Olives, figs, dates and mastic, wyrd or oracles, fates and magic, wars and loves and all that’s tragic.


A Father’s lust, an Uncle’s hate, a puzzling labyrinth, through the gate,

A Cretan born, another covered, a starry symbol, placed in the cupboard,

Special place, where heroes meet him, mindless creature, murderous ******,

South in winter, man below with a bull above, placed in the heavens by two father's love,

A strangeness here, the seat of trade, in forbidden tryst, a beast was made,

Man of blood, tortured soul, stalks the maze, that stalks the pole,

"Stranger still, this wild pattern, revolving Seventh, Circle of Saturn?"

Unholy corridors made of granites, trace out the movements of the planets!

Life of horror, a soul of pain, terrorizing, with no refrain,

Smells their fear, scents of sin, raging actions, threshing men;

“They call me Moloch! They call me Baal! Tear your body, festoon my hall!”

In trepidation, to gatekeeper sent, a ****** start, for your punishment;

“I collect the hearts, I eat the eyes, I eat the liver, before he dies!”

Olives, figs, dates and mastic, wyrd or oracles, fates and magic, life and death and all that’s tragic.

It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.


Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then ,as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, -
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.


With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
'Strange friend,' I said, 'here is no cause to mourn.'
'None,' said that other, 'save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil ******, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.


I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now...'

To tell any story of you I should begin with stone –
Marbles, granites, slates – in slabs and blocks so large
They surrounded the family plant like cold-faced
Soldiers, armed not to keep out, but to keep safe
The secret knowledge: how to turn function to art,
How to harvest beauty from earth’s dark home.

We could count on you to be part of our home.
After school days and weekends of shaping stone
You appeared at our table, wearing your appetite large
And wooing my sister until our brother’s blank face
(Your best friend’s cold face) blinked there was no safe
Way to have them both. Somehow, for you, the art

Was in the trying. At work, you created a new art
Cutting and carving miniature relief scenes – of home
And history and Greek goddesses in soft marble stone
Streaked pink and black – with callused hands larger
Than the finished pieces. My sister lowered her face
In refusal of that first gift.  Believing you were too safe,

She married someone else. You married, to be safe,
Someone who didn’t care to understand the delicate art
Of your labor. Soon, some chasm reached your home,
Splitting you in silence until you no longer were stone
But shards and pieces scattered at the bottom of a large
Abyss, unwhole. Your grief too hard for you to face,

You led your wife along a trail up to a rocky west face
Above a summer pool. Here, you thought, you were safe
To perfect an absolute stillness between you, a terrible art,
And somehow avenge the jagged cleavage in your home.
You struggled (the papers would later report) until stones
Slipped, hands unclasped, the space between grew large.

Like a pebble thrown, your wife’s body created no large
Ripples until shallow breath returned and she surfaced
Flailing, waving one unbroken arm to show she was safe.
But it was too late for you, whose new attempts at art
Had once again failed, and so you turned to go home
To become immovable, unreachable, a dumb stone.

At home, you recorded failures and defeats you faced
In large hurried script, writing to set forever in stone
One final success: a safe shot to the head, your newest art.

Of all the things in life,
I had, and then lost,
It is my mind. I miss the most.

Where do the stars end?
If i am here all alone.

There are no granites.
I can set your heart a ease.
Because no one ever knows.
How the felling come and goes.
When you get the feeling so strong,
that it will always go on.

Suddenly it goes

Of all the things in life,
I had, and then lost,
It is my mind. I miss the most.

¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
     As I walked the cobbled road,
a fallen leaf had called to me
“There, they sit atop the elm
and sing in wing'ed harmony!”

     As I looked beyond the limbs,
t'was as the amber leaf had said!
Crows—a trio, black and jade—
sat sewing thoughts into my head.

     Doting all, their call, acute.
Feared, as they began to chime
and paint the scene in cackled rhyme—
a stunning scene of ag'ed time!

     “As the Earth sits up on high,
          Await the end; the end is nigh!
          And shaken from its pedestal,
          a common custom—gone awry!

     “And as the scrib'ed granites tell,
          the darkened lord shall cast his spell,
          and all of praxis slashed to
          barren ash and taken to his Hell.”

     Their words, a curse to roam the world—
a call, aloud—a siren's scream—
their call—the Cawling of the Wind;
this flawless song's an endless dream.

          They sing an endless, painted dream.
          They dream of endless misery.

     As I walked, my mind raced on
and paced about this patchwork key,
both singing of that cursed song
and laden with reality.

     And then this bent my hashing mind:
this pasture’s blinding paths abroad!
So ****** by its ****** disguise,
what once was fair is now but fraud.

     The thought of sin had bound my feet—
a burning chill that once was good.
His hell was just beyond my reach.
My body fell; yet, there I stood.

     And through the void, his spirit falls.
Gone, entranced, as he recalls
a house of cards with meager walls.
Atop the crown, his spirit calls:

“Hell is just beyond the green;
     past the lies and life you lead.
     As you age, the world will die.
     Your questions, answered;
          so, says I.”

     Around me, then, were those a’brood;
their dreamless nightmare once bestowed.
Our numbers fall; his rise in lieu.
Alas! Submit! We chose that road!

     This pasture waned an age ago—
a mountain, this buffet of lies.
For in his realm, the truth will show
that deaf ears harken not our cries.

     To a deity of piqued display,
upon a steed of dark dismay,
a fleeting wish, we're told to pay.
He'll raise his staff and he will say:

“Hell is just beyond the green;
     past the lies and life you lead.
     As you age, the world will die.
     Your questions, answered;
          so, says I.”

          Your eyes say no, but his say yes.
          A curse is thrown, and so we stress:

Our Hell is just beyond the green;
     past the lies and life we lead.
     As we age, the world will die.
     Our questions, answered;
     so, we cry . . .

                        *. . . and so, we cry . . .

At times
You wonder why life seems so tight
You try to do things right
But all efforts goes futile

You aim at the stars
Yet you fall on granites
When your hopes gets high
Everything seems to be working right
Suddenly it just flows down like drops of rain from the sky

Surrounding you are people gaining new heights
But its just like you're stagnant

Your plight is just so appalling

But
Do you ever wonder why??
Do you ever think of what's left, not right??

You see,The Great wall of China wasn't built in a night
Neither did Edison invent light in his second flight

All you have to do is just try till your time is right

RECORD: ONE PAST
FROGMAN: CHINESE MAN

Suzy's: Oh!
             poor Prometheus SHOULD be recounted as a ftoule,
             from above and

Under
and behind
and inside everything we trook for granites—
something tear-able had been growing.
-- You and Me and Everyone We See

Frank: One from the memory banks...
           Don't be calm.
           It was a mercy thrilling.
           He had a certain naive cHarm,
           but no hustle.

Johnny's: missed the line, but hey

STOP: TURN'a'THrOUGHT

Cosmogonic  Amphibology, Sub-Mythological root
The threshold, as a minimum rubric, must be in force from the Constellation of Orion, with barely a hundred millionths under the same eye as Oarion and his psychophysical space, sensitive to the falcado chariots and the water vessels on the backs of the probable Barnard Loop and its nebula presence. The icy impulsiveness brought him under his right shoulder and the lean hollow under his arm dissolving from a staircase, at the entrance point of Betelgeuse coming from the cosmogony of Eridanus and in tune with Ptolemaic astrality. In sibyl and with a bright metric triplet look, Betelgeuse Orionis, which is the scale of the Aulos and piccolos expelling hydrogen as an Ace in 240 scales of harmonies and in sounds of light, for cycles and years of Light. The binary of Oarion, is the pre-birth of the sub-mythological root, with binaries of Poetic Parapsychology, or Para-poetical; which is the trapezoid and the kinetics of the hunter Oarion arrowing towards the Pleiades and its nebulous plains, and with diametric diarthrosis in his synovial joints, with third militarizing joints already formed by hyaline cartilage, which join the two bones with synovial fluid, before reaching Hunter Oarion's deltoid, to awaken the Sleeping world.

Vernarth, in one of his adventures in Pela, escapulated with his arms the force of the friction discs of the Olympics and compensated his hands and shoulders, for this purpose, from Oarion and his dilettante Astro Betelgeuse, with giant arrows against matter towards the sky of its Constellation, encrusted with Odyssey beatings and turpentines in surly Hellenistic ones, being for May its amber trunk and arm trapezoid, in each hand a Xifos and Dorus, always with pathologies of dexterous hemispheres in their sagacious hands in Kopis swords, and in the memories of the wind that throws pain to the hiss of the combatant, when the meteorites decay in the Tyrrhenian Sea. With his brass-bronze club and Vernarth's corrosive breath, he proceeded to file the odysseys on Eos's ******* and peduncles; Goddess of the Dawn, in Dionysian beauty of granules, which brandished the granites from the bronze nail, watching her for large mega hectares, dissuade the Revenge of Enopion, turning her eyes that now shone in bronze and the lines of Hesiod, for whom it. against borderline stellar magnitude in the major and minor dogs, and in their a priori waves of misdeeds lending measurements in the eyes of Oarion, always henchmen over their Pleiades.

From this intricacy, Cosmo-is born the Vernarth Duoverso in incited towards the Horcondising, so that it is co-appropriated mythical in the origin of the universality of the Duoverse in the scapula of Vernarth, bleeding towards the cosmos that was born from her stellar.like bronzes that twist on the necks of oxen that urinate on the officers of Barnard's Loop, and its polyphonic magnetic exciter, on Orion's ***** falling on the poles, like flagrant Amphibology.

The Kanti Steed and the Oarion Nebula, to the compass of a waltz ionizing prodigious electron-free ion chemicals, on the neutral molecules of Betelgeuse, to proclaim on the nerves of the shoulders and its bronze club, as musical praxis and net harmony , giving way to the nebula and the art of the Duoverso, which shows the pristine astral days, how in his alchemical arm gushing chemo-astralities from the chest and his armpit that sheltered him in his maximum stick, cutting down roots of Olivo Bernar, after the Barnard's loops, in the midst of runaway stars that are systematized in their ionized bleeding esplanade, like Stellae Novae, who retro brings astronomical rites in the cosmogony and her pretext of going at night to sleep near her parents Poseidon and Euríale, which they cheered near the grassy fields to paste explosive clay on the sheet of his drunken face with smiling Ionic wine, in advance of scattering across the new world you Duoverso.

Oh ye slaveholders,
hesitant emancipators
and empire builders run manifest -
time will have its way.

Grain by grain,
nose by nose,
eye by eye,
you will return to stone - inpressed.

A monumental hypocrisy
blown into a mountain
will no longer preside
over ponderosa pine
and in that place, once corrupted,
the granites will prove this vanity.

In another age, perhaps
some distant race, chiselled, inflected
but unknowing shall squint upon these
weathered myths and wonder,

as we look upon the Sphinx
and so wonder -
why these haunches,
why this withered broken face,
staring blankly into sand.

Dusty tracks touch the life's flowing river
River that passes through situation's rugged rocks to empower
On the shore of incident's river bed burned pyres of throttled love that suffers
Mute pathos of crimson dreams in the eyes buffer
Walls of emotions emit feelings to discover
Souls try to witness festive moods lighter
But granites of thoughts with fears shiver
Naked trees around life's circumference, whose leaves quiver
Exhausted hopes rock like shadows to rediscover
Whispering butterflies fly with sweetness to shower
And laughter reverberates at our life's land of sorrows with veil to cover

Inside Life
We fry our bones in the sun
And feed them to the howling storms
We do not fear to shed  our enamels
When we have no mouth to swallow our poor deities
Chewing granites , drinking from dead streams
Boys are not smiling , how can the moon find sleep?
When our bellies make noises than a troubled ocean

Inside life
We lost our blood in every rainy days
And cry an  ocean to drench our pains
Tomorrow never stops to gift us goose bumps
Friends come and go like  bad seasons
We bury our tongue in the silence of our mouth
When Napoleon strives in this animal farm
Sweats and cowries never share a toast

Inside life
Our dreams crawl, while our shadows run
And fortune is a woman beyond our reach
Only mosquitoes and cobwebs  stayed awake
While we squeeze happiness out of our skin
We would wait till the sun turns cold like ice
And  rest our aching backs on the laps of the moon
But today before twilight,  we must bury our thin sweats