Waiting for that paper, a light
A cursor that keeps blinking for the next word
Even when the screen arranges to sleep in daylight
Fingers begin to itch and start being febrile.

An email, such a pity,
is more accessible than
a post box.
All the handwriting fonts that I did try, couldn’t,
Just possibly couldn’t mirror the impeccable tries
To struggle to be parallel to the top
Or bottom of a page.

The improbability of what the next thought would be
The prediction  of where the addressee would smile
Or frown, or pick up eyes to stare at the wall for a while,
To embrace what had just been conveyed.

Letters are like light, they reach us later
From when they were born, but the spaces
they illuminate or burn on their arrival!
I wonder if our pupils shrink.

They more than just tag along, they tap in,
They’re the result of cleaning the ink from
the nib, a thousand times, over thousands
of sentences, or maybe just a few, but they do.

And don’t dare ask the pen for proof!
It’ll track down wrinkled pages
Who had their thirst quenched by
The swipes of fountain pens’ fountainheads,
And pictures of the fingers
Bathed in red, and black, and blue,
And occasionally of table clothes
Spilled over by the consequence of imperfect handles.

Imagine if light came as soon as it was made,
It would be difficult for our eyes to handle such bait
Sometimes, a pause is necessary,
Imagine a world without commas!

I’d like to peek into the writer’s letters,
Not to read, but to sense the shapes of emotions
And stretches of As and Ns, or the reach of commas
On the next line, and then, close my eyes
And shove my nose in it, to sniff hard
The paper and the blue smells,
And die doing so if it was eventual.

water's gravity
moors me to this dome's prison.

washing me to plush blue
is the dream of hands
that puts me out of my sleep's premises.

the bane of existence tingles
the flesh and the suds rise
altogether with the squalor
of its own meaning.
my old hue languishes into
a burgeon of slosh and no friction
nor word could rupture me anymore.

and the scent dangles
mid-air, where all perfumes are born, with sorry fountainheads
peaking through the ordeal
of this sonata.
water makes music with skin
as froth takes to sea, the exhaustion of brine -
all disquiet in foreword
and finality

hung clean, in the backyard
of ordinariness, of consummate asepsis and its breakable concepts,
  ready to be worn out
by a day's grime and back to
its fate once more, all of us.

These sunken faces
In frolicking water
Cannot bring her back.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

nothing warms the heart as a butter-scrub
of prokofiev on a dull & uneventful life,
i'm still to fathom the mastering mystery,
but lieutenant kijé romance
always makes my ***** into an omelette,
and for all the wrong reasons:
i like it, joked aside, it almost like
watching a monkey play the trumpet
in the odd joke of jazz quarter (
antithesis of the punk power 3)
with the elephant... ****... what would
the elephant do given the ability
of a trunk?!
          tap dance, or attempt a pirouette?
i love the she said he said questions,
she said: madam butterfly, he said
      la traviata...
he cried, she simply stared at two russian
girls making airs,
talking handbags and their usual
schoolyard deal about a chubby nose,
which she did, and we would have
wishes to actually bite...
         i hate those nationalist tourists,
chopin means as much to as a need
for chop-sticks...
                          its 4 30 in the morning
and i still have to drink something...
and do i love her?
well, i love writing about her quirks,
would i love siberia?
would i love anywhere without her?
i'd probably love dr. zhivago in either
spanish, or kazah...
     hands up: i am having
a literary love affair, and i pray to
gott that she's making a competitive
counter to my shallow affair of not
inviting enough pubescent imagination
counter imaginative girls to my camp...
that despised number by men,
you know they're only teen girls
keeping the jailbirds swarming in jitter...
they do grow up...
      and then you throw in a fake
muse into the bargain,
and then you keep hiding the real muse,
more and more,
               her nose becomes your
obsession, foremost because it's russian,
and second-most because she wants
to be rid of it...
     say it how it is, heaven awaits those
who manage to upkeep a truth on earth,
hell is filled with perpetuated liars,
and there's no greater story that the devil
minds than a lie upon lie,
upon the grandest of lies: that
his realm is but a poetic "indifference"...
i will drag my bride into the depth of
behemoth and call it bohemia...
     i will have my words: forgive me
echo by the church bells of the church
of mariacki in cracow...
           she can argue all the wants,
she will be as unwilling at my quest for
that eternity tasted in st. petersburg
once upon a time...
        and all that muzak near the fountainheads
will means at little as the fact that:
prokofiev was actually loved...
and that tchaikovsky was a degenerate
peasant...
    and for ever what my poetry i wrote,
she reaches her 80th b.d.,
       i will not mind the same "respect",
i've visited a brothel...
   came s.t.d. free...
           if there are 72 virgins waiting
the islamic martyrs,
   i'm trying to keep count of the prostitutes
in the harem of crusaders...
i just about scratched off the word malta
from a t-shirt, just so i could get
the hospitalier crux remaining...
       and have a field trip of double-glossing
in mirror the fervent journalistic
        somewhat, or other of "compensation";
then again,
              verbis ultimatus, est verbis omni
dignitas custodia;
don't even ask me how i conjured up
the phrase,
     unless you replicate the same in vino,
and call in vitro veritas / in vivo veritas
to question.

My life is only a breath, the psyche of the fountainheads
Logos, you see me now but never again; the suspiration
Upon the flaming tip of Gods tongue, if you look for me
I will be gone like a cloud that fades and is gone,
Voidness cannot injure voidness - Orcus hath the soul:
Fireless smoke, the pneuma that brought forth the
Anthropogenesis of atman; the sparks of holiness lodged
In all things: the self-realization my happiness has already
Ended, that which dawneth the way of all flesh, the ghost
Hover over the grave; the qualityless cannot injure
The qualityless.
If a man dies can he come back to life?
The earth covers the flesh, for thy desire-body of propensities
Is void and the lords of death are supplications for the
Parousia of our own hallucinations; as too the dark art
Of necromancy! stars do the spirit crave and a heavenly
Exile exists until the light returns unbroken to its source.



ELEETE J MUIR