^or the equivalent of the bushidō, i.e. way of the citizen: shimin dōro (shimindō).

it's truly electrifying watching the Olympics, the diversity of
bodies, it simply shames the football ballerinas
complaining about their tiaras
and fouls *****-whiskers tingling **** -
oh ooh oh god, the end of the world!
i finally find my body type,
Greco-Roman 130 kg wrestling,
or 105 kg weightlifting, no six pack...
you watch the Olympics long enough to
sterilise what's otherwise turkey-feeding
of image... i think the discus throwers
are hot, the archery from South Korean with
their porcelain pelicans shattering on the one touch...
the Croat beauty is atypical of
Slaven Bilić - itch - that's a diacritical mark
that's itchy - breve or acute... c̆ that alternative,
along with the c̆ech - Český Krumlov - chequers-ski -
Gucci and other associates of Milan did
a runner... we don't accept anorexic in the
Paraolympics... maybe we should enter old twiggy
daddy longshanks in the races... invent
Metaolympics...  so i found out where i'm designated,
130kg Greco-Roman wrestling and 105kg weightlifting...
that's my body... if i were to be tyrannised by
the dictatorial rule of volleyball and football
i'd be nowhere... no spectrum, no difference...
some like Twiggy Ramirez at the ping pong shoo
(**** **** ****... believe me,
non-purpose onomatopoeia usage is a replacement
of sensibility knocking, i use it when i just
want a sound, not necessarily an accessible
direction of finalising a meaning) -
but watching the Olympics is like watching
the Greeks under Roman rule... the marble genius
of the spectrum of sizes... and coerced differences
ploughed into one...
which had me bewildered about the other duality,
i always thought that the Spartan way of life
was about raw physicality... that all Spartans
had to be physically fit, ten potato sacks on their
shoulders running up Etna...
and that the Athenians concerned themselves
with aesthetics of the arts and clues...
it's not about athletics at all...
i'm a Spartan in that respect, sure, i donned
the long hair like any Spartan might,
men with long hair, women with a Niqab, whatever,
Satan's postbox as the crude English myth said it was...
i might go and see a ballet, but let me tell you,
any first act of ballet is tedious... you can't warm up
to liking any ballet in the first act...
it's all downhill during the second and third acts,
but the first act is horrid...
i realised that there was another dimension of
the Spartan life, it's not the physicality at all...
Spartans' physicality is about efficiency,
we have weightlifters in Sparta, but we have
bodybuilders in Athens, the former concerns itself
in pragmatic matters, the latter in aesthetic matters...
same in art... the Spartan way concerning mental
aptitude is to do with the basics, with very little,
a minimalism, a park bench, a few beers,
a conversation... otherwise? the Athenian reign on
ballrooms, cocktails, royal dinners, flamboyance,
degeneracy, and outright excess...
forget the Olympic plus, the variations of bodies...
footballers and anorexic catwalk models...
we're talking blubber fetishes of Rembrandt -
then into the psychic life of Sparta - simplicity,
twinning with the Japanese way of life...
over and over again... simple fulfils perfection
by not competing, so self-absorbed it is,
so solipsistic it will remain... and it is an art-form
the Spartan life, if i get my sleep,
have my tobacco, a bottle of whiskey and a few beers,
a white page... the end.
the Athenian model discounts what that famous
Spartan argued for: carpenters, plumbers,
better than the claims of being a "son of god",
he broke out, on the prescription that ****** him
by the authorities: deus ex machina -
try imitating him, it's harder than you think.
the Athenian model of the arts and impracticality -
the Spartan model of geometry and practicality -
the Olympics taught me that the Spartan way of life
is not solely concerned with physical exercises,
that the physicality of body be the sole concern,
that one is to perfect the body...
the Spartan way of perfecting the mind is just as rigid
as the body demands... the pentagon of an event,
how strained is your hearing, your eyes or your tongue?
it concern the simplicity of all things being perfected,
rather than the Athenian counter of the complication
of all things being unlearned and in pyramidal schematics
expected: courtesy of approaching a king...
the dinner arrangements, the starter fork, the main meal
fork, the dessert fork... a Spartan would just look at it
and say: they can use chop-sticks because the chef
knew how to cut into bite size... i'll forget the knife
and use the one fork throughout the meal...
she better be wearing that crown of hers throughout
the meal... otherwise she's no queen, i'll just watch
her slurp the soup with that Mt. Fuji balancing on her head...
**** the airs, and all of Jane Austen.

So all day long the noise of battle roll'd
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur's table, man by man,
Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord,
King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land.
On one side lay the ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

      Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep--the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,--
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more--but let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the ***** of the lake,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword--and how I row'd across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king:
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word."

      To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
"It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm.
A little thing may harm a wounded man.
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word."

      So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake.

      There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth work
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,
This way and that dividing the swift mind,
In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd
Better to leave Excalibur conceal'd
There in the many-knotted water-flags,
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded King.

      Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
"Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave?
What is it thou hast seen, or what hast heard?"

      And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,
And the wild water lapping on the crag."

      To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:
"Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name,
Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:
For surer sign had follow'd, either hand,
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.
This is a shameful thing for men to lie.
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word."

      Then went Sir Bedivere the second time
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,
Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought;
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote
His palms together, and he cried aloud,

      "And if indeed I cast the brand away,
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
Should thus be lost forever from the earth,
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
What good should follow this, if this were done?
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
An act unprofitable, against himself?
The King is sick, and knows not what he does.
What record, or what relic of my lord
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath
And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept,
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,
Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur,
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake;
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.'
So might some old man speak in the aftertime
To all the people, winning reverence.
But now much honour and much fame were lost."

      So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,
And hid Excalibur the second time,
And so strode back slow to the wounded King.

      Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:
"What is it thou hast seen, or what hast heard?"

      And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"I heard the water lapping on the crag,
And the long ripple washing in the reeds."

      To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:
"Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!
Authority forgets a dying king,
Laid widow'd of the power in his eye
That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art,
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
In whom should meet the offices of all,
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands."

      Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword,
And strongly wheel'd and threw it. The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
By night, with noises of the northern sea.
So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur:
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
And lightly went the other to the King.

      Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:
"Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?"

      And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men,
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;
But when I look'd again, behold an arm,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere."

      And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:
"My end draws nigh; 't is time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die."

      So saying, from the pavement he half rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere
Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words,
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs.

      But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick, quick!
I fear it is too late, and I shall die."
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd
Larger than human on the frozen hills.
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.
Dry clash'd his harness in the icy caves
And barren chasms, and all to left and right
The bare black cliff clang'd round him, as he based
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels--
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,
And the long glories of the winter moon.

      Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the decks were dense with stately forms
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream--by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold--and from them rose
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.

      Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge,"
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
But she that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands,
And call'd him by his name, complaining loud
And dropping bitter tears against his brow
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
And colourless, and like the wither'd moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls--
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the dais-throne--were parch'd with dust;
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
So like a shatter'd column lay the King;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

      Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
"Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Such times have been not since the light that led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
But now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world;
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds."

      And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils Himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within Himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seest--if indeed I go--
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

      So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.

Here is where I sit and dig my teeth into my lower lip and extract the splinter of you from my heart, so I can drip red onto the paper and make it into words. Here is where I tell you how much I ached for you and never said anything. Here is where I laugh regretfully over the word ‘crush,’ which in the end fulfils its title so perfectly. Here is where I bleed.

Fact #1:
You didn’t do anything special to make me like you.
There was no zealous epiphany or grand gesture that sent butterflies streaming through my abdomen. You were horribly wonderfully you, and that’s what did it. That is what tipped me over the edge.
I remember the precise instant everything changed. The pendulum swung into unfamiliar territory; I looked at you and a powerful case of vertigo rocked my being. I may have grabbed onto something. A desk. A chair. Anything to keep me standing until my head resettled on my shoulders and the world was normal again. In any case, you were oblivious. I watched you, both sorry and glad that you were, and struggled not to drown.

I don’t blame you. It wasn’t your fault. How could you have sensed the seismic shift I was so careful not to telegraph? How could you have known I’d go and do something so moronic as get a crush on you? I’m sorry, dear. I am. I wish I hadn’t.

Fact #2:
You think no one has ever had feelings for you.

(What an uncomfortable phrase, Had Feelings For You. Sounds like there’s some sort of compartment in my heart labelled with your name, as though if you cut it open and looked inside you’d see ash and glitter suspended like dust motes in light. Impossible, infinite).

You think this because you’re human, and humans tend to see the worst in themselves. You’re—according to you—awkward, bothersome, repressed, weird, unattractive, alone, different, inferior. You worry over the biggest things, the smallest things, and everything between. You crack open with great frequency.

However.
However.

There is someone in this world who loved you, who loves you still (in a deep deep recess of her soul), who wishes she’d been brave enough to tell you; wishes also that she’d been able to hold you and kiss you and run wild with you in every beautiful place.
You are worth someone’s feelings, and there is a heart out there full of ash and glitter in your name, beating away.
Sadly, you’ll never know whose.

Fact #3:
Crushes ******* sting.

(Don’t look, don’t look at their eyes, don’t look at the color in them or the flare, hold your breath, think of anything else, remind yourself that they can’t, they won’t, it’s stupid. Call them friend, just Friend, because that’s what they want. Don’t let them see the way you pine for them, the roaring creature in your chest. Don’t. Don’t.)

Fact #4:
You didn’t return my feelings.

Inevitably, the person we find ourselves pulled to always lets something slip. A mention of a third party with whom they’d like to (and to me it sounds so painful, so ominous) “get to know.” A giggle when a certain girl or boy passes. An admiring look thrown their way.
Worse, the object of our longing declares they like no one at all, and that’s my story. I’m sorry to say I thought, for just a bit, that you did. It’s my fault for misreading the signs. I take full blame. I’m human, too, after all, and I know very little. Who am I to project my fantasy onto you?

It still hurts, though. Aches in a way I don’t wish to remember or relive, ever. Not being liked back takes the form of black, rolling nausea, which I felt when I laid prone on my bedroom floor, eyes numb and full, breathing air all thick with dead things. It’s a sickness, a condition. A person cannot get over it any quicker or easier than they can a tumor. It can recede or overwhelm and usually one has no say in this gamble.
In my case, there is both. The pain fluctuates from day to day, lifts and falls. I see you and we laugh, and, internally, privately, I bleed. But you don’t need to know that. I will not have you see me as some weak or broken thing when what I am is on fire, hot with a glowing sadness. I’m a survivor of nuclear detonation. My heart was once spattered on these walls, this page, but I’ve gathered it up and molded it together again and it doesn’t look at all how it used to, but today it’s (almost) whole.

Fact #5:
A piece of me will always wish you wanted her the way she wanted you.

I think of other universes, split off from ours: a myriad of alternate trajectories. Perhaps in one of them we are together. Perhaps we looked and we knew and we melded. Who knows? What a silly, futile wish.

That is pain and reality. That is life.

Time is a mysterious thing. One we think too little or too much about as if it was either an extraneous concept or a recognizable one but never simply an acquaintance. We fear to gaze in to its dark eyes for fear of what we’ll see in its untamed structure. Perhaps we fear the absolute freedoms of it in how all its courses are never underlined by incongruous moments such as once that hunt our very existence. Or maybe we’re jealous of how youthful it stays while we slowly deteriorate to our graves as it watches with indifference.


I wish to give time a gender so it fulfils all my assumptions of it. Perhaps it’s a women, gentle and eloquent; with a heart that grounds the most feral of things. Her touch is knowledge and wisdom but also all things unknown. She is sculpted like the goddess praised while her love burns oceans from existence yet she watches alone from a distance quite unreachable. Lonely everlasting. Nonetheless her soul is cruel and unforgiving; her betrayal unexpected. Her expectations to high that even the most eligible of men would not dare attempt such a futile conquest for to even try would be to fail. However her compulsion is too powerful to disregard so no man sits ideal.


Perhaps it’s a man with a will that is ironclad. His grips too powerful for even the greatest of empires to resist so all chose to bend for fear of breaking. He rules like he makes love, with intensity that shatters all the women underneath him but they still come back for more for his touch, his magic stroke. Non who have been touched by him have ever resisted or those who have were swallowed by the tide that was his fury. Yet his heart is gold and he cares more than he expects as his gifts last eternity and from the sweetness of it,  just a moment.

Do you know your mind when your under its spell
Chances are your thoughts are in hell
Your intentions flared with rage burning inside
Balance of life's open wide

You've seen death falling from a great height
When you yourself go out into the night
Who's next to die?

It doesn't matter who's the victim no one will save them
No one is with them
Their dead in a second
Your blooded hands with their demise always fulfils you
That's what the kills do
When they gasp and die

Killed In cold blood that's pouring down
No kills the same. . .

When your stalking the night their unaware of the hit
They'll never see the light when it's lit
You've thought things through but its nothing that you'd admit
The murders that you will commit

You've seen knifes cutting through soft skin
But that's the life that you have got yourself in
Killing is your sin

It doesn't matter who's the victim no one will save them
No one is with them
There dead in a second
Your blooded hands with their demise always fulfils you
That's what the kills do
When they gasp and die

Killed In cold blood that's pouring down
A knife in your hand

You like how it feels when their body squeals
There life is gone is what life steels
No kills the same. . .

It doesn't matter who's the victim no one will save them
No one is with them
There dead in a second
Your blooded hands with their demise always fulfils you
That's what the kills do
When they gasp and die
Killed In cold blood that's pouring down
No kills the same
No kills the same
No kills the same
No kills the same
No kills the same
No kills the same

It was not a choice, intimacy filled our souls touching every tender bone with the sleekness of silk
From blood to bone
Screeching every bit of emptiness
Swallowing any shallow monster that tended to our loneliness
From tongue to toes
Not a desperation hollows between the beauty of embrace,
A world around slows, all disspearing to his sweet kisses stealing my breath
And addiction sets in, an instant craving when distance is your temporary belonging  
And addiction such as a cigarette
Smoke filling your lungs
Only intimacy filling you heart with bright yellow flowers, desperation fulfils its duty.
Seperation, our anxiety
With howling winds a cooling breaths that is not yours every moon and star looks like you
Intimacy, a passion
A passion in touch for your hand wrapped round mine
  The sound to be dragged so close it fuses as one beat
To be brought to the insides
Craving the sense of settled home in unfamiliar places
A hunger to never leave
Bur to fall to the deepest pockets in our wholesome loving souls
Just to come back again

Claire is cleaning fragrant poo
off her baby's buttocks
and she feels
"this experience
fulfils my need to have children
and makes me happy
but it's work!"

Claire's husband arrives home
and she asks "How was your day dear?"
and he says "I've had a long hard day at work,
and I'm tired
please give me my my dinner."
He does not asks how her day went
and Claire feels
disappointed and unhappy
that her husband
thinks that she does not earn money
and therefore what she does is not work.

As Claire
puts a white plate of steaming steak, peas, carrots, potatoes
on the dining table for her husband
she says "Would you ask me how my day went?
Mothers work too."

good pay is a job that fulfils 10.07.18

welcome to a hobby
poetry reading is a job
for understanding its like a parliament lobby
sanity it will rob.
don't want to make a difference
i challenge this study
looks are not the appearance
9 to 5 will never be parton cruddy.
what is the satisfaction
is it just that payday delighted
4 blank walls is greater interaction
positivity is no where sited.
would you swap to thrive
even if you needed upskilling
according to statistics its one on five
one poor sod works and its fulfilling.
mr kersey i'm applauding
he works  for st andrews health care
the right career choice is always more rewarding
i choose poetry i'm now extinct and very rare.

Achieving all goals leads to grief!
Ambition natural only fulfils well!

Fixing of ambition based on vision
After gaining knowledge worthwhile
Like Self, world, Nature and Space
Perhaps brightens one's way of life!

All else leads only to gloom and grief!
Then searching for redemption leads
One and all to Nature for rescue ever
That we should preserve from pollution!

Life lived with love makes one complete!
Thoughts, words and deeds start from in
But not from out as that leads to labyrinth
From where there is no end to fulfilment...!

Spring winds that blow
As over leagues of myrtle-blooms and may;
Bevies of spring clouds trooping slow,
Like matrons heavy bosomed and aglow
With the mild and placid pride of increase!  Nay,
What makes this insolent and comely stream
Of appetence, this freshet of desire
(Milk from the wild ******* of the wilful Day!),
Down Piccadilly dance and murmur and gleam
In genial wave on wave and gyre on gyre?
Why does that nymph unparalleled splash and churn
The wealth of her enchanted urn
Till, over-billowing all between
Her cheerful margents, grey and living green,
It floats and wanders, glittering and fleeing,
An estuary of the joy of being?
Why should the lovely leafage of the Park
Touch to an ecstasy the act of seeing?
- Sure, sure my paramour, my Bride of Brides,
Lingering and flushed, mysteriously abides
In some dim, eye-proof angle of odorous dark,
Some smiling nook of green-and-golden shade,
In the divine conviction robed and crowned
The globe fulfils his immemorial round
But as the marrying-place of all things made!

There is no man, this deifying day,
But feels the primal blessing in his blood.
There is no woman but disdains--
The sacred impulse of the May
Brightening like *** made sunshine through her veins--
To vail the ensigns of her womanhood.
None but, rejoicing, flaunts them as she goes,
Bounteous in looks of her delicious best,
On her inviolable quest:
These with their hopes, with their sweet secrets those,
But all desirable and frankly fair,
As each were keeping some most prosperous tryst,
And in the knowledge went imparadised!
For look! a magical influence everywhere,
Look how the liberal and transfiguring air
Washes this inn of memorable meetings,
This centre of ravishments and gracious greetings,
Till, through its jocund loveliness of length
A tidal-race of lust from shore to shore,
A brimming reach of beauty met with strength,
It shines and sounds like some miraculous dream,
Some vision multitudinous and agleam,
Of happiness as it shall be evermore!

Praise God for giving
Through this His messenger among the days
His word the life He gave is thrice-worth living!
For Pan, the bountiful, imperious Pan--
Not dead, not dead, as impotent dreamers feigned,
But the gay genius of a million Mays
Renewing his beneficent endeavour!--
Still reigns and triumphs, as he hath triumphed and reigned
Since in the dim blue dawn of time
The universal ebb-and-flow began,
To sound his ancient music, and prevails,
By the persuasion of his mighty rhyme,
Here in this radiant and immortal street
Lavishly and omnipotently as ever
In the open hills, the undissembling dales,
The laughing-places of the juvenile earth.
For lo! the wills of man and woman meet,
Meet and are moved, each unto each endeared,
As once in Eden's prodigal bowers befell,
To share his shameless, elemental mirth
In one great act of faith:  while deep and strong,
Incomparably nerved and cheered,
The enormous heart of London joys to beat
To the measures of his rough, majestic song;
The lewd, perennial, overmastering spell
That keeps the rolling universe ensphered,
And life, and all for which life lives to long,
Wanton and wondrous and for ever well.

In the waste hour
Between to-day and yesterday
We watched, while on my arm--
Living flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone--
Dabbled in sweat the sacred head
Lay uncomplaining, still, contemptuous, strange:
Till the dear face turned dead,
And to a sound of lamentation
The good, heroic soul with all its wealth--
Its sixty years of love and sacrifice,
Suffering and passionate faith--was reabsorbed
In the inexorable Peace,
And life was changed to us for evermore.

Was nothing left of her but tears
Like blood-drops from the heart?
Nought save remorse
For duty unfulfilled, justice undone,
And charity ignored?  Nothing but love,
Forgiveness, reconcilement, where in truth,
But for this passing
Into the unimaginable abyss
These things had never been?

Nay, there were we,
Her five strong sons!
To her Death came--the great Deliverer came!--
As equal comes to equal, throne to throne.
She was a mother of men.

The stars shine as of old.  The unchanging River,
Bent on his errand of immortal law,
Works his appointed way
To the immemorial sea.
And the brave truth comes overwhelmingly home:--
That she in us yet works and shines,
Lives and fulfils herself,
Unending as the river and the stars.

Dearest, live on
In such an immortality
As we thy sons,
Born of thy body and nursed
At those wild, faithful *******,
Can give--of generous thoughts,
And honourable words, and deeds
That make men half in love with fate!
Live on, O brave and true,
In us thy children, in ours whose life is thine--
Our best and theirs!  What is that best but thee--
Thee, and thy gift to us, to pass
Like light along the infinite of space
To the immitigable end?

Between the river and the stars,
O royal and radiant soul,
Thou dost return, thine influences return
Upon thy children as in life, and death
Turns stingless!  What is Death
But Life in act?  How should the Unteeming Grave
Be victor over thee,
Mother, a mother of men?

Convince me that it is real
Make me believe that the kisses that you lend come from the depth of your heart
And your sensation towards me... Oh, I hope it is filled with emotion too
Cause every time your hand runs softly through my hair, every time your body is close to mine, silence is the only present ingredient that fulfils the moment.
My head resting on your chest, looking at the start in the open sky
The only cloud I see is the smoke of your cigarette.
...And I hold still onto you
the more I feel, the more I think of it,
The less I believe it is real
Because the more I feel, the more I fear
It feels like our end is near
But... when our lips cross, the world becomes a fairytale,
and I, we, the poison that flows inside of me, embraced with love..
I hope it’s not real
Oh...It’s delightful, breathtaking, magnificent!
Than why do I wish for it to end?
Everlasting questions run through my head, are you the right one to fall for? Am I making a mistake? Will I be hurt? Should this be happening?
Am I afraid to love?
I hold onto my glass of wine, take my mind away from you... into the wild where I find myself safe.

High upon the snow cover'd mountain,
Due fully hear my pitiful cry of prayers,
Delicate delightful muses, guide the mind dear.
Toward a no limit of cloudless sky,

I draw my gaze upward the distant long summit
Knowing bright heavenly eyes will appear,
And graceful beauty's light will bathe my face.

So listen for my roars lifted aloft, high
Upon the hot airs breath, which the Southern
Wind pants onto deserted Egyptian sands.

The jutting rock face sheered the endless blue,
Cutting glass deep into the desolate heart
Of the lush green landscape in view.

Jagged rough terrain, damp dewy moss, and loose
Boulders, which caused even balance to
Hesitate with every gentle step I planted.

The unending toil brought worth of gold in sweat,
Was every bit treasured, the burning
Limbs, sliced hands, and sodden feet exhausted.

For the wreath prized reward that will be presented
With feather gift of wisdom and honey memory;
A stomach full appetite would gladly ask for more.

I have approached this tall mount once before,
Have with fragrance occasionally heard hymns
Drift scented perfumes from the peaks above.

I have only been divinely blessed by whispers,
Only borrowed the glistening tune of silver,
Stolen measure of sapphire that were not my own.

Time of grains fallen now guide my soft hands;
Time of sun turning has come where ones heart strums,
And pulsing veins swirl their flows with warm blood.

So on I precede, strive of warrior courage.
On I climb with bloomy soul, a need for dreams
Of swollen mists to shroud my ever eager strain.

Unlock your latch of bolted chamber doors,
Raise and listen for my foot steps tenderly
Strode upon your morning dew welcome path.

Lead me kindly through your sacred dance
Which forever gloriously plays the lyre
Upon stories of ancient pages from winged truth.

I faint within your immortal presences abyss,
And dullness' black sleep engulfs my vision.
I feel your breath breathe kisses onto my lips,

Fresh spring of flowers stemming new buds
Fill my deflated lungs to the brims edge
With pure white smoke of graceful voice.

My journey, although hard of adamantine stress,
Fulfils the purpose of raging rivers torrent
And spits words with sprinkling showers to my work.

I feverously search the coastline for angels;
Now I ascend peaks of prisoned rock for answers;
Swim the waves of grey Ocean; fly in motionless air.

For every gaze that catches your chestnut eyes,
Every sly serpent that hides scales in covered shadows,
You cure deadly bites from diseases staring into sin.

My love petal soul exists within yours lily white,
As peerless charms sow with green fingers of vine,
They entwine this summit, embrace and inspire;
Within the songs of floating glory, they resound eternally.

To depend we when;
Safe doing feel thoughts and can purpose.
Vulnerable trust what honest encourages;
Safe when fulfils family feeling.
Other depend.

Playing to the heartbeat
Tub thumping Drumbeat
Overwhelming Synth wave
Channelling the Bass slave
Guitar jams, room shaking
Screaming voices, larynx aching

Cello in the background
Violins make mellow sound
The Snare an unholy snap
A Tambourine a mighty slap
The Cymbals crash
A Tom Tom smash
Chord change impending
Middle eight unending

Digital and analogue
Recording in its final slog
Final verse is looming
With the Bass Drum booming
The soloist’s precision
Fulfils the final vision

Aduain

The West a glimmering lake of light,
A dream of pearly weather,
The first of stars is burning white--
The star we watch together.
Is April dead?  The unresting year
Will shape us our September,
And April's work is done, my dear--
Do you not remember?

O gracious eve!  O happy star,
Still-flashing, glowing, sinking!--
Who lives of lovers near or far
So glad as I in thinking?
The gallant world is warm and green,
For May fulfils November.
When lights and leaves and loves have been,
Sweet, will you remember?

O star benignant and serene,
I take the good to-morrow,
That fills from verge to verge my dream,
With all its joy and sorrow!
The old, sweet spell is unforgot
That turns to June December;
And, tho' the world remembered not,
Love, we would remember.

Friend energy vulnerable of honest.
When fulfils, they group feeling safe.
encourages thoughts of capable a trust.

Tongue tingling our footsteps as we tread along the coast
Till the tingling tangles and our eyes become deceived
Footsteps fumbling and the walk becomes a lean
What's going on Bruce?
Well we're trippin' East

Steadily stepping our way along Aus Coast
Undulating pathway the challenge of our feet
Our whole self overwhelmed with intense jungle heat
Drips a dropping from each and every pore of skin
Heats a rising as we are headed East

We puzzle a pace set by deceived perspective
And encounter Koala kicking back in the tree
Worrying for impression set by our wibbly wobbly knees
And now a questioning are my eyes playing with me?
Kalaidescoped koala eyes double dare our quest East

A pause in the pathway proves a place of rest
Creates chance to cool off our oven cooked sheen
Watching waves crash and mesmerised in sea
So laid back now stretched beyond a lean
Relaxing now we're siding it most East

Fumbling forwards fulfils quest to reach giant fan
Our minds not now making life so sensibly
Not so sure of anything with any certainty
But no question of whether it could be more perfectly
Rewards been given grand on our venture East

Settling so high at the lighthouse we reach success
Where we're mesmerised in the motion of the mountains breathing
Exhaling clouds a twirling as horizon is swirling
Seas and skies ahead are all entrancing
Eyes lost in a vision of East

Toes treading frogs squished beneath our feet
Sky shadows darkness so we start to venture back
Hunting bin for beverage but there's severe lack
So continue with the liquid slowly spreading in my sack
Senses stumbled from our venture East

Journey into jungle hope to find direction home
Darkness steals our vision so not sure it's right
Saved slightly by flashing glow of poi light
But can only hear, not see the creatures of the night
No knowledge now if we head West or East

Heats arising further trapped within the trees
Tallest takes spiders on so we can travel comfortably
Arms a held wide holding us steadily
Then find our way to freedom reaching beach excitedly
Made it through the jungle of the East

But continues good feeling as dip skinny in the sea
Feet squeaking sand and sea crashing on our skin
Try to fight them but these waves will always win
So to scarper now and go in hunt of green
The final piece to complete adventure East

Mission soon complete when we meet Brother Bear
The night turns trippier from that moment there
Free hugs a given but instead create a scare
Crazy woman shouting and men with fake hair
Realising we are still trippin' East

So at our home for now, the Art Factory
I think we find it be the place we love the most
Thick natural jungle our most fantastic host
Loving life purely but never one to boast
Still sure this is the haven of the East

Lay out flat and eyes still lost in the sky
With colours changing it's a sign I'm still high
Can't count the insects they chirp in overdrive
And waves crashing like the distance is a lie
Senses strongly active here in the East

Journey started East and further went
Minds far and eyes long
Up and down and on and on
As far East as we could have gone

To be in love is to be sad,
when your side doesn't meet mine in bed,
when a message sent stays unread,
when not even a day with you fulfils
the ever filling cup of need I have for you.

To be in love is to be scared,
if this time is the last to hold your hand,
if you've had a change of heart,
if you're not sharing enough of what
I want to give to you.

To be in love is lonely,
thinking of all the time lost when it's not shared with you,
wanting to slip in the bodies of other people you talk to,
just so I can be close and never miss out on you.

But to be in love is to be comforted,
a reassuring shoulder for tears to splatter on,
a lantern in the dark, a hose to the fire;
to be in love is to smile, to free the mind and soul,
to entwine heartbeats even when days grow old.
To be in love is to be fearless.

To be in love with you
is worth it.

April blossoms bless my ears,
as she sings of falling leaves and snow.
Summer lives in every utterance;
Every note fulfils my soul.

Fairgrounds on the meadow glade.
Cloudless blue, and the green below...
I see it all behind her eyes; The skies
are Springtime when I hear those notes.

Vivaldi claims that seasons change,
and begin with falling leaves and snow.
When she sings, why then is it Spring?
The leaves fall fast, but the blossoms fall slow
in time with her voice, and my heart so aglow.

they describe the Great White shark as the ultimate killing machine
when it is the descriptor who really fulfils that statement
Man and his killer shadowed heart hiding in plain sight
desperate measures usually end up with corpses stacked high
and there is no other animal more desperate than Man
a territorial fear spreading nonsense believing fool to his own breed

First find her ripely inconsolable. She must be beautiful (squeeze the round end -- does it yield perceptibly without deformation?), yet she must think herself ******. The following factors produce this effect: a society which denigrates her, a family which ignores her, fairy-tales which tell her she fulfils herself upon belonging to a man. Once you have selected her, you must purchase. Pay with attention, time, care and compliments. Do not spend too much -- you might suffer buyer's remorse later. Then, before she is sure of herself, make demands. Tell her that her utility is based on your own convenience, and slowly browbeat until soft and creamy.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                            We’ll Write a New Idyll This Year

                The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
                And God fulfils himself in many ways

             -Idylls of the King, “The Passing of Arthur,” 8-9

Janus faces both ways, and so do we
A last, lingering look at the year that was
And then a turn to the year we must meet
Marching to it through Janus Pater’s doors

We will most remember about the past
Our friends whose pilgrimages came to their ends
We joy in the remembrance of their happiness
Their stories and songs, their unfailing kindness

Janus faces both ways, and so do we;    
But now our friends, our happy friends, they see
Light


                 And the new sun rose bringing the new year

                       -Idylls, “The Passing of Arthur,” 469

a young warrior fulfils a dream,
one on one combat, and his foe
folds like wet parchment.
a wounded musician, has his back
even as the javelin impaled
in her arm (her spoils)
drips with life.

the clatter of a die.
a number announcing if she survives
is softly reported

[or how Oscar’s help was neither wanted nor needed, thank you very much]

Addiction.
It's a filthy word that taints your tongue.
I'm not a normal addict.
I'm not addicted to beer, or to regular drugs.

The only drug that fulfils my desires.
Is you.

You are my drug.
You fill my head with morphine.
You take away my pain.
But when I wake up in the morning I feel sick.

I take you every night.
You've helped me in ways you don't even know about.
Even though I can't swallow you whole.
I can break you and take you piece by piece.

No matter how I devour you.
You always help me.
I taste the bitterness on my tongue.
But a cool sensation spreads to my head.

Being in love is a powerful thing.
Addictive?
Yes.
But you?

You're a chemical.
You make up my bright side.
You make up my best days.
You make me feel numb when I bleed.

I was never one for drugs.
But when it comes to love.
I dove in head first.

The music plays on,
He lies motionless,
Sedated forlorn,
End looming on his face.
There isn't a trace
That he did ever embrace
Life and love that fulfils it,
But forever lying on the crumpled sheet!
The music plays in his head,
His fingers faintly move on the bed,
Now from death no more immune,
They celebrate the symphony of one last tune!

She feels my lips softly kiss upon
her skin, like butterflies soft and
gentle, she feels my breath like there
wings flowing all over her body.

My hands hard, but gentle upon
her, as she feels me envelope her,
I pull her close are skin touches
for a moment a connection that cant be
undone .

Kisses rise up her throat like a
beast I  have bitten her, but it
excites her as she knows no harm
will I do. Are lips mould to each other,
passion fires up stoked by the intensity
of this long kiss.

Breath becomes rapid, hearts beat
felt through each other, nearly as
one. I slip down your throat butterfly
kisses land and take off.

I undress you with my eyes, then with
my gentle touch, as like a petal they fall
to the floor crushed under foot.

I see the beauty which fulfils my
eyes, I climb up you, caressing
with finger tips and butterfly kisses
cascade over your body, as you arch
to the touch.

I embrace your bosoms hands *****,
fingers search every part of your silk
skin, as I lick the tips of your *******
I do gently bite as I **** them between
my lips.

My fingers skim across your chest,
downward to your ***. As I feel you
my fingers caress I feel in your movements
you want me and no one else.

My tongue teases your inner thigh, I
tease you as I look up and see ecstasy
in your eyes. I am buried in your ***, you
taste pure as my tongue finds the spot
that sends electric love though your spine.

I place my self into you, in motion we move
as one, to that place we need to be sweat droplets
of love, deep inside I feel you as we reach ******
and are eyes never leave each others gaze as two
are now one....

Little boy of urges hid, birthed in his mothers
Blood of stagnant death, behold the urges bathed
Him now in. Little one grew with morality taught
Only the Bad must bleed the good must be saved
With the cutting of a sterilised blade.

Blood became his urge as he worked with that
Loved, cherished so much. Oozing off objects
Trajectory of A-, From the exiting wound.
A sawn off shoot gun mouth fed then words
Became thought on everything but his mind.

Night earned my respect for deeds done, in
Silence, like a wasp did it sting then awoken
Upon pictures displayed, and then I spoke.

"Do you recognise those now never to utter words,

"I used to let them talk, but they mostly screamed,
"Swore, told me they'd **** me, really??
"Did they contemplate that they were about be silenced.

All was surrounded, sealed upon plastic and duck
Tape to keep that which spilled, kept in. As the blade
Fell, breath, life drained away. My urge fulfilled and
The bad gone permanently away but death is a clock
And tomorrows a brand new day.

My little playmates in their playground of death
At the bottom of the sea, now others have joined
Living breathing taken them away from me. I keep
Them in essence a blood droplet of final breath, in
My walls how Norman Bates of me.

"Come on son just do the right thing,

"Not now dad were having a meeting,
""He pops up at the most annoying times,

I have killed family, friends, lovers have even
Crossed the path that meets the edge of a blade
That makes lies still and fulfils my urges, they
were good I thought but paths were crossed so
They were ended another droplet spilled.

I love my hobby, who can say they love to ****,
Its only the bad that need to worry for when my
Fever peaks, and so many bad people to ****.

"I look at you, and see a part of me,
"But when you turn silent, I'm nothing like you,

I get a call, close up shop. All neat and tidy, like
No one had been here before. Slowly under the
Seat sealed delivered to my playmates  new
Hidey hole. Now back to work and see what splatter
Awaits that I didn't cause.

"Mmm yep I'd say their dead, as I don't think?
"Don't worry I found their head behind the sofa,

God I love my job, cant get any better than this.

I’m a man made of broken relations
one piece from each
each has a story of its own
one that gets me closer to being complete.

Sometimes I say to myself
that I need no one by my side
I convince my inner me
that I can be both -
the one that needs and
the one that fulfils.

I adore the darkness
yet I crave for the moonlit skies
In its calmness, I feel alive again
And continue my quest to find a better me.

I close my eyes, and I hear me breathe
I sway like the carefree wind
as they sing in harmony with the leaves.
As I open them, I find myself back in my den
searching for the switch to play it all over again.

I write poetry to help me
I write poetry as I drink tea
I write poetry that makes me titter
I write poetry cause im bitter
I write poetry cause im good
I write poetry cause im misunderstood
I write poetry for money
I write poetry when it’s sunny
I write poetry through the rain
I write poetry to help my brain
I write poetry when I feel down
I write poetry to my friends in town
I write poetry cause it fulfils my soul
I write poetry dark as coal
I write poetry under a blanket of stars
I write poetry whilst cleaning ***** cars
I write poetry about the silver moon
I write poetry to make lovers swoon
I write poetry cause it makes believe
I write poetry to explain what I perceive
I write poetry that makes me cry
I write poetry and I don’t know why
I write poetry cause it makes me feel free
I write poetry because that’s just me

A useful key to creativity
Write a list of things you need to
do today before you get distracted
by the brain to procrastinate
Prioritise three aims that helps you
produce to consume
The days flick through fast without
a view ahead of what to do
Life is shorter than expected so
hold a set of goals in pursuit
Looking back on what was done
later on fulfils a cycle to review

It hit me!  What is ambition?
        
        Ambition

Ambition: good, bad, mixed?
On the surface something fixed:
A goal, an aim; useful, beneficial.
In the end, where does it send you?,  
On the face of it, to purpose;
In the end, to race
Where failing can mean falling into illness,
‘Calling’ turning into sand.

Ambition is a strong desire to achieve:
But what?  Success? What is it you perceive?
Luxury? Prosperity? Fame of name? Victory?
Does it involve a plan? A scheme or more,
To carry out one dream, or more?

To hash out, lash out with your psyche:
Them or me;
Who am I, really?
Are you ever to become the model that you had in mind?
Has ambition been defined?

Like ‘status' and ‘exclusive’, words that have been coloured,
Twisted, loaded,
We have planted on ‘ambition’
An Illusory distortion.

Life fulfils itself if you can wait.
Life fulfils itself if you can work.
Life knows your every want.
Life knows your weak points.
(As time goes, the muscles, joints).

Replace ambition with self knowing.
If you want to keep on growing,
Be Here Now!
That’s it!
The secret
                to ambition.

Ambition 6.13.2020 Nature Of & In Reality; Circling Round Experience; Definitely Didactic II; Arlene Nover Corwin