I was fascinated by you.
The very first time I saw you.
I saw the moon falling into my hands.
The breeze kiss my lips.
Softly with the promise of springtime.
We have spent many years together now.
more than the falling leaves of autumn.
Yet still when I look
into your timeless eyes.
I see that fascination
the same one from so long ago.
Yet now
I do not know where I begin
and you end.

Tie me up, don't let go
I'd rather be kept away than let these feelings grow.
If you may, cover my eyes
To keep me away from admiring the beauty of her smile.

My desire is shielded by pale skin and spineless structure
The heaving in my chest is my heart clutching the pits of my empty stomach
as my lungs whisper    
honey harmonies
Any intention of uttering my fascination is quickly dwindling back into my nail beds
*Please don't go

Here Kitty,  Kitty,, called aloud the man~relaxing in his Lounge chair~while sipping a Slightly-Sugared Iced tea.   Here Kitty,  Kitty,,He continued to call~wondering where the curious cat~might have have made off to~THIS TIME..     Perhaps to the New neighbors~where boxes of all shapes and colors~were carefully~Disarrayed in the back yard~Just waiting for the curious...      Not getting any response from Kitty~the Man decided to PEER over ~the Neighborhood Alignment Fence~and Sure enough~There was Kitty!     Kitty was Springing~Up and Down~Like a YO-YO and Jumping from Box to Box.   Curiosity is an Amazing thing~Isn't it?    The Man seemed to be caught in a Trance~As he watched Kitty~continue to jump and  YO-YO !    What could be in those boxes?~that held such fascination?   Was it a Creepy-crawler~a Slimy-Slitherer~a Wise-Wiggler~a Dashing-Dancer~an Awful-Awesome~a Yelping-Yeoman~an Energized-Egrit~an Ugly-Duckling~a Fast Frog~a Gorgeous-Gargantula~a Social Secret~a Horrible-hulk'a Raspy-Rascal~an Insensitive-Iguana~a Jumping-Jackal ?     OR ,    was it simply the color of the Boxes ?     Look at that Curios Kitty~Jumping and Jumping and Jumping !      SUDDENLYthe Man~Totally overcome by ~Lady Curiosity~Bounded over the Alignment Fence~Dashed Promptly to the Boxes~Scattering them all over the Yard~Trying to Discover ~ "THE SOURCE" ..    Only ONE box remained ~after opening~All the Others!  NOW he would find the ANSWER!   He carefully approached the LAST BOX~Gently pulled it closer~looking for a way to Open~-------  Lifting Lid carefully~Slowly~KITTY~came Bounding out~All claws~digging and clinging to His chest~Was that FEAR~~HE SAW in KITTY'S  eyes?_  "AS His ALARM-CLOCK ,, Screamed out to Him"AWAKEN_

The High Line (Pearls Before Swine)

is located on Manhattan's West Side. It was an elevated train track, that runs from Gansevoort Street in the Meatpacking District (wholesale butchers) to West 34th Street, between 10th & 11th Avenues, near the Hudson River, running parallel to the river.  

The High Line was originally constructed in the 1930's, to lift dangerous freight trains off Manhattan's streets. The High Line, nowadays, is open as a public park, owned by the City of New York. The District is now a night life hot spot of elegant shops and restaurants, among the few remaining meat packing firms, a "scene." If not in a hurry, and unfamiliar with the High Line, look it up (see notes), to get a visual of image. Or not. I can't remember who I promised I would dig out my High Line poem, but a promise kept.
_________________

Walk­ed the High Line after work,
early summer afternoon,
a pubescent evening-tide,
the teenage colors
of the setting ball,
seize your breath,
your eyes, enthrall.

On Little West 12th Street,
climbed up to
breathe the green,
thriving railroad earth-beds
tucked so cute,
tween the rusted ties of
intrepid railroad tracks.
still working in
service to humanity;
nature supporters now,
a new kind
of freight carried.

Climbed up on the backs
of a jumbled combo of
dressed beef carcasses
and yuppie carc-*****,
both obedient to the
Law of Consumption:
Consume or be consumed.  

Looked down on them,
grazing,
gazed upon them
pseudo social-dancing,
they are all prowling,
cat burglars,
searching for felines, roosters,
to tango/tangle with till
the shameful dawn walk,
a final tally of who,
was consumed,
and who,
got consumed.

Watch with bemused fascination
at the children,
swilling and chilling,
some liquor, some swill.
nonetheless  admiring each other;
their Lauren cut and Hilfiger heft
the finest of fat veined lines,
decorating their svelte,
but very attractive,
full figured appearances.

USDA Grade A,
a genuine meat market,
humans and
animals guts,
intertwined.

The Highline,
an architect's composition
of summer grasses,
planted in nooks and crannies
of man's discarded invention.

Summer grasses in unison,
stadium waving to
the music of summer breezes,
Manhattan sounds,
clinking glasses,
goods and services exchanged.    

The view admires you -
Oh baby you look so fine,
Your hair, like the
Hudson River's aquas
is a shining, streaked,
by High Line highlighted
late afternoon,  
sun-setting golden sparklers.

Your gold chains entwining,
fire crackers on top of a
the blue ribboned river,
exploding, dazzling,
your obedient admirers.  

They complement your skin,
aglow, one of nature's works,
soon to be painted on a canvas,
across a horizon of a
pinkish-tinged lavender sky -    
a gift of the oh-so-refined
refineries of South Jersey.  

Cool summer afternoon in
the Meatpacking District,
traffic, human, automotive,
clogs the Gansevoort piazza,
a NYsee zone pietonne,
a Manhattan cocktail of
young strivers and Eurotrash,
where you check me out,
and I return the favor,
using a pre-certified checklist.

Are you young?
Are you hip?
Are you beautiful?
Do you possess
what it takes
to undress me?
Reservations and a limousine!

Everyone who's there,
by definition, is in,
otherwise where else
would they be!

Pearls of perfect people,
perfect lives,
in, around and
before, swine.  

Am I the only one
who gets the joke,
or is the joke, me,
because I just don't got it
in order to get "it"?

Am I the only one
who sees the dead,
ancient and newly arrived,
human and other kind,
the living,
sharing the animal spirits
of the Meatpacking district:
some animated,
some haunted,
some summer tanned
some blood drained,
ghostly white veined?    

In this city,
my sweet city,
city where I bore
my first breath,
city where I'll be laid down to
my permarest,
the hues of my life
are city pastels,
colorful shades of asphalt
and concrete gray and
dried blood,
interspersed with the
speckled glitter of the
potpourri of human creation.

The Highline, an architect's
composition of summer grasses,
planted in nooks and crannies
waving to the jazzed music
of Manhattan lives,
its history, summer breezes,
emblem of the city's only coda:

Transform, rebirth -
survive and prosper,  
or else,
be slaughtered and die.

Summer 2010

I can't wait 'til
Nightfalls
Tonight
I will
Construct nightmares
So insane
Phantoms couldn't fathom
Fantasies make foul turns
Fascination fails
You'll frail frantically
Your chain of the thoughts
Become a train
Derailed
From Loco motives
Your emotions
Are now
Monstrous motifs
Built moments
Before happiness
You'll stare
In terror eyes
Scared as cats
You scratch
Along the wood floor
Forced
Through dark corridors
The doors
Horror tore off the hinges
You're inches away
From no longer living
As soon
As you've given
Yourself away
I take
And make worse!

Death dances
At arms lengths
I've never seen someone
so anxious
To reach

Too anguished to speak
How shall I satisfy?
This shallow heart
Is empty
But simply filled the rows
Of this cathedral
With people
Who payed
To see the price
You've payed

I guess,
Hell sales
This thriller will terrify
Eye's should stay confined
When I
Comply to my conscience
Can science comfort you
It claims this isn't real
Well
It really helped me
Make you feel
Comfortable enough
To sleep
Deeply
Anesthesia
Will be the
Reason for your sweet retreat
As soon as your
Sound asleep
I'll compile vile thoughts
And send you on a journey
With intent
Of you never returning
A one-way trip
From float, freight or flight
As long as it brings
Fright
By mars at night
Where nightmares
Are the day
And you're fearful of it's sight

You see her walking past your door
You see her lightly standing there
You imagine her sprawled on the floor
Picture running your fingers through her hair

The courage builds as you approach
The nervous sweat, the nervous choke
Yet pushed along by a hopeful hope
Of these feelings so strongly evoked

Striking up just a simple conversation
Slow at first then slightly building
Getting to know this lovely fascination
With stylish clothes and shiny gilding

By the time you’ve walked away
When you travelled home and relaxed
Peacefully possessing nothing more to say
It dawns on you the question you asked

In the midst of that idyllic interaction
Approaching the question of a real date
Your mind gave way to the risky faction
And now you’re feeling you can levitate

Now tomorrow is a better day
Looking forward for what’s in store
Suddenly seeing in another way
In finding the one you’ve been looking for

Time goes on and spring it blossoms
The nights out so fun, grow attachment
Each day knowing a feeling so awesome
In the ignorance of such strong entrapment

Lost in her warmth and her sweet kiss
Your eyes desiring her always nearer
Regretting in full each moment you miss
For even her beautiful scent you revere her

Now the times change and you feel autumn
Coming with warmth at night by the fire
You place her love deep at the bottom
Of the root of your heart and desire

But the warmth of the fire masks the cold wind
Blowing so icy through your perfect scenario
And now it reveals that which was hid
The darkest knowledge that is tearing you

You break at the seams when you see
That her love she was giving back so much
Was sincerity in only a small degree
And it was covered by the lies of her touch

She took your heart and smashed it apart
Acting so remorseless as she walks away
Leaving you lost to stumble in the dark
Now for her light to come back you pray

In full blast the cold of winter comes
You wrap yourself in whiskey and imagination
Trying to remove the chill from your bones
Destroyed and hurt by your wicked fascination

Slowly over time the wound seems to heal
You replace the pain with sharp ire
However this façade is never real
Sadness still consumes your soul in entire

Always searching for a better solution
You know your soul needs peaceful rest
Looking for a remedy to this contusion
Combing the world for only the best

It seems such long years hunting for
Peering down dark alleys and windy roads
The wisest of men you do implore
To give you that which for the better bodes

And appease this painful misdirection
Designed to find an end to the heartbreak
As if you are trying to cure an infection
But as much as you give still more it’ll take

Nothing less than a mighty act of will
Will rid yourself of such a dark memory
It cannot be achieved by some magic pill
You must look within, and heal so deep

The places she lived within your heart
Dwelling among your innermost emotions
You must find the spark that made it start
And not cover up, but erase the notions

That you and her could ever be one
Reconciliation of your broken mind
Realize that what’s been done is done
And know there is someone else to find

Always another person to **** their way in
There will be a girl to end your night
And implant themselves so far within
The winter chill eclipsed by the warmth of light

Then the next day after this epiphany
So fresh in your mind this new correction
Ever so softly the light shines with glee
Upon a girl who trumps the last deception

Now winter is gone and spring is in bloom
Taking her hand you know you’ve found
A girl who radiates the joy of high noon
Piercing deep into your heart’s underground

Cranking the gears so long out of use
Lighting your world as no one before
Swiftly this love abounds so profuse
Flowing so new from this girl you adore

She could not abide a stupid man.
If you could not feed her curious mind
then you would never satisfy her in any manner.
If you looked like a Greek god but were basically a dolt,
she might have a motherly affection to you,
but you never would truly able to pull at her lust.
No, it was not a man's physical beauty
but his brains that turned her on.
If, when she was with you,
her mind could stretch deep into a galaxy
or swim in an ocean of philosophy
then you had what it took to open her up.
And when she did,
open up,
well ****!
It was like a 3D Georgia O'Keeffe painting.
You were lost in folds, creases, valleys, and fascination.
And then that's it,
you were ruined to all other women.
You would love her until the end of time.

sitting hungry in the halls
reading holocaust novels with a morbid fascination

two identical scarves knitted by two identical souls;
both hungry for self-love, god-love and the night
one is rewarded by he who weaves the long, black tapestry of his own destruction; the other destined to sit lonely & forgotten

standing idly, lost in the dance of delusion
& moving wildly intoxicated
seeking love, seeking chase
giving flight to the demons of the age
the technological drug-fix of instantaneous communication

the lobotomy of both mental hemispheres
the horse collar choking struggle to escape clinging home and mother's spinning round & round
turning wheels and daisies
kicked up in the dust of the twilit road
retched from the stomachs of a thousand children lulled to sleep
by the sickly glow of orange floodlight

Picked freshly from the
garden of my newfangled
burning infatuation for you,
a fine blanket of lettuce,
to suit my modest request
This evening holds meaning,
accented with wine of white
over candlelight,
delicious Italian dining tonight
You do me well,
you know you do

Scorching days
turn to chilly nights
We are but two spoons,
failing to convect heat
to warm each other’s souls
and hands, which I kept
moisturized, for us;
scented fingers of vanilla
caress uniquely speckled skin
Genuine fascination
in everything
that is
*you

Cottony smoke curled under my nails, on hands too clean, clearly, for the task that would send them one day to bones. Perhaps without the cinders and ash burning peacefully away at the underside of my tongue, I’d find the strength to understand. Though in the darkness, one little gnat of color was a world of fascination. My mind withered in the fire and ignited in that small, red-black glow, wrapping into its strings. Wishing I could burn away too, and burn away everything.
It is no wonder, that….
Being toasty in frosty air, unable to feel my toes, and quite unable to care.

i was directed to this place by Marty Feldman, and he said i should say this password to gain entry: float like a chapati, sting like a vindaloo.

i' not good at making passes at someone's death,
just yesterday i was thinking
while a quiz show took place with haiku clues
regarding famous people, so i wondered
aloud: would it still be the correct answer if
you said: cassius clay? what a cool name,
colossus of clay - what the hell does Muhammad
and Ali have to do with african rooting
when you hardly speak Swahili? a bit pointless,
but a name like cassius clay... unstoppable -
already mythological, rather than a family
feud between Ali and the Caliphs after Muhammad's
death - maybe he should have confirmed his
baptism as Muhammad Ali with a confirmation
akin to catholic practice and added a surname, like
Khadijah, well... if Mozart is turning in his coffin
for his music being turned into a muzak
or a Porcupine Tree tree song, then the first wife of
Muhammad is turning in hers... a wise women
of sound economic acumen could be compared
by secular standards to Gabriel's voice, women tell lies,
just today i saw plain Jane turn into a stunner,
she was gagging to go on a date with a guy of her dreams,
by media standards a subsequent loser in Morocco,
at a photo shoot of practising flirtation a half-and-half
love affair between the Gothic island of the Caribbean
that's England and the Bahamas flirted with olive skin,
blue eyes and pecks, and an ego shaped like a woodpecker...
or an u.z.i., poor guy, got to make a show,
but the ***** is out! she noticed her eyes!
what further shahada of scheherazade?
just one more night, just one more night, one more, night.
demigods and men, traces of narcissus in man resides
in his eyes, nowhere else, man and woman fall in love
with their eyes, rather than narcissus and the complete
visage, but as i once said: imagine narcissus looking
into the sea - he might as well have fallen in love with
the stillness of the lake rather than the image represented
by it - across the seven seas he roamed, across the seven
zeniths, until he came across the Lake of Echo,
and heard the echo of footsteps beside him, to have seen
the natural mirror by moonlight, and settled to lie,
disguising himself as a flower worth recycling:
each god in polytheism his own individual, reigning ideal
in the pantheon of gods: solipsism - with man's intervention
a notably study of, himself.
although i'd love to chat thoroughly about this,
i'm not so sure i want to - hear the words:
you're a good man... you're a good man in a brothel?
you think a ******* would forget saying that
and continue? *persona incognito grata -
a golden crown on her tooth that i peered into with her
Ukrainian accent speaking polish, i lost my virginity
to a French girl without any connection - proceeding
from the way she decided a child learning a new language
aged 8 could not be considered a native speaker
for a psychology experiment - i gave her a silent lesson
in history concerning Napoleon and the last heroic act
of warfare, after that, civilians were utilised like bombs
or rifles, the many guilts after all the killing seized.
anyway, today i decided to cook two knock-outs...
the first was intended as a kolhapuri chicken curry,
the latter was chicken do'h pyaaza, with the later
the title, indeed the fenugreek incident, fenugreek
being a concentrated version of kasoori methi,
if the Turks invented hot & sour with a pickled chilli,
the blue Indians invented a whole palette of sour and hot
with this dish, and the crucial ingredient that's
fenugreek - although the crystalline form of this spice
is more potent - the recipe asked for one tablespoon
of the raw products, the leaves (kasoori methi) -
i added a teaspoon of the concentrated stuff -
what a disaster! i asked for two tasters to tell me that i
wasn't tasting bitterness in the gravy as if i added some
English ale revenge against continental beers...
because the excess of the component of intended sourness
of the fenugreek turned into an ale-like bitterness -
hence the notion that sour isn't an antonym of sweet,
but bitter is - hence sweet & sour rather than
sweet & bitter - you can have a turkish pickled chilli
and still have a compliment on the palette of hot & sour,
but imagine tasting bitterness - excess of concentrated
kasoori methi does the trick - and since Faust doesn't
have an Igor like Dr. Frankenstein, he turned himself
into a hunchback, and started picking out most of the
fenugreek crystals from the gravy, one by one, ony by one,
hunched over the sauces - until the bitterness disappeared
and the intended sourness came through -
it took a while, but Faust as his own assistant kept on
saying: stop lying, stop lying! i want to eat this sauce too!
that's the thing with chemistry and cooking,
i received a present not too long ago, an arsenal
of spices, which means i can punch-bag you a Peshwari
naan with raisin and almond stuffing (a bit of sugar too),
and i can add the raw ingredients - i'm richer with
spices than with drugs or gold: turmeric is also known
as saffron - although saffron is more potent,
turmeric does the same job... coriander powder, cumin
power (also seeds), mint the prime garnish for
do'h pyazza curry... garam masala made from scratch,
meaning i have: cardamom pods, cloves, black cardamom,
mace... and i can make you a kohlapur masala...
honestly... in this great culinary babylon of english society,
from pizzas to chinese to Kentucky to New York
street vendors... i'd give up the cuisine i was born in
and convert to India's palette... i don't need to convert
anything else... religion can remain with those who
barely read, or who read and cite only one book...
let them have it... i don't care...
i already converted to a non-religious fascination with
mystical Judaism (sorry Allah, couldn't do anything
with your name, it didn't fit the Latin revision of thinking
about it), and as such, converted to a dreamy everyday
of India's culinary prowess - Kama Sutra is nothing
compared to the recipes from Kashmir or anywhere
where the blue bloods fascinated the merchants rather than
scalped them in berserker rage among the puritan
envoys.

god is the devil and the devil is bob

god is the devil and the devil is bob

god is the devil and the devil is bob

GOD THE DEVIL AND BOB

today, bob was trying to help 3 people who looks up and around

and the first man tom’s case, it was the fascination with neon lights

this made his head spin around and around, and it wasn’t the usual

headspinning that every adult faces from time to time, it was psychotic

this really bugged tom, and bob said, could this be god annoying you

and tom said, dunno mate and went away singing

god is the devil and the devil is the force moving my head cosmically

god is the devil and the devil is the force moving my head cosmically

god is the devil and the devil is the force moving my head cosmically

GOD THE DEVIL AND BOB WHO IS THE FORCE

The 2nd bloke was harry and when he looked up, it was more weird than tom’s

you see he would look up at the sky saying, take me now, almighty GOD

and bob said have you thought about being positive rather than talking about death

and harry said, shut up, life isn’t working for me, how i would hope, so shut up

if you tell me to live my fucken life, I CAN’T STAND YA

and harry went away singing

god is the devil and death sounds nice

god is the devil and death sounds nice

god is the devil and death sounds nice

GOD THE DEVIL AND THE MIGHTY DEATH TONES

and our final bloke was brian, who was told, he has a looking up disorder, which was so queer

he could have a brain tumor, and brian’s mate suggested that brian goes to have a brainscan

to see if there is any abnormalities in his brain , which could be causing the look ups

and like tom, it was a fascination with neon signs, brian wanted a medication to get rid of the look ups

so he can PARTY, and get rid of this crazy person lookup disorder and bob said it could be the buddhist

god (buddha)or it could be athena working on brian’s brain, it could be the dreaded force, where you are forced

to show abnormalities in the brain, brian went away saying perhaps that is true, and sang

god is the devil and the devil is the look ups

god is the devil and the devil is the look ups

god is the devil and the devil is the look ups

god the devil, and bob,

the almighty bob delahunty

it's not plagiarism,
rather, a collectivist
coincidence -

    i can't believe people
in the former days would
reduce themselves
to plagiarism -

    they'd sooner die than
relieve themselves
of an original idea -

   working with a mythology -
how could such
differentiated people
achieve copernican
globalist relativistic /
globalist impetus,
  and yet, somehow succumb
to an ethnocentric -
    genesis of unoriginality...

yes, unfathomable,
the concept of polyphony,
synchronicity inter-people...
    plagiarism is a modern
phenomenon,
   it doesn't exists in
collectivism of inter-ethnic
conundrums of
segregating categorization...

      just like evolution is god's
take on the thrill of gambling...
an original idea...
   allowing an in group focus...
it could never be a plagiarism -
    the segregating process of
techno. advancement...  
         toward a...
less cultural appropriation...
and more?
   cultural loaning...
      "plagiarism"...
       perhaps i should "read" into
solving crossword puzzles...

now plagiarism is easy...
any son of sam
is not an arsonist...

             but as my continued fascination
continues with
    andrei chikatilo...
and batman, the dark knight rises
scene on the plane:

  why would you shoot a man,
before taking him into a prison cell?!  

ah... christine chubbuck...
this fascination... will not, die...
such a solemn,
              vernacular death...
worthy of a Vatican pawn-ship
of preceding the scourge of death.

The shells lined up nicely.
"At attention," the conch yelled.
He was curled black, with boiled blue spikes.
And so they stayed, in a perfect line against the wall,
until the wave,
washing ashore, it plucked three.
One was an abalone,
almost full grown,
with five holes descending down its left side.
A sheen of gold and silver out,
murky indigo and forest green in.
He lost grip first,
and was pulled into an incoming breaker.
The second was a conch.
Chocolate and vanilla swirls coated the outer layers
leading in to slight pink.
Her name was Neapolitan.
She was once an adult shell of the queen conch,
washed ashore and set into a line by small hands,
that were gentle and soft.
Zander
A soft voice called.
Inhaled by the mouth of the ocean,
exhaled into a bout of seaweed.  
She was lost.
The last,
was a cowry shell.
He was old,
or at least he imagined so.
This was not the first time he had washed ashore,
nor had he figured, would it be the last.
His back was ivory white
with brown speckles,
in such a pattern
that he imagined himself to be, at times, a turtle.
He had first felt and then saw reflections of himself in sea glass. He was gathered in a bucket and rubbed so that his design reverberated until he felt, every shimmer of himself.
Knowing not what lay ahead,
but understanding,
he held no grip and went where the ocean led.
It's getting dark Zander.
The others gasped,
in horror their screams rasped.
"Save us. Plea...se he...l...p."
As another wave crashed into the wall and stole four more,
again,
till all were cast away from the wall
to be laden across the expanse of sand.

Soft brown eyes stared,
at the empty holes,
where shells had been placed,
as decorations to a most deserving sand castle.
Turrets and towers,
hard packed by child hands,
with a red flag flapping to the sea breeze.
A crude skull was drawn,
for it was a pirate fascination that encapsulated this year.
He had spent hours seeking and finding,
the perfect art,
to be the binding,
to hold his wall against all defense,
but all had fallen in the first wave of battle.
"Oh well," he muttered.
He would try again tomorrow.

forget his impulsive tongue and forget
              his hands, powered by
                   his forearms, stitched through with veins, inflated by
                      his fascination of you.

forget how ephemeral that fascination was and forget
            how his face flickered across your dreams like a faltering mirage and forget
               how your most vulnerable parts cringed at his memory and don't bother remembering
                  how you were to him
                      what they all were to you

Someone once asked me
questions I would answer blandly
they weren't what I wanted to answer
Questions of perfect dates
and perfect people
when simply
I wanted them to ask
"What is you favorite flower?"
I could respond with my fascination
with these tiny
white petaled
flowers
ones that made me smile
so wide
eastern Europe could see my teeth.
I wanted someone to ask
about my favorite food
So i could respond
with this amazing blend
of rice and fish
and seaweed and other ingredients
but I'd add
that I only eat them with chopsticks

I would look at them and ask
If I was to fall in love with you
could we share these things
and face the world?
but I couldn't do that
because who wants me,
the girl who wants **Sushi and daisies.

Unlace your shoes and step to the side;
I'll do the same.
Borrow my worn out soles and
Stretch them over your aching feet;
It's okay if they don't quite fit.
Make my body yours,
My toes, my long legs,
My stomach, my *******
My collarbones, my hair
But most importantly,
Take my eyes.
Take the eyes that have filled with fascination
Whenever you step into view.
Take the eyes that have soaked up your personality,
Grasped it with bare hands and never let it go.
Take the eyes that squint every time you humor me and
Never seem to shed tears.
Take the eyes that have noticed your every flaw,
Seen you almost every day for the past ten and a half months,
And still look at you
With fascination.
Stare into those beautiful brown marbles,
Pay attention to those tiny specks of green...
But, don't forget to look through them.
Because if eyes really are the windows to our souls,
You must be the most beautiful person on the planet.
And if we really could trade shoes for even just a moment,
Maybe you'd realize it, too.

As I sat in the library waiting for my lecture to start,
A beautiful girl came along  and stood near to my heart

As she sent me peace with a smile full of delight,
Revealed such a beauty of hidden appealing light

Her eyes somehow met mine in a sudden peep
Took me somewhere over the rainbow leap

her eyes were iridescent with every shades of hope,
kindling sparks of spiritual faith and defeated mope

As I was wondering among her beautiful face ,
I heard her voice ,tingling my heart to race

She asked how to improve her langage to fulfill a dream,
To call for Islam and invite people to know this perfect Deen

She loves Allah more than you could ardently imagine ,
Her eyes glowing with the radiant of this noble message

I was fascinated by her alluring faith and love ,
by her appealing beauty and optimism shining above

Her heart was a precious peace of sincerity and faith
Studded with the most redolent shimmering gems

A full blossming hour spent without a doubt ,
Bringing faint hint of smiling sunshine ,

Pure love of Allah mingled our spirits ,
refreshingly flourished my heart and lissomed my soul

Islam is our biggest bounty so let's be grateful,
Let's relax our hearts and spread this bliss all over ...

The tips I gave she kept with an excited determination ,
To realise her dream and be among the callers
For this native religion and truthful decision,

With a glorious gratitude we ended our meeting ,
Promised our souls to get to strengthen our faith,
To noble our path and find our truthful basement

Speechless expressions are all we were able to keep,
In  front of Allah's super mercy and grateful deeds


she was  a pretty faithful soul that entered my heart,
Took me higher , and sowed love in every single part ...

Thank you Allah for all your bounties and fascination
Blissful we are to belong to your super fetching creation ...

♡Merry

i thought that Sunday would be the day that i'd save money and indulge in my insomnia, not drinking, but i have a triage appointment with my G.P. today between 12 and 5 p.m., so i'll not be synthesising sleep (quantum peek-ah-boo with ß in American with a zed - i.e. zed leppelin), never mind. you pick up obscurity as you go along with it; whatever becomes personal you depersonalise by abstracts, standard procedure when writing a chemistry experiment: abstract prior to explanation, in science abstracts are not exactly abstracts in humanism, they're merely prologues, or shorthand intros.

my writing addiction is worse than my alcohol addiction,
a hell-raiser in heaven...
****, i can end up penniless and broke on the street,
its my parents i'm worried about -
i do have a Muslim enemy - i buried it for 7 years
faking schizophrenia so i could be untouchable -
i can give you the name, i can give you a little biography,
i'm worth two coin flips a **** by my estimate,
i didn't fake insanity so i would get £120 a week on
debility payouts, now that would be mad...
i have to plan from time to time when i have to stop
drinking and synthesising sleep rather than going mad,
i was brought back to ensure my father didn't fall into
depression when one of my cousins undermined his
team of roofers stealing them, the "cousin"?
husband of my grand-uncle's daughter, technically my aunt,
undermined my father's self-employment strategy
employing Poles and Romanians - my father? taught
by Scots... old Jack the Guinness pouch puncher -
diesel running at 4 a.m., breakfast at 5 a.m.,
work is life... work is life... **** me! it's 2016
and the death of Prof. Dumbledore died today,
the movie was completed in 2009 - so obviously no spoiler
alert, 7 years the secret was hidden from my ear...
i only learned of it today... as i also learned...
premature depression in the youth of England -
second Marx and Engels are waiting... spring clean angelic
suggestions of how England invented unshakeable
utopia... WRONG! what do you think Marx and Engels
were doing? what do you think the problems are in England
right now? right now?! mental health.
the pride and prestige of English society is getting to me...
their under-reading of philosophy books -
what sort of damage can a thought experiment have on someone?!
none! getting all ******* pompous and Clancy will
not solve the matter - they don't like wording, or subsequent
excesses - they're importing nurses from India
and are mesmerised by the Japanese curse of karaoke -
England, the 51st ******* state - akin to the Penguin
cover of K. ****'s *man in the high castle,
you ain't pure just 'cos' you think you are!
i have a worse addiction than drinking... writing enlarges
the monster in me... you obstruct my hands from the
keyboard i turn into a monster, given brain damage
you can reason why i tend to need an ****** space of
recording something down - i need it more than alcohol,
without alcohol i just get bored, i don't live in
sparkly Paris for one, the nights around here are deafening...
one example? my father obstructed me recording a thought
(got i miss the expected ease of cognitive narration
i knew prior, and i loath the personality that resides in me
at present... i could have been such a good father)...
i get blocked on the stairs before i want to write the
waterfall, he grabs my index finger and dislodges it...
the rest is pure comedy... the paramedics come,
i compliment the male paramedic on his looks
(why am i so misogynistic by now? i used to idealise
women! n'ah, no point mulling this problem,
the answer is too obvious)... i go to the hospital...
i wait for an hour, pose for pictures with my dislocated
finger, have a laugh and a chat, walk up to a black
girl with some medical problem (the dislocated finger,
what a brilliant comedy gimmick) and introduce her to
Us3 on my knees - time to straighten my finger -
the doctor asks me how it happened -
i lie: i was in such a shock i don't remember,
i pursue the lie to effectiveness - i notice his name,
i was in a pub with a Hungarian barmaid and i asked
her the problem i was having, some psychiatrist with
the surname Szasz, an english speaker couldn't make
the z into a h to say... shash - so i tested this failure
on the barmaid on the doctor, Hungarian test 1.
said his name... asked... Hungarian? yes, he replied.
bingo! lie sealed, Malachi's prophecy came true.
later he obliged to send me the x-rays of my dislocated
finger to my email account... charm charm charm.
i'm a poo'h bear when drunk, strike a conversation
with me like this one Lithuanian girl did and i'll kiss
you from forehead to your chin and neck, kissing your
eyes shut... but get between me and the blank page?
not a good idea. i'm ******* scatter brained -
rarely i get the opportunity to relive the cognitive narration
fluidity i once had that inhibited me from writing anything,
and i mean anything apart from homework and exams.
also... the **'s debut album is a rarity... it's one of those
albums you can listen to without headphones -
listening to it on headphones is rather pointless -
it's perfectly pitched for a bedroom auditorium;
and not much music makes sense without headphones
these days; but i also wonder why not everyone is
addicted to music, and more to conversation via the epitome
of Radio 4's chatty chatty broken bloke.
Sunday newspaper book reviews as usual... no book of
poetry... oh hell, let's bring out the howitzers -
pop culture ignores poetry, poetry explodes in a culture,
many people are disaffected, congested into sardine phobias,
struck that some people remember the countryside life
and milking cows, small town life... the internet is in its
genesis, the middle-classes semi-proficient in the technology
are damning it with promises of a feasible exodus to
the promised land of the sitting-room couch and television,
no one is noticing the digital miners who are digging
for the perfect pixel - a polydiadem fly-eye;
but here i am, facing ridicule at the teachings of Jesus Christ,
hating him is sorta a fake, but it's more a fake at
either Christianity, or the unrelenting fictionalisation of
the man thanks to the Greeks, bemusement at the Star
of Bethlehem, the historian Josephus, and the fact that
that the Nag Hammadi library was found in Egypt and not
Israel... i'd be dumb to ignore the archaeological proofs
culminating with the crucifix and the atom bomb and the
pathology of predicting ends of worlds... Oppenheimer
was just as good, quoting the Sanskrit death bit -
i guess living in Egypt gave the little man of Nazareth
pharaonic ambitions of worship - easier and more convincing
on a crucifix than on a throne with sensible Greek
digestion of the world and fascination to boot -
hence the fascination to the last with architecture and
'my father's house will be a house of prayer',
seen the state of the Anglican Church? and see how mundane
the prayer service has become after 2000 years?
everywhere, now, countless religions are sprouting like
spring ginger using psychedelics and what not...
well, that was the case in the 20th century... the 21st century's
answer is this dark age reinterpretation of Cartesian
philosophy... not so airy-*******-fairy about philosophy
books, are we? philosophers prescribe no drugs, merely
thoughts... what you would probably have not thought out...
harmless pharmacology if you're into claustrophobic
suicide pacts with yourself... the 21st century has proved
another breeding ground in England, this time not economic...
and if not economic, therefore existential...
i'm just another Engels looking for his Marx... or another
Marx looking for his Engels. ah, the cascade ends.

I never wanted to immortalize you.
I didn't want to write a poem
Or a song
And carve these memories into something more tangible.
So instead I will immortalize my hatred for you.

I never understood what it meant to be a teenager.
A seventeen-year-old giving ******* in backseats
Because that's what it's all about, right?

It's about making out on my bed that's
Barely big enough for me,
Because I live closer to work and we can fool around on our lunch breaks.
That's what it's all about, right?

It's about sitting on your lap crying,
Scared that you'll hate me if I say I never wanted this.
It's about you gently scooping me into your arms
When I show you a letter because I can't choke out the words,
And you say it's okay but all you took from my confession was that I was scared.
It's about going too fast and when I grasp for the emergency break you swat my hand then try to hold it as we crash and burn.

I never liked you.
You were nice to me.
You smiled.
You joked.
You flirted and you told me I was the world,
So I thought 'this is it.'

But I could never even bring myself to compliment you back,
Because deep down I knew all along that I never really liked you at all.
You bought me chocolates.
You made me laugh.
You made me feel nice.
For about three days.
And then I realized I was trying to live the life I missed in seven short days.

I ended it nicely, but you persisted.
At first it was cute.
I reminded you kindly, but you persisted.
At second it was sweet.
I told you again, but you put a finger to my lips and played with your lighter.
At third it was no longer a game.
I clarified what I meant, but you ignored my text.
At fourth it was "unread."
I made sure you knew, laid it out plain, but somehow you missed that one too.
At fifth I was ******.
I tried again.
At sixth I was done.
Do you still not get it?
At seventh you disgusted me.

Now I can't even look at you.
Hearing your voice makes my skin crawl,
And the smell that I used to wrap myself in
When I wore your shirt as a sweater
Makes me sick to my stomach.

You still try.
You still speak.
You still make jokes.
And it makes my blood boil.
Because I hate you and everything you have done to me.

I won't speak to you, or
Acknowledge your presence,
But somehow that doesn't matter to you.
Doesn't it make you mad?
How does it not make you mad?
I want to make you mad.

Maybe if you're angry I can finally say
All the things I never got to tell you.
Maybe your fuse will blow and I can finally
Cover your skin with bruises where kisses used to be.
Maybe I can finally scream.
Maybe I can finally admit what you did to me, and tell you to your face.
Do you even realize that you ***** me?

I hate that you have this kind of power over me.
I hate that it has been seven months and my
Lip still curls when I see you.
I hate that I blamed myself for so long,
And that I still rush to amend, "but he didn't **** me in a violent way."
"Well, by the legal definition of ****..."

**** is **** and it is time that I understand that.
What you did is inexcusable.
Sometimes I want to tell you, to scream it in your face,
Because if you don't know then maybe
Telling you will prevent it from happening again.
But then I remember what you said about getting angry,
How it's rare but violent.
I think of your fascination with blades,
Your collection.
I think of how we close together and how I have to
Walk across a dark parking lot alone with you.

I hate that you don't know.
I hate that no one understands why
I hate you as much as I do.

An image painted on a canvas
For the whole world to see
Is the image what they notice
Or is it what truly lies beneath
On the outside there's beauty
Radiating a hint of happiness
Filled with life and enthusiasm
Enjoyed by all who see, or notice
The hands that created this masterpiece
Must have been solid, and stern
For the wall that holds this canvas
Has a black lining the eyes can't see
Bitterness, shallow, and heartless
Covered with a coating of gold
To the human eye to seem like perfection
For there is no happiness within
An abundance of repentance
that grows under this image,
stretching high up along the walls
The image of everlasting beauty
Trees swaying in the background
Beautiful flowers blooming abundantly
The sun shining as though just ripened
Birds soaring through the air,
chirping this magical, mystical morning
Dew lying upon the image
leaving a sparkle to catch the eye
The image seen as it is wanted to be seen
Painted from the mind of someone
needing perfection taking nothing less
Knowing you can't cut a stone with scissors
Or fly like a bird without wings
You can't even create perfection
When there is no such a thing.
Minus all the beauty that this image holds
Would your attention be captured the same
If by fascination you could see with it
Without it what would you see
A canvas hanging on a wall alone
No beauty within or without
Black walls that line the canvas, no image
Empty, rebellious, alone
Fascination is taken away by reality
Once the image becomes clear it is no longer
an image, nor perfection you see
Though now noticeable the canvas
rests on the wall that is lined in black
Plain as the sky on a glorious day
The canvas holds no image of beauty
No image of any kind
It was merely what someone wanted you to see
Hoping that in reality the image
would always be there, stay the same
Beautiful, happy, loving
Speaking a thousand words just
from what your mind captured
It is now faint to the eyes, clear
That this canvas is nothing more
than a dishonest piece of work.

Wearing a blindfold
Inspiring fascination and lust
A thrilling sensation of fear
The fantasy providing an escape
Daring and unconventional
****** taste that's intriguing and *****
The pursuit of ones own pleasure
Given into the desires of the lover

I wait for this time
And recall from chime
From mind of mine, the festival of kites

I eager for this celebration with   lots of   affection.
Unusual excitement and never-ending fascination

When I see in  the sky through my eyes
The beautiful kites, floating in air with the great pride

I wish to fly very- very
The kites flying in the day light
And fire-lanterns moving from the terrace at night

I sit on chair and stare very high
With lots of fun and the charming air

Fire-Lanterns moving like twinkling star
Going very fast and very far,
In the sky of city, making marvelous beauty…

The delicious undhiyu and the  ladoos so sweet
Savor on that day with friends I meet.
The excited, voracious, sporty people in the Surat city
Enjoy this carnival leaving their duty

On the festival of kites
Take oath in mind
Have a strong ambition with positive sight

I wish this festival never ends
And the precious moments with my friends…
I wish I come back in city of Surat

I wait for this time
And recall from chime
From mind of mine, the festival of kites

Fashion designers love foraging through the antique markets of Clignancourt in Paris and Portobello Road and Alfie’s Antiques markets in London snuffling out vintage pieces for inspiration. The flurry of romantic Victoriana on the catwalks for autumn can clearly be blamed on this obsession.

There has been an undercurrent of reserved, covered-up fashion ever since Pierpaolo Piccioli and his former co-designer Maria Grazia Chiuri introduced a more demure aesthetic to Valentino five years ago. Longer skirts, prim higher necklines and covered arms have become the slow trend of recent seasons creating a hyper-feminine look.

Riccardo Tisci at Givenchy and Sarah Burton at Alexander McQueen have long been beguiled by the Gothic romanticism of Victorian fashion with their use of corsetry and dark dramatic lace and velvet for eveningwear.

In fact, London-based vintage fashion dealer Virginia Bates admits she doesn’t remember there ever being a time when Gothic Victoriana didn’t feature in at least one designer’s collection. “The fascination with the romantics, poets, artists and even horror [classics and films] give designers a great source of inspiration,” she says. “It’s an irresistible era.”

Certainly a lot of it has appeared on the catwalks this season at McQueen, Marc Jacobs, Burberry (shown only a month ago in the see-now, buy-now collection), Simone Rocha, Preen, Bora Aksu and Temperley London, as well as at smaller brands such as Alessandra Rich, Three Floor created by Yvonne Hoang and A.W.A.K.E.

There were dark distressed Linton tweeds, unravelling knits and black tulle in Simone Rocha’s autumn collection. Rocha was pregnant when she started designing it and was inspired by Victorian dress and motherhood, in particular the nightgowns and matrons.

“All the wrapping and swaddling of babies,” she says, before elaborating on how “the Victorian ideals of properness were made perverse with the conservative and covered-up pieces contrasted by the sheer and embroidered fabrics.”These gauzy vaporous fabrics succeeded in making her eerily romantic silhouette look rather contemporary and daring.

Subversion is key to making such a prim and proper period in fashion history modern and relevant for women today. Marc Jacobs, for instance mixed long Victorian coats, ballooning crinolines and crochet doily collars with sweatshirt tops and laser-cut leather for skirts and jackets together with some scary Goth horror make-up. Nothing is, or should be literal.

As Justin Thornton of Preen says “we love the Victorians, the laces and the white shirts, but it is the vintage pieces rather than the era that inspire us”. His partner Thea Bregazzi has collected aristocratic laces and ruffly vintage shirts from Portobello Road market for as long as he has known her and these frequently find their way into their collections, “but linings would be ripped, garments will have holes in them – it is a deconstructed look”.Virginia Bates once owned a famous vintage fashion emporium in Holland Park with a client list including the biggest names in fashion from John Galliano to Donna Karan and Naomi Campbell. Now she only works with private clients and designers and they, especially, she says were looking for genuine Victorian pieces when planning their autumn collections.

“A black fitted jacket with inserts of handmade lace [that is] embellished with crystal and jet beads, ***** and silk lined ... How exciting and inspiring is that? Silk and fine lawn shirts, soft and flowing with ruffles. Don’t we all want to wear one and live the dream?”

Thankfully a few designers do right now, and there were lots of heavenly creatures in fragile asymmetric lace dresses toughened up with leather corsetry at Alexander McQueen, and richly coloured swishy dresses at Bora Aksu. While Christopher Bailey cherry-picked the centuries in his Burberry collection, lighting upon frilled white cotton shirts, nipped in jackets and military capes from the Victorian era. Given that Victoria reigned for more than 60 years there is a lot of history for designers to plunder, so this will not be the last we will see it.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

I’ve always had a fascination with bones. The skeletal system was taught to me in my fourth grade year. I learned the name of each bone that laid just under my thin layers of skin. I read books on how they were made, how they were broken, how they fixed themselves. I saw them as self-sufficient. I gazed at the plastic skeleton that lived in the corner of my classroom. I tried to match his bones with mine. ******* in my stomach to pinpoint each individual rib. Stretching my skin to watch the edges of my bones appear. I remember narrowing my eyes at the plastic toy in front of my face. It was like he was mocking me. He was showing me everything I wished I could see on myself. Staring at me with such contemptuousness in a sneer of his plastic teeth. I walked away in a mood that rivaled a hurricane, tears that felt foreign against my soft cheeks and a boiling pool of disgust deep inside my body that was covered in too many layers of skin.

I spent my first two years of middle school in quiet distaste. I forgot my fascination with the bones inside me. I never quite existed anywhere but in my own head. I was content. When my father pushed us away the first time, we fled to a different home on a different street. The second time, he shoved us into a different house in a different state. I started a new school with new people that inhabited new sets of bones. In my biology classroom, another plastic skeleton took up home in the corner. I went back to my new house everyday to my mother who I only saw once a day if I went to seek her out and sisters who had to take the blows silently. I trailed behind them, gathering their missing pieces and using the glue holding me whole to stick their parts back together. I scrambled to feed the zombies wandering around my house, shaving off layers of skin. I had to stand by and watch my own body turn into the skeleton I envied. I could peel back the skin I had left and finally see the sharp edges of milky bone.

We were pushed again. To another house in another state. I panicked to hide what was festering inside my chest. I tried to shield it from the eyes of my sisters, trying to keep them pure from fear of death or something just as scary. I pulled a veil down over my face, building a wall between the people I loved and myself. I watched as girls my age twisted and smiled and matured. I felt uneasiness as I tried to be like them, taking note of the way they flicked their hair back and tried to replicate it in a mirror. I painted my face with powders and rimmed my eyes in black to cover the red. I grew out my hair long enough to cover the bones trailing down my back, trying to bend in a shape that I didn’t want them going. I spent nights trying to find something that could bring my bones to life. I danced around death, grinning like a maniac when I dipped my toes into the ******* I had found. I watched the blood drip from the cracks in my skin as I stared by at my own face that looked like a ghost to me now. I didn’t recognize the person in the mirror. With white around their nose, red around their eyes and with features almost parallel to the skeleton that had mocked me so long ago.

I came back from myself in the months following. I tried to rip off the veil over my eyes. I worked to carefully dismantle the wall between me and everyone else. I let my skin grow and grow until I couldn’t see the bones I used to find beautiful. I let myself dress how I knew I wanted. I let myself be who I wanted. I took the pain I had nurtured in my chest since I was a child and bundled it up, pushing it away because it was a friend I didn’t want to be around anymore. I had to learn how to hold my sisters up and climb up with them too. I started scribbling a new name on the canvases I have poured my heart into. I stopped trying to carve my own bones into the shape I wanted them to be and instead, I painted the way they grew. I molded creatures out of clay. I drew beautiful things. I made beautiful things. I began only drawing the things I saw most beautiful. I drew flowers and animals and the people I had allowed to help me. I drew architecture and waterfalls and insects. After my bones had disappeared and the smile on my face wasn’t pulled up by the thought of being non existent, I drew myself too.

I remember the first time I discovered poetry,
bolts of electric affluenza coursing through soft fingertips
and into the skinny blue lines of fascination
meaning nothing at first, yet transforming into the spillage
of emotion, the invention of color,
the budding metamorphosis of the artist’s apprehension.


I remember telling everyone about the honey-tainted metaphors
that exhaled yellow pigment through our film noir madness
of ravaged years cementing over irises
and I remember the revelation, saucer eyes and trembling hands
after discovering the faultlessness of magic
that tore at heartstrings and furrowed brows,
the mumbled prayer of stitching entire blankets of words together
to keep our souls warm even as the frigid ice of Time
burned in desperation to freeze our heartbeats.


You are a poet
but to the world, you are wasted opportunity
you only know of words that slip through tied tongues like silk
and mending excuses to make up for heartbreak
You are a poet
but they never stop reminding you to keep your feet glued
To hollow ground, shaking
To find something that tastes of reality, the human flesh
sweat of long lost longing
You have to stop living in your head
In the spaces where you breathe life into promises
You are a poet
But that has never been enough.


The poet is used to this--
the knowledge of failure always shoved under the doormat
numbers that collect under crumpled paper,
the rotten look of misunderstanding as they wonder
where the science of living went missing
When did art decide to invade your insides,
Leaving no room to calculate meaning with mathematics?


Oh, but only the poets understand
That there is no formula to meaning
No theorem to calculate suffering,
Only words that get stuck and disintegrate into whispers
only all-consuming madness, write me a storm
That rages through afflictions
Write me an ending where
We are older, in the house we dreamed of, buried
Under blankets in the forgotten fog of Decembers
Write me an ending where my voice is steady
Instead of constantly wavering past the silence of goodbyes
hellos
heartaches


Love me
And I will love you
Lose me
And I will turn you into poetry
stretch your bones into feelings,
follow the lines in your palms into futures
Where we end up together
I will hold up your eyelids
so they will never feel heavy at the sight of destruction
I will shelter your heart to keep it beating
As we watch  as the words I could never say
flutter at your fingertips like moths
with broken wings


The world does not understand love


nor the poets that create it.

it was only the first screening of ex_machina,
but the words 'deus' and 'placebo'
were uttered after a walk of thus pondering:

understanding this movie requires kant's
critique of pure reason matter of frankly,
i lost the kantian concepts of *a priori and
a posteriori using the cartesian method of understanding,
gravitating in my realm of understanding
almost unconscious why the cartesian uncoupling
of the kantian compounds is required:

invoking a purely cognitive aspect of analytical
and synthetic i took the temporal realm of
pre- and post-, which is respective of the definitions
of the above italicised -

when watching the movie... apart from the groovy
part where music has no central role as is usual
in all horror movies... the aesthetic of horror movies
has been cleaned up thanks to technology,
that knife into the chest like knife into butter
is perfect... the knife into the chest also perfect...
it's the robotic of man's daily routines done by a robot
that does the horror bit...
it's music replaced with claustrophobia,
the theory is mesmerising... generally speaking
phobias are tiny... and the horror scenario
losing focus in terms of music and instead
focusing on an expanding phobia, like claustrophobia
is a gigantic leap in the horror movie scene...
i wonder what the moving imagery of arachnophobia
would look like... without technological frankensteins...
a massive thematic move but still trendy with mary shelley's
original idea... more clean cut... no scar marks...
a beautiful frankenstein emerges...
but enough of that...

the kantian translated with cartesian methodology,
losing the a priori and a posteriori coupling
with analytical and synthetic notions -
like me when i first learned language,
21 years later i've just started the analytical procedure,
prior to these years, the cut-off point at 21
i was merely synthesising the language,
so well that i even managed to phonetically
strain my tongue to fake having a limousine
and a mansion and a horse... posh posing fake...
it happens - no geordie no scouser no cockney in me...
just mundane pure elocution to a ****,
harmless if i'm being honest -
but no, no no, i mean i had to synthesise the language
first, before i lost all possible synthesis of it
attributed to vocabulary... it's then that i started
to analyse it!

so this robo chic... i was thinking:
what's the analysis to synthesis ratio in her?
that must be balanced, right?
there are so many things to analyse in life:
all those biologists, chemists, forensic scientists...
but only one successful synthesis - almost
like free will that does not dare to conflict
with other possibilities...
there's no before / after concerning what one knows,
a symbiosis has to exist between these two things -
it's not that she's artificial, she's pure analytic,
she can't be pure synthetic:

deep blue is pure synthetic - he was given all
the possibilities of a chess mastermind,
he's purely synthetic, because the only thing
he can analyse is chess, and in only doing so,
he can only synthesise the authentic craft of
playing chess and nothing else, meaning he has
limited parameters -
but this robotic woman / frankenstein
would be lost in terms of pure synthesis, unlike
deep blue - she's pure analysis, meaning
the interaction is almost two dimensional,
meaning that if man questions his free will,
she would also have to do so...
i'm thinking analytical intelligence (a.i.)
either pondering suicide, ****** - morality
in total... and being drunk...

the same conceptualisation applies
in my own scenario, using the cartesian methodology
on kantian concepts i realised
my thought is an interchange of analysis | synthesis |
analysis | synthesis... this interplay
is staggering... first i cognitively synthesise
then i cognitively analyse, ping-pong.

i have no care for attaching a priori to
synthesis or a posteriori to analysis, or whatever
dogmatic building block is expected,
in the temporal sense i see the future
as ordained by the faculty of imagination
and the present as ordained by the faculty of memory;
in the present there's only this:
a lot of verbs, some which i can control, some which
i can't... depending on my noun bank account...
that same old fascination with flowers and
the complete and utter lack of apps. for deciphering
names of flowers...

but of course there's a moral to the film's plot -
it mentions consciousness and awareness to something...
a bit like man being conscious of his evolution,
hence the necessity of forgetting **** sapiens
and embracing deus placebo...
after all... it will please the vanity of man to
think himself a god...
and in so doing... craft the possibility of a deus sapiens...
a rational god... given that we're still monkeys
in spandex shooting bullets at innocent random targets
in the minority.

did i forget something?
four beers does the trick... i watched a great movie...
now i'm going to drink some whiskey
and paint my room blood red
donning a dracula bun of hair tickling with excitement:
but prior... if the universe is an undifferentiated substance,
say... water... i imagine the geometry of it's boundlessness
concerning the capillary effect of water...
what sort of geometric shape would allow the singularity
of the universe to provide the parabola of it
being in a tube of glass... in comparison to it...
i'm an indentation... i'm like mercury in similar circumstances...
hello big void... filled with aurora colours and magpies.

I'm fascinated by my ability to be useless

Walking down the streets of Rome,
I saw a curious sight.
There, sitting at an expensive
street side cafe was a gentleman
distinguished in age,
surrounded by beautiful women,
but seated next to a tiny,
30 centimeter tall ******,
who was obviously crazy,
or as you might say in Italian,
a pazzo.

My fascination overcame shyness,
and I approached the man
to introduce myself.
To my surprise, he invited me to sit,
and enjoy coffee with him.

He already knew my coy curiosity,
and when latte arrived
he began to tell me
his strange tale of wandering
on the sands of Arabia.

On a starry, Gethsemanean night,
after supper with friends,
he wandered into the acrid sands
and stumbled upon an ancient
lamp.

He picked it up beneath the moonlight sky,
and in a jestful mood rubbed it
hoping to find a miracle to ease
his troubles.

To his surprise, a green-hue jinn,
sprang forth from the ancient
lips of a forgotten lamp,
to grant him three wishes.

Gathering wit, and wonder
he pondered good fortunate
short and long, before asking
his wishes:

"Please, mighty jinn with the light
green hair, grant me
fortune, so I may live the rest of my life
in comfort."
In a swirl of misty memories
he was transported to ancient Rome
and watched as random events
were tilted in his favor until
he sat at this cafe a powerful and rich man.

Pleased with himself,
he stared into twinkling jade eyes,
and said:
"I lounge in carefree wealth, but
I cannot not buy true Beauty. Please, powerful jinn,
let beautiful women surround me and tend to my needs."
Once again, back to Christmas past
he watched all the beautiful women
of his desire being collected,
and bound to one single ring
of power, to serve, obey, and
grant all his carnal desires.

I envied him there sitting in
Armani suit, with twelve pairs of sensuous
legs longingly waiting upon his
every wish.

My fantasy of an exchanged life
ended quickly with cold champagne.
That crazy, diminutive pazzo,
had in lunacy decided to wet everyone's dreams
with real spurts of fizzy Prosecco.

I turned to my host to beg
a question, but he had the answer
already. In tired voice, he responded,
"you wonder why I keep a 30 centimeter Pazzo
with me at all times?"
"That was a misunderstanding he said,
but you can only wish upon a jinn once."
"Che cazzo!"

I dreamed of thee again last night-so frustrating. I still miss thee. I have to admit that. I can no longer deny it. I still want thee back. I want thee back. My thee, o, my thee, Vladimir! In my mind I keep but playing those scenes over and over again; those scenes full of temptations-and breaths gasping more freshness under the sheets of our romantic air-which are no other than the beautiful, picturesque paintings of the days of our togetherness. Those rapturous paintings-sketched carefully by the jealous winds-outside of my bedchamber, wherein adjacent to the rolling fireside thou would caress my hair and smile at me with that serene blueness of thy eyes. And how as soon as those moments came, I would close my eyes, and lay my head against thy cleavage-and its steady, luminous heartbeat; and flew I through the wings of enthralled unconsciousness-as though I was floating in the sky; and then believe would I, that yon bubble of sophisticated happiness would never end. But thou! Thou ruined everything-and that idyllic, idyllic blue castle of mine as soon as thou walked away. Ah! And didst I cry back then, cry whenever I woke up and found that thou wert gone, and it was only thy scents that were left all over me. What a horrible memory! The remembrance of thy blissful eyes-o, a pair of majestic blue eyes!-and thy golden hair, flowing smoothly against mine on that tranquil night, is but a wealth of fondness too dear, yet unbearable-to me. Full of tears are my eyes, as I am writing t'is sorrowful passage, that might still mean nothing-nothing, to thee. But I doth need to be honest! It might just be too late to say this, but I need thee, Vladimir. I need thee! Thou art the only miracle that has ever happened to me, since I first heaved my steps onto this land: this foreign land with a stash of autumnal stars grinning at us from the sleepy eyes of the sky. The sky-o the sky, whose innocent blueness is just as handsome as thy eyes! Thou consoled my fear, and relieved my sarcastic anxiety-in those first, first days! How thou silently-yet joyfully, entered my heart! My prince, my soul. How I want us to be back together-embracing each other under the clouds' mesmerizing lullaby. I who can never love him-the one everyone dear to me so excitedly raves at. No-never, although from the same kin is he, as thou art, with that flash of wild black eyes running vivaciously at every appearance of my being. And those queries he always puts-yes, on my series of daily runabouts, and keen interests in which I immerse myself during my solitudes. A smile so charming then he shows-but still, unable is he to bring my heart to galloping excitements, nor shake my soul with adorable passion, like thou didst! And no! He is but no lover I wish for-as far as I'th ventured to recognise, as in my heart still hides thy name, dwelling so quietly with bursts of violent fascination. And the red blushes it sends to my cheeks-whenever I think of thee. Vladimir! The prince to my love-today and yesterday-for whom my affection shalt never fade; and the sole king to my being-all through the year, and the remaining hours of my night and day-for whom my soul was duly made. O Vladimir! I love thee, I love thee! Come back and cherish thy days here, wander back into my heart-and celebrate this innocent mirth of ours, just like we once had before-with our hands together, whilst thy heart in mine, amidst t'is silent afternoon-and ah, under tonight's marvelous moon.

Enthusiast is a bit of an understatement,
My friend Claire could tell you that;
As we hiked from the West coast to the East coast of Scotland
At night she read "normal things" - while I read maps.

Of course I needed to be sure of the route,
But after 25 miles of walking that wasnt all-
I'd spend at least 3 hours staring and staring
The roads, the woods, the rivers, hostels, churches, pubs and schools....

In fact night after night I spent,
So long engrossed,
That after five nights,
I had one of the strangest dreams ever experienced.

I was "in" an OS map -
Walking a yellow road, past big red triangles,
Counting contours,
And heading straight for the strangest of all -
Just across the red road, the enormous half filled pint glass
- the public house of course!

Surreal dream that was,
But also great fun,
I was in an OS map...
One without people - I was the only one

I did ease up on the map reading after,
Thought I might start hallucinating otherwise,
Claire already thought I was slightly mad,
If I told her we needed to shelter from the rain in the giant pint glass - well, as I said, she already knew I was mad!

But my obsession is not limited to OS maps,
Oh no, its the entire World Atlas;
Continents, Countries, Oceans and territories,
Nothing escapes my attention in the World Atlas.

I have so so many maps,
Because people keep changing things,
From the names of Countries and places
To minor details...bridges...silly little things.

I have a map that says USSR,
The Soviet Union so large,
Now I have another with Russia,
Belarus, Estonia, Ukraine, and others that re-emerged.

Even isolated places like Greenland
People cant make up their mind,
Is it Nuuk or Godthaab?
They are both still there to confuse the mind.

I had a map with Zaire,
Once the biggest country in Africa,
Its now the Democratic Republic of the Congo,
Needed to amend my map of Africa.

Ok, all maps up to date;
Just when I can rest my map brain...
Sudan is then split in two!!
Get out the map Emma - quick - draw a line!!

I dont know what I think would happen
If my maps were not up to date;
But I just cant take the risk,.
I have to change them before its too late.

Most recent of course was Swaziland,
How? Why? When?!
Its ok, i've read about it now,
And I understand...let me get my pen.

But Swaziland is so tiny
Now I need to write eSwatini (!)
My map is now such a mess
Time for a new one? No not yet - Swaziland has not yet changed like the rest!

I have to wait for cartographers
To catch up and make all the changes,
Or otherwise i'll only trust my own map
The one with scribbles all over the pages.

Its not just on a Country scale
Such changes do confuse us,
For even in South Africa alone -
New names replaces the oldies.

Port Elizabeth,
Now Nelson Mandela Bay;
I think its wonderful,
But its not what my map says!

Umtata became Mthata;
Another very welcome change,
But that one letter is on my mind...
Quick - cross out the "u"...in case we go insane!

Nothing is more messed up in my guide books,
Which consist almost exclusively of maps
Than the city of Durban....
Street names have changed...but "not quite yet"

I picked up a local map,
And not shown in the one I carried
- Its still in process of "changing",
So two names there are for almost every road!

Pretoria became Tshwane,
Again I agree with the name change,
But by now the maps in my book
Make so little sense - it could be mistaken for Adelaide!

I wont go into Rhodesia,
There have been so many changes across Africa,
But if they were before I was born,
It somehow doesnt seem so much to matter...

I only get frustrated with
Things that I know,
Before 1980 -
I had no maps to know.

I'd be talking about the Transkei, the Ciskei,
The Orange Free State and all,
More recent but left in the past -
I have none of those on my walls.

I focus more on Africa,
as most will know i'm a bit obsessed,
Being from a British Island on the African Plate,
...with Ascension drifting away with America...albeit very slow.

The Mid Atlantic Ridge runs between them,
From Iceland to the South Pole,
Dividing the Continental plates,
St Helena and Ascension came out of a hole...

My mind drifts a little to Asia,
Although I dont know it as well,
But...is it Burma or Myanmar now?
And is Palestine shrinking still?

Islands cause much fascination,
Being an Islander myself,
But mine is just the tip of a volcano,
The map doesnt show anything else.

As far as Islands go - the Atlantic is easy,
Try staring at the Pacific,
Such a vast and empty ocean,
Hides many secrets...more than the Atlantic.

You may think St Helena isolated,
But only till your eyes enter the Pacific,
It might be a huge mostly empty ocean,
But the vast Island chains are prolific.

There are fracture zone after fracture zone,
Creating Island chains and coral atolls;
From the Coral sea of Australia,
To the Galapagos of South America.

There's Polynesia, there's Melanesia,
Micronesia too;
And within these - hundreds of Islands...
And yes - I've tried to count them too..

We look for other British Islands,
Pitcairn - the most isolated of all;
And what a sorry story to tell..
About 60 people and half of them in jail...

Sometimes im desperately trying to find an Island
To replace my British non-British Island;
Those who think im mad loving South Africa-
Wont even begin to understand.

But this poem is not about emotion,
So i'll mention that no more,
Its more about Geography
- too many Islands to explore.

Staring at the Pacific
Can occupy at least three sleepless nights,
Remembering the names of the islands -
Is a much more difficult plight.

Most heart breaking about this Ocean,
Is the Islands being lost;
Populations having to leave,
As sea levels rise and coral islands are lost...

I think I have found my location,
or a few i'd give a try,
On a large map they simply appear as "bumps"
Surrounded by bigger Islands, and the ocean wide

Sleepless nights have drawn me to Tokelau;
A tiny territory of New Zealand;
Three beautiful coral atolls...
But oh so far from New Zealand.

Less than one thousand people,
Yet with their own language,
The closest Island is Samoa,
That boat journey for me would be a privilege...

The Island has 100% clean energy,
With so few people to sustain,
It's setting an example for the World,
Tokelau looks like "paradise" on my map....if I had to give it a new name...

Indigenous people full of colour,
Flowers round their necks and some clothes a recent thing,
They even have their own musical culture,
Its only mass worry is rising tides - and the flat atolls eventually submerging....

There is another island I look at,
With its tribal peoples far more "untouched",
It really is like a land time forgot,
Although it does have an airport..

It is the Island of "Mog-Mog"...
Yes...I didnt make that up..
It really does exist,
Although I admit it took me years to discover on my map...

I wont mention where it is,
I dont want to give it away;
My maps are full of secrets,
And that is how some should stay.

You can visit from Tahiti,
Which is more like France than its surrounds;
But Mog-Mog is a totally different world,
Dont be fooled by Tahiti - Mog-Mog is part of the "untouched surrounds"

I could talk about these Islands forever,
As even I have not discovered them all,
But I have to finish with the Indian Ocean,
The Chagos Islands are British afterall...

What happened to the Chagossians
was a cruel sin of humankind,
Not just ST Helena suffers at the hands of the British
- Chagossians were forced to leave their Isle behind...

To make way for an American Air base,
Ascension - how familiar does that sound?!
The story of the Chagossian tragedy
Must touch every Islander to be found...

The Chagossians also inspire us however,
For fifty years on they are still fighting,
Fighting to return to their homeland,
Now a heavily guarded secret is their homeland...

My people however dont seem to care,
And that does make me sad;
This is another British Island
Not in the Atlantic, or Caribbean - but that does not make it bad...

The powers at be are so evil
That even after the fifty year lease was up..
The British just signed yet another...
As for the Islanders - they just want forgot...

I support the Chagossian people,
In their desperate fight to go home,
Even after deportation-
Their British Citizenship rights are next to none...

I am not proud of my motherland either,
And im not the only one;
I dont consider myself even British,
I dont "worship" my motherland like some...

I see what is really happening,
In St Helena and other "Crown Territories",
Just take a moment to look at them all....
and let me know if you find any that are totally "free"...

....oppression comes in many forms....

........................Nomkhumbulwa...

Honey, I don't even ******* know.
What the hell is a crush supposed to be anyway?
  
Sweet warmth filling up my soul?
A skipped heartbeat with a mere touch to the shoulders?
Afraid to look too long in fear of falling into fascination with the way  their eyelids touch their cheek?

I don't even know.
I don't want to know.

I'm the worst sort of lover.
I don't even like people.
I mean, I love people, but not PEOPLE.

Besides, why would anyone like me back?

Miss Congeniality, not Miss Sexuality
I don't- don't know how to- how to-
****.
I can ******* swear just fine, but I can't even say-

See? What's there to like?

I don't know what love feels like.
Does everyone just...know?

I'm not pretty.

It's not that I don't know what to say.
I just don't know if I believe it

Deserve it.
(Hypocrite).


"No, not right now." (Smile, **** it)


Honey, I don't crush.
I fall.