Too long this rot has run its course, too much the damage done
When men deflect acknowledged glance, they know that wrong has won.
Across this land and far afield the wrongness seeps within
And pride becomes a memory through distant halls of spin.
How can we bow to tyranny, how can we shy away
From that which causes  eyes to slide.... and coaxes will to sway?
To tolerate the bombast, the bullying, the lies
Succumbing to a hopelessness, which, both we despise.
Division in the nation, uproar in between
A man and wife’s contention-ness beyond what should be seen
Brothers loathing brothers, silence in the room
Where a word  uttered wrongly can erupt to screaming soon.
Allies left in tatters, trust is cut to shards
Tariffs injudiciously, imposed to **** the cards.
International uproar, industry in strife
Teetering disastrously when NATO flees the knife.

Putin sits and rubs his hands, hilarious the show
Disorder and disharmony to lubricate his glow.
Beijing sits inscrutably, always opportune
Manoeuvring judiciously, in place, to call the tune.

America, the isolate, sails away to sea
Blondini, at the helm, wears smirk indulgently.

M.
The White House
HAMILTON NZ
12th July 2018

"But, sir," I said, "they tell me the man is like to die!" The Canon shook his head indulgently. "Young blood, Cousin," he boomed. "Young blood! Youth will be served!"
-- D'Hermonville's Fabliaux.


He woke up with a sick taste in his mouth
And lay there heavily, while dancing motes
Whirled through his brain in endless, rippling streams,
And a grey mist weighed down upon his eyes
So that they could not open fully. Yet
After some time his blurred mind stumbled back
To its last ragged memory -- a room;
Air foul with wine; a shouting, reeling crowd
Of friends who dragged him, dazed and blind with drink
Out to the street; a crazy rout of cabs;
The steady mutter of his neighbor's voice,
Mumbling out dull obscenity by rote;
And then . . . well, they had brought him home it seemed,
Since he awoke in bed -- oh, **** the business!
He had not wanted it -- the silly jokes,
"One last, great night of freedom ere you're married!"
"You'll get no fun then!" "H-ssh, don't tell that story!
He'll have a wife soon!" -- God! the sitting down
To drink till you were sodden! . . .
Like great light
She came into his thoughts. That was the worst.
To wallow in the mud like this because
His friends were fools. . . . He was not fit to touch,
To see, oh far, far off, that silver place
Where God stood manifest to man in her. . . .
Fouling himself. . . . One thing he brought to her,
At least. He had been clean; had taken it
A kind of point of honor from the first . . .
Others might do it . . . but he didn't care
For those things. . . .
Suddenly his vision cleared.
And something seemed to grow within his mind. . . .
Something was wrong -- the color of the wall --
The queer shape of the bedposts -- everything
Was changed, somehow . . . his room. Was this his room?

. . . He turned his head -- and saw beside him there
The sagging body's *****, the paint-smeared face,
And the loose, open mouth, lax and awry,
The *******, the bleached and brittle hair . . . these things.
. . . As if all Hell were crushed to one bright line
Of lightning for a moment. Then he sank,
Prone beneath an intolerable weight.
And bitter loathing crept up all his limbs.

I long to talk with some old lover’s ghost,
Who died before the God of Love was born:
I cannot think that he, who then loved most,
Sunk so low as to love one which did scorn.
But since this god produced a destiny,
And that vice-nature, Custom, lets it be,
I must love her that loves not me.

Sure, they which made him god meant not so much,
Nor he in his young godhead practised it;
But when an even flame two hearts did touch,
His office was indulgently to fit
Actives to passives. Correspondency
Only his subject was; it cannot be
Love, till I love her that loves me.

But every modern god will now extend
His vast prerogative as far as Jove.
To rage, to lust, to write to, to commend,
All is the purlieu of the God of Love.
Oh were we wakened by this tyranny
To ungod this child again, it could not be
I should love her who loves not me.

Rebel and atheist too, why murmur I
As though I felt the worst that love could do?
Love might make me leave loving, or might try
A deeper plague, to make her love me too,
Which, since she loves before, I’m loth to see;
Falsehood is worse than hate; and that must be,
If she whom I love should love me.

Pop me open
and take look in the trunk.

See that I travel light
but with excess junk.

Too deep in this
I’ve indulgently sunk.

It’s what got me so drunk.
It’s what got me in such a funk.

It's not time yet...
You both still need to heal.
Need to grow a little more,
Get that closure you deserve,
Be selfish for a while longer.

It will happen...
You'll both get there.
Know being alone is alright,
Make awareness of your worth,
Get lost with just yourselves.

Keep your faith...
You guys are doing right.
Entertain your mind indulgently,
Discover passions you never knew,
Meet the you, you are supposed to be.

Just keep eyes wide...
Your paths will cross.
Get rid of negative notions,
Be ready to embrace the wonderful,
Open up enough for a landing.

When you've been patient,
After you are centered,
When it's time,
And you're both ready...

LOVE


© NDHK

someone told me i wear mourning like a fur coat
beautifully, grotesquely, i bear the weight of it all
i paint my face and it should be with ash
but i am not native
i have no roots to sink my heaviness towards
the heaviness of a burden i don’t deserve to carry
the night i heard i held myself tightly, arms wrapped around my torso
my mouth gaped open
i turned on the shower as hot as i could stand it
i hope it felt cathartic when you set yourself on fire
set your home on fire
you said sorry as you went
you were always apologizing
some people lay in comas for years
miracles happen, they say
and they do
i wonder who waited 4 ******* days for a miracle before giving up on you
my therapist helped me set up a self-care routine to keep panic attacks at bay
it involved lighting a candle so i just slit my wrist instead
i could take the pain but fire feels cheap
i wonder if you screamed
the day after i found out
i walked to my mother’s coffee shop,
sat down outside,
and choked on sobs until the dam burst
i put on my sunglasses and went home
i made the last 10 minutes of psychology class
we were discussing grief
the professor explained the stages
he mentioned denial
i said i didn’t believe that was always the case
that night i laid in bed drinking chocolate milk from the carton
i watched American beauty,
alternating between touching myself and screaming into a pillow
i dreamt about the slutty insinuation of a used match
i dreamt about fathers and plastic bags
it’s 2:30 am i am sitting alone in a ball room with a man who told me he needs a machine to sleep
he is telling me that he is happy he lost the highs and lows
he can’t fall in love but he is happy
i told him my mania makes me
he smiles indulgently, he is the cat
(i spent the day buying imported lingerie
French silk and canary yellow lace)
when we danced he put his knee between mine and crushed my ******* to his chest
i wonder if he felt the way blackberry brandy made my words syrupy and dark
pooling at the base of my throat
he said life only gets weirder from here
i am waiting for him to get his keys. i am alone at 3 am in a ballroom. i am seeing burning houses. i am tasting blackberries. i am hearing you whisper “collide”. i am wearing my mourning like a fur coat and in it i am small and vulnerable and beautiful in a contained way
in it i can stay within the confines of 2011 and i can feel you peel back layers of longing to hit a pit of bitter love
this was never a poem about you
you’re sorry
Thomas Forsyth 1/19/92-5/29/14

I am neither
a war trophy
and indulgence
nor a hobby.

Because I live in a country
where women are no longer
legal property of their husbands,
I am, as of current
unavailable for mail order
due to the radically progressive
notion, that took years decades centuries
to develop
that a human female is, as a matter
of fact, a human.

You can, for a vicarious experience
leer at me
like cheap jewelry
then, appalled, denounce me
as too ugly for your usage
when I give the implication
that I am sentient.
And of course, I must be modest
Lest my tantalizingly average looks
provoke some poor man
into committing a crime
against humanity.

I dated some glassy-eyed narcissist
a while back
in a regrettable period of youth,
who indulgently stated
that his three favorite things
in the world
were food, music
and women.
(Charmed to be a novelty)
And a privileged, modern woman like me
Shouldn’t mind being consumed
like a pain-staking meal prepared
especially for him,
Or replaced in his tri-annual rotation
like the discovery of a new favorite song.

I continue to be
a favorite
thing, as somehow in 2012
the term “feminist”
continues to be the social equivalent
of “kitten strangler.”
And because my father
can no longer sell me
for a flock of sheep,
I no longer need to be more human.

Bait I now did lay for capturing my sought desire,
And I roar now, the lioness declares her might.
The underneath of this thing is not too sturdy;
But the lasting kind suddenly can solidify -
Without notice.
He is asleep out there in the cave we claim of late as ours,
I will soon lift up and slide indulgently into his arms.
And everything will resonate the pulse of love,
Solid: puh-pump, puh-pump, puh-pump
Resonate. Vibration frequency beating love.

It’s boxing day (the Brit name for the day after Christmas) and Pamela, Lisa’s grandmother is visiting our little pandemic ark. Pamela’s a Cowboys fan so we’re watching them slaughter Washington - between commercials - but now a Tesla commercial is running. “Those electric cars,” Pamala says dubiously, “seem problematic.”

“You’ve heard of global warming, haven’t you, Pamala?” Leeza says. Leeza addresses everyone (even her grandmother) as if they were her age (12). It’s both seductive and lazy. “This whole system,” she raises her arms to include the apartment, the city and America, “will collapse - we’re DOOOOMED,” she concludes, as if speechifying to an eager crowd.

“Everyone’s heard of climate change,” Pamela says, sipping her eggnog. Pamela is as well informed as any of us and seems rather envious of the future, even the coming awfulness.
“Leeza’s her own theatre,” Her mom says, grimacing indulgently.
Leeza’s full attention was now on the pastry tray - having spotted two small eclairs under the bear claws - she'd lost interest in the conversation and saving the planet.

“The system won’t collapse,” Will says. Will received his early acceptance letter from Harvard the other day and now he knows everything. “We’ll lose Florida, South Carolina and New York,” he pronounces calmly, “so there’ll be some.. migrations.”
“Thank you, professor,” Lisa says, rolling her eyes as if to say ”Harvard people.”
“I think the Covid might get us all - before climate change,” I say, in the spirit of the holiday.
“Well,” Will says, grinning, “that’s what ALL the people at inferior colleges think.”

Leeza, passing by my easychair, curls into my lap like a cat, gently petting my hair. “Don’t be mean to MY friend,” she says, purringly - I was suddenly her possession. Lisa comes out of her chair, a sly smile on her face, to lay crosswise atop Leeza (and me).
“Ugg,” I managed to say, squirming to get comfortable, then “Akkkk.”
Lisa says, “Leave my poor roomie alone!” and starts baby-kissing my head.”
Will starts in our direction like HE’S going to pile on. “Egggg! I shrek, “HELP!”
Pamela whoops with glee as Dallas scores another touchdown.
“Like beating a dead dog with a stick,” she says.

my teacher tells me

the sage is not attached.          so i cut off all my hair and quit my job and buy records despite my lacking bank account.

i don't know **** about wisdom but i know how to make myself

weightlessly
indulgently

                         happy.

The statue I built
In the Memorial Gardens
In mid June
By September had turned green

It wasn't supposed to be of copper
But of gold.
I never asked for it to be a fountain
But it was.

The water came out of the eyes
You can see the place where it ran down

Now the park is bankrupt and the water is shut off
His arm has a cigarette burn
and his open hand holds a crumpled candy wrapper
His green liver spotted hand.

There is a ***** word carved into his pedestal
The pigeons indulgently **** on him
By February, thieves will have taken him.
From the gardens and park that lay in disrepair

Man erects plans and monuments
God Laughs
Man builds a statue of himself
God's pigeons **** on it.
His thieves take it
And His good Earth swallows the memory.

You’d think by now
I’d overcome
My undoing
Reclusive
Obtuse
Of no use
Just consuming
Indulgently,
Carelessly,
Selfishly
Sating
My lust
For the never enough
Stuff I’m craving
But they could all watch me
To no end devour
Avert their gaze
Flee from my gaping jaws
Cower
Before my voracious
Most wasteful
Disdain
In its hungry indifference
Treats them
All the same

Perhaps her shocking, clean blondeness
Will cleanse you of the hate you carry
For the very body that indulgently hosts it
You’ve let the bar drag the lake so easily,
And I could never compete with your love of mediocrity
So what’s left to gasp and squeal, drown it  

Darling,
You can burn.

They only understand at the basic level
the complexities of reasoning are not theirs
as are finesse and being cultured or witticisms
they think in pictures as a child with an abacus to count

being charitable enough to be  polite
rather say I have nothing but contempt for them
he glibly said I will never forgive aware this is up to God
the low thinkers and the preachers all buy into another buzzword

basic understanding of low mentality
sees the jokey assertion that a character has gone black
meaning a fair complexion fares in dark tones as if that matters
to a wholesome adult well aware any outer pigmentation is irrelevant

ignorants comprehends neither wit irony or sarcasm
a fascinating study forever amusing to the cultured brigades
who rather than educate them merely toy with them indulgently
for they know that to the dumb witless they always see the Emperor's new coat

from Plato Republic to the fantasist socialist grandpa
we see how manipulation of the underclasses plays out
spin the sound bites and tell lies for they're too dumb for truths
praise their ignorance and tell them Duchess Camilla and the Prince have horse faces
these twits are always ripe for the taking, its in their gene pools

Today May 12th, 2021
at Royersford (Pennsylvania) LIDL,
when spouse stepped into checkout line
(minus her horse drawn grocery cart -
pushed courtesy yours truly).

While passively standing stock still
I (think Stonewall Jackson)
let scenario unfold before
mine myopic eyes,
whereby acquiescing
nonverbally attempting to scooch
closer to conveyor belt
subsequently attempting
to maneuver shopping cart
in front of another patron (an older man)
with small number of items in his cart,
who became irate at me.

He appeared angered
at his thwarted (senior) priority,
especially when mine wife
gave him few choice words.

All that learning regarding
learning conflict resolution
(years gone by)
taught by the late therapist Jean Dole
ineluctably escaped me.

I smart with disappointment
not offering aforementioned
aggravated fellow shopper
right of way
proceeding ahead of us
(initiating at least one daily
random act of kindness).

Figurative astringent aftertaste
left in mouth cuz laudable
good samaritan deed chased
away, thus one generic bloke
felt he disgraced
his credo and ethos that laced
behaviorist paradigm
shouldering virtuous lofty aspirations
as upholding saintiless gone to waste.

Nevertheless foo fighting beastie boy
attains exhibiting motto
viz - doing right by doing good.

Since birth and every
subsequent growing up year
until earth around sun orbitz equalled
lxii plus some months gradual aging

upon this body electric didst wear
major organs as personal choices made to veer
toward folkloric, generic holistic living social
societal, theoretical fabric
minimally didst tear

which family of origin
constituent part (nurture)
nsync verses with nature (genetics)
steeped with ethos to share
with parents, row mans, siblings,
(now offspring), et cetera
superfluity sans abundance,
or paucity per cornucopia rear
neither former plentifulness,
nor latter scarcity respectively
predictable asper
being dynamic

versus static such yield
based, linkedin, and predicated
on a gamut how fate didst wield
one record breaking
catch of the century, and sealed

fickle non butterfinger
Swedish Fish Ma PHEAA filleted
famed schooled
Redmond Efficiency Academy
top of the class for each grade,
whence analogous
viz zit hid had dock
pier fickle lee hooray
randomly cast piscine line reeled inlaid
hallowed sea man tricked treat
once the providence,
which belief informed lifelike
sculpted, Idolized carved likeness

revealed from precious metal or jade
unseen creator mortals prayed
some examples being handily
accorded mechanistic multi-deistic
such as Manichaeism, Mithraism, Muslim,
et cetera belief, credo,
divine entity man made
attempting cosmic explanations
grandly incorporating
limitless mysteries splashed
throughout universe visually displayed

decrees ordained requiring unbridled zeal
only the dead privy
to espy secret seventh seal
hence ne'er did plentiful spirits reveal
themselves as flesh and blood,
nonetheless, despite lack of sects ap peal
fervent humility, integrity, magnanimity...
prayers preceded before each meal
or any exploitative endeavor,

especially those which did heal
instilling positive influences to hopefully
sway sought after immortal deal,
and ethos, figuratively drilled into arboreal

predecessors minds of highest
saint seeking achievers
and/ or ******* faithful devout believers
who oft morphed into zombie
thrashing maniacs seized cleavers
a yen to revile against heretics,
not moost ideal to breed largesse,
whence possessed by fevers

toward simple axe of pious,
who indulgently pulled levers
no matter feigned actions hash tagged
reciprocating masquerade
i.e. facade, charade afraid
but, nevertheless a Good Samaritan renegade.