(Sorry Friends, for posting educational type of poems, I know Haiku are easier to read & comment! But if you happen to like this true story, kindly recommend it to your other friends! Thanks, -Raj)

STORY OF EUROPEAN RENAISSANCE: PART TWO

THE CITY-STATE OF FLORENCE :
The city of Florence lies in the historic valley of Tuscany ,
Along the banks of the Arno river, surrounded by hills
of scenic beauty !
Here during the first century BC , the conquering Romans
established their ‘Colonia Florentina’,
To settle the war veterans of Caesar’s army in Northern
Italia !
But later after the fall of Rome , it became a battleground
for the Holy Roman Empire and the Pope ;
But the independent nature of its people refused foreign
yolk !
They preferred commune rule led by a powerful leader –
called the Signore ,
Just like the city-states of ancient Greece, in those days of
yore !
But unlike Greece , Florence saw no Democracy ,
Since the Medici family finally usurped power in this
city of Northern Italy !
Unlike Venice , Florence is landlocked and not a port
city ;
Relying on banking and trade to prosper economically .
Their gold coin florin became the standard coinage
throughout Europe ;
While through the export of its quality textile and woolen
goods, great wealth got secured !
But to become patrons of art and letters mere wealth is
not enough ,
One must have a refined taste to become a true lover of
letters and art !
And here the Medici carved out a niche for themselves
under the Florentine sun !
Writers like Francesco Petrarca , Dante, and Boccaccio ;
And artists such as Giotto , Lippi, Dontello, Leonardo ,
and Michelangelo , were all born Florentines !
Even classical Athens couldn’t boast of such a vast
galaxy ,
Of artistic talents within such a limited time frame of
History !
These artists embellished their city with their literary
works, sculptures, architectures and paintings ;
Made Florence to reawaken, dazzle, and shine ;
Carving out a proud moment in history for the
Florentines !

CONTRIBUTION OF MEDICI FAMILY OF
FLORENCE :
Giovanni de Medici (1360-1429) :
This Medici family became the Godfather for the Italian
Renaissance ,
And I feel obliged to narrate their story tracing their
historical source !
In those early days Art was considered a lowly craft ,
There were no art galleries, and one couldn’t make a
living out of Art !
Without patronage the artist and his art couldn’t survive ,
So I speak of the Medics, who had originated from the
Tuscan countryside !
Gaining power through wealth and political astuteness,
And not through military force for dominance !
The founder of family’s fortunes was Giovanni de
Medici ,
An educated man with a simple life style , who
traveled on a donkey !
A humble man who had never aroused any enmity .
He established the Medici Bank with innovations
in ledger accounting system ;
And became a pioneers in tracking credits and debits
through a double entry system !
He opened branches of the Bank in Rome and Northern
Italy ,
Facilitated bills of exchange and credit bills, to multiply
his money !
After the return of the Papacy from Avignon to Rome ,
The Medici Bank was made the official bankers of the
Pope ;
And Giovanni became the wealthiest man in Italy , if
not in entire Europe !
In 1421 Giovanni was made the Chief Executive of his
city ,
And he commissioned its leading architect Brunelleschi , -
to glorify Florence city .
The challenging task for Brunelleschi was to build the dome
of the Cathedral of his city .
This was the first octagonal dome in history , a breakaway
from the earlier Gothic structures ,
And even surpassing the Roman Pantheon as a marvel of
Florentine architecture !
It took sixteen long years to complete this huge dome ,
And stands today as an icon of Renaissance Europe !
Giovanni had taught his son Cosimo to follow a simple
life style ,
To patronize art and letters, and to his people be kind !

COSIMO De MEDICI (1389-1464) :
After Giovanni’s death , Cosimo the Elder built upon
his father’s inherited wealth ;
Absorbed most of the 39 Florentine Banks, operating its
branches in London and Bruges as well !
The greatest rival of the Medici fortunes were the Albizzi ,
They plotted against Cosimo and the Medics ;
And in 1433, exiled Cosimo and his family out of jealousy !
But after a year the Medics were recalled back as heroes ,
Since the Florentine coffers without the Medici Bank , -
had become almost zero !
But both peace and prosperity are needed for flourishing
of art and culture ,
So Cosimo engineered the Peace of Lodi (1454) with Milan
and Venice , -
To prevent future wars and misadventure !
Scholars were made to collect precious manuscripts from
the East, and the churches and vaults of Europe ;
And an ensured period of stability , contributed to Early
Renaissance’s growth !
Sculptor Donatello’s bronze **** David stood up as an
unique art form ,
And with paintings of Fra Angelico, and Filippo Lippi , -
the style of art itself began to reform !
Architect Michalozzo built the famous Medici Palace ,
And Cosimo opened the Medici Library for the spread of
classical knowledge !
After the fall of Constantinople in 1453 , the Greek scholars
with their classical manuscripts fled to Italy .
They flocked to Florence where Cosimo established a
Platonic Academy !
Renowned Humanist Marsilio Ficino became its President ,
And complete works of Plato got translated from Greek
to Latin !
Thus the growth of Early Renaissance owed much to
Cosimo’s patronage ,
And the Florentines inscribed “Pater Patriae” on his tomb , –
(‘Father of His Country’) after his death !

LORENZO THE MAGNIFICENT (1449-1492) :
Cosimo’s son Piero the Gouty died within five years ,
Never achieved anything spectacular worthy of tears !
The Medici Bank had loaned large sums of money to
King Edward IV of England and Charles the Bold of
Burgandy,
Failed to recover getting into bad debts and insolvency !
So when Cosimo’s grandson Lorenzo succeeded at
the age of twenty one ,
He focused on other areas of creativity, and the period
of High Renaissance begun !
Lorenzo , a genuine lover of arts, also wrote poetry in the
dialect of his native Tuscany ;
Following the footsteps of Tuscan born poets Donzella ,
Davanzati , and Dante the author of ‘Divine Comedy’ !
On 26th April 1478 , the Pazzi family in connivance with
the Archbishop of Pisa and backing of Pope Sixtus IV ,
Tried to assassinate the Medics during the High Mass, -
in the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore !
Younger brother Giuliano was fatally stabbed , but they
failed to **** Lorenzo .
All the conspirators were hanged including Pisa’s
Archbishop !
Ecclesiastic censure was issued against Florence ,
And Lorenzo was excommunicated by the Pope !
But Lorenzo worked out a treaty of peace with the King
of Naples ,
And became the undisputed ruler of the Republic of
Florence !
Unfortunately , Lorenzo died young at the age of forty-
three ,
At the dawn of the great Age of Exploration and
adventures by sea !
During his rule Renaissance reached its Golden Age ,
And literature, art, and architecture blossomed with
Lorenzo’s patronage !
It earned him the title of ‘Magnifico’, now know to
us as Lorenzo the Magnificent !
Leonardo da Vinci , Michelangelo , Raphel , Giovanni
Bellini ,Titan, Veronese, Correggio , Tintoretto ;
All became superstars of the Renaissance era ;
Their works are cherished, valued and treasured to
this day of our Modern era !
In the year 1492 with Lorenzo’s death , Italy entered
a period of turmoil and instability,
And the Renaissance saw a period of decline in Italy !
But the flames of the Renaissance spread to other
parts of Northern Europe ,
And in the 16th century reached England’s shores !
The Medici Family had also provided three Popes to
Italy, and three Queens to France ;
Besides patronizing the growth of the famous Italian
Renaissance !
Now dear readers, to do justice to Renaissance art ,
architecture, and literature briefly ,
I propose to narrate its story in Part Three !
-- By Raj Nandy of New Delhi .
*ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE WITH THE AUTHOR

Let me climb the intellectual bandwagon of Chamara Sumanapala of the Sunday Nation in Sirilanka, to recognize a world literary fact that Taras Shevchenko was the grandfather of literature that paid wholesome tribute to Ukrainian nationalism. In this juncture it has to  be argued that it is ideological shrewdness that has taken Russia to Crimean province of Ukraine but nothing like justifiable law and constitutionalism. Let it also be my opportune time for paying tribute to Taras Shevchenko, as at the same time I pay my homage to Ukrainian literature which is also a cultural symbol of Ukrainian statehood. Just like most of the European gurus of literature and art of his time, Taras Shevchenko received little formal education. The same way Shakespeare and Pushkin as well as Alexander Sholenystisn happened to receive education that was clearly less than what is received by many children around the world today.
Like Lucanos the Greek writer who wrote the biblical gospel according to saint Luke, Taras Shevchenko was Born to parents who were serfs. Taras himself began his life being a slave. He was 24 years a serf. He spent only one fourth of his relatively short life of 47 years as a free man. The same way Miguel Cervantes and Victor Marie Hugo had substantial part of their lives in prison. Nevertheless, this largely self-educated former serf became the headmaster, the guru and fountain of Ukrainian cultural consciousness through his paradigmatic literature written basically in the indigenous Ukrainian language. He was a prototype in this capacity given that no any other writer had made neither intellectual nor even cultural stretch in this direction by that time.
And thus in current Ukraine of today, Taras Shevchenko is a national hero of literature and collective nationalism. But due to the prevailing political tension between Ukraine and Russia, his Bicentenary on March 9, 2014 was marred by hoi polloi of dishonesty ideology and sludge of degenerative politics. For many us who derive pleasure from literature and diverse literary civilizations we join the community of Ukrainians to remember Taras Shevchenko the exemplary of patriotism, Taras Shevchenko the poet as well cultural symbol of complete state of Ukraine.
There is always some common historical experience among the childhood conditions of great writers.  In the same childhood version as Wright, Fydor, Achebe, Nkrumah, Ousmane and many others, Shevchenko was born on March 9, 1814 in Moryntsi, a small village in Central Ukraine. His parents were serfs and therefore Taras was a serf by birth. At the age of eight, he received some lessons from the local Precentor or person who facilitated worshippers at the Church and was introduced to Ukrainian literature, the same way Malcolm X and Richard Wright learned to read and write while in prison. His childhood was miserable as the family was poor. Hard work and acute poverty ate up the lives of the family, and Tara’s mother died so soon when he was nine. His father remarried and the stepmother treated Taras very badly in a neurotic manner. Two years later, Taras’s father also passed away. Just in the same economic dint poverty ate up Karl Marx until the disease known us typhus killed her wife Jenny Westphelian Marx.
The 19th century Russian Empire was largely feudal, Saint Petersburg being the exception, just like the current Moscow. It was the door and the window to the West. Shevchenko’s timely and lucky break in life came when his erratic landlord left for Saint Petersburg, taking his treasured serf with him. Since, Taras had shown some merit and knack as a painter, his landlord sent him to informally learn painting with a master. It was fashionable and couth for a landlord to have a court painter in those days of Europe. However, sorrow had to build the bridges in that through his teacher, Shevchenko met other famous artists. Impressed by the artistic and literary merit of the young and honesty serf, they decided to raise money to buy his freedom out of serfdom. In 1838, Taras Shevchenko became a free man, a free Ukrainian and Free European.
As it goes the classical Marxist adage; freedom gives birth to creativity. It happened only two years later, Taras Shevchenko’s collection of poetry, Kobzar, was published, giving him instant fame like the Achebean bush fire in the harmattan wind. A kobzar is a Ukrainian string instrument and a bard who plays it is also known as a Kobzar. Taras Shevchenko also enjoyed some literary epiphany by coming to be known as Kobzar after the publication of his collection.
He was dutifully speaking of the plight of his people in his language, not only through music, but even poetry. However,  there were unfair and censuring restrictions in publishing books in Ukrainian. But lucky enough, the book had to be published outside Russia.

Shevchenko continued to write and paint without verve. Showing considerable merit in both. In 1845, he wrote ‘My Testament’ which is perhaps his oeuvre and best known work. In his poem, he begs the reader to bury him in his native Ukraine after he dies. Not in Russia. His immense love for the land of his birth is epitomized in these verses. Later, he wrote another memorable and compelling piece, ‘The Dream’, which expresses his dream of a day when all the serfs are free. When Ukraine will be free from Russia. Sadly, Taras Shevchenko came to his demise just a week before this dream was realized in 1861.
Chamara Sumanapala wrote in the Sirilanka Sunday Nation of 16 march 2014 that, Taras lived a free man until 1847 when he was arrested for being a member of a secret organization, Brotherhood of St Cyril and Methodius. He was imprisoned in Saint Petersburg and later banished as a private with the Russian military to Orenburg garrison. He was not to be allowed to read and paint, but his overseers hardly enforced this edict. After Czar Nicholas II died in 1855, he received a pardon in 1857, but was initially not allowed to return to Saint Petersburg. He was however, allowed to return to his native Ukraine. He returned to Saint Petersburg and died there on March 10, 1861, a day after his 47th birthday. Originally buried there, his remains were brought to Ukraine and buried in Kaniv, in a place now known as Taras Hill. The site became a symbol of Ukrainian nationalism. In 1978, an engineer named Oleksa Hirnyk burned himself in protest to what he called the suppression of Ukrainian history, language and culture by the Soviet authorities.

She might laugh if she read this
at the flat little version of her
that lives in my mind.
She may laugh
at my comparison of her
to a hideous sea spider
but hear me out
it could be touching.

David Foster Wallace wrote:
“Since pain is a totally subjective mental experience
we do not have direct access
to anyone or anything’s pain but our own;
and even just the principles
by which we can infer that others experience pain
and have a legitimate interest in not feeling pain
involve hard-core philosophy—
metaphysics, epistemology, value theory, ethics.”

"[Lobsters] do have an exquisite tactile sense,
one facilitated by hundreds of thousands of tiny hairs
that protrude through their carapace.
Although encased
in what seems a solid, impenetrable armour,
the lobster can receive stimuli and impressions from without
as readily as if it possessed a soft and delicate skin.”

and so

“We lift lobsters out of the bag
or whatever retail container they came home in
…whereupon some uncomfortable things start to happen.
However stuporous the lobster is from the trip home, for instance,
it tends to come alarmingly to life when placed in boiling water."

As much as I cannot comprehend the pain
of the exquisitely tactile lobster
in a *** of boiling water,
I wonder if I could
walk a mile in a lobster’s 8 minuscule shoes
and I wonder
what it might mean or not mean to her
with her armoured yet acute exoskeleton
to be back at home with her father.

They might try to butter you up
or snap elastic bands
around your oversized claws
and use a wooden spoon
to try and nudge your thrashing, clinging arms
back into the ***,
but remember:
lobsters can live to be over 100 years old
and grow to over 20 pounds in size
which is very large for an aquatic insect
and remember that they are marine crustaceans of the family Homaridae, characterized by five pairs of jointed legs, the first pair terminating in large pincerish claws.

And DFW famously said,

“Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.”

and he's not a lobster either

Antagonism
burgeons back bad blood.
Compatriots, courtesy can cool contentions:
doubly, disrespect demands decisive
execution. Early efforts evolved
fatuously, force facilitated farcical fighting.
Gambling gents gleefully gored
hedonistic harlots. Harassing
ignorantly, igniting
jealously,
killings
listlessly- liars lament
momentarily. Meanwhile, monetary
nuances
of opulence obscure
prime problems.
Quarries quake
running red. Remembering
solitarily- stoic steeds stand silent, sending
thoughts,
unbidden, unbeknownst.
Violence:
we were
xanthic,
yellow years yaw…
Zymotic.

A penny for your thoughts:
My conscience rots--
He can't cope with this silence
I am deceived by our Accuser

I cannot break this cycle
My actions speak louder than words
Choler and regret have arrived--
Our party will run all night

Don't drink and decide:
This silence will lie
My brain is my body's laughing-stock--
I should fire the C.O.O.

I'm acutely aware of this defection:
Of solitude, and all of her friends
I lie well within my own skin
Our wretched demise, facilitated by pride...

Hand on the good book that I never read,
I swore my loyalty though you know I like to fib,
Even as your see the guilt gushing beneath my skin,
I’ve been holding the prosecutor’s hand, with another on the switch,

A spineless snitch waiting for the green light to fry you for what Benjamin did,

So sorry this couldn’t have been different,
But the chair only seats one according to our governance,
And I’m not the victim with a scheme preached as providence

So sorry for the inconvenience
But I want to feel the pulse of the pompous cease,
And watch the stillness of eyes that once blinked,
When they found the oval throne of a tyrant
Instead of the virtuous,
The one who was to lead us,

So who’s stopping me from strapping you to that seat?
Since my crime caused the scene
Since your fathers where the ones who put your sons to sleep

Coming from the cranial cracks of the insane,
Those that tried justified slavery while promising us all equality

I am the reason they put price tags on humans
And why this isn’t the land of the free

I’m the governor forcing your loyalty
Or I tell everyone you’re a traitor before finding you guilty,

I’m Uncle Sam’s mistress,
The thought process of social unrest,
When the enemy was a homegrown threat,
When Plymouth protest turned to disobedience,
I was with the Protestant,

I’m the crack in the Liberty Bell,
The judge, jury, and judicial jezebel,

The King, the colonial, the freedom fighter, the insurgent
I’ve once facilitated your independence,
I was your lust for a better existence

Since the struggle against a parliament
I’ve been dealing you an idealistic hand,
Since the election of the forty-third,
I am the notion that this isn’t the promise land
Like a revolutionary remedy
I am the idealistic ******,

The enemy of our mentalities
The thought of defying the constraints this reality

"I would say I care about women's rights, but I wouldn't call myself a feminist"
"I think men and women should be equal, yeah, but I don't want to be called a feminist."
"Does that mean I can hit you?"

The word feminism rattles like a cracking cymbal crashing
just hard enough on pavement to scratch it
but not hard enough to break.
The word feminism manifests itself in our culture
in poisonous ways,
like the food dye in our candy'r
parabens we cover our faces in,
we don't say this word cos' it's scary
we don't want to make too much commotion

while white men in black robes orchestrate the court system
and have police by the neck, inserting money like a candy machine
we fear the word that gives us a step to bring equality

while white men in suits ask us "how we doin'"
and we don't admit that we're angry,
women don't show anger, it isn't polite
when the men in the subway puts his hand up our skirt
and says "hey baby you like that"
no, he doesn't ask if we do, he tells us out flat,
insinuating our satisfaction is a product of theirs
reminding us with a hand on public transportation
that anyone who has a **** can be one and we can't do ****
because we aren't supposed to be angry, it isn't polite

The word feminism manifests itself in delicate ways
we can't ask for too much, they won't take us seriously
****** intergrity? girl, try again
the right to not wear a bra?
Where do you think you are? this is america
An opinion
one that they hear
that isn't facilitated
out a white man's mouth
into a white man's ear
we aren't a filter
won't you raise your voice?
**** being polite,
please, make some noise

The word feminism manifests itself in ways you can't see
if you fear what it might make you lose
you haven't much yet by the hands of the man
so why are you choosing not to grab your sister's hands?
Stop saying sorry when someone interrupts you
stop moving out of the way for men who don't move
put your female foot down, don't say excuse me
you're a woman, angry with every right to be
stop fearing the word feminism
for the connotations are flurries
the word denotes storms we're starting
join us

Hand on the good book that I never read,
I swear my loyalty though I’ve been known to fib,

Holding the prosecutor’s hand with another on the switch,
Waiting for the green light to fry you for what we did,

So sorry it couldn’t have been different,
But the chair only seats one,

I apologize for the inconvenience
But I chose an existence,
While they strap you in for a crime I committed

I swear to tell the truth,
Or at least what I feel is best
I am the pen and scribe,
The governor seeking your obedience

I’m Uncle Sam’s mistress,
With the thought process of social unrest,
When the enemy was a homegrown threat,
I was with the Protestant,

Swore to tell the truth,
I've been known to fib,
I’m the ******* of Lady Liberty,
The child of Benjamin

The judge, jury, and judicial jezebel,
I’m the means to an end,

The King, the colonial, the insurgence,
I’ve once facilitated your independence,
I am your lust for freedom

Since the struggle against a parliament
I’ve been dealing you an idealistic hand,
Since the election of the forty-third,
I am the notion that this is the promise land
The thought process of the patriots

lasing fallacies
facilitated by flunkies
fictionalizing facts
for freedom
re-done interiors
inferior to craftsmanship of old
offer glimpses into consciousness
of the common folk
squandering birthrights
for a burger richer in trans fat
and bacon flavoring
atop an evangelical spire
I peer into soulless zombies
seeking connection
with my kin
only to have reality slap me back
as wolves are kin to pugs
but they cannot coexist
storm clouds gather
night falls
tears drop
I am alone
bone dry dust bowl
harboring fuchsia scorch marks
landscape scars
fracking remnants
humanity’s blight
my line of sight tracks trite sprites
pixie wings and bath salts
eating dog faces for jesus
or worse
feces
out of hunger
horrified I recoil to a safe spot within
again
with old friends
in the din
I win

Good things come to those who wait
Well I’m done waiting.
I’ve waited before.
I’ve been heartbroken,
I’ve recovered,
I’ve looked and looked and been around,
I gave up,
threw in the towel.
And then I was found.
By You
you who are so far away that distance includes a time difference

Limbo.
is not a state of mind!
It is a heart breaker, Chest beater There are not enough words in the world Minutes in the day
To express my frustration
With You
The universe
My weak weak resolve
To wait for you

I’ve waited before.
But I thought I had found you!
Been found.
Brought back to the place I had been before
I    was    like    Eve,!
in the Garden of Eden (pause)
Love is like……
Being high
But you still get the paranoia  It’s just not as intense

I’ve been heartbroken before
They say:
Distance makes the heart grow fonder?
But no one ever said what it did to the mind
Sleeping patterns, social skills and drinking habits?
I could have loved you.!
(But for that I needed time)
You could have been the love of my life
(Feelings grow)
The one ( a concept we trivialised)
Our relationship was facilitated
By my own temporary living situation

PAUSE

This limbo is never-ending
You drive me ******* crazy…
Crazy to ****
In blue Yves-St Laurent.
On top of covers,
Never under.


I guess the issue is
LETTING GO.
I don’t want to
It’s not fair
I just found someone who cares
About music, and books, haircuts
Me.
My needs
My pleasures
You chased ME
Right into my own mind Heart Body and soul
You got me
All of me;
My virginity

You said you didn’t do goodbyes.
I’ve never had to say goodbye;
But I think that we should have
Instead of this awful purgatory
That I’m wallowing in
Doubt, pity and swallowing
.My feelings.
Because this was meant to be easier (plea)
For you at least.
I
I just wish I was a vampire
So I could turn my feelings off
And recover

And I can’t fully address the heartache,
The recovery
The looking looking, getting around
Giving up, throwing in the towel
Because like a child
I am putting my foot down
I don’t want to be found
I already found you!
I will make my way back into your heart.
I will cross oceans.
I will succeed
Doubt and fear
Of my own instabilities
Abilities
Or lack of…

I have never been as uncertain.
I hope you’re happy…
That you make me feel this way…
Not that I regret
The time that WE spent.
I loved being we.
I hope that you would have grown to love me.

words from a conversation we had days ago echo in my mind turning into a lullaby, softly coaxing my eyelids shut. welcoming deep sleep to my weary heart.
each part of our souls intertwine to create a perfect panoply facilitated by the moon.
you and i under the same sky, all of a sudden the displeasures from the day before slowly melt away into the dark nighttime.
in the syzygy of our cosmic hearts we bask in the ethereal glow encompassed comfortably by the stars and moons.
involved in a state of a constant somnambulism so i never have leave the blissful reality conceived in my subconscious.
dreamers indulgence, walking hand in hand, free and filled with halcyon in the safety of sleep.

Are we acting within the laws of Thermodynamics?
Is this why the forests are felled
and the earth scoured for its ore?
We can not act randomly against the stochastic forces of nature.

Our agency has facilitated the beginning of the end,
fewer and fewer possibilities present themselves
and we're closing the doors to our future
before we ever knew of their existences

Weak static creates an uncomfortable tautness in the air.
A sound emitted from the screen is heavy, weighing.
Muted light grips to ions which imperceptibly moss over the dusty glass monitor.  
A world within a dish.  
Slapdash pixilation.
Fragments—just fractions, part in snaps.
No image takes form in the storm of digitalized points, indistinctive refrain is absently composed.
The apartment, thick with a cloudy green hue.
Stripped, pink shoulders, a flush which spreads in a subtle frenzy—
Bleeds across an exposed chest.  
Vulnerable core.  
Noticeably contracting, beating the high concentration of life from one source
Into branched capillaries.
Into plush, coy lips—
Hush.
Sinews tear, a dark liquid pools, liberated from perforations.  
Flowing from the source and staining porcelain teeth.
Indulgence.
The innate capability to devour proves true outside feasting.  
Femininity of unbridled ******* and echoing amusement,
Eternalized.
Cataplexies pressed and dried upon blank, white pages which prove difficult to turn—
only facilitated by the hand of time.
A vast expanse of briny depths outstretches further than what’s perceivable.
Waves rock a feeble coo which escapes from child’s lips at the spectacle of a mother.
*Cri de Coeur

our relationship has dryed like paint drys on a wall

I see pictures with living eyes,
making statements of their lives
I see statues pass and go,
judge me down from head to toe,
Sends a shiver down my spine,
im so glad that she is mine tonight

apart we are drained of joy like a dry river too deep to walk too empty for boats

and he dictates my life,
i facilitated to prove him right,
standing overhead my dreams,
fills my head with tortured screams
sends a shiver down my spine
im so glad that she is mine tonight

There was a difference you know

on the path that facilitated our growth

I'll never leave you

after I left you a long time ago

It wasn't your fault I know

you didn't know that I  found myself without you

He stalks and low crawls across the space.
Eyes wide and focused upon his prey,
a millions years of instincts throbbing
through his brain and sleek body.
His toes and claws flex with the coiled
anticipation of a hunter predator.

In a sudden burst of energy and blinding
speed he launches his attack, at the last
moment I pull up on the bait and he springs
three feet high into the air front claws extended!
For the next fifteen minutes the three month
old still a kitten, and I engage in our twice a
day ritual dance, a sparing inspired and facilitated
by a little feathered stuffed toy blue bird on a sting,
and I the puppet master.

His resolve is limitless, he will never quit, in
pursuit he springs and jumps circles in mid
air until I eventually end the affair for his own
good, when he begins to pant mouth open.
Then it is cat nap time. Sometimes for us both.

In darkened alleys and vacant parking lots,
Liminal spaces; an astral plane most physical
Broken bones, raw bruises, and blood clots
This is where I wish to throw the first punch; atypical
And insane, I just want to fight
Scuffed knuckles and bleeding noses, I’ve got some sort of plight
Where hatred turns to violence
Hungry blade in hand and dash of rogue; like a lioness
I’ve got to feed my body’s desire
This disturbing anger burns inside me like your funeral pyre

Poor, little girl with emotions on mute
Dreams and dreams of taking on the world
Come on, take me the **** on, deep down I’m a brute;
Brass knuckle dusters and a switchblade twirled
One look at you and it’s all weapons activated
All this rage facilitated
By the **** I take with a smile
As is the style
Of a lady too scared of dried blood consequences
Who feels too much with all her senses

But with the sun down and midnight rears its ugly head
Where moonlight trickles through tin plated shanties
That’s when the darkness is heavy as lead
In my heart, I feel the turmoil and I become a useless vigilante
Too drunk on violence to care for justice
And I got a lust for us

For us and a good and ****** fight
Just you, me, and my one-sided rage
Let’s knock you out like a ******* light
But maybe if we burn some sage
I’ll be purified of this urge
Because every time I see your pretentious face
I get this despicable desire to purge
You of this plane of existence
But Baby, that’s why you need to learn
Respect me or expect resistance
And deep down I yearn
That you never do
So I’ll be justified
When I get to throw the first punch; beating you black and blue
But just know I tried

I tried to lock up these feelings
Beneath a pretty and innocent smile
When my brain is Hell and I got my reasonings
And you’ll be my first trial
Of anger and violence
Where words fail and I don’t believe in silence
At least not until you’ve screamed
And in the afterlife that you’ve dreamed

In your attempt to understand life,
Misleading yourself, pushing to fight,
Your unguided system fails and falters,
You consistently pass the blame to others,
And in our sentience and own free will,
We chastise beliefs of others still,
I implore you to be mindful, perhaps,
For real intelligence seems too much to ask,
How can you believe that you are owed,
What in this life has shown you so?
How can you believe your existence has worth
Yet still acknowledge the cosmos’ lurch?
What trait of yours has been engrained
To allow you to think you’re anything?
How small minded must we all be
To disregard something we all can see?
We are a
Pitiful
Sorrow filled
Sack of
Worthless Dust,
Flying through time,
Believing we must
Find the existential,
Break new ground,
Your hollow ideals fail you
As death’s bell sounds,
-
You are a measly grain of sand,
Soaring on a spec of dirt,
Through a playground.
Your problems don’t matter,
Your emotions will have no effect.
You’re dying, cancer of the earth.
Your useless, meandering thoughts,
Fickle, fodder for space and time,
Only temporarily facilitated by
The meat suit you currently occupy.
You will die,
Your memories will fade quickly,
Your name forgotten,
Correctly bludgeoned and blotted out
By the fact that you don’t really matter.
You and I will rot like everything else.

I am not one to criticize your method of self-abuse.  examples of god set examples for.  all babies are early.  all babies are the death of blanket statements.  sending a body to hell weighs the same but is not equal to holding the bloodless ***** of the poor man’s number one squeeze.  from what you tossed off, I took this:  twins are gay.  and how your father’s suicide was facilitated by your grandfather correcting his aiming of the garden hose at a hornet’s nest.  what I left were the sounds of war presented as souvenir eggings of the same fog swallowed house.  and my mother, the missing headline of my emergence.

After the earth at long last touches the sun,

furthermore, the long blast stops all of a sudden

like a heart rundown,

the world may appear to be white and calm

to something that watches it in the sky during the evening,

so something may feel little,

what's more, feel almost human agony.

Be that as it may, it won't occur once more:

the long evenings squandered alone, what's finished

in entryways oblivious by the youthful,

what's more, what could have been for a few.

Think about every one of the darlings and the companions!

Who does not accumulate his segment of them

to himself. in any event in his brain?

*** facilitated through everybody,

notwithstanding while slipping into death

as into a dearest's skin,

what's more, prying out again to discover

the body drooped, muscles slack.

furthermore, bones started their swing to tidy.

At that point nobody minds when one darling

holds another, similar to an emptied sack.

Be that as it may, reality enters toward the finish of life.

It enters like oxygen into each cell

also, the franticness it bolsters there in a few

is just a clear allegory

for something since a long time ago consumed to nothing,

like a star.

How would you get under your want?

How would you peel away each want

like unwieldy garments, each one in turn,

until what's underneath is known?

We knew private parts as little things

what's more, we were embarrassed they drove us around,

regardless of the possibility that the ***** where we'd rests

was a similar ***** the universe unfurled upon

throughout the night, as we watched the stars,

at the point when for once our breathing appeared to mix.

Each time, from that sweet weight

of hands, or the colossal alleviation of the mouth,

a man can be driven out of himself

Is it safe to say that it isn't forlorn in the body?

The myth says we overflow in regards to as spirits

until there's a body made to take us,

what's more, just substance is made by ***.

That is the reason we enter *** so tirelessly,

around the joy that comes

when we push down sufficiently far

to bump the soul ascending to discharge,

furthermore, the joy is joy of unadulterated soul,

for a minute all together once more.

So *** returns us to starting, and we groan.

Unadulterated *** ends up plainly particular and cement

in a touch of ***** or incline of midsection:

it flies through itself like light, it sails

on not at all like a wing, when somebody's there

to be touched, when there's not all that much.

So the genuine is touched in ***,

like a ***** through material: the genuine

rising stout and genuine, the psyche

dashing about it like a tongue.

This is the place I needed to be all along:

up on the planet, in contact with myself. . .

***, undetectable priestess of a decent God,

I think without you I may very well turn off.

I know there's no keeping you close,

as you flick by underneath a sentence

on a prepare, or change the last idea

of an old cloister adherent, or pull back for one minute alone.

Who guides you or secures you!

I'd surrender the rest to **** your dull lips.

I'd surrender the rest to settle you correct

in the universe, at the most out of control edge

where there's no such thing as shape.

What a disgrace I am, if contacting the ideal individual

in a diminish room, *** holds itself separated

from us like a holy messenger in a the great beyond,

also, with the thoughts nobody has even imagined,

it cries its odd music for unadulterated personality.

After there's nothing,

after the enormous explode of everything,

what voice from what throat

will reveal to me my identity? Every throat

on which I would have discreetly set my lips

will be tore like a modest sleeve

or, on the other hand blown separated like the ceased up

barrel of a weapon. What was inside them

all the time I needed dependably

to rest my mouth upon?

I thought generally everything

stuck dartlike in the half-arch of my mind,

also, hung there like phony stars in a planetarium.

It's actual that things there changed into names,

that even my loved ones were a bundle of signs,

so I felt frequently alone.

This is an approach to remain alive and nothing to wail over.

We know the first occasion when we broaden an arm:

the body achieves so far for so long.

We develop and love to develop, at that point stop, at that point rests.

I needed to manage inside me this delicate result.

I needed to know whether it got *** going:

does it show up definitely in touch and talk?

does it spill from the psyche, as warmth from the skin?

I needed my touching insightful, similar to a wonderful melody.

The Facilitators  also need Facilitation
To facilitate the ones ....
Who  cannot be facilitated ...
In order to facilitate more ..

One day the dead shall wake
And all the Earth shall quake
From the ruin, new life shall spring
And good news, the destruction shall bring
Amid the new life
Judgement shall purge strife

The good
The evil
The rich
The poor
The sick
The healthy

Awaking,
Appealing,
The reckoning hath come
With the world reeling
Before the holy might
Underneath a holy light

Both acceptance
And refusal
An apocalyptic happenstance
Facilitated by
Divine will:
Absolution,
A change of resolution,
A revolution,
Hailed by the triumphant call of a trumpet

Divided the fallen stand
Raising to their full height
Beneath the ruling gaze
Of an Angel
Of a God

But until the fallen stand
We must wait
With the weight
Of our sins
Casting our own judgements
Upon each other
We lash out
We cry
And we lie

Our own sort of entropy
Chaos
Achieved through order
We live,
We die,
We love,
We lose,
And one day
We may have it all
Or we may lose it all
But first we must stand
And then we must fall
So, we may rise once more
As per the bidding
Of Judgement
Of those whom we do not know

Being perfectly honest, I have no one to blame but myself.

Right now I sit, fingers bleeding and raw from too much picking, biting, scratching, pinching my face and holding or wrenching my head and hair all because of me.  There is no answer, no burden relief…. just the truth.  And maybe that’s too much for one person to bear.

This has been going on for a long, long time.  Personally, I think it all started with diversity.  We all know energy cannot be created or destroyed; it just changes from one form to the next.  Everything goes back to that and this godforsaken planet.  Why did our god-consciousness devise a physical realm through which to express itself?  Why did our god-spirit, a universal entity ‘spinning in infinity’ choose to become man, and experience a life of restriction and decay?  Out there we were…. pre-conception, unlimited by time, space and biology.  All sensation was total; arguably far more real and tangible than anything we have experienced since.  We were intrinsically one, not a part of the universal whole, for we, together, constituted the whole.  There was no you or me – we just were.  When the first chemical isomerised, or the first whatever polarised, a self destructive chain reaction set up an evolutionary time bomb that would ultimately(?) produce organic form ‘sophisticated’ enough for our god-consciousness to parasitise and torment.  Well brother, sister, hold on tight ‘cause that’s you and me.  We are all experimentations of our divine selves in a game to see how we would cope without our god-knowledge and god-experience and god-perception.

And I wonder why I’m going nuts.


Day Zero. . . . Day Zero. . . . Day Zero. . . . Day Zero.


‘In the Beginning’ there was no time.  Nowadays there’s still no time, although nowadays it’s more no-time-for-anything; whereas way back then there was no time for anything, but time for everything…. if you see what I mean.

On the one level (or dimension if you like) there was the god-consciousness – the zone of ephemera that just was.  A heavenly realm where all spirit dwelt in total communion.  As I sat in her presence she took me within herself and my physicality exploded; every building block of my familiar self was phased, so I could become one with the entity.  This transportation facilitated communication with the Other that I had now morphed with; a communication so basal and profound but so simple and totally gratifying the remnant of me that I could still perceive wept openly and eternally.
At the moment of initiation I became aware of so many secrets that had for so long troubled my man-self, and wanted to comfort the weeping of my dormant spirit but had now way of communicating these inhuman messages.
A few things that underpin the whole event of understanding was the knowledge that all these thoughts were based in eternity.  Like I said, timeless, but that’s just one factor.  It is impossible to answer questions of eternity with a finite brain but (thankfully) not impossible to kick a few of these questions around (which we have been avoiding like dog-****) and come up with some interesting ideas.  It was in this way I was able to communicate these ideas from my god-consciousness to my man self, and thus take a few philoso-theologic steps.  I was willing to learn how to walk again slowly, and to be honest would have been overjoyed if I was ever able to walk without the steadying hand of the god-consciousness.  But little did I know it would send me to the edge of destruction - on the shore of the real fiery pit.
Perhaps this was why, theologically, man could never see god and live.  For to see god is to know god, and the very being of man is not designed to deal with godly things…. If too much comprehension is taken on board, the mind ‘short-circuits’, and fails to deal with the most basic of functions.  We’re not meant to know that much.  It’s as simple as that.
So while my man-self mourned the loss of innocence, the god-consciousness that I was now part of continued our holy communion.  I became an integral part of a vision: ideas, concepts, images flew around and through ‘me’, no language was spoken, no stimulus triggered these responses, but I understood all and roamed the universe in spirit.

We have been so repressed for years – not by a dictator, or a society, but at a basic level, by language and communication.  Our brains are so finite and discrete (or at least that portion that we employ seems to be) that when we try and relate even the simplest notion, we have to select a word, phrase or image that at best approximates what we are thinking.  Even art and literature, when descriptive powers are maximised, are still only pointing to the feelings, the motives that made us create.  In the god-consciousness, all language filters and communication barriers were gone; thought drifted in purity and totality from originator to recipient, for we were all part of the Whole.  This is the (sadly limited) translation.

The Beit Hamikdash temple raised crowds after receiving crucibles that descended from the confines of the Duoverse, bringing praises that sustained high temperatures that the major star returned with immeasurable distances in its annals of light, gutting itself in the ravages that converged thousands of illicit that were not able to bear light in wicked after completing them. The sedition was vitiated towards those with the sight that was thrown from the temple, shining in the Vexillum motto that brought all the legions from the garden with all the Falangists, invoking comfort to the last soldier who had no balms to warn them in billions of years light, for all who exhorted the name of the Mashiach. The trans-angelic conception was making vows on Patmos by admitting that the fight had not offended the twelfth men of the Meshuva, appropriating altars that were suitable to support on their feet that have been ..., and that have been aligned umpteenth times from Egypt to Patmos, when canopies heal them from fruitless heartburn, in which oblations resurrect from what serves those who are served, in this way all bronze and iron armor were requisitioned and sheathed in the quagmire of Hades, from which the animals went out to graze on dog days that turned into herbs of Gehenna, witnessing expiations that were curled through meadows, when sheep and rams have been seen that undulate on plantations as if they were devotions that dry the beam in everything, with what is obtained in his true faith of the ministry of error and error conceived as a universe that is subtracted from the clister of the Iblis converted from the lung of the Colosso de Apsila a thousand times, until all s the disobediences of those who slumber with useless geniuses, being neat beings that strip them of the fig tree like winged specimens, rescinating one that will be delimited by the end of it itself when approaching the sink.

They looked with suspicious fear at the sliced thumb of a ministry that sent everyone to lament over uncaused injuries, but the entelechy made a relief of resilience, sending those who have to fight for lost lines in annals of past life, hardened by the Kashmar that bears the exulcers of its dying star. The Aeonium as foliages carry the Biblidacea species of the lullaby of the Vernarth Garden on the Eudicotyledonous axon, where the aquatic ones will bring sub-shrubs with regal pride that resists the albardín of Judas, appetizing in its ****** as an affliction of YH VH of the Mashiach (Yod Hei Vav Hei), constituting Northwest Africa, with succulent etymology when trying to transfigure into diasporas of harassment of the body that make a simple arrangement in basal rosettes that drain nirvana, and that fragrant toast the flowers that are faithful servitudes with androgynous light that all the sacred names of the Moshiach matriarchy profess in what Is and Is not! With a little chalice desoldered from the base, the collector was grasped and adhered, which reaps its sunken follicles, in particular of its luminous atrophy repaired in the scarce flashes where only a Mashiach will put nimble bifurcation photons for others who assiduously do the brush on his macula altar of the cult cluster hybridization process.

Taxonomy innovated with crass predestinations after the eruption of the Colosso of Apsila, wanting to uncover living cells from the succumbed ones, when Kairós ruled the Sven Tzora flint in those that were to be toned, which was softened by Aeonium flowers as it grew on stones that were a hundredfold in size. Judas's footsteps after putting the leash on his neck generating stained, and away from the Garden of Vernarth, resigning protruding fingers in his right hand with the connecting ruse that made him stick to the knot, closing his deadly phalanxes and flooding the scaphoid with coagulated blood black, who had never been lowered from the inviolable lineage in songs of her death ...! He confessed to the Lord in putting care about it when his mother spoke to him of the vision in El Manyi, by twelfth spirits that led him along his disciplic shoulder of stoning, towards the thick palace where no one lives, only noises would silence the one who speaks worth seeing his apostasy.

Patmia moaned of its lines not sheltered in wayward stars with pale shades, and gentle automatons that freed themselves from their convenient matrix, where no affection has been contemplated in eternal individuals who were torn from the eternal celestial sky of Patmia, now it will be necessary to fill new reformatories of the same eon, behind fetish parapets and intervals of organic matter, giving drink to their cattle and fodder for the lost, among so many who are only servants of those who survive against the followers, until the finite point in which all will have to surrender. To the Ophiucus of the thirteenth ladder of Judas, being ruled by his lateral right discernment with the costly salvation, then the dimensional right hemisphere will be the house that will have to replace him in Aquarius, with evanescent compassionate tragediography, after being cursed in his skillful ascent slipping away by a self-generated destiny. Extensive and limited fiefdoms debased themselves of their greatness after the beauties of the aurum were exhibited, restraining themselves from the invisible third of the transient of breath never guessed. Syntagmas crews facilitated their angelologies by allowing Cereola or Plum to the great darkness that will empty everything from its entrails, with pictures on the first cusp that took the golden diametral segment of the "V", resounding in Nativity prior to incorruptible perspective approaches from a streak that was stowed at forty-five degrees with the affinity of the tangent.

Vernarth's vision approach was subdivided into three hundred and sixty firmaments, giving undaunted competition to his cyclic stealth, also worshiping stealth quantum itself, asserting trans-dimensional quantum millionths for its stirrups, and worshiping immaterial dimensions, of which the Peri Kosmous paternalized. With three hundred and sixty lanterns that will refer to the awareness of the stolon of the Aeonium Virgineum in the garden of Vernarth. The channeling will resemble the generalities of the Apostle Santiago lighting lotions of the Virgineum in his discreet habit, full of Capernaum pollen, uprooting large notches and thick actions with oversized stolons in the expanding universe, along with the annals that were deconfigured into uncontrolled units. Blackish, spatulating and welding the limits of the universe of Patmia, united by expectors that sprouted from the Colosso de Apsila when its pectoral was abrogated. Simultaneously through its mouth, the secretion would make the entire island a sub-species that would ignore the cognition of hatred of internations and dogmas, given the discharges that denoted climatic changes that were creating the intensity that was noted in lack of wisdom, polarizing pubescent stages of geological and theological maturity, in the intricate dichotomy of the Colosso that brought a direct relationship, concealing the upper and lower northeast and the sub-lower world of Vóreios, which was adding minutes to devour, and that will express the purest change of the axial. The expletive of climate change was establishing itself in the Kassotides Omphalo, which is nothing more than another symmetrical purge pectoral of the Colosso de Apsila, enthronement of the previous superior superficial major, leaving the other anterior part of the sternum with the physical enclave, irrigated by arteries of the Bumodos and the Eygues, zoning subcutaneous macro conformations, and analogously making the Valdaine that comes closer from the narrow streams with the Ibex in Chauvet, of Wonthelimar.

I
Understand this
all too well
I orchestrated
My own living hell

Through hunger and greed
A facilitated the wicked
Condemn the innocent
And with held their ticket

Survival of the fittest
Only the strong is Worthy
**** out the sickest
Be the judge jury

I Should Have Been Told
That empathy would come
That I would meet my end
With this big Chrome gun