Perplexed and troubled at his bad success
The Tempter stood, nor had what to reply,
Discovered in his fraud, thrown from his hope
So oft, and the persuasive rhetoric
That sleeked his tongue, and won so much on Eve,
So little here, nay lost.  But Eve was Eve;
This far his over-match, who, self-deceived
And rash, beforehand had no better weighed
The strength he was to cope with, or his own.
But—as a man who had been matchless held
In cunning, over-reached where least he thought,
To salve his credit, and for very spite,
Still will be tempting him who foils him still,
And never cease, though to his shame the more;
Or as a swarm of flies in vintage-time,
About the wine-press where sweet must is poured,
Beat off, returns as oft with humming sound;
Or surging waves against a solid rock,
Though all to shivers dashed, the assault renew,
(Vain battery!) and in froth or bubbles end—
So Satan, whom repulse upon repulse
Met ever, and to shameful silence brought,
Yet gives not o’er, though desperate of success,
And his vain importunity pursues.
He brought our Saviour to the western side
Of that high mountain, whence he might behold
Another plain, long, but in breadth not wide,
Washed by the southern sea, and on the north
To equal length backed with a ridge of hills
That screened the fruits of the earth and seats of men
From cold Septentrion blasts; thence in the midst
Divided by a river, off whose banks
On each side an Imperial City stood,
With towers and temples proudly elevate
On seven small hills, with palaces adorned,
Porches and theatres, baths, aqueducts,
Statues and trophies, and triumphal arcs,
Gardens and groves, presented to his eyes
Above the highth of mountains interposed—
By what strange parallax, or optic skill
Of vision, multiplied through air, or glass
Of telescope, were curious to enquire.
And now the Tempter thus his silence broke:—
  “The city which thou seest no other deem
Than great and glorious Rome, Queen of the Earth
So far renowned, and with the spoils enriched
Of nations.  There the Capitol thou seest,
Above the rest lifting his stately head
On the Tarpeian rock, her citadel
Impregnable; and there Mount Palatine,
The imperial palace, compass huge, and high
The structure, skill of noblest architects,
With gilded battlements, conspicuous far,
Turrets, and terraces, and glittering spires.
Many a fair edifice besides, more like
Houses of gods—so well I have disposed
My aerie microscope—thou may’st behold,
Outside and inside both, pillars and roofs
Carved work, the hand of famed artificers
In cedar, marble, ivory, or gold.
Thence to the gates cast round thine eye, and see
What conflux issuing forth, or entering in:
Praetors, proconsuls to their provinces
Hasting, or on return, in robes of state;
Lictors and rods, the ensigns of their power;
Legions and cohorts, turms of horse and wings;
Or embassies from regions far remote,
In various habits, on the Appian road,
Or on the AEmilian—some from farthest south,
Syene, and where the shadow both way falls,
Meroe, Nilotic isle, and, more to west,
The realm of Bocchus to the Blackmoor sea;
From the Asian kings (and Parthian among these),
From India and the Golden Chersoness,
And utmost Indian isle Taprobane,
Dusk faces with white silken turbants wreathed;
From Gallia, Gades, and the British west;
Germans, and Scythians, and Sarmatians north
Beyond Danubius to the Tauric pool.
All nations now to Rome obedience pay—
To Rome’s great Emperor, whose wide domain,
In ample territory, wealth and power,
Civility of manners, arts and arms,
And long renown, thou justly may’st prefer
Before the Parthian.  These two thrones except,
The rest are barbarous, and scarce worth the sight,
Shared among petty kings too far removed;
These having shewn thee, I have shewn thee all
The kingdoms of the world, and all their glory.
This Emperor hath no son, and now is old,
Old and lascivious, and from Rome retired
To Capreae, an island small but strong
On the Campanian shore, with purpose there
His horrid lusts in private to enjoy;
Committing to a wicked favourite
All public cares, and yet of him suspicious;
Hated of all, and hating.  With what ease,
Endued with regal virtues as thou art,
Appearing, and beginning noble deeds,
Might’st thou expel this monster from his throne,
Now made a sty, and, in his place ascending,
A victor-people free from servile yoke!
And with my help thou may’st; to me the power
Is given, and by that right I give it thee.
Aim, therefore, at no less than all the world;
Aim at the highest; without the highest attained,
Will be for thee no sitting, or not long,
On David’s throne, be prophesied what will.”
  To whom the Son of God, unmoved, replied:—
“Nor doth this grandeur and majestic shew
Of luxury, though called magnificence,
More than of arms before, allure mine eye,
Much less my mind; though thou should’st add to tell
Their sumptuous gluttonies, and gorgeous feasts
On citron tables or Atlantic stone
(For I have also heard, perhaps have read),
Their wines of Setia, Cales, and Falerne,
Chios and Crete, and how they quaff in gold,
Crystal, and myrrhine cups, imbossed with gems
And studs of pearl—to me should’st tell, who thirst
And hunger still.  Then embassies thou shew’st
From nations far and nigh!  What honour that,
But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear
So many hollow compliments and lies,
Outlandish flatteries?  Then proceed’st to talk
Of the Emperor, how easily subdued,
How gloriously.  I shall, thou say’st, expel
A brutish monster: what if I withal
Expel a Devil who first made him such?
Let his tormentor, Conscience, find him out;
For him I was not sent, nor yet to free
That people, victor once, now vile and base,
Deservedly made vassal—who, once just,
Frugal, and mild, and temperate, conquered well,
But govern ill the nations under yoke,
Peeling their provinces, exhausted all
By lust and rapine; first ambitious grown
Of triumph, that insulting vanity;
Then cruel, by their sports to blood inured
Of fighting beasts, and men to beasts exposed;
Luxurious by their wealth, and greedier still,
And from the daily Scene effeminate.
What wise and valiant man would seek to free
These, thus degenerate, by themselves enslaved,
Or could of inward slaves make outward free?
Know, therefore, when my season comes to sit
On David’s throne, it shall be like a tree
Spreading and overshadowing all the earth,
Or as a stone that shall to pieces dash
All monarchies besides throughout the world;
And of my Kingdom there shall be no end.
Means there shall be to this; but what the means
Is not for thee to know, nor me to tell.”
  To whom the Tempter, impudent, replied:—
“I see all offers made by me how slight
Thou valuest, because offered, and reject’st.
Nothing will please the difficult and nice,
Or nothing more than still to contradict.
On the other side know also thou that I
On what I offer set as high esteem,
Nor what I part with mean to give for naught,
All these, which in a moment thou behold’st,
The kingdoms of the world, to thee I give
(For, given to me, I give to whom I please),
No trifle; yet with this reserve, not else—
On this condition, if thou wilt fall down,
And worship me as thy superior Lord
(Easily done), and hold them all of me;
For what can less so great a gift deserve?”
  Whom thus our Saviour answered with disdain:—
“I never liked thy talk, thy offers less;
Now both abhor, since thou hast dared to utter
The abominable terms, impious condition.
But I endure the time, till which expired
Thou hast permission on me.  It is written,
The first of all commandments, ‘Thou shalt worship
The Lord thy God, and only Him shalt serve.’
And dar’st thou to the Son of God propound
To worship thee, accursed? now more accursed
For this attempt, bolder than that on Eve,
And more blasphemous; which expect to rue.
The kingdoms of the world to thee were given!
Permitted rather, and by thee usurped;
Other donation none thou canst produce.
If given, by whom but by the King of kings,
God over all supreme?  If given to thee,
By thee how fairly is the Giver now
Repaid!  But gratitude in thee is lost
Long since.  Wert thou so void of fear or shame
As offer them to me, the Son of God—
To me my own, on such abhorred pact,
That I fall down and worship thee as God?
Get thee behind me!  Plain thou now appear’st
That Evil One, Satan for ever ******.”
  To whom the Fiend, with fear abashed, replied:—
“Be not so sore offended, Son of God—
Though Sons of God both Angels are and Men—
If I, to try whether in higher sort
Than these thou bear’st that title, have proposed
What both from Men and Angels I receive,
Tetrarchs of Fire, Air, Flood, and on the Earth
Nations besides from all the quartered winds—
God of this World invoked, and World beneath.
Who then thou art, whose coming is foretold
To me most fatal, me it most concerns.
The trial hath indamaged thee no way,
Rather more honour left and more esteem;
Me naught advantaged, missing what I aimed.
Therefore let pass, as they are transitory,
The kingdoms of this world; I shall no more
Advise thee; gain them as thou canst, or not.
And thou thyself seem’st otherwise inclined
Than to a worldly crown, addicted more
To contemplation and profound dispute;
As by that early action may be judged,
When, slipping from thy mother’s eye, thou went’st
Alone into the Temple, there wast found
Among the gravest Rabbies, disputant
On points and questions fitting Moses’ chair,
Teaching, not taught.  The childhood shews the man,
As morning shews the day.  Be famous, then,
By wisdom; as thy empire must extend,
So let extend thy mind o’er all the world
In knowledge; all things in it comprehend.
All knowledge is not couched in Moses’ law,
The Pentateuch, or what the Prophets wrote;
The Gentiles also know, and write, and teach
To admiration, led by Nature’s light;
And with the Gentiles much thou must converse,
Ruling them by persuasion, as thou mean’st.
Without their learning, how wilt thou with them,
Or they with thee, hold conversation meet?
How wilt thou reason with them, how refute
Their idolisms, traditions, paradoxes?
Error by his own arms is best evinced.
Look once more, ere we leave this specular mount,
Westward, much nearer by south-west; behold
Where on the AEgean shore a city stands,
Built nobly, pure the air and light the soil—
Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts
And Eloquence, native to famous wits
Or hospitable, in her sweet recess,
City or suburban, studious walks and shades.
See there the olive-grove of Academe,
Plato’s retirement, where the Attic bird
Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long;
There, flowery hill, Hymettus, with the sound
Of bees’ industrious murmur, oft invites
To studious musing; there Ilissus rowls
His whispering stream.  Within the walls then view
The schools of ancient sages—his who bred
Great Alexander to subdue the world,
Lyceum there; and painted Stoa next.
There thou shalt hear and learn the secret power
Of harmony, in tones and numbers hit
By voice or hand, and various-measured verse,
AEolian charms and Dorian lyric odes,
And his who gave them breath, but higher sung,
Blind Melesigenes, thence Homer called,
Whose poem Phoebus challenged for his own.
Thence what the lofty grave Tragedians taught
In chorus or iambic, teachers best
Of moral prudence, with delight received
In brief sententious precepts, while they treat
Of fate, and chance, and change in human life,
High actions and high passions best describing.
Thence to the famous Orators repair,
Those ancient whose resistless eloquence
Wielded at will that fierce democraty,
Shook the Arsenal, and fulmined over Greece
To Macedon and Artaxerxes’ throne.
To sage Philosophy next lend thine ear,
From heaven descended to the low-roofed house
Of Socrates—see there his tenement—
Whom, well inspired, the Oracle pronounced
Wisest of men; from whose mouth issued forth
Mellifluous streams, that watered all the schools
Of Academics old and new, with those
Surnamed Peripatetics, and the sect
Epicurean, and the Stoic severe.
These here revolve, or, as thou likest, at home,
Till time mature thee to a kingdom’s weight;
These rules will render thee a king complete
Within thyself, much more with empire joined.”
  To whom our Saviour sagely thus replied:—
“Think not but that I know these things; or, think
I know them not, not therefore am I short
Of knowing what I ought.  He who receives
Light from above, from the Fountain of Light,
No other doctrine needs, though granted true;
But these are false, or little else but dreams,
Conjectures, fancies, built on nothing firm.
The first and wisest of them all professed
To know this only, that he nothing knew;
The next to fabling fell and smooth conceits;
A third sort doubted all things, though plain sense;
Others in virtue placed felicity,
But virtue joined with riches and long life;
In corporal pleasure he, and careless ease;
The Stoic last in philosophic pride,
By him called virtue, and his virtuous man,
Wise, perfect in himself, and all possessing,
Equal to God, oft shames not to prefer,
As fearing God nor man, contemning all
Wealth, pleasure, pain or torment, death and life—
Which, when he lists, he leaves, or boasts he can;
For all his tedious talk is but vain boast,
Or subtle shifts conviction to evade.
Alas! what can they teach, and not mislead,
Ignorant of themselves, of God much more,
And how the World began, and how Man fell,
Degraded by himself, on grace depending?
Much of the Soul they talk, but all awry;
And in themselves seek virtue; and to themselves
All glory arrogate, to God give none;
Rather accuse him under usual names,
Fortune and Fate, as one regardless quite
Of mortal things.  Who, therefore, seeks in these
True wisdom finds her not, or, by delusion
Far worse, her false resemblance only meets,
An empty cloud.  However, many books,
Wise men have said, are wearisome; who reads
Incessantly, and to his reading brings not
A spirit and judgment equal or superior,
(And what he brings what needs he elsewhere seek?)
Uncertain and unsettled still remains,
Deep-versed in books and shallow in himself,
Crude or intoxicate, collecting toys
And trifles for choice matters, worth a sponge,
As children gathering pebbles on the shore.
Or, if I would delight my private hours
With music or with poem, where so soon
As in our native language can I find
That solace?  All our Law and Story strewed
With hymns, our Psalms with artful terms inscribed,
Our Hebrew songs and harps, in Babylon
That pleased so well our victor’s ear, declare
That rather Greece from us these arts derived—
Ill imitated while they loudest sing
The vices of their deities, and their own,
In fable, hymn, or song, so personating
Their gods ridiculous, and themselves past shame.
Remove their swelling epithetes, thick-laid
As varnish on a harlot’s cheek, the rest,
Thin-sown with aught of profit or delight,
Will far be found unworthy to compare
With Sion’s songs, to all true tastes excelling,
Where God is praised aright and godlike men,
The Holiest of Holies and his Saints
(Such are from God inspired, not such from thee);
Unless where moral virtue is expressed
By light of Nature, not in all quite lost.
Their orators thou then extoll’st as those
The top of eloquence—statists indeed,
And lovers of their country, as may seem;
But herein to our Prophets far beneath,
As men divinely taught, and better teaching
The solid rules of civil government,
In their majestic, unaffected style,
Than all the oratory of Greece and Rome.
In them is plainest taught, and easiest learnt,
What makes a nation happy, and keeps it so,
What ruins kingdoms, and lays cities flat;
These only, with our Law, best form a king.”
  So spake the Son of God; but Satan, now
Quite at a loss (for all his darts were spent),
Thus to our Saviour, with stern brow, replied:—
  “Since neither wealth nor honour, arms nor arts,
Kingdom nor empire, pleases thee, nor aught
By me proposed in life contemplative
Or active, tended on by glory or fame,
What dost thou in this world?  The Wilderness
For thee is fittest place: I found thee there,
And thither will return thee.  Yet remember
What I foretell t

Never a word I’ve feared more.
Never needed a label for adore.
Never a word I’ve desired for.
Never needed a word to make my heart sore.

This four letter word that strikes fear.
A four letter word that I desire to hear.
This four letter word that can burn and sear.
A four letter word that’s always held dear.

What a four letter word can do to the soul.
What it can do to a heart of solid coal.
What a four letter that people extoll.
What is this L-O-V-E that we try to control?

As if ornithology was the Esperanto of poets
wishing to construct a phoneme or pheromone
to extoll the details rather than build the case.

Spinning from my orbit as you, wondering
in sparse moments cleared by rain
do birds perch along the Grand Elysee in Zaatari?

And humans, uprooted, children too knowing blood:
what mode of classification, what terms to agree on
face-to-face down those dusty avenues?

There was a House Speaker named Boehner
Who went forth without any honor
He did his best to hurt Obamacare
To damage the folks with no hospital care
He killed every bill that came to the House
He's sorry you'd say like the sorriest louse
Then Obama's army got ready to roll
Barach showed us methods we all could extoll
That got the people insurance at last
Poor Boehner he cried like he's done in the past
Then he fought every tax to help people on high
To get all their votes when November comes by
But there is a Father in Heaven above
Who whispered no man can win without love  
Then Boehner tried suing  and shamefaced us all
Voters said Boehner  was losing his *****
Then he failed to effect immigration
And stifle the strongest of nations
He flunked with each program he wanted to win
Soon Boehner will be on the streets once again
So all will be well in the dear U.S.A.
There'll be no Boehner to get in the way
he...he...he

Whilst your Limb empowered by Time to Heal
That which your Friend noted her Plans devote:
From Annam the Gaul's Ancient War reveal
To Isles by Men for Common Tongue connote
As Best her Experience with Flights relate,
Soothe her Pleasures as yours induced on Ice
Shall your Joints move; Then take to Sky's Rebate
To free Screaming Cages from your Respite
Now this - another Phase for Life's extoll
Which thus should Widen your Circumference
To infuse Cultures your Open Arms install
Then increase your Learning and Difference.
Pray tell, your Inner Friends their Best Tales share
Spread such Values for your Tolerance care.

‬

For all my tales of braggery
I am the eloquent loser.
Out of thousands of choices
I will pick the ******,
The liar, the layabout or thief.
Then starts my florid tales
Designed to mask my grief.

I list the virtues of the guy,
The Prince Charming I caught
And talk about his attributes
None of which he has got.
I treat him like aristocracy
Even though he never works.
My friends wonder how I can
Align myself with such a ****.

So, that means more stories
To extoll his many talents
Even though he has so few
To brag about on balance.
I keep thinking my eloquence
Will overcome his character,
His many alluring facets
Or lack of which whatsoever.

It’s sad the lengths I have gone
Trying not to be so alone.
I have been accused of being
Like a dog with a favorite bone
In my attempts to justify
The awful choices I have taken.
But I don’t listen, I only talk
Any advice is all forsaken.

That’s how it goes with me
If I can explain things away,
Like Scarlett, I'll think about it
Maybe on some other day.
Maybe then I'll finally understand
Why I do what I always do.
But we eloquent losers don’t care
So very much what is true.

A spark
unspoken,
heart reserved
burns for at token
it has not yet earned.

The dove
dirtied
by the dust
starts at the sound
of us,
and goes
shooting up.

Freedom
is the fiercest passion
unfettered by reason,
it is to live
in reactions.

I touch her skin.
My fingers gently move
across her curving collarbone.
With impassioned wit
I extoll
the virtues of
unrestrained lust.

Our thoughts burn bright
pushing us on
towards a scorching light
of devious delights.
It incites chaos
bringing destruction in its wake.

Though happiness reigns
for years and days
others feel a deep pain,
feel betrayed
or grieve the loss
of those they loved
who ran off.

With swishing, swaying somnolence, in eve
So slow and sound, a thought begins to stir.
A battle brews beneath the throat, but breathe
Past beating baubles, under flesh and fur

Concealed by waves and waves of reticence
The sun a blot on the horizon grey
In splendor faces glow with innocence
Though silently they scream in their dismay

Away, away, away they fall to dark
And disarray while children dream alone
They dream for shattered selves of gold, and hark!
The hammer falls upon them as t’would stone

Yet broken souls shan’t glimmer bright as whole
However well the storied tales extoll.

Your beauteous archetype will never let you suffer the pain that most of us regular people face. Despite your rudeness, we will always make excuses to partake In your cuteness. You don't know how it feel to be forgotten about. Your heart never fell, in result of seeing someone who bailed holding hands with a more sightliness female. You have everyone's attention. How does pretty feel when pain is inflicted? Does pretty really hurt all along, or is that just a song? I'm venting through this poem because I can only imagine you being in my arms. The reality of you laying in my chest happily is slim to none. My confidence in myself is strong, but that only go as far as grabbing you by the arm, signaling you to come on. Utterances of "he's not where you belong". My aplomb is only dawn in comparison to his bodacious mannerism. You can't see anything wrong. But I can see it within you. Whenever I spy deeply, past your aesthetic definitive. As I forage through your lushness I stumble upon the truth. The naked truth. Fastuousness at it's best. Desolateness at it's worst. Blessed but hurt. A nest without a bird, a freeway without a curve, an intoxication without a slur, a feline with no reason to purr,  a sea otter without it's fur; basically a sentence without a word. Bleak; you worship the worthless, bargain yourself to be purchased so in result you are the first resort to a man with no purpose. How does it feel to be a self-merchant? Wholesale and your clientele being boys who are uncertain. If you were interested in men he will treat you like one with the womb in the front (womb-men), no matter how feral you were you'll b like his little ******. See you are the resultant of a posture that is too potent. When you're in motion, no guy can continue with focus. You were always told how bold that you looked without any clothes, but never reminded that your mind was the only thing you have left when everything else unfold. Hopeless; desirable but the story on how to be hereafter admirable was untold. "No matter how fine the statue is, overtime it will have to erode, it's the significance in the chronicle that we will always extoll"

Many vaunt in the Sun,
but few dance with the Moon.
Some say, Look how I run,
Others, with the stars do I swoon.

Consoled and condemned by the affirms of their peers,
many burn and burn and burn out,
                                                               for years.

In the like, the rare, due in part
to the antiquity of their soul,
during the nightly watches of the earth,
will their hearts extoll.

And of what caliber do you yourself find?
...when you exact a look, you find your merit of what kind?
Is it of them who amass bricks, ash and dust;
or to the skies do your hands ******?
Are your objects the vacuum of temporal things?
Or an allowance for thought and speech to sprout wings?

May I offer one word of request
to those who find their eyes to the ground, closest;
Look up, Look up! And see what you might behold,
by gazing past the highest heavens untold.

beyond tired,
beyond sleep,
far down the winding track
of insombulance
at the forked tongue place,
known as...
the insomniac's state.....

there is a gilded room
where poets do keep
their muses,
fair and unruly...

and those,
who think deep,
philosophical notions

and they wait,
with lethivian patience,
but little grace...
in the shadows,

...until invited,
by sleepless souls,
to share,
wine and cheese
and a word or two....

then, they muses all,
are delighted
to discuss, at length,
all manner of things....

and suggest
topics that,
need be,
revealed,
re-examined,
rewritten.

....and to talk about,
how,
to make readers,
smitten with the words,
you have enscribed,
the ideas you extault
and extoll,
the emotion you extract
from your very soul.

but when the dawn breaks
they, the muses all,
take their words
wrapped up
in scrap paper
and off to bed they crawl..

leaving you, the scribe
dark shadowed of eye
to cope with the agnst
of it all....

fickle hearted beings...
one and all....
       but oh, how i crave
their company...

The pulpit stone was gray and warm,
  beneath the priest of fire.
Each flaming word a dread alarm -
  portentious and dire.

"Your ways must change!" he did extoll
  with booming voice and spittle.
"Or hell will claim your timeless soul
  to dance to Satan's Fiddle!"

Some people who, enfeared, did try
  to mend their sinful ways.
With hope that cleaner souls would buy
  more peace at End-of-Days.

But others left the place unmoved -
  they stayed the way they were.
And though their ways did not improve,
  to sin was still to err.

Then years did pass; the reverend died.
  So too did all his people.
That pulpit where he stood with pride
  lay crumbling 'neath the steeple.

Whatever thoughts of wrong or right
  lie quiet like these motes in light.
No matter what the old man said,
  your life's your life, and dead is dead.

becoming bored of the: what came first, the chicken or the egg? i had to ask a similar question: what came first, the letter δ, or the digit 6?

the only reason why philosophy books
take so much time to read,
is because,
of all literary traditions,
               philosophy books extoll
a need to allow re-reading,
  and no, not a re-reading of the omni-
reading: the sigma / the entire
work -
              but passages of a work -
philosophy books take such a long time
to read, because one is forced to
reread certain passages several times,
if not the nadir-minimum of at least
twice....

notably? perhaps one of many examples
(and i was serious that
heidegger's being & time
  and kant's critique of pure reason
are, reasonably, worth 2 years of your
life to read through, and several
other non-philosophical books
in between...
      yes, poetry is a grand aid when
reading philosophy -
   notably due to his "agoraphilia",
and its love for sparing the eyes
from straining themselves in
the fudge of tight-knit paragraphs):
that said: the elders should read
either newspapers or poetry,
while the young, with their hawk-eyes
the deluge of claustrophilic
sentencing...
          funny... we hear more of phobias
than of philias...
    last time i checked, our society
entombed only one philia,
among many phobias...
        you know the philia, it begins with
the letter p-;
           odd, isn't it?
                         to fathom a rainbow range
of possible phobias,
     and disrespect a possiblity for
what's devolved in etymological terms
    from greek, i.e.?
  how philias are understood in english:
quirks... eccentricities.
england and its people is a nation
of eccentricities, any russian can tell you
that... you don't even have to cite
     the neo-tsar of the current year;
a less pleasant ascriptive-noun /
       denoting? a, bunch of ******* weirdos!
(yes, the comma implies a quick cascade
of utterance - like ******* a
                            shoelace of spaghetti).
the example though,
   rereading aphorism no. 93 (ponderings V) -
what does reconstitute man
     as *animal rationale rather than
firmly establishing him as **** sapiens?
well... for a **** sapiens
there must be a deus insapiens -
                   for a wise man, a mad god;
but beyond the notion of god...
would it not be easier, as aphorism 93
suggests invoke a trinity of concepts?
  no "wise" man discredits god,
  whether in idea, or whether in existence,
or when in idea in non-existence -
    because isn't that what atheists provoke?
namely that god "is": in idea in non-existence,
existence per se, cannot be an idea,
since in invokes the 5 senses
      rather than the 1 non-sense (thought),
simply, i can't grasp existence as an idea,
but i can grasp the existence of x
as an idea, since the mechanics of "an" idea
is to treat it as non-existent, and therefore
requiring me to think about it:
and since nature doesn't allow vacuums -
what could possibly fill the nature of
man, if not the ontological construct of
the existing-"non"-existent god?
    what? some hot chocolate and a cookie jar?!
that's beside the point...
     reducing man from the status
of **** sapiens into a state of
     animal rationale opens our demand
for the original status "quo",
that man work from the foundation of
qua categorised animal rationale
and moving to the status of **** sapiens,
which, by so doing, avoids
the burden of presupposing oneself
as **** sapiens, and "re-inventing"
the wheel, and crafting the posit for
                                        a deus insapiens.
the aphorism does suggest that we
are breeding an animal,
                      an animal of genes,
              rather than a human of memes,
for "man" to attain the status
   of **** sapiens from the origin
of animal rationale - is to also claim that
the current claim of "man" as
     **** sapiens reduces a "god" to
be categorised as deus insapiens
  (as stressed by the emotionally infantile
pressure: ******* built a pyramids!
   oh... so looking at a mountain from
a distance wasn't good enough?) -
but categorising "man" as striving for
the status of **** sapiens from the origins
of the already well versed
                    atheistic demand
  for the animal in man, rather than
the man in the animal...
             who could not be persuaded
to allow the striving of a "god"
              from the confines
  of animal rationale ut deus insapiens
into the existential-"zoo"
            of **** sapiens ut
                                         deus sapiens?
can that question even range into
  asking whether **** est deus
ut deus est man - and that this whole existence
has an omni-spaien dimension
  with a ?, given that the big bang was
not ? remark, but an ! -
    a question is hushed
into philosophy (murmur), while awe
and fancy and daring shouts! explodes!

And so it begins, the greening of spring
On still as yet cold ground.  Shoots bursting
And unseen buds developing in hidden places.
The greening first begins in the sheltered spaces
Along the walls, in unnoticed corners.  Nursing
Its offspring that had clung to life, it is given wings.
The greening of spring now takes its annual flight.
Thus, soon this secret work will bring all delight.
Yes, how could I not extoll such an inspiring sight?

Dressed in armour, riding a steed,
weapons in hand, they march with speed,
to conquer lands, for and unknown,
a ragged crowd, yet warriors of renown
They strike with fury, they **** with rage,
the greatest plague, to fall our age,
they raze the cities, destroy the crop,
they keep in business, a coroner’s shop.
Wild, uncouth, dressed in skins,
they play their games, with the head’s of kings,
short and squat, ugly to see,
on the point of a sword, they extoll their fee.
They are angels, riding from Hades,
smeared with blood, from their raids,
they shoot their arrows, with lightning speed,
they have no dearth, of grotesque deed,
of pale skin and slanting eyes,
they have the strength to darken the skies

Descended from him, the evil one,
they inspire fear, they blot out the sun,
they **** without mercy, they loot and plunder,
their arrival announced by fiery thunder,

They are from far, a distant land,
where all you see, is barren sand,
used to misery, living in dearth,
in multitudes of hordes, they overrun the earth.

These demons, creatures of doom,
spinning away, in a massive loom,
knitting a web, to ensnare humanity,
having no concept of mercy or pity,
eating flesh, feasting on blood,
they scour the earth, like a massive flood

These men, of barren sands,
of toughened body, and calloused hands,
striking fear, inspiring horror,
in conquered lands, hoisting their banner,
far and wide, much as I search,
I fail to find such warriors on earth.

How unlucky can a man get?

There was a man, an ocean sailor,
in Argentina, he met a woman who he married.
During a storm, she was washed overboard, and
he couldn’t find her. Undaunted he continued
sailing around the world, met another woman
(from Sidney) and married her.
In the strait Moluccas, they were ambushed, the pirates shot his wife. Well, life goes on and when he finally came
to Oslo, the press was not there to extoll his considerable feat.
The thinking was losing one wife an accident
but losing two was considered irresponsible.
At the sailors club, he was welcomed with polite
coldness, he knew why rumours were floating about.
Disappointed he sold his boat
bought a flat on a high rise, the seventh floor.
this had a terrace with a low railing.
No, she didn't have an accident if you think of it,
but she did commit suicide.
I don't think he ever married again
But he wrote a book about his many years
At sea and tried to explain his misfortunes,
The book sold well since he used an alias.

I can't put into words what I'm feeling just now and it's maddening because the emotions and physical manifestations are so visceral and the language completely intangible, tearing up dictionaries in twelve languages to accurately pinpoint what bubbles furiously beneath the surface, ready to boil over, spill outside the lines of my corpse

I could rip myself in two and splatter the searing hot everything on paper and still not make sense of the colours and violent slashes and lost lines and marks of hesitation and deep etchings that imprint far beyond the page I marr with scribblings, half-word annotations and empty, unsatisfying compounds falling short of sentences that ooze the right mouth feel, instead reminiscent of chewing plasticine

Empty coffins lie in wait for exorcised ghosts in ink or graphite or hot condensation to finally put to rest a body fraught, haunted by memory and nightmare and razor sharp reality embroiled, inseparable, to cut the cord would end it all but to leave it a ribbon wrapped around my throat will surely suffocate me under its weighty expectation - head rolling or at least mind racing as life and limb are lost, mere casualties of an unseen war but one whose battle scars invisible and insurmountable leave little option but to extoll one final silent scream

Bards and society

Poets are gentle people who like to form a group for writers
with an eccentric title, “a thousand poets against war.”
Poetry is only useful for dictators and those who like to demonstrate how literal they are.
Dictators find them valuable if they extoll the regime
If not, you are exiled or jailed.
Poets are subjected to flattery, the lucky one gets a medal before they die
of consumption.
I was thinking of this when lost in a city, with many statues of generals riding an iron horse.
And a bust of the sensible poet in the entrance of a downtrodden hotel.

I lay beside the near stranger
In the darkest of the night
speaking words for him to hear
as death crept close in between
I hoped to stay his seeking hand
in a grip that could prevent
encroachment of the hooded one
eager to take what all will give.

"It is not your time my new friend
this beast will take you in the end
but it not need be this very day
please turn from him, this I pray"

In their eyes I saw the fear
the dread of living on the edge
when all of life is too much
the good in things far out weighed
what could I say to save this soul?
bid Reaper go on this chill night
that others wait for his call
not this stranger shivering in my arms.

"Hold on my friend, please frustrate
the leap to realms beyond this place
I know they call with deepest balm
this siren call beyond the veil"

I feared my words were hollow shells
cast into the deepest well
lost from sight as gloom progressed
surrounding us with ill intent
once more I rallied forth
not content to say no more
a last proclaim I would extoll
to break the curse taking hold.

"You are loved above all else
by God above and all your friends
turn back the end, this doom you seek
so you and I will meet the dawn"

I'll tell you this in last stanza
I don't know if I was heard
for in that moment the stranger fell
taken down by his own gun
I did not know him very well
but he and I were the same
the end took him as it did me
I was no more by the same shell.

The killing of a poet
  There are many sorts of poets those who
extoll the sitting regime tell of order it has brought
their words are recited they win prizes but few, today remembers their names
Federico Lorca was not one of them.
He wrote the truth of the brutal fascistic nature of the state and what
it had become.
He was a man they had to ****.
He tried to flee but on a side road he was stopped by assassins, at the time
he was in the company of a one-armed priest a communist
They had to dig their own grave.
Since Lorca was gay, they shot him in the rear “you like this sort of things
they laughed, these cruel people were killing art.
They also shot him in the groin: squealed like a pig they later said.
This was a Spain of old but the ghost of fascism is still among us we have
To be vigilant.

The Russians are coming.
Listening to Portuguese Tv, there is talk of a third wave
of the coronavirus, it is not a wave that flattens out like the calm sea.
It will strike when people get careless and insist on celebrating
X. mass (Jesus can do without his birthday for once) can you?
Then there is the pesky New Year, food, alcohol and dancing
oblivious of the virus that is looking in ready to strike.
The best we can do is to wear a mask, stay indoors and
If you must have a drink with Facebook or the skype.
The Russian has a vaccine that is good and powerful but
we are so Russia phobic we think of lies told by the press
that extoll an American vaccine that the makers of the
the vaccine is not sure of if it really works.
Coronavirus has become politics, and that is gloomy
For us all.