You can literally manufacture it in a chemistry lab;
There are formulae and measurements of hormones that add up
To this supposedly tangible entity

A nicely brewed test tube
Of elaborately named chemicals

The very thing that makes you tremble in your skin,
That has caused wars and set ships assail
Confined to a liquid in a glass container

This is the game, set and matching end-piece to what is known as:

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/385266/poetry-round-find-your-self-within/

by way of an introduction....

T'is season to move forward,
back to old acquaintances renewed,
sand, water and salty sun,
three lifelong friends who,
Auld Lang Syne,
never ever forget me

I get drunk on their eternity,
their celestial beauty,
and they, upon my tarnished earthly being,
muse and are bemused

unreservedly and never judgingly,
share shards of inspiration unstintingly,
we share, never measuring
this captain's humanity, his human efficacy,
by mystical formulae of reads or hearts

grains of sand, water wave droplets and sun rays,
and his beloved words, derived there from,
all only know one measure...
immeasurable
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/699991/adieu-my-crew-my-crew/
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Pilgrimage (Reunion)


at last to begin,
to begin the 'at last,'
this reunion occurs
this first day of June
where on my
body's flesh colored calendar,
X red-marked,
deeper than any real cut of despair


this morn, leave for familiar parts,
embarking 100 steps to that
Adirondack chair,
my name, my self,
(oh god at long last)
so often, long lovingly
revealed unto you


the garden's sundial welcomes me,
Prince, Guardian, of the gate to the green,
the green steppe way to bay and beach,
a brief song of "ring around the irises,"
blooming around him,
he issues,
to celebrate his own glory recalled,
his own purpled prosed long ago one ecrivez'd,
by having the third mate
ring the greened worn,
bronzed ship bell
upon conclusion of
his raising of the gate


shorts and T white hair shirt,
costume de rigueur
of this Peconic pilgrimage,
turban and baseball uncapped,
stepping humbly
toward that worn wood throne
where carved are
the initials of
my poetic friends,
and his vast modest,
Concordia of poetic essays


Those odd disordered
collection of aleph bets
that have been prepared for this hour,
are sun dappled,
breeze caressed,
wave watched,
a fresh redressing after a
dum hiems,
a long dark winter


all rise up welcoming with voices
tremulous yet oratory,
sing with a love so spectacular ,
Handel's Messiah Hallelujah Chorus,
au naturel


the armies of ants declare this a
Truce Day,
parading before me in formation,
the rabbits race
in elegant uniforms,
white tailed bemedaled, dress grays,
announcing their  showoff arrival
with a new across-the-lawn
land speed record


the dear **** deer,
familiar families and generational,
look upon this human and
grumble while chewing our shrubbery,
an act of sherwooded lawn high robbery
but perforce acknowledging our entrance,
by uttering a Balaam blessing/curse,
a neutralized
"****, they're back"


the seagulls on the dock,
sovereign state observers from
Montauk and the far island city,
sent by the mother winds superior,
observers and reporters to nature everywhere,
Summer Season of Man Has Begun


a few white wakes disturb the water's composure,
the early low arc'd sun has not peaked in strength,
at 10:00am, the temp just breaches 60 Fahrenheit,
the beach sand untrod, no unlasting human impressions,
no children's red pails yet to them decorate,
amidst the sea life's detritus and smooth licked pebbles


Enough.


each tree ring and grass blade demands a verse,
an all my own tributary accolade,
this too much to accommodate


a year ago I issued an invitation,
do so again for my word is my bond
my responsibilities, my *******,


there are chairs for all
on my righted round and my motet left,
here, there are
no Americans,
no Canadians,
no Aussies or Brits,
or Indians and Fillipinos,
no African or Asians present,
East nor West,
None Invited here,
Only Poets


even those hardy pioneer
West Coasters, a proud lot,
and my Southern family drawling,
and perhaps lessening the mourning
just a touch, a minute modicum,
all sit quiet in the admixture
of poets come to celebrate
the blessing to have been tasked,
to write from and of places we visit
in the cerebral,
and to imbibe each other's words


Three Hundred and Sixty Four Days ago,
I wrote :

We sit together in spirit, if not in body,
You join me in the Poet's Nook,
A few frayed and weathered Adirondack chairs
Overlooking the Peconic Bay,
Where inspiration glazes over the water,
And we drown happily in a sea of words...

I am exhausted.
So many gems (poets)
to decorate
My body, my soul

I must stop here,
So many of you have reached out,
none of you overlooked.

Overwhelmed, let us sit together now
And celebrate the silence that comes after the
Gasp, the sigh, that the words have taken from
Our selves, from within.

Once again, in your debt

Again,
I await your beckoning wave of hello,
greet you in your mellifluous native tongue,
iced drinks at the ready,
the opening ceremony already started,
when all are seats taken
we commence officially,
with a blessed

*"Now, let us begin"

The formulae for well being
is found in those memories,
a preparedness to unearth
yesterday's yearbooks;
which releases those far flung controls of analogue, 
resurrecting belt driven
record players
to play Starbuck and Brothers Johnson
reviving  '76,
mentally speeding on pristine motorways,
buzzing by on a chevy  corvette
humming to the suggestive "Afternoon Delight"
vying with your Radio's antenna.

Just an equation,
A Simple theorem.
A little misbehaviour,
Outside the decorum.
.
I add and provide,
Hoping we never divide.
At the geometry, I stare
Just a mindfuck of a square.
.
A slight cross multiplication,
To bond upon this attraction.
To help develop the postulates.
Of your mere subtraction.
.
I integrate & derive,
It's the formulae I'm deprived
Of. The questions always lead to me and you.
I always end up in my four sided cube.
- Aks, in math classes.

Let us invoke a healthy heart-breaking
Towards the horrible world:
Let us say 0 poor people
How can they help being so absurd,
Misguided, abused, misled?

With unsifted saving graces jostling about
On a mucky medley of needs,
Like love-lit ****,
Year after cyclic year
The unidentifiable flying god is missed.

Emotions sit in their heads disguised as judges,
Or are twisted to look like mathematical formulae,
And only a scarce god-given scientist notices
His trembling lip melting the heart of the rat.

Whoever gave us the idea somebody loved us?
Far in our wounded depths faint memories cry,
A vision flickers below subliminally
But immanence looms unbearably: TURN IT OFF! they hiss.

I'm going to try and make this poem rhyme,
While my backyard smells like fresh thyme.

I don't know what I feel,
But it makes me a little ill.

Why does the feeling of not knowing,
Make my emotions feel like overflowing.

It makes me feel like a river waiting to burst,
Ready to quench everyone's thirst.

Maybe if I tell myself I'll be okay,
I'll finally crack the formulae.

The ultimate formulae of happiness,
To overcome my snappiness.

Maybe one day I'll get there,
But till then, these words are all I have to share.

round and round
they go

counting, counting
so long....


1.
hardly time to eat
let alone a coffee-on-the-go
yet always make an effort
for two or three daily suspended-cafés
a poor soul will pop in later

no time, no time...


2.
emails by assignment
work-related crap
for this assiduous pair
very* far apart
alive and available
yet caught in
formulae and science
holding sway above chit-chat

no time for play
just punch in digits
and calculate
always counting
without accounting any real loss

computing life-time
for
success


3.
then, one day
by sheer chance
he sent her an Einstein quote:
"Not everything that counts can be counted,
and not everything that can be counted counts."

in her tiny office cubicle
she suddenly saw flowers
of all colours
blossom before her
erstwhile
unseeing eyes

she didn't understand....


4.
for one full year
they swopped more than equations:
         deep reminders of life
         such gems of worth
         paradoxical beauts
all encapsulated in
the vessel of silent words

he loved sending her quotes
      to uplift her quiet spirit
she repaid his efforts
     in heart's core poems

PC keyboard playing postman
while
heartbeats monitor
new algorithms

then, they saw it ....
they finally understood.


5.
work progressed
and presentation due
project done

although never met nor seen
       they felt growing synchrony
       and developing emotions
they battled to chase it off
as they both were
born of discreet essence

they agreed to meet in a year
at the fountain near
the oldest tree in Paris
at the
Square René-Viviani
in the fifth arrondissement

oh, so very long to wait...


6.
many weeks were spent
in daydreams
of delicious crêpes-suzettes and strawberries
with maple syrupy strips
and super-strong espresso
at bistros on
cobbled-****** squares

and munching baguette
with Emmenthal and salade
         walking in parks together
         lancing wish-pennies
         and getting portraits near the Seine
blue skies in dream-eyes
with birds in elm trees

deeply into each other


7.
then....
some shock was revealed
which would spin
e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g
so wildly out of orbit
for her

fate was playing games...
and laughing so wickedly
awarding such onerous toll

she understood....


8.
the time ticked by
mails became sporadic
he wondered why

the rendezvous time was close
to meet springtime love
and it took him
enormous trouble to get there

she didn't show


9.
he sat
waited
had a decaf
alone
despair settling upon him
like an overgrown and heavy wintercloak

but the sweet footfall he wanted
did not approach

that's when he assumed some ...truth
she didn't love him
she couldn't
not after this stand-up

he didn't understand....


10.
she had really tried to tell him
but ran so ungently
out
of time....


he understood
but only
some weeks after that day....
when postman delivered
to his door:
algorithmic package


11.
now, in her inbox
lies a Mother Teresa quote
which remains eternally
suspended:

“Yesterday is gone.
Tomorrow has not yet come.
We have only today.
Let us begin.”  


little counts now
so long....



S T, 2 July 2013

Come the auroras and infinite landscapes –
     Tangents wrought outright constants,
     Parallels perched perpendicular outrights,

          So to call your ellipse,
          When the orbit’s outstretched
          Landing meetings where we’d at least
          Learn to alter tomorrow.

It’s stellar silly, and paths primordial,
     Leaving my layovers for the trials
     And abandoned, the moon’s to forever follow you;

          So to composed and formulae proofed
          Come the time you mother said,
          "He’s just a coma
          And dust best left forgotten."

Quit draggin’ me to space baby.

I should have gone to school
not fooled around.
I should have settled down to algebra
Nah..
I enjoyed my lazy days on river banks
I enjoyed the walks through ranks of butterflies
and fish that looked through fishy eyes at me
where I could be the master of my destiny.

Oh foolish child
what wild ride did I take?
I broke the hearts of tutors preferring roller skates and scooters to the formality of education.
No dried out formulae or calculations could tempt this boy
to attend a place where joy sat silently on the back row.
What I didn't know I found out the hard way
the way I knew
too late now to do
anything about it.
I should have learnt to sit and learn
not learnt to swim
or burnt my bridges.

Furrowed ridges on my brow
Now I know why education
should have been
seen as number one.
But life goes on
another lesson learnt
another bridge that wasn't burnt
but crumbled
under years of weight.
I chalk upon the blackboard slate
'could have done better'

The
tilt of my seesaw
is decidedly downward facing dog:

and there’s no rush to judgment, for the powers that be,
be delighted by slow-walking, making the waiting
max-tortuous, but am of an age when everything,
even the long buried sins and unkept promises,
poke and **** nonstop, and the formulae once
relied upon to ease incipient self-deception,
to temporize and salve the consternations

of unkempt aggravated remorse fail,

as aged misdemeanors be matured felonies,
I blurt and declare guilt to all, alas, and yet, in the
ultimate crushing of tardiness, knotted by indignity of silence,


no one is desirous
of taking my
confession

5:10pm
Thu Jan 28
2023

It was a day. I got crowned and became her man. Love was so pink it made the ink of my pen run. The sheets were stained and we were blind. Blind in love. Giggles, smiles, blushing and connection. We had the whole world in our hands... And then the glance opened a chance for the entrance of that man who has the material romance. A glance inspired by the sparkling material things.

Oh how easy she smiles when he takes her for a ride. Oh how wide her thighs open when that paper is rolling. This rich image a prerequisite for controlling... And you're in the shade watching it all happen. She gets picked up and taken places you can only be an employee in. Never will you feel like a boy in a league of men. Men who are making it happen. Men who need not nag or trail for a simple "yes".

There's a truth you don't see and that is she is not yours truly. Oh you were programmed growing up that the woman you love will belong to you. Oh you were lied to by your role models growing up that there is a formulae to prevent a woman from cheating. Except they had huge ego's and that's where they lived. So you're in a state of utter shock and awe... How could she? How could he?

There is a deeper truth to face and it's not what you did or didn't do, It has always been what you can offer, how far you can take her. It's all about her, don't you get it. Her ego, her security. Her heart, her excessive needs. And all you were doing was filling the gaps in the reservoir. Turns out many were contributing to the self of she.

Love you said you felt, was it love for love's sake or love for her curves, pretty face and pleasure-cake. Love you said you felt, was it truly love or the image she created which gave you street credit. Was it the love for the security of your ego, making you look good. Or was it for the goodness of love.

It is a sad affair, and the lessons are in the tears shed. The sadness spreads in the abyss of her loneliness, convinced the price of gold will define her glamour some day...
It is a sad affair, when you thought you were the best it could ever get for her. That you were  her forever and she your Eve to even the flops and failures of the past.

Souls scrambling for their best form, trying to pair... Although in these relations souls constantly compare...
Who said she'd be your lover alone and that she cannot be shared?
Was it the norms defined by society, well search for more definitions to expand your vocabulary
Who said that she belonged to you?
And who said relationships were perfect? And aren't you irresponsible for not searching who the founders of the manufacturing of relationships are?

Watch and imagine as the one you love sings ******* to the one you despise
Watch as the fake image of awesomeness meets its demise
See that all the sleeping around is a result of absent fathers
Conceive that the game is in women's hands and that it's the twist of evolution
Surrender to your weaknesses and find strength in them
Believe in love and endure the pains and burns, for one day if you loved truly it will all come back to you certainly.


By: Nhlanhla Moment

the form might be that of a poem, but to be honest,
it has nothing poetic to it -
                  i wanted to feel angry -
to vent anger out,    i drank during the daytime:
daytime and drinking?
                                                       ­         bad idea.
                               daytime drinking
and fasting and smoking
and coffee? a doubled-up bad idea...
         but i wanted to feel
a wrathful voice... i got bored of my otherwise
gentlemanly attire and what not,
i wanted to waste my tongue into
anger... best propeller of the act?
drink during daytime...
                          when night falls,
the lazy one comes out.
                   consider this -
some use language to encrypt, not
to to simply memorise rhyming and
bounce bounce the bubbly pink ball
on stage...
                    Pavlov's lapping tongue
of a dog overheating -
             philosophy deals with
double phonetic encryption,
                  that's a psychological reevaluation
of what language is, from the standard
of the three tier cake:      consciousness,
                                      s­ub-  " and un- "    -
again Christianity plays a great deal with
the point of a trinity -
                               that's the secular version,
a populist version for each individual
regardless of the church's credo -
                    but as i was saying:
philosophy deals with a doubled variation
of phonetic encoding:
                      primarily for one reason:
this is primer for idea forming -
               isn't it?
                             the first level is that of
being able to read the encoding -
   like a music score...
                                   to write a s k
              and then say the word: ask.
but the second tier of encoding sound is
to translate it into optics -
                   the basis of idea forming -
not the basis of making sounds, but to peer
more deeply into any sort of narrative -
sometimes a single word can pull
the gravity of thought
                                 away from the narrator
ego, and into the realm of the id:
        which doesn't narrated, but
    conjures up ideas: to me the source of
all "magic" formulae -
                          here again, a classic plagiarism
working on the basis of a trinity -
          i dare say dualism is so unfashionable
to most people, as is monism -
             people prefer triangles to explain
their psychological life,
          and circles to explain the physical life...
   dualism is out of fashion that
it would seem to be more (dangerously) fashionable
to be of split-mind - but never mind that -
romanticising any medical condition is
a faux pas.
                                i was spurred on
by reading a review of O'Hara's poetry,
namely the poem sardines -
                  the reviewer writes how the poet
'actually writes his poem by breaking down
language into its most basic units - words.'
well... technically this is where the other point
of phonetic encoding comes in, the third tier...
words aren't as basic as you might think -
they reside in the realm of meaning,
but also a realm of being bound to a thesaurus -
(apologies, i'm not trying to be pedantic,
  you might see where this might be going,
in terms of sharpening the point of
               what's language and
the basics of language - yes, a niche topic,
as usual, pedants ahoy)
                          words are components
(or compounds)... letters are units, akin to
mathematical digits...
                          but then again,
kilometres are units -
                                 as are miles and hours...
surely then if worded
                   the representation would be that
of a/z                             rather than
                                   p/o/r/r/i/d/g/e          
      a/z seems like a better basis for unitary
conceptualisation of language
                        using a, b, c... z as the basic
units of language... yes... much more so than words...
            because the third tier of encoding
is based primarily on letters,
                                       yes, we know the
plight of the Palestinians, but the Jews have something
i want, and use, quiet frequently,
although with variation - there's no
              toying about with gematria -
i don't accept this method of investigation -
              i find absolute futility in it -
not that i can't grasp it, but i find it useless -
         it's this third tier where ideas are formed
without any distinct orthodoxy -
                           so:
tier 1. phonetically encoding a s k to say: ask
tier 2. phonetically encoding a s k to think:
                                      what am i going to ask for?
tier 3. phonetically encoding a s k to then
            (primarily) venture into encoding
                                              a s k i n g f o r p a t i e n c e.
we're not dealing with Chinese ideograms,
    we're dealing with a linear juxtaposition encoding
   e.g.
     a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p (q r s t u v w x y z)
the bracket? i first learned the English alphabet
as a sing-along... to my memory i forgot the rhythm
of the song (i was 7 at the time) and subsequently
             the rest of the sequence... but that doesn't
necessarily mean my vocabulary suffered because of it...
still linear juxtaposition encoding, as above, only
         n y m p h  (x y s t)
                             a b c d e f g i j k l o q r s t u v w x z
                   (a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r u v w z)
                                           e x o t i c s (friz)
          a b d f g j k l q r u v w x z
                              (a b c d e g h j k l m n o p q u v w)
                 ...
                                    
     ...
                         (b c e g
                                                            - interlude -
   well, technically, you could say that diacritical
marks are used for the purpose of dissecting
words into syllables, that's not to say
          latin compound fixations on meaningful
  prefixes, such as: aqua-        or omni-
                   (yes, the etymological section
of the dictionary is the most interesting part
of that book - as counter to Darwinism,
                     or something less intrinsic with
visuals, and focused more on a shorter history
of mankind, the less ridiculous time-frame,
         or history without Alexanders and Socrates -
                  SS... the English hasn't fixed
the notation of pluralism here...
            something akin to ß      or σ          or     ς
                    is begging to come out of this problem...
lets just say the ending variation of sigma denotes
the plural, so, etymology, or history without
       Alexanders and Socrateς / cruder or more
masculine Socrateç... Tess' - as in: it belongs to Theresa)
        as Plato noted, i too, like Socrates
are investigating how my name ought to be written,
by the looks of it, from what i discovered
               i apply diacritics as syllable identifiers,
or: how to cut words up -
   ergo? even though this is not orthodox,
my name, should be written as
                   Máteuš -
                                               the acute a
stresses the cutting up of the word, i.e. the first
syllable is identified, primarily because diacritics
stress non-prefixes, i.e. simpler variations of
what a prefix is (a loan word), or a sound that
has an ancient meaning, for example pre-
or pro-, meaning the word was forced into the shackles
of being accompanied by a hyphen
when the ancient tongue disintegrated and its grammar
was no longer adequate to accommodate
the barbarian tongues of the north...  
so it has come to this: diacritical marks are not
exactly aesthetic concerns where not writing an
acute o but rather u is displeasing to the eyes...
      it's about seeing where the syllable incision has
been made... shame the English never adopted it...
but then again: the Empire blah blah blah, Star Wars
blah blah blah... special relationship with America
blah blah blah... that old chestnut -
                  or can anyone forget their eccentricity
of doth and         all that Canterbury *******?
   or even Shakespeare's English?
                                  i'm on it... well,
apologies... internet encrypting, acronyms and
eight and L8 for late. it was never adopted -
        and never will be... ****-naked Charlie
and ****-floral-naked Angie...
              sitting in a tree, one two, one two three.

  - post-interlude -

              (b c e g...
                                           i really can't be bothered
   trying to finish this little scrabble -
           i mean, looking up words
                       so i'm left with the last possible letter,
or no letter at all...
                                  what with
    the six vowels a, e, i, o, u, (y)
                                                  nymph as a word (though)
is the closest you'll get to the pronunciation of
     y (why)               in                   Polish...
                            ny-                 or -ymph
                                 obviously cut off the μ and φ...
but if you're really bored...
                  you could probably finish that
little game... for no reason, whatsoever -
        as already stated i'm more interested in things
contained in the interlude, but then again games like
this provide the capacity to abstract and return
with actual application of an idea.

Of late
the sergeant thrill-to-burn,
remains, at best unorthodox,
a cutter’s stock of winsome blend
compiled in slim anthologies.
To date, an urgent threnody
bates, cider- pressed, impertinent
as bargain basement demagogues
renounce their crass belief.

Rude, canon-balled, eccentrics
venting, hurt- inflected metaphors,
unpoured memento-mori, cursing
absence of reprieve.
Misfortune flavoured pockets, line
the boxcar-lite Praetorian,
event amended anecdotes, plied
ammonite in grief.

prologue -

i demand you drop
all which you have not

and i'll offer you what
you've already got

-----------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------------------

talisman of love

i want you to learn
what you can be
with love you'll earn
your potentiality

its a fear so great
than death itself
an event so rare
when love descends

with love you'll move
towards abyss
tremble and waver
with fear that grips

what will you do
when you cannot run
for it'll beckon you
like the morning sun

it gives a glimpse
into what you can be
for love attracts
you'll clearly see

but is that love
you hold so dear
meaninglessly
for which you cheer

its one false coin
which you invented
to fill your void
and live contented

for without love
life has no point
no charm or luck
no songs or rhyme

for without love
you cannot pray
and feel grateful
or celebrate

for with this love
does soul arise
and shadows below
ego that lies

just one empty gesture
without love life remains
just one possibility
that we all dream to gain

learn the art of nourishment
feed yourself with love
but know love isn't art itself
for it needs no effort

know your inner realms of being
find untrodden spaces
wherein love goes on and on
your aura it embraces

but in a tunnel you've been forced
you have been deeply rooted
one shallow fake guide for all
a love so very limited

you love your wife, wife loves you
children, parents and friends
all them keep on watching while
with truth falsehood contends

all different flavors of love
so neatly arranged
are put up on by who are lost
whom reality estranged

truth is that they fear love
for love does know no bounds
men all which who rule with blood
their spirits it confounds

in three layers of human being
body, spirit and mind
love exists on all three planes
with soul it does align

but here's this love which artists feel
sensitive and pure
thriving on that plane themselves
pulled by its allure

they do not think, they simply feel
because they live in heart
embracing beauties of this mind
the truth they lay apart

no wonder why people then
to love are so afraid
anything this beautiful
is also delicate

know how shards of broken glass
cannot together be put
for sentiments are not stones
treated like roses they should

love is like a fragrant rose
dancing in the rain
like one pious hearty breeze
through all daisies lain

but hearts do want to catch this wind
and call it all their own
but know they not it can't be caught
gilded or cast in stone

rare and few are those who learn
to live their life in moments
witness deeper love of heart
relish this blessed freshness

i don't know which love yours is
perhaps the common kind
are you afraid what shall happen
from life when you resign

certainly it will be gone
but you shall not lose all
a newer kind will arise
which world shall it enthrall

which belongs to privileged few
perhaps to one in millions
kind of love all that can
only be called lovingness

-----------------------------------------------------­------------------------------------------------------

talisma­n of love - gaining love

how it really happens
open your eyes and see
reject all other formulae for
a talisman i give thee

live in love, not for it
i teach you this truth plain
experience existence
in purest form obtain

that love you need i cannot give
but your path i'll light
explain to you how it forms
soak in its delight

these pseudo religions
and battered moral books
cage your soul in silken beams
suspend with silver hooks

you are free to experiment
if adult enough you are
hear nature herself confess
truth which hides so far

love so fake you are proud of
that binds you in soft smother
learn this much that you are you
and the other is other

if you want to taste divine
then jump within yourself
for only if you do renounce
you'll gain the lost itself

only love and its failure
can throw you on inside
if you wish to reach the shore
you have to tear these tides

i make you see this cunning plot
parasites designed for you
deceive, exploit and oppress
like coffin nails driven through

love others is all they say
dare love yourself not
to love yourself is selfish
or so you have been taught

love god, nature, wife and kids
they all go on saying
they all condemn self love
more than they do anything

a man who loves himself
finds no ego in him
one who loves himself not
this world will his soul skim

one can be in love yet be alone
like island in an ocean
when one IS love he is alone
rooted in midst of motion

like ocean throws its waves on shore
on a rock utterly alone
enjoy it like a breath of breeze
in moment born and gone

love is not some drunkenness
nor is it delusion
dissolution isn't unconsciousness
its solemn abdication

see your beauty in loneliness
this reflection foresee
lovers are mirrors to each other
in which they see their being

love makes you aware
of your original face
it celebrates togetherness
yet frees you from *******

--------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------------------------

talisman of love - ritual of hate

love needs no reference
it is the height of freedom
hate you see is *******
for its simply a prison

when you do hate someone
you seed hate in his heart
water roots of jealousy
and crack your world apart

hate is imprisonment
hate provokes hate
violence real or in minds
you fall onto hell's bait

feel outpouring bliss
just share for sharing's sake
for no other motive
in this fest partake

'tis the other side of hate
the love that which you know
scratch your lover's ego and see
witness streams of hate flow

your love isn't really love
it is the very opposite
its hate disguised as love
a ritual you must admit

true love is spontaneous
welling up of joy
showering for no reason which
nothing can destroy

--------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------------------------

talisman of love - reason to love

love without attachment
itself is the divine
for a bird put in cage
can never ever fly

when love in you is emperor
it'll make your soul liberate
and ask for nothing in turn
for rulers never trade

if there's passion in love
does it turn to hell
when there's attachment in love
it decays in golden shell

love can make you fall
it can soar you high
something so mysterious
which you cant subside

strengthen wings of your being
release to open sky
let this bird set out
on a journey to infinite

it is a door one side of which
you see yourself languish
at one side of which is pain
the other side is bliss

this makes no sense as some would say
"i loved yet gained just misery
reaped a crop of thorns i did
throughout my life's history"

their love did simply curtain
passion, jealousy and ***
from outside does what it seem
inside is something else

what was it you did long for
when you were in love
ask yourself if you were not
dazzled with shimmering lust

it shows itself in prayers all
real love becomes devotion
blossom like the spring it shall
and mark your liberation

lovers can't be sent to war
be thrown in dark cannot
for rebels listen to none
when deeper fears drop

when we say men fall in love
where do they fall from?
do they gain or do they shrink
what do they become?

ego has the eyes of reason
heart but is all blind
long as such you've trained yourself
thus love you cannot find

why must you tolerate
a bland mere existence
and prolong yourself till
death tries out your patience

you have done the same so far
tell me what's come of it
you still wont know what life means
something you must admit

if someone asks what life does mean
know well he lacks in love
it is the goal and reason for bliss
in each moment thereof

if someone loves, he need not ask
the meaning is right there
it encompasses all throughout
and nothing remains to spare

----------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------------------

talisman of love - truth of being**

do you see the truth in what
all that i have said?
do you feel the flow of love
or feel in grave instead?

do you feel it in your veins
or has your heart ceased
do you not see truth of being
in each and every piece

enter the enlightened kingdom
rising on the ray of love
when truth is to be known but
your love is to be felt of

one which reaps poison and nectar
you're really just that plant
to die by hate and bloom with love
in times heavens did grant

"i always love" you might say
i say you rarely do
you say that you still long for love
i find this childish too

you just throw this bait of love
not for the fish to eat
but to feed your egos on
a trader's two way street

to love and to need love
are two so different things
whoever wants love suffers
for beggars own nothing

it can only be given
not bought or bartered with
with money joy cant be owned
for sure it's all a myth

the path is not in sky
in your heart it lies
thus spake lord Buddha
a truth so plain and wise

and not from above, from such meteor or comet descending with precious life droplets, indeed i believe from below, from the depths, from the mariana trench, the kaleidoscopic amoebaes rose with raging spasms for each shape known to man and man himself in vain attempts contorting in the anti-narcissistic mirror of the monkey for care of close semblance gratification, but not in origin off the amoebae; so why then place us in the genesis from the realm of zodiac and pegasus constellations?*

they never bring it to the fore,
not the the river's banks, right on the edge,
they barely allow narcissus a peak
into the swelling mirror -
they obstruct the process of myths
revising with their own immediacy
and logic, never ever 'a long time ago,'
never ever 'a very long time ago,'
never never ever 'beyond the seven
seas and the seven mountains,'
no, they want everything in their garden,
in their attic, right under their fingernails,
as if they could scratch it into themselves:
their poems like amnesia tattoos
scaling scaling up the arms and onto
their foreheads, where the ocotopii
eye looks to sign petitions inc. third
party representatives in small print;
they obstruct vulgarity made eloquent
on the page, but then mouth-off everyone
and everything when the pen has used up
all its ink and the imagination no longer
cares for phonetic symbols: because
it's just a strain, just such a strain to use them,
look at them, read them, these symbols
akin to boron red in liquid, or chlorine green
in swimming pool blue: where blurry
images of cut-in-half bodies froth in movement;
oh but did i tell you about their group therapy
sessions in the medium of poetry?
the young ones stopped playing marbles,
stopped playing caps (bottle caps filled with
play dough, moving along a chalk-drawn
labyrinth on the pavement, dice rolled to
see how many moves were allowed),
stopped climbing trees, stopped playing
hide & seek, stopped playing bulldog,
the politicians are debating whether to
change 16 year olds into political old farts,
to pledge allegience before losing their
virginity, they want to turn them into strict
adherents of a type of animal that man
is allowed to be degraded into, a political
animal of sorts... fresh off the boat...
so they congregate in their group therapies,
miserable un-naturally... back when
age-old ripe melancholia was understood
as 'when everything is completed, and
there is nothing else to do, then the sadness
of all things completed,' this strange
new breed of negated ease, the 19th century
understood something of this sort,
but in the category of dementia, dementia
praecox (schizophrenia), but it seems
the mediator that was the 20th century,
the lax on experiments in poetry
fusion with jazz and hallucinogenic potions
now under government property rights
to synthesise food additives,
exponential sugar rush, once the gold mines
now the new crystal ****: the sycrose of
sycaruse, by the tyrants orders -
'keep 'em buzzing, buzzing buzzing buzzing,
we need an eager workforce.'
thus the anglo-saxon renaissance midway
through the 20th century culminating
in a devouring implosion as the generation
shift approached; but who indeed could
have predicted the emergence of premature
depression, when nothing and i mean nothing
has been accomplished in life?
o the great woes on the wheel of fortunes,
oh the great barrenness of still nothing,
where then the outlet for the young?
the digital version or the scarceness of public
places? everything in mobile form,
attached technological tentacles - perhaps
as the octopus begins painting a spiderweb
underwater with its stress ink - gently
fathoming fish gills and their skin slimy slither.
oh sure the immediacy of shouting from the roof,
from the mountain, the illusion of it all,
you'd think we'd be saving as many trees
as was made possible with the digital white
pixel paper, but alas the secrets of the amazon
have been harvested, all that was deemed
useful, and with all the microscopic versions
of all things natural, the chemical formulae,
forestry can begin... begin to patchwork
the forest for grain and indebtness to the glory
of man's prime clandestine nature: as in myth
the approach to genitalia and goosebumps -
later approached as the need to make ******,
not as ****** as a cow's ****** bulge,
but nonetheless news on page 3 in the olden days.
or as it now apparent in the zeitgeist (spirit of the times)
of the unknowable zeitreich (empire of the times),
from where then this utopian dream -
that students in england provide the witch hunts
as if papa stalin or papa mccarthy?
you see dr. and prof. losing their posts because
a few student activists and union leaders
can't enjoy the spirit of a dualistic argument,
where would star wars be without the sith?
in a jedi's paradise... repress one side, and that
side's far deeper shadow... in the mariana trench...
repress the moderate shallow opinions of
the opposite side, and the mariana trench
will release into the shallows a malignant cancer
that might as well spread as if the nazis
became resurrected.

if that was love, then I no longer wish to have a heart
I would pull apart my limbs, in attempts to make you happy
and still my heart would remain, despite desperate endeavours
on my part of course, to break it apart, crack it open and set it free

I never knew of the touch of your hands, or your lips against mine
and the feel of my head in the crook of your neck at 3 am
when I felt like I had absolutely nothing left
nothing but you, or so I thought

I didn't know you inside or out, and I no longer wish to now,
I can add you to the infinite list of things that never made sense to me
amongst algebra, and formulae and chemical bonds
comes your name, written in red, then crossed out 10 times
in an attempt to forget

STOP
We don’t need Science. STOP.
We already have all the answers.
STOP.
Stop all inquiry and research.
ALL ANSWERS IN OUR HOLY BOOK. STOP.
We have all the visions and the dreams and the formulae
in our Holy Books and in our religions
and in all that is Revealed by the ALMIGHTY.
Stop! Stop Science! STOP! God has spoken to us
And the BOOK says BOO! to Science.  
STOP! STOP!
God has appointed the Few to teach the Many.
Listen to the BLESSED and the HOLY ONES.
STOP.
IGNORE SCIENCE. Be ignorant of Science.
Silence SCIENCE. STOP.
STOP SCIENCE. We know all there is to be known
in our Holy Book. STOP. We will explain it to you.
Trust God and listen to those appointed by GOD.
Everything you’ve always wanted
to know is all in here. STOP. In the Holy Book.
Our Places of Worship have got it all. STOP SCIENCE.
STOP INQUIRY. Inquiry is sin. STOP. Science is against the Holy.
STOP. God does not like Science. God gave us a mind to obey
and to think only of God.
Think mindlessly about GOD. In Mindlessness is Salvation.
LET your MIND be ALWAYS of GOD. Think NOTHING ELSE.
STOP. STOP Science.
Science is endless questions. STOP. Religion is Pure.
Religion is the word of God. Science is the ACT of the Devil. STOP.
Listen to the priest and those who are holy. STOP. Obey Religion.
STOP. Obey God. STOP SCIENCE. Obey God. STOP.
Stop inquiring and research.
ALL ANSWERS IN OUR HOLY BOOK. STOP.
LISTEN. DO NOT INQUIRE. OBEY. STOP SCIENCE. STOP.

it comes from casual phrasing of / off something, the known pride & joy of any intellectual: coining a phrase. most stick to the cliche zeitgeist, i invented zeitreich (empire of the times, rather than a holy ghoul)... anyway...

so i'm reading this article about the L.A. dating scene,
it's better than a binge on horror movies
in a thunderstorm - the pictures aren't there,
but the words are, words, such is their nature,
the awkward silence amplified with encoding -
pristine ****** and any other -ism you can
think of - amateur psychology for starters,
Nietzsche made psychology so pop as if
it were the once despised arithmetic reinvented
that the calculator looks grim reaper-ish
(and everyone's a psychologist these days) -
writing extended maxims (i.e. aphorisms)
is a chance to avoid dialectics, i trust the rigidity
of the systematic approach, limited vocabulary
and the act of juggling, set parameters, known
formulae, and off we go into the labyrinth of Hegel
or Kant or some other German and his morose boozed-up
persona of a Minotaur - but this article, it just poured ants into my
underwear about the iceberg conundrum (i misspelled
that first time round, the English language, due to
its lack of diacritic marks and too many particularities
cistern, cat, crow, kettle, camomile... chamomile...
cheap... has an inherent dyslexia in it, very natural, this,
it's the least bit surprising, never mind mentioning
text English as written by one girl in the news
at her English G.C.S.E. exam - i can't write it properly,
but it involves the Pandora of U w8 4 me @ th-     -θ
school gates - oh right, the ****? chew but you say ski
resort paraphenelia, paraphenalia, paraphenilia, para
**** **** ****... dictionary! paraphernalia... thank you!
nwt the origin of the negated-ease (disease), what two
compounds am i not remembering to use? etymology,
scalpel nurse, cut open the syllables, technique:
para-     -phernalia...     well from chemistry para-
using the benzene ring is a location, i.e. para meta ortho-,
medieval latin! of course! no wonder i'm dyslexic with
this word, if the origins aren't pure Latin or Greek
then i'm sure to be dyslexic and burn witches at the stake
and believe in omens and hell... this is hell, resurrected,
-phrenalia: cut up further into a derivative of
pherein (to bear, modulated into a dowry), and
the ς-suffix of -al, like et al. i'm guessing, but this is
kabbalistic territory right know, -al doesn't exactly make
aqua sense unlike Al (aluminium) - that's when
chemistry picks up language, and other sciences, picking
up from the little nits (knit, gnome, knife... hush the first letter),
in the end paraphernalia means:
to have bearings side by side, or beside, at one side...
daydreaming? having a meal in a restaurant on a Saturday,
but realising you have mortgage obligations from
Monday to Friday? well, i guess something like that.
anyway, literary coinage, coining a phrase, a catchphrase
moment, so this article about the L.A. dating scene,
horrid mothers of artefacts in the woman's psyche,
the unflavoured Freudian theory of the Madonna-*****
complex... and all the ladies say... it's easier for us
to call these men schizophrenics and shove them into
the hyphenation than acknowledge either Madonna
or ***** in us... i get it, men watch too much *******,
but... here it comes... women watch too much
romantic tragedy (romtra), men go out there and they're
like... this is turning out to be an R.E.M. song
the one i love* - props! too many ******* props!
it's not exactly **** culture, that's about five minutes
simulating an **** with your hand (or if you prefer a
bony ****) and a tissue but no tears... it's not exactly
RomTra culture either... it's the dating culture per se...
and this whole self-profiling like we're all F.B.I. agents
spying on ourselves with either authenticity or lies.
so there, you have your literary coinage, a phrase, a word,
the most belittling quest to some El Dorado ever
invented.

Doctored in genetic cauldrons
for wine seeking solace in perfection
engineered tactfully within testtubes
of formulae
extracted and compressed
its testicles removed
the grape rendered impotent.

how strange
that we surgically implant
and speak to inner workings
to consumerise
everything we need.

chickens battery farmed
cows turf grassed
pigs in poultry cages
men in monkey suits
playing god in the paddocks of doom.

maybe we should
just leave things alone
and nature will be fine.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

I am amongst a frantic
silent
period

Everyone is busy
with numbers in their head
a pen gripped firm, where all the magic begins

Scribbling down notes
a tangled mess of formulae
buttons of assistance…the
calculator, what would they do
without them?

Nor do I question the purpose of time
the economy
it all makes us whine

Ah, forget it
I am amongst a frantic
silent period

this poem to pass time
this “poet”,
failing another grind

poetry can't be given the function of instructional language, the instructions akin to putting together a table... if philosophy excused it, and music over-shadowed it... poetry can only find a natural partner in painting - given these times, where painting has become so crude, no detailed forms in sight... philosophy excused the practice of poetry, yet it persisted, music overshadowed poetry with its crude lack of innovations due to rhyme - and so while painting debased itself from all the known schools, it found poetry in the depths eating its own tongue, and painting said: you might, you must as well welcome me into the golden ring of your crap couplets so we can call it marriage; personal affairs are inconsistent with this theorem, personal sacrifices or entanglements of jealousy - because that's the mediated love at a distance without a care for jurisprudence to delve into.*

a momentary guise of fame, less shadowy,
shaking pedestrians from their traffic orientation
of sleep, into a momentary  puppeteer show -
blink and blind what used to be
the pecked sockets by crows - indeed innocent fame
shakes pedestrians rather rather
acts to puppeteer - the public cannot be a nearly
and cleverly turned into puppets, they have the vote
after all - too many solemn victims
in the skin of masculine youth
braved their ship against the tyrannical sea,
and sea the failures, now - congregating apathy
as a democratic success - 'wake up! wake up! wake up!'
they won't wake up, hardly a wise concern,
encrust a perpetually solidified
populace source, create the atom for politics:
proton as power, neutron as the mediator
for the supposed non-existence of such a
power of attraction (dissolving civilisations
emerging as tribal affairs of necessary congregations)
and the mariner's disappearing trick
via bureaucratic consolidations - the r.n.a.
of democracy (d.n.a.) is bureaucracy -
please excuse my contentment at such a suggestion,
but please don't ask me to hold your hand
when you think language acts as vector formulae -
nothing supposed, non-instructive,
please don't ask for the caging of the animal
that's hunting in the wilderness of blank pages
readied for an anomaly of narration lessened in
recurrence that's a security of the oligarchs and
autocrats; the apathy of the right to vote also translated
as a transliteration of having a political opinion -
a new "transliterate" - to craft secondary meanings
for those nearby of mutual opinion -
but beyond the egg of centred yoke and gooey
white uncooked protein and shell into an educational
dispersion of apparently educational rubric of
the existence of easily wavering synonyms -
trust zoom and the goldsmith go-go taste of acid -
is language in the possession of poets always to be
made instructive? why... let me get my xylophone out
and play you the songs of the nativity play...
maybe that will work? maybe language ought to look
like joseph merrick rather than jane austen?
let's say that conversation took place in a crowded place -
and we also said that there was freedom
from techniques that were used to easily identify
an expression to get the tag: poetry... hmm?
anything to do with scraps of leftovers can be called
the new poetry - neo poetics - the ars is gone -
the art is no longer really identifiable as such -
imagine poetry with its rhymes to be like
playing a tennis ball against a wall, you're hitting
the same note to make it a couplet, but then
ask yourself, why no coupling in music?
some fame is here for the shaking of pedestrians
rather than the allowances of a puppeteer -
but the true fame, the fame kindred of power
involves the lost entertainment of the pedestrians,
the fame of being a puppeteer rather than
an entertainer - obviously had i  watch
and you asked me on the street what time it was,
i would have replied the obvious of, say, 8 p.m.,
nearing sunset in april - obviously that's stating
the obvious; i rather not crave shaking pedestrians
into becoming an aquarium of a spectacle -
i prefer those who chose the chance to become
puppeteers - lessened chance of becoming
a photosensitive epileptic on the red carpet.

I live i die, im all too human
very human, so human ive lost track
of what time it is

The duration of events between my  life and death
is it time? is it life? I'm living and clock's ticking
all the same, so humanly same

time has value, like its money
time is valuable, some formulae told me
time is money, and we run according to it
so human, so humanly insane.

Two dark sides converse in glinted eye,
we judge between few subtle signs,
vibrations bend which speed up time,
what sad masks we wear, when occupied.

Allow yourself some pause for thought,
searching around inside of you,
whichever form this may flow through,
to find that place of peace and solitude.

Importance of imprinting reflective memories,
we hold onto questions of our visions set,
remembering of what was and came to be,
a fabricated formulae.

The varied receptive connections of others,
helps us engage respond and occupy,
to release the grey that builds inside,
heaviness escapes through focused sighs.

Always In Preparation #2
          (a rather long simplification)

Always in preparation for an interview:
What will I answer? Never know.
- What do I like? do things I do, the way I do?
- Write poetry, play jazz, do yoga?
Body/mind my mental window in my mental interview:
And I must justify it all.
Some germ, some theme begins the whole:
The technical; word hurdles
When I write or sing;
All challenging,
Performing, writing or just doing.

T’ween two covers it’s official;
Everything grist-for-the-mill,
I’ll likely publish ‘til I’m still.
No special motive winks or flirts,
No motive hides behind my skirts -

My ears hear musically,
It all comes naturally, substance counting most;
Not tricks, not formulae, cliché -
If there’s a Corwin idiom
It’s in the DNA.
I work out tunes, -out poetry, -out ******.
The mind works out spontaneously,
I (wherever I is to be found) give in, give form,
Substance from-and-in the frame.

In short, I paint myself into a box
And creep around  
Until some [final] satisfaction binds.
A futile paradox:
To clarify and satisfy
The interview,
But there am I,
Always in preparation.

Always In Preparation 7.6.2014
Pure Nakedness; The Processes: Creative, Thinking,Meditative II; revised 11.21.2017
Arlene Corwin

The click clack of my keyboard
competes
with that metronome called
a clock

Time has become surprisingly
fluid
and yet it remains stubbornly
stationary

Seconds, minutes, hours
and days
meekly shudder and humbly bow
sacrificed

I try to turn my life into
an excel sheet
with predetermined fixed
formulae

All plugged in the right
little boxes
with all the right
numbers.


-Vijayalakshmi Harish
  14/11/08
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

When you become a father this is what happens in maths; she multiplies your *****, differentiates the situation, substitutes your friends, makes herself the subject of the formulae, simplifies your finance and factorizes your priorities.

Umbridging the gap

and the platitudes of word-******

     as well as the Encyclopedic pimps of posh

spiced with lingual ice...



          Because I am a simpleton

with a thirst for the Beloved

             and its discriptive meanings, I am

                       scholarly lacking

    Juxtaposing my script to refer

to references Grecian or urn,

                     enflagrante artisan

                            spurts with superlatives and

personified iambics of rhetorical lines

       limned with deep shagrin

              because my verbs are linear

even when my chicken scratch

                          struck midnight a match stick

flame to illuminate

         my poetic fluffer's formulae

              schisms from my own mind's magician hat...

Not to be-little or slight those hands walking

        that yellow the pages

                     with slothly seeking rote

              for meandering bibliographies

a librarian's histology fingers for Captain

Cook / exploration's verbose

           exploitation if at most

                   connecting dots treasured maps

of purposeful / placement for imagery

                         in the textiles

              of poetry's destined and enlightening

       cloak & dagger or a Throw

                        or a goose-down warmth

of Love / to blanket the night away

                           just as would a mother's / tucking in

                from the day's overwhelming

lack of reverances, referenced

             oh how to closely listen   / or live

                        beyond the history

to be in the moment

              comparing and sharing

     our joys and the power of now . . . keep it simple

because I am a simpleton with a thirst

                         with a thirst for the Beloved,

        the Truth of a promise / endowed Tao of Us. . .