Somebody is shooting at something in our town --
A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street.
Jealousy can open the blood,
It can make black roses.
Who are the shooting at?

It is you the knives are out for
At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon,
The **** of Elba on your short back,
And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery
Mass after mass, saying Shh!

Shh! These are chess people you play with,
Still figures of ivory.
The mud squirms with throats,
Stepping stones for French bootsoles.
The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off

In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds.
So the swarm ***** and deserts
Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree.
It must be shot down. Pom! Pom!
So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder.

It thinks they are the voice of God
Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog
Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog,
Grinning over its bone of ivory
Like the pack, the pack, like everybody.

The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high!
Russia, Poland and Germany!
The mild hills, the same old magenta
Fields shrunk to a penny
Spun into a river, the river crossed.

The bees argue, in their black ball,
A flying hedgehog, all prickles.
The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb
Of their dream, the hived station
Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs,

Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country.
Pom! Pom! They fall
Dismembered, to a tod of ivy.
So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army!
A red tatter, Napoleon!

The last badge of victory.
The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat.
Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea!
The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals
Worming themselves into niches.

How instructive this is!
The dumb, banded bodies
Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery
Into a new mausoleum,
An ivory palace, a crotch pine.

The man with gray hands smiles --
The smile of a man of business, intensely practical.
They are not hands at all
But asbestos receptacles.
Pom! Pom! 'They would have killed me.'

Stings big as drawing pins!
It seems bees have a notion of honor,
A black intractable mind.
Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything.
O Europe! O ton of honey!

Dedication

Inscribed to a dear Child:
in memory of golden summer hours
and whispers of a summer sea.

Girt with a boyish garb for boyish task,
   Eager she wields her *****; yet loves as well
Rest on a friendly knee, intent to ask
   The tale he loves to tell.

Rude spirits of the seething outer strife,
   Unmeet to read her pure and simple spright,
Deem, if you list, such hours a waste of life,
   Empty of all delight!

Chat on, sweet Maid, and rescue from annoy
   Hearts that by wiser talk are unbeguiled.
Ah, happy he who owns that tenderest joy,
   The heart-love of a child!

Away, fond thoughts, and vex my soul no more!
   Work claims my wakeful nights, my busy days--
Albeit bright memories of that sunlit shore
   Yet haunt my dreaming gaze!

PREFACE

If--and the thing is wildly possible--the charge of writing nonsense were ever brought against the author of this brief but instructive poem, it would be based, I feel convinced, on the line (in p.18)

"Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes."

In view of this painful possibility, I will not (as I might) appeal indignantly to my other writings as a proof that I am incapable of such a deed: I will not (as I might) point to the strong moral purpose of this poem itself, to the arithmetical principles so cautiously inculcated in it, or to its noble teachings in Natural History--I will take the more prosaic course of simply explaining how it happened.

The Bellman, who was almost morbidly sensitive about appearances, used to have the bowsprit unshipped once or twice a week to be revarnished, and it more than once happened, when the time came for replacing it, that no one on board could remember which end of the ship it belonged to. They knew it was not of the slightest use to appeal to the Bellman about it--he would only refer to his Naval Code, and read out in pathetic tones Admiralty Instructions which none of them had ever been able to understand--so it generally ended in its being fastened on, anyhow, across the rudder. The helmsman* used to stand by with tears in his eyes; he knew it was all wrong, but alas! Rule 42 of the Code, "No one shall speak to the Man at the Helm," had been completed by the Bellman himself with the words "and the Man at the Helm shall speak to no one." So remon{-} strance was impossible, and no steering could be done till the next varnishing day. During these bewildering intervals the ship usually sailed backwards.

As this poem is to some extent connected with the lay of the Jabberwock, let me take this opportunity of answering a question that has often been asked me, how to pronounce "slithy toves." The "i" in "slithy" is long, as in "writhe"; and "toves" is pronounced so as to rhyme with "groves." Again, the first "o" in "borogoves" is pronounced like the "o" in "borrow." I have heard people try to give it the sound of the"o" in "worry." Such is Human Perversity. This also seems a fitting occasion to notice the other hard works in that poem. Humpty-Dumpty's theory, of two meanings packed into one word like a port{-} manteau, seems to me the right explanation for all.

For instance, take the two words "fuming" and "furious." Make up your mind that you will say both words, but leave it unsettled which you will say first. Now open your mouth and speak. If your thoughts incline ever so little towards "fuming," you will say "fuming-furious;" if they turn, by even a hair's breadth, towards "furious," you will say "furious-fuming;" but if you have that rarest of gifts, a perfectly balanced mind, you will say "frumious."

Supposing that, when Pistol uttered the well-known
words--

     "Under which king, Bezonian? Speak or die!"

Justice Shallow had felt certain that it was either William or Richard, but had not been able to settle which, so that he could not possibly say either name before the other, can it be doubted that, rather than die, he would have gasped out "Rilchiam!"

CONTENTS

Fit the First. The Landing
Fit the Second. The Bellman's Speech
Fit the Third. The Baker's Tale
Fit the Fourth. The Hunting
Fit the Fifth. The ******'s Lesson
Fit the Sixth. The Barrister's Dream
Fit the Seventh. The Banker's Fate
Fit the Eighth. The Vanishing

Fit the First.

THE LANDING

"Just the place for a Snark!" the Bellman cried,
    As he landed his crew with care;
Supporting each man on the top of the tide
    By a finger entwined in his hair.

"Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
    That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:
    What I tell you three times is true."

  The crew was complete: it included a Boots--
  A maker of Bonnets and Hoods--
A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes--
  And a Broker, to value their goods.

A Billiard-marker, whose skill was immense,
  Might perhaps have won more than his share--
But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense,
  Had the whole of their cash in his care.

There was also a ******, that paced on the deck,
  Or would sit making lace in the bow:
And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck,
  Though none of the sailors knew how.

There was one who was famed for the number of things
  He forgot when he entered the ship:
His umbrella, his watch, all his jewels and rings,
  And the clothes he had bought for the trip.

He had forty-two boxes, all carefully packed,
  With his name painted clearly on each:
But, since he omitted to mention the fact,
  They were all left behind on the beach.

The loss of his clothes hardly mattered, because
  He had seven coats on when he came,
With three pair of boots--but the worst of it was,
  He had wholly forgotten his name.

He would answer to "Hi!" or to any loud cry,
  Such as "Fry me!" or "Fritter my wig!"
To "What-you-may-call-um!" or "What-was-his-name!"
  But especially "Thing-um-a-jig!"

While, for those who preferred a more forcible word,
  He had different names from these:
His intimate friends called him "Candle-ends,"
  And his enemies "Toasted-cheese."

"His form in ungainly--his intellect small--"
  (So the Bellman would often remark)
"But his courage is perfect! And that, after all,
  Is the thing that one needs with a Snark."

He would joke with hy{ae}nas, returning their stare
  With an impudent wag of the head:
And he once went a walk, paw-in-paw, with a bear,
  "Just to keep up its spirits," he said.

He came as a Baker: but owned, when too late--
  And it drove the poor Bellman half-mad--
He could only bake Bridecake--for which, I may state,
  No materials were to be had.

The last of the crew needs especial remark,
  Though he looked an incredible dunce:
He had just one idea--but, that one being "Snark,"
  The good Bellman engaged him at once.

He came as a Butcher: but gravely declared,
  When the ship had been sailing a week,
He could only **** Beavers. The Bellman looked scared,
  And was almost too frightened to speak:

But at length he explained, in a tremulous tone,
  There was only one ****** on board;
And that was a tame one he had of his own,
  Whose death would be deeply deplored.

The ******, who happened to hear the remark,
  Protested, with tears in its eyes,
That not even the rapture of hunting the Snark
  Could atone for that dismal surprise!

It strongly advised that the Butcher should be
  Conveyed in a separate ship:
But the Bellman declared that would never agree
  With the plans he had made for the trip:

Navigation was always a difficult art,
  Though with only one ship and one bell:
And he feared he must really decline, for his part,
  Undertaking another as well.

The ******'s best course was, no doubt, to procure
  A second-hand dagger-proof coat--
So the Baker advised it-- and next, to insure
  Its life in some Office of note:

This the Banker suggested, and offered for hire
  (On moderate terms), or for sale,
Two excellent Policies, one Against Fire,
  And one Against Damage From Hail.

Yet still, ever after that sorrowful day,
  Whenever the Butcher was by,
The ****** kept looking the opposite way,
  And appeared unaccountably shy.

II.--THE BELLMAN'S SPEECH.

Fit the Second.

THE BELLMAN'S SPEECH.

The Bellman himself they all praised to the skies--
  Such a carriage, such ease and such grace!
Such solemnity, too! One could see he was wise,
  The moment one looked in his face!

He had bought a large map representing the sea,
  Without the least vestige of land:
And the crew were much pleased when they found it to be
  A map they could all understand.

"What's the good of Mercator's North Poles and Equators,
  Tropics, Zones, and Meridian Lines?"
So the Bellman would cry: and the crew would reply
   "They are merely conventional signs!

"Other maps are such shapes, with their islands and capes!
  But we've got our brave Captain to thank
(So the crew would protest) "that he's bought us the best--
  A perfect and absolute blank!"

This was charming, no doubt; but they shortly found out
  That the Captain they trusted so well
Had only one notion for crossing the ocean,
  And that was to tingle his bell.

He was thoughtful and grave--but the orders he gave
  Were enough to bewilder a crew.
When he cried "Steer to starboard, but keep her head larboard!"
  What on earth was the helmsman to do?

Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes:
  A thing, as the Bellman remarked,
That frequently happens in tropical climes,
  When a vessel is, so to speak, "snarked."

But the principal failing occurred in the sailing,
   And the Bellman, perplexed and distressed,
Said he had hoped, at least, when the wind blew due East,
  That the ship would not travel due West!

But the danger was past--they had landed at last,
  With their boxes, portmanteaus, and bags:
Yet at first sight the crew were not pleased with the view,
  Which consisted to chasms and crags.

The Bellman perceived that their spirits were low,
  And repeated in musical tone
Some jokes he had kept for a season of woe--
  But the crew would do nothing but groan.

He served out some grog with a liberal hand,
  And bade them sit down on the beach:
And they could not but own that their Captain looked grand,
  As he stood and delivered his speech.

"Friends, Romans, and countrymen, lend me your ears!"
  (They were all of them fond of quotations:
So they drank to his health, and they gave him three cheers,
  While he served out additional rations).

"We have sailed many months, we have sailed many weeks,
   (Four weeks to the month you may mark),
But never as yet ('tis your Captain who speaks)
  Have we caught the least glimpse of a Snark!

"We have sailed many weeks, we have sailed many days,
  (Seven days to the week I allow),
But a Snark, on the which we might lovingly gaze,
  We have never beheld till now!

"Come, listen, my men, while I tell you again
  The five unmistakable marks
By which you may know, wheresoever you go,
  The warranted genuine Snarks.

"Let us take them in order. The first is the taste,
  Which is meagre and hollow, but crisp:
Like a coat that is rather too tight in the waist,
  With a flavour of Will-o-the-wisp.

"Its habit of getting up late you'll agree
  That it carries too far, when I say
That it frequently breakfasts at five-o'clock tea,
  And dines on the following day.

"The third is its slowness in taking a jest.
  Should you happen to venture on one,
It will sigh like a thing that is deeply distressed:
  And it always looks grave at a pun.

"The fourth is its fondness for bathing-machines,
  Which is constantly carries about,
And believes that they add to the beauty of scenes--
  A sentiment open to doubt.

"The fifth is ambition. It next will be right
  To describe each particular batch:
Distinguishing those that have feathers, and bite,
  From those that have whiskers, and scratch.

"For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm,
  Yet, I feel it my duty to say,
Some are Boojums--" The Bellman broke off in alarm,
  For the Baker had fainted away.

FIT III.--THE BAKER'S TALE.

Fit the Third.

THE BAKER'S TALE.

They roused him with muffins--they roused him with ice--
  They roused him with mustard and cress--
They roused him with jam and judicious advice--
  They set him conundrums to guess.

When at length he sat up and was able to speak,
  His sad story he offered to tell;
And the Bellman cried "Silence! Not even a shriek!"
  And excitedly tingled his bell.

There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream,
  Scarcely even a howl or a groan,
As the man they called "**!" told his story of woe
  In an antediluvian tone.

"My father and mother were honest, though poor--"
  "Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste.
"If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark--
  We have hardly a minute to waste!"

"I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears,
  "And proceed without further remark
To the day when you took me aboard of your ship
  To help you in hunting the Snark.

"A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named)
  Remarked, when I bade him farewell--"
"Oh, skip your dear uncle!" the Bellman exclaimed,
  As he angrily tingled his bell.

"He remarked to me then," said that mildest of men,
  " 'If your Snark be a Snark, that is right:
Fetch it home by all means--you may serve it with greens,
  And it's handy for striking a light.

" 'You may seek it with thimbles--and seek it with care;
  You may hunt it with forks and hope;
You may threaten its life with a railway-share;
  You may charm it with smiles and soap--' "

("That's exactly the method," the Bellman bold
  In a hasty parenthesis cried,
"That's exactly the way I have always been told
  That the capture of Snarks should be tried!")

" 'But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day,
  If your Snark be a Boojum! For then
You will softly and suddenly vanish away,
  And never be met with again!'

"It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul,
  When I think of my uncle's last words:
And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl
  Brimming over with quivering curds!

"It is this, it is this--" "We have had that before!"
  The Bellman indignantly said.
And the Baker replied "Let me say it once more.
  It is this, it is this that I dread!

"I engage with the Snark--every night after dark--
  In a dreamy delirious fight:
I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes,
  And I use it for striking a light:

"But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day,
  In a moment (of this I am sure),
I shall softly and suddenly vanish away--
  And the notion I cannot endure!"

FIT IV.--THE HUNTING.

Fit the fourth.

THE HUNTING.

The Bellman looked uffish, and wrinkled his brow.
  "If only you'd spoken before!
It's excessively awkward to mention it now,
  With the Snark, so to speak, at the door!

"We should all of us grieve, as you well may believe,
  If you never were met with again--
But surely, my man, when the voyage began,
  You might have suggested it then?

"It's excessively awkward to mention it now--
  As I think I've already remarked."
And the man they called "Hi!" replied, with a sigh,
  "I informed you the day we embar

prophesy also comes from the unwillingness to engage with verbs, such that nouns are thoroughly investigated, such that prophesy is a disengagement from verbs, and a penultimate rummaging in nouns to express a single verb associated with either biceps or triceps engaging in the missing flex, that thought is; a grand word, i know, but the unwillingness is all too apparent, to craft a verb from all accessible nouns and still revolve around the unfathomable is above all desired - rather than to craft a noun from all accessible verbs and still revolve around the fathomable as desired to denote life the end rather than an end; when reading was actually rereading and non-impulsive, non-instinctive, with reading the necessary repetition deviating from rhythmic repetition of poetry - when reading was to be taken to be as non-instructive - when people cared for freedom, and were less likely to claim psychiatric pathology by claiming reading was to be instructive! those were the days! these days people want to be hit with a shepherd's staff, to be herded, to be instructed, by-product of these days ensuring that the best writing can only be non-instructive.*

active censorship of the 20th century -
humanity's greatest fascination
and a piggy bank of capitalism's
investment worthwhile will clear like
19th century's london smog
and all will find themselves as Adam
or Eve, in paradise, albeit
naked in terms of vocabulary and therefore
easily manipulated,
for if a poor vocabulary was ever
equal to a shepherd's shawl it is now -
for a poverty of vocabulary came to pass
as a poverty of attire, and the 21st century
will prove it so, with the exponential
disappearance of menial tasks in
factories and in agricultural society.

What I’ve Learned as a Writer
By Leo Babauta

I’ve been a professional writer since I was 17: so nearly 24 years now. I’ve made my living with words, and have written a lot of them — more than 10 million (though many of them were duplicates).

That means I’ve made a ton of errors. Lots of typos. Lots of bad writing.

Being a writer means I’ve failed a lot, and learned a few things in the process.

Now, some of you may be aspiring writers (or writers looking for inspiration from a colleague). Others might not ever want to be a writer, but you should still care about writing. I’ll tell you why: it’s an incredible tool for learning about yourself. And if you’re an effective writer, you’re an effective communicator, thinker, salesperson, businessperson, persuader.

So for anyone interested in writing, I’d love to share what I’ve learned so far.

    Write every **** day. Yes, even weekends. Yes, even when you’re busy with other crap. Each day I write a blog post, an article for Sea Change, part of my new book, or perhaps part of a novel. If I don’t have enough to write every day, I start a new writing project. I write at least 1,000 words a day, but you don’t have to write that much. Writing daily makes it a routine thing, so you never have to think about it. You just do it. It gets much easier, less intimidating. You get better at it. It’s like talking with a friend: just how you express yourself.
    Create a blog if you don’t have one. Whether or not you’re a writer, you should have a blog. Why? Because it’s a great way to reach an audience, to practice writing on a daily basis, to reflect on what you’ve been learning, to share that with others so they might benefit, to engage in a wider conversation, to learn about yourself. Anyone who wants to learn about themselves should have a blog. (Protip: Try Sett to start a blog — it’s a great way to grow an audience and community.)
    Write plainly. I think this is from Strunk & White, but it works well for me. I write in plain language, leaving the flowery stuff for others. Academic writing is the worst — it’s so stilted no one wants to read it unless they want to show others how smart they are. Technical jargon, business-speak, pretentious vocabulary, insider acronyms … none of them have any place in communicating with your fellow human beings. Only use those things if you want to hide the fact that you don’t know what you’re talking about.
    Don’t write just to hear yourself talk. Lots of people like to go on and on about themselves and their lives, but readers don’t come for that. Readers come for their own purposes. You’re reading this to get ideas for yourself as a writer, not to hear the life story of Leo the amazing writer in technicolor detail. Now, you can tell stories about yourself if they’re vividly entertaining or inspirational or really instructive. But have a purpose, and be sure you’re meeting that purpose. Don’t just ramble.
    Nearly everything can be shortened. Including this post, of course. I could probably cut 25% of this post and get away with it (I’ve already cut 25%). Go through your sentences and ask: is this necessary? What purpose does it serve? How would this read without it? And if you can, drop it. It makes your work more readable, clearer.
    Fear stops most potential writers. Most people don’t write (publicly at least) because they’re afraid their writing will ****. Well, it will. Everyone ***** at first. You don’t get better at something by sitting on your hands. **** it up, put yourself out there. You won’t have many readers at first, when you ****, but as your audience grows so will your skills.
    Read regularly for inspiration. I might write more than 1,000 words a day, but I read 10 times that. I read books and (online) magazines and blogs and more. Reading gives me ideas, shows me better ways to write, gives me access to the best teachers in my craft (amazing writers).
    Procrastination is your friend. Every writer lives daily with procrastination. If you allow yourself to feel guilty about that, then you’ll feel bad about yourself as a writer. Instead, embrace your procrastination as a friend, enjoy it … and then ask the friend to leave for awhile so you can get your work done. No friend should monopolize all your time. Get your writing done, then invite the friend back when you have free time.
    Have people expect your writing. This is another reason blogs are fantastic: if you build up an audience, you feel the pressure of their expectations. This pressure is a good thing — it keeps procrastination from taking over your life. You know the audience expects you to write, so you get off your **** and you do it. Before I had a blog, my editors were the people expecting my writing.
    Email is an excuse. We often go to check email because it feels productive (and it can be), but it’s easy to use that as a way to put off the writing. Honestly, if you close your email for a couple hours, nothing bad will happen. Close it, close everything else, and get to writing. Your email will be waiting for you when you’re done.
    Writing tools don’t matter. Most people tinker with their writing tools, trying to find the perfect system. ***** that. You can write with anything, as long as you have a keyboard. Yes, I much prefer typing to writing by hand, because I’m much faster at typing. I can get the words out closer to the speed of my thinking. But what writing program I use is irrelevant: I write in TextEdit, Sublime Text, Ommwriter, Byword, Notational Velocity, in the WordPress or Sett editor in the browser, in Google Docs. Just open up a new document and start writing.
    Jealousy is idiotic. Writers can often be insecure types — perhaps it’s a byproduct of putting your soul out in the world for all to criticize. So they’re often jealous of the success of other writers. That’s a complete waste of time and energy. It does you no good as a writer. Instead, learn from the success of others, see what’s good about you, and merge the two. Be happy for people. It’ll make you happier too.
    Writing can change lives. When I publish a post, I hope it’ll be of use to someone. But the responses I get are often incredible — people tell me how much a post or my blog in general has changed their lives. I’m blown away by this. When you put something with good intention out in the world, you have no idea what kind of impact it might have on others. It might do nothing, but it could have a profound effect on someone’s life. That’s truly powerful. That’s truly a reason to get up and write.

And one thing I’ve learned, above all, is this: the life that my writing has changed more than any other is my own. Writing for you has changed me, in ways I am only beginning to grasp. In wonderful, crazy, lift-you-off-the-ground kind of ways. And that makes me want to do it forever.

early on i left an imprint for me to remember,
kinda like 2 x 2, equating to 4,
not as simple with words:
i like this dialectic between Dionysian and
Apollonian attempts to express aye arr parley!
shake the pine trees to get the toothpicks
like you might get a mojito, onward! toward
El Dorado! transgressing 24 hour hours
and you get the flavour:
first beer in in from dieting, oh ****, it's bitter,
second beer, mm, sweeter... then the headline
of whiskey and coke... Kazakhstan nice... yok sh'eh mash?!

three movements working their way,
those conquered and exposed to direct roman rule,
presiding over the "charm" with roads, western europe,
now they're so pride to reach that far back,
mention Boudica, one, more, *******, time!
i'll give you Britain that made Louis XIV
the peasant king at Versailles, and Charles II
wise with a Guy Fawkes firecracker... mm, guess
it happened here! in the yeast of a baker's
reincarnation via Malachi's heresy:
Elijah coming soon? Elijah not coming any time
you blunt sword of monotheism excluding
the chance of many, democratic influences!
either the fish or the aquarium...
the aquarium... a billion of them plus Islam will
be anarchic China, people never wish for better,
they only wish to better themselves,
including the social strata stampede that's necessitated
in the process... scientific positivism of Enlightenment
died, the absolute necessity (god) / the absolutely
necessary thing became trapped in the Bermuda
or the Copernican triangle, no good for crossing
oceans, just ably whirling east to no east outside
the atmosphere, try me with two thing:
Copernican vectors with a stable point constantly moving,
rather than sunny, constantly expressed economically
as usurper against usurer and the university grant
of simony, although worthy of an actor to spread
charitable work and paedophilia in Asia dubbed
Portuguese Missionary - well i'm sure the apologetics will
come, my neighbour hugging her dog watching television,
closest kin of the genesis story having secondary reminders
determining whether the lie was white or instructive,
a joke or seriousness - indeed entombed in treating these
words as a holiness worth for all the present religious attire.
absolutely necessary Kant said,
he also said: you said omni- etc., indeed you're on a
roundabout of intellectual yawns, there's nothing new here!
i need god as a concept of vectors and cursors, mediating
more than the caging of man's affirmation of himself
with Freud... the sounds and equally shared optics
need to accommodate a oneness, god is a predicate
of essential function: a. the triple affirmative:
i, thought, existence... something to concern myself with,
b. the duo affirmative:
denial, thought, existence... the arithmetic goes further,
i am writing quickly hence i will not brood over,
except a comparison in cinema, the film *hostel (2005)
and pretty much all of Hollywood's 1970's grit output...
take for example Al Pacino in the panic in needle park,
you know what i see? modern american interpretation
of what eastern europe represents, the farts
leave flamboyant Amsterdam hopeful for Slavic ******,
they come to Slovakia, and it hits them,
the passive lack of jealousy and need to impress
building a chrysler building, the oddity like landing on mars...
but it's already been done with, New York in the 1970s,
the same slavic grit, even the way the cinematography looks
like the colours were shaded with a peppering of sand...
new york in the 1970s is like Eastern Europe in
the horror set in 2005 in Slovakia... globalisation's paranoia,
there are still people out there who we can't ascribe
metaphors to being exclusive: no iron lady lifted the
iron curtain, the iron lady had an iron skirt, and she
couldn't lift that up either... Churchill puffer a cigar
and a million bees emerged heralded by Edward the Confessor.
that's the relation though, Hollywood's 1970's urban grit
and what the tourists encountered in Slovakia in 2005,
a sleepy kingdom, 2nd Mongolia, second to none,
which i beg to differ with, given the Scots were tight
stretching 2 pence copper coin to invent copper wire
and the Swiss (also in hilly surroundings) have us
elaborate paedophilia via Nabokov catching butterflies...
hardly two mountain ranges and hardly two plateaus.
it's called exotica these days... yep... the dissection of
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth and the emergence
of both Lach, Ukrainian, Lithuanian, Latvian, Estonian
and White Russian is what the Czech say made them
speak both cesky and saksonski... tseba! holy roman
prague ****, disintegrated into the Austrian intervention...
very much as if: thank you for defending Vienna from
the Ottomans, Jan Sobieski.
but the Jews got reparations at the end of the ordeal,
and western Europe received the Marshall Plan...
eastern Europe received Marx... too proud they said,
it's not exactly Mama Russia surrogate,
it's Papa Khan also... moon gall! no news from Mongolia
i hear, sooner a tale from an American zoo
where a retired silver-back dragged a baby from
drowning in an inch of water, hero shot,
where were the parents? a four year old can hardly
sit on a kitchen stool let alone climb over zoological
fortifications... ah the blessing given unto man
by Iblis to ape ably a delay he has no chastity over:
if Iblis defended his pride, then man can but
defend his chastity - Iblis was given a longer time-frame,
man was given a shorter time-frame, Iblis'
choice expands furthest into myth, man's choice
implodes further into repetition - for Iblis' mistake
was but one, when knowing of man's aplenty;
it is said that when a man is to become a father,
he relives his childhood - legality i say would have
obliged me, but pride took no notice of symbols as signatures
of such love, especially given the expenses,
or as in the supermarket today, the cashier invested ?
into the one buying the goods:
- where is she? you're not together any more?
- oh, she's moving to York, it's her work, she has to.
- you're not moving with her?
- well, it's only for 2 years, and then she'll be back,
  training, it will take her 4 months...
na'h ah... bye bye...                       she ain't coming back...
tell you what mate, keep a cat, the most selfish animal,
bestia ex solipsism - no necessary petting by constantly
showering it signs of jealousy and ownership and upkeep,
as if having to punch a gorilla to hold hands.
i love feminism for one thing only:
it made sexism a branch of Darwinism, *** warfare...
in relation to me? two girls chatting away:
- *******! how could he leave you!
- but he did!
- what ***** made him do it!
- philosophy!
don't get me started on those who read very little
and can't allow philosophy a poetic form, and necessarily
have to plagiarise Aristotelian stylistics to be considered
philosophy (albeit only in scholarly musings).
i'm sure it was something about the fruits of our
presupposed wisdom that bore knowledge that individuated
us, to the point of extremes, as hardly scraps for
vultures, to no animal nobleness, parasitic amongst each other,
defining the 16th century or such desires to keep
afresh, minted and pampered for the next cohort of dupes...
some find the memory of dogs towards us keener
than our fellow men should wish to share...
the animal domesticated and not eaten is seemingly our
prefect to walk toward a seize-less craft of un-exhausted thought,
only un-exhausted because of missing interaction,
say there, is that Hegel's mirror (master) and narcissus (slave)?
the emergence of these belittled nations is clear in
western europe, the bombing of Libya,
the usurpers of Syria, the once conquered having a taste
for empire and colonial rule think they cherish
the biblical conundrum when the resurrection was inclined toward
the lands Sven and Mietek - toward the lands
of conquerors and the ones converted -
four movements thus (sketched):
a. sonata: βορας ηλιος - μακεδων να ινδια
b. adagio: βιργιλιος ως καντηνoν -
                  μεσoγειος: μαυρος (ex),
κoκκινος (ex), ειρηνικoς (ex),
ατλαντικoς (ex), βoρειος (ex), βαλτικη (ex),
south a poet, north a philosopher,
from only one sea came two oceans and many other seas
to sustain the thirst for seawater among men!    
c. scherzo: Casimir the 3rd welcoming the Jews.
d. sonata: an die mitternachtfreude - more like a calm
before taking up the arms.

I.  Father
A folded spiral delicately assembled, nestled in modernity feigning a place in nature. Round and round her made and found ingredients turn, creating a circle whose beginning and ending sit so close that they almost touch. Her circle extends far beyond the nest she is building, extends without shifting into her mother’s laden cycle. Bird, earth, man; at the extremities of their existences they are separated no longer. The old man’s limbs sit heavy, their frailty relieving them of the weight of gravity that had, in their youth, banished the wind. Quietly he sways, lost in the rhythm of terrestrial orbit that seems to beat louder with each passing day. I see the thoughts move about his stoic face, like midwinter ice-skaters whose tracks become his wrinkles and whose unraveled scarves are caught in the same current that graces his cheeks like a kiss. I think he must have found the answer for which I am still seeking the question. I think he must know that the feathered ***** of native energy that speed like backyard bottle rockets through the air and pull worms like loose threads from the fabric of our mother’s coat will see morning’s glory blossom, and drink of its sweet nectar, and that he will become those flowers and breathe their roots up from  humid soil. I do not know where he goes when his eyes close like the wooden shutters that will soon be taken from the old brick house’s covered windows to close over a more somber cradle. I know when I mimic his tacit gesture I am in the singing robin’s nest at which he so tranquilly gazes, crying to the universe from the raw cords in my fragile neck for nourishment, for some magical substance, some divinely instructive stardust that would explain to me why the leaves shake just so and why, when our brilliant star hides his smoldering stare behind curved lids, I follow suit. I am new and unrefined and awake, and I can count the days of my existence like my still-wet and vital feathers that are too young yet to catch the wind. In this place God is a burgeoning emotion in my chest that speaks to the earth’s fertility, an abundance fed by the bodies of her fallen children. I am all of this and I know that in truth the old man thinks of nothing but the glowing atmosphere that fluctuates in both temperature and hostility, but is, at this moment, swaddling his broken form like the arms of a mother he will soon reclaim. The still branches of night are so laden with stars that they threaten to snap and come crashing down on the planet that sees them only as the ripened fruit of cosmic energy. Out of the night the emancipating wings of my consciousness flourish and are carried on stronger tides to see human expiration as the agent of enduring rebirth. Flight of body and soul bridge the gap between what was and what will be, closing the circle and guiding my solemn realization to fruition. The old man sleeps amidst a shower of home and sweet ****** bird-song. The wind that fails to wake his aged form smells like beginnings.



II. Son
The man is an ocean. He is reaching out to distant shores, spreading himself so thin at the edges that people can’t see where he ends and his country begins. The boy is a buoy, caught in a tide that never stops to wonder about the things it is moving. Buoys trust the ocean because they have to, they never had a choice. The two stand soul in soul at the crossways station of anticipation. The boy is silent. “He must know the way”, he thinks. “We’ve fought this war before. It was in a dream I had. I wrapped your arms around me like a cape and gravity couldn’t tell us what to do anymore. It was raining, I thought. Now I think those might just have been your tears coming back down on me. When gravity returned that was the first thing it took. It was so easy to cry when we could pretend the distance was only physical.” In this hub of passing voices and trans-Atlantic potential fear is a wide-eyed monster pretending to be a saint, wishing to be a child.   boy leaves Siddhartha’s white and glowing temple. The temple is surrounded with iron birds like transformers let loose from the pages of his comic book, rolled and folded like a hammer in his fist. His mind is an iron kettle whistling in the dark. His changing voice walks miles with words like his father’s back pocket bullets, shouting “I loved something once. Its name was a feeling. Its hands were the way the wind feels when you’re far from home. Its loneliness was a stone tower that I’m still trying to climb.” He sings an ode to a modern ocean, oily verses of pollution and corruption sinking morals like ships to be consumed and reborn to a better earth. He calls it a lullaby. I did not hear the last note played. His father forgot to sing it before his heels turned towards the old continent.

III. Spirit
Broken colors, reassembling, slow as the breeze that wanders and mocks the stationary world. I’m caught in a metamorphosis of mind, dancing a waltz of confession towards reality. Faces have faded, have bloomed from myth to speak in mortal voices, though their tongues be made of steel. Clouds of dust, caught in stray rays of northern sun, hang low over the aquatic murk, the impenetrable field of elemental strangers, and through them appear two figures. The first, his shoulders a bit too hunched and his gait a bit to staggered to be of this last generation, traces the perimeter of the pond with a studied poise; the latter figure comes into focus as he approaches the shore. I hear him calling, asking. I know he is asking even if the language he speaks is a foreign one. He pulls from under the surface a log, bent and creased like the aged arm that reaches out to assist. I am a ghost. I observe but rest immobile as if I am alive only in essence, existing for a moment in the corpse of the past. A fly on the wall whose chiseled stones tower over this piece of eternity. There is so much of forever piled within these walls, and in a desperate search for meaning I am left to drift away on waves that crash miles above this fortress of sand and early-summer expectance. The two continue, the boy taking two steps for every one of his grandfather’s. The possibility is never brought forth that they will reach me; I am not a part of the scene unfolding, I do not hold a piece in this game. Still… the wind coaxes the breath out of my silent lips, left powerless by the immensity of the incommunicable. I’ve forgotten the boy, forgotten his red jacket and his boots that slap the mud and his legs that propel his body up and down just to hear the sound the earth makes when he lands. He is beside me. I know this like I know the location of my own two feet, currently sunk into the shaded conglomeration of dirt and fallen leaves that makes up the bottom of the inky pond. I turn and for a moment wonder if he can see me, for I am but a ghost in most modern senses of the term. But he doesn’t know that- he has yet to see death or destitution. He knows nothing of ghosts, and therefore sees me clear as the blue eyes through which he looks in wonder. Those eyes! How could I forget their inquisitive stare, whose innocent gaze stole from my image all that it could not accept, all of the melancholy reflection and grief of which it knew not. Long and long he stayed unblinking, tugging on loose threads of my being, ever unaware of their significance. Somewhere by the path-side, under trees that bow and sway his grandfather calls- his voice is heavy with a familiar tone that I am unable to identify, like the call of a bird whose name you remember only when you are asked to recall it. Old and young part, hands intertwined in their forever-dance of humanity, playing games with age and expiration, laughing at the distance as if it were only there to make the known road less hospitable. The world is still. I am a spirit, no longer a ghost, rid of darkness, at least for the time it takes to refill my lungs with the gold-spun fabric of the universe, all bluebells and stardust at this moment and forever, and exhale away.

Sing to me, O dark vault of night.

The divine muse is upon me;
Up on my shoulders.
She doesn’t appear to have
anything instructive to say
apart from “And how the ruddy,
blasted, Viking-snogging,
******, ******, mother-defecating
hell did I get up here!?”

Inspiring words indeed.

There was an old man in a Marsh,
Whose manners were futile and harsh;
He sate on a log,
And sang songs to a frog,
That instructive old man in a Marsh.

Breathing dawn:
Cool breeze,
Quiet whirl,
Crumples in the purple cover,
Whiff of flowers from the wrinkled pillows,
Rumpled blankets,
Sleeping limbs stretching and awakening,
The call of feathered angels

Arising:
Bony copper-painted-toe-nailed feet
Slumping against a chilly wooden floor,
Burst of artificial light against reflecting tiles,
Water once smooth and clear in the bowl,
Red circular prints left on big brown thighs,
From lazy resting elbows,
The sound of a flush too loud,
Scalding hot water pounding,
Press of a thumb,
A minty blue worm

Preparing:
A wand and black coats from a baby blue bottle,
Soft white heads of cotton-buds turned black,
Timber home of nestling underwear,
Gray button,
Silver clip by the hip,
Spoon,
Chopstick,
Milk moustache,
Murmur of farewell

Starting:
Sliding elevator doors,
Buttons that light up with the warmth of my fingertip,
Then enters a stranger you’ve known all your life,
Awkward mouths moving,
Awkward Good morning,
Awkward lift silence,
Awkward who-goes-out-the-lift-first-and-who-holds-the-door politeness,
Awkward Goodbye,
Awkward realization they’re-coming-the-same-way,
Um, oh, hm? yeah…
Aversion.

Waking up:
Concrete walk,
Peeling red paint on rusty railings,
Moving figures,
Sunrays bouncing over murky polluted water,
Faces from a roaring water machine,
Same guy,
Same glaring pimple
White and yellow stripes

Bells the Dictator:
Piercing, infuriating shrill
Slamming doors
Pattering of running feet,
Instructive bossy voices,
Flick the switch,
Blinking electronic light,
Automatic finger exercise,
Droning lullabies,
Stifled yawns,
Quick chicken sandwich
Piercing, infuriating shrill,
Spark of inquisitive interest,
And there it… yes… dies,  
Remembering past mistakes are not always unpleasant,
Loud voices that encourage a fly-away imagination,
Numbers scrawled on a page,
Competition disguised as genuine interest and concern,
Inadequacy,
Arrogance,
Annoying shrill,
Stone steps,
Aching knees,
Clean plates dirtied with gravy,
Chilli specks swimming in soup,
Laughter,
Cluelessness given away by late laughter,
Fake un-sure smiles,
Laughter,
Pair of dark brown eyes,
Memories,
One secret hope,
A lifetime,
Big blue sky
Shrill,
Blanked-out,
Ashy stubble on a meaty discolored chin,
Shrill,
A boy with a guitar,
Mellow strumming,
That sweet earnest smile,
Another shrill too soon,
Lick of an eyelid,
Shiny shoes,
Squeaky floors,
Sweat,
Rosy cheeks,
The quick dance of a net with a ball,
Bruises blooming like inverted flower buds

Slowing-down:**
Clicking of plastic alphabets and symbols,
Dry patch of skin above the knee,
Itchy
Scratch
Scratch
Scratch
Big blue sky from the edge of a window sill,
Soaring, flying like an eagle up to the wispy white clouds,
Snaking through them like a sprinkler in the garden,
Blink of an eye,
Oh, a pile of homework,
***** statues behind glass,
Knocked down with a giant’s fist,
A great yellow eye with dilated pupils watching ferociously,
Sharp bob of my head,
Ahh, a pile of homework still waiting patiently
Give me a kiss and rest your hand on my head,
You know your love makes my day.

poetry can't be given the function of instructional language, the instructions akin to putting together a table... if philosophy excused it, and music over-shadowed it... poetry can only find a natural partner in painting - given these times, where painting has become so crude, no detailed forms in sight... philosophy excused the practice of poetry, yet it persisted, music overshadowed poetry with its crude lack of innovations due to rhyme - and so while painting debased itself from all the known schools, it found poetry in the depths eating its own tongue, and painting said: you might, you must as well welcome me into the golden ring of your crap couplets so we can call it marriage; personal affairs are inconsistent with this theorem, personal sacrifices or entanglements of jealousy - because that's the mediated love at a distance without a care for jurisprudence to delve into.*

a momentary guise of fame, less shadowy,
shaking pedestrians from their traffic orientation
of sleep, into a momentary  puppeteer show -
blink and blind what used to be
the pecked sockets by crows - indeed innocent fame
shakes pedestrians rather rather
acts to puppeteer - the public cannot be a nearly
and cleverly turned into puppets, they have the vote
after all - too many solemn victims
in the skin of masculine youth
braved their ship against the tyrannical sea,
and sea the failures, now - congregating apathy
as a democratic success - 'wake up! wake up! wake up!'
they won't wake up, hardly a wise concern,
encrust a perpetually solidified
populace source, create the atom for politics:
proton as power, neutron as the mediator
for the supposed non-existence of such a
power of attraction (dissolving civilisations
emerging as tribal affairs of necessary congregations)
and the mariner's disappearing trick
via bureaucratic consolidations - the r.n.a.
of democracy (d.n.a.) is bureaucracy -
please excuse my contentment at such a suggestion,
but please don't ask me to hold your hand
when you think language acts as vector formulae -
nothing supposed, non-instructive,
please don't ask for the caging of the animal
that's hunting in the wilderness of blank pages
readied for an anomaly of narration lessened in
recurrence that's a security of the oligarchs and
autocrats; the apathy of the right to vote also translated
as a transliteration of having a political opinion -
a new "transliterate" - to craft secondary meanings
for those nearby of mutual opinion -
but beyond the egg of centred yoke and gooey
white uncooked protein and shell into an educational
dispersion of apparently educational rubric of
the existence of easily wavering synonyms -
trust zoom and the goldsmith go-go taste of acid -
is language in the possession of poets always to be
made instructive? why... let me get my xylophone out
and play you the songs of the nativity play...
maybe that will work? maybe language ought to look
like joseph merrick rather than jane austen?
let's say that conversation took place in a crowded place -
and we also said that there was freedom
from techniques that were used to easily identify
an expression to get the tag: poetry... hmm?
anything to do with scraps of leftovers can be called
the new poetry - neo poetics - the ars is gone -
the art is no longer really identifiable as such -
imagine poetry with its rhymes to be like
playing a tennis ball against a wall, you're hitting
the same note to make it a couplet, but then
ask yourself, why no coupling in music?
some fame is here for the shaking of pedestrians
rather than the allowances of a puppeteer -
but the true fame, the fame kindred of power
involves the lost entertainment of the pedestrians,
the fame of being a puppeteer rather than
an entertainer - obviously had i  watch
and you asked me on the street what time it was,
i would have replied the obvious of, say, 8 p.m.,
nearing sunset in april - obviously that's stating
the obvious; i rather not crave shaking pedestrians
into becoming an aquarium of a spectacle -
i prefer those who chose the chance to become
puppeteers - lessened chance of becoming
a photosensitive epileptic on the red carpet.

Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge,
That with its wearisome but needful length
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,
He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spatter'd boots, strapp'd waist, and frozen locks;
News from all nations lumb'ring at his back.
True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind,
Yet careless what he brings, his one concern
Is to conduct it to the destin'd inn:
And, having dropp'd th' expected bag, pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;
To him indiff'rent whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks,
Births, deaths, and marriages, epistles wet
With tears that trickled down the writer's cheeks
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill,
Or charg'd with am'rous sighs of absent swains,
Or nymphs responsive, equally affect
His horse and him, unconscious of them all.
But oh th' important budget! usher'd in
With such heart-shaking music, who can say
What are its tidings? have our troops awak'd?
Or do they still, as if with ***** drugg'd,
Snore to the murmurs of th' Atlantic wave?
Is India free? and does she wear her plum'd
And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace,
Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the **** reply,
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh--I long to know them all;
I burn to set th' imprison'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utt'rance once again.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful ev'ning in.
Not such his ev'ning, who with shining face
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeez'd
And bor'd with elbow-points through both his sides,
Out-scolds the ranting actor on the stage:
Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb,
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage,
Or placemen, all tranquility and smiles.
This folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not ev'n critics criticise; that holds
Inquisitive attention, while I read,
Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break;
What is it, but a map of busy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?...


Oh winter, ruler of th' inverted year,
Thy scatter'd hair with sleet like ashes fill'd,
Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks
Fring'd with a beard made white with other snows
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapp'd in clouds,
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,
But urg'd by storms along its slipp'ry way,
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,
And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the sun
A pris'ner in the yet undawning east,
Short'ning his journey between morn and noon,
And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,
Down to the rosy west; but kindly still
Compensating his loss with added hours
Of social converse and instructive ease,
And gath'ring, at short notice, in one group
The family dispers'd, and fixing thought,
Not less dispers'd by day-light and its cares.
I crown thee king of intimate delights,
Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted ev'ning, know.
No rattling wheels stop short before these gates;
No powder'd pert proficient in the art
Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors
Till the street rings; no stationary steeds
Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound,
The silent circle fan themselves, and quake:
But here the needle plies its busy task,
The pattern grows, the well-depicted flow'r,
Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn,
Unfolds its *****; buds, and leaves, and sprigs,
And curling tendrils, gracefully dispos'd,
Follow the nimble finger of the fair;
A wreath that cannot fade, or flow'rs that blow
With most success when all besides decay.
The poet's or historian's page, by one
Made vocal for th' amusement of the rest;
The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds
The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out;
And the clear voice symphonious, yet distinct,
And in the charming strife triumphant still;
Beguile the night, and set a keener edge
On female industry: the threaded steel
Flies swiftly, and, unfelt, the task proceeds.
The volume clos'd, the customary rites
Of the last meal commence. A Roman meal;
Such as the mistress of the world once found
Delicious, when her patriots of high note,
Perhaps by moonlight, at their humble doors,
And under an old oak's domestic shade,
Enjoy'd--spare feast!--a radish and an egg!
Discourse ensues, not trivial, yet not dull,
Nor such as with a frown forbids the play
Of fancy, or proscribes the sound of mirth:
Nor do we madly, like an impious world,
Who deem religion frenzy, and the God
That made them an intruder on their joys,
Start at his awful name, or deem his praise
A jarring note. Themes of a graver tone,
Exciting oft our gratitude and love,
While we retrace with mem'ry's pointing wand,
That calls the past to our exact review,
The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare,
The disappointed foe, deliv'rance found
Unlook'd for, life preserv'd and peace restor'd--
Fruits of omnipotent eternal love.
Oh ev'nings worthy of the gods! exclaim'd
The Sabine bard. Oh ev'nings, I reply,
More to be priz'd and coveted than yours,
As more illumin'd, and with nobler truths.
That I, and mine, and those we love, enjoy....

PREFACE

If---and the thing is wildly possible---the charge of writing
nonsense were ever brought against the author of this brief but
instructive poem, it would be based, I feel convinced, on the line

''Then the bowsprit got mixed with the rudder sometimes''

In view of this painful possibility, I will not (as I might) appeal
indignantly to my other writings as a proof that I am incapable of
such a deed: I will not (as I might) point to the strong moral
purpose of this poem itself, to the arithmetical principles so
cautiously inculcated in it, or to its noble teachings in Natural
History---I will take the more prosaic course of simply explaining
how it happened.

The Bellman, who was almost morbidly sensitive about appearances,
used to have the bowsprit unshipped once or twice a week to be
revarnished, and it more than once happened, when the time came for
replacing it, that no one on board could remember which end of the
ship it belonged to. They knew it was not of the slightest use to
appeal to the Bellman about it---he would only refer to his Naval
Code, and read out in pathetic tones Admiralty Instructions which
none of them had ever been able to understand---so it generally ended
in its being fastened on, anyhow, across the rudder. The helmsman
used to stand by with tears in his eyes: he knew it was all wrong,
but alas! Rule 42 of the Code, ''No one shall speak to the Man at the
Helm'', had been completed by the Bellman himself with the words
''and the Man at the Helm shall speak to no one''. So remonstrance
was impossible, and no steering could be done till the next
varnishing day. During these bewildering intervals the ship usually
sailed backwards.

This office was usually undertaken by the Boots, who found in it
a refuge from the Baker's constant complaints about the insufficient
blacking of his three pairs of boots.

As this poem is to some extent connected with the lay of the
Jabberwock, let me take this opportunity of answering a question that
has often been asked me, how to pronounce ''slithy toves''. The
''i'' in ''slithy'' is long, as in ''writhe''; and ''toves'' is
pronounced so as to rhyme with ''groves''. Again, the first ''o'' in
''borogoves'' is pronounced like the ''o'' in ''borrow''. I have
heard people try to give it the sound of the ''o'' in ''worry''.
Such is Human Perversity.

This also seems a fitting occasion to notice the other hard words in
that poem. Humpty-Dumpty's theory, of two meanings packed into one
word like a portmanteau, seems to me the right explanation for all.

For instance, take the two words ''fuming'' and ''furious''. Make up
your mind that you will say both words, but leave it unsettled which
you will say first. Now open your mouth and speak. If your thoughts
incline ever so little towards ''fuming'', you will say
''fuming-furious''; if they turn, by even a hair's breadth, towards
''furious'', you will say ''furious-fuming''; but if you have that
rarest of gifts, a perfectly balanced mind, you will say
''frumious''.

Supposing that, when Pistol uttered the well-known words---

''Under which king, Bezonian? Speak or die!''

Justice Shallow had felt certain that it was either William or
Richard, but had not been able to settle which, so that he could not
possibly say either name before the other, can it be doubted that,
rather than die, he would have gasped out ''Rilchiam!''.

Go the distance

Lord you know we lost one of our own today a young mother with four babies under seven reminiscent of robin out home had five
Jesus this is what everyone living faces I need to speak I don’t neglect them I never look at them with shallow looks my interest are
Their eternal souls this is occurrence calls for self examination taking spiritual inventory but lord my soul is dry only dust lies where rich
Waters should be standing then though I clean out the debris it comes blown in daily by the world that is fallen its power its influence
Fanned by our enemy the devil welcomed by our fallen nature I stood in the shower and wept bitter tears standing against a natural
Wall but it makes me know I am at the wall of my soul I was going to consult metaphysical books to address soulful areas I have
Lincoln and Jefferson books here they lived lives of great difficulty from this uttered words of reason that still burn and scorch time
And places where mundane edifices needed clearing and replaced with structures that held magnificence as there enduring building
Material please let me see and hear the spiritual waters flowing into my soul that it fills then over flows out to the needy the hopeless
And the helpless they have to go the distance all else is fearful and treacherous ground live a lifetime and then to late discover it only
Led to ruin take off the blinders put on spiritual glasses read the word realize the showers of blessings that are promised we have to go
Back to childhood no adult would think about standing in the rain but what trills and fun we used to know the banging thunder we used
To say angels dropped a vegetable in heaven off of a wagon then wet freezing run up on the porch warm up physically but also on the
Inside talking to one another how wonderful we go to church feel your spirit know and feel such sweetness outwardly all the way
Down in our souls no experience on earth compares whats the problem all of our loved ones from school and life are at home
Watching some drivel being spoon fed some harmful leads they create desires that will finally place you in insurmountable
Circumstances the no way out death trap while our blessing is sweet all consuming instructive peaceful like dreams of high lovely
Nature yes we get attacked in quick order but those blessings were fortifying it put armor about your life and concerns are quickly
Dissolved in holy prayer and meditations someone setting on the couch or worse a bar stool misses these protective modes that
Create survival and success only problem he still has to go the distance provide and guide his family but with inferior ineffective
Means of support he is soon over whelmed and leads to more drinking and instability and eventually dire straits and then complete
Collapse we need reinforcement in a true sense spread the word of God before you walk then your steps will be sure and it will be a
Lamp unto your feet we are in a darkened troubled world caution steadied hands held by divine messengers will win the day and then
The next day at the end it adds up to a life your proud of an the exit unto eternity won’t be terrifying it will be like for Tamara
Electrifying walk from love coming at intervals to the flood your swimming in it and the peace I had this experience my sister died back
Here we spent Christmas at Disneyland was going to stay longer then decided to go on home but just stop in Paso to break up the trip
I believe she died when I was out in the San Sequin valley a storm came up while driving on interstate five all kinds of debris flew up in
Front of the car I had a very eerie feeling I felt something sinister as I went back over the time and it difference to Illinois time it was
When she died we checked in to the the Adelaide inn the room filled with a peace other worldly it was so strong I was actually trying to
See the heavenly visitor who had to be responsible it was so great we stayed extra days we couldn’t leave the song comes to mind
He looked beyond my fault and saw my need I didn’t know but God knew he took care of me without me understanding why that’s’
What I want for all of you that are out of the arc of safety hell was made for the devil but man made it part of his reality by the fall
Jesus is calling no one ever spoke your name like he does please cry to him its eternal rewards hanging in the balance.

The year is going. It must leave. Let it go and bring in the new. There's no way to stop time, no amount of human effort that can accomplish the impossible. So we must go with time's instructive hands to move forward. Otherwise, we would only inhibit ourselves in the fruitless process. We would be robbed of the gift of the here and now, and never look upon the horizon for a prospect of our future.

In the year, some of us lost loved ones. Those memories can always remain, for neither time nor decay can deny us their gift. Perhaps, the year was good, and it is a great time to reflect at this point. Perhaps, it was riddled with regrets. Learn from those things and forgive yourselves. Grudges that have festered need to be cleansed from our conscious efforts, as cancer is removed from one who is getting a second chance at life.

I talk of this from experience.

New Year's resolutions can seem like frivolous or empty promises. That is why many give little credence to them. But to rethink one's life path is the right idea, and I say that we don't need to put up a new calendar to do this. Any time is the right time for that, whether it be January or December--or anytime in between.

The year is going. It is fading away soon, into its proper place in history. Bid it farewell, for it had its run, but it must make way for its youthful, less-experienced replacement. Look upon in it with hope and perseverance.

Goodbye 2013

anyone spot what's so wrong with these?

Al Muhajirat
@ummmuthana2
sisters come to the land of freedom!
we have everything here for you...
Dawla university to learn your deen
and practice what you learn!        meaning religion in Arabic

first of all... can you please string-me a
complete sentence in fluent Arabic,
then add the relevant idiosyncratic
markings of geopolitical: here's Scottish
with a fragrance of Yiddish,
here's Welsh, and here's Northern Irish...
no, seriously, i'd come with my spare clothes
and tent, but i want you to encourage me
to do so in fluent Arabic,
otherwise you just sound like some Jehovah's
witness strawberry picking (not even
random words but) established words...
in the times of the quasi I.R.A.,
so much for home comforts,
like **** will i ever abandon the sedative properties
of alcohol... fair enough on
the Ram Bam Dam month - fasting does make
me focused... i'm just waiting for someone
to find my writing so offensive as to **** me,
properly, so i'm dead, not this puny amateur
crap that leaves me partially disabled from
the life i used to live: mainly Spartan,
physically; can you ******* just do it properly?
i'm tired of faking death, even death is
*******... it's like a case of Rasputin...
when is that ******* going to die?

Oum Dharr Ash Shaami
@UkhtiB
Wallah, your family will be the biggest
test for you once you make Hijrah. They're
either with you or without you.
                     i swear to god
               and Mecca to Medina 622 trip
    respectively...
                                 so you're basically saying
that northern people were Vegan turnip pickers
while the dawn of civilisation came from
Palm Springs and the shaking of coconuts?
my ancestors must have really loved the horseradish,
and given what the end product of monotheism
gave us: globalisation, and this frightening media-centred
origin of all things... mine's quiet obscure
in all honesty, and i like it like that...
thank god for Scandinavian mythology being
remembered, i'd call the Slavic history a complete
success on ethnic cleaning with the incorporation of
Christianity, the prime ethnic cleanser tool...
what a great improvement...
               haggling with the Irish, are you?
well... save me a spot when the next congregation
of Worms takes off... i'd love to don a bishop's headgear
and spit into a burning fire to get a sizzling critique back...
call it bacon? i'd call it anything i'd like.
eat bacon, economise salt.
                                               and no, god isn't taken
seriously, never was, never will be,
                                we have too much human potential to
risk in not expressing itself: humanism,
or another word for it? making tyrants the prime fetish...
not bedroom fetish... real life,
                 on the public pavement fetish:
we love them! we pet them like cats...
until they mature into people that gauge out
the cats' eyes... Vladdy Vladdy Vladdy...
a Sr. Christopher Wren man of kindred spirit would
really love to see St. Basil's Cathedral once more,
like he might want to see the orange of a carrot,
or the yellow of banana, but not necessarily
the van Gogh sunflower covert gay ****;
i heard it, it comes from the ****, the great big blank
entombed in the great big bang...
what a great choice of words to describe our history...
big... bang... a blue balloon would do just fine...
and for all that censoring of subjectivity in the west...
all that censoring of subjectivity?
means we all share one concept,
      the most tyrannical form of government,
not democratic, but autocratic, meaning we accept
everything on an Utopian level...
it's Belgium alright, flat as a pancake...
the plagiarism plateau - we all sound alike,
feel alike, isolated, redundant, and most probably
prone to terrorism and such-like adventures...
the BBC went bankrupt because of the Jimmy scandal...
Blue Peter's ship was capsized by the tears of
irrefutable lack of judgemental destiny...
Disney... well, Disney's just a placebo drug:
it eventual-ise / -ize / -eyes, something becoming
eventual, incremental revisionism toward
a predictable result - Disney placebo L.S.D. -
more from the tweets from Twatter

Umm Dujana Britaniya
@UmmDujji
Sisters who want to help making hijrah can
contact me on surespot: UmmDujji May Allah
put us on a path that will please him most.
                                          a secure messaging service.

and finally
Bakr Britanyia
@OmmBakr
food free... house free... ya3ni (like, in Arabic)
                           that's it, i'm done,
i've never seen a language incur so many mutilations,
it's not even funny, it goes way beyond circumcision,
or tattoos, or piercing... it's revolting...
                             ya free knee
                                       ya fry fri? huh?
                     ya free nigh?
                                     3 3 3 e...
        *******...
                                       when is this ****** carousel
going to stop?! neveR?           oh, i like that,
write a capital letter at the end of the word
when asking to revel in dropping the exclamation mark
ditto: neveR?              v. never?!
                                                         ­       yes,
language and the entrusted phonetic codices entrusted
to me are what Thesaurus Rex does to the dictionary,
a multiplier, and a Bach sympathiser, he
engages in language polyphony, i.e. synonymous
covert tactics of saying the same **** via
the long-way-round... bubble gum Gilgamesh...
i've seen weird **** done in the English cuisine:
sandwiches with crisps in them,
i've seen chips in buns... but come on... avocado
on toast?! what's wrong with guacamole?
that's why i mentioned Gilgamesh, say g g g,
you know, acquiring a vocabulary is one thing,
practising it effectively is another... and succumbing to
mortal pangs is yet another...
                                  and i can't do crosswords for
the love life... it's just BLANK...
                                        i don't treat language
as a way to learn in, and then waste it on games...
this is this and that is that... clear division...

nonetheless i'm still peeved about these tweets...
i'm betting the same people who endorse
a full competence of Arabic have these kind of minions
who they keep restrained by only spitting out
a few Arabic words, and only signifying words,
instructive words, not anything resembling ego...
which is a shame, ****** unconvincing mind you,
i'd love to do a Byron scenario with them,
but it's the barbarism of their fake adaptation
of Arabic that is worse than their beheading propaganda...

*a jak chcesz? to ci po Polsku też coś zaśpiewam, gnoju.

get your ***** ******* grubs off of me,
i am not going to bargain
a cartesian dualism with the notion
that the body can overcome the mind
with exercise gimmicks:
you, *******, guinea nimwit!
        i used to slap my grandfather's
sheen on a bold, but otherwise
bald cranium for jokes,
  and flick his remaining hairs into
the air to reveal a hidden jack
nicholson, i also called the police
and had him institutionalised with
psychiatric aid, for throwing my
grandmother through a glass door and
breaking her arm...
       me?! you'll get more
apologetic "nuance" about drinking
from a priest than from, me!
         i turn ugly, silently,
       i just abhore this antique deal
with descartes,
               i don't know why why that
the body can overcome the mind...
or why blankety-blank trivia is to solve
the matter...
or whether pumping iron helps...
      by this point i''m not writing:
i'm coal-mining, i'm digging...
               the body, however perfect
will not unravel the problems of the mind,
attaining body antics perfected only
stalls the otherwise still present:
problems of the mind.
                       toxicology reports read:
adrenaline *****.
             sebastian mc'queer miss-match
between a cocktail waitress,
  a ******* bunny and a bartender named:
shteeve.
                 ******* waste of time
by my rubric of arithmetic...
  but at least ben affleck wasn't the worst
batman,
      we all know that george clooney was.
we have finally arrived at a loss
of mind-body dualism,
   we have achieved a dichotomy,
finally!
       we can, for the first time,
fathom clear segregating posits,
indicators,
                    membranes!
whatever noun you use -
                 the joke about schizophrenia,
is that it's not a joke concerning
        premature depression -
premature depression is more unusual
than premature dementia -
      there's the bicimeral theory
to begin with...
           unless of course you're dealing
with snowflakes who want languaage
as rigid as possible,
      readied for the acceptance of it,
like any type of i.k.e.a. put it together,
yourself, manual...
the mundane aspect of the whole affair
only breeds a gagging effect,
like choking on a 12" **** with your nose
pinched-shut,
  ******* disgusting;
  if i really wanted to draw a straight line
i wouldn't necessarily obligate language
to latex ******* *******...
           i'd be the one
adding oil to the fire, and wanting
unadulterated chaos,
  before the hell-fire focus of: inferno...
for language is just that:
   i abhor the term poet,
i prefer the term...
                               pyrotechnician...
i do not write poetry:
   i cement myself in pyrotechnics.
    i abhor this dualism -
            this notion that a sick mind can
be mended by being worked on by
a invigorated body,
      or that a sick body can be mended by
being worked on by an
invigorated mind...
   odd... to have such vehement emotions
surrounds a mere idea...
that there is no mind-body dualism,
but that there's a mind-body dichotomy...
and that there's only a mind-mind dualism
that, given the cartesian concept brideges
upon the res extensa: the extended thing,
whereby the mind-mind dualism
disintegrates when the notion of a, soul,
is involved / invested in,
perhaps as concrete rubric, or perhaps
as a mere cognitive, hobby...
  let us simply add:
   there are those who bow and pray and
pay due diligence to a god...
  while others, neither procrastinate themselves,
nor day allegiance to a, deity -
for there is so much more involvement in
entertaining the thought of a...
deity...
             and these cognitive
acrobatics never allow for a yawn
to be present, in their ritualistic endeavours,
with due need, or due, cause.

p.s. i think people really underestimate
schizophrenics, the abnormality of it
is fascinating...
      as is the case with the endeavour of
finding a soul, or as i like to call it:
the osmosis of psyche overpowering the mind,
and creating a mind-body dichotomy
rather than enforcing a mind-body "dualism"...
psychosis.
                   it's a shame how people
under-appreciate a mind-mind dualism...
a dualism, split, yet nonetheless whole...
     cf. julian jaynes...
                      but what isn't fascinating
is premature depression...
   that's just plain ******* tragic...
i can understand depression in old people,
who have actually accomplished something
in their lives...
but when it concerns youngsters?
completely unfathomable and
                    uninteresting to me,
on the basis that it's so abnormal that
it's suicidal and completely averted to
the otherwise schizoid exploratory tendency
of reintegrating a disintegrating form
of language structure... perhaps that's
a post-modernist statement...
but the "sane" always cite
being perplexed by language that's:
   non-instructive; b'aah b'aah...
******* herds, do we always have to whip
them into submission and cohort?
  yes, yes, the open end hyphen grammar
   -cohort-, that's transcendental grammar,
it's not supposed to be a noun,
rather, an adjective by-and-of-itself
revealing of the submissive character of
strict, military, discipline!
my ambition was never to write
a ******* i.k.e.a. manual for a: do it yourself
take on a folding chair!

is there a point, writing? not really? i was expected
to be an engineer... she was the housewife poet...
thanks! well... you can have your empty hall of "fame"...
what now? i am the failure,
he the saviour, society demands
bicycles constructed  by a one handed man...
i'd deep fry my own mother... you hear?
i'll **** your mother, dead, in hell...
while cutting my own mother's tongue out...
women, money, that's all they care about!
******* leeches! get them away from me!
suckling in an inversion of the baby...
these "things" compensating
for giving birth... as women do,
well enough... to compensate the
parasitism of foetuses...
abortion criticism: p'hah! prolong that p...
keep your church... ontology is versus biology...
counter-intuitive, i am sure...
by man, a woman is born,
by woman, a man is dead,
am i to be thankful? really?!
    really?! thankful?! i have to aspire
to this diabolical union of opposites?
       what am i, a ******* sadist?!
it's enough that i'm alive,
and having to revise birth with suicide,
that i am to suddenly to give a ****
about an ageing mother?!
thank **** that i've written enough
to contend with only a few
cult-like readers...
      i'd hate my work to encourage
comic book accessibility...
      i didn't write for the purpose
of volume, rather? a sieve...
             a well fed pole is lazy,
an underfed pole is angry:
right now? i'm angry, but there is
absolutely no excuse to pacify genuine
anger...
     to keep on pacifying anger you keep
intensifying it...
    just keep pacifying & inhibiting anger...
you won't get any more jazz...
   i'll feed you twice the auschwitz!
and now you'll pacify this drunk exasperation...
whatever: dodo the rest;
white women have become like
iron maiden furniture: a tad bit uncomfortable
to live with, let alone sit on...
   so i'm really supposed to be thankful to england?
for sheltering would-be murderers?!
am i? jews, russians & arabs the entire lot
of "worthy" citizens?! really?
my my... applause! applause you *******!!!
i'll start nibbling on my toenails if you
ask politely...
             they say power: i say bribe -
or? passing off & on responsibility -
              nothing interesting,
just another pitiable affair of a venetian carnival
hard-on...
       but in the days, when a mother
overshadows her son, by respecting her son's
would be killer, and sees her son as only:
80 years old, providing enough money for a carer...
well...
             sorry mum... ask and plead elsewhere...
you have that russian empire banknote
you stole from a jew...
      should i be afraid? then again,
that woman's family, mostly her grandchildren
didn't care to see her, as much as i did,
hence i received the gift, and her grandchildren
received jack-****...
      flip a join, flip a join, see whether
there's any purpose to the staged gamble...
england... a tough idea to reinvent the necessity
and the desire, let alone purpose or chance,
of what happened with the beatles, the rolling stones,
led zeppelin & black sabbath...
**** me: history doesn't replicate itself that fast,
and esp. in the same place...
       you know the anglophone world is trying
too hard... you know it... because nothing
of worth is materialising...
         write enough to construct a labyrinth...
and when writing enough,
   by volume, rather than context: you get
the chances to hide the essential components
of revelation...
   write to construct a labyrinth...
           oddly enough? a form of the uttermost
mode of escapism...
                      write as little as you care to
attain in summary of:
glass people - in glass houses...
very much a mob throw of the dice...
    that it becomes...
             quality is irrelevant,
                       quality is in perpetual fluctuation...
it's never a plateau foundationalism...
    or? never settled by a foundation
       of a plateau...
        rhyme otherwise - juggle grammatical
terms of the same word, within the dynamic of two,
and you have a "rhyme"...
       i am not here to make language easy,
or, to be honest: instructive...
       why make language instructive,
when we are here to make language obstructive,
ingenious, originary?
     bedtime stories are stories my "friend"...
who are you to fool by only writing
instructive language, despotic language,
language of ikea manuals for putting up
a set of shelves, or despotic enough in writing
finicky qualms of "law" revisionism?

What is Real Love?
Love is unconditional. Is unexpected.. its understands. Its supportive. Its reliable. Its honest. Its giving. Its deep. Its powerful. Its a satisfying. Its dramatic. Its long- suffering .Its passionate. Its humble. Its attraction. Its desirable. It's unstoppable. Its intense. It's motivating.its sacrificing. It's discerning. Its diverse. It evolves. Its secure.  It multiplies, divides adds and sometimes it even subtract but who says you cant get it back.. It's loyal. It's obedient.

It's strong. It's bold. It's informative. It's helpful. It's caring. It's sharing.It's fair. It's Justice. Its a rhythm. It's a melody. It's respectable. It's forgiving. It's provides. It's self sacrificing. It moves. It feeds. It seeks. It needs. It satisfies. It doesn't lie. It never hides.
It's ensuring. It's healing. It's encouraging. It's righteous. It's good. It's deliciousness. It's sweet. Its satisfying. It's beautiful. It's submissive. Its Peaceful. Its giving.Its salvation. It's inspiring. Its joyfully.. It's tender. It's merciful. It's trusting. It blossom and also blooms. It Ticks and Tocks and It twist and it turns. It believes.

It discover's. Its kind.  Its  reasonable. Its Instructive. It pays attention. Its admiring. Its creative. Its nurturing. Its Determined. It protects and defense. Its honorable. Its promising. Its balance. Its adorable. Its Adaptable. It bears all things. It's soothing. Its relaxing. Its mildness.Its comforting.It's enduring.  Its healing. It's rejuvenating. It disciplines but only in a righteous way. It uses self control. Love makes everything feel right.  It makes your heart rejoice. Its Pure. Its happiness.  Its priceless

There is many levels to love.

Love in a imperfect world, you get confused with what the word really means !.. Love takes hard work to make it continue. So
Treating everything with love and love we never leave you. Because love never fails!

By: Cedric McClester

The law applies to all
So when the mighty fall
Just like the rest of us -  y’all
They hear the clarion call
When asked - Oh yes indeed!
They do regret their greed
So no matter their misdeed
For leniency they plead

And let’s keep it real
Cuz they’re not made of steel
They’d like to cut a deal
Found guilty they’ll appeal
And baby I’m not lyin’
By accident or design
Without them even tryin’
They’re lookin’ at big time

When they’re cut down to size
It makes you realize
They fall quicker than they rise
Right before our eyes
Past actions sealed their fate
But it’s no cause to celebrate
Cuz they got crushed under the weight
And they learned that lesson late

So you ask for the deductive?
It should serve to be instructive
Not at all counterproductive
How greed can be seductive
Although they celluloid it
By all means just avoid it
There’s no need to Sigmund Freud it
Just because they once enjoyed it


































Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015.  All rights reserved.

'magic is only skin deep, these days' she said.

sitting alone, surrounded by hard beats and breaking glass, music boxes crashing down stairs and then being axed.

such aural assault lends itself to thinking...

'take the blackest spell and tie it around my little finger' she said.

i am the last of my house here. they are all gone, now. memory lends such things nostalgia, or perhaps nostalgia lends such things vibrant memory. we are hardly, if ever, aware of history. portentous events only happen in hindsight. you cannot be aware of the memory of a great day if you are mentally recording it as such.

'look. look at the sky falling with such violence. if only these eyes could do the same.' she said.

walking through the black slick streets, watching people talking to themselves. when did the switch happen? are you talking to yourself or on a cell phone? what is the difference...('not as much as you might think' says the voice that calls me at these times, when i am walking alone on those same cold, dark, glittering streets.)

i can ask you no more. would it be any different if i demanded? i find a certain boring arrogance in demands, a weakness perhaps. people should just fall to your will, without (too) many words being spoken. the artistry lies in making them believe they do it of their own volition.

'volition. to violate in the most intrusive, not to say intimate way.' she said.

never mess with a beautiful girl who mixes her metaphors.

the dark underbelly of a given city is almost always (i never say always, i never say never. never fall into the trap of exclusion) more instructive then the civilized front. this city has such a cold, permeating darkness.

if you fall to the devil here, you fall alone.

'turn a blind ear, vacillate between if you will. touch me not! observation contaminates.'

and he comes over in the afternoon, his wife is pregnant,
   she also had an abortion with the love
of her life... and he says i am diseased...
as i once said to a pensioner
in a park: cut words open and feel
less than a sucker's punch,
dis- (negation) of -ease... yes,
i'm bound to being denied a cradling of ease,
your quick syllable punctures are no wit to be
celebrated...
         i thought i gave back enough that was
necessary... but this madman of a neighbour complains
that i sometimes laugh in the night:
   because i am bound to tomorrow with aeons
toward the future, and aeons toward
  Darwinistic falsification of history...
          because where is the octopus ontology ****
up to the wall of intestines like a tapeworm,
as what point, exactly?
                  i sorta forgive that grievance,
even though i'm sitting in the living room,
and he picks up a package that's been left in my house...
           because the high-street has suddenly
evaporated... the rich are making the middletons
claustrophobic too... i could never buy the music
or the books i read these days when skimming the annals
of what's worthy of being bought, with the money i earn.
   it submerged, not even an anarchist bookshop
takes my fancy... but this **** of a neighbour comes
by and suggests i could ****** my mother,
              the same neighbour who ushers in politics of
gardens... a branch fell onto his side of the fence,
                   he throws it over to my side and crushes
the daffodils without much thought...
there are homeless people out there,
    and he complains that i syringed too much life into
my one chance to be here, to have the audacity to
laugh like a fox, to sometimes hum, and to sometimes
sing aloud...
      and he complains that it cost him too much money
from moving from the rear bedroom and into the front
bedroom... oh kiddly pauper, how poor you must be,
to have never had the capacity to laugh on your own.
   i listen to these Balkan guys angry at Sweden,
  i know the language like a Belgian and still that's not
enough... if national pride really bound to
a religiosity of fish & chips on a Friday, and skinhead
chanting at a football match at a London derby?
       should i say: sign me up!?
           all he had to do is move room...
he didn't have to sleep rough...
                what a swarm of ants in the *** that must be...
          because one man managed to laugh...
as it always does: concentrates on women...
           i must come from Mongolia to be honest,
how i find English women unappealing in terms of
companionship... the ridicule comes when a people
are unearthed and side with Israel...
                as the landowning class for a region bound
to Prussia and the Austro-Hungarian chattering maiden:
  Jan Sobieski (now a pop *****) and the siege of
Vienna...
                  we have so much prejudiced history tattooed
into our psyche, lukewarm 100 year old stuff...
   and out-of-the-blue, we're expected to bleach all of it,
somehow accept a dialogue that's merchant talk
     and a community clarification...
    the same neighbour has the same audacity to claim
i have a medical problem, and that his labouring wife
is the most-endearing hope for company...
  i just sat there on the sofa while he blah-blahed
his way into receiving the package...
             i could have emerged from my slumber and
faced slander to knuckle with piercing eyes...
   but i preferred sleeping for 2 hours on the sofa
while words turned into daggers...
it's just that part of me that suggests...
   for my knowledge of the English language,
  i have no need to debase myself with crude Englishness,
to invest in post-colonial ambition to right-away-the-elder-wrongs...
you know the first time you wear a cotton jumper
and you just itch? it's like that...
               i own language, language has no right to own me,
i tell language what to do, language doesn't tell me who
to identify with or as such identifiable with the thus said...
     plus... if someone agitated me over an intellectual
problem i might have emerged hearing slander against me,
but as they say: **** stinks, don't touch it.
    i once made brother of en Egyptian childhood friend,
every day since he chose olive skin solidarity
i've been heard citing a very pointless mea culpa,
              for i too could have been wiser
in not forming childhood friendships - and being a hermit
for 9 years and counting: i don't ever think
to engage in intimacy, other than with Puerto Rican
prostitutes in Amsterdam, or Bulgarian madames in
London... i don't know why they said they were
Romanians... the one word gave them away:
the cyrillic: pizdets! пиздетс!
                    if he even remotely insinuated a topic
concerning van gogh (v. gou) -
                such is the traffic of life passing through my
days...                    this the fascination
              how greeks gave names to their encoded
sounds... and how it took a plastician to recode
       what came as
         п (p'eh)- -и (ī)- -з (z'eh)- -д (d'eh)- -е (eh)- -т (t'eh)- -с (esse)...
  how fascinating that you cut off so much stabilisation
of the alphabet and no wooing vocabulary
  before you do away with stabilising letters that are
associated with clear indicative formulation from
alphabet into word...
                       which goes beyond Heraclitus' лoгoс
and certainly beyond my фoнoс...
                as suggested: back into the aлbion ζ
      beginning if not simple begging norman sicily's α...
                              alphabet - zetayod...
and mirrors - of those worth a seven year signature
to yet be mended... and those pristine,
      with focus on the doubly mortal, within
a tsunami of time's paraphrased democracy, wherein
autocratic: from Helen of Troy to Kimberley of the Liban...
     how then rise from such belittling circumstances,
and enforce the law of abstract?
                    to come toward the лoгoс
   as with due to spot the фoнoс, and as such
auto-instructive diacritical marking of iota should
Lιban be a Ly-ban....           enter the dragon, Bruce?
                     yep... we have established the лoгoс,
and chained by synonymous banking affairs for
peacocking tongue waggling, i insist upon a return
      into how the Greeks left no musicology to
how they named the symbol ι with iota, or ω with
omega... but the Romans left a musicology
that yahweh embraced, and said of a: ah... and said of
m: em, and said of t: tee... and said of p: ***...
because they didn't come up with names for letters,
which is why scientific constants are written
                                                   in γρεχκι (grechkι).
if knowing the native tongue is not enough...
        i cannot contemplate the natives teaching my
their ****** practices any more than my eagerness to
engage in them... their presumptuous agitation of
trying to "educate" almost everyone...
     it's true a Mongolian arrow pierced the throat
of the trumpeter in the tower of the Mariacki Church,
           it's just they treat their women
            as i wish i could have... the Dutch know love
by spitting on eastern European women...
(because they just had a conversation about their
interests in a pub with another man two seats down)...
   and in our age of propaganda: i have not a single
opinion that isn't bound to be but ash scattered in the wind...
            i just find it strange to be in "need" of being educated...
given most of these "men" have never had the guts
to visit prostitutes because the girls are playing puritan poker
at home: and Jezebel at an **** in Malaga...
         i can't deal with this en masse schizoid conditioning:
as if lying or having a Dorian Gray fantasy could
ever get me off with a hard-on when a girl says:
can you imagine what my daddy would say if he knew
i swallowed you jizzom? well, now that i know what
you're imagining i'm starting to think i need a shrink...
                  for ****'s sake! why do prostitutes seem
the most sane women out there? saviours!
               i could have done better things with my hands...
like moulded a statue, or something,
               dating culture killed it for me...
  and the whole: women are there to be chased like
cheetahs crying their eyes out at speeds of 100 kilometres
per hour...                  it was in my best interests
to learn a knowledge of the language...
  that was my utmost necessary courtesy of being
   part of this society... local customs though?
                  you know what a smarkatka is?
    you really didn't expect for me to blend up to the point
of supporting Millwall and knowing football songs
religiously, did you?   it's when you use the language
and still get ridiculed...           the locals have been
given it on a platter...                i get a "poem"
they get the ease of buying vegetables in a supermarket...
          brownnosing yourself in Kentucky
                                     will not help either...
Calcium Steeps       of Dover could be equated to that
Hawaiian Pearl in terms of what hand will wash the hand
that puts a thumb in the **** and the index and middle
into the ******.

You do your best.

You fail.

You try again
hoping you
have learned
something,
intending
to do better.

The merciless
world does not
care for your
intentions.

Try, fail
and on it goes.

In this case
mere facts
are not
instructive.

What must a man
do to be at home
in the world?

  ~mce

By: Cedric McClester

Those who hate
Will no doubt relate
For massive harm
Make a bomb
In the kitchen of your mom
Before you explode it
Be sure to lock and load it
So you won't implode it

At your leader’s insistence
It’s leaderless resistance
Don’t ask for their assistance
Before your nonexistence
Just go out and do it
Put total strangers through it
The consequences, ***** it
Besides, you already knew it

Clearly be aware
Of the dog-whistles you hear
There’s no need for you to fear
So get your *** in gear
Without the least abatement
Go out and make your statement
Show the world what your hate meant
And be sure not to relent

So, if you find this instructive
Then the natural deductive
Is by nature you’re destructive
And you’re also nonproductive
When you show your cowardice
By engaging in this
You’re not only remiss
Your ignorance is bliss












Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019.   All rights reserved.

how strange to invest in both time and space... rather than to mind one of both attempts... perhaps time and space are relative in science, but there's hardly any parallel X to bind time and space together with a hollowed, bony, attempt of marking the final boo of man as ghost, as ghost in man... the joke reads: death to all... and the more history you hoard... the poorer you will become; and are we not the poorest of the lost last, 24 hour news? i'm more afraid to fall asleep today, or die, than wake up tomorrow; the life in death and subsequent maxim... the death and... the revelled tombstone; the gods are fools... for none have had the sparring with time to teach them a word of fleeting cherishing the most frivolous, but at the same time most prised dispossession of what could only be complimented by possessing adjacent artefacts... had i but the magnanimity to possess a heart... i wouldn't remind myself the need to keep a stone, thus shaped, in my trouser pocket.

words en masse,
       intimidation.

    "w".m.d.
   watermelon
of...

eh... a power of...

the power of misconstruction,
Bangladeshi?

  am i smiling in Saudi
or am i saying ha ha?

is my surname Khan
or is it Genghis
and the **** or Baghdad?

   what, no **** a *******
mongol?

last time i cheerios -
i was half Spencer...
*******...

   i dawn at the culminating
seduction of when shadows meets
body...

w.m.d.

  words of mass... disorientation...

and that...
in its most lethal terms,
begins by "faking" an...
                                   innocence;

no... let's trace it back to:

  *faking it...

      after all, the inverted comma
inspires the definition:
   in the gob of another -

(revising a punctuation mishap)

- are we to treat all subsequent
affairs in a demand for anti-copernican
c'mon! k'ah k'ah bl'ah she?
crow below crow above,
left is east right is west
east is right west is left,
up... down... huh?!

want a ******* birthday balloon
to match the agonising irony?!

how about a drill...
      and a head of an iraqi kid...
funny thing being...
i always wanted to beccome
a veterinarian...
             seems i was actually
born to become a... butcher.

       anatomy...
               one way or the other.
i lived trying...
      dying; will become the easy part.

sketching is really hard to understand
for a budding painter...

               to sketch with words
makes the greatest prospect paing
a ****'s worth of cube...

     sorry...
        if language cannot mean anything outside
its mathematical certainty of
coordinating masses...

    then, the last thing it's allowed to do is,
say hello
    and then, ******* without saying goodbye!

i'm tired of this quasi-english
irish ******* of attempting to figure out:
why it bothers me,
   when an advert states,
paddies, dogs, *******...

         i will not for the love of my life
bow before these harpsichords of
  shamrock!
tiny ******* pianos -
  better a truant you truly hate,
than an adamant you fail to
recognise but still intimidate
by faking,
the bitterness of "love".

language for the love of god,
is never to be riddled by
one, two or three dimensions;
sometimes, language,
has to be allowed the freedom
of being:
              non-instructive;
un-mathematical.

*there's a "light" that never dies...
as there's a "light", that's never born;
i'm too drunk to even
compliment this phrase
with any meaningful demand
for, sentiment.

pure materialism
physics biology chemistry
can't explain consciousness

science and spiritualism
not imminent in converging
and remain greatly dark

math and quantum physics
spooky action from distance
the ministry of human blind spot

reductive material of science
neither instructive of spirits
nor speaks ethereal souls

with defiance we let
drill the blackest holes
in the oneness of all beings