My relational cat
shows up  for a chat
oh, of course-- and
some food:   with
few ***** to give--
      but it's all good

    Or few-***** it seems.

The kee  I-thot
to be a self-centered snot
has turned out to be
the kee of-my dreams.

I can understand  kitty
kitty kitty kitty;  and
I can now  see
that it's me
that's been ******
****** ****** ******--  or
so it seems.

        Or so it seems.

When I think
that I'm bad--  or
have-given all
that I-had--  kee
somehow finds a way
to show me--
         I'm the man
         of her dreams.

Kitty kitty kitty kee.
kitty kitty

There once was an Eskimo!
Named Es-kee-mo-mo!
He was of Somolian Antartician,
Persuasion!
Just about this big,
Jaggedly he roamed about the country,
In search of some gravity.
Little did Es-kee-mo-mo know,
But what he looking for in fact,
Was his long lost sack.
He searched long and hard,
Along the tundriatic terrain,
But he never did quite find,
The bag ya dig?

They must have jumped out,
He hollered quite loud,
Enough to cause an avalanche,
Swept away in the wave,
Ol’ Es-kee-mo-mo couldn't believe,
That right up on top of the cliff,
Was his sack shining in the light.

Lamentation of a slight Indian girl
wearing a perfect tiny Sari
as her grandmother insisted
she eat something, holding a morsel
partially unwrapped
I couldn't understand a word she said
But everything was clear
Anna Kee Do.  Over and over
As grandmother increased her sales pitch to the
point that I was ready to eat it
The girl would not budge
grandma turned to me and gave me a wry smile

Koi ghilla na ab aur na koi shikayaat hogee
Ab jo mohobat tujsay hoge,wo bakamaal hoge...
Dekh liya hai jo  mizaaj hummnay teraa
Koi khata na ab aur na koi kammee hogeee

Humpay jo karam huva tha,aaj  samj aanay laga
Pehle  shayed tanha thay,aaj har taraf shor behnay laga
Huvi jo gustakhi ,andher khudkay jank naa sakhay
samma unki mohobat ka , Na janay khudpay kabsay chalnay laga....

shambal  raha tha jo dheery dheery,lo aaj bikharnay do zara
Kuch apni tasveer mai,rang merey b bharnay do zara
Koi inaam ** teray kabil ,rakhdu wo terey kadmou mai
Laikin tujsa naa kio aur na  tere jaisi koi hogee....
Ab jo Inayat tujpay hoge,wo lazawaal hogee..

khaaboon mai kho kr hum haqeeqat ko jaan naa sakhay
Sab tha pani he pani par hum kuch pebchaan naa sakhay
Zindagi ki mojoo pay sawaar hum bataktey rehai veeran-e-samandar mai
Muntazir mai sahil unka tha ,par hum kuch dekh naa sakhay..

Ilteja jo kabhi kee hee nhi,aaj jee bhar k faryaad karnay do zara
Dabay zakhmu ko andher he andher aaj samandar karnay do zara
Hai qabool ab sab tera,zindagi mai bas shamil hoga  
Rahai naa sansay mujmai sahee,Laikin  judaa naa Rumi say tu hogee

Ab jo ebadaat tujpay hogee,wo bemisaal hogee..

########penned by Aabid Rumi

the lakewater near the banks darken with the shadows of coniferous trees
not unlike the way my ***** darkened just the other evening with transgression
and i find myself waiting,arcing the ash from my cigarette in fiery transient streaks.

this is north west angle's public dock, a sunken relic of the anishinabe
appropriately too young to be old just like the ******* rest of us.
kee no wahh she spits with conviction,
her forked tongue a testament to the near science fiction
that keeps its ugly head low to the ground
in the backwater communities of
rural ontario and manitoba
and saskatchewan
and beyond.

purple and yellow and green galaxies span across the deep space of my neck
and that's good enough, they reckon, to land me in the passenger's seat.
now the sun's shallow beneath the canadian shield
leaving only a violent, open **** on the skyline
and the watered down blood of ritual sacrifice to
filter up through the cheesecloth of the underbrush
and effectively discolour the poplars in a pastel
identical to the lining of my ****

so ask me how many children have been
stranded on the pallid, uneven terrain of my thighs
and i'll stop making references to my ******

I

On a little piece of wood,
Mr. Spikky Sparrow stood;
Mrs. Sparrow sate close by,
A-making of an insect pie,
For her little children five,
In the nest and all alive,
Singing with a cheerful smile
To amuse them all the while,
  Twikky wikky wikky wee,
  Wikky bikky twikky tee,
    Spikky bikky bee!

II

Mrs. Spikky Sparrow said,
'Spikky, Darling! in my head
'Many thoughts of trouble come,
'Like to flies upon a plum!
'All last night, among the trees,
'I heard you cough, I heard you sneeze;
'And, thought I, it's come to that
'Because he does not wear a hat!
  'Chippy wippy sikky tee!
  'Bikky wikky tikky mee!
    'Spikky chippy wee!

III

'Not that you are growing old,
'But the nights are growing cold.
'No one stays out all night long
'Without a hat: I'm sure it's wrong!'
Mr. Spikky said 'How kind,
'Dear! you are, to speak your mind!
'All your life I wish you luck!
'You are! you are! a lovely duck!
  'Witchy witchy witchy wee!
  'Twitchy witchy witchy bee!
    Tikky tikky tee!

IV

'I was also sad, and thinking,
'When one day I saw you winking,
'And I heard you sniffle-snuffle,
'And I saw your feathers ruffle;
'To myself I sadly said,
'She's neuralgia in her head!
'That dear head has nothing on it!
'Ought she not to wear a bonnet?
  'Witchy kitchy kitchy wee?
  'Spikky wikky mikky bee?
    'Chippy wippy chee?

V

'Let us both fly up to town!
'There I'll buy you such a gown!
'Which, completely in the fashion,
'You shall tie a sky-blue sash on.
'And a pair of slippers neat,
'To fit your darling little feet,
'So that you will look and feel,
'Quite galloobious and genteel!
  'Jikky wikky bikky see,
  'Chicky bikky wikky bee,
    'Twikky witchy wee!'

VI

So they both to London went,
Alighting on the Monument,
Whence they flew down swiftly--pop,
Into Moses' wholesale shop;
There they bought a hat and bonnet,
And a gown with spots upon it,
A satin sash of Cloxam blue,
And a pair of slippers too.
  Zikky wikky mikky bee,
  Witchy witchy mitchy kee,
    Sikky tikky wee.

VII

Then when so completely drest,
Back they flew and reached their nest.
Their children cried, 'O Ma and Pa!
'How truly beautiful you are!'
Said they, 'We trust that cold or pain
'We shall never feel again!
'While, perched on tree, or house, or steeple,
'We now shall look like other people.
  'Witchy witchy witchy wee,
  'Twikky mikky bikky bee,
    Zikky sikky tee.'

Yaha rishton ke jaal mee aapko fasaya jata hai... Aur jab aap uss rishte ke bandhan mee bandh gye aap toh aapko apne matalb ke liye uksaya jata hai....
Jab matlab bakhubi nikal jaye toh aapko wapes see bewakoof banaya jata hai... Aur yee silsila hai jaari iss duniyaan kaa waah re duniyaan tu bhi na jane kitne rang ek girgit kee tarah dekhata jata hai....

Na puchoo haal uss saksh kaa jo apne sakshiyat bhula kee dusre kee kaam aata hai... aur anntt mee usee saksh ko ek pagal kaha jata hai... Waah ree duniyaan tu bhi na janeee kitnee logic lgataa hai.

January 1, 1000

Year One-thousand, January One,
starts the new millennium.
The villein, Jacques, in Reims,
wakes to find his world unchanged.
His hut stinks; his flour's wormy.
He fears God's wrath, but trusts His mercy.
Walled in by his community,
set in Christian certainty;
by their fireplace, with his family, sitting,
he plans the plots he'll plant come spring
The stars above him do not move;
he knows God's power --and His love.

                                                          ­                                        
1118

Others loathe such conformity:
their minds and spirits must be free.
Tutor Pierre finds knowledge increase
in the arms of his pupil Héloise.
Risking life and reputation,
they learn a different conjugation.
(L'Université de Paris's great philosophe
and the canon's niece --in reckless love.)
You think the danger overstated?
Let me remind you that Abélard was castrated
--and the **** confined to a nunnery ...
whence she wrote most eloquently.
("Though I should think of God, I think of thee.")  


225

Dear Francis,
I hear that when you visited St. Peter's
you exchanged clothes with a beggar
and stood all day at the door of the church;
that you asked the people of Gubbio
to be kind to the wolf who was eating their sheep;
that you call birds your "sisters" and fire, your "brother";
that you would have us give all that we own to the poor....
--Perplexed in Perugia

Dear Perplexed,
I ask only that you see God's hand in all creation:
wolf, *****, flower, stone --
God gives to each His rain and His sun.
What man is in the eyes of the Lord,
that I am --and nothing more.


1517

Martin Luther says you can't buy salvation;
the individual conscience is the only true religion.
Of intermediaries, he'll have none;                              
Man is responsible to God alone.
The Bible, being God's holy Word,
must, by each Christian, be read and understood.
Humble toil is a service of God
far surpassing the holiness of monks.
God is terrible in his majesty;
by faith in God, are we made free.  


1611

[London; Shakespeare addresses assembled friends as he
retires to Stratford;... a mysterious stranger rebuts.]

"Despite it surely not being my intention
to slight the worth of imagination,
to doubt the value of our fictive craft,                                          
there can be no question:  in their import,
the actual deeds of actual men
must, perforce, surpass the disembodied pen.
This [pointing] is merely men upon a stage;
these, merely words I've placed on the page."

"Master Shakespeare, I beg to differ:
it is your words which will live forever.
When fiery Phoebus ten million times
has run his course 'round rotund Earth, men will
still be astonished at Lear's great woe,
still sigh with Juliet for her Romeo."


1711

They've placed Monsieur Voltaire in prison.
This will not postpone the Age of Reason.
Men will speak and write as they see fit,        
be governed by laws and the intellect.
        

1783

[General Washington, at Annapolis, Maryland]

"My friends, I'm honored deeply,
by the faith which you here show in me,
your confidence that these qualities
which served so well in war might now
to governance be applied successfully.    

"I, myself, have doubts:
I fear that battle's clear, cold steel will be dulled
in the gauzy murk of diplomacy.
And though I were suited to this high estate most perfectly
still I should shrink from it.
I think of Caesar,
returning, triumphant, from Gaul,
his heart full of zeal for the good of his people,                  
who achieved much, but whose lordly rule
gave way to others far less wise....

"There's a name for a man raised above men as a god:
it's 'king'. I'll have no kings!

"Thus, I surrender to you,
the duly-elected representatives of the States,
the outward and visible sign of my authority:
this sword. Let the world take note
that these united States, born under tyranny's yoke,
shall, in word and deed, henceforth
be governed democratically."


July 27, 1890

Vincent finds his world has narrowed,
(--what wonders he'd seen in la lumière d'Arles!--)
all the things for which he's sorrowed--
rejection by his cousin Kee,
reliance on his brother's charity,
failure of his "painters' community"--
come welling up....
He walks to the field from which he'd come.
In his pocket, the letter he'll never mail.
The wheatfield he'd so recently painted.
In his pocket, by his chest,...
the gun.


July 16, 1945

[Robert Oppenheimer, near Alamagordo, New Mexico]

    If the radiance of a thousand suns
    were to burst into the sky at once,
    that would mirror the Mighty One's splendor....
    I am become Death --World-destroyer.
    --The Bhagavad Gita

Everything was so much clearer
when it seemed the Germans might get the thing first....
Now it's all so terribly muddy....
Who knows what these generals'll do with it.
...The radiance of a thousand suns....                                                         ­                                                 

That 100-foot tower --completely gone!...
If we didn't do it, someone surely would....
I am become Death --destroyer of Worlds.  


January 1, 2000

Year Two-thousand, January One,
starts the new millennium.
The sales-clerk, Jacques, in Reims,
wakes to find his world unchanged.
He's got Internet access! Two cars!
He doesn't fear the universe....
The only group he's part of
is guys who drink at the local bar....
He goes to church, but doesn't believe.
His job, his marriage --nothing is certain....
Even the stars above him move.
He knows God's power --but not His love.

and yes, very much a niche concern, my laptop broke down
   and i'm forced into the box room, albeit not ramped
out with Nabokov's Switzerland lodging:
at a hotel in the Alps catching butterflies and Lolitas -
i've finally matured in my likings -
but let me tell you, it has been painful
adjusting to the upright sitting:
lost the slouch and the quickie
crow-on-a-windowsill with a whiskey
sharpshooter and then a tornado cascade
into the lesser concept of a blank page and that famous
nothing of philosophers... i love the lesser critique
of Heidegger, my grandfather bought me
a 25 volume worths of interest,
and Heidegger stood out foremost,
primarily because of a peculiar surname,
i later learned that he was the German
that would eventually make Wordsworth
pointless in picking up the lyre,
with so many books i had to realise that
i needed a partner akin to walking through
Dante's epic,
              i could have chosen Ovid, but esp.
Horace, but i didn't choose Virgil or Homer,
a blood German peasant... but also
a pheasant, which means auburn peacock...
oh sure, you get familial ties with people
of the world, people who made either their
forenames or surnames akin to the nouns
as familiar as stars chairs and smoked ham rumps...
perfectly akin to everyday familiarity of use...
i wasn't worn in Warsaw or Krakow -
if i were, i probably wouldn't have left the natives,
but living on the outskirts of that great capital
doesn't necessarily impress:
in all honest edict contraction: i feel debased
travelling into London (central), ***** and ******
out my mind...
       i guess this means two more years rereading
Heidegger's being and time
                               after purchasing his ponderings ii - vi
from the years 1931 - 1938;
yes, my family was directly affected by **** Germany,
not in concentration camps, on the frontline,
so why would i be sopping over a **** familiar
in the realm of philosophy?
       a. public intellectuals don't exist in England,
    English doesn't like philosophy,
         proof
                  ?    b. Shakespeare - peer in on shaking
a pear and
                      the dancing of a retired circus bear dancing.
     c. that's Pythagoras, we leave him in the Pascal gambit.
i just think it's a shame that i have this massive
democracy in my room, and i'll end up with something
akin to a Quran -
                              again, why Heidegger?
i don't know, it could have been that Czech Kundera -
     or Kafka, it could have been Seneca,
              but all these writers are city dwellers,
Heidegger was a quasi-villager pseudo-city-dweller,
i find foxes and deer and dead badgers in my little
promenade escapades, also Satanist black masses
with the framework of in excelsior satanis! -
and lightning that strikes but no thunder is heard...
less for the sons of thunder: the 12 hot-air balloons,
it's very much Germanic in Japan with
feng shui or otherwise known in the peninsula as qi
     kee.
                      then there's the **** of the haiku
by the west and me answering: let's make ensō -
smoothed out narratives, ecstatic variation from
     thinking and away from moral decisiveness
in that activity of perpetuated choice-making -
                how clearly thinking extends into narration
rather than the Cartesian
                 precipitation of thought into being -
nope: from thinking into narration
          juiced-up enclosure of "zoological" tightening
with ensō: beefy haikus.
          but what i really find problematic?
the interpretation of Heidegger's concept of dasein
as coupled with ecstasis.... our ex-stasis...
                  with da meaning there
               you can pretend to be "happy" about protests
across the world, and wars and other turbulent
activity...
                   what i am proposing is what Nietzsche
prompted with sum ergo cogito,
         in that the real ecstasis is concerned with being
allocated to a here, and therefore a hesein -
the interpretation posits the ecstasis there
when Heidegger originally posits concern there,
     or as he encodes: "concern"
                       meaning the dittoing puts him in a safety
of the here, it's the ecstasis of not being there,
but here in the present as the ecstasis, and there
     of some abstract venture as being beyond his command
of attributed dynamism of being involved,
for he's not involved. give me an hour and i'll be
in the countryside: we have that weighty countryside mentality,
farmers talking ******* when stacking hay
and laughing with the grammar Nazis when
    people go to the gym but teach their brains
the flab that the brains actually are: primarily spongy fat -
     apart from typos, it's the case
                                           (it is the case that)
   i don't (do not)
                               much concern myself from English
slang of piano (Joanna)
           and the outright **** (Pakistani),
               cos there was no sine                  when people
overacted toward the tan of me swallowing vowels and
replacing them with shortcuts to prop'ah Cockney,
oi oi, ******, bruv! brush up! this bus to school is
mingy with the throng!
                          who ordered the sardines?
        Stendhal is still the love of my life... i can write
enough complexities with Heidegger, but my love
resides with Stendhal... who would have thought
that a film adaptation would make me eager to read the book
(the scarlet & the noir)? Peter Jackson knew, as did J. R. R.
but it comes from the musings,
          once i do the Kantian critique a one over
the missing yawn and what's actually the most underestimated
arithmetics of wording rather than number circus
         or replicas of taxman rubrics:
after enough chemistry, favouring the organic and
later becoming endowed with a palette for Indian cuisine
well: philosophy books are the worded versions
of mathematics in terms of jumping the burning wheels
of 1 + 11 = 12        and          i contemplate
                                            but what's the = and the 12?
it's so ****** open, i could have invited a hundred thieves
to porose a car-boot sale at my house.
but all this, which might seem like self-love,
    it's not about that...the French intellectualise
and have them public because they talk beautifully -
                  the English?
they sing...
                               the Germans are morose and silent...
        the Spanish are simply the onomatopoeias of *******
and the Italians are seen and heard licking their fingers
after enough basil is added to tomatoes...
   i'm still banging on about the apathetic interpretation
of dasein, rather than the ecstatic version popularised
by the scholars...
                                 the version that reads:
if a tree falls in a forest and there's no one to hear it fall,
does it make a sound? that's my interpretation of
dasein / being there / being "there"....
                          a.                          b.
                       concretely            in abstract,
we already know that the abstract of being is nonbeing
or that things are abstracts of nothings with identifiers
of being used, without actually being touched:
i can say that i see a chair without actually having
to sit on it.
                    i was thinking simpler though -
olly murs' heart skips a beat and someone of the major
tracks by one direction...
             when i reference myself to these tracks
i'm being ecstatic, in the dimension of hesein,
                  like da, shortened purposively from the
authentic hier / here in german....
              why am i ecstatic in the here?
   because i don't have to be concerned in the realm of da /
there, where my opinion "might" matter...
                   but really doesn't...
                             which is why i don't understand
this interpretation of dasein meaning ecstasis -
                           or ex status quo....
                                               as already suggested -
our moral obligation toward language is to provoke
a Minotaur to become an architect of our venture in
using language, away from the market place...
into forests, into depths that have no justification
for being imagined, or as such diagnosed as ever being
there and established to planning permission and norms
of established caricatures and cleanly undertaken
shallowing and hollowing out from them being furthered.
i should be sad having trodden such a path
for myself, but i feel a kinship with this German,
come on, what consolidated the Kantian
dichotomy of a priori and a posteriori as in
   or must not philosophy a fortiori poeticize beings?
should not be conversed with from a wholly
anti-intellectual dynamism suggesting a personal
historic aversion of what's otherwise ethnically ******
without suspicion in terms of cultural tact?
again: nothing - which is higher and deeper than nonbeing(s)
(i ensure the ambiguity of the plural, if only
due to the fact that nothing is
    kindred of a definite article - the -
                          and ensures a translation as nonbeing,
while nothing in a quality as in nothingness
            kindred of an indefinite article - a -
         and ensures a translation as nonbeings, the plural,
ambiguity and throng -
   perfect offshoot that's already known as a-
           and -the         with a missing -ism).
yes, language ought to resemble something less
instructional, certainly less capital / monetary,
and more of a preservation of ambiguity and subsequently
myth... or what otherwise concern themselves with
in the hustle and bustle of a public life: integrity,
                                ulterior of the personal sphere of interests:
the person per se;
       and the apéritif (a'per-teeth)?
                 for lack of diacritical insurance, the English
are constantly in need of a tongue-map for waggling it
prop'ah:
                    the Chelsea y'ah
or the Cockney wa'er                - t t t.
                mind you, that's related to the trilling of the R
(originally intended as a trill) and subsequently lost
in the Germanic ethnic cauldron: hark the French and
cipher the English curling the tongue making the R curled
rather than trill - my idiosyncratic fascination aged 8.
  i thought i ought to end this with a thought about
what's a universal maxim in psychiatry
  in England in terms of a standard prognosis:
patient A has lost touch with reality...
      that's the prognosis, the diagnosis: dialectics of Gnostic
teachings? anyway, that's the standard,
that a person has lost touch with reality... what a great swindle!
     y

if not cited sparingly, and in a democratic number,
then at least cited as if minding the republic's senators,
concentrated influences - few, but certainly
in a concentrated manner cited.

when reading becomes as acutely distinctive as the hand -
never before have both hands reached an ideal
equilibrium - my withered manus lævus elsewhere -
esp. at Marathon, with the puny javelin throw -
Herculean balance in the right hemisphere -
yet although in physics the right held sway -
now it seems in my mind, the arithmetic pain busy
buzzing in the former ***** colony has gained
the upper-hand - its persistence beyond mere myth
of the boulder the hill the repetition as punishment;
such a grand way to use both without prejudices
of former believed-to-be satanic rituals in a Victorian
school.

perhaps going beyond Plato sinister sexology of
the soul and punishment via transgender migration -
if once a true and serious meditation, now it would
seem blocked by something, emerging from that
ancient theory and brought before us in practice -
that the left-hand masters of the quill were migrating
from Hebrew, from Arabic from Sanskrit?
less sexually orientated and for that reason, purifying
the old ways of teaching boys the practices of the state.

we are right in that we begin on the left -
and they have already left for the other world,
their theologies ensured they left -
but that does not necessarily make them right -
beginning from the right in writing with each word
they leave for another - a better one -
for us, who begin from the left and ending by being
right in our political affairs and our moral practices
(so supposed) leave us entrenched in this world -
by so right in doing the mere thought of atheism;
but times have changed... we're all moving forward -
only a retired general practitioner might have used
his index to peck like a crock at the keyboard -
youth spared me - even both my thumbs are used
when typing - notably the left thumb for the space -
or so the alphabet arranged for a quickness in type -
if arranged by some formal logic - the keyboard would
be a different battlefield against Peter Phantom and
the leash of surrender; yet what fingers used more often
than the crucial index of an aged doctor?
for the most educated class of people, they write such
terrible enigma scribbles on prescription notes -
for the most part, type font was invented to decipher
prescriptions - or as some would call them -
a chicken dipped its nail into an ink bottle and scratched
in good morning on a piece of paper.

so it came to be, when Latin imploded from the ******
and was allocated a pickle jar preservation aversion
to graffiti Latin on the coliseum walls it became
ecclesiastical Latin - power was hidden from the ***
blah gurgle - or the Germanic burp for: a pleasant meals
desires a compliment, echo in the cave, burp in
the (o)esophagus - a grapheme divorce -
but that's also beside the point - instead of mere writing
left to right or right to left - the grammar changed suit!
Latin names are the easiest to spot:
the barbarians and the Latins are like us and Arabs -
mirror and chiral thinking go hand-in-hand as a handshake -
some remind us of neschek the usury serpent -
or they remind us of demon-slug narchak engaged
to simony - by example, zoological quirks reminding:
corvus (crow) cornix (hooded) - hooded crow,
corvus cornix - corvus corone - carrion crow -
corvus manus laevus - left-hand crow, which by it's
hyphen refers to a deity - thus in original crow left-hand -
Odin's illuminating eye embedded for eternity entombed
in the companion that takes the sky as leisure equal to
a cushioned and scented parlour, and the wind as a mother -
away from the hunchback penitence as seen on ground,
pauper hunchback clad in black a futile scout.

as already mentioned - capture it at any one time in
unravelling Babylon - the grand spiral architecture  
unison - for that English was used - or "proto" Latin
without diacritical marks (stresses) - the one accomplishment
that arose from the mad farce of Nebuchadnezzar -
the Jews sighed relief when then plans to build gardens
above the sky (hanging) were foiled - the sigh of
the Hebrew slaves in Verdi's Nabucco - indeed va pensiro,
alter: ave ratio! the only one time when the Mensa society
are of any use other than training pet monkeys -
a democratic hooray! geniuses unread but good at
arithmetic... they're still children for goodness' sake!
but what have we exchanged for the hanging gardens?
the pyramids were already ridiculous,
the hanging gardens were impossible, but the tower
of babble-toe-babbling-tongue came to be prißed for
all the wrong reasons - sigma global, Atlas threw earth
away and picked up the Moon.

still the compass away from Bermuda dizzy in myth
or reality provides us the true North magnetism -
as Confucius said: man's importance lies in the head,
not the toe - we shall write from head to toe,
to motivate our understanding of the yet unexplored
gravity, this be our grounding... no grand empire outside
the evident physiognomy of Shanghai blinds of Buddha -
nothing beyond this reach of yellow -
the Mongol will try, but fail, the Japanese will try,
but fail, the Koreans are another matter, a civil war
ravaged them, and a true schism happened,
there was nothing Byzantine or Romanic about it -
the schism of reality, nothing metaphysical kept them apart,
a genocide division without a genocide -
an old father had a plot of land and three songs -
Yin took the northern realm, Shin the southern realm,
Ming became a Communist party member in China -
Tibet never had the exclusiveness of the Vatican -
the Vatican is not an ethnic entity, for starters -
the Israel of Asia that Tibet is...
the Israel of Asia that Tibet is... claim a son or a godhead
see how the masses entrenched in insect Darwinism
come about with coherent reasoning -
masquerade as a prophet, the easiest answer is that
the consistency of time will always precede your idea
of superior constants, neither Buddha nor Christ were
ever meant to be π.

the Chinese knew how to build a state, shame! shame
on the Slavs for biting the apple too soon rather than
baking an apple pie with Communism -
shame! shame! shame! ridiculous souls -
fickle hearts - i only learned this in exile, a proud
exile at that - not that i became accommodated in a superior
culture, these ******* inspired socialism with their
bile Empire monotony - am i proud to be British?
give me a minute, i'll just ask the Scottish separatists
if they think Andrew battled Santa Claus like St. George -
(anagram: Satan's Clause, an article of jurisprudence).
em... British? poet in residence or poet on a high-note
of a tsunami of change? i think the latter.
once the Scots rammed their way into Westminster
the Labour party was no more, what with the Iraq
Endeavour of Herr Barrister Milosevic -
**** up and Shrove Tuesday - **** in a fan,
chocolate milkshake with a sprinkle of shattered cranium.

when in Edinburgh i implanted into my brain the compass,
the perfect geographic locality, Edinburgh is,
i had a nice acceptance in Bristol by the cat-and-mouse
people from the educational firm University seeking
a scientists that had some vague sense of respecting humanism...
that really smeared chilli powder on my *******,
i left suspicious about the eagerness -
went to Edinburgh, the education reception was cold...
cold enough to be given an onion to smash against the
floor after it was dipped in liquid nitrogen -
but the city! the city! it breathed ancient fables!
and **** me... a city built around a mountain...
how many sunrises and sunsets do you think
i sore with every blink on my maiden voyage to the land
of the Picts? enough... plus my stomach was ready,
haggis was nothing unusual... i was familiar with haggis
in a pork variation - czarna kiszka (char n'ah kee shka'h).

so what will it be?
hic mali medium est                     or...
                        hic boni medium est?
i wish there was an ad hoc hidden somewhere, but
neither expressions are a nail for the hammer and
the planks of wood, but you can think of them like that...
i.e. 1st. here is the core of evil
                 and 2nd. here is the core of good... yeah, mm d'uh
that famous and meaning the two opposites are inseparable...
but i mean the compass! the compass!

the Firth of Forth helped, no, not Genesis' selling England by
the pound, and everyone somehow hates Phillip Cool Onions -
ever hear that one about another day forgetting paradise?
it's on there... i can't walk... i can listen to Genesis -
you just realise how complex English culture of lore yore -
that's long forgotten yesterday - everything decays,
autumn must come -
now the children play with fame, rather than work for it.

i get reminded every ****** time...
i kept the notes and extracts after the Cantos ended -
i neither wish to imitate - but pay the compliments
necessitated by the work -
when the rhythm section was more complex than
the solos - when it was always jazzy guitars on prog.
i kept the fragments unread -
and in between travelling to London to see
the Werther opera and the Don Quixote ballet
i was commuting with Kant - i know i mentioned
them as my heroes, given there would never be a battle
of Θερμoπυλαη and only the yawns of battle
with the critique - i too care to admit a defeat -
when i pick that book up and i pick up the Cantos
with the first i hear someone knocking on my door,
while with the latter i hear someone playing the flute,
optically and exclusively based on that to suit the final
exasperation of breath.

or you would think that by the standard of the English
mind at least poetry would gain favours if
French frivolity and German philosophic Benz fell out
of favour - at least poetry would be attended to -
and when they see the demonic form of the prised
asset of English intellect that isn't music, but the Yorkshire
dales and rambling naked and telling folklore and tall
B.F.G. tales would not shrivel into a tightened-strait-jacket
panic seeing someone juggling pronouns on a psychotic
cloud; almost every day the English mind allows
madmen in a different category - equipped with
suicide vests and the crowd of many - playing god
almost every other day - materialisation of fiction
with terrorist attacks - see both good and evil -
chaos demands both, order a distinction, the latter
played out so unfortunately to be constantly compared -
the former? well, either that or nothing -
of the essences so much was said countless times -
and countless times unsaid when the actors came on stage.

so rekindled Latin in encoding sounds ascribed hoarse
throats of the nomadic north bound exploration -
from left to right - then reinvented as if Arabic -
from right to left: corvus cornix - hooden crow -
well, at least it's easier to think of it as right to left
rather than left to right - than mere concentration rested
upon the stone not turning to bread -
higher in the pyramid than the water turning to wine -
as the pigs were fed, and the toils of man became
a fervency of all - as the devil asked:
are you sure you will be selling the aristocratic life to all
and all will be pleased? not all men were born
into a luxury of continual drunken luxury -
later the riddle turned into a choking joke of the 5,000 -
never show them tricks of the aristocratic class
for they drink to excess, and turn wine into water by
the day... but will stones keep the agile hands of labourers
readied for the next task if given water they turn into
debauched drunk sloths?

I tasted just a little bit of *****
as I drank another cider
after ******* in the mint in the front of my house
now, given, I was smoking a spliff
and coughing my *** off
but ******* it tasted mostly of the
three-star chicken Pad Kee Mao
I ate some hours earlier and just barely
of my peanut m&m dessert

The coquí’s screech, at its sonic peak
reaches 80 decibels, as loud as
the lawnmower my father
breaks his back over.

We’d rather hear the frogs.

Little throats balloon for
KO - KEE, KO - KEE
a lullaby warm like the
water they wade in.

All of 1 or 2 inches, but
their songs bounce off tin roofs like
rainstorms in hurricane season.

The children are growing used to the call
but the adults resist, they insist
it’s not what they grew up with.

Invasive species in the USA,
best to exterminate, they’re too
loud anyway.

If anyone can make a feral animal print cool it’s Arabella Ramsay. The designer, who skipped the city in favour of the coast a few years ago, has launched a new lifestyle brand in collaboration with her dad Dougal Ramsay, an accomplished artist who has designed ranges affectionately named after all things Aussie; Hello Cocky, G’day Love, Veg Out.

Burnt out from more than a decade in the fashion industry rat race where she had amassed a cult following among adoring 20-somethings and private school girls for her unique apparel, Arabella shut her Melbourne shop five years ago and moved to Jan Juc where her husband has a yoga studio, her daughters play with bunnies and organic eggs are collected from the backyard coop.

Yet the fashion industry has come calling again, albeit in a different guise born of her slower lifestyle and rearing two children. A born and bred farm girl from Kyneton, she has forgone on-trend collections and retail overheads for family-friendly leisurewear and an online boutique.

The print-heavy collection features irreverent Australiana imagery created by her dad: “Bonza” bunnies, cheeky runaway gnomes, larrikin cockatoos, and come summer, a “******” croc print. The coloured sketches run across all-over yardage on leggings, hoodies and T-shirts for men, women and kids.

Dougal says his brief comes from his daughter who then “weaves her magic so the next time I see those drawings they are transformed into cute frocks and tops”.

She has a great eye for pattern and scale. “I enjoy seeing the finished product where a small crab on a skinny leg can grow into a giant monster crab on a rounder leg.”

A successful illustrator and author, Dougal has been fascinated with Australian culture for years, his nostalgic pencil sketching idiosyncratic scenes of country town lifestyles and coastal culture; seedy caravan parks, fishing hamlets and an architectural vernacular that “sadly has pretty well gone now”, he laments.

It was these scenes and Arabella’s own wholesome rural childhood that inspired the father-daughter label. In the spirit of Linda Jackson and Jenny Kee, Arabella wants to “show people the exciting things our country has to offer”, she says of her desire to “celebrate what’s in our back yards and in doing so, tap into the tourist market with a bit of style”.

Manufacturing is done in Australia where possible; a favoured maker is Cheryl, a woman Arabella’s nan found years ago while shopping at Spotlight in Ballarat. “She works from her small shed and has been making my clothes for years. It’s nice having quality control so we don’t overproduce.”

Lighthearted and a little bit kooky, the Dougal range is cultural cringe re-imagined as contemporary cool. Its Instagram (@wearedougal) is a feed of everything from Aussie idioms (Stoked! Strewth!) to summer vacations in Menorca, photography honouring Rennie Ellis, Dougal in the home studio, surf reports and Arabella’s idyllic beach house that has graced the pages of international magazines. Her own sartorial style is an inimitable mix of “70s vintage, preppy, **** and even a bit dorky” that’s equally at ease with the yuppies and the grommets.

“You can basically wear your pyjamas to school pick-ups and your wetsuit to the supermarket,” she says of the local surf town look. “But I still love high fashion and just bought a pink lace Gucci suit for my best friend’s wedding.”

An online purchase, it arrived via the dirt track leading to her secluded beach house. Fair dinkum.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-sydney | www.marieaustralia.com/blue-formal-dresses

That sad moment
When your fingers can’t type acros the keybboard.  
Because itall runs together like something
From another time whe nthings were less
Than they are now. It’ s always easier, you know,
With less. Always easier when hnds run smoothly
Over the snow or the leaes or the sun
Because they arent shaking quite like they are
Now. Now, with more thought, more feared, more lost
To the losing of days that always leave, evntually.
More to keep you up at night as your hands
Shake but tryto type throug it anyway. More
To keeep you distracted from yourself
But also more to kee pyou all too concentrated
On the world, thatthing that makes you rhands shake,
Tha thng thatis always more thn you want itto be.

KeeLee Anahata
That's my daughters name
Repeat it, you know you wanta
Never changes but never the same

Kee meaning key to unlock so many doors
Lee means healer, shaman if you will
Anahata is of the heart chakra that soars
My little KeyHealer of the hearts you fill

Darling you bring so much inspiration
To every thing you meet
Your energy a overflowing warm sensation
People just have to take a seat

Or some dance and jump in joy
Cuz the beautiful smile you bring
With those eyes you stop girl or boy
And make them want to sing

So much happiness
Love, laughter and light
That you have bless
Me with the gift of new sight

Yes there is still dark in this world
But I will be here through it all
In my arms you can always curl
When you feel your going to fall

Soon you will be talking
Letting the world know you
Straight to running skip walking
There's always more to learn and do

You will bring so much to life
My shinny star in the night
The silver lining through the strife
Our healing love will be alright.

in the age of phoebe...
                                          (fee bee)
        there's apparently
                             an irrationality
movement,
                             behind all these
"rational" activities...
      islamophobia?
well...
       we all know what
the southern slavs thought
about that
     is ms. sarajevo...
the fall of the ottoman empire
was the biggest
disaster to befall mankind;
helen of troy?
    tuba büyüküstün,
**** me, have to be blind
reading this script...
****, give me a pointer
to march up the umlaut
with the parabola...
          oh oh...
    wait, i'm getting it,
like i'm getting a limp bodied
girl sharing a room with
me to "speak" the casual...
****...
               (i like cursing,
because it aids my spelling
you ******* schmucks...
while means a man with
*******...
              grave diggers,
thieves,
                  ******* assassins!)
buy her a ******* cushion?
    they never really say
hay... like a stack...
    when they actually say
a prolonged iota,
macron inductive of
the automaton dot above the
stroke, i.e. 100.85 FM
                                        hi-den...
            ­         ******* haydn!
what the hell is "irrational"
           ah-boot islam,
               when islam is a "rationality"?
schnell! schnell!
                      desert monkeys,
well... not dezert monkeys
for sure...
                        snowflake with
a ******* cone...
                99p  swiss floral artefact...
flusters all round,
    tattooed onto a girl's cheeks
with rouge, and a flamingo while
you're at it...
   watch the asylum contort
out of its straitjacket...
     making universities into
                       debt havens...
         white collars telling blue collars:
someθing...
   kıvanç tatlıtuğ? oh, you mean
the janissary?      
               kee-vans tat-lee-tu'g'sh?    
*** note...
   or rather, my revenge
on not being taught
          the musicology cipher...
sure, i should have self-taught
myself...
              great motivational
experiment...
                       but what on earth
is irrational about,
say, arachnophobia
       if you don't want to ****
the ****** spider and let it scuttle
along?
            there's a rationality,
or set of ideas in islam...
                "islamophobia"
  is not a phobia...
            these desert monkeys do not
hold a monopoly on literacy,
i'll learn those squiggly ocotpus
ciphers some other day...
                they have the oil,
but that doesn't mean they can live
in an environment "plagued"
by snow...
                  i get the turks though,
great barbers...
         do wonders with *****
translated into ****** hair...
             but these sand *******?
       could see the mountains
of Afghanistan by now,
if you didn't show me the dunes,
and the complete waste
of what is Dubai...
           if slavs didn't understand
communism, which became
a chinese translation...
      sure as **** these bonkers
retards don't understand capitalism.
                     all i have
to say to these terrorists:
    don't blame our kínd
           on your pampered marionettes!
gonna give me a ballerina twirl
   any time soon?

I live trying to not
exhaust myself by
keeping up. But trying
not to fall behind
as that can be just as bad.
Just sticking
to the middle and
remaining there.
Average. Inbetween
the top
and the bottom.
Unseen and overlooked.

Cahtee hai tujhko is baat se inkaar kyon kere hum..

Galati tere nehi hai, aur sahi hum bhi nehi hai, magar,
Ek kasmakash chalti hai dil aur dimag kee beech, hum chaa ker bhi dil ki suun nehi pate, is baat se inkar kyon kere hum..

Bhoola dena chatee hai tujhko magar nehi bhula patee, is baat se inkaar kyon kere hum..

Ek namee sii aye hai ankho mai phir bhi muskurate hai tere samne, is baat see inkar kyon kere hum..

Hume lagta hai kii tere bina naa jii sakenge, magar khud se yee izhaar kyon keren hum ..

Mana tujhe kho diya magar khone ka ehsas kyon keren hum..

"I hate roadtrips."
"Yer gunna love 'em when I'm gone."

All they ever had in front of them was road. They faced an endless stretch of asphalt and rolling hills that trundled lazily beside them like tired giants with aching feet, and they stared the setting sun right in the eyes. It was like looking into the barrel of a gun, and when the trigger got pulled, they both were bathed in murky night with nothing to guide them but headlights and starlights. Keegan Mac Namara was a road that Molly was willing to walk.

Their journey across the verdant farmlands and everlasting clusters of villages falling into decay was only five hours in, and they had three more to go. Molly knew that when they stepped out of the car again, they wouldn't talk, and they'd just smile and laugh and cry without a spoken word. Two of the saddest free spirits without moral compasses to keep them on track. Before Molly left, it was always like that, and that was the best part about it.
She had met him in a pub after Ronan's funeral, and for the six months after, they were inseparable.

Keegan Samuel Mac Namara was the summer in the winter of Molly's life, the breeze to clear the smoke left behind Finnian Aherne, the anchor which kept her grounds from shaking with the tremors and aftershocks of a toddler-sized earthquake and even after he died she could still feel the thrum of her heart in her chest with the thought of him, of them, of what they were, and what they could have been, but never became.

He taught her how to love roadtrips, he taught her to be free, and he taught her to love.
He taught her how to shoot a gun, he taught her to sing, and he taught her to love.
He taught her how to smile, he taught her to laugh, and he taught her to love.
He taught her how to love.

They never got married and they never had children and they were never official; he never gave her something to remember him by: only memories of long nights spent together in the back of their van making up stupid songs or the feeling of laughing so hard that she cried and her cheeks rushed red for ten minutes afterward or driving so long that they forgot where they were going and where they had come from.

When he died, there was no reason to make up stupid songs, no reason to laugh until her stomach hurt and she had a headache, and the ten thousand roads that they traveled together were just lines that kept them from growing too attached; even if those ten thousand winding roads failed at that.

He made her lose her way, and she never wanted to be found. He let her find out who she was by keeping the tempest at bay..

When he died, the storm was all around her.

Their love was a roadtrip away from the sorrows that everybody faced. She was just lucky enough to be asked along the ride..

"I still hate roadtrips, Kee." She can hear him answer, in his voice so low..

"Then I ain't gone."

Freedom is a gift
For you and I
From somewhere
Not, from masters
A slavery masters

and freedom
is a Devine


Hurry up!🔁
Build your present
Let you future sleep
In a solid comfort

Aajaadee kee shubhakaamanaen

Sunn jara apne aap ki..
Kya kehta hai mann tujhe uss baat kii..
Suun jara apne aap ki..
Duniyaan toh sunati hee hai aur sunati hee rahegi.. Tu sabki sunn pr pehle sunn apne aap ki..
Jo tera mann hai wo tujhe bahut jagah le jayega kabhi yha toh kabhi waha na jane kaha -kaha bhatkayega....
Aur tu bhatak bhi jayegaa.. Par jo tu raaste par bhatak ke wapes apne manzil tak naa aaya toh tu hara hua kehlayega...
Aur chote -chote kadam aur baaton se tu isse tarah larkharayega par aakhir me chalna tujhe khud hee aajayega...

Issliye sunn mat kise kee baat kii.. Pehle sunn jara apne aap ki.

Baton say bhee yeh gham kyon kam naheen hotey Aansuon sey dil k koney nam naheen hote Thee bahut umeed to apnon sey is dil ko kabhee Par hameshaa saath ye hamdam naheen hote Bebasee hansne lagee khaamoshi ab hai goonjtee Band kamron men koyee mausam naheen hote Jab khushee hai naachtee gaatee hai man kee har kalee Un gharon men kyaa kabhee maatam naheen hote Pyaar sab miltaa jinhen ranjish naheen koyee kabhee Kyaa kabhee aise dilon men gham naheen hote Yaad to karte hain unko ham sadaa hee raat din Khwaab men unke kabhee kyaa ham naheen hote

December last year was so damped and fogged
But this year sun bright like I am in the middle of spring

Are December always a month of emotion,
A road to drown in delicate-delusion
As a rose drink poisoning poison
Realize I give so much attention to the thing I can't hold forever
Instead my wish is "never say never"

Anywhere this all gonna lead us to,
I just wanna let you remember my words
You are amazing and God sent you
To be my muse, you revoluted my world

What should be prepare for a goodbye
Is there even good in a bye?
And what about December next year and after
Shall I fake my heart remember?

My Kee,
hope I understand you as you understood me


Dec,2018