There’s a time and season for every reason
no cookie bakes itself
cherries don’t burst on their own
cherries don’t burst *******!
a bottle doesn’t empty itself to full/fill
breaking clocks is a wonderful way to **** time
ironic glory hole of blood and glass
running out of test tubes, the ****’s too tight
****… reason!
INVEST!

Admiration is the state furthest away from understanding
pawns don’t need details
******* with teeth make ******* meaningful
smashing the cow softens it, …digest it well
meaning is derived from screening STD g string
of a starry eyed jail-bait that drowns in a sea of ******
obtuse and absolute are the only submissions
failure to comprehend results in *******
cuckolds worth….
IMPROVE!

Lexicon laxative
this antipathy won’t last
stimulate thinking with cankerous drinking
***** ***** need no season or reason
to drown ****** who never show
the tears of heaven that understood
misled admiration and adolescent aberration
that silently candle deplorable fornication
time stays unchanged
counting doesn’t prove progress in this game
falling short… half beat hesitation
ITERATE!

No one chose to iterate
Or elaborate to me
The vast unending sea of grief
We tred; trying to breathe

Our paths bisect and weave to form
A beautiful tapestry
That on the surface gleams and glows
With possibility.

Beneath, time tugs each thin line
Until one snaps and breaks
One little thread removed and gone
Left havoc in its wake.

Something once so beautiful
Unravels, sags and fades
Parallel to how the Sun
Sets each dying day.

He only imbibes because of his dipsomania.
She only practices onanism because she's afraid he'll impregnate her.
He despises her monomania.
She's too affable, almost to the point of being obsequious.
He's too acrimonious and muzzy.
She knows she's a bit of a coquette.
He thinks he's a cuckold.
She used to be flighty until she fell into this convoluted dystopia.
He used to find it scintillating to get sozzled.
She just wants a lark once in a while.
His iniquity makes him want her to be lascivious.
Her every fatuity leads to a cabal.
He's too opaque and insipid.
She has to iterate and reiterate everything she says.
He feels his infatuation is unrequited.
She finds this unproblematic.
He doesn't imbue her with anything anymore.
She thinks he's unpitying of that.
He'll malinger tomorrow.
She'll wonder if it's all adventitious or kismet.
She can't handle his odium.
He can't stand her ten dollar words.

A toast! let's celebrate!
It's time to commemorate
As I demonstrate
And iterate
******* friends that I'd love to hate

Those ******* ******
With their bags full of tricks
They throw stones and sticks
Like ******* lunatics

They're bullies on steroids
What to expect?
Break my bones, calls me names
With no signs or ounce of respect

**** them
and their memes
**** them
by all means
**** them
those merciless machines
And **** them
in between

So let's toast! let's celebrate!
For this poem that I create
A tribute has been made
To my ******* friends I love to hate

each iterative
a lesson
to fail
gracefully

That dancing
Lover
Is empty
Caress
Faded
Photography
All encased
In memory space
By ageless
Glass
Over ancient
Death
Waded hands
Over welts
Over
Skin
The tightness
An heirloom
To your
Troubled
Breath
A rasping cry
In perpetual
Iterate
Recursive
The motion
Of ending eyes
When all lights flutter
And die

The Iterate Party


A petition of the indoctrinated

masses resulted in a majority

of their yesterdays electing to

become today, when another

poll requested a repetition for

tomorrow. The Iterate Party

won by a landslide, president

Deja Vu said he anticipated a

victory, he thanked each and

everyone for their procrastination.

by John M. Ford*


The worm drives helically through the wood
And does not know the dust left in the bore
Once made the table integral and good;
And suddenly the crystal hits the floor.
Electrons find their paths in subtle ways,
A massless eddy in a trail of smoke;
The names of lovers, light of other days
Perhaps you will not miss them. That's the joke.
The universe winds down. That's how it's made.
But memory is everything to lose;
Although some of the colors have to fade,
Do not believe you'll get the chance to choose.
Regret, by definition, comes too late;
Say what you mean. Bear witness. Iterate.

All Apps Un-installed
Hard disks wiped out
Operating System lost
System Shutdown
RAM cleared
BIOS destroyed
Object Id Retained
ROM info Retained

Hardware burnt to Ashes
Or left for Micro-organisms
Scriptures say, Sages re-iterate
Believers believe, others disagree
Object ID may be Reborn
With new OS and Apps
Or there is another possibility
Object ID gets destroyed
And witness Moksha
Free from further rebirth and deaths

Sorry this poem is not on Computers
But I am sure, it's about Humans
Smart Humans, Mortal Humans
Bound to follow the System of
LIFE, DEATH, RE-BIRTH
Until Moksha comes for Rescue

What does it mean to be human once more?
To wake up on the wrong side of this floor?
To walk naked through my house on a quest to urinate?
To see differing opinions with nothing but hate?
To work my second nine-to-five?
To sit through another 30 minute drive?
To party at night, with my beer cans stacked?
To awake in the morning with all of my odds stacked?
To plod through the same  job breaking my back?
To miss little league games for which my kids give me flak?
To throw money at them hoping they'll take me back?
To display disappointment with my life thus far?
Is this how we display how civilized we are?
How well we can march to the whistle?
How well we can bend in the wind like thistles?
That we are able to make the most money?
That we are the ones who decide what is funny?
That my polo shirt is more expensive than your nikes?
That if I stepped on them you would attempt to fight me?
That the only thing we revere is might?
That we re-iterate things that are bleak and trite?
That we poison our love with the hours we work?
That we would tear your heart out with a rusty fork?
That we're all caged pigs on anti-biotics?
Rather than wild with diseases that frolic?
People say they hate what society has become.
So we look for another public forum to dispose of our gum.

Every book has a last page, every song a last verse to sing.
Every sentence its full stop, every beginning its ending.
Every existence will one day cease to be,
In the inevitability of death, there is unity.

'Death is simply a beginning,' confidently some state.
'In death, there is nothingness,' others iterate.
But the lock of death in the living world has no key.
In the ignorance of death, there is unity.

In the hearts of some resides unwavering misery.
Others march on, donning costumes of pseudo-normalcy.
The actuality of their loss, still others refuse to see.
In the incoherence of death, there is unity.

Cinema, literature, poetry have ostensibly tried to explain,
With the knowledge directors, littérateurs, poets feign.
No living soul can grasp its intense incongruity,
In the incomprehensibility of  death, there is unity

I'm a biochemical construct
mechanical of flesh and bone
software-infused hardware being,
another release,
an incrementally updated
version of humanity;
all off my data cells
come with prerequisites
I had no knowledge of;
the veins of my dreams
were blueprints and schemes
in my mother’s blood
in my father’s skin;
I scribble but cannot rewrite
the me, the I,
procedurally generated,
processed by algorithms;
and the purpose is clear
perpetuate and iterate,
move on with baby steps
not merely in time and distance,
but beyond existence

Our past paved the way
for a magnificent present
But now the moment has come
to surpass the next

As the chronicles of time would iterate
Without people there wouldn't be any history
And when you unleash your guts
You attain glory

So, step up your pace
for the time is near
The future… begins here!

What reminds you of me, sugar?
What brings a smile to your face?
What fills your mind up
and gives longing for an embrace?

I know I see you in the stars
the lake and the trees
I hear you in gunshots
and waves breaking free

A song on the radio
The lyrics a perfect fit
But feeling slightly cheesy
If I re-iterate it

Your little quirks
How you do what you do
They aren't just oddities
They are why I like you

So what reminds you of me, sugar?
Because I see you everywhere
What brings a smile to your face?
Because all I need is wind in my hair.

Linguistics for the intangibles -
would that be manageable?
: For one person to sit and create
some words that none can negate
fully explain all which we feel,
those words and verbs
we know to be real.
- To further iterate
our experience had;
words bigger than “happy and sad”

Right about when you'd think it'll fade,
Underestimating the darkness you face,
Black will always be the new black!
Blacker and deeper than what is before!
Insolent boy, do you not know of yourself?
Stop telling yourself ****!
Hope won't make you stronger!

Ride your way to oblivion!
Ubiquity would be your word!
Blasting word after word,
Blasting statement after statement.
Is this what you say is truth?
Speak up now, then!
Hesitating now would only lead you to suffocation!

Realize the visions in your real eyes!
Undress the lies you wear!
Blot out what you want to scream!
Belittle the fears you possess!
Instigate the light to your plea!
Stand up and be your own guardian!
Hold on to your sword!

Read between my lines, for once.
Under these horrific words,
Blight truly manifests.
Blooming be what you see,
I beg to differ what is real.
Stars may glitter the skies,
Havoc can they cause when they fall.

Rotting is the thought that reeks,
Ugly scars protrude from the beauty,
Break the walls and you'll see,
Bring curiosity into reality.
Ill is my mind with  everything,
Still, yes, but with nothing,
Hellbent are my gestures.

Reap me,
Untangle me,
Blow away the bad gusts,
Build me up again.
Iterate your soothe,
Stay by my side.
*Heightened false hope, again.

By Arcassin Burnham

Don't think that your alone for one second,
There's a world out there to explore,  you don't know about it,
Don't have to enter a sequence,
Just close your eyes and breathe,  there's no need to doubt it.

Don't think that your alone for one second,
There's a world out there to explore,  you don't know about it,
Don't have to enter a sequence,
Just close your eyes and breathe,  there's no need to doubt it,
There's no need to ever hate,
There's no need to ever fake,
Love and hate will fuse with destruction i hope you can't relate,
Sincerely your mistake of believing that clickbait,
Don't you feed the beast, just know your worth in this world to iterate,
The music,  the food,  the equality is all ******* up,  no apologies,
Left to wonder where the free thinkers will rewrite their discographies,
The world will be coming to an end, no time for thinking,
In the end you will decide what's real and fake in reality.

I roll in stolen moments
no deep contemplative hours avail me
an immovable watch, snatched and dashed by phone
or lipstick honed prose shopping for scandal
I am
the broken hands of faith offering naught but a vagrant malediction
where, but for a few chatty fists further, they remain below the none
in the unbound knots of shallow ruin
black
boxed
and cut into catastrophe
a unified cleave of impoverished woe

“immoveable?” say I

“I may chance sleep if it were in the hands of one beyond where ill goaded geometry is gone
Immaterial
come already danced, implacable
and I were vitreous to their bacterial digestion”

such chatty cracks may answer above their unleashed wish but…  

“but what?”

…but the chiral sun lies on its back smoking those hooves which have waited all day
the eternal don’t offer  faith in my diorama
so I own them
my own
my own scars that burn nicely enough
without your fire to iterate the bones

a few more herniated throats might join us yet
for a conveniently flagged final rebuke
each with a semi-toned profanity
as precocious coda
aged and offered with ******* down your maddening throat

picking up, if I may, where I left off yesterday,
before you so rudely walked away
or was it a year or so before?

I remain bored with these gods
twice removed from the approval ratings
their open mouthed statute holds no limitation
to my ambition
let me see those waves which are racked beyond recall
much like your neck should be
through jawed ears and briny tongue
a muffled centrepiece fetid
save for recalcitrant  sinew

I shall be the sky in which your virtuoso limbs must swing
swing
spastic in their envoi

now, serpent spat, pin-grinned, how is this sleep pain in the mirrored wide-why?

set vars null
set clock(ms)

t=clock(i)
i=0:1000000

iterate

Sometimes when you win you loose,
so hold on to all your *****
to sedate the hate
you've grown too tired to iterate

and as you hit the snooze to suppress the state of alarm within you
remember...

where've you been
what has hurt  and
what has elevated you to love and light beyond mundane normality


there is pleasure in pain
and pain in pleasure

sanity in insaneness

it's all just a dream,


only the mind sees in black and white
open your eyes to colors of possiblity
and feel the depth of senses completely  immersed in the experience of life...

for the way i see it,
there is not greater tragedy to reach the end of life without tasting the ecstasy of life itself ,
to die in a trapped mind, running on outdated information is the very
predicament know as the human condition

I'm a kind of tired that sleep can't fix
in a game gone amiss where no one wins
in a race stuck in place that don't begin
where every action is seen as sin

I am kind of lost where no compass
can find a home or points to bliss
facing the wind as I ****
the stains on my soles will iterate this

Im the kind of mad that lacks their tricks
a sad gone bad that cant be nixed
perplexed and had caught in the mix
as it all comes down like a ton of bricks

An introvert to escape the hurt
whos grew quite sick of chasing skirts
nomad on the landscape scraping dirt
disguising a grave as a yurt

Let me open the door for you he insists, a kindness born
from misunderstandings of power and luxuries, like this,
Grab the handle and pull hard toward me.  Standing dumb like a
stone easter-islanded headed fool, voice will out me, crackle of
Fury, but instead Why Thank You, honeys, sashays. Inside there’s
push off, rub off, get off, quick little deaths.  Pebbles in my shoe.

No, that’s not how it goes.  It goes like this:
Step out of time, skin suit fold carefully on the bed or the shore of
a river and now test the waters with toe stubbed broken.
Gentle there soft, marsh daubed clays, inanimate reeds brown, hollowed,
Place one gently between tongue and cheek.  Sink into the river, tilt head
Breath through reed.

Can you imagine every day iterate? Repetition? Repeat the old rage?
Practice a minuet or tackle the sonnet form, line by line?
How does one get to Carnegie Hall?  This too has become play, become fodder, become the one I am becoming.
Undone and I wish to step away, from the curb and push, push me under. A car, or truck or bus.  Taxi me ferried to the farther shore. wait there.

Under my arm a fiddle case.  Fumble the latch open and beautiful!
The gasp the wish the harm in lusting for want.  Want and rage merry friends take hold and shove.  I asked to be shoved and I am shoven.  Small tiny violin plays angsty melody for me, pour moi, pourbois.
I will play for tips.  I will play for your half of half uneaten sandwiches.  Want and rage and rhyme.  Meter has it in for me.  
Half beats and internal lusts, magnetic poles attracting and repellent. I watch.  My goal was to extract myself.  
My goal was to be serene and write.

In the best case scenario:
Tonight’s sky lusted with Comae Berenices entwines two perspectives
that converge then diverge, with one asking how may I help you seemingly sincere and yet there is the price tag of submission, and the other accepts that rejecting this kind offer will precipitate another cascade of stars wishing them frantic, de-glowing each, as they fall from the clouds.  May Day May Day May Day.

Hey,
I know what you’ll say,
But I wanna say,
What I need to say,

Hey,
Every day,
I sit and pray,
You won’t go away,

Like she did that day,
So please just stay,

I never want to lose you so,
I never want to say goodbye,
I never want to see you go,
I never wanna hear there’s some other guy,

You and I are akin to lovers,
One could say we are, akin to each other,
Please know I will never love her,
So please don’t tell me, you're with another,

I want you to myself,
I want to be so selfish,
I need you to myself,
I need you to myself,

I need your hand in mine,
Lips against mine,
Love in sight,
And if you let me,
    I just might...

So never let me hear you say,
What you don’t want to say,
Never let me iterate,
What was said that day.

-June 20th 2013

This land has been robbed of all that it had
Nothing is left, even for the slick and the rich
Crumbling edifices to our capitalist greed
Our world no capacity now left for its need.

There were those amongst us fought agin this
Imprisoned in jails within our own tortured selves
Not enough of us tried to stop the horrors we saw
Now nothing is left, our charade is no more.

Your fathers all fought in such ****** campaigns
There fathers too, and there fathers before
New weapons of destructive powers previously unheard
That slaughtered the innocent in ways cruelly absurd.

Buildings left standing with all inside dead
People didn't matter, but the real estate did
And thus the corruption swept over the Earth
We were judged by our value but not by our worth.

It angers me now as I feel guilty shame
For I didn't do enough and that makes me as them
And for you with the mess whatever is left
There's a world that was rich and is now so bereft.

One thing is certain, save the wealth of the land
The one crucial thing that we never did foresee
Don't go down the pathway of war-like inventions
Create things for peace and for better intentions.

Think in these ways and you may stand a chance
It's a message I couldn't ever iterate to much
War and corruption lie together in bed
Growing good crops gets communities fed.



©Joe Wilson - In mortal pain...2014

Sweet despair, my midnight mistress, oh how you ignite my passions.
Tribulations infinite spawn manufacts divine.
Complicated algorithms this machine in turmoil fashions,
Weaving, chipping, sieving for a-natural design.

Self-destructive operations tend, the mind, to overwhelm.
Hearty incantations of the spirit, yet, defend.
Pushed beyond his limits, one may wonder-wander to the helm.
Ship's upon doomed missions make their course until their end.

Artificers carve away, their craft: idyllic aestheticians.
Strings that pull on spirits may yet siphon their morale.
Lovers bound in honeymoon reveal themselves unseen magicians,
Summoning forth beauty when the sky itself grows stale.

Bittersweet nostalgia offers weary minds a rest from toil.
Soil seeps between the cracks of memories forgot.
Thunderous infernos, in their glory, burn a shade most royal,
Razor blades, defiant, iterate on what they're not.

And shall it seem a meaning to this story yet remains untold,
Let yourself be made aware; you've yet to see the tale unfold.

I

I recall in tranquillity

Fever-dive hours.

Once I saw a sailboat listing

Upon a great-waved sea

The sea was I and so was the boat

I could not see any stars

For the blasts of ocean-spray



In what quiet cove can I go hiding from a storm

Blasting up the cartoid artery and flooding through

The cognitive estuaries, over-spilling memory’s tributaries?

Tell me where I might make my stand against my wrath?

Might a clever present play the future off against the past?

Am I to live only in the lacunae between foretelling & recollection

In the times between guilt and dread when, exhausted of mental flight,

Whether backwards or forwards, the mind drifts in easy content?



We shall build a tower

let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth



II

Behold, a shattered glass bowl that held doubts

They multiply in shattering

As each beam of light

Crosses every glass splinter

It breeds a new splinter

And a new lance of light

Fecund heresiarch



Absolute clarity lies within

That lit glass rubble but the trouble

Is that so does everything else

As in Borges’ library up in that tower



III

Do you know where your right hand is? Walking through a shop and not knowing whether you’ve assaulted someone heedlessly. Analysing each moment of your past like a sicko prosecutor. The fears iterate by sinister Darwinism, seeking cognitive blind-spots. Did I mutter threats of violence to that child? Did I insult that shop attendant? Mixed memory and aversion form a rancid bin-juice born decaying.



IV

I came to the stairs

There was a wobble in her voice

By each step her voice rose higher

So I rise to her and she calls with greater urgency

And I rise to her with greater urgency

She and I can only meet after escalation shatters

Past the horizon of panic and further-

Past the sea rock of worn defeat

She and I must be one.

I sprint.



V

Imagine that someone came to you in the middle of the night, stepped into your mouth and began to grow through your capillaries. They were not content merely with habitation, their constant insistence was that you must keep grafting dead organs and limbs onto yourself. You become a born-again Frankenstein (don’t be a pedant) with all the zeal of a convert to an undead lifestyle. The new limbs are heavy, and stink, and burn up your flesh with septisemic fire and ****-flood, but the man who stepped inside your mouth begs you stitch on more.



VI

The inside of a head becomes lonely as it becomes crowded

The only things that elbowed through those crowds

Were other hauntings

Brief dune-sedge love in salted ground

Warring wrath against money made world

Twin engines of raging-love and loving-rage

Racing for diversion and the exaltation of rebellious motion

Circulation round the track kept my blood in motion

Rammed down winds to bellow my lungs



Political contention, war, courtship, frenetic study

Vain dreams of greatness, discontent

Which gave me a little contentedness

To declare permanent war or endless love

And so to terminate surrender in unutterable resolution

“Optimism of the will!”- clenched hands, though they wobble

In the obsidian lands where resistance gave no comfort

Resistance still gave sustenance

Just as all the previous Sugatas



VII

Life is so long. Are you so innocent? You are tired. You dream of a gentle place. You saw it as anyone might imagine it- holy light on wild-flowers, easy with its comforts, free with its joys. To be such a place it had to be distant from this world and sealed against you.



VIII

Maybe I just wasn’t ******* often enough?

Victorian life is better novelised than lived

Hysterical, neurotic, guilty, phantasmal

Maybe I wasn’t drinking enough?

A friend called me the Ayatollah

In respect of my beard and sobriety



Hume and the Buddhist sages pronounced that persons are aggregates without greater unity. I find myself a bundle but there is no liberation here. The parts rub against each other like cans in a grocery bag bruise fruit. Or perhaps I am the curate’s egg.



IX

Give me a seabird’s wings

On the cliffs, about forty meters over the crab pools

I dream of ascending with the gulls, but higher

Diving and again rising in alliance with wind

What waves perturb the gull are brief

And if it is to end by hawk, that too is brief

Yet I would rise higher still, till I sat on a perch

Overlooking time and the jolting succession of moments

Above the waves of kings, ministers, exchequers

Yet if I am not to reach that exalted perch

I will be low enough to observe the bright net

Of refracted sun that plays upon the hills of water

Give me a seabird’s wings



X

Easier perhaps to talk of the accoutrements of terror and the reflections it invoked. Easier to do that then to photograph medusa. Yet I do remember being confused as to whether I was more guilty or more afraid. It seemed important that I be more guilty than be afraid, but it is hard to feel guilt while facing knives. Consequently, I felt supplementary guilt at my thin guilt.



We shall build a tower

let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth



XI

The future is boundless, not only ahead but sideways

The patterns of your inferences only ever ape

The subtle causal chains which bind the forward momentum

Of the world whose surface you cling to

The mind is stretched between times and possibilities,

Beyond any accommodation by mental sinew and bone

The heart successively roars and fizzles



XII

I came to the living room

And it was filled with ash

Though I never smoked

Or sat by fire

I made an ink of that ash

And began to write these verses

upon my arm



XIII

He is there, and I smile into his oblivion

He never loved you, so ideas of romance

Had the character of Banach-Tarski’s sphere

He is gone now, other suburbs, other worlds

I do not miss him, except on special occasions

My affections were never lost, except perhaps at the first moment

Dead on arrival

Yet still worthwhile



It is right to rebel against most things

But not you, oh sweet tyrant

It’s good odds you kept me breathing



IXV

We do not sit upon heaven’s throne

Nor are we the rebel, cast down like a slash of lightning

We are the flesh that raised our gaze

Half wondering, half begging

The dance is ending, where is the bridgegroom?



XV

How rash are those who clamour for justice?

(I have been among them)

Life is wide, deep and changing. We are excesses

Of identity, act, motivation.

Of miscalibrated judgement and selfish grasping.



Do you think you would be clean under heaven’s eye?

Were there a book that contained each numbered thought and small deed

Of yours wouldn’t you shred it, burn it and eat the ashes?

I wouldn’t. I would give you that book. Press you to read it.

I do not think you would like me, but my terror is to be misunderstood

I fear that you will think I am a different kind of monster than that I am.

So I give you my promise, that should an angel scribe that book

I’ll give you a copy.



And I promise that if you ever give me a copy of your celestial biography

I’ll try to shut the my eye of judgement and open that of mercy

It’s simple self interest. Chesed pro chesed.



XVI

Can we remember pain? In our mind’s eye we might

See rose fluids or, under that, a startling glimpse of pearly white

Laid open by a scalpel. We shudder back. We peer forward.

But who has the pen by which to bind agony?

“Sharp”, “dull”, “throbbing”, “irritating”, “intense”

Wholly feeble, as if a snake tried to wander with its vestigial leg bones

But that is where we find ourselves- thirsty for conveyance in a desert of names

We can only hope to articulate pain through our inarticulateness

Just as, by chance, static on a television set captures a snowstorm



I remember wandering the streets, sobbing and calling for divine fire to **** me and all the other wicked. As I wept I listened to pop on half smashed headphones. What would it take to make you march through city streets weeping and calling the fires of an unknown God?



XVII

I ascended to the attic

To store, retrieve, invent

A mnemonic parade

Without volition my hands

Raise the dust in small incantations

How does one dislodge a fake memory?

Or terminate the routine of shuddering



I see

He and she are here, interlocked eye-beams

I am not in either eye

In this attic I lay in the pattern of my veins

I am sinews. Whether these gobbets

Be thought or flesh I am in neitherway free

I am chained by my own substance

Above me powers contend in the air.



XVIII

Think now

Life has many cunning passages, contrived corridors

And issues, deceives with whispering trepidations,

Guides us by vanities.


After such knowledge what forgiveness?

Forgiveness after such knowledge what?

What forgiveness after such knowledge?

Knowledge what forgiveness after such?

Such knowledge what forgiveness after?



IXX

In metamorphosis the tissue is not merely subtracted from and added to inside the pupae, rather the whole flesh devours itself, save for microscopic clusters (imaginal bodies), becoming a soup of cells. What unites both life-stages is scarcely more than a double-helixed teleos. Yet memory persists.

We shall build a tower

let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth



**

If I could but seize the wax of Icarus

The tailor of Ulm’s fabrics

Etana or Bladud’s crown of feathers

If I could but fly, I could seize the sun’s silver

Forge a mirror by which to demonstrate

The storm that rends the head

Of some shivering soul you know

Forgive a thief that stole for you and

Shelter all, for you cannot see their weather



XXI

To find a point of collapse at which

loss and victory die.

And that sea is now

A vast lake that

Night or day

Forms a perfect twin

To the sky

Over the stones of the tower

Drift currents and sweet, lazy fish

The waves will dance again

But I might hope to dance

With them

He who has not,
Even for a minute,
Pondered whether its own life
Should continue or not
Still misses the value of being alive.

Diseases, falls, shots,
None of them kills;
We die for unasked questions,
We die for self ignorance,
Little by little,
Until we are replaced by amnesia.

To breathe is a daily choice
Whether we question it or not.
What we take for granted
Decides how to live,
Where to cross a street,
When to quit a job,
To fight or to freeze,
To jump, to act,
To turn to a monk
And set yourself on fire
Or to ramble on
On commutes, highways,
Air bridges and cruises.

We miss the important questions
For the fear that we won't survive
Their answers.
But questions are not about answers:
They are most certainly delusional.
Questions are about
Discovering the value,
Choosing the weights,
Iterate balance,
Reduce propagated errors.

Life is more appreciated
At the verge
Of our perceptions of reality.

I penetrate, when my pen iterate
As I paint it red, killing thoughts of you
Pages out of space, such a weird case
As this paper trace, every pain it read 
Even though I hate, it's an essence of you

für ein herz so groß,
    aber für ein tat so klein...

for a heart so large,
   but for a deed so small...

it doesn't matter that this
is a form of imperfect
german...
                 i'm hardly going to
establish myself as a grey-mass
in Munich chanting
               football-hooligan slogans
at a match...

       but there's a sly smile on
my face...

            i know what early April
will look like...
          finishing Sienkiewicz's
the order of the teutonic knights...
krzyżacy...
              which is also a name
for that bug that moves on
pond waters... krzyżak...
                       a form of spider...

even what i began with was
in imperfect german,
       i can give you the motto
of a people
              that currently live among
you, right away,
   or what i call: the genesis of
prussia...
    
              prussians aren't exactly
germans,
                if prussians were left
alone, there, would be a
people of estonia, lithuania,
latvia, prussia,
                    kashubia,
                        and pomerania...

but let me re-iterate,
i can say this with perfect german...

           gott, mit uns!
              
just called my heart the equivalent
of a hot-air balloon,
and my brain a peanut-sized
honing device for pigeons...
             f'aaaaa'ck...
                            viva las vegas.

i hope that i can speak
with the sort anonymity that
will stress the fact that:
the past 20+ of being awake
will not undermine
using alcohol,
  naproxen 500mg and
25mg amitriptyline...
            funny:
to have studied chemistry
and to subsequently "study"
a sociology science...
              on the basis
of experiment...
          or rather:
  to have crafted one's own
cocktail...
               because
the guy who conjured up
a cosmopolitan really
gave a ****?
                   hey...
it was nice listening
to the theory,
but chronic insomnia is
one thing,
and treating it is another,
the side-effects do not really
matter if you actually
manage to nook for ~13 hours
and stay awake for the next
20+...
       i have to re-iterate:
                  chro-nic: insomnia:
the kind where you don't
actually care about dreaming,
the type where you
actually care for a pristine
interlude of sleep;
believe me when i say to you
that there's no
Freudian geometry inolved,
hyper-induced *******
sleep....
          just the blackness of
a void:
a disembodiment
worth a voice: but no body.

poise zen dystopian rant

This prognosticator doth predict
potential based at current rate
sinister debacle that will
instantaneously annihilate,
United States storied republic,
which alarming horror
points to instantaneous annihilation
of America the beautiful;
(ohm my dog) turbulent
endemic chaotic spate

within human race poised to strike
doom and generate
shock tummy once
amp pull goldenlocks,
now revealing a shiny baldpate
erratic behavior attendant prescient
intimations presage apocalyptic fate
while current commander in chief
didst unwittingly generate,
and sow the seeds of anarchy sparking

global conflagration that will create
instantaneous prime evil
total mortal kombat,
cuz "FAKE" mandate
issued, when Trump went ballistic
loose sing rockets red glare,
when pressing hot button to demonstrate
thermonuclear supremacy,
(albeit a moot point),
would render superfluous need to late

to draft intestate
last (or perchance first, second,
third...) will and testament, tete a tete
perhaps minuscule (nee infinitesimal) bomb
turns out a dud (Amazon, Toys "R" Us
Walmart, or  store
of choice reject) aye narrate
finding Don irate
(blaming "crooked Hillary," democrats,
gumby...yours truly...)

the list goes on, thus no need to iterate,
thus a sudden religious fervor gripped
the wide webbed world
attributing why weapons did not actuate
which found pontiff in high demand
in an attempt to accommodate
frenzied zeal attributing aborted blitzkrieg
to divine intervention with bajillion
talking heads airing where to dedicate
material trappings to indigent, great

full not dead, plus those petty
criminals rightly or wrongly,
the strong arm of
lanced law did incarcerate
bowed down on daily and nightly basis
exploding huzzahs every
human did *******
"not prematurely," where
all walks of life did integrate,
a spontaneous international

utopian revelation awoke
with linkedin diversity to promulgate
protecting the planet took precedence
yea right Matthew Scott - dear mate
only in the context of
this poem I did create
on December twenty third
two thousand eighteen,
and now hemming and hawing
CANNOT wait,

thus conscientious, fractious, and incautious,
members of the electorate
must not shirk their role
as arbiters of life, liberty,
and the pursuit of happiness
obliging themselves obeisance
to the fifteenth amendment
of the United States Constitution,
which prohibits the federal government
and each state from denying

or abridging a citizen's right to vote
"on account of race, color,
or previous condition of servitude,"
when said legal resolution
ratified on February 3, 1870,
as the third and last
of the Reconstruction Amendments
cuz the wise ghost of Abraham Lincoln
did not procrastinate.