AWAKENING

Sleep and slumber, dreams of wonder... weaving,
morning’s vacuum broke the spell
Pitted pillow, note of parting... leaving,
“from your friend, a fond farewell”
Sunrise throbbing, twilight aching... grieving,
daydreams, flashbacks, nightmares knell
Pale phantasms, visions sneaking... thieving,
plot to fill the empty shell

12 DELIRIA

1st Delirium: COLLAPSES

Fractured sky bolts, billows bursting... rumbling,
heavens tighten, turn the vise
Horsemen saddle shafts of lightning... tumbling,
jagged highways must suffice
Ruptured skyways, hailstones crackling... crumbling,
naked pearls of paradise
Toxic tongues of laughter stinging... stumbling,
ocean buckets choked with ice
Droplets drumming, thunder muzzled... mumbling,
washed out whispers pay the price
Smothered blazes, cinders smoking... humbling,
ashes shaped in sacrifice

2nd Delirium: DESCENTS

Asphalt alleys, ashen faces... frowning,
blowing bubbles, chewing gum
Drinking ale from tavern tankards... downing,
moonlit beads of painted ***
Stony stars and sea misshapen... drowning,
humble rivers’ rhythms hum
Apparitions aspirating... clowning,
diamonds dying , minstrels strum
Incandescent candles conquered... crowning,
vacant vapours, cold and numb

3rd Delirium: FATES

Tempest turmoil, tapered turrets... holding,
dungeons, dragons, chains and racks
Wheels of fortune, Tarot temptress... molding,
Hangmen, Towers, One Eyed Jacks
Sand dune castles, cryptic candles... folding,
warping walls of liquid wax
Idols colder, combed and coddled... scolding,
hide in fissures, peek through cracks

4th Delirium: LOST SOULS

Sunken cities, pilgrims peering... gawking,
squinting eyeballs, blazing sun
Janus facing, shepherds chasing... stalking,
friends embrace before they shun
Tearooms steaming, tumult teeming... talking,
lovers listen, poets pun
Broken stones unanchored, quaking... rocking,
slipping, falling, one by one
Beaten pathways, footsteps marking... mocking,
wedged in webs which spiders spun
Circus shelters, big tops tumbling... locking,
people pacing, soon they’re none
Numbered exits, zeros numbing... knocking,
midnight daylight’s days undone
Moon blood shackles, shivers shaming... shocking,
starlight striders streaking, stun
Hushed but harried hermits waiting... walking,
restless rainbows on the run
Pixies, elves, and echoes bouncing... balking,
fading fast when dawn’s begun
Bantum butterflies are flitting... flocking
sometimes conquered, overrun
Hocus pokus, seers focus... squawking,
voodoo wavered, witchcraft won

5th Delirium: INTROSPECTION

Sundown furnace, fires fading... coughing,
dusky dew drops drain the air
Empty chalice, sipped in silence... quaffing,
thirsting shadows unaware
Looking glass and lattice scorning... scoffing,
local loser gapes and stares
Faces covered, dancing naked... doffing,
peering inside, hope despairs

6th Delirium: THE VOID

Tales of taboos, mystic mythos... missing,
windows shuttered, bolted door
Kindled candles, tongues and anvils... hissing,
heavy hammers, echoes roar
Dark deceivers, raven charmers... kissing,
draging demons from the shore
Hopeless hollows filled with doubters... dissing
standing empty - nevermore

7th Delirium: SEARCHING

Martyred monks haunt runic ruins ... waiting,
banging broken bells below
Vaulted hallways, voided voices... grating,
churning Chinese chimes aglow
Granite graveyards, spectres spooking... skating,
blackened bushes, roses grow
****** dwarfs seek mutant migrants... mating,
packing parcels, ice and snow

8th Delirium: NIGHTTIME

Throbbing drumheads, fingers blazing... steaming,
coins of copper, beggars plea
Rusty residues of resin... streaming,
opal amber filigree
Orphan shades in shallow shadows... teeming,
steeping twigs in twilight tea
Cloister doorsteps, Prophets gaming... scheming,
tracing tracks of destiny
Blacksmiths blanching, horseshoes glowing... gleaming,
partially sheathed in black debris
Phantoms feigning, nightmares scathing... screaming,
dusty dreamers drifting free

9th Delerium: EMPTYNESS

Water wheels in wastelands... turning,
drowning relics in the slum
Rumpled rags of fashioned burlap... burning,
lit by bandits blind and dumb
Pastured prisons, ponies bridled ... yearning,
forest fairies under thumb
Sounds inside of cauldrons coughing... churning,
blaring bugles, tattooed drum

10th Delirium: ALIENATION

Rain unravelling, wistfully weeping... falling,
treacle trickling, fickle sky
Mushrooms sprinkled, visions sprouting... sprawling,
seagulls drowning, dolphins die
Rabble gasping, spirits broken... crawling,
lonely lonesome swallows cry
Babbling brooks and breakers ebbing... bawling
puppies paddle, puppets sigh
People passing ripple past me... calling,
rainbow colours, collars high
Chaos seething, lepers looting... stalling,
stealing stallions on the sly
Pencils pausing, scholars scrambling... scrawling,
scratching scribbles, asking why

11th Delirium: JETSAM

Silver sails sway pallid pirates... prowling,
Jolly Rogers, wind and sound
Parrots perching, tattered feathers... fouling,
tethered talons, tied and bound
Shipwrecked foghorns, trumpets stranded... howling,
spiral springs of time unwound
Magic moonlight, shimmers shaking... scowling,
burnt out matchsticks washed aground
Prairie wolfs, coyotes calling... yowling,
witching hours, midnight hounds
Tightrope walkers, grizzlies grunting... growling,
seeking islands, lost and found

12th Delirium: RELIEF

Slumber shattered, vapours captive... haunting,
chained in mirrors, breaking free
Scarlet skylines, daylight dawning... daunting,
rivers rushing to the sea
Silence softens, sandmen whisper... wanting,
piercing rafters, turning keys
Shadows shudder, notions fluster... flaunting,
moonbeam bullets meant for me
Mind in migraine, meadows trembling... taunting,
sparrows speak in harmony

REAWAKENING

Pitter patter, teardrops paling... pearling,
salting scarves in secret drawers
Mist amongst us, smoke rings rising... curling,
climbing from the ocean floors
See-saw circles, senses swerving... swirling,
swept away with silver oars
Courtyard jesters, sceptres twisting... twirling,
push the past to foreign shores
Passing pangs of passions heaving... hurling,
burning bridges, closing doors
Roses wither, icons waning... whirling,
time decays and time restores

Not any character of the jungle,
At the time power was kept by the single
Lion kind, risked jumping into the lions’ jaws,
Against their rapacity raising paws:
The hares and hyenas they could strangle
And devour; in their minds best were their laws
Providing rights of the mighty
As common and full sovereignty.

The era was worsened by men-hunting,
Whose guns were used the wildlife menacing.
The weak of the forest saw that succumbed
The lions, who were the first shot at, welcomed
The hunters and their faces showed, smiling.
They were deceived when the first seen were harmed
Like the lions by the same haughty
Men set against their sovereignty.

Some lions who survived called the animals
For a meeting, and the men-criminals
Were the main topic of their discussion.
The lions warned, “Will wipe us away those men
If can’t stand together as animals,
Fight them and save lion, hypo, hare and wren…”
Mocked and heckled the assembly
That ne’er had enjoyed sovereignty.

Each one’s motion was that there was no need
Of obeying on the lions, who to feed
Their cubs with their flesh used to take pleasure.
They thought their forest had become seizure
Of the men for lack of unity; freed
It’d be with or ‘thout a lion as major:
They’d trust who would bring unity
And help them enjoy sovereignty.

There came a time and there came protectors
Of the animals to stop the hunters
From destroying on the environment.
They showed in killing there’s no contentment.
So the hunters ceased to be predators,
And the fauna had no more sentiment
Of hating the humanity
That brought them peace and sovereignty.

Some of them were kept in zoo
And the kingship of the lions they did boo.
Cows, rabbits, goats - were domesticated,
And more than ever they were protected.
Such treatment them gave of humans new view:
The protectors or authors of the deed
Looked like who’d brought brutality,
But in their hearts reigned sovereignty.

Later on the lions found that in the strong
Claws dwelt no good power, but can be for long
Which is applied to all comfort giving,
That a king marching in front of trembling
Souls, as if to hell angels would belong,
One day will see his strength brought to nothing,
But where freedom ain’t scarcity
Kings and subjects share sovereignty.

What the beasts failed to know was the keepers
Of the zoo were children of the poachers,
Who’d found unfair deed what their fathers did,
To take good care of them had decided
And did not want to be called game-seekers’
Generation. In the action could read
Great kindness and humanity
The beasts savoring sovereignty.

A former foe may become a good friend,
Who breaks off with the past and turns his hand
Into protector, support provider –
Like Human Rights Activists. No wonder
Where they are from, people’s torn hearts they mend.
A protector has ne’er been intruder
As long as for tranquility
He works and preserves sovereignty.

A sovereign nation is not like a house
With its closed doors, and inside, like a mouse,
A wife is beaten and loses her life
Without neighbours’ intervention as if
Not hearkening the victim, and the louse
Of man not stopping is to save the life.
Is a land where people’s safety
Is denied full of sovereignty?

If at The Hague someone is indicted,
It means not people he has protected,
Nor that he has well governed Liberia,
But ‘cause people’s hearts he has filled with fear
And a lot of trouble he’s invited.
After shedding blood there and here,
The lions who’ve made their claws *****
Should be there washed for sovereignty.

Wherever the lions rage it’s no matter:
Matters the will to keep the world better.
Some Devil’s advocates would call nations
Not in Syria to find indications
Of crimes as if is found a wife-beater
At Holy Land or brothels it opens.
In a place where reigns sanctity
Won’t dwell breakers of sovereignty.


A rot of conception of sovereignty
Reeks when gangrene holds sway o’er a country,
In which Democracy swings at cannons;
Debates are feared that aim ruling with brains;
Wear noose as necklace who would change carry,
And the song “Independence” is hangmen’s.
Where lions and lambs live with loyalty,
There is unshaken sovereignty.

I thought I saw an execution there.
The fascinated public gathered round.
The cheerful hangmen stripped the victim bare
And built their gibbet high above the ground.
The rope was taut, my wildness filled with fear.
I saw him fall.  I heard his final cry.
Yet when the hangmen left I ventured near
To find my fault: I'd never seen him die.
In fact, I think he'd died some years ago.
There's blackness of decay in every breath.
The sound of flies was all that's left to grow,
Now free to come and feast upon his death;
Prince of the trees, I have a simple plea:
I will not die till death has come to me.

A storm is brewing in my head—
my passion overflows—
the moment ceased and promptly fled
as fast as lightning glows.

The screaming thunder of my lust—
cries echo down the halls—
the resonance of dying trust
bids **** me with its calls.

My heart is not the blackest, nay!
Nor is it purest white—
nor does it shine the light of day,
nor spread the dark of night.

So why, then, should I pay the price?
I show no ill extreme—
my burning soul shan't tempt the ice
to trickle to the stream;

it shall not turn the tender heat
to cold and bitter rain;
it shall not cause the rye and wheat
to purge their precious grain;

it shall not cause intrepid tides
to cease their ebb and flow;
the forceful wind on which leaves ride
shall not desist its blow;

it shan't evoke the folk and lore
to terminate their rhyme;
but most of all, I do endure,
my sin shall not stop time.

Your lives will surely ramble on,
your tasks shall see their end;
your will for life shall not be gone
if Death, for you, shan't send;

you all will not hear angels' chants
nor hear the howl of ghouls;
nor will you watch the demons dance
'round hordes of fearless fools;

but I, my friends, if be my fate,
die at the hands of man—
yet no such angels, on this date,
had record of this plan.

I've not received a word from Death—
from God, heard no decree—
but on this day, I lose my breath;
my life be took from me.

Today, I find my body numb,
still fleeting from my soul—
my eyes are blind, my tongue is dumb
upon this gallows pole.

And if I rise to Heaven high
or find my course to Hell—
or do remain under this sky
locked in an earthly cell—

I surely shall not be perturbed;
my resolve will not disrate:
I will not waver to disturb
you who sent me to my fate.

I **** the mood in a sour June,
opulent misery, scorched Earth,
exchanging platitudes with old faces,
full of *******; full of hot air.
Both sides of the fence
at war with themselves,
feigning inner peace and profit
across the beer garden table.

I talk of hangmen and floods,
child brides and dressing gowns,
my hometown under the mythic spell
of collective memory loss.
We have forgotten our place
in the comfort of our urban sprawl;
sirens caterwaul past the high-rise,
past the vacant church with locked doors
and the homeless on the street.

A commonplace emergency,
young male suicides, women *****
in the safety of their homes,
taught a kindness through physical force,
the way the gun drops to civilians
in countries saved through the filter
of television screens; of dust and distance.
I sit and write and think of ****,
of old loves, anxieties-
they call me crazy all the while
for not committing to the scene.

Now Afghanistan is a blueprint,
extended diagram of steady-state destruction,
a conspiracy of white man dreams,
farmlands bruised by machines of war,
by the ******* Boot,
the feeling we have been here before.
All the while, the illusion persists,
car parks filled with smoke, professional escapists
with their 9% lager, bags of tobacco,
and the megalomania of art.

I **** the mood of a whitewashed June,
advertised freedom, a mortgaged Earth,
exchanging currency for a chance of peace,
the zen garden smoker, the looted mind.
Both sides of the fence are collecting bones,
at war with themselves, whilst my eyes are red
and my philosophies, ******.
They call me crazy for dreaming of escape,
whilst never leaving the confines of home.

The warden’s bewildered, the keeper’s amazed
as the gate gapes behind us, a hole in the haze.
Our steps seem uncertain, the cobblestones crazed,
pearly stars burn above us like pinwheels ablaze.
Though lanterns hang vacant in streets staring blind,
broken paths paved in puzzles compel me to roam,
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The cannons keep calling, the piccolos shriek
and the druids drift, drumming, while pale pagans speak.
They’re urging me forward, my senses they’ve mined,
and the trail is erupting, come hie to the hills
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The looking glass glistens, a firefly glows,
and the brownies leap lightly on tiny tip toes
for the twilight’s collapsing, which serves to remind
that as dusk turns to dust, with no time for farewells,
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The ponies of plunder prance, passing nearby,
as crusaders on stallions cast stones from the sky.
The figments they’re facing have paid them no mind,
but our broncos are bolting. Corral what you need,
                                        I’ll not leave you behind.

My visions are swirling, they flash from the crown,
from the rainbows of summer, the tinsel in town.
While the compass wheel’s spinning, the minutes unwind
inside evening’s auroras – so cling to my cape,  
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

Drooping droplets of wax adorn pinched candle wicks
while the vampire steeple’s cathedral clock ticks
of the terrors in tombs where ****** flames lie reclined
with their flickers fast fading – abandon the glim,
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The orphans and widows lean into the breeze
watching horrified hangmen descend to their knees
for the angel of mercy’s no longer inclined
to forgive vengeful  phantoms (oh Furies of night!) ,
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The bandits are brazen, the highwaymen lurk,
some imbibing dark brews of a hag’s handiwork,
mostly gulping from goblets like goblins maligned.
Woman! Widen your wings, catching wisps of the wind
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The lepers laugh, leaping from tombstones of steel
chasing rollaway caskets on luminous wheels;
while their shadows shake, shrouded, twixt trees intertwined,
twisted time melts at midnight, take hold of my hand,
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The gremlins *****, grinning face down in the dust,
while the sprites and the pixies are watching nonplussed.
They sling bolted arrows at spectres enshrined
within winds somewhat flustered, just fly from your fears
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The tattered toy teddies and raggedy Anns
have escaped to the skyways in kid caravans
but now, spellbound by fancies, know not that they’ll find
their parade’s evanesced into echoes of dawn –
                                       I’ll not leave you behind.

The wind’s my enchantress, beguiles and commands
me to search for my fortune in faraway lands
and whispers her mysteries of passions entwined,
for the wind is Isolde – unfurling my sails
                                        I’ll not leave you behind.

The Last Poem of Rizal

Farewell, my adored Land, region of the sun caressed,
Pearl of the Orient Sea, our Eden lost,
With gladness I give you my Life, sad and repressed;
And were it more brilliant, more fresh and at its best,
I would still give it to you for your welfare at most.

On the fields of battle, in the fury of fight,
Others give you their lives without pain or hesitancy,
The place does not matter: cypress laurel, lily white,
Scaffold, open field, conflict or martyrdom's site,
It is the same if asked by home and Country.

I die as I see tints on the sky b'gin to show
And at last announce the day, after a gloomy night;
If you need a hue to dye your matutinal glow,
Pour my blood and at the right moment spread it so,
And gild it with a reflection of your nascent light!

My dreams, when scarcely a lad adolescent,
My dreams when already a youth, full of vigor to attain,
Were to see you, gem of the sea of the Orient,
Your dark eyes dry, smooth brow held to a high plane
Without frown, without wrinkles and of shame without stain.

My life's fancy, my ardent, passionate desire,
Hail! Cries out the soul to you, that will soon part from thee;
Hail! How sweet 'tis to fall that fullness you may acquire;
To die to give you life, 'neath your skies to expire,
And in your mystic land to sleep through eternity!

If over my tomb some day, you would see blow,
A simple humble flow'r amidst thick grasses,
Bring it up to your lips and kiss my soul so,
And under the cold tomb, I may feel on my brow,
Warmth of your breath, a whiff of your tenderness.

Let the moon with soft, gentle light me descry,
Let the dawn send forth its fleeting, brilliant light,
In murmurs grave allow the wind to sigh,
And should a bird descend on my cross and alight,
Let the bird intone a song of peace o'er my site.

Let the burning sun the raindrops vaporize
And with my clamor behind return pure to the sky;
Let a friend shed tears over my early demise;
And on quiet afternoons when one prays for me on high,
Pray too, oh, my Motherland, that in God may rest I.

Pray thee for all the hapless who have died,
For all those who unequalled torments have undergone;
For our poor mothers who in bitterness have cried;
For orphans, widows and captives to tortures were shied,
And pray too that you may see your own redemption.

And when the dark night wraps the cemet'ry
And only the dead to vigil there are left alone,
Don't disturb their repose, don't disturb the mystery:
If you hear the sounds of cittern or psaltery,
It is I, dear Country, who, a song t'you intone.

And when my grave by all is no more remembered,
With neither cross nor stone to mark its place,
Let it be plowed by man, with ***** let it be scattered
And my ashes ere to nothingness are restored,
Let them turn to dust to cover your earthly space.

Then it doesn't matter that you should forget me:
Your atmosphere, your skies, your vales I'll sweep;
Vibrant and clear note to your ears I shall be:
Aroma, light, hues, murmur, song, moanings deep,
Constantly repeating the essence of the faith I keep.

My idolized Country, for whom I most gravely pine,
Dear Philippines, to my last goodbye, oh, harken
There I leave all: my parents, loves of mine,
I'll go where there are no slaves, tyrants or hangmen
Where faith does not **** and where God alone does reign.

Farewell, parents, brothers, beloved by me,
Friends of my childhood, in the home distressed;
Give thanks that now I rest from the wearisome day;
Farewell, sweet stranger, my friend, who brightened my way;
Farewell, to all I love. To die is to rest.

[possibly offensive?] [possibly a rant?]

a classmate i barely knew
can't even recall her name
she asked, the simplest thing:
was i okay?

others said, well,
don't give him the attention
he'll only cut more

well, i' m over that, but,
from time to time
i see the same idiocy
emerging

what a rotten world
self-righteous world
were harm is all but mended
were weakness is offending

cannibals deny the right
to self-destruction
they moralize
and legalize
their own desensitization

just do not mark the skin that shows
just smile and wave and cry alone
just rot inside but do not die
we don't have time

i wish i could say:
if i was suicidal, i' d  like to make sure
society got what it deserved

i' d cut my wrists and paint my school
i' d scream "you ****ts did wrong me greatly!"
i' d let them know inhumanity has a cost
i' d let them know, let their kids know,
let the news show what selfishness is

I think that would be educative!

if it could be arranged
i' d have my body torn post-mortem
cut in little pieces, thrown all around
with little notes of hate
i' d even mail some!
(well, not me personally)

and it should cost time and money
and scar some kids
and make mothers cry
and be a gift of bitter empathy
as slap to the face
a kick to the nuts
since happiness and life
don't weigh that much these days
not more than bibles or grades and such

and that is selfish,
not the emo kids, not the shy ones,
not the harmless ones you bully
I would be selfish
I think that would be righteous

and that's because
i cannot stand these words:
"suicide is selfish!"
"real problems!"
"simply stupid!"
"attention ******!"

Kind pity chokes my spleen; brave scorn forbids
     Those tears to issue which swell my eyelids;
     I must not laugh, nor weep sins and be wise;
     Can railing, then, cure these worn maladies?
     Is not our mistress, fair Religion,
     As worthy of all our souls' devotion
     As virtue was in the first blinded age?
     Are not heaven's joys as valiant to assuage
     Lusts, as earth's honour was to them? Alas,
   As we do them in means, shall they surpass
   Us in the end? and shall thy father's spirit
   Meet blind philosophers in heaven, whose merit
   Of strict life may be imputed faith, and hear
   Thee, whom he taught so easy ways and near
   To follow, ****'d? Oh, if thou dar'st, fear this;
   This fear great courage and high valour is.
   Dar'st thou aid mutinous Dutch, and dar'st thou lay
   Thee in ships' wooden sepulchres, a prey
   To leaders' rage, to storms, to shot, to dearth?
   Dar'st thou dive seas, and dungeons of the earth?
   Hast thou courageous fire to thaw the ice
   Of frozen North discoveries? and thrice
   Colder than salamanders, like divine
   Children in th' oven, fires of Spain and the Line,
   Whose countries limbecs to our bodies be,
   Canst thou for gain bear? and must every he
   Which cries not, "Goddess," to thy mistress, draw
   Or eat thy poisonous words? Courage of straw!
   O desperate coward, wilt thou seem bold, and
   To thy foes and his, who made thee to stand
   Sentinel in his world's garrison, thus yield,
   And for forbidden wars leave th' appointed field?
   Know thy foes: the foul devil, whom thou
   Strivest to please, for hate, not love, would allow
   Thee fain his whole realm to be quit; and as
   The world's all parts wither away and pass,
   So the world's self, thy other lov'd foe, is
   In her decrepit wane, and thou loving this,
   Dost love a wither'd and worn strumpet; last,
   Flesh (itself's death) and joys which flesh can taste,
   Thou lovest, and thy fair goodly soul, which doth
   Give this flesh power to taste joy, thou dost loathe.
   Seek true religion. O where? Mirreus,
   Thinking her unhous'd here, and fled from us,
   Seeks her at Rome; there, because he doth know
   That she was there a thousand years ago,
   He loves her rags so, as we here obey
   The statecloth where the prince sate yesterday.
   Crantz to such brave loves will not be enthrall'd,
   But loves her only, who at Geneva is call'd
   Religion, plain, simple, sullen, young,
   Contemptuous, yet unhandsome; as among
   Lecherous humours, there is one that judges
   No wenches wholesome, but coarse country drudges.
   Graius stays still at home here, and because
   Some preachers, vile ambitious bawds, and laws,
   Still new like fashions, bid him think that she
   Which dwells with us is only perfect, he
   Embraceth her whom his godfathers will
     Tender to him, being tender, as wards still
   Take such wives as their guardians offer, or
   Pay values. Careless Phrygius doth abhor
   All, because all cannot be good, as one
   Knowing some women ******, dares marry none.
   Graccus loves all as one, and thinks that so
   As women do in divers countries go
   In divers habits, yet are still one kind,
   So doth, so is Religion; and this blind-
   ness too much light breeds; but unmoved, thou
   Of force must one, and forc'd, but one allow,
   And the right; ask thy father which is she,
   Let him ask his; though truth and falsehood be
   Near twins, yet truth a little elder is;
   Be busy to seek her; believe me this,
   He's not of none, nor worst, that seeks the best.
   To adore, or scorn an image, or protest,
   May all be bad; doubt wisely; in strange way
   To stand inquiring right, is not to stray;
   To sleep, or run wrong, is. On a huge hill,
   Cragged and steep, Truth stands, and he that will
   Reach her, about must and about must go,
   And what the hill's suddenness resists, win so.
   Yet strive so that before age, death's twilight,
   Thy soul rest, for none can work in that night.
   To will implies delay, therefore now do;
   Hard deeds, the body's pains; hard knowledge too
   The mind's endeavours reach, and mysteries
   Are like the sun, dazzling, yet plain to all eyes.
   Keep the truth which thou hast found; men do not stand
   In so ill case, that God hath with his hand
   Sign'd kings' blank charters to **** whom they hate;
   Nor are they vicars, but hangmen to fate.
   Fool and wretch, wilt thou let thy soul be tied
   To man's laws, by which she shall not be tried
   At the last day? Oh, will it then boot thee
   To say a Philip, or a Gregory,
   A Harry, or a Martin, taught thee this?
   Is not this excuse for mere contraries
   Equally strong? Cannot both sides say so?
That thou mayest rightly obey power, her bounds know;
Those past, her nature and name is chang'd; to be
Then humble to her is idolatry.
As streams are, power is; those blest flowers that dwell
At the rough stream's calm head, thrive and do well,
But having left their roots, and themselves given
To the stream's tyrannous rage, alas, are driven
Through mills, and rocks, and woods, and at last, almost
Consum'd in going, in the sea are lost.
So perish souls, which more choose men's unjust
Power from God claim'd, than God himself to trust.

THE POET’S PANEGYRIC

“There’s someone I knew with talent unleashed
and a heart that had for so many relentlessly reached
This poet sought inspiration from the living and the dead
But I can tell you this about the poet who has moved me by what this poet had ever said
I read the words from a comfort zone
which this poet created, surrounded by friends or by foes or simply alone”
His essence of soul sweeps down deserted dead streets
where the thunder still crackles, the burial bell bleats
He laughed at himself as a Royal Rhymester Clown
but bore the black pains of those all around,
He echoed regrets but never a grudge
... of this I’ll say little... let his lines be the judge

THE POET’S PEN

Blind shots cry out beneath the night,
a car is cruising by.
A stripling’s blood streams words to write
... Wry rhymes to ask us why

A silly girl with child, *****...
to many, but a ****.
The baby at her breast is dead
... Cruel couplets meant to cut

A drifter, broken, cast aside,
lies lifeless in the cold.
Tap tattoos on a tattered hide
... Some scarlet stanzas scold

Two lovers clutch a turtledove,
enraptured by her coo,
impaled on pangs of Ladylove
... A sultry song for two

A drone of drums in distant wars
beguiling bold dragoons
who sell their souls like wanton ******
... Raw rhythms writ in runes

The stars ablaze, like tiger-eyes
reflecting candlelight,
’lume angels singing Lullabies
... A sonnet stuns the night

The soulless eyes of shackled slaves
drip tears that burn and blur.
Their ash, like dust, set free in graves
... Emblazing ballads stir

A hurricane, foretold, unfurled,
unravels mystic signs
as Demons dance, destroy the World
... Limned lurid lyric lines

Some die a death neath hangmen’s hands
where tainted justice reigns
for ‘thou shalt ****’, Revenge commands
... A quiet quatrain pains

While well-to-dos amass and flaunt
And follow fashion’s trends,
pale children starve and die of want
... And so an epic ends

THE POET’S EPITAPH**

His words lie strewn along the sand
While breakers wash ashore
The ripples weave designs unplanned
... a verse forevermore

His tales, entwined in cryptic airs
where freedom seeds are blown,
warn Guarders of the Realm ‘beware’
... his heresy is sown

His life outlined a chronicle
along a lonesome road
It started out as doggerel
... and ended as an ode

commentary of a bunch of photographs uploaded showing the dilemma of the A's in paper size... exhibits a - f show a lesson, well, you remember that old depiction of the idiot of the class, standing on a stool at the front of the class with a heretic's coned hat? well, they revised the hat, now it's a once green eyeshade clerk's hat via interpretation of a cricket cap.

it's quiet easy, words fill never justify the images,
the dunce was just saying: you could make one
toothpick from a Sunday newspaper's double spread,
that's what got him canonised perched on a stool,
no one exacted how many anyway,
like they never teach your the chemical formula for
wood, if what has a H too two Ohs, then wood must
must have something in the strand of including
carbon, a cabaret of elements with carbon the prompter
poking his prickly head once in a while due to
acting tremors and cold sweats of sudden amnesia...
the point being, to further the first point about
the size of newspapers on Sundays and whether there's
such a thing as A0, or an architectural sized paper,
i guess architectural spreads are like breast sizes...
imagine looking at schematics of 30F through 32E
and onto 30D past 38DD... you never see the sagging
in these diagrams, because they're abstracts of
the two hangmen... you see, the bra... did anyone tell
Freud that Anti-Oedipus as proposed by the two French
philosophers mixing up Nietzsche and Marx with
Freud on the side anticipated this Anti? it's the bane
of my existence, English black humour mixed with
giggles at words like: bottom, ****, ****... i don't know
how you can get seriously randy afterwards...
it's atypical English humour, *** jokes... the notion
that Oedipus can't laugh at *** underpins the very
basis of the unconscious, i.e.: that something sinister
is lurking in the depths and reaches back into childhood
and it's subsequent destruction. the opposite of
the theory proposed by Freud (as evolved from the already
mentioned *Gilles Deleuze) is at the same time frightening,
because it almost presupposes Oedipus' father
in the version of Saturn, best exemplified by
Saturn devouring his Son painted by Francisco Goya...
and the basis of this eventuality due to the woman's
madonna-***** complex: mini-skirt ***** lollipop
but a saintly mother beneath... jooke.
**** it, i deviated from the topic of periscopes but more
importantly of the size of sensible paper, A0 being
the spread of a Sunday Times... architectural scores
must therefore begin with B5...after architecture come
advertisements probably beginning at around
B3 or B2... football stadiums are filled with these passive
sheets of material, and that's talking way down the
alphabet of categorising size... you know, when they
pull down those massive club insignias.
in the end all i can do with a A4 paper is cut a kippah
or make a momentary mask... but with the
sunday spread of newspaper... i can momentarily
turn into a newspaper ghoul, or if you prefer:
a newspaper ghost!

I don't remember why I asked you here
But I am humble for the words in the clear
Clumsy puzzles perched on pardoned lips
Would leave us actors for forgotten scripts

Now crawling rocks carry your wary feet
Enwintered bardsmen for a blooming beat
The road is tumbling by you, darling mine
An untamed crumb-trail for a starving mind

We'll bury us in meaning and we'll forget to breathe
Unearth the flowers for our treasured weeds
We'll look for answers that all others defy
Anxious hangmen for a quick goodbye

But when your footstep finally breaks the night
It finds me wondrous for the failing fire light
Unfurl the feathers 'neath this flat disguise
Or leave me drowning for your cautious honeyed eyes

I don't remember when I saw you there
But I am humble for the words in the clear air

The men line up
Up against my brain
Too big for its skull
They bleed out my eyes
And eyelashes become their noose.
But you don't ever get in line.
So you won't be finished off.
Done, you sewed up creature,
Will you keep this name?

Go ahead
Finish me off with your broken
Neck intentions
I see how your eyes flutter and shut
Like a hospital bed curtain
I see the hangmen
Dangling from your
Eyelashes

Slowly fire red
blood dries to a maroon
and, there, a raccoon
mocks your crawling carcass

Ha ha you know the rhyme then
Again and again
I'm looking for someone who can understand
Awkward crisscrossing needle and thread
Your hands are stained red with my blood
Now you are gone
Your absence leaving
Bleeding bullet holes
That anyone can walk
By and put their fingers in
I love the quick high
The exasperated rush but
I wish now you did not leave
Such a perfect exit wound

Needle and thread shaking
But Why? Haven't I done this before?
A thousand times
Change his name.
Sew him up.
Scared every time.

*You changed your name
A thousand times since last we met
I am cold and tired my wounds deep
I love you no-name
Sew me up

given the balthazar incident, to end the babylonian party
along with cuneiform, and prior to that the extinction
of ancient egyptian, both could have continued,
none the more "ridiculous," i.e. complex than chinese,
and given so much heat came against the hebrews
for their supposed christ killing badge of honour
(there is a modern equivalent, he's called dynamo,
he's a magician... the three magi... where's the wise
bit?), i greatly surprised that the latin alphabet survived
and was not fated for extinction through divine intervention
of some sort.*

perhaps rome was a wreck, tooth marble crumbles
and spicy tatters itchy with lice,
but the itch took a **** girl's cat's eyes
innuendo filled with distance and neglect
apart from neglige ushering in fancy and fantasy
but not the: oh, i forgot you were there.
but then ezra's french is there, and i bitchslap back:
perhaps the ordinances of rome were lost,
the gladiator's podium replaced by a bulge of rugby tackles
and necks with bigger circumference
than a model's lettuce and m & ms diet waistline -
but i have you know rome is alive & kicking the trashcan,
god spared it, took to accenting the original borderline
locals with the french, being the most annoyingly
spelled - no distinct units i have to know -
no distinct phonetic units i have you know -
keep the peasants buttered too eager to slap
ivory into lard to gee up with glee the anti-ageing cream,
i'd kept the power in the tongue,
but that power origination is long long gone,
everyone's a mythical typo mischief with such words
from the plum tree dropped as:
tout ça en arrière -
that c that's an s, that edible cutthroat loose eh dropping the -re,
when it's not a stressor in the mud of an electric current shot
through to the marrow for death's cackle i'm
saying a few words over and over, again:
perhaps rome is in ruins, but at least it's tattooing ink
did not switch to runes. rome's in ruins but not in runes,
too many matchstick men in counting with a longbow man's
free hand churn to throw the dice and arrows into
the french infantry: five's a quarter
and an icicle of index and middle; up yours!
well some say, poetry: white man's rap. i say that too,
although i'd rather think it through with rubrics of a rhombus
turning the beatnic conception of a suede savvy square:
to be a chirpy bunny cool in the city of hangmen walking
to fresh knot toe ties on the flea market of bargaining pensions
for offshore interest in champagne and ****** by the crate.
so tell me if rome was given a bogus backup
had the babylonians kept their cuneiform and the egyptians
their rosetta twins with jackal and hyena and osiris audible in silence
for the eyes - but because the norsemen came with runes,
the great intervention came, provençal -
hence the holocaust culmination from the rune men,
down in shackles we heard the idiots' marriage to the old ways,
to revive the runes and loons and bugs bunny,
but the power rift never took shape - came the divine intervention
to strain accents into perfect, and distinct,
came the "wrath" to salvage the beauties of the ancient past,
just because you couldn't hebrew a program into software
like you could write in mandarin the moment the lightbulb went out
with more than one image: buzzpoptst with our spectacles -
wet drum slick i say, mosquito in a balloon.

I remember all things good and bad you left before shivering cold in a cell like all lost children beaten down by this life. This life that brought you joy and sleep, a sleep you have become petrified of and never can  rest here.  A smile that burns like gasoline into the minds of all men or women with a watchful eye. The laugh you hear in a bar and remember years later. This life brought you horrible crimes that you may, or may not have committed. Standing in front of humanity with one eye shut and the other pointed away, away from all that disgust in society as you were shown. Not all things bad, in fact many things here are good, you know that. The ever frothing lips of the hangmen, he to shall hang in the stomachs of all mankind and all love. The coming of night that brings hopeful chances of bar beauties or highs. One night the three of us were fortunate enough to each **** the night with some women we had found in Hampton. Trains pass by everyday with imaginative faces propped up against the windows, imitating their longing to have unique minds and ideas. You pass by on trains with out a glance, you can not **** a dead man, you never noticed the excitement from your ideas.

         Now I see oceans of faces screaming in decay, they're screaming the songs of victory, victory over this life. The rhythm of ten thousand slaves walking in harmony to the grave with no sympathy. Well past midnight hours you wait for heavenly Valerie to walk past your door and weep, and wearing nothing but her love for you around her neck shouting for you to come, shouting your name. Long before this you lay face down boiling saliva out from around your lips onto the carpet, dying for the chance to return to a  warm afternoon in march or may. You were revived and back home soon after. The cancer in all our eyes, the pain we all felt must stay a burden, never relief from this calamity. Ah yes success and pleasure were not for you then.
    
         I sat writing stories to no avail, never starting with a plot only developing one later. This was how life was written. No reason to expect anything else here, boredom brings excitement then to catastrophe. You held me through most, continuing your amphetamines I only wait for your thundering red heart to give up, give in. Then there will be many nights spent sobbing with regret, explanations to your mother and family and lovers long past. The idea that youth dies before the body should never be, should never be mourning for your ignorance, I spent most of this night writing, not so much of you but to you. I spent all of my money gambling and smoked most of my cigarettes. I went to the door and took in a breath of fresh air, I went to my bed and laid uncomfortable unable to sleep or dream of years before when I slept easy.

                  A pain through your aching legs went forth into the ground. Not all is bad and the continuance of random women in your bed, powders dissolved into your blood, smoke drawn down into your lungs, gas pedals pushed to the floor, alcohol soaking your liver, and memories of a lonely sidewalk in Florida will keep you in this life as a hero of my words.

    Part 2


A compass you laid in my hand, to help me home, always concerned with your friends. I see you now, drinking water from streams in wilderness untouched but by you to survive. Whiskey dried up around the curve of your chin, ***** to ease the days and nights of this life. You have survived 5 stepfathers and one father, a family even you can no longer come to terms with. No heavenly Jenny to tend to your wounds anymore. Fatigued and weary you lay on my doorstep, no sleep with out angelic drink to bring you back down. The clouds above your head never really rain or bring forth storm, not in my stories. The stench of your body as you sleep on the floor laid out like blankets by a mother to her child. A small cut on your wrist filed with ink, a reminder of long past agony that always returns before you can escape it. The sweetness you have left between many a girls thighs, the pain you carry alone, I know, I know.
              
               You thumbed to southern states to make a new home, what home have you made that keeps you in comfort and ease? This goes deeper than alcohol that your liver is always at war with. More so than your mouth that has betrayed your mind and spit out  words you can never take back so you say them again and again. White linen, clean sheets and a clean shave, perfumes and colognes, what are these things? The answer is in your fingers, you have overcome a typical drunk or ***, you may drink all day, you may never find a home but you can not and will not be these things. You are your home, its in the depths of your stomach. West called you but you never came, you never followed a single thing, you went alone and not scared of the fate we all will suffer, not concerned with the poisons or lie or the war in which we all fight just on a simple walk to the store, or to buy a pack of cigarettes. Victorious, lay on my floor! Sleep on my steps! **** for your dinner and lay your seed in her! The most immortal sin you could create would be to leave us with out some kin to look after when you go on that long walk you never come back from. The heights by which we stand while standing next to you, the current we fight swimming through rivers, this all goes back to you! I take my jacket off and put a shot of makers to my mouth, my throat warms and my legs weaken, This life, this pain, this woman, this death, it all grows distant now. You stand while roots of it grow around your feet clinging to your legs to climb closer to your chest and forever take you into its grasp. Just burning any feeling, any memory away, you just keep creating memories for the world who may never take notice of its children like you who make laughter from tears and adventure from stale nights.

          Benjamin, let fall your impression on this sand, let yourself become ash to soon, let not us down but going and going to the end of all this minced horrific times, let not night keep a shadow on your face, let not the world forget these things you did.


Part 3.

You miss your mother! The picture waits right next to your bed. The fire you started with nothing but a bottle of cough syrup and a few dollars is burning my mind and hands till they all blister and come back as a scar that feels ******* to the touch. Driving 94 miles an hour from New Jersey  on interstate 95 over heaves and cracks till they broke the suspension, no care must get home must get home to safe bed with espestis floor and many cigarette burns on the sheets. The shower is running, the heat is barely working. This is no poverty or lack of responsibility its just home. Paint my picture a thousand times and hand it to me from your window with a pipe , its getting warmer the longer we speak. Why not, why not anymore road in America or late night convenience store hang out to pick up women and fresh air. Lay down your guard, leave your problems in that bed and come run through the wicker with us.

Masquerade

Hollow eyes in haunted faces
Concealed by lead and lace,
Pale as the pearls
They loop around their necks,
Beautiful nooses the hangmen wait eagerly to tighten.

We suffer under the grip
Of corsets pulled to tight to breathe
Pain with every breath we draw,
But force the smile, nod the head,
There’s never anything wrong here.

Blood drops fall from the hairline,
Running into eyes, behind sharp edged masks.
Masks changed too often, too fast, too soon
A different mask for every partner
Keep them strait, the order cannot be compromised.

Pirouette, spin, bow, change
Till you stumble, grab the wrong mask, take the wrong hand
The claws are unsheathed,
Shred the brocade, lace and silk
Cast you tattered from the light,
All a blur, chaos, till you stop, in the dark
Your only companion a remnant of your soul
Which lies bleeding at your feet.

I know a girl with bright blue eyes
I fear that I may soon despise
For every time I start to hope
I come out feeling like a dope

Every word's a bit of rope
And each encounter is a *****
But I cannot climb out the trough
Instead I find myself aloft

Hanging from the rope I tied
With my sentiments denied
But I never meet the end
For the hangmen is that friend

The girl who ties and then unties
The rope that hangs me from the skies
Each time I hope that things will change
But instead things rearrange

Slightly different than before
A variation on the score
But the music ends the same
Because it is the same ole game

But I cannot quit the field
Nor will I bend knee and yield
Instead I'll stand my ground  and say
You cannot stop love...only delay

Bifurcated, broken thing,
longing to belong again,
hangs with hangmen from a string
along a wall of wallowing.

Speak of pain, he speaks no more
but rasps his voice against the door.
Save me, sir, what is in-store?
Salesmen smile and take the floor.

Cauterized with spit 'til dry
lies the spider with the fly.
Of one, blood made two one-alike.
Awry, awry, what's left is right.

Lonesome at last what alone begins,
ten hundred is but ten handfuls of ten.
The hunted, hungered will soon bends
as all are lost as all will end.

The time is running out real fast for me
I’m on death row and there’s no mercy
I was on the run they hounded me out
Found me guilty without a trace of doubt.
I’ve been living since in a six by eight cell
Counting my time for the journey to the hell
Confined alone a caged beast than human
Not allowed to meet and talk to loved ones.
‘Let the end come early’ that’s what I pray
But hangmen are scarce the reason for delay
Before me a queue of men waiting for the rope
Their mercy pleas rejected and so without a hope.
They can’t find a hangman, it’s what they say
Nobody is willing to **** for just a little pay
But that’s what I did, I killed for little gain
So I can be a hangman, if I’m ever born again.

razors in their hands
           hangmen wanted to cut to bits our tongues
           before our hearts

           in the mid of the fires
           while, hitting our logic to insanity chain
           we guarded a red rose in our hearts

slave men
many of them -even- unknowing how they are
deceived by the lies
shared the pogrom
gravitated to Madımak Hotel on 1993
thoughts were in the spider's web
beards are white, hearts are black
feet ran for killing
and burned the flowers' blossoms
with their seeds
which are the future of their children

reverend mullahs!?
now, how the soup tastes at your tables?

after two, they were thirty five comrades
who drained life
from their souls

they were
who had pure love
in their thoughts

now, they will be the guests of our souls
till the eternity
they were proud, revolutionist and compassionate
and they are at the comrades bitter consolation
resting in our hearts
moon lights shining on their faces

that’s why
every second of July
songs are more sorrowful
consciousnesses are more rebellious!

my grudge sharpened -like a knife- day by day
aaaah aah ah!
at the yearn of the friendly smell
at the resistance, not to forget
my feelings
my feelings, remained orphan

Turgay Usanmaz

When I grow up, I wanna be a heretic
Save some rope for me, all you hangmen, all you executioners, all you arbiters of holy justice,
Grab your axe and cut down this forest,
Use the wood to build the biggest pyre the world has ever seen,
Chains around my wrists and my feet,
A crown of thorns staining my golden hair red,
And that blood is the last vestige of my humanity, running down my chin and dripping onto the grass
It is the last thing I taste before you light me up,
The fire opens my skin like a present it's been eagerly awaiting all year,
Takes its fill of my blood and ***** what's left from my bones, and seeps into what remains
In that moment I become one with my destroyer,
I become that which scorches earth and blackens sky,
I am the inferno that swallows empires,
I am Rome 64, Chicago 1871, London 1666,
I am the prophesied beast,
The end of days,
I am apocalypse and I come for you and yours,
I am the anti-life, and I will leave your cities in ashes and your fields barren
I grow a hundred feet tall then, screaming up into the night like Hell come calling,
You will watch me wither to nothing this way,
You will sweep what is left of me into your dustbins, something you will dispose of with the rest
But do not mistake,
Wherever you go, and whatever you do,
You will never escape that night, when you lit me up, and I became something endless,
You will always be living in the shadow I cast

you can count yourself out of the picture
once you've visited a brothel...
   oddly enough: never came an easy girl,
i remember at university
we sat and watched a soft core belly dance
with a few girls
   (with some Sheikhs jerking off in
the background)...
     so one invited me back to her flat,
we smoked **** for a while and then
I started to kiss her...
     borderline necrophilia (metaphor)
given her reply: do you think I'm that
easy?!
    so I replied: can I at least sleep
in your bed? my feet feel like lead.
and so I did... went home during a fresh
morning, had a shower,
                ate some cornflakes and
never met the girl again...
    I thouht that teasing foreplay
while high want about poking
the course 18 times...
                  no big deal,
   it's not that I can suddenly be in
the mood either...
                         too much blood
to the head, very little to the private...
until I stumbled into a brothel
and bypassed the madonna-*****
complex with my genitals and
thought about...
    anything other than emotional
gambling en route to scented candles,
flower petals, a warm bubbly bath
and a cinema date...
   the cow was dragged into
the slaughterhouse,
               the butcher was waiting...
because "they" think that by
infiltrating the university,
they can subsequently infiltrate
   the brothel...
     I agree, tuition fees are an extortion!
can't exactly find **** CULTURE
in a brothel...
                    and always with a good
intention, every time I walked
in I had to check whether I was a *******
or even Quasimodo himself!
       talk about looking behind your
face in a mirror... some sort of
autistic-narcissism...
    just before the mentally ill leave
their childish games of seeking attention
(as, according to a Hindu yogi)...
sure... anti-depressants?
   on my prescription is says:
FOR INSOMNIA...
         apparently not all pills fit one
size...
                 and then back into
radio music, and POP music infatuation...
mmm... LOLLIPOPS!
    candy-floss... and pink unicorns...
before we get on the topic of
clowns... ha ha... imagine
   a fear... of DRAG-QUEENS!
               yes, before the pop pushin'
a last resort of the unsure insane
abusing a metaphor...
   like any politician might...
                             I can almost feel
solidarity with women in their early
30s... I too am going through
an existential crisis...
    spaghetti in the head of a Mintour...
who, once upon the time,
had a map of the labyrinth
in his mind...
    what biological clock?
      I almost hate democracy in the form
of the lessons attributed to
the autocracy of nature...
     and when the people raised their voices...
see... once it might have been much
more intuitive,
    now there's this nagging narrative
behind the whole affair...
    we already know the Beatnik
poets of America desecrated
temple of mescaline by "inviting"
god, of symbols, into what should have
been left, undisturbed, unwritten about,
no need for the tourist in these
parts... one poem on mescaline =
1 hectare of chopped Amazonian trees...
***** is a cheap *****...
all the time in the world to bash
her about, having inherited
such notable predecessors of the art...
just today I spotted a genuine
drunk, red as a beetroot
   dancing a shadow tango with
***** Dionysius... hardly happy
on wine...
                        and no pen in sight...
a drowning man: clinging to
a razor...
               me? on my birthday I have
a moth for company....
      happy birthday me...
                     and me, escape artist in
a brothel, escape from this almost
pointless courting game:
    profiles on dating websites like
disembowled hangmen...
     short-cuts to where?
                       might as well be the one
who always asks the anaesthetian
before an operarion: quo vadis?
       the moth will spend the night
on a curtain, tomorrow i'll **** a lemon
and forget to wash my teeth
scratch my *** and wave at the sun
telling it I'm far from squinting...
           and and and...
     whatever happened to
the punctuation protocol?
       the eyes must have about
six pair of lungs...
                   no... England is a nunnery
and...
      it wasn't exactly giving 110 quid
for an hour of subjectifying a woman
(objectifying a woman during
*******?
what?! with a phobia of a limp dice?!
you have to be kidding,
*** isn't objectification akin
to a pole dance! ribbit...
    kisses a ****** that becomes
the cheapest imagery of a floral
pattern of rose flesh)...
       and if only english language
graduates wrote books or poetry...
we'd all have to be **** by their
standards of having written
essays for the dead...
   but we'd recycle... burn the libraries
which would dwarf the fate
of the library of Baghdad under
the 'ogols, or... whatever the hell
happened to the library of Alexandria...
come to think of it...
    the old testament is such
an unremarkable text....
     but that's expected,
  given the spectacular undercurrent of
events...
       the Koran? a spectacular text...
but the life behind it so generic
that Muhammad looks like
a gimp in latex compared to Genghis...
just another camel jockey / *******...
not to mention the *** note of
the repetitive rhyme during
the salat...
        sheep
     jeep, keep...
      not exactly a bunch of bookworms
with these jihadis?
what do you expect:
    a pyramid like a library consists
of more than one brick / book...
     ******* better start
scribblings something on the Kaaba
and praying for another meteor...
   unlike a woman in her early 30s...
god forbid I have an analogue
budging unconscious motive...
            to leave this joke...
               yes,  and irrelevant 100 years
from now and then...
could have been a skateboarder,
a chess master,
    a footballer or a cobbler...
           or a butcher or a tree herder...
       i'm suspect to a cognitive clock
running dry on me when I hit 35...
after which nonchalance will probably
kick in...
              the spaghetti will become
a sheath of lasagne...
    flat and boorish as far as the eye can see...
never having infested in
the monopoly of fame akin
to Madonna being desperate having missed:
better die young, than to fade away    
       train...
        Rasputin genes me...
     can't, as some people in my life
already said: ****** just won't die...
                             for 5 years have been trying
and yet the locomotive keeps ploughing
on...
              imagine the other glorious heart
akin to Caesar's ideal of sudden...
    ethereal, from a broken heart....
             and I'm sue you won't find people
jealous of those who's necrologue reads:
died, peacefully in his sleep...
   no one is jealous of those who die
in their sleep...
                 refrigerator noise / ambient
music worth of life...
                shallow graves...
                   perhaps the people
who have died in the sleep are the mentally
ill in the afterlife, having lost
touch with the reality of death...
   returning as moguls of ***** bedsheets?

same old, same old: liberation from
the insensible trajectory of
Catholicism...
least tried m.o.p.e. of Irish through
to ****** and somehow back
again to the glories of Spain...
but not in protestant lands...
because protestants do not delve
into superiority motifs
of Greek orthodoxy...
Russian no less...
    the catholic is the joke one of those
a priest, a rabbi and a imam
jokes aplenty...
Catholics are the least sensible
of the whole lot...
i must be... dully noted...
whether via any means necessary
or that there might be a glimmer
of something specific...
post-Christian
         this so-and-so...
i look toward the ages of prehistory
prehistory which implies nothing
journalistic nothing pop culture
nothing game, advantage, envy...
nothing celeb...
         once the day is complete
i call it complete having exhausted
all the **** ***** flicks of my dying:
dyeing of the horizon(s)...
i seek comfort in etymological bounty...
as this is written in some variant of
german... i look toward
everything germanic, sourced...
i break my father's spine on
a toothpick...
i break my own on...
  something to do with
exacting spelling... and how i'll
always abhor baddie loot
of, wording... sum of the last
of the revealing parts...
a heaving lung...
         ein heben lunge -
alias of: ein(e) he-ben lun-gé...
grr of grkh...
sound of static and of stasis...
my mother told me
that i have a... greek nose...
          
self-help gurus infiltrated my
solipsistic domain
of the demigods...

i'm testing a way to purge them from
a believable contest...
of detail... orientation...
demand...

sly ******* the usual snake-oil
sales people...
   at least with a murderer you
can allow having attention
span-ning toward:
life so cruel... stages...
introspect i must...
my own... glorified ****...

it wouldn't be a day worth
invested in...
had there not been a moment...
sitting in akimbo..
spotting clots of cloud for
the arch-yet-lesser-known...
hangmen of wing attire...

it wouldn't be a day worth
salvaging... if...
it didn't come from...
sitting akimbo having oneself
felt, feel: relaxed...
emptied...
like so... like...
the introspective of the ****
would never require
the jolt of "conscience"...
surrounding the fudge-packers
of the world unite:
from a hole of much that can be said:

better out than in...
or... all that's required is out...
but i will never succumb to having to...
allow altar status
and the consecration of apples,
or wine or... bread...
or whatever metaphorical
cannibalism that's Christian, nee:
a Norwegian bulk of letters...

a waste: amass: summary of "concept":
suppose there's a detailing scrutnies
and money is allowed:
primeval stature...

i have a Greek nose...
it's straight it is somehow aligned...
it's one of those: t.b.s. (to be seen)
limits of 1990s cinema...
what it's aligned for,
or towards... even the Graeae will
never know...

somehow a stalling of the wind
come: lumberjack...
the orchestra... the wills... the willows...
& the flutes...
come the wind whistling envy...
people in the Lusatian period of
discovery...
eager push.. plush... push...
into the funnel that Europe became...

a hybrid soothsayer added:
if you soak some teeth of garlic in red wine
you'll gravitate toward thin...
hence my revised
"kalimoxo"....
      cio
          (c)**
          
Puntiz....
        herb = krok vs.
step away from crow: and that's a Z
via "C"...
                knee-bending scrutiny of...
from a time most delve to
quest by dubbing it... half the memory lost...
halve the halving of the memory already
loitering...
then delve into... "structure"...
appease the murderers as
the recycling junction-ers....

         heart is spent...
heart most adored... this sea of man...
this tide of man, also...
brace one's "might"... kept "intact"
this monkey this **** similis in
a...

                 the man who invested
himself for the "slaughter"
of drinkin' beer...
             years will have to pass
for them to attain status: opera... prone...
years and years...
stifle me with "revision" and
curator abject... loss....
what was lost?
a "last" of a Wednesday...

for raw salmon flesh...
to be eaten... first it might as well be:
cured...
cured of what? of rawness...
detailing the addition of lemon juice
to a meat... invigorating the junction
of meat involved...
yes... what a pretty picture.

It was my grief.
And why did you start crying silently?
Do you know how honesty was killed?

Nothing was stable.
The protesters were holding back tears.
How many hangmen had come?

Grey people in black, will
come to condole the slaughter
of grass owners.

Chasing after wonder days
Of eggs and toast, no tums required
Walks to the grocery store past
Rows of cactuses and pansies
Bouquets of daffodils strung like hangmen
In the window
Singing to Tie Guan Yin at sunrise and weaving
Life of strings over and under like a basket
To sleep in.
Chasing after it all,
Struggling feebly now,
A dog under a heavy blanket, against
This thing that lives inside you
This thing that hates your happiness so much
It would bleed to see it killed
Signs of life appear at mealtimes,
When rambling,
Under laden branches,
In flower patches,
In the filtered light of the sun,
Especially at dawn.
So, you want to thirst for the past?
Ears ***** up at pieces of it
Flung like pebbles against the siding
And, chasing after wonder days,
You were always what you are.
You have always loved an equinox.
Every spring and autumn bringing
The gradient smear of change.
Chasing after wonder days
You will not get them back.

Dear A------,

I remember you at my sister's wedding,
you had hands of wild river,

& clouded beach was in your hair -
I was halfway through a sober year

sitting in a rattan bastille chair
watching the sea fashions,

my ear full of jailbreak children -
but I was thinking of night shapes,

things transformed by the dark -
I thought of your recipe: lost keys,

waning crescents, streetlamp breezes -
how strange and free I felt right then,

evening's cousin dressed to the nines
under trees bent to ferocious shade.

Then years passed: another marriage
disappeared into ribcage landslides

& mind riots, jobs were just smoke,
then it was Halloween and I was 44

& I was in New Orleans.
I wondered if you claimed it

the way I once claimed DC -
ambushed by a lost heart

that crept up into me in the suburbs
until only the city crux felt safe,

surrounded by new people
who might be doctors or hangmen.

I missed you that Halloween night,
though I ate in the corner

of your restaurant before I was blinded
by the rain bustle and whisked back

into a hotel window. I missed you also
the next night on Frenchman Street,

& in Storyville and Tremé where I wandered
throughout the runny yolk mornings -

who's to know if you'd even recognize me,
they've been hard years since Ocean City;

until I see you next I'll leave this letter
like a sip of liquor kept in promise

of stories shared in a plank-barred dive
on Toulouse or Tchoupitoulas Street.

Yours, Evan

/as they say... there's a method underlying the madness.../

...and you will not find a mcdonald's
in st. petersburg,
but sure as hell you'll find a crêpe
outlet, serving you the lovely
goo with orange caviar,
              orange caviar?!
        yep, the working man's version
of what's riddling vogue-party
       canapés.

- and perhaps i didn't see much of the world,
or rather seen, but judas snippets
of it - but sure as hell,
            i managed to see a lot of... myself.

punctuation note:
          (...) or what we prefer to call: cliff-hangers,
or even better! hangmen!

who would have thought that
such a breakfast could take place,
a slice of white bread,
   which in england we call a blümer
(umlaut variant of oo(h),
          i.e. a bloomer, late bloomer etc.
cousin german translates current
english, rex germanicus;
    did the saxons invent the saxophone?)

diacritical arithmetic -
           and if you think modern greek
doesn't simply exaggerate diacritical
markings, then you wouldn't be
far from the opulance of the harking
(rather than trilling Rs) of the french...

   volapük und herr schleyer
           is also a worthy mention of opulance...

yet all it was, a buttered slice of white
bread, eaten with a mix of
white and red grapes,
               simultaneously chewed
with baby tomatoes...
                 a very unlikely combination,
even though, technically,
tomatoes are fruits, rather than
veggies...
                    a sweetness,
                             with a sourness -
the sickly sweet, with the slightly
teasing sour...

garnished with an "apéritif"
                       (misnomer, hence " "
        enclosure)
                               or rather:
  an appertif (something eaten
        as a conclusion) -
                             to clean the palette,
with a clean riddled-bite into
             a radish, with that noticeable
pinch, that isn't the kind
                         attributed to salt.