returned to helen's
*****, away from the byzantine crown...
the english? no, they didn't...
which is why i'm writing in a naked
form of inserting pieces or whole sounds...
rule being: if there's still any saxon
in the anglos -
ßpin...          soma...    soup...
                            ßpeak...
          suggest -
                               sacrifice -
                  ßpark!
               you think e. e. cummings
spoke of orthography? you want
to introduce orthography?
listen... english is a blank slate of
a language, it's ready to be imbued
with diacritical markings to invent
an orthography in the language...
   let's begin with:
   a word beginning with an S is
a grapheme when it's followed up
by a consonant...
      ßpit!
                    but when it's followed
by a vowel - it's a normalised S;
          i.e. prolonged.
      and yes, the R devolved when the french
started harking at it,
  and the english started numbing the
rattler serpent hidden in R...
           stood the statue of the two tongues -
are we clear about what orthography is
concerned with?
                there are two options,
only one is aesthetically accepted:
   guwno & gówno - **** & **** -
                      miraculously w = ł....
              so the V salute...
                         gavron, gavron... gavron.
no, you don't see any stray dogs in
england, you'll sooner find a homeless man
sitting by a tube station outcast
than a stray dog...
in poland? you'll sooner see a stray
           dog than a homeless person.
O beacon of the civilised world!  
speak to me!
                     **** it, shut the **** up;
i've heard illuminating ideas to
construct a chandelier.
          - and i did sometimes pitied
wooden houses, when winter came...
      how i thought stone was marble,
and then i realised, placing my crow foot
onto the porch wood: warm,
staggeringly warm,
   wood is besides the cold -
    it's actually warm...
    at least wood does not insulate the cold
as the stone does...
    we have no talk of orthography in
the english tongue, if we do not have
diacritical marks introduced...
      'n writing back to 'ye ol' english -
with that ******* thy 'twine v'eh
          rather than a f'eh perfect word -
forget it...
        i'm past integrating into this tongue:
i'm into disrupting it, mingling by mangling
it silly...
                   might i add...
rotting christ ought to revise the song
   ze nigmar...
there is a crucial melodic element in the song,
it's barely receptible,
but it's there, shy,
like all the bass in metallica's songs...
       this song (ze nigmar) needs
to be revamped - it needs revision,
a remastering, so the melodic backdrop
stands out from the heavy guitars...
           given the guitars play a rhythmic
section, it would not bother the entire
track to spectacle the melodic element...
upwards and onwards with this
greek band...
                         oddly enough,
by this track alone (ze nigmar), i might
actually buy their rituals album;
nonetheless we're still stuck with english
in eden...
          you ever wonder why they derived
so much political power not having
revised the original latin script with
northern or southern revisions and
       additions?
   the birth of unaccountable accents comes
from missing diacritical markings -
and the reply goes:
  why do you have an accent?
an english man asks.
the person with an accent replies:
and why do you not have diacritical
marks that are all-too-apparent
                          in your lettering?
you can't fake orthography by Mm -
or for that matter,
why has your tongue been cyber-netted -
lost in the abyss of a.i. -
to have once written later to now write l8r?
   you and your digital "orthography" -
he discarded the hieroglyphs,
he discarded the cuneiform -
but kept the latin, to write out an electronic
base, and kept the coliseum for
the modern football arena;
  yes, **** grammar, **** pedantic -
         and if anyone's going to "dox" me...
it will be done by me, and me alone;
that's how i appreciate the "****" element
of things: the pedantry is the pivotal crux
of writing a confession of
  having established the likes and dislikes
of using a language -
  given that this tongue is but my second
and subsequently my last,
   i relish the fact that i was born to turn
this language into a tool, a hammer,
a blunt knife...
     and how others are born into this
language, and know no other,
  while some attempt an escape -
  others treat this language as the all-encompassing
crutch of expression...
              for me a tool...
    for them a safety wheel -
     for me a language i can deviated into
aggressive tendencies,
  for them a language used to cushion
my exploitative advances...
   true assimilation only arrives when
the acquiring party speaks the native tongue
better than the natives...
                     but still retains respect for
its genesis of born "loss" & subsequent acquisition...
one never deals in assimilation in
the hegelian terminology of master & slave -
in terms of language -
    akin to etymology being the other part
of history - more apparent, and always
more nimble in being resurrect at a glance -
to me english is a parasite -
                                  and i'm but a host.

Consider relinquishing reality of arousal
Better to extend piteous rants of sexuality
Flowing brilliance of ****** art
Time to devour platonic endeavors of
Your true story. reluctance, pity's, blunders
Start fresh new electric
Drugged up rants of loved erosions
Pure adulterous languishing fever
It's an omen??? No it's illusion
Time to wake up intolerant confusion
The day has a favor to ask
Play hard work until waste but love that is the key to oblivion the true cure for the plagues of addiction  she has it to erase elation

You know your alive when you souls groov'en
You know your alive when every inch is mov'en
Goose bumps and vibrations volcanic explosions
Moving like an earth quake no chances of erosions

Lights out and good wine pulsations of making love
All in time with lifes rhythum two souls hand in glove
As if both were one as the sweels upon vastest oceans
Tak'en over with rhythum loves own pure devotions

https://youtu.be/JkjoFpqe6JQ

No ending in sight as energy comes from far away
You know your alive when you cannot move next day
Your very heart mind and soul can feel it all still
Your memory can still taste it forever it always will

terrence michael sutton
copyright 2018