all i wish for
are your wings ;
( great. powerful. endless flights through places i would call home, just me and just my thoughts and just the wind. )

all i wish for
is your beak ;
( sharp. different from a human mouth. responding and calling out every wordless sound i want to scream to the world. )

all i wish for
are your paws ;
( carry me as far as you can )

but i am not you
i don't have your wings
                             or beak
                             or paws
                             or what i wish for most of all

( let me tell you the most striking thing: reading an interpretation of you, learning about how you could possibly, probably, maybe predict and detect and deduct lies, never being fooled, gazing at people, being able to gauge their sincerity with just a sharp threatening sweep, of your eyes. )


                              most of all i wish for your eyes.

It's like I'm climbing a mountain
With no safety gear
At first, it was easy
Perfectly placed footholds
Easy access
But things have changed
They are crumbling and slippery
And the ones below me have crumbled away
All above get more and more spaced out
They get smaller and smaller
But I just can't turn away

I have no store
Of gryphon-guarded gold;
Now, as before,
Bare is the shepherd’s fold.
Rubies nor pearls
Have I to gem thy throat;
Yet woodland girls
Have loved the shepherd’s note.

Then pluck a reed
And bid me sing to thee,
For I would feed
Thine ears with melody,
Who art more fair
Than fairest fleur-de-lys,
More sweet and rare
Than sweetest ambergris.

What dost thou fear?
Young Hyacinth is slain,
Pan is not here,
And will not come again.
No horned Faun
Treads down the yellow leas,
No God at dawn
Steals through the olive trees.

Hylas is dead,
Nor will he e’er divine
Those little red
Rose-petalled lips of thine.
On the high hill
No ivory dryads play,
Silver and still
Sinks the sad autumn day.

In a drearing height on grave dead bones of branch,
Where leaves conspicuously kept craven distance,
Forsaken lovers set about to roost on topple-
Down sprig to break each side of their own family
Tree.  With a clutch of ruff stones, pulled hardly
Rare, with green hearts a-glowing from gizzards,
They fed six hatchling harpies, all tooth and wail
But one, whom they feared would not take to tearing
Flesh and to them appeared a foundling, not a rock,
But some down weathered creature, without lift,
All weight and no sun, savage grace had shaped
A new bound Prometheus, still dying for sleep.

                                                                  Provided
At birth, with nest and wings, each lashing rigged
In wax.  My father, who from a race of lions,
A king and the last of his kind, built, whilst mother
Destroyed and she, the culling raptor, by incestuous
Murdering, would pick and scrape to clean the marrow
From our souls, preening, like a clip winged eagle,
Would screech throughout all season, suffering close
To the essence of faith, my father, who with her formed
Two halves of a wounded gryphon, un-noble in pride
With a bent on fatal flights of his own undoing,
Marveled at her eyes, gray and gay as accusers,
She cursed in sight of angels, all wings below
Heaven.

My brothers, exotic birds all, limbo dancers,
Preferring the colder climes, flopped after me
And never became fliers, for feathers to them
Were but fantails for a harpy, or for gathering
Dust or at best, something to support their own
Lying.  And I found myself, the mid-heiring brood,
In a state when the soul is after dreaming to its body,
Hobbled-de-boyed at the abyss and I saw through
That air and my fold, I dreaded like omens and echoes
Of extinction, like mixed messages of flightless birds
And managed to pierce the innards of ovate shrouds,
To spike that filmy firmament and the yoke, fell away
And the seep hole ground was spurting and the sky,
An ocean of bloom, in all direction, winked—
With a maelstrom eye, for amongst my family, full
Of strangers, I heard that soul lifting love only God
Could send, sleepwalking on thresholds of faith.

I awoke from a dream and felt that I could fly,
Not like the yearning Icarus but, like a rash
Of spirit or that Arabian bird— simply leave
This earth and make my way through its mantle, blithely
Fallow, shedding my harrowed bone, I dropped off,
Sprung from my ashen bed of down and rose—
Out of doors, splintering from the smote that cut
Down the youth of my days, almost smothered away
And I blazed above the icy coal pelted perch,
My wings spreading far from gross flames as they died,
Unfettered in judgements, scaled so feathery, they conceived
That weight was a lie and the waste I kept, from eyes,
As leaves, became a parish of open palms as I spred
My plume and breath now bore an atmosphere
And lungs, they powered the wind and streaming rays;
My frozen veins, burst, blinding an earthen sun
And fled my shadow, transfigured in flight, into
Being, some aerial creature— not a pure spirit,
But like a child soaring, whose wound was as a wing,
On the heal.

i have no patience for you your feet sunk in the mud im leaving even if you stay behind.
nosebleed in a public restroom irrational shame,
dark stains on the carpet and we strain with the task of memory.
if your feet hold you back cut them off at the joint.
self-dissections in the lab,
case studies of the effects of
obsolete diseases. black plague typhoid smallpox
specimen pins/surgical staples, an efficient kind of suicide.
ill try not to smudge your lipstick when i kick in your teeth,
your white-knuckled hands digging grooves in your thighs.
efficiency as poetry.
brutality as poetry.
█████ as poetry.
i am trying to make a perfect vacuum of myself, purer than space. purer than black holes.
this is for the dirt ground into my jeans for the rusted nails in my walls , this is for you,
your delusions, your lover impaled on a sundial and you weep to complete the scene,
admire your artistry.
this is how to make feathers look like armor,
this is how to renounce your body,
how to be a living parody how to give up on yourself,
from a vulture to a prince. wren to a gryphon.
the water i drink is infested.
with eggs hatching in my throat i become more than myself,
mother to a thousand maggots.i name them all.i divide my love evenly among them.
here i staple my grievances to the doors of the church,
here i scream of plagues in the streets, filth in shining skyscrapers,
here i imagine myself cassandra here i prophesy misery
here i staple my grievances to your chest where you cannot brush them off this time.
you licking the doors, trying to taste what's gone, finding splinters in your tongue,
stuck in the braces you had
when you were twelve.
{i curse all metal grow more crooked by the day,
crooked man in a crooked house crooked cat on a crooked fence i can still rip your throat out with crooked teeth} you glisten you glisten you shine
like oil in the pan,
oil dripping from the car,
oil on top of the lake. lover where are the matches the pilot lights gone out again,
burn off the blockage till the heat shines blue.
domestic arson.in the forest you gather tinder,
too damp to burn clean.you smoke us out of our home.
leave it for someone better, stinking like a forest fire.the soundtrack is so loud i cant hear what you say,
im shouting with the strings it all sounds the same when you close your eyes,
smoke-blind you whisper from across the room and ive never hated you more than i do now.
i read your lips i write your words i staple them to the bedroom door i kick in your teeth too fast too fast a reminder that this isn’t pretty, eggs in the throat an exoskeleton too brittle to block the blows.
[me fetal on the kitchen floor me standing with ****** boots]
i count the teeth,
mark them as a symptom.
shedding the physical/shedding teeth.
shedding children from an open mouth.

In a drearing height on grave dead bones of branch,
Where leaves conspicuously kept craven distance,
Forsaken lovers set about to roost on topple-
Down sprig to break each side of their own family
Tree.  With a clutch of ruff stones, pulled hardly
Rare, with green hearts a-glowing from gizzards,
They fed six hatchling harpies, all tooth and wail
But one, whom they feared would not take to tearing
Flesh and to them appeared a foundling, not a rock,
But some down weathered creature, without lift,
All weight and no sun, savage grace had shaped
A new bound Prometheus, still dying for sleep.

                                                                  Provided
At birth, with nest and wings, each lashing rigged
In wax.  My father, who from a race of lions,
A king and the last of his kind, built, whilst mother
Destroyed and she, the culling raptor, by incestuous
Murdering, would pick and scrape to clean the marrow
From our souls, preening, like a clip winged eagle,
Would screech throughout all season, suffering close
To the essence of faith, my father, who with her formed
Two halves of a wounded gryphon, un-noble in pride
With a bent on fatal flights of his own undoing,
Marveled at her eyes, gray and gay as accusers,
She cursed in sight of angels, all wings below
Heaven.

My brothers, exotic birds all, limbo dancers,
Preferring the colder climes, flopped after me
And never became fliers, for feathers to them
Were but fantails for a harpy, or for gathering
Dust or at best, something to support their own
Lying.  And I found myself, the mid-heiring brood,
In a state when the soul is after dreaming to its body,
Hobbled-de-boyed at the abyss and I saw through
That air and my fold, I dreaded like omens and echoes
Of extinction, like mixed messages of flightless birds
And managed to pierce the innards of ovate shrouds,
To spike that filmy firmament and the yoke, fell away
And the seep hole ground was spurting and the sky,
An ocean of bloom, in all direction, winked—
With a maelstrom eye, for amongst my family, full
Of strangers, I heard that soul lifting love only God
Could send, sleepwalking on thresholds of faith.

I awoke from a dream and felt that I could fly,
Not like the yearning Icarus but, like a rash
Of spirit or that Arabian bird— simply leave
This earth and make my way through its mantle, blithely
Fallow, shedding my harrowed bone, I dropped off,
Sprung from my ashen bed of down and rose—
Out of doors, splintering from the smote that cut
Down the youth of my days, almost smothered away
And I blazed above the icy coal pelted perch,
My wings spreading far from gross flames as they died,
Unfettered in judgements, scaled so feathery, they conceived
That weight was a lie and the waste I kept, from eyes,
As leaves, became a parish of open palms as I spred
My plume and breath now bore an atmosphere
And lungs, they powered the wind and streaming rays;
My frozen veins, burst, blinding an earthen sun
And fled my shadow, transfigured in flight, into
Being, some aerial creature— not a pure spirit,
But like a child soaring, whose wound was as a wing,
On the heal.

Here in Wonderland once more,
Let me hint at whats in store,
We will talk to all our friends,
And tie up some of the loose ends.
If you wondering who is my Alice?
Go see Sarah in the palace.
I am The Hatter; mad for sure,
This rhyming thing is mine and pure.
So lets go back to before,
The Red Queen is no more.

My Alice here by my side,
On Gryphon’s wings we ride.
Going to the hills up high,
There is no better way to fly.
Looking down we see March Hare,
Bouncing around everywhere.
To and fro we watch him go,
Seeing what he has to show.
He stumbles across Mock Turtle,
Then he jumps him like a hurdle.
His toe did slip and hit his skull.
Leaving him; his senses dull.

As we reach the hilly top,
Looking down we saw the drop,
The curving ground,
We saw all around.
Cheshire cat there was waiting,
Mockingbirds his tail was baiting.
Showing his trademark grin,
He danced around Alice’s shin.
On twilight skies he did float,
His latest conquest he did gloat.
Taking candy from a goat,
Showing us his stomach bloat.

Tweedledum and Tweedledee,
Stand before us now, you see.
Still they **** upon their thumb,
Dee’s in the mouth of Tweedledum.
They offer us some milk and tea,
My Alice asked, “Is it free?”
“In wonderland all is a gift,”
I state, “Just like Gryphon and his lift,
For here you see all possessions shift.”
She says, “I just didn’t want to grift.”

At the bottom of the hill we see a spot of rust,
I turn to my Alice and tell her what I must.
“This is just a solemn grave,
The last house of the Knave.
Red Queen did this yes my dear.
Pay me no mind as I shed this tear,
For this little crime,
When it was his time,
I could not speak,
My tongue was in my cheek.
I know it was so bleak,
It cost him his life, right at the peak.”

So here my new friends,
This is where it ends.
This tale was spun,
And it was fun.
Let me know in your script,
If you want more tale flipped.
Give this Hatter characters you enjoyed,
And you will see them here employed.

In a drearing height on grave dead bones of branch,
Where leaves conspicuously kept craven distance,
Forsaken lovers set about to roost on topple-
Down sprig to break each side of their own family
Tree.  With a clutch of ruff stones, pulled hardly
Rare, with green hearts a-glowing from gizzards,
They fed six hatchling harpies, all tooth and wail
But one, whom they feared would not take to tearing
Flesh and to them appeared a foundling, not a rock,
But some down weathered creature, without lift,
All weight and no sun, savage grace had shaped
A new bound Prometheus, still dying for sleep.

                                                                  Provided
At birth, with nest and wings, each lashing rigged
In wax.  My father, who from a race of lions,
A king and the last of his kind, built, whilst mother
Destroyed and she, the culling raptor, by incestuous
Murdering, would pick and scrape to clean the marrow
From our souls, preening, like a clip winged eagle,
Would screech throughout all season, suffering close
To the essence of faith, my father, who with her formed
Two halves of a wounded gryphon, un-noble in pride
With a bent on fatal flights of his own undoing,
Marveled at her eyes, gray and gay as accusers,
She cursed in sight of angels, all wings below
Heaven.

My brothers, exotic birds all, limbo dancers,
Preferring the colder climes, flopped after me
And never became fliers, for feathers to them
Were but fantails for a harpy, or for gathering
Dust or at best, something to support their own
Lying.  And I found myself, the mid-heiring brood,
In a state when the soul is after dreaming to its body,
Hobbled-de-boyed at the abyss and I saw through
That air and my fold, I dreaded like omens and echoes
Of extinction, like mixed messages of flightless birds
And managed to pierce the innards of ovate shrouds,
To spike that filmy firmament and the yoke, fell away
And the seep hole ground was spurting and the sky,
An ocean of bloom, in all direction, winked—
With a maelstrom eye, for amongst my family, full
Of strangers, I heard that soul lifting love only God
Could send, sleepwalking on thresholds of faith.

I awoke from a dream and felt that I could fly,
Not like the yearning Icarus but, like a rash
Of spirit or that Arabian bird— simply leave
This earth and make my way through its mantle, blithely
Fallow, shedding my harrowed bone, I dropped off,
Sprung from my ashen bed of down and rose—
Out of doors, splintering from the smote that cut
Down the youth of my days, almost smothered away
And I blazed above the icy coal pelted perch,
My wings spreading far from gross flames as they died,
Unfettered in judgements, scaled so feathery, they conceived
That weight was a lie and the waste I kept, from eyes,
As leaves, became a parish of open palms as I spred
My plume and breath now bore an atmosphere
And lungs, they powered the wind and streaming rays;
My frozen veins, burst, blinding an earthen sun
And fled my shadow, transfigured in flight, into
Being, some aerial creature— not a pure spirit,
But like a child soaring, whose wound was as a wing,
On the heal.

You pass the gryphon house,
     mythology perched atop like Snoopy,
And pick a lemefruitange from the
     omni-citrus tree, and
You cross the threshold onto the
     marshmallow carpeting of my brain, and
My monkey heart leads you by the hand
     to the furtive frenzy of my
          butterfly garden lungs, and
Through my eyes, you watch a movie
     while a unicorn makes ice cream
           on the comfy sofa of my
     stereophonic
laugh . . . .

In a drearing height on grave dead bones of branch,
Where leaves conspicuously kept craven distance,
Forsaken lovers set about to roost on topple-
Down sprig to break each side of their own family
Tree.  With a clutch of ruff stones, pulled hardly
Rare, with green hearts a-glowing from gizzards,
They fed six hatchling harpies, all tooth and wail
But one, whom they feared would not take to tearing
Flesh and to them appeared a foundling, not a rock,
But some down weathered creature, without lift,
All weight and no sun, savage grace had shaped
A new bound Prometheus, still dying for sleep.

                                                         ­         Provided
At birth, with nest and wings, each lashing rigged
In wax.  My father, who from a race of lions,
A king and the last of his kind, built, whilst mother
Destroyed and she, the culling raptor, by incestuous
Murdering, would pick and scrape to clean the marrow
From our souls, preening, like a clip winged eagle,
Would screech throughout all season, suffering close
To the essence of faith, my father, who with her formed
Two halves of a wounded gryphon, un-noble in pride
With a bent on fatal flights of his own undoing,
Marveled at her eyes, gray and gay as accusers,
She cursed in sight of angels, all wings below
Heaven.

My brothers, exotic birds all, limbo dancers,
Preferring the colder climes, flopped after me
And never became fliers, for feathers to them
Were but fantails for a harpy, or for gathering
Dust or at best, something to support their own
Lying.  And I found myself, the mid-heiring brood,
In a state when the soul is after dreaming to its body,
Hobbled-de-boyed at the abyss and I saw through
That air and my fold, I dreaded like omens and echoes
Of extinction, like mixed messages of flightless birds
And managed to pierce the innards of ovate shrouds,
To spike that filmy firmament and the yoke, fell away
And the seep hole ground was spurting and the sky,
An ocean of bloom, in all direction, winked—
With a maelstrom eye, for amongst my family, full
Of strangers, I heard that soul lifting love only God
Could send, sleepwalking on thresholds of faith.

I awoke from a dream and felt that I could fly,
Not like the yearning Icarus but, like a rash
Of spirit or that Arabian bird— simply leave
This earth and make my way through its mantle, blithely
Fallow, shedding my harrowed bone, I dropped off,
Sprung from my ashen bed of down and rose—
Out of doors, splintering from the smote that cut
Down the youth of my days, almost smothered away
And I blazed above the icy coal pelted perch,
My wings spreading far from gross flames as they died,
Unfettered in judgements, scaled so feathery, they conceived
That weight was a lie and the waste I kept, from eyes,
As leaves, became a parish of open palms as I spred
My plume and breath now bore an atmosphere
And lungs, they powered the wind and streaming rays;
My frozen veins, burst, blinding an earthen sun
And fled my shadow, transfigured in flight, into
Being, some aerial creature— not a pure spirit,
But like a child soaring, whose wound was as a wing,
On the heal.

In a drearing height on grave dead bones of branch,
Where leaves conspicuously kept craven distance,
Forsaken lovers set about to roost on topple-
Down sprig to break each side of their own family
Tree.  With a clutch of ruff stones, pulled hardly
Rare, with green hearts a-glowing from gizzards,
They fed six hatchling harpies, all tooth and wail
But one, whom they feared would not take to tearing
Flesh and to them appeared a foundling, not a rock,
But some down weathered creature, without lift,
All weight and no sun, savage grace had shaped
A new bound Prometheus, still dying for sleep.

                                                         ­         Provided
At birth, with nest and wings, each lashing rigged
In wax.  My father, who from a race of lions,
A king and the last of his kind, built, whilst mother
Destroyed and she, the culling raptor, by incestuous
Murdering, would pick and scrape to clean the marrow
From our souls, preening, like a clip winged eagle,
Would screech throughout all season, suffering close
To the essence of faith, my father, who with her formed
Two halves of a wounded gryphon, un-noble in pride
With a bent on fatal flights of his own undoing,
Marveled at her eyes, gray and gay as accusers,
She cursed in sight of angels, all wings below
Heaven.

My brothers, exotic birds all, limbo dancers,
Preferring the colder climes, flopped after me
And never became fliers, for feathers to them
Were but fantails for a harpy, or for gathering
Dust or at best, something to support their own
Lying.  And I found myself, the mid-heiring brood,
In a state when the soul is after dreaming to its body,
Hobbled-de-boyed at the abyss and I saw through
That air and my fold, I dreaded like omens and echoes
Of extinction, like mixed messages of flightless birds
And managed to pierce the innards of ovate shrouds,
To spike that filmy firmament and the yoke, fell away
And the seep hole ground was spurting and the sky,
An ocean of bloom, in all direction, winked—
With a maelstrom eye, for amongst my family, full
Of strangers, I heard that soul lifting love only God
Could send, sleepwalking on thresholds of faith.

I awoke from a dream and felt that I could fly,
Not like the yearning Icarus but, like a rash
Of spirit or that Arabian bird— simply leave
This earth and make my way through its mantle, blithely
Fallow, shedding my harrowed bone, I dropped off,
Sprung from my ashen bed of down and rose—
Out of doors, splintering from the smote that cut
Down the youth of my days, almost smothered away
And I blazed above the icy coal pelted perch,
My wings spreading far from gross flames as they died,
Unfettered in judgements, scaled so feathery, they conceived
That weight was a lie and the waste I kept, from eyes,
As leaves, became a parish of open palms as I spred
My plume and breath now bore an atmosphere
And lungs, they powered the wind and streaming rays;
My frozen veins, burst, blinding an earthen sun
And fled my shadow, transfigured in flight, into
Being, some aerial creature— not a pure spirit,
But like a child soaring, whose wound was as a wing,
On the heal.

( a metamorphosis )*

In a drearing height on grave dead bones of branch,
Where leaves conspicuously kept craven distance,
Forsaken lovers set about to roost on topple-
Down sprig to break each side of their own family
Tree.  With a clutch of ruff stones, pulled hardly
Rare, with green hearts a-glowing from gizzards,
They fed six hatchling harpies, all tooth and wail
But one, whom they feared would not take to tearing
Flesh and to them appeared a foundling, not a rock,
But some down weathered creature, without lift,
All weight and no sun, savage grace had shaped
A new bound Prometheus, still dying for sleep.

                                                         ­         Provided
At birth, with nest and wings, each lashing rigged
In wax.  My father, who from a race of lions,
A king and the last of his kind, built, whilst mother
Destroyed and she, the culling raptor, by incestuous
Murdering, would pick and scrape to clean the marrow
From our souls, preening, like a clip winged eagle,
Would screech throughout all season, suffering close
To the essence of faith, my father, who with her formed
Two halves of a wounded gryphon, un-noble in pride
With a bent on fatal flights of his own undoing,
Marveled at her eyes, gray and gay as accusers,
She cursed in sight of angels, all wings below
Heaven.

My brothers, exotic birds all, limbo dancers,
Preferring the colder climes, flopped after me
And never became fliers, for feathers to them
Were but fantails for a harpy, or for gathering
Dust or at best, something to support their own
Lying.  And I found myself, the mid-heiring brood,
In a state when the soul is after dreaming to its body,
Hobbled-de-boyed at the abyss and I saw through
That air and my fold, I dreaded like omens and echoes
Of extinction, like mixed messages of flightless birds
And managed to pierce the innards of ovate shrouds,
To spike that filmy firmament and the yoke, fell away
And the seep hole ground was spurting and the sky,
An ocean of bloom, in all direction, winked—
With a maelstrom eye, for amongst my family, full
Of strangers, I heard that soul lifting love only God
Could send, sleepwalking on thresholds of faith.

I awoke from a dream and felt that I could fly,
Not like the yearning Icarus but, like a rash
Of spirit or that Arabian bird— simply leave
This earth and make my way through its mantle, blithely
Fallow, shedding my harrowed bone, I dropped off,
Sprung from my ashen bed of down and rose—
Out of doors, splintering from the smote that cut
Down the youth of my days, almost smothered away
And I blazed above the icy coal pelted perch,
My wings spreading far from gross flames as they died,
Unfettered in judgements, scaled so feathery, they conceived
That weight was a lie and the waste I kept, from eyes,
As leaves, became a parish of open palms as I spred
My plume and breath now bore an atmosphere
And lungs, they powered the wind and streaming rays;
My frozen veins, burst, blinding an earthen sun
And fled my shadow, transfigured in flight, into
Being, some aerial creature— not a pure spirit,
But like a child soaring, whose wound was as a wing,
On the heal.

Slip into the viscous stream of starched fabric knowing I belong not here, ever the dissonant clef rattling its bar

Presence coaxes the parched throat but slakes not the gut's burn. I have learnt to swallow the fireballs I fear may wayward fly

Lactic oblivion strains the milk, scrubbing out taints of blossom-red

Speak, so their shunted breaths return trembling to the lips. There is nothing to see, hear, this drum echoes with ghosts you fathom not

Twice weekly I cross over to the past, fleeting high-breasted gryphon among the bright-eyed hatchlings. Then the summons of the bell

Reality strikes as lightning; the boom that trails it is the singed silence of the mute mind

HE DO THAT TED HUGHES IN DIFFERENT VOICES

Nothing but
- a waste land.

Crow is bored

perched upon a branch
like a haiku

waiting to happen
but where

is a haiku
poet when

one really needs one.

Crows agree to play
Charades.

One falls to the forest floor
clutching its chest shouting

"Aghhhhh ya...got me
I'm  a gonner!"

Then another and another
with a more cornier

one-liner than
the one before

looking more like spilled ink
than the last.

Crows having a blast
laughing their feathers off.

All big Film
Noir fans.

"Yeah, yeah...I got it
a ****** of crows!"

Across a hillside
a human stands

as if he had just sprouted
out of the land.

An Easter Island
of a man.

The sneer of cold command
upon those chiseled lips.

An Ozymandias!
"Look upon my mighty words and despair!"

Or more like
a granite gryphon

glaring at the crows' play
turning them over in his mind

until they
become words.

"Oh not that ******
Ted Hughes again!"

Crow mutters
to itself.

The poet unaware
that human thought

hangs frozen on the air
on such days as these.

The giant Hughes man
a poet made of iron

by some process of
emotional osmosis

absorbs their world and words
making it up as he goes along

for he great poet though he be
never learned to speak Crow.

The great man glares
at the sun

willing it into submission
the sun falters on a hillside.

He disappears into the snow
his fragile footprints

vanishing in a trice
lost to time

as if he has
never been born.

Crow does his best
impression

mocks and mimics
the human's thought.

"Nailing Heaven and earth together -

So man cried, but with God's voice.
And God bled, but with man's blood. "

A bell breaks
the sky's silence

crows scatter to
the heavens.

"Oh that Charlie
Crow...he is a one!"

One crow smirks to another.

"He do that Ted Hughes
to a tee!"

Sparks suspected to have caused this flame to be ignited
Put under pressure to hide it, conceal it, deny it
Insecurities and greed are the main culprits of all the violence
Curses foretold as warnings in the planets' alignment
Ignorance has been molded into an art or a science
If it isn't explicit, expect that they've securely implied it
So many sounds, go deaf and then drown in the silence
Invading homes and thoughts as though it was invited
Truth exposed is sneakily altered to disguise it
Misleading masses to control a majority's mindset
Freedom lost as they prevent attempts to revive it
Attempts to distract from the reality that existence is timeless
Peace of mind secured when tensions are excited
Crippling angels to prevent the liberty of flying
Heavily fueled by a cocktail of deciet mixed with spite
Significant events whispered as pointless wars are incited
Think of unity as a gryphon paralyzed and rendered flightless
Crowds convinced to be content when mindless
The search continues for those not mentally lifeless
What is considered humanity's finest
Authenticity has yet to be provided
It widens the gap that has us divided
The flame of those being blindly misguided
Runs the risk of roaring wildfires being ignited
No requests for your all, you've already supplied it
Made oblivious during the time of a crisis
Values labeled on treasures proven priceless
Privacy no longer permitted to be private
Eyes wide open yet views remain sightless
Individuality, a thing of which we may one day be reminded
Exterminations ordered of all those free and enlightened
Fortune concealed as the desperate all struggle to find it
Identities and dignity become commonly traded
If only they knew they were being violated
Unfortunately, their ignorance has been properly validated
After the ******, I wonder who lives to inaccurately explain it

HE DO THAT TED HUGHES IN DIFFERENT VOICES

Nothing but
- a waste land.

Crow is bored

perched upon a branch
like a haiku

waiting to happen
but where

is a haiku
poet when

one really needs one.

Crows agree to play
Charades.

One falls to the forest floor
clutching its chest shouting

"Aghhhhh ya...got me
I'm  a gonner!"

Then another and another
with a more cornier

one-liner than
the one before

looking more like spilled ink
than the last.

Crows having a blast
laughing their feathers off.

All big Film
Noir fans.

"Yeah, yeah...I got it
a ****** of crows!"

Across a hillside
a human stands

as if he had just sprouted
out of the land.

An Easter Island
of a man.

The sneer of cold command
upon those chiseled lips.

An Ozymandias!
"Look upon my mighty words and despair!"

Or more like
a granite gryphon

glaring at the crows' play
turning them over in his mind

until they
become words.

"Oh not that ******
Ted Huges again!"

Crow mutters
to itself.

The poet unaware
that human thought

hangs frozen on the air
on such days as these.

The giant Hughes man
a poet made of iron

by some process of
emotional osmosis

absorbs their world and words
making it up as he goes along

for he great poet though he be
never learned to speak Crow.

The great man glares
at the sun

willing it into submission
the sun falters on a hillside.

He disappears into the snow
his fragile footprints

vanishing in a trice
lost to time

as if he has
never been born.

Crow does his best
impression

mocks and mimics
the human's thought.

"Nailing Heaven and earth together -

So man cried, but with God's voice.
And God bled, but with man's blood. "

A bell breaks
the sky's silence

crows scatter to
the heavens.

"Oh that Charlie
Crow...he is a one!"

One crow smirks to another.

"He do that Ted Hughes
to a tee!"    

*

T.S. Eliot’s 1922 masterpiece “The Waste Land” was originally titled “He Do the Police in Different Voices,” a quote from Charles Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend.

I went to see Ted Hughes at the Royal Festival Hall after an extensive day and night shiftwork in mental health for about four days as staff went sick or simply didn't turn up.. Couldn't remember if I was to meet my ******* Thursday in Friday street or not or wot. I was right under his lectern and he looked immense ;and a lot like Sam the Eagle in the Muppet Show in looks and manner. I kept falling asleep between syllables and would **** myself awake and every time I did so I would get that fierce Hughesian glare!

HE DO THAT TED HUGHES IN DIFFERENT VOICES

Nothing but
- a waste land.

Crow is bored

perched upon a branch
like a haiku

waiting to happen
but where

is a haiku
poet when

one really needs one.

Crows agree to play
Charades.

One falls to the forest floor
clutching its chest shouting

"Aghhhhh ya...got me
I'm  a gonner!"

Then another and another
with a more cornier

one-liner than
the one before

looking more like spilled ink
than the last.

Crows having a blast
laughing their feathers off.

All big Film
Noir fans.

"Yeah, yeah...I got it
a ****** of crows!"

Across a hillside
a human stands

as if he had just sprouted
out of the land.

An Easter Island
of a man.

The sneer of cold command
upon those chiseled lips.

An Ozymandias!
"Look upon my mighty words and despair!"

Or more like
a granite gryphon

glaring at the crows' play
turning them over in his mind

until they
become words.

"Oh not that ******
Ted Huges again!"

Crow mutters
to itself.

The poet unaware
that human thought

hangs frozen on the air
on such days as these.

The giant Hughes man
a poet made of iron

by some process of
emotional osmosis

absorbs their world and words
making it up as he goes along

for he great poet though he be
never learned to speak Crow.

The great man glares
at the sun

willing it into submission
the sun falters on a hillside.

He disappears into the snow
his fragile footprints

vanishing in a trice
lost to time

as if he has
never been born.

Crow does his best
impression

mocks and mimics
the human's thought.

"Nailing Heaven and earth together -

So man cried, but with God's voice.
And God bled, but with man's blood. "

A bell breaks
the sky's silence

crows scatter to
the heavens.

"Oh that Charlie
Crow...he is a one!"

One crow smirks to another.

"He do that Ted Hughes
to a tee!"

HE DO THAT TED HUGHES IN DIFFERENT VOICES

Nothing but
- a waste land.

Crow is bored

perched upon a branch
like a haiku

waiting to happen
but where

is a haiku
poet when

one really needs one.

Crows agree to play
Charades.

One falls to the forest floor
clutching its chest shouting

"Aghhhhh ya...got me
I'm  a gonner!"

Then another and another
with a more cornier

one-liner than
the one before

looking more like spilled ink
than the last.

Crows having a blast
laughing their feathers off.

All big Film
Noir fans.

"Yeah, yeah...I got it
a ****** of crows!"

Across a hillside
a human stands

as if he had just sprouted
out of the land.

An Easter Island
of a man.

The sneer of cold command
upon those chiseled lips.

An Ozymandias!
"Look upon my mighty words and despair!"

Or more like
a granite gryphon

glaring at the crows' play
turning them over in his mind

until they
become words.

"Oh not that ******
Ted Hughes again!"

Crow mutters
to itself.

The poet unaware
that human thought

hangs frozen on the air
on such days as these.

The giant Hughes man
a poet made of iron

by some process of
emotional osmosis

absorbs their world and words
making it up as he goes along

for he great poet though he be
never learned to speak Crow.

The great man glares
at the sun

willing it into submission
the sun falters on a hillside.

He disappears into the snow
his fragile footprints

vanishing in a trice
lost to time

as if he has
never been born.

Crow does his best
impression

mocks and mimics
the human's thought.

"Nailing Heaven and earth together -

So man cried, but with God's voice.
And God bled, but with man's blood. "

A bell breaks
the sky's silence

crows scatter to
the heavens.

"Oh that Charlie
Crow...he is a one!"

One crow smirks to another.

"He do that Ted Hughes
to a tee!"

*

T.S. Eliot’s 1922 masterpiece “The Waste Land” was originally titled “He Do the Police in Different Voices,” a quote from Charles Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend.


I went to see Ted Hughes at the Royal Festival Hall after an extensive day and night shift work in mental health for about four days as staff went sick or simply didn't turn up.. Couldn't remember if I was to meet my ******* Thursday in Friday street or not or wot. I was right under his lectern and he looked immense  and a lot like Sam the Eagle in the Muppet Show in looks and manner. I kept falling asleep between syllables and would **** myself awake and every time I did so I would get that fierce Hughesian glare!

Little Folk of Lying Land

Little folk of Lying Land —
Dragging on through war and sand.
"Path" they call their dull routine,
Lost in fog, in mud, unseen.

War for what? For soulless schemes.
See the gates — the Beast still dreams.
Look around — just lifeless meat.
Cowards kneel and call defeat.

But the few with Spirit's fire —
Warriors! Their hearts don't tire.
Alone they stand, but never bend:
To serve the dark? That’s not the end!



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




Just meat obeys. The Spirit fights.
One torch can burn a thousand nights.



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




Greed and Whining,
Stuck Declining:
Then — comes Dullness,
Spineless Muteness,
INFERNAL SICKNESS.
Freedom? Lost it.
Herd — now worships
***-fed rules and slimy gossip.

Not a world — a creeping CESSPIT.



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




Herds kneel low —
while maggots grow.
Your "world"? A cesspit, soaked in woe.



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



Patriarchs of Zen

Not some saints in marble stories —
Crack your skull if you play dumb.
Scorned the world with all its worries —
Dust and noise, it all must numb.

Spirit — pure — their sole endeavor.
All else? Trash, a passing lie.
They knew well: the proud, the clever —
Preach and babble, then they die.

Now the verse becomes their staff,
But the Patriarch is gone.
What remains? Just broken paths,
Endless questions, LIES — and yawn.



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




No Zen remains — just echoes lie.
The staff is mute. The fools still cry.




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



Dragging burdens,
Dull and dead,
Plus a pack of
Lies you fed.

Find your fury,
Drop the load —
Burn it, bury —
Hit the road!



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



Trash the lies —
and let soul rise.



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




Lengthwise, crosswise — shred and sever
Truth and honor, mind and pride.
Freedom? Slashed. And now forever —
Rotting **** takes joy in lies.

Endless filth — and no resistance.
Local herds just grunt and nod.
What a hell! It stinks with distance.
What a wrathful, raving God!



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




Truth is flayed — and none protest.
Welcome, Hell. You know the rest.



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




Crosswise, lengthwise — all dissected:
Truth is torn, and honor wrecked.
Mind and freedom — all rejected,
By the rotting ****'s revenge.

Day by day, with no defiance,
Wretches take the stench as norm.
Madness reigns, and foul compliance
Feeds this Hell in perfect form.



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



Truth is butchered — cowards cheer.
Welcome, Hell. You're already here.



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



Victory

The rashist ****
Will pay in full.
Their filth will come —
Then meet the Bull.

The Spirit fierce
Will clear the way,
And tear their curse
Like rot from clay.



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



Fierce is the Flame —
and **** will burn.



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



The Deeper the Woods...

The deeper the woods — the lazier the fighters.
The bigger the lie — the worse the broken fibers.
The smarter the tech — the faster it will crash.
The stronger the fear — the deeper comes the slash.

The clearer the "system" — the slicker the chain.
The stronger the Spirit — the sharper the brain.
The simpler the path — the easier to block.
Believe in the sludge? You’ll die like a mock.



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



Truth gets sharp when Spirit wakes.
Mute and dumb? The darkness takes.



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



No More Cartoon...

Winnie licks the final honey,
Piglet snivels, small and weak —
He’s the “people,” sweet and funny,
But he only dies offscreen.

In real life he’s grown and bloated,
Spirit’s gone — a soulless swine.
All the tales have been demoted —
Only STUPID FEAR survives.

Cracks are spreading through the framing,
And the “cartoon” fades to black:
Not just gangsters — beasts are reigning.
Slaves enrich their vile pack.



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




The cartoon’s dead. The beasts are real.
And slaves just fatten up their meal.



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



The End of Wonderland

Wonderland is ruled by jackals —
Dodo’s gone, the Rabbit’s dead.
Cheshire Cat, once sly and crackle,
Fled — now fleas bite Dove instead.

Mad March Hare’s a bureaucratic,
Hatter’s now a lab-coat pawn.
Even Gryphon’s turned fanatic —
Fairy tale? It's long since gone.



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



Wonderland has bled to dust —
All that’s left is fear and rust.



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



Reflection Method

Traitors smeared, obedient chained,
Freaks of Darkness hold the reins.
Only bribes give meaning now —
This is how they keep the vow.

Sarcasm’s sharper than a joke,
In the verse their madness spoke.
This is how the world reflects —
Broken down, it hit the depths.

Rot before, now only slime —
One big pile, a frozen crime.



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



Traitors crawl, the fools comply —
All this world’s a stinking lie.



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



The Clock Is Ticking

Tick-tock, tick-tock — the world’s a bomb,
Drop the quarrels — fool, stay calm.

Inside the blast, there’s TNT,
Monsters armed with cruelty.

Fools devour lies like food,
Never full, they breed the mood.

Lies are just the bomb’s thin shell,
Time runs out — no place to dwell.

Soon will come the final mark,
Darkness swallowing the spark.



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



Lies are fuel, and fools run blind —
Countdown’s done, no more time.



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


Time’s Fatigue

Tick and Tock have worn out ticking—
Time itself is running thin.
Speech is tired, just meme-clicking,
Chaos set to crash and spin.

When all breaks down, it’s entropy—
That is death’s relentless breath.
Sing the songs you left incomplete—
Soon will shake the Earth beneath.



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



Time is bleeding, tick and break —
Death arrives with each quake.



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


“Climbers”

Bound by lies like twisted ropes,
We’ve all become “the climbers” folks.
Everest of lies so vast —
Climb with them, or cut down fast.



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



Lies bind tight — no room to choose.
Climb their peak, or get abused.



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



Phantasmagoria

Editors like tractors grind,
Crushing fresh and new each time.
Like strange attractors blind,
Talents fade through years’ long climb.

Into the world, through chaos’ press,
They tried to bring a spark of light.
No voice was theirs — they'd only stress
The “common nonsense” of the night.

Only few could read the game,
Heard Aesop’s whisper in the haze —
Sprouts survive amid the shame,
Growing through the tangled maze.

But tractors crush those tender shoots,
Fascism’s rule is plain and stark.
Simple factors, cold pursuits —
Dehumanized, devoid of heart.

It’s time for stories to conclude,
Their ending dark, obscene, profane.
Rot festers in this phantasm, crude —
Where NEW is doomed to break in vain.



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



Tractors crush the new and bright,
Fascism’s grip denies the light.


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


Involution

Swift’s great house lies torn apart —
Who needs it now? The rabble’s heart
Prefers a world where lies are king,
Soulless **** that poison spring.

They feed and breed, they drag us down,
This realm into a burning drown.
Monsters rule, all crude and vile,
They want a slave with broken smile.

Involution’s raging deep —
Wisdom’s rare, and honor’s cheap.
In the blaze of falsehood’s fire,
Truth’s a scarce, exhausted pyre.



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



House of Swift is torn and dead —
Lies and **** now rule instead.



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



So-Called "Rational Mankind," or The Endgame

Reason?! Only sarcasm fits—
Man’s a plague that must be hit!
Light is stronger—Sun will save
Earth by burning all to grave.

What of those not stupid, then?
That’s a question hard for men.
In a world where Spirit gleams,
At the end of days and dreams,

Few will stand — the “Overkind.”
This is real, not just in mind.
There’s a path that leads on high,
Beyond the chaos, past the lie.

And to depths of Hell and Hate—
Fools will fall to their cruel fate.
So the final curtain’s drawn:
This is how the game is gone.



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



Reason’s dead — plague stays to rot.
Sun will scorch the idiot’s spot.



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



Respect to Pol ***, praise on high!
To the New—hail, bow low, comply!
March ahead, the herd obedient,
Slay the foes who doubt the gradient.

Faces sharp, genocide’s disguise,
With fascism in centuries’ ties.
Once called “communism” — a farce,
Deceit’s the trap to break the sparse.



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



Pol ***’s shadow, dark and deep,
New lies herd, no time for sleep.
**** the doubters, crush the weak,
Truth’s dead tongue—no one can speak.



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



Don’t let your life end tragically—
No poet’s needed where
Lies, fear, and madness spin cyclically.
When will you shout, “Not there!”?

To all this cruel dementia,
You’ll hear but cold “Get gone!”
For cunning *******’ conscience
Is haunted by their wrong.

No rescue comes, no turning—
You’re lost, as if you’re naught:
What’s left to shoot? You drag behind
The madness they have wrought.

It grows more fierce, relentless—
The world’s lost all its mind.
Fascism’s gloom, relentless,
A plague for all mankind.



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



Don’t end your life in tragic shame —
Scream “No!” and break the devil’s game.
Madness spreads, the plague is near —
Fight the lies, refuse the fear!



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



The Motherland hears,
The Motherland knows —
That people like mice
Lie, fail, impose.

That traitors rule fools,
Doctors punish with spite,
Darkness enslaves all,
Dulls every light.

It’s poisoned the whole,
Made all minds blind,
Souls killed in their chains —
Here’s where we find...



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


“Director of Himself”...

Carve wooden blocks, make puppets,
Record the nonsense line —
Surround yourself with shadows,
Call them “close” and fine.

But those who stand beside you,
Hardly differ at all:
Strings pulled by wicked demons,
Satan’s grand hall.



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



Idiots feast on endless lies —
Spewing madness, vile and stark.
Where’s the country? Just disguise:
Decay, the stench within the dark.



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

Original Sin

Illusions forced upon us,
From childhood all made numb.
With lies they cloak the surface —
Free thought they’ve struck down, dumb.

Only in the rarest hearts
Burns a reason pure, untamed.
Lies like sarin poison starts —
This first sin bears the blame.



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

Original Sin

They planted lies inside our minds,
From youth they crushed all sense.
With falsehoods twisted all the signs —
Killed thought, made dull, immense.

Only few still hold the flame —
Reason clear, untouched by lies.
But poison gas of falsehood’s claim
Is that first sin that never dies.



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



Nonsense and Heresy

Nonsense, heresy — heresy, nonsense —
How to break through to the soul’s defense?
Nonsense serves to cloud the mind,
Drag it down, sink deep, confined.

An ocean of lies above you swells,
No barrier — deception dwells.
Followed by madness, wild and grim,
In nonsense’ grip, the lights grow dim.

Madness too is ocean vast —
Nonsense, madness — shadows cast.
The master knows how lies increase,
His sentence: **** with falsehood’s lease.

Lies will be the weapons made —
Nonsense harsher, sharp as blade,
To hold all lies of fiendish breed,
The devil’s spawn in darkest deed.




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



Endorphin “Heaven”

Vitamins, endorphins —
Runner’s high, a kind of rush,
But hypersensitive, not a beast,
In feelings we’re given much.

It’s tricky — the “crash” returns,
The “withdrawal” after the thrill,
Yet grip of wild neuroses
Starts to weaken, fade, and still.

Those neuroses summon beasts —
If not a neurotic, then a fool.
The tyrants’ power only grows,
Draining strength from the sensitive pool.

But strength can be reclaimed —
Heal your nerves with running’s pace.
At first it’s hard — but once you’re warmed,
You’ll leap like an elk through space!

But don’t overdo — too far, too fast,
Body’s wisdom must engage.
Stay in bliss, embrace the flow —
Endorphin’s “heaven” lights the stage.



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



The Reapers

Pathetic *******,
Reapers of total lies,
Dumb as wooden blocks —
To Darkness they baptize.

Used to bowing down
To any fool’s command,
So here madness lingers —
Shame spreads across the land.

The cuckoo’s still crazier —
Madness grows inside,
More brazen is the falsehood,
A sickness none can hide.



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



In this foul pit, lies will thrive,
Darkness feeds on fear alive.
Everything’s drowned deep in black—
One true way remains: BURN IT BACK!


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



In this cesspit, lies run wild,
Fear and darkness choke the child.
All is lost, the world’s ablaze—
Only one way: BURN THE HAZE!



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



This "world" is nothing — pure disgrace,
Beasts rule tight with fear’s embrace:
Lies, pressure, stench from media’s pit,
Where morals rot and fires spit.

In this state of ******* grime,
We drag the world to waste and time,
And so the ugliness extends,
A reign of filth that never ends.

More filth, more hate, a ceaseless blight —
A hellish void, no end in sight.
This kingdom’s nothing, dark and cold —
A soulless pit where lies take hold.



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



Pitiful minds,
Under lies' harsh crush,
Poisoned books,
Mirages rush.

Those mirages shove—
World’s brazen stink,
More fools each day,
More slaves to drink.

Few are beasts —
Spirits barely count,
It’s vile and sick —
Burn the madhouse out!



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



The Party of Condoms —
Everywhere, all the time.
Fools parade in their columns,
Spreading heresy’s crime.

Often one big cash ***,
Though platforms clash and fight.
The masses blindly believe —
’Cause most are fools outright.



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



Pathetic roads, a foolish plan,
Keep moving—just a little more.
The final stop for any man—
Is Hell itself, its fiery door.



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



Globalization or just greed’s station?
Both are one — a sick fusion.
The whole world reeks of contamination —
Media howls from the bottom’s illusion.



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



Original Sin

They fed us illusions, trapped in lies,
Since childhood blinded, dulled our eyes.
All thoughts of freedom cast aside—
That pure free mind was killed inside.

Yet in the few a spark still gleams—
A mind unchained, untouched by schemes.
But lies like sarin spread their breath—
This only sin, the primal death.



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



The Lie of the Global Zoo

A zoo’s a balm to dead men’s ears —
A “blessed news” that numbs our fears.
Neither cold nor burning heat,
Yet violence and vengeful cheat.

Catastrophes, terror's reign —
All the stench must feed the pain.
For the world’s fascist regime,
Fear’s the crown, the final gleam.

They’ll amplify, then sum it all—
Reason, Spirit, Honor fall.
What remains, they’ll crush and smite,
Beasts’ weapon forged in night.



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


Sheep and Fools, Just Sheep and Fools

Sheep and fools, pure fools and sheep—
Where are humans? Where’s the mind?
But all around is lies so deep,
Rot spreads out, no hope to find.

Seems like humans lie in graves,
Buried ‘neath this world’s decay.



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


Life’s Affair — A Worm at Wake

Life’s affair — a worm at wake,
A funeral for Mind’s last breath.
Come on, Sun, bright flare and break,
Bring death down to all filth and death!

HE DO THAT TED HUGHES IN DIFFERENT VOICES

Nothing but
- a waste land.

Crow is bored

perched upon a branch
like a haiku

waiting to happen
but where

is a haiku
poet when

one really needs one.

Crows agree to play
Charades.

One falls to the forest floor
clutching its chest shouting

"Aghhhhh ya...got me
I'm  a gonner!"

Then another and another
with a more cornier

one-liner than
the one before

looking more like spilled ink
than the last.

Crows having a blast
laughing their feathers off.

All big Film
Noir fans.

"Yeah, yeah...I got it
a ****** of crows!"

Across a hillside
a human stands

as if he had just sprouted
out of the land.

An Easter Island
of a man.

The sneer of cold command
upon those chiselled lips.

An Ozymandias!
"Look upon my mighty words and despair!"

Or more like
a granite gryphon

glaring at the crows' play
turning them over in his mind

until they
become words.

"Oh not that ******
Ted Hughes again!"

Crow mutters
to itself.

The poet unaware
that human thought

hangs frozen on the air
on such days as these.

The giant Hughes man
a poet made of iron

by some process of
emotional osmosis

absorbs their world and words
making it up as he goes along

for he great poet though he be
never learned to speak Crow.

The great man glares
at the sun

willing it into submission
the sun falters on a hillside.

He disappears into the snow
his fragile footprints

vanishing in a trice
lost to time

as if he has
never been born.

Crow does his best
impression

mocks and mimics
the human's thought.

"Nailing Heaven and earth together -

So man cried, but with God's voice.
And God bled, but with man's blood. "

A bell breaks
the sky's silence

crows scatter to
the heavens.

"Oh that Charlie
Crow...he is a one!"

One crow smirks to another.

"He do that Ted Hughes
to a tee!"