The courtesan and poet Zuo Fen had two cats Xe Ming and Xi Ming. Living in her distant court with only her maid Hu Yin, her cats were often her closest companions and, like herself, of a crepuscular nature.
      It was the very depths of winter and the first moon of the Solstice had risen. The old year had nearly passed.
      The day itself was almost over. Most of the inner courts retired before the new day began (at about 11.0pm), but not Zuo Fen. She summoned her maid to dress her in her winter furs, gathered her cats on a long chain leash, and walked out into the Haulin Gardens.
      These large and semi-wild gardens were adjacent to the walls of her personal court. The father of the present Emperor had created there a forest once stocked with game, a lake to the brim with carp and rich in waterfowl, and a series of tall structures surrounded by a moat from which astronomers were able to observe the firmament.
      Emperor Wu liked to think of Zuo Fen walking at night in his father’s park, though he rarely saw her there. He knew that she valued that time alone to prepare herself for his visits, visits that rarely occurred until the Tiger hours between 3.0am and 6.0am when his goat-drawn carriage would find its way to her court unbidden. She herself would welcome him with steaming chai and sometimes a new rhapsody. They would recline on her bed and discuss the content and significance of certain writings they knew and loved. Discussion sometimes became an elaborate game when a favoured Classical text would be taken as the starting point for an exchange of quotation. Gradually quotation would be displaced by subtle invention and Zuo Fen would find the Emperor manoeuvring her into making declarations of a passionate or ****** nature.
       It seemed her very voice captivated him and despite herself and her inclinations they would join as lovers with an intensity of purpose, a great tenderness, and deep joy. He would rest his head inside her cloak and allow her lips to caress his ears with tales of river and mountain, descriptions of the flights of birds and the opening of flowers. He spoke to her ******* of the rising moon, its myriad reflections on the waters of Ling Lake, and of its trees whose winter branches caressed the cold surface.

Whilst Zuo Fen walked in the midnight park with her cats she reflected on an afternoon of frustration. She had attempted to assemble a new poem for her Lord.  Despite being himself an accomplished poet and having an extraordinary memory for Classical verse, the Emperor retained a penchant for stories about Mei-Lim, a young Suchan girl dragged from her family to serve as a courtesan at his court.
      Zuo Fen had invented this girl to articulate some of her own expressions of homesickness, despair, periods of constant tearfulness, and abject loneliness. Such things seemed to touch something in the Emperor. It was as though he enjoyed wallowing in these descriptions and his favourite A Rhapsody on Being far from Home he loved to hear from the poet’s own lips, again and again. Zuo Fen felt she was tempting providence not to compose something new, before being ordered to do so.
      As she struggled through the afternoon to inject some fresh and meaningful content into a story already milked dry Zuo Fen became aware of her cats. Xi Ming lay languorously across her folded feet. Xe Ming perched like an immutable porcelain figure on a stool beside her low writing table.
Zuo Fen often consulted her cats. ‘Xi Ming, will my Lord like this stanza?’

“The stones that ring out from your pony’s hooves
announce your path through the cloud forest”

She would always wait patiently for Xi Ming’s reply, playing a game with her imagination to extract an answer from the cinnamon scented air of her winter chamber.
      ‘He will think his pony’s hooves will flash with sparks kindling the fire of his passion as he prepares to meet his beloved’.
      ‘Oh such a wise cat, Xi Ming’, and she would press his warm body further into her lap. But today, as she imagined this dialogue, a second voice appeared in her thoughts.
      ‘Gracious Lady, your Xe Ming knows his under-standing is poor, his education weak, but surely this image, taken as it is from the poet Lu Ji, suggests how unlikely it would be for the spark of love and passion to take hold without nurture and care, impossible on a hard journey’.
       This was unprecedented. What had brought such a response from her imagination? And before she could elicit an answer it was as though Xe Ming spoke with these words of Confucius.

“Do not be concerned about others not appreciating you, be concerned about you not appreciating others”

Being the very sensible woman she was, Zuo Fen dismissed such admonition (from a cat) and called for tea.

Later as she walked her beauties by the frozen lake, the golden carp nosing around just beneath the ice, she recalled the moment and wondered. A thought came to her  . . .
       She would petition Xe Ming’s help to write a new rhapsody, perhaps titled Rhapsody on the Thought of Separation.

Both Zuo Fen’s cats came from her parental home in Lingzhi. They were large, big-***** mountain cats; strong animals with bear-like paws, short whiskered and big eared. Their coats were a glassy grey, the hairs tipped with a sprinkling of white giving the fur an impression of being wet with dew or caught by a brief shower.
       When she thought of her esteemed father, the Imperial Archivist, there was always a cat somewhere; in his study at home, in the official archives where he worked. There was always a cat close at hand, listening?
       What texts did her father know by heart that she did not know? What about the Lu Yu – the Confucian text book of advice and etiquette for court officials. She had never bothered to learn it, even read it seemed unnecessary, but through her brother Zuo Si she knew something of its contents and purpose.

Confucius was once asked what were the qualifications of public office. ‘Revere the five forms of goodness and abandon the four vices and you can qualify for public office’.
       For the life of her Zuo Fen could not remember these five forms of goodness (although she could make a stab at guessing them). As for those vices? No, she was without an idea. If she had ever known, their detail had totally passed from her memory.
       Settled once again in her chamber she called Hu Yin and asked her to remove Xi Ming for the night. She had three hours or so before the Emperor might appear. There was time.
        Xe Ming was by nature a distant cat, aloof, never seeking affection. He would look the other way if regarded, pace to the corner of a room if spoken to. In summer he would hide himself in the deep undergrowth of Zuo Fen’s garden.
       Tonight Zuo Fen picked him up and placed him on her left shoulder. She walked around her room stroking him gently with her small strong fingers, so different from the manicured talons of her colleagues in the Purple Palace. Embroidery, of which she was an accomplished exponent, was impossible with long nails.
       From her scroll cupboard she selected her brother’s annotated copy of the Lun Yu, placing it unrolled on her desk. It would be those questions from the disciple Tzu Chang, she thought, so the final chapters perhaps. She sat down carefully on the thick fleece and Mongolian rug in front of her desk letting Xe Ming spill over her arms into a space beside her.
       This was strange indeed. As she sat beside Xe Ming in the light of the butter lamps holding his flickering gaze it was as though a veil began to lift between them.
       ‘At last you understand’, a voice appeared to whisper,’ after all this time you have realised . . .’
      Zuo Fen lost track of time. The cat was completely motionless. She could hear Hu Yin snoring lightly next door, no doubt glad to have Xi Ming beside her on her mat.
      ‘Xe Ming’, she said softly, ‘today I heard you quote from Confucius’.
      The cat remained inscrutable, completely still.
      ‘I think you may be able to help me write a new poem for my Lord. Heaven knows I need something or he will tire of me and this court will cease to enjoy his favour’.
      ‘Xe Ming, I have to test you. I think you can ‘speak’ to me, but I need to learn to talk to you’.
      ‘Tzu Chang once asked Confucius what were the qualifications needed for public office? Confucius said, I believe, that there were five forms of goodness to revere, and four vices to abandon’.
       ‘Can you tell me what they are?’
      Xe Ming turned his back on Zuo Fen and stepped gently away from the table and into a dark and distant corner of the chamber.
      ‘The gentle man is generous but not extravagant, works without complaint, has desires without being greedy, is at peace, but not arrogant, and commands respect but not fear’.
      Zuo Fen felt her breathing come short and fast. This voice inside her; richly-texture, male, so close it could be from a lover at the epicentre of a passionate entanglement; it caressed her.
      She heard herself say aloud, ‘and the four vices’.
      ‘To cause a death or imprisonment without teaching can be called cruelty; to judge results without prerequisites can be called tyranny; to impose deadlines on improper orders can be thievery; and when giving in the procedure of receipt and disbursement, to stint can be called officious’.
       Xe Ming then appeared out of the darkness and came and sat in the folds of her night cloak, between her legs. She stroked his glistening fur.
       Zuo Fen didn’t need to consult the Lu Yu on her desk. She knew this was unnecessary. She got to her feet and stepped through the curtains into an antechamber to relieve herself.
       When she returned Xe Ming had assumed his porcelain figure pose. So she gathered a fresh scroll, her writing brushes, her inks, her wax stamps, and wrote:

‘I was born in a humble, isolated, thatched house,
and was never well versed in writing.
I never saw the marvellous pictures of books,
nor had I heard of the classics of earlier sages.
I am dimwitted, humble and ignorant . . ‘

As she stopped to consider the next chain of characters she saw in her mind’s eye the Purple Palace, the palace of the concubines of the Emperor. Sitting next to the Purple Chamber there was a large grey cat, its fur sprinkled with tiny flecks of white looking as though the animal had been caught in a shower of rain.
       Zuo Fen turned from her script to see where Xe Ming had got to, but he had gone. She knew however that he would always be there. Wherever her imagination took her, she could seek out this cat and the words would flow.

Before returning to her new text Zuo Fen thought she might remind herself of Liu Xie’s words on the form of the Rhapsody. If Emperor Wu appeared later she would quote it (to his astonishment) from The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons.

*The rhapsody derives from poetry,
A fork in the road, a different line of development;
It describes objects, pictures and their appearance,
With a brilliance akin to sculpture and painting.
What is clogged and confined it invariably opens up;
It depicts the commonplace with unbounded charm;
But the goal of the form is of beauty well ordered,
Words retained for their loveliness when weeds have been cut away.

Honourable Younger Sister,

This village is a world of stone. Lanes, houses, courtyard walls, towers, pavilions, tables, benches are all hewn from ancient red rock. The stone streets are lustrous with the passage of feet and shine in the moonlight; tomorrow they will glisten in the morning rain. After six days on the path into the mountains I finally rest at this inn. Here I can buy light: to write in this loft whilst the house sleeps, though a dutiful daughter dozes against the foot of the stair-ladder to serve me should I require sustenance. Frightened by my ugliness I summoned up my sweetest voice for her and soon there was a shy smile and downcast eyes. These are long nights for the village poor, but few here as poor as those whose shelters I sought on the path. Tonight I miss the steaming breath and ceaseless rustle of the animals brought indoors for warmth and security. My travelling robes are already filthy, but my body remains clean. As soon as I depart each night’s shelter I search for a stream to strip and wash thoroughly in the ice-cold water.

Dear sister, we have both been taught that the function of letter-writing is to unburden the mind of its melancholy thoughts in the form of elegant colours; its purpose to state one’s feelings without reserve. My thoughts turn constantly on whether I have it in me to ‘summon the recluse’. Have I the stamina, the patience, the resolve to seek out these elusive souls? Such thoughts induce fear rather than melancholy, fear of failure.

Already my journey into these mountains has crossed the season of late autumn into that of early winter. I am told the russet-red leaves and pink berries of the Ash, the deceptive Rowan and speckled-leafed Lace set the mountainside alight as the sun rises into a clear sky. For me clouds hang all day in the steep valleys, and so hide the heights where the solitary ones are believed to live. They alone see with the dawn the mountain peaks aflame   It is only in the very late afternoon that the sun melts the clouds, breaks through, and enlivens the landscape, turning it gold, then amber, and a final dull red before the blue blackness of dusk descends. Beyond this village my sources tell me there is real wilderness, and paths are few. I am to be my own guide.

You and I are so adept at the play of words. Our honoured father encouraged us, and as custodian of the Imperial Archives he knew how words could be arranged to both conceal and reveal; we played with the characters as other children played with coloured stones. So with the poems we call “Chao Yin”, let us play with verb “Chao” as both to seek and to summon. Chu Hsi, a courtier of that prince of Huai-nan, was sent into the wilderness to summon an errant official back to his post. His poems speak of terrors of the mountains, their ‘murky depths sending shivers of fright’ of ‘the caves of leopards and tigers’, and of the deep forest where ‘a man climbs from fear’. The poetic form uses “Chao” as in the ancient ceremonial song “Chao ***”. This calls on a dead person’s soul to re-enter the body, so ‘a summoning of the soul’. In those times such poems argued against the recluse, the withdrawn one, and sought a return. Today there is this feeling abroad that we need to consort with the recluse, to taste his solitude. Does the solitary life speak of the ineffable Way? Or is it in the search for the solitary one that a moment of enlightenment may present itself? As the saying goes: ‘to travel one must surely uncover truth’. In my bones I feel ready to invert this old poetic form. I must summon the spirit of the recluse out of the mountain fastness, but not seek his return. I need to touch his ways, see evidence of his mountain life, for a while to walk his paths breathing the same air. In my heart I expect nothing but his absence. I foresee I may reach his shelter and find his gate ajar, though the embers of the hearth still warm. He will be on some distant peak gathering herbs. If on a precipitous path I was to turn a corner and find him before me I have no words prepared. For the moment it seems I am exploring an idea through this summoning and seeking, not a living, breathing body.

Tomorrow I shall reconnoitre. My official hairpin and staff will command any audience, but for reliable answers, I am far from confident. There is always talk, rumours, sightings. The common people respect these beings as kindly mountain spirits and guardians of the wilderness. At the fork in a path, by the crossing place of a stream, corn, persimmons and millet are left for them. Such offerings will be replaced in time by the rarest mountain herbs, wild fruits, the skin of leopard or bear.

Your last letter spoke of ‘following my path into the mountains’. You have always defied convention, so it would be no surprise to find you here on my return, although I think your Lord would not sanction it. He would find such a request unfathomable. I am still perplexed at your situation, that you, the most homely of women should be so favoured, so adorned, and yet so free. It is that confidence you hold to yourself.  

To me, you have always been the essence of woman. What knowledge I possess of your kind comes from you alone. The infrequent gropings that occasionally present themselves I have only dismissed. An hour in your company smoothes and stills both soul and body. Your movements and gestures are always quiet and true, as are your woven words that sing in my memory on the path.

I read your letter
And savoured your words,
Your sorrowful songs of separation.
I can almost imagine your face before me
And I sigh and sob out of control.
When will we meet again
To amuse ourselves with prose and verse?
How can I tell you of my misery
Except with these woven words?

Have I remembered your poem correctly? I expected no response to my own lines on our separation. On the very morning of my departure your scroll arrived. I delayed to read it, delaying further to know your words: to carry them in my memory on my journey. In our respective verse we follow the way of tradition: the lonely woman in her room; the man travelling far from home. How many thousand poems describe this antithesis?

My life has always been sheltered by the expectations of scholarship, the requirements of official rank, and more recently acclaim due to my songs and poems. This journey begins a new page, as a seeker and summoner. Follow my path deeper into the mountains, be at my side when I rest, calm my fear of the heights and the depths of dark ravines, reveal to me the words to paint the scene. Know that I share with you everything that is to come, without reservation.

Remember the words of Lun Yu: ‘The good man delights in mountains. The wise man delights in water’. In these mountains the sound of water is present everywhere.

A stony spring rinses bits of jade
Minnows now and then emerge, and disappear.
Here what need of my silk-strung gujin? –
The mountain water has its own crystal song.

Your brother Zuo Si

Ik gal kaha.

Menu 2016 to hi yakeen ja ** gea c
Ki thuhade lai menu bhulna bada easy c
Bcz us time jado thuhade viah di gal chali c
Tuci menu ik war bi nai c dasea
Nd us bhenchod nu pyar kar bethe c tuci

Yaar me kade kisi hor nu pyar nai kita, na hi kade kar paya. Beshak me hor bada kuj kita.
Bhawe oh kudi baji c ya nasha.
Par kisi hor nu kade pyar nai kr sakea.

Menu sala ehi samj nai a reha
Ki me thuhanu yaad karna band kr dawa
Ya ewe hi yaad krda raha

Me badi try kr reha ki yaad na kara.
Par is baar gal kuj hor he
2016 wich me bhul gea c u nu
But etki, gaand fati hoi a meri
Bus ik mar nai sakda
Baki bahro kush rehna penda

Kini war dekh chukea me thuhanu lal rang de choore wich
Sali iko dua nikdi ki maut a jawe menu
Bcz me khud mar nai sakda
*** bi ro reha

Yaad a ik wari, jado apa park wicho di ja rahe c
Te ik munda park wich ro reha c
Te me us time
Keha c ki sala
Kinna pagal he
Munda ewe kiwe ro sakda
Aj oh munde di yaad andi menu
Te meri kahi gal
Aj samj anda ki sala rona ki hunda

Bhen di lun hoi bi meri life di
Sala kite bi dil nI lagda mera

I know u nu mazak hi lag reha hona
Ha me kita bi mazak hi c thuhade naal
Te aj usdi saza bhugat reha ha
Ena jyada tadap reha ha

Pata ik ta banda ro ke mann halka kr lenda
Ik banda andro ronda
Jeda sala andro rona, te usda mann bi halka nai hunda
Bada ikha hunda

Fat jandi he
Rooh kamb jandi he
Sala jad bi kade wife nu patiala chad ke anda
Ta sad song laganda. Badi myshkil naal sad song sunan nu milde
Te bus sara rasta ronda anda me
Sach kaha ohi ik time hunda jad me ro sakda ha te apna mann halka karda ha
Cheeka marda ha, chest te mukke marda ha
Thapad tak marda ha apne aap nu
Sala sochda ki isi bahane kuch dil halka ** jawe
Par kithe.
Nai hunda.

Heena jj, menu pata ki mera *** koi hak nai reha.
Par metho ik haq na khona
Oh thuhanu dekhan da.
Me kade life wich interfair nai krda
Bus menu dekhan to na rokna kade.

Me tadfna chanda ha
Rona chanda ha
Apni galtia krke

Ameen

i dag er jeg lavet af grankogler og oktoberbrise
i dag er jeg  pigen, der er iført lyserød
neglelak
hende, der drikker lemonade alene
i dag er den dag, jeg mødte dig på biblioteket med
blå mærker i mange nuancer på dine læber kreeret af
hende
tanker eksploderer som klare stjerneskud
jeg ved ikke, hvad jeg tænker, men pludselig sidder vi
i et mørkt lokale, og din ven køber billige øl til mig
og du får lov til at smage
din mor var din far utro, fordi *** lever i 18 forskellige
universer, og hendes hår er lavet af hjemløse dage,
og på nøgne gader er kærlighed det samme som ***

i dag er jeg klar over, vi ikke er venner længere,
dog vil vi stadig lade som om over lun te i sensommeren
men vores tunger er ikke lavet af samme kviksølv
jeg vil stadig smile til dig, når jeg ser dig i byen
men jeg vil også være dit eneste univers, jeg vil tælle
blomster i Kongens Have med dig, men jeg vil aldrig
se dig igen

i dag er den dag, du lærer, hvad lykke er
den slags, der danser på din hud som aftenregn
den slags, der gnaver i dine lunger, som stikkende
bordeaux ild

Jeg må da være den værste datter af alle døtre


Jeg lod ham sidde der
mutters alene
Et ovalt bord og en lun lasagne foran sig
En rank ryg iført en perfekt strøget blå skjorte
Og han var så skuffet
ked af det
grædefærdig

Fordi jeg var egoistisk - sagde han
og han var hensynsløs - sagde jeg

Og nu er alt bare så trist

Trist af alt, var synet af ham alene ved bordet
Det ovale bord
Hvor han stirrede ind i væggen istedet for på mig
Egoistiske jeg, mig men aldrig dig

Ikke en lyd spillede for at opmundre ham
Ikke andet end gaflen som tilsidst ramte den tomme tallerken
som nok forundre og dundre frem for at opmundre

Egoisme er min alkoholisme af individualisme
men denne samvittighed smager af likør midt på dagen


Han er måske den værste far af alle fædre
men jeg må da være den værste datter af alle døtre

My first life lasted long enough
A wife I loved and children real stuff
The war changed everything
Family dead except for my son
where was he when we won?
Forget it all

My second life a depressed teen
Counselors fail to make me clean
Phonographs and tapes
The start of my new life
Why do I keep thinking of my wife?
Forget it all

Third life wasn't strong
Discrimination with my hair long
Women disguises aren't the best in 1900's
This goes with my fourth and fifth
I really wish this was a myth
Forget it all

Sixth was really fun
Did some drugs and went to clubs
Became a show host
They all found out
They started to shout
Forget it all

Aute Lun didn't go to heaven
Nothing phased number seven
His life did not last

Number eight was burned to the steak
That hurt I needed a break

Poor sweet number nine
His bills made him commit
Suicide

Ten and Eleven
Nearly became convicted felons
But they got too sick to even try
Forget it all
All these lives
Do they matter?
Just forget...

Number 12 was one of the longest
A guy by the name of Alex Coneales
I was finally myself again
I made a friend or two
They help me through
They never know

Wilson Maxwell a friend with laughs
He found my tapes, my phonographs
We exchange our secrets
He says he'll help me no matter what
He knows too much so I keep shut
I'M SCARED
FORGET IT ALL

vi bader
halvnøgne i maaneskinet
på en lun juninat
vi løber
smadder fulde
ned mod stranden
men famler i blinde
jeg træder i torne

hvorfor husker jeg kun
hånden på min ryg
maaneskinet
dine forsigtige støn
men ikke den smerte
da mine fødder var skåret fuldstændig til blods?

Heena, me bhulna chanda ha thuhanu
Jiwe tuci bhul gaye ** menu
Me pathar dil banna chanda ha
Jiwe tuci ban gaye **
Me sachin yaad nai krna chanda thuhanu

But ** nai pa reha, jinni koshish krda
Uniya gallan yaad andiya

Sala 5 phase wale park ne dimag khrab kita hoea

I hate u, sachi i hate u.
Thuhanu bhenchod nu koi fikar nai
Te me edar ewe mari ja reha
Ewe sadi ja reha

*** yaad bi kitho aau
Mere nalo *** ke pyar karan wala jo
Mil gea thuhanu

Bhen di lun ehi gal ne dimag
Khrab kita hoea

Vi bader
halvnøgne i maaneskinet
på en lun juninat
vi løber
smadder fulde
ned mod stranden
men famler i blinde
jeg træder i torne

Hvorfor husker jeg kun
hånden på min ryg
maaneskinet
dine forsigtige støn
men ikke den smerte
da mine fødder var skåret fuldstændig til blods?

The Devil came to me
during the final merengue,
in the ***** shadows of the night,
While I’d been dancing with a man
whose face I did not know,
his eyes were the color
of his hair, his hair
the color of his skin,
he blended into the
white walls the way Mole seeps
into chicken. He looked hungry
like every other man I had
ever seen before,
but Madre did he know,
how to make me spin. Spun me so fast
I pierced holes into the sky,
the Sun cooked red hot inside
he let off steam, cursing the ***** cochina
for her hoofed feet and bouncing
pig tail hair. When I tried for innocence
the sun only saw white
anger when I tried to apologize,
the Devil tsked and shook his head,  
shoved his fingers into my mouth,
my tongue became an ember
my words turned into clouds.
Oh Dios, el Sol fue muy enojado,
his stars burnt brighter than ever,
reflected el Diablo’s brilliant grin
his triumph was he always got
exactly what he wanted. My chest
grew tight with fear, knowing what
I’d done. With a smile,
the ***** dance,
that the Devil had given. Me
quiero nada más, I cried.  
But he just laughed instead, and picked up
greater speed. With every spin, my world
grew hot, flames kissed my neck and feet,
“Mami,” he said, “we’re not through.”
Grabbing onto my hips to throw me
around la Lun’, beating her
silver skin, the craters came
to represent his twisted lullaby  
cooing Ella recordará y tu tambien,
The night belonged to him.

Yaar ki a
Bus kar, na kar hor tang
Me sachi bada dukhi ** gea ha life to
Mere to sachi bardash nai ** reha
Daily dia ladaiya
Daily de jhagde
Sala viah na hoea pata nai ki ** gea.

Uto teri yaad nai jandi
Bus kar yaar, jad *** tu apni life wich kush he
Ta menu bi kush reh *** de
Kyu yaad ayi ja rahi he baar baar

Daily tera nd tere husband da khyal
Anda
Daily fatdi he meri
Daily Dimag khrab hunda
Nai seh hunda sachi yaar

*** tak ta shyad pregnent bi ** *** huni tu
Menu nai samj a reha
Me kiwe nikla teria yaadan cho
Har gaane wich
Har moment wich
Tenu labda
Bhen di lun narak hoi bi jindagi.

Sala pata nai kad kheda chutu teria yaadan to

la la luna
the one that shines bright.
Her glow mystifies my eye.
as She moves across the sky
my mind ponders the surface
and what lies beneath.

la la lun
perhaps thats what you do.
processor of things,
filtering through.
I feel your moves.
they lay waiting in the base of me.
in the hollow parts of my core.
there the shifts rest,
moving back and forth.

la la una
the One I cannot contest.
the perfect balance of movement.
pressure being built to release it
again and again.
my waters embrace this.
they hold the charge that encircles
the stars within.
they prepare for collision.
super novas on course.
the lens receives a focus.

same old, same old: liberation from
the insensible trajectory of
Catholicism...
least tried m.o.p.e. of Irish through
to ****** and somehow back
again to the glories of Spain...
but not in protestant lands...
because protestants do not delve
into superiority motifs
of Greek orthodoxy...
Russian no less...
    the catholic is the joke one of those
a priest, a rabbi and a imam
jokes aplenty...
Catholics are the least sensible
of the whole lot...
i must be... dully noted...
whether via any means necessary
or that there might be a glimmer
of something specific...
post-Christian
         this so-and-so...
i look toward the ages of prehistory
prehistory which implies nothing
journalistic nothing pop culture
nothing game, advantage, envy...
nothing celeb...
         once the day is complete
i call it complete having exhausted
all the **** ***** flicks of my dying:
dyeing of the horizon(s)...
i seek comfort in etymological bounty...
as this is written in some variant of
german... i look toward
everything germanic, sourced...
i break my father's spine on
a toothpick...
i break my own on...
  something to do with
exacting spelling... and how i'll
always abhor baddie loot
of, wording... sum of the last
of the revealing parts...
a heaving lung...
         ein heben lunge -
alias of: ein(e) he-ben lun-gé...
grr of grkh...
sound of static and of stasis...
my mother told me
that i have a... greek nose...
          
self-help gurus infiltrated my
solipsistic domain
of the demigods...

i'm testing a way to purge them from
a believable contest...
of detail... orientation...
demand...

sly ******* the usual snake-oil
sales people...
   at least with a murderer you
can allow having attention
span-ning toward:
life so cruel... stages...
introspect i must...
my own... glorified ****...

it wouldn't be a day worth
invested in...
had there not been a moment...
sitting in akimbo..
spotting clots of cloud for
the arch-yet-lesser-known...
hangmen of wing attire...

it wouldn't be a day worth
salvaging... if...
it didn't come from...
sitting akimbo having oneself
felt, feel: relaxed...
emptied...
like so... like...
the introspective of the ****
would never require
the jolt of "conscience"...
surrounding the fudge-packers
of the world unite:
from a hole of much that can be said:

better out than in...
or... all that's required is out...
but i will never succumb to having to...
allow altar status
and the consecration of apples,
or wine or... bread...
or whatever metaphorical
cannibalism that's Christian, nee:
a Norwegian bulk of letters...

a waste: amass: summary of "concept":
suppose there's a detailing scrutnies
and money is allowed:
primeval stature...

i have a Greek nose...
it's straight it is somehow aligned...
it's one of those: t.b.s. (to be seen)
limits of 1990s cinema...
what it's aligned for,
or towards... even the Graeae will
never know...

somehow a stalling of the wind
come: lumberjack...
the orchestra... the wills... the willows...
& the flutes...
come the wind whistling envy...
people in the Lusatian period of
discovery...
eager push.. plush... push...
into the funnel that Europe became...

a hybrid soothsayer added:
if you soak some teeth of garlic in red wine
you'll gravitate toward thin...
hence my revised
"kalimoxo"....
      cio
          (c)**
          
Puntiz....
        herb = krok vs.
step away from crow: and that's a Z
via "C"...
                knee-bending scrutiny of...
from a time most delve to
quest by dubbing it... half the memory lost...
halve the halving of the memory already
loitering...
then delve into... "structure"...
appease the murderers as
the recycling junction-ers....

         heart is spent...
heart most adored... this sea of man...
this tide of man, also...
brace one's "might"... kept "intact"
this monkey this **** similis in
a...

                 the man who invested
himself for the "slaughter"
of drinkin' beer...
             years will have to pass
for them to attain status: opera... prone...
years and years...
stifle me with "revision" and
curator abject... loss....
what was lost?
a "last" of a Wednesday...

for raw salmon flesh...
to be eaten... first it might as well be:
cured...
cured of what? of rawness...
detailing the addition of lemon juice
to a meat... invigorating the junction
of meat involved...
yes... what a pretty picture.

There IS nobody to ask, you say,
when we turn our stomachached motor
up another wavy lane, temporarily
rest it as we squint at the AA Big Easy
Read Britain 2022, locate the B3220
and realise we’re in another
splodge of a town, homes in a hodgepodge,
the obligatory church. A mistake, we know now,
to leave late in the day, another hour ‘till
The Hole in the Wall where they’ll wait,
no doubt sigh, waste time spinning
the beermats as a gaggle of rowdy
just past-the-post teens blot the night
with the guzzling of spirits, their hangovers
like belches of fog come lun - Satnav wasn’t
on the blink, but it is. Now look, I say,
calmly because tempers can boil over
matters so trivial, if we take the A3124,
wriggle right at Whiddon Down
to the A30, breeze by Exeter, a doddle
down to the coast, we’ll make it by nine.
You know how impatient they are. Ten
minutes won’t hurt, the vehicle grumbling
into action, tired and miffed with our
wonky deviation. It’s then, eking back
the way we came, an image forms - a bronzed,
slippery chalice named Stella, flat cap
of foam on the rim of extinction.