Fickleness you are my foe
I used to find you sweet
A laughable, childish quality
Something I'd grow out of
But you've ruined me
I've loved so many
Only to lose interest
Fickleness you are my foe

(O Fortuna! had re-gained popular attention when it was chosen as the theme song for the film, The Omen, the story of a child who was the Anti-Christ.
The entire performance of Orff's Carmina Burana is gripping and spine-chilling. I had the pleasure of watching it from a box seat the the Broward Centre for the Performing Arts back in 1999, played by the Florida Philharmonic (defunct) led by maestro James Judd--it terrified me so much I couldn't sleep for days!-D)

1. O Fortuna (Chorus) (O Fortune)

O Fortuna O Fortune,
velut luna like the moon
statu variabilis, you are changeable,
semper crescis ever waxing
aut decrescis; and waning;
vita detestabilis hateful life
nunc obdurat first oppresses
et tunc curat and then soothes
ludo mentis aciem, as fancy takes it;
egestatem, poverty
potestatem and power
dissolvit ut glaciem. it melts them like ice.
Sors immanis Fate - monstrous
et inanis, and empty,
rota tu volubilis, you whirling wheel,
status malus, you are malevolent,
vana salus well-being is vain
semper dissolubilis, and always fades to nothing,
obumbrata shadowed
et velata and veiled
michi quoque niteris; you plague me too;
nunc per ludum now through the game
dorsum nudum I bring my bare back
fero tui sceleris. to your villainy.
Sors salutis Fate is against me
et virtutis in health
michi nunc contraria, and virtue,
est affectus driven on
et defectus and weighted down,
semper in angaria. always enslaved.
Hac in hora So at this hour
sine mora without delay
corde pulsum tangite; pluck the vibrating strings;
quod per sortem since Fate
sternit fortem, strikes down the strong man,
mecum omnes plangite! everyone weep with me!
____

About:
"Carmina Burana is a scenic cantata composed by Carl Orff in 1935 and 1936. It is based on 24 of the poems found in the medieval collection Carmina Burana. Its full Latin title is Carmina Burana: Cantiones profanæ cantoribus et choris cantandæ comitantibus instrumentis atque imaginibus magicis"

"Orff first encountered the text in John Addington Symonds's 1884 publication Wine, Women and Song, which included English translations of 46 poems from the collection. Michel Hofmann, a young law student and Latin and Greek enthusiast, assisted Orff in the selection and organization of 24 of these poems into a libretto, mostly in Latin verse, with a small amount of Middle High German and Old Provençal. The selection covers a wide range of topics, as familiar in the 13th century as they are in the 21st century: the fickleness of fortune and wealth, the ephemeral nature of life, the joy of the return of Spring, and the pleasures and perils of drinking, gluttony, gambling and lust."
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/CarminaBurana_

"I'm afraid of the dark," he said,
but what he meant, I couldn't grasp.

I'm afraid of the light instead.

What more could terrify me than a future I have to face,
a gleaming torrent of certainty,
a resounding push forward,
but the dark?

The dark is my putty; a shadowy liquid,
a fickleness that prays on hope and fear,
and with it holds an escape.

He fears the dark because it can deceive him.
I fear the light because it is the truth.

the second phase of marxism is:
why do people enforce Hegel
to commad, when neglecting
Kant?
              i find Kant to be neglected...
of all schwabe...
     bewildering: like admiring
a yoyo sling...
             if there ever was
a dialectical materialism,
  capitalism is profound,
in that it killed communism when
communism was a premature
death -
            too young to
match up to the relieved serfdom -
yet communism will continue
to subvert,
           it will sentence
the subconscious with a tease -
said poet - said terse -
       otherwise the scaffold!
dialectical materialism has
morphed into
dialectical historiology -
        could it be an exclusion
of space? by comparison
the 20th century is absolute
in these times, its not relative,
yet relativism pervades
the narrative...
            we always and always
have lived in absolute times,
the allude to relativism
in a framework of temporal
affairs will never achieve
spatial democracy,
   untied from the spaghetti past...
love it or loath it,
         the 2nd phase of
the: ignoring Kant while
fervently adamant concerning
Hegel trusts what is
already apparent:
journalism is a trans-categorical,
szubrajce!
                journalism's primo
concern is the loser white
living with his parents,
little do they know of the investment
paid by the man who
entertains being patient...
journalists,
the ones who send their grandparents
to homes for the elderly,
quack out a Bulgarian **** joke
by now...
   a baby is far from an Alzheimer -
rotten memory,
   rekindle imagery of
lost years...
ensure that memory is
a citadel, and not some
     meagre fancy worth the pillage;
of those who find thought
least entertaining,
find morality the hardest
the fathom -
for the said concern,
lacking a mediating ought -
principle theta;
buckle on the P -
boss around a cleavage,
       pardon, rho alt romeo,
ultimatum grzechotnik...
   rattler... god i hate crosswords.
- because of journalism
history has become irrelevant...
   i hate journalists,
journalists are to me
the grand inhibitors of
what's necessary: inhibitions...
the journalist is the new Jew
to me...
         a leech, a parasite,
akin to the parody of a kiss
under a mistletoe...
  ever set foot on Slavic lands?
ever see a tree, plagued by
a mistletoe?
  mistletoe is a parasite...
yet you kiss beneath it,
cranium above myrhh's worth
of crown...
         jemioła,
ever see a tree riddle with this
parasite?
  as i once said:
the cancerous man better
invite the sight of the botanical
cancer akin to the mistletoe...
  only in Slavic lands,
akin to mole mounds
   (maulwurfhügel -
germanem, faust, chem -
czyli chmiel; zdrowo)...
and yet the social norm is
to kiss beneath this botanical
scurvy...
             easier seen
on a botanical body
than on a heaving gloat -
          yet have you ever seen
mole mounds, or mistletoe
on a tree in its wintry skeletal
form?
          what a sad sight...
but a sight kept, as reminder...
western lands do not
allow such trivialities -
quasi-germanic Gaels -
               akin to the labours
of the mistletoe -
sometime mistaken for
abandoned nests of migrating
birds -
   man lost,
in the advent, atomising
the percularity of swan
and stork nobility -
namely monogamy...
             feeble man knows not
the sixth sense bypassing
sight of ghosts:
   fickleness -
     and chance of adequate
temperament stagnate-:
for the exploration of
the civilised caste.
         mistletoe is a botanical
parasite...
              in the wild i've
seen it green on branches
of birches and oaks -
while the host hibernated
the parasite grew...
    yet this kiss-me-lovely
parasite never managed
to bind itself
to the acidity of the pine,
the evergreen, the prickly
needlework of insomniac
tree...
              and they
make amends with a kiss,
under a parasite...
     how horrid wild
mistletoe is,
        perverse,
nonetheless,
  what else to comfort a cancern
patient with,
  if not a tree labouring
with a likened strain
of excessive bulge?
o, right...
  dialectical materialism has
been replaced by
dialectical historiology...
        at least the 1st tier
achieved something akin
to competition...
the second tier of communism
is merely confusion...
   economical model intact...
yet talk of ****; thoroughly.

How can constant love abide forever
In a fickle, ever-changing heart
Of a roe, whose eyes do wander
About and be lighted on another hart--
Pondering greatly over his attraction
Along with his unproven affection?

Imaging you when you were a school girl
Mini- sarong, small white shirt
A bag jam-packed with books hanging on your shoulder
Tiara in head, and two queues like two small dark snake
And those long eye petals highlighted with collyrium
Your two sapphires fluctuating in deep Blue Ocean
Impish humming birds were humming with their assiduous tongue,
to get your attention.
Let the Almighty curse their tongue was your supplication
Walking in two fickleness legs, licking an Ice- cream
Bewilderingly, you became my “A Midsummer night’s dream”.
Each second I encounter you in my Ruya
For years you are my Ruya.

The time that has perished by mine own doing in vain pursuit of wooing, in dreaming of issuing... the light which lies in womens eyes -I most guilty am. Guilty of pursuing; and all for what more than my self-undoing. All all but blind to my pickle, eschewing my darts a' shooting for their hearts, which from the start hath been made a little fickle.

staying up late just thinking of all the could-beens and should-beens that could and should have been us.

what if we'd tried a little harder? persisted a little longer? held on to each other as tightly as we should have?
would you be by my side then, instead of the empty void staring tauntingly back at me?
would our hands be clasped together, interwoven,
your eyes that once bored right back into the back of mind haunting me wherever i would go,
your touch tattooed into the skin of my palms as they once were?

what if i hadn't let go?
what if i'd learnt fate's cruel lesson that
possessing the trait of fickleness never awarded anything but everything slipping past, earlier?
would you be willing to stay with me then, and forgive me for all the wrongdoings that i would inevitably cause?
would we have ever evolved into more than just an idealized dream drawn from a fragmented memory,
the idea of an irrevocable love that despite having been mulled over for what would've seemed like an eternity,
has never seen the light of reality before?

then again, everything does appear only better when it's all in your head.
when i can still pretend that you are who i expect you to be,
and i may be accepted for who i am truly,
excess baggage of unneeded insecurities and imperfections weighing me down and all.

is it better to be cleanly rejected or to be
torn down bit by bit,
night by night,
spent just staring at a blank screen and waiting,
hovering over imperishably,
pure naive hope fuelling the drive to continue delaying the inexorable?
foolishly believing that crossed fingers and
any lingering feelings that hadn't yet been sieved away by the
jaded culture we exist and drown in today
would perhaps, even if accidentally,
as if out of a fairytale that i starkly don't belong to,
send me a text back?

soft silly syllables sauntering slowly at sunset
after all ambiguous adjectives adversely affect our amicability
feigning fickleness funding fearfulness finding finality in foolishness
egress endlessly ever evading the
end

What Light speaketh,
Unto the Darkness?
Whom is more forceful?
Which is more tyrannous?

Must you succumb to Light?
Or fear the Darkness?
Or both?
Must you Succumb to Light?
In order to overcome Darkness?
And if thou dost not fear Darkness?
When why should thee succumb to Light?

Light doth not symbolize good.
Light is as violent as Darkness.
For both are to be feared.

Light to be feared because of its' fickleness.
And Darkness to be feared of its' unknowing.

Pick up thine poison.
Acquire light, and thou art doomed.
Venture into darkness,
And thou art doomed.

Tis true, that the creatures,
Lurk in the shadows.
But the Light dost not,
Have them vanish.
Creatures are not banish'd,
From the Light.
But Darkness makes them unseen.

Spark thine torches,
Look among the creatures.
Yet a torch is Light,
And Light is a fickle being.

Light is easily lost,
Only to find yourself,
Once again set in Darkness.
Darkness... where the creatures roam.
Light... where the creatures are known.

Light doth not make Darkness timid.
But Light shakes below the hand of Darkness.
Light is fragile, yet darkness in itself.
For without Light, You obtain darkness.

Once again, spark thine torch.
Look beyond where the Light canst grasp.
What dost flood thine vision?
Darkness.

Permanent, Light is not.
But Darkness...
O... Darkness...
Thou art eternal.
Overwhelming and omniscient.
The world hath been created amoung Darkness.
Therefore, humanity doomed by its' creator,
To remain in Darkness for its' existence.
And Light never to prevail.

(G)
Life as a burden is decent
Treading in hatched up waterways
Swimming in the green brine ebbing tides
Drowned in emotive stances
A being intensified in rapid torrents
Ohh my…fickleness soaked in curiosity

(J)
Decent sounds pretty substantial
I lay acquainted to swampy lowlands
My footsteps have tasted salty waters
Stepped, wadding inside the muddy landscape
Inch by inch, halfway, fully submerged
Overloaded by the tide gasping for oxygen

(G)
Populaces catwalk with intellectual deficit
Footsteps bereft of creativity and eloquence
The grounds lay dry strangling the in-between
The desert begging to lose their sandy dry skin
The forest whispers with a revolt of transformation
The luscious green splash life sparking drones

(J)
Your analogy sways the natured array of trees
The inspiration stings the sun to radiate warmth
All patched in the blueness of bellowing skies
My lungs deflate even on intense inhalation
I tarmac on the passage of time, differently wired
Intermittently cyanosed in faded lived moments

(G)
For poetry and art scaffolds and shapes reality
It sparks life and eliminates the drone mentality
Artists arouse inspiration and boost human nature
It bridges the narrowing ledge of ( human diversity/ instead of/ diverse species)
It drives conversation and deepens basic pleasantries
Rotating notions, promoted to a present and active human

(J)
I object not, for human essence is essential
A foundation of humanity that inspires and frees
A deed that dips in the depth of a lush oasis
Most sunk and waving “a celebration of celebrities”
Falsified lionization, a control of master puppeteer
Amused by insight, the reciprocal contract of empathy

G= Graff1980
J=SassyJ

A girl sitting at the table next
restless, was slyly eyeing his pie,
kind of cute, like in childhood
it sure was, yet seemed a ploy
to gatecrash in to his privacy,
and give company, as it pleased her.
"The pie is blackberry if you fancy it ,
I''ll be glad, you can have it all,
I know there is no other left"
He played Mr.Nice guy,solicitous,
but behind that face of his,
was the arrows of light, hitting him,
from those  sparkling eyes,
vying with each other, to build up
a halo chamber,  almost visible  around him!

Blackberry pie is no big deal, of course
he knows a whole hillside with
bushes full of ripe, succulent ones,
any day he could have his fill, raw
or as a flaky crusted pie backed by his mom.

But those sparkling eyes that in a moment
made him build castles in the air
had an electric appeal, he can't ignore.
The offer she said, was irresistible,
not a type she is who snatches,
dainty stuff from someone just bumped in to
"But the way your eyes did glint,
when you looked makes me ask
:haven't we met somewhere before?"

"There is a fickleness in this,love at first sight,
do you need to fall head over heels?"
a little voice within, that has a problem
in such things, kept raising a doubt.
"But without a first sight,there can't be love
may it be fickle, we'll tackle it the way it goes"
replies another,who seems to care for love.

She watches a drama on the television
calendar pages flying
from time’s prying fingertips
showing her,
reality is
slower,
trudging ,
dragging in its pain;
she paces quietly,
wandering down
lonely stairwells of her memory,
her feet shuffling,
slipping
on loose tiles
of broken promises.
the floor is covered in his tracks,
decaying leaves of fickleness, letters of blotted ink, thick gray scratches; 
his unsaid goodbye, lingering
heavy and stale,
the air
filled with the smell of him,
scents of his self doubt and insecurity.

it all makes sense after a beer and a whiskey, honestly, as honest as is this statement, i'm only a misogynist with regards to white girls, who i find so, so adequate for feministic fickleness that they could never produce 1 billion blue indians or 1 billion chinese.

i tell you how it started, i was at university,
first year i met this french psychology exchange
student, she was older than me,
she got drunk at one party and crawled into my bed,
when i climbed and felt frisky,
she just told me to put a ****** on,
prior to she was stiff watching some cartoon
by studio ghibli, man i was young and frisky
about loose the white of virginity and enter
the blackness of personal psychologies
passing via the rainbow of the visible world,
it didn't work out with isabel, we climbed
arthur's seat and took a picture
while she scolded me for napoleon
and the duchy of warsaw as the re-emergence
of poland but missed marquis de sade's picture
hanging on the wall... who's sick then,
the one who pleases the many or the one who
displeases a few?
plato's picture also hanged on the wall...
she was oblivious to the fact that an 8 year old
child can be categorised as a native speaker,
because that's when i started my anglo oral examination
to speak it.
later i spotted her after my first session with a bottle
of whiskey in lycra, going to the initiation ceremony
for the lacrosse team... i never joined... i just puked
into a bucket.
you never realise that when people label themselves:
i'm an atheist... i'm a christian... i'm a muslim...
i'm agnostic... you see the labels... you see how
they rememeber of themselves in terms of nanometres?
they kept their memory very cancerous...
the proto-socratic maxim in modern times
stands as: remember yourself, knowing nothing
is worth the existence of an encyclopedia -
feel and make the facts absentee...
just remember yourself as some point in your life
to re- re- repeat yourself so i can known you
as i can know myself, just so we can interact
like in a school playground... if you don't...
forget it... stay with your ***** **** stiches of a partner
and tell me whether your children got an a at a-level.
so he told me about her eagerness for *** with
strangers... she was apparently abducted...
so he told me he ****** her... believing him...
not getting enough... i went to a brothel in my second year,
and i didn't really understand the emotions of
someone who's ~******* outside a brothel,
well she really did let that one rip among one of the
major proofs of solispsism: someone farted in a crowded
space and appreciated by himself alone,
all the perfume companies who even hired
the best chemists could produce the scent of solipsism,
therefore the proof of solipsism: we appreciate our own
but loath the ****-burp of others; hey, i just took
all the theories of existentialism into hades via ****.
but that's the thing - back when darwinism was
active, active enough to build pyramids, motto active:
strength multiplied by ****... back then...
chaos known as god entered and said this that
and the other... we can now say democracy is safe...
demo tapes everywhere, half complete scripts...
but the limit of democracy comes when
you start to disagree with yourself... that's the limit...
obviously a high proportion of people
succumbed to the democratic weakness
and started to disagree with themselves or
the ontological starting point and ventured into
ethical questions to give birth to conscience...
first year was magical, second year had a highlight
where me and this guy played golf on the street
with glasses, smashing them next to a graveyard...
about a dozen jewish couples got married
when we took over stomping the glass with golf sticks...
so it's like this, make memory as selective as nature is,
as bizarre as the colour of magpies and parrots...
plus... you wouldn't get existentialism
if you changed the cartesian expression that
thought precipitates into existence...
sarte's explanation that existence comes prior to essence
is true, he stresses the essence: i think,
but existence doesn't really precipitate into thought,
because then we're all analogue: god doesn't exist
because of such and such parasite...
this world is beautiful but harsh, but with harshness
comes adventure and with beauty laziness...
what's crucial is to curb the precipitation of thought
into existence... unless you innovate and materialise
a telescope or paracetamol... for the majority of us
the one thing guiding us is not res cogitans,
but res vanus... not the thinking thing, but the empty thing,
and the empty thing is primarily filled
with the first linear association, thought, and later
being - which is why most of us think about being millionaires
but never are... and therefore create the lottery,
then we put our thinking into to being millionaires
as a mere chance, luck... which is really emotionally debilitating.
i agree... an unjust world of freedom with a just god
who's whimsical existence has freedom like ours...
rather than a just world of slavery with an unjust
god who plays us like puppets;
go on, complain... but that's hardly a logic i wish i could
understand like 1 + 1.

There’s something about your pale skin
blanketed with thin hairs that makes
me care to become closer, to massage
your ache, to make you quake with
relief; despite your disbelief
about my interest in you, I really do wish to kiss
your manner and bathe in the
cool vibes you emit.
I want to hit my brain for
silencing my heart, for halting
its beats when my eyes meet
your sweet and enticing
form; It’s hard for me to say
if I’ll feel the same as yesterday
in the future, for fickleness
has been in my nature,
though it is an unattractive trait—
indecision and impulsivity;
Contemplation is a proclivity,
a natural occurring activity that
sends too many signals to my mind
and I waste all of my precious time
deciphering true feelings from
conditioned expectations
However, I cannot deny the tingly
sensation my body rides when I look
into your mind
And I’m quite curious to find
out everything about you while
keeping my own mystery unsolved

I foster an incremental relation to the cosmos, enticed regularly by its indefiniteness and appeal.
Its evolutions, innate behaviors, and formidable sciences are recompense for earth’s meager discrepancies.
I often engage in the caprice to dismount much dissatisfaction by the constancy of riveting celestial events.
These beings possess no artificiality.
Its prophetic order, ornate and stupendous architectural facets have allowed a crescendo of dispositional hysteria.

Prosaic imprecations are deduced from its auxiliary wherewithal.
There is no contrition in immersing in enthrallment nor is there fickleness in trust.

Magnificent bodies orbit in finesse and probability, achieving universality and control.

Though these incitements are exponentially cheering, my origin is but connoted in despondency.

Usurpers and ill-suited vandals proliferated by the intemperance of the Ptolemaic discipline.
Rustics, miscreants and idle minds misdirected by less virtuous planetary derision.
My cognitive severity asserted by ominous consummation.

Oh how these preponderant truths confine me unfortunate.

Soliloquy is but an affliction amidst this era of anachronistic reign.
Grandiose passivity is intolerable at this time.

I plan to dichotomize my adamant fate from precepts and conditions anew.
The deposition of malfeasant kings will be sought.

Ploys I have already configured; propagation is near to instigation.

I will exhort my ascent to prime eminence.
The stars will sanction me to a rightful end.

A metallic flash of crushing energy and voracious sound exploded through the facade of the Union Station. The sleek classical columns and Constantinian Archways crumbled into a zephyr of advancing smoke and billows of dust. It was like watching the collapse of Sampson after a haircut at Delilah's.

A flash of light
and thunderous sound
knocked all the people
to the ground

chunks and bits
of concrete flew
the Union Station
in a whiff just blew

apart into pieces
dust and jagged glass
nothing withstood
the tumult of the blast

scattered and broken
in desolation lives ended
innocents slaughtered
dreams suspended

what vexed and angry force
could light this terrible torch?
crumbling arches tearing keystones
this iconoclastic scorch

a sickness you say
of body, mind and spirit
too aggrieved and resentful
derangement gets the credit

ghostly shadow's gather
specters of force and might
pervasive threats devastate
some will not return home this night

happenstance of time
fickleness of fate
strange coincidentals
all pass through this gate

Who set this fuse?
who lit the torch?
that blew apart
our country's heart

a mind of ugly sickness
and a soul full of pain
a heart bent on malice
the definition of insane

does the culprit stand in glee
at the carnage of this act
does that type feel anything
for this murderous attack?

What profit them
from the agony of terror
holding our imagination hostage
only compensates the bearer

Before this dreadful perversity
all sat well in the land of plenty
freedoms serenity guaranteed
citizens crowned with sanctioned liberty

but the evil doers hate us
for our beliefs and what we have
this heinous deed of mayhem
alone shall make them glad

whoever lit this fuse
and lobbed this bomb
rest assured ****** terrorists
we'll place you in your tomb

The sirens blared throughout the plaza of the station littered with debris.

"*******. *******."

"What happened?"

"Whaaa"

Sirens blared.

Cries lifted up to the Lord. Moans and groans of incomprehensible injury were uttered.

"Where is she?"

"Donna!!"

A young cop came running from across the street. Unable to comprehend what he was witnessing looked on with shock and awe overwhelmed at the extent of the damage. He stood astride a dust covered cabbage patch doll. He kicked it aside.

"Jesus Christ." he gulped.

"What happened.?"

Boom Boom!!!!!!!!!!!

Indeed, what happened?

John Lee ******
Boom, Boom

Washington DC
8/2/09
jbm

You all remember the romantic fickleness of being fifteen, right?

Of course you do.

Everything was

Brand New. (But we faced the world with Bright Eyes)

Once again I’m sealing up my dried-on spilt blue dye

With a kiss between the lines of liquor boxes

Wondering in which book my nose was buried

During the moment that time casually hopped aboard

a timeless train with a clocked-out rate

Its silent departure breeding a fantastical escape.

Only the ironic forlon echo comes much later.

They don’t tell girls who waste their youth away between the lines of pseudonyms

Between the shelves of musty libraries

Every other warm summer day until dusk

Just how old you’ll feel in the reminiscence of inde-alternative and cardboard boxes.

He was wandering through the woods, when he saw her.

She had long golden locks like gilt thread, it shimmered and its ribbons gently moved in the wind.

She wore an exquisite gold lace dress, which barely touched the green grass of the ground beneath her.

She gave a quick glance at the gloomy man gazing at her.

The beauty astonished him; it approached him with steady small steps.

She was like the goddess Aphrodite, but rarer.

She was the meaning of beauty, the warm air, the longer days, the bright sun, and the worry free smile.

The definition of beauty is easy; it's what leads you to desperation.

As the beauty advanced, her gold lace dress became a fade orange and the beauty in the previous goddess figure faded.

Every moment and every second of this illusion to his eyes appeared as a dream to reality, the reality of the fickleness in beauty over time.

His desperate gloomy figure slowly turned into white happiness. There was no more darkness; all that was left of him was white icy flakes.

The golden locks became white, and the fairness of her face became filled with wrinkles.

She lost her figure, her beauty, her gold.

She often looked into the mirror wondering where that gold light went.

The light was still within their cheeks, but the gold figure vanished.

In his eyes she was becoming something more beautiful than a storm.

Do not confuse my kindness for honesty.
Do not mistake this sweet spun fiction as anything more than a balm for the hurt.
Darling, I am lying through my teeth.
I am naught but a dark and terrible thing,
opened wide for the world to witness all my horrors.
Not unlike a mausoleum.
Yet,
not a mausoleum.
I am not filled with death.
I am not filled with anything.
Sorrow created me.
I grew up from a bed of grief and hemlock.
I razed myself through the inferno.
I stood,
the world cracked and popped
as my body trembled with resistance.
I am the goddess of wrath;
Of war;
Of chaos;
Of furious broken hearts.
Who is it that comes to me like dawn on the horizon?
All blinding light and shivering roses;
All you;
All you.
Gaze upon me.
Please.
My hands are warm but my heart is shaking.
I haven't been seen in centuries.
There is not much of me to know,
but if you touch me I shall bloom.
If you touch me I shall grow into you-
Like violets;
Like violence.
A sudden stifling,
deafening,
paralyzing sort of anguish sweeps in.
I don't want to be beautiful.
I want to be alive.
Will you place flowers at my feet instead?
Heather for my loniless,
Larkspur for my fickleness-
treat this body as a memorial.
Put me in a gown and set me on a pyre.
Oh, and I should burn for this,
but I beat on.
Wings against the sun,
I beat on.
Memories like woven gossamer,
like damp ink and rain.
Only the dust will remember us.
You may dismiss me now.
I will stare on with rapt attention.
Blindingly still, you shine.
And I did know you;
And I was close to you.
But there is nothing more to me than this:
The break.
I shift,
My bones hiss and pop.
I am a house settling.
I am a home burning .
I beat on.

11/15/2015

it has been a while since
i've been to the wetland coppice
teetering close to the neck of
a somerset sourland hummock

soft rushes and pickerel ****,
wild lavender and marsh elder
a Canadian goose choking on a

birch branch
it died.
it has been a time since I've been there

timber rattler and weasel
playing in the grounsel
September,

like Wallace Stevens: lonely in
Jersey city.
November dead
cold bright annihilating days

i sometimes walk a mile
cutting across dead garden snakes
they sit in the living room, playing

the Nile is full of waste and bile
i wait alone by this little grove,
hoping that my fickleness of

Conversation topics
can help me now
but my mind, it raced

like a dead horse at a betting show
Sunday morning,
Saturday night really

I read Wallace Stevens in the field
And dream about jersey city

What are we, my dear?
Two songbirds tightperched
On a branch, livening the day?
I could say yes to that.

But you want to live by the sea,
So seagulls we'll be:
Wheeling and honking and diving
And coming home to shore.

But then, I never learned to swim.
So maybe two little scuttlecrabs
In broken bottle shells,
Holding claws and bubbling nonsense.

Still I have grander thoughts than these,
You and I as brightshining dreamthings
Houring our whiles away with magic
That is coldest when warmed
And floats farthest when the tide is out.

(Perhaps it is risky to indulge in dreams,
The fickleness of seconds ticking makes them
Sand under one's feet; but I have walked on sand,
And I have dreamed you,

And here you are.)

is it really necessary? to come and go as you please? to share the fickleness of these autumn leaves? to bat your eyes and drain the blood from me? to wrap that filthy crook around my neck? are you prepared for that? to walk in front of me out of reach like every october breath? wont you reconsider? for all the possibilities and peril? for fear of what could quite possibly, probably, and preferably be the end?

yet you continue? and interrupt this perfect re-clusion? and break apart every sentence like a rotten soaked november twig? is this all truly necessary? to please yourself and go and come into days like a drunk naked december wind? to howl down my street like some great holy christmas beast come to correct me? to show me all the preferable, probable, possible, and parallel worlds? to burn all the red where the Tennessee hills once slept under blankets of green? to hold a conversation with this snow as you please to come and go like the first tiny snowflake that will begin to bury me? as you insist? as you pay me no rent, tax, or mind? dont you know? that you should take apart those frigid winter layers? that you should disregard that preoccupied, parallel, preferable, possible, and most probable gaze? why, oh my god, why must you play shy? myrma darby, wont you look here? wont you look me in the eye?

Colargrins

I pull daggers from my sinking heart, liquefy blades, and splash back in spades upon the staggering departure of my starts.

Ill finish even with a diminished will.

Im not always first, but **** it in the last minute in nervous fidgeting of my reality rippling through residual hauntings of the feel of the feeling of your reeling in the excitement.

Dauntingly, flaunting, the alarming charm of tongue, eniticing the romantic knifing of lungs, in spent breaths, confessed of the love of truth.

Rasp out the hiss, as whisps of winds licked from jackals lips.

Whip the words in willful waning of the facts.

Aim to ****

Ill just Relax to the drop of the ax

Im a ridiculous idiot

Meticulously breaking it down to absolutes, in my astute fickleness.

Lustily finding finesses in the regrets of others, smothering prideful chuckling of chummery in distractive strumming of the nothings, shielding the view of this place, changing the hue of my face in the light.

Step away from the light

You dont wanna see what lurks within the night

My lackluster mustering is the recipe for disaster.

Ill just master the disguise, with too much time, miles of smiles, lies, and cold hand shakes that imply my maniacal despise.

Hi!

There is a stillness
in the absence of the television’s
jarring advertisements,
lethal dramas,
and fast paced sitcoms
just gnawing away at what little time we have here.
The last hour has been a week
of the relaxation I pursue daily.
Stuck in a world where the constant
is a sprint on a treadmill,
meaningless because I’m moving nowhere,
as others move about a steady change of scenery,
I am beginning to feel hopeless.
Will I get to climb my mountain?
Will I get to trip and skin my knees on the rugged earth?
Will I get to lay on a cliff,
enamored with a view I never thought was meant for me?
Will I feel pain?
Will I feel triumph?
Will I simply get to feel?

These years are getting old.
This faith is turning cold,
fickleness growing bold.

i hate her.
i hate the way she talks,
the way it's always the wrong thing,
the way her voice is always uneven.
i hate the way she slouches;
is it apathy she feels, or the weight of the world?
she can never seem to decide.
i hate that she isn't smarter,
that she isn't calmer,
that she isn't motivated,
that she isn't kind.
i hate that she trusts too much or too little.
i hate that she makes everything a big deal.
i hate her fickleness.
i hate her anger that she has no right to feel,
and the sadness she doesn't understand,
and her stupid ticks
and stupid fights
and stupid feelings.
i hate that she likes feeling sad
just to feel anything at all.
i hate her cliche words.
i hate her clumsiness.
i hate that she loves attention.
i hate that she tries to drag everyone into her problems,
ignoring the way they're hurting,
in some sort of warped cry for help.
i hate that she likes the way fire feels against her skin,
but most of all,
i hate that she can still face herself in the mirror day after day.

I do my best to hide the pain
Drowning in laughter and a painted smile
Hoping my cries go unheard
By those dearest to me

Weak I do my best
At playing the unwanted part
No hand offered
Or prayers said on my behalf
Will the halt the decline
Dying is my heart

So each day I rise
Though I am now dead within
For with loves fickleness I lie
To my audience I  bow
A talented actor
My life the stage
I do my best to hide the pain



This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby

We need to stop setting goals
and personal standards, based…
on the foolishness of our fears;
Human expectations, dumb notions
and the fickleness of desire is
no way to live. Measuring years

by our accomplishments is silly;
someone in the future will either
outdo us or destroy our efforts.
Can we create a meaningful legacy
that touches lives with God’s Love
or even move beyond… self-comfort?

Those eyes
So sad
So loving, loyal and true.
Who can resist that look
From a dog?

Best family member
Of the animal kind.
So devoted to his Mum and Dad
And even uncle.

No fickleness here:
Unflinchingly faithful.
Loving to run and fetch
For his master or mistress.
Even bring in the ‘paper.

See him jump for joy
As you grab the lead
That he’s brought you.
It’s “That time”…

If you let him,
He’ll lick you all over
Before rolling on his back
For a belly rub.
(And his Missus is just the same)!

But those eyes have it:
Bottomlessly sad
So you just have to give him
Strokes and cuddles.

Paul Butters

© PB 21\1\2018.

I remember when loving him wasn't so wildly painful,
and I remember backseats and whispered things
and I remember winter nights and tiny joys.
I remember when I fell asleep against his arm on the way home from a dance I hadn't wanted to go to -
I remember a kiss on the top of my head,
the gentlest thing you can imagine,
to wake me up.
I remember the thousands of tendernesses.
I remember the the ecstatic joy you filled me with.
I remember I couldn't sit still when you were close by -
I remember the electricity, the wildness
you put into my limbs and the rhythms of my heart.
And truth be told these are what I'd rather remember
and this is how I'd rather it be.
I'd like to hold onto the joy and the recklessness,
the love instead of the loss.
I'd rather remember our happinesses, because they were so many.
I know your fickleness and your faults,
I know that you are in a constant state of moving on,
that you do not hold on and that you probably don't remember
but you know that I do.
I carry things with me and nights like these,
they do make me remember. They make me want and ache and they fill me with things I don't have a name for. They make me breathless and nostalgic and crippled. They make me think, write, and love. They fill me with the same abandon that you did, only quieter now and deeper, but no less beautiful.
And it's an odd thing, to remember love without feeling it,
Or to feel love in ways you don't understand because they feel so odd and out of place, being only yours. It's a difficult game and an exhausting one, and I'm struggling, still, to find my footing.
Today I remember loving you.
Later I will remember missing you.
Later still I will remember remembering,
Or maybe I will forget altogether.

The only noise is a departing train
when I wake to daylight at eight o'clock.
The slow white edges darkness back in vain,
groping the averageness of the city block.
I know for certain, yet feel half-unsure,
life will always go on --
what about after I'm dead and gone?
Unfounded conviction beginning to blur,
I step outside to steady rain
Confronting an inarticulate pain:

most go unescorted to the grave.

All day long I try pushing back the thought,
try focusing on my tedious work,
but truest fear -- what was and now is not --
deepens like a glacial cirque.
Certainty's fickleness falls far away
as momentary happiness
from nowhere, more or less,
solidifies into one more day.

you know it needs the thumb, index, middle and ring fingers to clasp the eroticism of the neck for the geese to fly in man inverse to the hellish fires of emotion that have no sense of temperament?*

even the existential french philosopher sartre was fooled
by what the common man conquered
deemed the end of rome...
but the conversion gave us the long standing
byzantines: saint who never warred
and so warring turned to sainthood,
but the man was rags to riches fraud,
as archaeology - that thing above history proves:
can't deny the papyrus came from india
when it was found in egypt by a real shepherd:
unless you're in it for the money...
and not the fact that pharisees would not have
thrived unto exdous for muscle the 2nd time,
so why such intellectual diversity and thriving
under roman rule... because there was no dislocation?
the conversion of constantine empowered 2nd rome,
byzantine fabrics of jewel of sainthood
than never took to taking an acorn for some reason...
western rome was overrun with orcs, northern folk
previously not conquered when julius caesar looked
and the women of gaul and said: easy **** soldiers...
easy ****: brit girls easy too, but have to pierce
the membrane of fickleness that mediates man conquering
and man scheming (paedophiles).
of course women are worth the conquest...
but in a western society what wages "justifiable"
as war outside of itself... inside it there's a sexist war of pacifism
of one ***... *** changes... you name it...
in a society that exports war and imports pacifism
you will only get angry women and confused men...
pacifistic war is far from the pacific,
it's horrid... woman gets all the weapons:
****, ****, nakedness, ***** and *******...
man gets confused with what war is actually for:
profit... so he earns his share...
honestly... even though he's not warring...
so woman lives longer... becomes entombed
with inheritance... gets ken barbie the 2nd
******* of flamboyant killjoy mansion investments...
and it's equal: the worst sexism is one
that demands a pacifism of one *** but not both;
and we're living in a time when masculine sexuality
is pacified, and where feminine sexuality
is warring... easily duped by womanising wolves
that would reincarnate the third ***** somewhere
far from germany... like syria.

the strings that constrain me
are the strings that hold me up.
and i am forever chained to this wooden skeleton,
with a tangle of strings
hanging like a noose around my neck
and handcuffs around my wrists.
lift a finger,
make us dance,
make us fall.
it doesn’t matter.

because the puppeteers always know best, don’t they?
they weigh the odds.
they hold the weight of our lives
on their fingertips.
they sense every flicker of movement—
the slightest inhale,
the lightest exhale.
it is the puppeteer’s job
to weigh the consequences and,
with good intentions,
fasten the noose around our necks
and lift.

and so, on we go.
dancing.
        dancing.
               dancing.
to the melody of our empty lives;
ever-dependent on the fickleness of our maker's fingers
and the hope that our strings
please do break.

The pain from the fickleness of your heart,
The hurt from your unwillingness
To be stronger, to try, to admit...
To walk beside my darkness...
Is greater than any knowledge
Of the comfort and laughter
You have in the scent and skin
Of someone else's voice, body, soul.*



The truth in your heart,
Is more valuable
Than the protection you think a lie gives
my heart.
I always feel the truth.
It vibrates, moving like kinetic energy,
Across the universe.
In my dreams
I see it as it is.
A lie is the greatest damage.
Every time.

Holes are dug:
a rite of passage
for the young
and beaming
as parents delight
in viewing themselves
from long ago.
The fickleness of thought:
the world has changed --
the world is not so different...
a trench without purpose:
made meaningful
with ethereal sentiment.

There will always be
this life on the sand
where little can be
enhanced or altered.
Grit will always
find its way into
the unseen grooves of
bags and toes;
the sand of timelessness,
of now and yesterday.
Castles are built and
fall and are built again.
And the sand will remain,
and little, so little,
will change.

My thoughts aren't always pretty, really, they can be cruel and relentless. They can be droll and demonic. My mind is making me turn myself into all the things I never wanted to be. I like to say, "what an actress" to myself, as I fill desolate rooms with life and character, laughter, a euphoria of jubilation - when I'm "an actress" around a horde of people, friends, Loved Ones, The Ones Nearest and Dearest to My Heart. They gaggle, like a flock of geese, and when your mind is pounding, with a swollen brain, you try to forget; the things that can never love you back, the things that haunt me in varying intervals, etc --- only one person can make me feel my version of Normal, where my humanity of normalcy comes to play --- where I'm up to par with my getting myself together, and, you, being the 3 tablespoons of olive oil, 2 cups of warm water, and 1 cup of apple cider vinegar that heals my dry cracked hands. That's YOU. You're my peach, I beseech you with fervent fever for your innocuous intimacy; we enmesh and evoke in ease, we please the plead we need. There's fickleness whim, in the way our soul cases analog; we allow stymie in the progression of our relationship and we allocate adornment. I'm the sin of sacrilegious sacrilege, the sin of my lips sipping your pureness out of a chalice; but, yet, I wear white. I want you to breathe in my arousal, breathe in my lust, touch my yearned wants and needs, touch my hankering hands, kiss my passion, kiss my pain, coition - on my mother-naked body, be the fabric that nukes my raw reprehensible physique, let's (both) be sinful, spiteful, senseless in the way we drape. Be my contour, be the silhouette that invokes my earnestly and summons my evoked despondent deity, bring vigor and satisfactory vengeance.
(k.m.m.)