The belated summer sky is alive
with a  D r a g o n f l y ballet

Beneath,.. the rain parched sod
lay sullied, cracked open
by an unsated thirstiness
awaiting the painted autumn days
and the cleansing rain's renewal

A lace-winged hatch rises skyward
— meandering  airborne —
drifting upwards like a burst of dust
dissipating in an invisible cloud
of eventide's silent breath

Darting shadows hover
above a seeker's curiosity
    just this side the  
softening sunset backdrop

A synthesis of fluid motion
  – darting kinesis –
    swift agile fliers
steal away over the thirsty pond;
their mesmerizing beauty enchants
as the dimming dusk falls silent —-
embellishing the unrelenting ending
   another summer's
 imminent curtain call;

reminding how inexorable-time
is only a contrived human notion,
a recurring extrapolation
  of passing  seasons

Heightening awareness:
how we too are only
passing through these
unholdable moments
   coming to know
    we cannot stop
   how life unfolds

The raindrops will quench
the pond's aching thirst
again one fall someday...

  — hereafter —
there will be another
beauty of dragonflies
some other eyes will see
preying on another burgeoning
gossamer-winged hatch

          and
another beckoning autumn
when the dragonflies hover
below the gazing totems
     in the treetops


Jesse Stillwater ... September 2018                                                 .

Forcibly removing wisps from fruit soaked heads.
Curling into melted breakfast.
Willing to line the lateral.
Cracked soup pouring, selfish.
Grinding halt in whole old text.
Pre-youth in use lost in chronos.
Trigger a lament looped put new, lude.
Masses of self-titled separation.
Entangled in sandstone, origin archaic.
Natural disaster of a birth-right in shards.
Trees growing limbs in lungs producing rust.
Forever dystopian dust in rungs of a ladder.
First hurt by ascending sequential first love.
Content with enough abrupt living daylights.
Apex green latex sunrise painting me from inside my blood.
Obtuse.

now, I will try to abandon time and space
in this form of truancy.

what is this abandonment trying to measure?
  the abeyance of presence.

what is the measured variable trying
to dissect? the impossibility of absence.

a poem aspires to be something concrete. a poem
   is what is real and imagined in the same context.

I try to invoke Abad -- what is imagined is most
   real.  this shall be its leitmotif.

now, i imagine the horizon as a point

of origin, or a template to some familiar projection,
  or a tagebuch summarized into a fine line
of allegories and denouement.

what this line tries to prove is that

an enjambment is a mimesis.

acknowledge the sublimity of a
  creation. notice that the sequence that will
be promised is diegesis of absence as form
     but not a poem as in a poem that enshrines
lucidity -- but the lack of it.

there is only the photograph of horizon
   as hypothesis of perpetuality. this now

is a subject, a speculative undertaking rearing a
   poem -- writing as preparatory for absence,

finishing a line as pursuit of thesis, gravity of
    its heft as tabulation of emphasis, or
verbosity, which may be telling of meaning or chronology.

a poem that is not a poem,
  But poem as a form of absence

that aspires to be a poem.

what is transpiring now is that i am assuming
   an utterance: utterance as being here,

and perhaps voice as sound of becoming but not finality
   of presence, and sound as disappearance

post-peak. its point-source silence and formation
   of thought, and then a poem is written as

evidence of disappearance in deep and close
   contest with a vision coming from another

audience as an objective supposition or
   reaction that may propel an exchange

but only when silence is entertained does
  silence happen, and so this may be dismissed

as a monologue among dialogues insofar as
    only to pinpoint this arrogant feat:

i may be speaking glossolalia, or in tongues,
  and that i seek no reprieve nor vestige,

all the more response -- intone of voice
   stilling itself in the tense setting

of being gazed upon, glazed with coherence
  of senses from one identity to another say,

you hear me speak as in speaking
as baring sound.
   but now that i have spoken, i have already undone

  the quiet to stir volumes and amplitudes
to attest sound-fade as vital component of absence,

whereas this poem produces ample sound
  if you pay close attention to yourself reading

in the lull form of reading (your
breathing will have intensified here,

your reasoning will have made so much
  noise here) as i continue to whittle

away in form of verse, verse not as poem,
  verseliteration not as occupancy of space,

but all in all, a body of work
that is a visage of movement - or a trace of absence, physics of space and kinesis of departure.

a delineation of a thing that was once
   thriving in threshold accompanied

by its tendency to wane: sound may be an
     analogue of unheard, as sound is impervious
to quietude but quietude conscious of sound
     and its potential,

that quiet coheres to its inclination to consummation,

this completeness so emphatic,
this allegory as
  absence the somatic, axiomatic,

indefatigable machinery of a presage,
   or continuity -- this poem that is not a poem,

but an excess of sound, a body that
   deserves end,  a punctuation.
     verity of this argument in basest form.

this body of work as absence
  and its completeness, volition

of its enigma: is this the end
  of sound or your silence summoned?

to drag it back, its recalcitrant body,
   is form of revision, then possession

of an absence, a recollection that will have granted
   seamless entry and translation

which passes on from its origin to
  a new clause -- to end it here, now and pass

over as readable only in the background that is
   an embellishment of absence amongst

things in exclusive continuity, to have this produced
   in space as empirical of absence,

and to punctuate this, a mystification,
or say, acceptable fabrication,

to read and extricate as acceptance of an absence
   as form: this poem that is not a poem but

only a physicality delimited -- to speculate
and study
as disbelief, and to have done such simply

demystification of its transition.

There's an anomaly
in my body.

I move so softly in the face of things,
but I'd like to move in nature;
it makes me a wild bird lost in the cryptic love for
thought,
kinesis,
and flight of the universe.

It makes me as fragile as the tides,
similar to an ****** prose - moving in its poetic ways.

There's an anomaly
in my body.

Who is I?
In the Now. I am of true boi essence.
A writer, a recluse, abandoned only of fate: Destiny ever alluring in the palm of my hand.
Limited only by my own inabilty to be present in only one consciousness.
I am split between reality strings.
A permeant spectre, caught betwixt parallel dimensions.
At times incoherrant, lost in esoteric translation.
I am physic(al) - I of breath + flesh, perception being my holster, corruption my armoury.
Intuitively, i am harmonious, sanctonious, welcoming of illuminations and the darker side of each unfettered moon.
Awareness sleeps by my side. Each waking minute guarded. of commonality.
I am enlightened.
I am bouyant.
mobile, fluid-like in kinesis.
Conventional existense being the foundation over which i fly.
Arms outstretched, willing risk to be my pull.
Enticing Love to be my drag.
balance, mediums, equilibrium.
Lifted high amidst winds roaring with possibility.
I am stark in naked complication, although often prone to cover up in cynical, self critical analysis.
I am given of self; being the taker a refreshing discourse to which i stray accordingly.

Of culture i am a liar.
By nature i tend towards honesty only straying when survivalistic path need tread.
I am of blood,
private yet optimistically open to scarring.
By custom i am trained, civil, content.
Of instinct; native raw tongue, i am rampant, rapid in force, compelled to grow then emerge.
Only.
To submerge
is to take full scope.
i am telescopic
in view of A/all else to which i drown my vision.
I am unsure if i am young,
Although certain that my passage is still being lit by the glow of its entrance, dark passageways luring with their shadows and cavernous corners.
I am liberal, random in speculatory silence. I am idle, often motivated by industrial desire.
Mechanical in process, structured of cerebreal architecture, yet somewhat discombobulated in particularity.
Sporadic be my strain, its think tank choking always on the weeds of sorrow.
Essentially i am nothing: yet overwhelmingly everything.
I was
I am
I will
therefore i
Exist
to i as
A/all and nothing.
As yesterday is to tommorrow, and visa versa, i am a window, a door, a channel:
as closed as i am open.
Dependant only on my own deliverence of influence and potential.
Driven by the promise of future and the demands of my past.
I am a vehicle in time, my presence, my motion, my journey
is I.

Is it insomnia
when I don't care for sleep?

The sort of sleep that is belligerent
interruptions at each half past
in the middle of every hour,
intervals of interlopers
awoken by invisible passersby
floating enemies striking me
with the hatred of their kinesis
cerebral lightning at my heart
or attempts at my suffocation
as I wake to a coughing start,
intruders invading my dream mind
as well as its peace

anything that would hurt me
they revel in my breaking,
I can hear the clicking of laughter
of teeth...

Deserts and all our cities
should have crickets,
yet Vegas feels like its been dying
the quiet now replete
no chirp of the lucky bugs
nor busying of bees with their buzz
rather its the fizzle of neon panic
the beatitude of cheats
the machinations of gamblers' defeat

or sometimes mostly
this deep in the twilight
a swarm of Ninjas, Suzuki, Kawasaki roars
toward their kabuki foot rubs
a twenty gets you a dub
rub you long time
for an hour behind red doors

Try to spank myself to sleep
if not to exhaustion,
but I can still hear the distant piercing
screaming
of latter days & soilent green
the secret war as alien is to any sound
sleep.

They look like people
we look like meat,
the living dead
their sake's flesh
all torn away and beat
up like faithful lovers that creep
seduced by the sluice
of the street / symphonies,
of rocket ship Discovery

Can't turn the volume down
in the black of night
when my mind's eye
is behind a veil
in the dark of 2:22
(in recovery)
and still the aliens
wretchedly wail...

whilst i'm
slumming in attempts at slumbering,
the greys are watching
humans lumbering
               and *******
two twenty two
in the dim
twilight
morning...

Falling as recalcitrance of movement – seeks completion – yet the ground
   ballasts.
            There is no path that leads forward as I live backwards.
    There is poetry in the way
              a woman carrying a bilao moves away from the vicinity.
       Sound departs.
I took a deep drag and fell into a thick web
    of smoke, recoiled to fetal nature, into the womb of my unbecoming.

       What seems to contain endlessness: dark.
What punctuates this claim: moonlight.
      In a house that continuously aches,
I am grateful for windows.
                             Night-erased repeatedly, the dance of blades of grass.
       There is more stasis when words flay
                 themselves to pass as something more resolute than there is
     the kinesis of life’s steady abbreviations. We shorten like this,
                             when we curse the destinations upon movement’s mindless
                approval.

We collect ongoing afternoons
                         and cohere to trees. Say falling like you mean it,
     the way we commit to breaking though unwanted, feared.
                 Feel the hands accumulate warmth when propped
  into the sun’s permanent daze – face becomes glare,
                            a day becomes a scar.

This    is  where   I do  not know   what moves   to become fully   stationary.
     Days crumble like this.
   In a poem that is not a poem.
   In a sound that is only sound and not music.
     In a dance that is not life, but stillbirth.
   In notes that are purely rambling, not reportage.
     A voice that champions a fiasco.
                             This is where the   throbbing  afternoon becomes   a part
       of me    that falls   into   a chasm of   a fateful night,
                lassitude    of   debris in  tow,

                                       starting     measures  everywhere  we   left and   returned –

I crave for you
When its one in the morning
All I hear is the kinesis of
My heart, thumping heavier
Than the screams of
Our Forbidden Love

Prithee darling - be my lover
We'll be in kindred philosophy - unite
For being enamoured - of passion
For all that tyrant interdict
You play - antihero
And I'll play - renegade
Wending to brighter day - we go
Eschewing shade
You play - Jacobean muse
And I'll play haughty heroine
Destinies - fuse
Intertwine
Two paths - never to be cleft
How ever can one light be bereft?
Loves light spread - by mimesis
My thesis
Of souls divine kinesis

I.

Magnificent Angel, wouldst thou ever tire,
From divine labour stoking heaven's fury fire,
Rest awhile thine mind with mortal, earthen kin,
Regale me with your godly revelries,
In which truth of Heart's magnanimity,
Where pure hearts 'twixt trials of time are twin.

II.

Then I shall fathom thy light, pure, good and true,
World more good for the guiding light of you,
-- Beacon's light spread by spirit's mimesis,
With those wings, doth dare and proud protect,
Love's plan, to which you genuflect,
The final purpose of your light's kinesis.

III.

I would not flinch from your sultry sight,
Adorned by sparks of brilliant light,
Raw cub of God with soul replete,
A door that's opened unto thee,
Not to be rescinded willingly,
Hurled to glory on divine feet.

IV.

If wishes ever granted, mine to dwell,
In aura of the Angel, splendid, swell,
As we, the cherubs, since long time ago,
Searching for rainbow, to and fro,
As our path takes us, high and low,
We, lived, felt love, but now we go.

V.

To truth, which rapture us in throe,
Sat brooding in desire and woe,
The flame of love be ours to stoke,
The right be ours to wield it high,
And swing it proud around the sky,
Its light resplendent and bespoke

cartesian arithmetic is pretty simple,
it's four letters long,
and it encompasses the following
symbols: +, -, x, ÷, =, <, >, ≠... etc.,
******* trainwreck...
   words unlike numbers,
and numbers unlike words...
     the following symbols?
are rest upon the latin word ergo...
there's a "therefore" with each approach
being handled,
but there is an authentic ergo
in that there's a linear + (plus) &
and a - (minus) defence...
   but this quantum quadratic **** with
the multiplication (x) & the division (÷),
or the: electrons are really a
wave (=), and a particle (≠) -
you always need 3 dimensions for
a sphere...
                   nonetheless is combines
the whole lot is cartesian, pre-enlightenment,
all of this arithmetic boils down to
one word: ergo,
subsequently the ergo continuum...
you want perpetuated kinesis,
it's this!
                 if you have lost the
motivational grinding element, i.e
the ?...
               you reach a zeitgeist
blockade of a !,
turning around questioning with a: ?! / huh?!
the wheel is there, but the motion
isn't...
                      all of mathematical
arithmetical "punctuation" marks labours
under the word ergo...
                   after all, what question
in mathematical terms doesn't end in
                        the algebraic                   = x?
it's one thing to allow the complexity
of numbers, while keeping the complexity
of letters to a sleeping pattern,
one thing to extract autism from the numbers
and dyslexics from the letters,
another thing to extract caring for
either, and keeping up with a status quo.

Untold simulacra
Could you jump to twelve
Some kind of sickening sweetness
Again and again

Cycle kinesis
Usurping the gravity
Kiss the blind man
Bumble your words

Have you ever heard
A catastrophe at the other end of a telephone?
The shriek and silence
Of unknown violence
The wail and moan of a dial tone
Phonetic kinesis corked!
Words twisted to the snap
Wrung to the crack
A digit bridge bedlam
Calcination of lispy, nasal, rasp, and husk
Bellow whispers fanning ash
A static sting and the ears go black

Suffocated voices - sing
Louder - empowered by the sound -
Of Freedom near - in tortured ear -
That doth ring along the earth, up and around -
Slowly fortified by Love -
The voice is amplified -
As tyrants song that maim the throng -
Out of scarred mind stride -
The mind - is brighter - than the sun -
Through it the fires blessed -
Like Leopards leap and run -
Intention manifest -
She spreads her song by its lights mimesis -
A beacon unto a devils night -
Message spread by divine kinesis -
That bear aloft loves light -
He tried to squash her flame, dissuade -
Her from picking up the lute -
Nay I guess - he saw not her bless -
She's miles away playing the bardic flute -

so much of the intellectual property debate is summarised in the cartesian res extensa concept, and so much of that translates back into a theory of schizophrenia... after all, i have taken it to heart to go back to the conceptualisation of the diagnosis prior to the muddles of existentialism, after all, the schizophrenic symptom is like a pish-poor version of prof. xavier, who was modelled on a schizophrenic, and all that tele- fruit wagon, -pathy, -kinesis, whatever you want to equate with the veg wagon of the god "almighty".

and it is just so, the upper tier of the cartesian model
invokes the *res extensa: or the spiderweb of
the actual spider, who isn't a spider,
but a thinking "spider"...
         auditory hallucinations have to be scarier
than visual ones, given that visual hallucinations
are sometimes conjured up recreationally...
safe to say: hard to fear something you can see,
much harder to keep a nerve hearing something:
but not seeing it!
         and once again, the deciphering of biblical
phrasing, that "supposed"
   peccatus archetypus / "original sin" -
the joke is that it was never: original -
   expilo ignarus esse
   (plagiarise being ignorant) -
               funny how a complex mental disorder
can feed the canvas of intellectual property
theft,
          which is why people even joke
about it, because it's not even considered a "theft",
but i really thought that in the "real" world
we moved away from the classroom antics of
getting the easy ride?
   the so-called "real" life is as real as
             a bridge, and a troll living under it...
oh, that aloo gobi curry went down as a treat,
better than the korma,
   it was the madras curry spice,
  and some kashmiri chili powder that did
miracles to the tatties and ol' albino brain
that's the cauliflower... served with chapatis...
nonetheless, there's a strange link with modern
talk of intellectual theft, and schizophrenia,
you have to admit, premature dementia is
probably more a staggering curiosity than
cancer in children...
                     primarily because it is less and less
(year upon year) a physical problem,
rather the antithesis of what some old people
say: i feel 16, in an 86 year olds body...
   in some cases sure: dumb as log of wood,
but in other instance: a hypersensitive acquisition
of language, and hyped awareness of
one's surrounding: the "paranoia" part of
a diagnostic compound: as william burroughs
already said:
    yep, because i knew the name of our
current president;
   but it all coincides (once again, to me being
diagnoses as such, when in fact i was only
bilingual...) - with the nexus being arrived upon
    the cartesian res extensa, i.e. the extended thing...
intellectual property sits along with
  schizophrenic symptoms as: coordinate extensions -
although for the former the extension
takes place in other people is regarded as
the most petty of forms of theft -
     if thieves think burglars are losers,
then burglars know that plagiarists are the ****
of the earth...
    the difference is that, in terms of symptomatology
of a schizophrenic... interruptions -
or as i like to call it: heckling...
why do i have such a niche interest?
     so this ex calls me up at work while
i'm on the 16th floor roofing...
  and she's panicking... she says she's hearing
voices...
  i later learn she ****** my former
school friend with whom i sat arm to arm in
english class, and she tells me: voices! voices!
i'm hearing voices!
                 after i left edinburgh she spiralled
from mere **** into m.d.m.a., acid...
     and she didn't tell me to use the rubbers again
after, on the whim, she read a cosmopolitan
article that probably read: how to trap a guy
by getting yourself pregnant secretely...
me? alimony? does alimony transcend borders?
so can a russian chic ask for alimony from
a former pole now, a brit?
    well, she calls me up, and then the cat in
me became curious, i was a ****** prior to this
medical condition, or should i say,
prior to the whole idea of mental health...
it was prior to then an ****** cousin stuck in
the attic of a surgeon's house,
  bound by the chains of what translated from
philosophical dualism of descartes,
  into the medical dichotomy of post-descartes
of clear distinction: between mind & body...
suddenly, all of a sudden... a convergence
project began, with more and more english kids
exposing the reality of the two, being, seemingly,
non-parallel.
   well... perhaps the curiosity killed the cat,
but i still have 8 lives left.

(Sounds like Harmony but)
Tastes like apathy.
Dry, chapped, and phlegmy
With my tongue thick and
Drudging in a tasteless tar
At the top of the fall.
Cold –blooded and writhing
Shedding, scheming and idle
Potential energy and work to be done
Over distances and barb wire bulwark.
Throbbing and turgid, restlessly
Shackled, zipped, and tucked.
A static and stale statue
Approaching a ******, kinesis
On lacking lines, purged pages
Silent songs, and clean canvases
Museless, hollow, and still

Sweet Bliss
My love I seek forgiveness for all my mistakes
Whether done with good or bad intention
In burning desert your love is like snow flakes
Let us establish a new sweet love convention

I do know that love is the supreme power
Which heals all ailments and makes one daring
My love you are a sweet flower of the hour
Let me be more friendly in sharing and caring

My love forgive me and be my honor and respect
Take me and embrasse me and allow me to kiss
Let us make our relation more strong and perfect
This all kinesis remains for me the real sweet bliss
Colonel Muhammad Khalid Khan