Breaking all the rules,

There they are like sanctions,

A double vision to a double end,

Secret lies for us to comprehend.

Freedom bore no place here,

It bears no meaning, nor no hope,

A shackle or a chain are all the same,

These are the courses we take.

And, with each days decisions,

Consequences of pain,

Life itself remains unconquered, you see it,

Amounting to all the same.

True to you is like the punishment recurring,

Yet untrue is immediate and cursed,

These very moments, weaken the weakness and weaker still,

The birds sing the songs I have heard them rehearse.

Light dawns on an early morning, twilight dawns and dawns a burden or a curse.

Another choice drifts nearer, the same set of choices that once were,

They have come with the sun to hurt us.

And hurt, they will, some more.

Conversations play like games of chess,

Tactics in words shifting their pieces with their meanings

Maybe poker, like a bluff or a guess,

Maybe imagination expands on less.

But, truth will out and games all end,

And all the cards will equal the deck,

That is the gamble, and the consequence,

That is life and imperfection.

When love is tangled in a knotted web,

For that moment where Sisyphus takes hubris for his glory,

To play to loose and crumble climb after climb,

He tried,

And  encumber justice of the gods despite the story

Tis man who loses less and less.

Light dawns brighter with shutters drawn,

Peaking in and bringing the truths closer to their place of rest

Distance reminds us of home

And it is further than sleep will allow the spirit to acquiesce.

Sleep or sleep and night of quiet,

Golum comes for his ring,

The key he holds in his desire,

To hide that brute and murderous liar.

Golum waits till slumber, to remind,

We are all souls in desire, and night brings the snake to us all

and the fire.

So daylight breaks, birds sing their song,

They mate and fly and dance along

But, for Job, for Judas and for Peter,

The single man, the breaking bread,

Shaking hands and hanging head

Sacrilege smiles as we wake to glib

And that is life and that is majesty,

It is in those fables we hang our heads.

We are without perfection but welcome are we in company,

And, don’t forget Bessie Smith,

Rich once and poor twice and human through and through,

We’ll cheer the champagne and forget all the evil do,

For we have treacle ****, cars and Andy Warhol to remind us,

There is no soul in art.

That is life, that is the pity of the profound.

A sorry lot if we cared, but, we don’t,

Like children born to be born again

We are here only, to roll around.

why do people still cling to the post-socratic
notion entombed
      in the two branches of aristotle
and plato - that you can teach something -
where in fact you can only teach
people nothing -
      by saying, likewise:
  you can't teach philosophy, you have to
live it...
   and yes, the systematic approach of
writing tracts, hinting at solipsism,
         working toward the divine res per se -
also invoke the geometry of both
the halo and the wheel...
      for if you read closely,
establishing a systematic argument /
foundation, you also establishing
an avalanche effect of becoming
               inexhaustible in effort, and so
too in output...
           yet such thinking only arises
when you find a 20th century titan
with an appreciation for poetry, well:
a respect, that on the balance of libra
outweighs a love for -
   that allows the camel the needle's eye
path in squeezing into a state of
pleasing agitation...
                  only when you find someone
beyond the poets' poet,
namely a poets' philosopher -
     someone who can guide you onto
a path of the inability to exhaust
    the polygrammatic use of language -
or thereby finding it;
             of course: da-sein,
   but there's a there beyond a posit
or known coordinate...
        what's covert about this concept is
not exactly a there,
               but the depth of a there -
                  da-sein-im-schweigen-allein;
and yet, that forever pressing
post-scriptum of the british empire -
that pompous affair of quested for
superiority - reduced to nothing more
than a post-colonial-stress-disorder -
    a neurotic golum of
          wished-to-have-acted-otherwise,
as taught by the angevin dynasty's fold,
instigated by a sickly augustus;
certain strengths blind,
           while certain weaknesses enlighten;
that said,
  you can't be taught anything of
a disconcerting nature -
        for who would dare to learn a logic
of confining agitation, uncertainity -
                           and rick?
                    which is why most people prefer
the simpler threats of such ontology -
haggling in a market,
                                      or gambling!
in writing this, what have i learned?
absolutely nothing, i gambled with
a blank piece of paper, and this is the gambler's
reward.