Bump,thump,bump,thump.... the bass cases shake and quake  
Secreting heat, my skin blushes, that rush of a new secret crush.
She passes and her scent renders all around helpless.
The DJ's plush talons tow and myre you soul's wires.  
Seeping through, the beak crushing your conscience,  
falling, sleep down, the sound grounds you.  
Sowing the seeds of desire on the stone below.  
Called by the thumping, bumping beat,  
You jump from your seat into a market of meat, a sea of shifting feet.  
10,000 lights spin like sugar bright.  
Blood fuels your feet,  
feats of flight,  
blurs of sight.  
Spinning like cotton candy with all your might.  
Body overheating, heart overbeating, grains of lust over seeding.  
Your scars begin to heal as glassy eyes not blue appeal to your "at first sight" senses.  
Senses slow there motion to primal, tingling too much,  
not too much to touch, no sting as such.  
Such a blissful kiss t'would be from she before thee.  
Snip the wire.  
Feed the desire.  
The need grows to fan passion fire.  
The potent scent of dripping skin steams up like the devotional incline of nine combined love potions.  
Love, as real love, survives as only a notion in this moving motion of lust's contrived plot...  
But to feel alive, even for a moment,  
love's emotion fails... drawing bust to the ever opulent opponent of lust;  
a proponent to disguise the potent demise of the heart's conscious component.  
Gas and smoke blows.  
Beats high and low.  
The dancing mass of suppressed woes ebbs and flows,  
capturing the seconds, snatching your essence, rapturing your ethics.  
Feeding the peak you seek, heart weak, roaring soul silenced to squeak.  
Waning away your stay with the sweating sea of swing and sway leaves you adrift.  
The waves of the DJ begin to hammer you into enamerment  
Did this quaking wake the sober state of your forsakenness?  
That complaicent stained vacant place aching to be filled.  
A painful, dizzying blood rush floods your mind and muck the feeling first struck secret love crush  
Were the judgment-blurring thoughts occurring so alluring? They fought off pure thoughts sought before she heart-stopped me.  
In light of a moment caught, wrought with knots of naughty thoughts.  
Light and sound and the thumping, bumping ground drown your bounds. 
No more, no more. 
"Now I remember" internally sounds, profound rebounds. 
Lore from before when the last passing blue-eyed leggy lass tore the door off your soul's core.  
No more, no more.  
The crush becomes dust. You become stone.  
Cut to the bone. No seed will be sewn.
You face the floor and breathe. alone.
  
 "Cameo Theater South Beach"   
R. Craig David-Copyright 1995

the oriental notion of meditation is far,
far from a reflection...
            since how can a posit of a reflection
bound to nothing: spell out m    i     r      r     o     r?
sure, upon the myre?
                scandinavian word for: ant.

the oriental notion of meditation
works towards, less a narrative,
  which is the most genuine off-shoot of
the patience tested,
               and more toward a reflex...
        in the orient reflection = the reflex,
and i gather than the latter instance
has many forms...
                       -ion = the,
as if there really was something definite
to grasp...
                 when the reflective becomes
synonymous worth of the reflexive...
            
                 meditation can only allow
a reflex analogy to a reflection,
      beginning work with re-,
or again, and again, again, toward no
apparent gain...

       only europe does meditation
precipitate into a written narrative...
              whatever alan watts says...
          even if "i" do not exist...
                         there is still an insisting
part of me that says i do,
which does not encompass a freedom of
will,
         but rather an: insisting argument
for, a will...
                     harsh to allow definite parameters
into the argument:
               whether gender neutral
pronouns of the current year,
well... not so long ago there were
definite & indefinite pronoun applications,
notably in the plural form of: they, we, them...

             i.e. i might support a football team,
but i will not identify with the *******
supporters...
                 i'm indefinite to the team,
but i'm definitely interested in the sport...
counter that? the ******* supported
care **** for the sport...
                        but cling to it,
on the basis of a team...
                      i prefer the sport...
   you can only go as far with
oriental reductionism...
            after a while the buffer zone
of atoms appear...
                can, do, will etc. are atoms,
sub-atomically?

                 c                    d                 m            s
      a                                                          o
             n                 o                       a             t

no one is expected to bleach their whole
heritage into a blank slate of arguments...
you'd be mad to suddenly drop
the heritage, the inheritance "tax" of
what culminates in you, as you,
to then turn to buddhism and argue for
a "you"...
                   last time i checked the pronouns
are off the palette of worthwhile
arguments...
                      
        but it doesn't require a foreign language
to tell you the inherent structures
of the english tongue...
   i once said: you can have an hour's
worth of conversation in polish,
and not utter, a single pronoun...
              not one!

                     english is structured differently,
you can't avoid it,
    but creating these "problems"
is, seemingly, what i was waiting for,
first the tongue as spider,
then the talk surrounding me requiring
a specific spiderweb architecture,
subsequently the flies...
      loud-mouths...
                     hence me slobbering
my acid saliva readied for
       digestion outside the gut...
to subsequently slurp up...

                             whatever happened in
the anglophone world in the 1960s
with bruce lee and zen buddhism...
   that's gone... way gone...
            proxy warfare has reached its end,
look how the proxy war overlords are
bothered about the syrian civial war...
                    can't exactly fit a proxy when
a syrian butcher is fighting a syrian
cobbler, can 'ya?!
                                      thought not.

  oriental meditation / reflection deals
with an immediacy to prompt "thought",
or rather, the moral lack of: a need for compass -
unconscious they knew, as so they bred,
to reach a swelling point in their populace...
since they meditated toward a reflex activity...
western "meditation"?
               with an immediacy to prompt
narration, subsequently "thinking",
with the reflex being condensed to a knee ****...

but an oriental escape is cheap...
   to borrow from these lands is horrid...
          i once tried tao,
and all i learned was but one maxim:
  - the best way to help the world,
is to allow the world to forget you,
and for you to forget about the world;
sqout's honour cross my heart:
   that's all i ever learned from tao...
makes sense, considering that's
how i am both reflective and reflexive about...
what with so many "truths" spewed
by western philosophers...
   it's actually hard to master a
reflexive momentum given so many
reflective opportunities to try out...

  at least in oriental philosophy
meditation breeds one reflexive offensive,
rather than in western philosophy's
meditation, that breeds many reflective
opportunities...
                 ******* peacocks...
                         (a) to (b) will do just fine...
you don't require as many truths
as are given, with only a few being
tested in a vestor vacuum of
                   excluding so many others...    

so i live by that one tao lesson alone...
this?
        this pixel space?
sure, it's public, but it's an extension
of thinking, rather than speaking...
       what you see, you see,
                                    at your own peril.

In a stirring river,
Garrotted by mud and each rusted carcass
dumped over the slow years -
The dredgers cut down
And saw the metal of a woman,
A frothy corruption, naked, open.
They prized her from the mire and saw the city
through the eyes of the sewer.

The Lady from the Thames.
Her skin broke when she flopped on board.
-

Caved in by the tumbling sky
and the air, dry like leather,
Caught in his throat.
The Kilburn high-rise walls peeled like fingers
and the cogs clicked to fast to bite back.
He turned to the sepia city
like new life
And looked for her.

River of time elapsed
churning up memory
Each gallon lurches grit and rot.
trolley and corpse shudder
Forward, backward.
Teasing in smashed bottle

She was young once.
Looked just like her mum.
'What a muddy little angel you are,
What a muddy little angel you are.'
Til the glitz, the cracking lips
bet on kindness.
'I remember being a girl -
I waited for my mother every morning -
She was smiling and never sad.'

The sunken root scratches for life
Underneath vast, forgotten hangers.
The widow maker sheds her bark
and keep pace with the smog.
Sees what we all don't know.
Lives where we all can't see.
In a squealing Kings cross they met,
He led her to a room with broken windows
and one swinging bulb,
She wasn't scared.

Dank Amazon.
The roots intertwine with wires
sprawling grip for sulking glass tress.
'I'm a cruel joke don't you see?'
As her eyes slowly rolled
'I'm sorry'
As her fist unclenched
'It sorry'
As her knees went limp
'I'm sorry'.

Belted up, un-silent night
Screeching myre, gridlocked light,
He left her in the silt
And to the sound of screaming vans,
Runs rabbit down the hole
The hiss 187, 187 from the radio.
Alive in neon puddles that shatter
Under his pounding feet.
-

It was her who the dredgers found and
As looked to her form and
As they looked to her cuts
They thought that
She was the river.
Just another smashed bottle,
Un-watered.

Beware the fuzzy rolligog
That smithers in the myre
(Confuse it not with golliwogs
In fuzzy blue attire)

Beware the rolligogan wrath
(They can breathe fire, you know)
Just feed them up on tigermoth
And bathe them in the snow

Beware the rolli appetite
Which consumes dozy trees
Where zigazots and clambermites
Weave pathways through the leaves

Beware the rolligogan song
There’s poison in its tune
As rolligogan night grows long
Prepare: they’re coming soon.

I was planning to write today.
But I talked, and talk got in the way.
I search for stories, something to inspire
But it seems all the tall tales are lost in the myre.
Anecdotes, like dust motes, can drift with the breeze,
And for some the words come with a natural ease.

For me words arrive with rhythm and rhyme,
But in no special order; they don't stand in line.
Mumbled and jumbled its hard to pick and choose.
And my mind emerges; battered and bruised.
They don't stand on ceremony; they don't mess around
With their speedy advance like a great wall of sound.

I try to be measured, thoughtful and slow,
But my hand can't keep up and leaves illegible prose.
I shake the page, try to wring out some sense
Like panning for gold I look for recompense.

Hold on.
A nugget.
Here,
And there.
But it's me; I get distracted.
And they get lost somewhere.

A fallen angel with outstretched wings
a thousands voices begin to sing
this is the sound of our undying hymn.
Flowers ripped from the stem
babies torn from mothers hem
a restless desire to escape the myre
a lifeless face in this heartless place
devoid of love or god above
the sense of danger at every turn
the fear of life as chances spurn
questions unanswered no time to learn.

A world without truth
beset upon uncouth
lies surround us remain confounded
freedom to leave but always grounded
left astounded
dumbfounded
beached and floundered.

A compass without direction
a heart with no affection
filled with your infection
tasting the infliction
my mirrorless reflection
hate and rejection
no shot at redemption
or chance of exemption
no dream or conception
no allegiance or faction
lifeless action
no anger or reaction
no thought or distraction
no love or satisfaction
a heart unguarded no protection.

Life left unchallenged
decisions in the balance
which path to choose
either way set to lose
the crossroads of life
no wish to survive.

I fear my fear is coming back
I run and hide away
but still am trapped
inside my shack

Of fog and smoke
of mud and myre
of skeletons unseen
of undying desire

Of musing turned scars
of vomits and vermin
of memories lost
and memories forgotten

My memory is such
full of anguish and pain
full of harm and regret
that's why I fear the rain

In flowers boom
dusts of red and maroon
fire red as noon
sprung a little
that there's life
that there's life
amongst the ignite
Thorns in pieces
light as eases
no one saw
the ignition that went off
though who's no one
when the bombs has been there at all.
Spirits called
at the Quake.
A relativity at non hand
not a mistake
A relativity of grounding
for men who left the going fire
in the blooms of myre.
Earth is where we need to be
As soul is human
Spirit is for the human
human deflates at death
Rising above and beyond
Where? What entacts us?
What ignites us?
A reminder of where we need to be
is this Planet.
I boom. You boom. Mothers boom.
Sparkles of you, you, you.
Fire as infinite,
sprung
that there's life that there's life
amongst we the people.
Flowers intact - grass grows, butterflies form.
Light shines.
Everyone sees. Stay grounded.
Earth, recall: The Planet.

by Clarissa van Vreden

A Radiant Sky

through cascading billows of thought
beneath its scope
a hero to cope
to wallow in the myre
pledged for pure desire
coming down to the wire
bridges to be passed
at a clear glance
lay burdens at my feet
time for meet and greet
through a sultan of swing
the remedy is found within

plunge deep
stand still & repeat
with dancing feet
a time for a meet and greet
with human hands
let me be the first to help you understand
grasping for straws
obey all its known laws
through a summer set peak
stand still & repeat