Mesmerized.
No other word can describe the feeling I have right now but that.
The crickets chirping.
The sound of the wind.
The clairvoyant light cascading from the moon.
The cold wind against my bare chest.
The hot air filling my lungs.
The sound of the paper sizzle as I draw a breath.
Mesmerized.
I look at the moon, pondering something great,
longing deep into the moons light, looking for a
Theocratic meaning.
Mesmerized.
I notice a glimmer.
Soon another.
and another.
like a fire starting a chain reaction, twinkling glows slowly appear, joining one after another.
That moon is not alone I come to realize,
As it is connected to all the little lights.
One by one, as my focus clears,
dazzling lights shine over my fears.
A little light show all for me,
All dancing, wanting to be seen.
I bask in this euphoric moment, my prayers answered, I peer shyly at this gift that I have captured.
The wind kisses my ears, slowly going down my neck,
it kisses my navel, giving me a loving peck.
Mesmerized.
No. Not mesmerized, but in love.
In love with the beauty I have been able to witness, Her beauty.
I stare longingly into Her.
The lights in the sky seem to smile at me,
Knowing just how I feel,
Warmness filling my heart, creating a seal.
In love.
I am In love.

Now when they came to the ford of the full-flowing river Xanthus,
begotten of immortal Jove, Achilles cut their forces in two: one
half he chased over the plain towards the city by the same way that
the Achaeans had taken when flying panic-stricken on the preceding day
with Hector in full triumph; this way did they fly pell-mell, and Juno
sent down a thick mist in front of them to stay them. The other half
were hemmed in by the deep silver-eddying stream, and fell into it
with a great uproar. The waters resounded, and the banks rang again,
as they swam hither and thither with loud cries amid the whirling
eddies. As locusts flying to a river before the blast of a grass fire-
the flame comes on and on till at last it overtakes them and they
huddle into the water—even so was the eddying stream of Xanthus
filled with the uproar of men and horses, all struggling in
confusion before Achilles.
  Forthwith the hero left his spear upon the bank, leaning it
against a tamarisk bush, and plunged into the river like a god,
armed with his sword only. Fell was his purpose as he hewed the
Trojans down on every side. Their dying groans rose hideous as the
sword smote them, and the river ran red with blood. As when fish fly
scared before a huge dolphin, and fill every nook and corner of some
fair haven—for he is sure to eat all he can catch—even so did the
Trojans cower under the banks of the mighty river, and when
Achilles’ arms grew weary with killing them, he drew twelve youths
alive out of the water, to sacrifice in revenge for Patroclus son of
Menoetius. He drew them out like dazed fawns, bound their hands behind
them with the girdles of their own shirts, and gave them over to his
men to take back to the ships. Then he sprang into the river,
thirsting for still further blood.
  There he found Lycaon, son of Priam seed of Dardanus, as he was
escaping out of the water; he it was whom he had once taken prisoner
when he was in his father’s vineyard, having set upon him by night, as
he was cutting young shoots from a wild fig-tree to make the wicker
sides of a chariot. Achilles then caught him to his sorrow unawares,
and sent him by sea to Lemnos, where the son of Jason bought him.
But a guest-friend, Eetion of Imbros, freed him with a great sum,
and sent him to Arisbe, whence he had escaped and returned to his
father’s house. He had spent eleven days happily with his friends
after he had come from Lemnos, but on the twelfth heaven again
delivered him into the hands of Achilles, who was to send him to the
house of Hades sorely against his will. He was unarmed when Achilles
caught sight of him, and had neither helmet nor shield; nor yet had he
any spear, for he had thrown all his armour from him on to the bank,
and was sweating with his struggles to get out of the river, so that
his strength was now failing him.
  Then Achilles said to himself in his surprise, “What marvel do I see
here? If this man can come back alive after having been sold over into
Lemnos, I shall have the Trojans also whom I have slain rising from
the world below. Could not even the waters of the grey sea imprison
him, as they do many another whether he will or no? This time let
him ******* spear, that I may know for certain whether mother earth
who can keep even a strong man down, will be able to hold him, or
whether thence too he will return.”
  Thus did he pause and ponder. But Lycaon came up to him dazed and
trying hard to embrace his knees, for he would fain live, not die.
Achilles ****** at him with his spear, meaning to **** him, but Lycaon
ran crouching up to him and caught his knees, whereby the spear passed
over his back, and stuck in the ground, hungering though it was for
blood. With one hand he caught Achilles’ knees as he besought him, and
with the other he clutched the spear and would not let it go. Then
he said, “Achilles, have mercy upon me and spare me, for I am your
suppliant. It was in your tents that I first broke bread on the day
when you took me prisoner in the vineyard; after which you sold away
to Lemnos far from my father and my friends, and I brought you the
price of a hundred oxen. I have paid three times as much to gain my
freedom; it is but twelve days that I have come to Ilius after much
suffering, and now cruel fate has again thrown me into your hands.
Surely father Jove must hate me, that he has given me over to you a
second time. Short of life indeed did my mother Laothoe bear me,
daughter of aged Altes—of Altes who reigns over the warlike Lelegae
and holds steep Pedasus on the river Satnioeis. Priam married his
daughter along with many other women and two sons were born of her,
both of whom you will have slain. Your spear slew noble Polydorus as
he was fighting in the front ranks, and now evil will here befall
me, for I fear that I shall not escape you since heaven has delivered
me over to you. Furthermore I say, and lay my saying to your heart,
spare me, for I am not of the same womb as Hector who slew your
brave and noble comrade.”
  With such words did the princely son of Priam beseech Achilles;
but Achilles answered him sternly. “Idiot,” said he, “talk not to me
of ransom. Until Patroclus fell I preferred to give the Trojans
quarter, and sold beyond the sea many of those whom I had taken alive;
but now not a man shall live of those whom heaven delivers into my
hands before the city of Ilius—and of all Trojans it shall fare
hardest with the sons of Priam. Therefore, my friend, you too shall
die. Why should you whine in this way? Patroclus fell, and he was a
better man than you are. I too—see you not how I am great and goodly?
I am son to a noble father, and have a goddess for my mother, but
the hands of doom and death overshadow me all as surely. The day
will come, either at dawn or dark, or at the noontide, when one
shall take my life also in battle, either with his spear, or with an
arrow sped from his bow.”
  Thus did he speak, and Lycaon’s heart sank within him. He loosed his
hold of the spear, and held out both hands before him; but Achilles
drew his keen blade, and struck him by the collar-bone on his neck; he
plunged his two-edged sword into him to the very hilt, whereon he
lay at full length on the ground, with the dark blood welling from him
till the earth was soaked. Then Achilles caught him by the foot and
flung him into the river to go down stream, vaunting over him the
while, and saying, “Lie there among the fishes, who will lick the
blood from your wound and gloat over it; your mother shall not lay you
on any bier to mourn you, but the eddies of Scamander shall bear you
into the broad ***** of the sea. There shall the fishes feed on the
fat of Lycaon as they dart under the dark ripple of the waters—so
perish all of you till we reach the citadel of strong Ilius—you in
flight, and I following after to destroy you. The river with its broad
silver stream shall serve you in no stead, for all the bulls you
offered him and all the horses that you flung living into his
waters. None the less miserably shall you perish till there is not a
man of you but has paid in full for the death of Patroclus and the
havoc you wrought among the Achaeans whom you have slain while I
held aloof from battle.”
  So spoke Achilles, but the river grew more and more angry, and
pondered within himself how he should stay the hand of Achilles and
save the Trojans from disaster. Meanwhile the son of Peleus, spear
in hand, sprang upon Asteropaeus son of Pelegon to **** him. He was
son to the broad river Axius and Periboea eldest daughter of
Acessamenus; for the river had lain with her. Asteropaeus stood up out
of the water to face him with a spear in either hand, and Xanthus
filled him with courage, being angry for the death of the youths
whom Achilles was slaying ruthlessly within his waters. When they were
close up with one another Achilles was first to speak. “Who and whence
are you,” said he, “who dare to face me? Woe to the parents whose
son stands up against me.” And the son of Pelegon answered, “Great son
of Peleus, why should you ask my lineage. I am from the fertile land
of far Paeonia, captain of the Paeonians, and it is now eleven days
that I am at Ilius. I am of the blood of the river Axius—of Axius
that is the fairest of all rivers that run. He begot the famed warrior
Pelegon, whose son men call me. Let us now fight, Achilles.”
  Thus did he defy him, and Achilles raised his spear of Pelian ash.
Asteropaeus failed with both his spears, for he could use both hands
alike; with the one spear he struck Achilles’ shield, but did not
pierce it, for the layer of gold, gift of the god, stayed the point;
with the other spear he grazed the elbow of Achilles! right arm
drawing dark blood, but the spear itself went by him and fixed
itself in the ground, foiled of its ****** banquet. Then Achilles,
fain to **** him, hurled his spear at Asteropaeus, but failed to hit
him and struck the steep bank of the river, driving the spear half its
length into the earth. The son of Peleus then drew his sword and
sprang furiously upon him. Asteropaeus vainly tried to draw
Achilles’ spear out of the bank by main force; thrice did he tug at
it, trying with all his might to draw it out, and thrice he had to
leave off trying; the fourth time he tried to bend and break it, but
ere he could do so Achilles smote him with his sword and killed him.
He struck him in the belly near the navel, so that all his bowels came
gushing out on to the ground, and the darkness of death came over
him as he lay gasping. Then Achilles set his foot on his chest and
spoiled him of his armour, vaunting over him and saying, “Lie there-
begotten of a river though you be, it is hard for you to strive with
the offspring of Saturn’s son. You declare yourself sprung from the
blood of a broad river, but I am of the seed of mighty Jove. My father
is Peleus, son of Aeacus ruler over the many Myrmidons, and Aeacus was
the son of Jove. Therefore as Jove is mightier than any river that
flows into the sea, so are his children stronger than those of any
river whatsoever. Moreover you have a great river hard by if he can be
of any use to you, but there is no fighting against Jove the son of
Saturn, with whom not even King Achelous can compare, nor the mighty
stream of deep-flowing Oceanus, from whom all rivers and seas with all
springs and deep wells proceed; even Oceanus fears the lightnings of
great Jove, and his thunder that comes crashing out of heaven.”
  With this he drew his bronze spear out of the bank, and now that
he had killed Asteropaeus, he let him lie where he was on the sand,
with the dark water flowing over him and the eels and fishes busy
nibbling and gnawing the fat that was about his kidneys. Then he
went in chase of the Paeonians, who were flying along the bank of
the river in panic when they saw their leader slain by the hands of
the son of Peleus. Therein he slew Thersilochus, Mydon, Astypylus,
Mnesus, Thrasius, Oeneus, and Ophelestes, and he would have slain
yet others, had not the river in anger taken human form, and spoken to
him from out the deep waters saying, “Achilles, if you excel all in
strength, so do you also in wickedness, for the gods are ever with you
to protect you: if, then, the son of Saturn has vouchsafed it to you
to destroy all the Trojans, at any rate drive them out of my stream,
and do your grim work on land. My fair waters are now filled with
corpses, nor can I find any channel by which I may pour myself into
the sea for I am choked with dead, and yet you go on mercilessly
slaying. I am in despair, therefore, O captain of your host, trouble
me no further.”
  Achilles answered, “So be it, Scamander, Jove-descended; but I
will never cease dealing out death among the Trojans, till I have pent
them up in their city, and made trial of Hector face to face, that I
may learn whether he is to vanquish me, or I him.”
  As he spoke he set upon the Trojans with a fury like that of the
gods. But the river said to Apollo, “Surely, son of Jove, lord of
the silver bow, you are not obeying the commands of Jove who charged
you straitly that you should stand by the Trojans and defend them,
till twilight fades, and darkness is over an the earth.”
  Meanwhile Achilles sprang from the bank into mid-stream, whereon the
river raised a high wave and attacked him. He swelled his stream
into a torrent, and swept away the many dead whom Achilles had slain
and left within his waters. These he cast out on to the land,
bellowing like a bull the while, but the living he saved alive, hiding
them in his mighty eddies. The great and terrible wave gathered
about Achilles, falling upon him and beating on his shield, so that he
could not keep his feet; he caught hold of a great elm-tree, but it
came up by the roots, and tore away the bank, damming the stream
with its thick branches and bridging it all across; whereby Achilles
struggled out of the stream, and fled full speed over the plain, for
he was afraid.
  But the mighty god ceased not in his pursuit, and sprang upon him
with a dark-crested wave, to stay his hands and save the Trojans
from destruction. The son of Peleus darted away a spear’s throw from
him; swift as the swoop of a black hunter-eagle which is the strongest
and fleetest of all birds, even so did he spring forward, and the
armour rang loudly about his breast. He fled on in front, but the
river with a loud roar came tearing after. As one who would water
his garden leads a stream from some fountain over his plants, and
all his ground-***** in hand he clears away the dams to free the
channels, and the little stones run rolling round and round with the
water as it goes merrily down the bank faster than the man can follow-
even so did the river keep catching up with Achilles albeit he was a
fleet runner, for the gods are stronger than men. As often as he would
strive to stand his ground, and see whether or no all the gods in
heaven were in league against him, so often would the mighty wave come
beating down upon his shoulders, and be would have to keep flying on
and on in great dismay; for the angry flood was tiring him out as it
flowed past him and ate the ground from under his feet.
  Then the son of Peleus lifted up his voice to heaven saying, “Father
Jove, is there none of the gods who will take pity upon me, and save
me from the river? I do not care what may happen to me afterwards. I
blame none of the other dwellers on Olympus so severely as I do my
dear mother, who has beguiled and tricked me. She told me I was to
fall under the walls of Troy by the flying arrows of Apollo; would
that Hector, the best man among the Trojans, might there slay me; then
should I fall a hero by the hand of a hero; whereas now it seems
that I shall come to a most pitiable end, trapped in this river as
though I were some swineherd’s boy, who gets carried down a torrent
while trying to cross it during a storm.”
  As soon as he had spoken thus, Neptune and Minerva came up to him in
the likeness of two men, and took him by the hand to reassure him.
Neptune spoke first. “Son of Peleus,” said he, “be not so exceeding
fearful; we are two gods, come with Jove’s sanction to assist you,
I, and Pallas Minerva. It is not your fate to perish in this river; he
will abate presently as you will see; moreover we strongly advise you,
if you will be guided by us, not to stay your hand from fighting
till you have pent the Trojan host within the famed walls of Ilius—as
many of them as may escape. Then **** Hector and go back to the ships,
for we will vouchsafe you a triumph over him.”
  When they had so said they went back to the other immortals, but
Achilles strove onward over the plain, encouraged by the charge the
gods had laid upon him. All was now covered with the flood of
waters, and much goodly armour of the youths that had been slain was
rifting about, as also many corpses, but he forced his way against the
stream, speeding right onwards, nor could the broad waters stay him,
for Minerva had endowed him with great strength. Nevertheless
Scamander did not slacken in his pursuit, but was still more furious
with the son of Peleus. He lifted his waters into a high crest and
cried aloud to Simois saying, “Dear br

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 9, 2015)

The tendency to forget information that can be found readily online by using Internet search engines.


This information is the result of my searches on Google this morning:

• “Never memorize something that you can look up.” Online this quote is widely attributed to Albert Einstein.

• “[I do not] carry such information in my mind since it is readily available in books. ...The value of a college education is not the learning of many facts but the training of the mind to think.” This was Einstein in response to not knowing the speed of sound as included in the Edison Test. (Wikiquote)

• Many people wear the same clothes every day. In Einstein’s case this was a grey suit--the reason being that our thinking time is wasted making irrelevant wardrobe decisions. I also re-read the Henry David Thoreau quote about life being frittered away by detail. But when considering what is being frittered, you could add the mind, the spirit, time itself. This idea was part of Thoreau’s “simplicity, simplicity” quote which I once bought as a magnet from the museum at Walden Pond in the fall of 2001. I didn’t remember that date. I just googled a story about the trip, (www.apeculture.com/travel/boston.htm). In any case, I felt the magnet was being ironic. Like Einstein, President Barack Obama wears the same variation of two suits every day in order to “pare down decisions.” Apple genius Steve Jobs wore the same thing every day as does Facebook co-founder Mark Zuckerberg. (Elite Daily: elitedaily.com/money/science-simplicity-successful-people-wear-thing-every-day/849141/)

• Google is creating personalities for androids, personalities that will live in the cloud and can be swapped into robots. I plan to forget this information because it’s creepy and like Ripley in the movie Alien, I’m suspicious of androids unless they are like Lance Henriksen in the movie Aliens in which case I would probably buy that personality for my robot if I had one.

• I also found out today that Google's images section, (which I use religiously when blogging), was created due to Jennifer Lopez’s green floral Versace dress, the one that opened like a surgical split to her navel, the one that caused such a kerfuffle when she wore it to the 2000 Grammy Awards and everyone searched Google fruitlessly for it afterwards. I’ve forgotten about that dress because I hated it. It looked like a Miami house-robe for one thing and I don’t like any couture that structurally hangs off *****.

• Google also announced a new patent today for a warning system that protects you from pop culture spoilers on Internet pages. If you think about it, this warning system will protect you from Google itself. Sometimes a little information ruins everything.

• I found all of this Google news on Google News.

• You can find more Einstein quotes here:  brightdrops.com/albert-einstein-quotes, one particular quote informs me that creativity is knowing how to hide your sources.

• D’oh!

• Which is a word I have always remembered because the great poet Homer said it.

What do you reckon? I know what you’ve been thinking…
We’re on a ship that looks unsteady, like it’s sinking…
We’ve made shaky plans to be gung-** and to go it all alone…
But we’re beginning to wonder… are we heading for some kind of danger zone?…
At first we were just floating along - enjoying the passing view
And 2 years off it looked a lot easier …leaving the EU!
But there’s a waterfall downstream…and it looks like a helluva drop.
And once we get too near the edge, well, we won’t be able to stop.

The simplicity of Cameron’s ‘in - out’ referendum question dawned…
Cos, divorce is complicated.  Those who voted leave were scorned,
branded racist, or at least suffering some kind of mental disorder.
“Didn’t you stop to think about the about the Northern Irish border?” (best read in a 'silly', sneery voice).
But - back then there were 2 million Syrians, Afghans, Iraqis all walking toward Calais.
Some thought serious overcrowding problems could come our way.
Single Market,? Sovereignty? Customs Union? What the hell’s all that?
It means you’ll need a visa to go to Benidorm you ****!

Meanwhile Merkel diffused things by taking the refugees in.
But only served to rattle the bars of the **** leaning right wing.
The Spanish got all Oity Toity about us having Gibraltar.
And some of those previously unforeseen problems made Brexiteers falter.
This is David effing Cameron!… Farage embarrassed him into calling for a vote.
And, when the Remainers lost, Dave saw his chance to produce his sick note.
“I’ve done my bit”, he said “so… I’m standing down…  so who do you think should take my dodgy crown.
The Buffoon, the Backstabber, the Right Honourable Lady Home Sec?”
She, the author of  Windrush, Repatriation, food-banks, lower benefits? She got it! ****** heck!…

Hoodwinked by a government you maybe invested your life in, in all the earlier polls
Now we’ve all been tricked by a bunch of, navel gazing, self serving arseholes!
So it’s the blind leading the blind… Well, no.! Misinformed…and maybe just a bit short sighted.
And, you know, Theresa… she’ll most likely still get knighted.
But I doubt this episode will score with generations yet to come,
Deserted by this Parliamentary shambles - sitting on their hands, their collective ***.
The proletariat are cut adrift, and heading for the falls…
So we’re looking for a new saviour - someone with charisma…big *****!

Let’s look forward to this time next year… When some trusty politician re-writes our little story.
When we may be out - but far from down… Well I somehow can’t see it being a Tory…
And if isn’t Jezzer - who HAS got his eye on the prize…
McDonnel, Starmer, Benn, Tom (call me Slim) Watson? Who should THEY try for size?
And, just supposing, by chance, the Conservatives actually crack it
who, amongst the front runners there, could get the job and hack it?
Lord Snooty, Gove, Hammond…Hunt the err… Foreign Secretary,  Javid, Liam Fox (surely not!). Bojo?
With this current stay of Brexicution, for just a couple of weeks… the petition, the march, the chaos, could it still be NO-GO?…
Whatdya reckon?

Hey Harvey Wallbanger
I’d like you to tie me to the bedpost, baby
And press your fuzzy navel to my slippery ******.
Give me your white angel kiss and I’ll lie down like a brown cow
While between the sheets you play the Italian stallion.

Like a kamikaze pilot head for my pink squirrel
Then give me your ol’ Alabama slammer
And pack a *** punch into that screwdriver of yours.
I want a screaming ******
That’ll send me to blue heaven. Wu Wu!

So, don’t mention that ****** Mary
With her devil’s kiss,
Or you’ll find I can give a snake bite that’s as deadly as a B-52.

Instead let’s ride into the tequila sunset in our golden Cadillac
For *** on the beach
And on the sea breeze we'll hear an old love song sung by a ‘salty dog’ with a Gibson
And watch a tropical storm over Manhattan
We'll go to Peppermint Patti’s café
And order an Irish coffee and a large slice of cherry pie.

Happy, after dark let’s drive home for a sloe comfortable ***** with satin pillows
And fall into the sweet surrender of a summer dream.

Black
Empty cans
No liquid evaporated
In the air full of pride
Polluted grains of soul
Lost their consistency
Pure fluids of light
Erupts as marshmallow bombs
Death squad penetrates deeply
Aiming to meet Anubis
A Tsunami whirled its wish
Passion and glutton declared independence
The dream of becoming a parallel nation
To co-habit with leukemia of creativity
A *** drive 4×4 retired
A crippled veteran of passion
Bags for the mercy of soulless utilitarian army of human entity
Better said plankton a ****-plankton of miserable creatures
Even worms and larva are disgusted by our hatred
*****, a skunk of fear
An eclipse of love that spans for ages
From birth to death
A spectrum displays its ripeness
******* liberty as blast
A dazzling dance of shaped and amoeboid forms of manifestation
Truth
Bitter the honey with suffer
Powder a chamomile with royal jelly and ginseng
All of sudden a wind blows
Spores of the old pines
White
The soul of parallel nation of Angeloid
Is striving pleasure of life?
Lives now
Perpetually woofs a rainbow muslin with
the divine light
Inter-woofed dress
Newborn immaculate fellows
Perfuming
Oh those smell of paradise
Mint, Neroli, Oakmoss, Amber
A bouquet of divine pleasure
And Acacia kissed by a queen bee
Yes the queen of Enneagram
Of course
The work produces sweet essences
Oh Sarmouni of our Millennia
Melt the cataract-ic lance so they may see the beauty
Heal the flu so they may smell fresh ozone
A charged circle of light and love
Overwhelm
Remove the pulp from the reed
So may divine tune perform light?
Tao
May be your torchbearer
In the dark valley and by then you may
see a spectrum
That encircles an infant fear
For an eternal life
Yet I kiss that that time sequence
Where Jin and Jang harmoniously co-habit
I a Feng Shui of Love
Defragmenter of hate’s files
Zipper of dark matrixes
Arranger
So you may know they do exists
So you try them in order to enjoy the sweetness
of life’s honey
In this porcelain valley
Where goodness and mischief
Hand in hand are gliding furiously
Alas pure the morning with dew of love
Oxidize hate with apple vinegar
Sing to celebrate both solstices and have a cup of vine
That swoon you
That filters all starry
Cells of brain and ganglia
Perfume her navel with rosewater and kiss, kiss, kiss
Do a divine Tantra
With all visible and invisible and semi-visible spirits
Kiss topaz of her eyes
Kiss ruby of her heart
Kiss diamond of her nail
Kiss cooper of her feet ankle
Kiss jade of her bones
Kiss sapphire of her cells
And a flame-y waterfall of hair
And a silky *****…
Oh…kiss and kiss and kiss whatever belongs to her
Make her a necklace
With your purest and noblest spermatozoids
Then call her as you wish
Wisdom, Hikkmah, Sophia
Or simply Goddess that makes you Angeloid.
—-
Arabic for wisdom, we disregard language we are concentrated
on substance on quint essence
Greek for wisdom

Here I scatter the ashes of our Wednesdays
and throw dirt on our names because we fell into a stupor of unsaid goodbyes and insincere apologies.

I take my time trying to unclench my fist,
after all, release is only sweet when you feel suffocated.

I always made sure to adjust my grasp to your comfort,
present my entirety as if you owned more than a half of what I used to be.
I remember you in things that have no heartbeat, but a pulse of regret and anger that devours it, and to think you swore you would keep me alive.

In Binondo, you taught me how to eat street foods, walk in the crowded places, sit still on taxi rides,
and feel beautiful even when you kept your eyes off me.
You believed in slow motion, and the magic of lugaw at 12AM,
I watched you in a fascinated haze.
Too unsure of the light.

In Fairview, I told you that I cry during movies and laughed at the way you spun me around in the theater. Hand on my waist for good measure. I showed you claw machines and photobooths,
at least remember me.
I held your hand the first time, bled on
a piece of paper you read on the way to Quiapo, and all the long rides have made me feel empty ever since.

In Ilocos, I gave you a warm kisses on your cheeks when you took me
to church the first time, head spun just at the right angle for when
I walk down the aisle in a dress with you waiting at the end of it,
not knowing that in 4 years, I’d come back at someone
else’s wedding, begging on my knees at silent altars to keep you
even with my faith hanging from my fingertips. You still left.

In Intramuros, I see you in every nook and crevice,
in the holes, in the walls with Lechon Kawali, in quiet places we
claimed are for ourselves. In street vendors, ATM machines,
and pedestrian lanes too dangerous to walk on. Nowadays,
I shut my eyes in the backseat, afraid to see a shadow of who
I thought you were whenever I am near.

In Pasay there are people to see and places to walk
through to cover the tracks of almost lovers, a pair of shoes
to buy, impatience on my throat, and kisses on cheek as a cure
for my silence and satiation for the hunger below your navel.

In EDSA, we locked more than just lips, ate street Palitaw,
knocked three times on wooden doors, even lit candles to be sure,
that we would keep each other for good. Someone must have
knocked harder, the wind must have swept our fire out,
and we were fools to think promises were as simple as padlocks
that rust and break in the rain. How I never told you that I pictured
us in a million other bus rides that night. The road could never
have been shorter than the infinite one you promised.

In Pandacan, you wanted a life with me  
with nights in bed, the sickening kind of happiness harrowing
the peace we always knew we had. You held me close
and by the early hours of the morning you swore you’d meet me
again when the clock strikes twelve on a different year. I think
you left your love for me in that two-bedroom suite, and
wouldn’t it be wise if I left mine right next to yours, folded
and hung before the stain of resentment covered it whole?

In between the hurt and madness, memories of us
unfolding without grace on the table, I loved you.

You knew what you were doing when you let go of me to hold
onto someone else that was never as sure as I was of you,
and I wake up in sweat at 3AM thinking I never really knew.

Now we are in places we’ve never been, and I dry
swallow the hurt that swells even when I no longer touch it.
There are spaces I no longer need to be filled because I got used to being hollow
even when I was next to you
and now that I don’t have to be there anymore
it makes it easier to forget you ever happened, and I will tiptoe my way out of these places until I no longer feel you everywhere.

The photographic chamber of the eye
records bare painted walls, while an electric light
lays the chromium nerves of plumbing raw;
such poverty assaults the ego; caught
naked in the merely actual room,
the stranger in the lavatory mirror
puts on a public grin, repeats our name
but scrupulously reflects the usual terror.

Just how guilty are we when the ceiling
reveals no cracks that can be decoded? when washbowl
maintains it has no more holy calling
than physical ablution, and the towel
dryly disclaims that fierce troll faces lurk
in its explicit folds? or when the window,
blind with steam, will not admit the dark
which shrouds our prospects in ambiguous shadow?

Twenty years ago, the familiar tub
bred an ample batch of omens; but now
water faucets spawn no danger; each crab
and octopus -- scrabbling just beyond the view,
waiting for some accidental break
in ritual, to strike -- is definitely gone;
the authentic sea denies them and will pluck
fantastic flesh down to the honest bone.

We take the plunge; under water our limbs
waver, faintly green, shuddering away
from the genuine color of skin; can our dreams
ever blur the intransigent lines which draw
the shape that shuts us in? absolute fact
intrudes even when the revolted eye
is closed; the tub exists behind our back;
its glittering surfaces are blank and true.

Yet always the ridiculous **** flanks urge
the fabrication of some cloth to cover
such starkness; accuracy must not stalk at large:
each day demands we create our whole world over,
disguising the constant horror in a coat
of many-colored fictions; we mask our past
in the green of Eden, pretend future's shining fruit
can sprout from the navel of this present waste.
In this particular tub, two knees jut up
like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise
on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp; green soap
navigates the tidal slosh of seas
breaking on legendary beaches; in faith
we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail
among sacred islands of the mad till death
shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real.

Moon glistens knowingly in the inky water
watching her pale body sink
the murmuring of night birds       woven
                               into hair of embers extinguished
sooty yet even soot is beautiful, to Moon.
eyes fixated on the navel of the pond
navel of the worlds' doings, of beginning of life & death
           a prayer escapes in the whisper of willow trees
into the arms of Night's gentle air.
           the pond itself is prayer, the water
giving life forth in Moon's embrace;

the woman glistens knowingly in the inky water-
eyes as steady as Moon's rays of borrowed light
              body, a temple of angles and soft circumference
glistening knowingly in the inky water
of Moon's embrace & the willow's whispers.

A stripper does not command the same feelings
when there is no music
when there is rain
when there is **** beneath their feet
when there is no stage
when they are
naked.

Step off stage,
peel their eyes from your skin.
Layer after layer
of pervert,
of bloodshot,
wipe the trails of loathing
they leave behind.
Take a cotton swab to your navel
to dry your mother's tears.
These are nothing you haven't seen.

Find glass where it is not broken,
Break it.
Pull on your face until you can see your cracks
echoed in kaleidoscope reflections.
Let your tongue swipe your teeth
and slurp down the dollar bill smile.
Chase it with the cat that was
swimming in your eyes.
Imagine what you would look like dead.
Make silly faces in broken mirrors.
Turn away before they fade.

Shake your head in your hands
until music flies from your ears.
Shake harder.
Spill the hypnotic equilibrium they sold you
Watch the room start to sway.
Sit down.
Stand up.
Find your legs.
*****.
Heave,
feeling there is much more poison
than will ever come out.
Cough into the air,
knowing your hands are sacred.
Wipe your memory on someone else's sleeve.

Walk to the door.
Let your profession slip from your shoulders.
Become human.
Become blending into the crowd.
Become busy with something in your hands.
Open the door, then your umbrella.
Do not breathe.
Take five steps forward and wait to exhale
until your hear the door slam behind you.
It isn't healthy to mix the sight of rain
with the smell of broken pianos.

Walk forward.
Out of your shoes.
Wince as the concrete speaks to your heel.
Bathe your toes in the nearest puddle.
Let your umbrella slide from the warmth of your hand.
Watch it fly.
Notice the people.
Move your sight from the ground
and rest it on their chins.
Realize you're wearing no clothes.
Pull the confidence down and off of your walk
and turn to the closest alley.

Step off stage.
Peel their eyes from your soul.
Become an individual.
Forget "the people."
Notice the persons
wrapped to their noses in professions and smiles,
confidence and ignorance pouring from their eyes,
heads tucked low beneath charcoal umbrellas.
Smile.
Without trying when you hear the clouds roar.

Stop when you find there are more walls than bodies
and the smell of ***** is stronger than your own.
Forget your smell.
Open your mouth.
Forget your taste.
Bend your knees and raise your head.
Close your eyes and feel it rain.
Scream.
Strip the religion from your prayers.
Scream the ineffable confession.
Forget your body.
Drink the rain.

there is no music
there is rain
there is **** beneath your feet
there is no stage
you are
naked.

Sometimes I watch the others,
So comfortable in their skins
Of whatever form they've chosen,
Or miraculously been blessed with,
And remain a passive observer
Of the beauty before me.
I view their spirit animal forms,
Alongside the incarnations of gods,
and goddesses, and other holy beings,
Dance across their human flesh.

When viewed closely I can see
The smallest units of infinity
Struggling to expand, sometimes succeeding,
Other times dying and quickly vanishing,
To be suddenly replaced by elements
Of others, or the world around them.
They are cloaked in visions
My words can't comprehend,
Which I have heard some call yugen.

Other times I find myself
Wanting to join in with the excitement;
I flit between the disguises that
I have made for myself, in
An effort to seamlessly fit in
Unzipping one skin as discreetly as possible,
and hastily pulling on the next
As I rush from group to group,
Hoping nobody sees who lies within.

I have no concept of my own beauty.
Mirrors do nothing to help, being
designed to only reflect a physical presence.
I suppose that- to a piece of glass-
An eyebrow is just an eyebrow,
And lips are just lips.

If you could see beneath the reflections
Of your own selves I had tried to create,
I am afraid of what you might see
The bitterness that lies beneath.
My multiple façades sometimes breaks free,
And slowly breaks whoever is before me,
Causing mouths to form wide O's of horror,
Or else silences them completely.

This skin I inhabit is not my home-
I appreciate it's gloriousness and accept,
As I do in others, the meanest emotions it conceals,
And treat it as I would any other. I
Wish it no harm, and would be loath
To abandon it on some distant kerb
Like an unloved pet.

My Celtic forefathers had a word to describe this;
"Hiraeth"- a longing for a home that never was,
Or a place one can only recall in distant
Memories; unrecountable to those who
Never knew of its existence to begin with.

Maybe the skins I wear are part
Of my journey home; pupating like
A moth who longs to search for the light,
Yet lacking the wings to do so.
Perhaps they are only walls of my
Own devising, covering the window
To my own soul, that writhes inside
Like some contorted navel.

All I know is that the parts of you
I have stolen, or borrowed, or bought,
Or acquired through other means
Are the closest to home I have ever been,
Enabling me, in those brief moments,
To view the homes you keep within yourselves,
Until you reach out and touch me,
Causing me to run away, tail between legs,
Before my true self can be seen.

The mystifying howl is irksomely faint yet vividly heard,
Akin to orchestrated footsteps of the undetectable command
As the new dawn illuminates a smoldering fire beyond the horizon-
“A sign of human activity-but an awful omen to the warlord”
Legions called into action, and for every step they take, matter is drawn from the ether,
Waiting for the final caravan of conquest and conquer;
Do the militias now turn their swords into ploughshares to suffer?
When their enemies-without remorse-silently creep up on them in silence,
However the distant shuddery sound of their battle cry is harmless;
But is the shunned “death-valley” an inescapable companion anyway?
With strident herons flying high above the maze-like island…so forlorn!
These shameless war-warriors!
Heroes With-Out!
Villains With-In!
Unlike them-the countryman is truly so fortunate nonetheless;
He marvels at the innate splendor of the single showy tulip in the bucolic wilderness,
Although now the heathen intimidate his terrain amidst his recoil in resistance;

The characters of men and women under this impudent sentence
On the uniformity of fate, however gay were the earlier scenes…
This sense of the seasons and mortality-more tragic in great cities
With mortals forgetting it is superfluous to go in chase of nature’s thoughts;
She comes of her own free will in the passing shadows of the seasons!
The boastful soldier…
The learned doctor…
Footing out of the masses for the qualities they assume beyond the galaxies afar;
The qualities they assume are those that most men admire!
Their hypocrisy, bravery and ingenuity survives more
Even in times of turmoil and war-with satirized lies and rumors
“Giving praise to bloodshed?”
Since when has the sight of blood been a derisory affair?
What a horrific carnival of double standards of power;
No laughing matter!
Doubtless criticism-sinister in origin with a false swagger
Sharper now in the modest gestures preaching feminism
For if modern elegant ladies adorn their bravura torsos in red fashion
Why give acknowledgment to this same reddened “color of death!”

The new world is finally shedding off the aged navel scar
Releasing the “Mother-Principle” instinct to be mothered and to engender!
Are awakening sons of men along with their nations betokening universal grandeur?
These lions among ladies!
These foxes in the fight for freedom…
“The men of Marathon”
Ironists-commonly more “characters” than thinkers,
Irritated further by the hypocrisy than by the ideas of those they portray,
Blind to the verity that modern tolerance might seem to go further than that,
As vengeful souls vanquish and oppress their enemies by craft and deceit;
…if they thought it was a sin, they would not argue about such a mischievous plot.
Finally money has a power above
The stars and fate to manage love:
Whose arrows, Learned Poets hold,
That never miss, are tipped with Gold.

~                Return me to my place in the sand
                      Where i begin as where ill end
             We are born of blood with earth in hand
           Our mother birthed us from sand and bone
                 We'll someday die and turn to stone
                        Yet its alright it is our home

Now I'm tired of romance and I just want
a gorgeous naked bombshell to ****.
I see those water-filled balloons.
I see the slit of a navel.
Those sultry eyes speak of betrayal,
but those are the kind of eyes
that tell of the hottest, sweatiest love.
Her fake blonde hair gives away her cheapness.
I just want to take off her bra and *******.
I see no vein or artery of life in her.
I remember beer and bars.
I affix my eyes to the shadow made by a ****.
I see the silk lines of her collar bone and neck.
I realize she's standing in front of a window.
I meet her eye of innocence with mine of admiration,
and I tear up.
You look like you'd take me to court
because I haven't touched you yet.
You look like you'd smoke a cigarette with me.
I imagine she's hiding a ***** she's not fond to look at.
Your chin reminds me of a pickup truck.
You look like you have a baby inside,
then I look at your eyes,
and I realize,
if we really ****** it could be true.
So much for chivalry.

As the gods began one world, and man another,
So the snakecharmer begins a snaky sphere
With moon-eye, mouth-pipe, He pipes. Pipes green. Pipes water.

Pipes water green until green waters waver
With reedy lengths and necks and undulatings.
And as his notes twine green, the green river

Shapes its images around his sons.
He pipes a place to stand on, but no rocks,
No floor: a wave of flickering grass tongues

Supports his foot. He pipes a world of snakes,
Of sways and coilings, from the snake-rooted bottom
Of his mind. And now nothing but snakes

Is visible. The snake-scales have become
Leaf, become eyelid; snake-bodies, bough, breast
Of tree and human. And he within this snakedom

Rules the writhings which make manifest
His snakehood and his might with pliant tunes
From his thin pipe. Out of this green nest

As out of Eden's navel twist the lines
Of snaky generations: let there be snakes!
And snakes there were, are, will be--till yawns

Consume this pipe and he tires of music
And pipes the world back to the simple fabric
Of snake-warp, snake-weft. Pipes the cloth of snakes

To a melting of green waters, till no snake
Shows its head, and those green waters back to
Water, to green, to nothing like a snake.
Puts up his pipe, and lids his moony eye.

Someone lives in a cave
eating his toes,
I know that much.
Someone little lives under a bush
pressing an empty Coca-Cola can against
his starving bloated stomac,
I know that much.
A monkey had his hands cut off
for a medical experiment
and his claws wept.
I know tht much.

I know that it is all
a matter of hands.
Out of the mournful sweetness of touching
comes love
like breakfast.
Out of the many houses come the hands
before the abandonment of the city,
out of hte bars and shops,
a thin file of ants.

I've been abandoned out here
under the dry stars
with no shoes, no belt
and I've called Rescue Inc. -
that old-fashioned hot line -
no voice.
Left to my own lips, touch them,
my own nostrils, shoulders, *******,
navel, stomach, mound,kneebone, ankle,
touch them.

It makes me laugh
to see a woman in this condition.
It makes me laugh for America and New York city
when your hands are cut off
and no one answers the phone.

Finishing off a hot brew @ 5am before jogging to the gym.

Better yet ...
easing awake slowly
breathing in your morning dew
tracing your curves slumbering
between soft white cotton layers
spurred by your dreamy smile
as your cheek slumbers
atop goose-down clouds,
shifting closer
warm fingers search
cold toes tangle
backs arch
hips align
quiet eyes
embrace
to slowly awaken
our quiet space,
lips speak
of softness
cool whispers
and
warm currents
as nerves tingle
and shift atop
our navel's view
as we fall deep
into our fold.
...
time flips
as we slide
to sip
our hot brew
for 2.

As our morning roasted scent
glistens in the sun
we skip and stumble
through the day
sipping its treats
its gifts of torrents
and waves of time
to taste your full body shine.

Your whole body blooms
as you smile bright
your petals expand
eyes swoon.
As your smile widens
lifting you off the ground
tendrils shiver
fingers flicker
slivers of light
reveal what’s found.

Our touch tightens
as we enter the night
a moonbeam smiles
winds drift blue
skipping into slumber,
your tired eyes float
smiles relax
your body slows
knowing it’s comfort
exploring our intimate space,
its unknown intensity
a deep hue blue
of letting go
and holding on.

...

Young women know all about style -
how to fix the decimal point
between them and their mothers
differentiate themselves
from Special K over 40s wanna bees
mini skirted and high heeled
trying to catch their husband’s eye

Yummy mummies in their 30’s
are separated from the new stock
by firm elastic flattened midriffs
no bulge or wobble
unlined skin taut sometimes
navel peirced or *******
their legs wear the 4” heels again
on winklepicker pointed toes
for a mid century crop
of bunioned feet.

No scraggy necks or waddle
no tea tray arses only
plump peaches
in the bend over show
of skimpy, lacy thongs
of ****** floss

So, **** femme fatale is cool
body object the thing to be
flouncing and  preening
flirting and *******
random hook-ups on the run
in the alleys of time on the net
in the warp of space
Killer !  Whatever !
Wicked ! Yeah feral !

Outcasted kid with purple hair

Albeit not the kind of violet
That made your nostrils drip
With a watery ambrosia
Sugary enough to belong to a bee

And not the kind of
heavy, royal, omnipresent
contentment plum presents as a
molten lava
perfecting the pockmarks in the pie

My tendrils were not reminiscent of
home or
anything savoury so

I tangled them in tiaras
belonging to some Duchess' daughter or
one of Henry's wives or

Maybe twined them round
Frita's pallet and
Dyed my scalp a more pleasing hue or
Anything other than purple

Because purple was what I was not
Purple was Lilacs and
Pansies and Heliotropes and Tulips and
Lavender and

That little wild flower aforementioned

whose name I can't bare say
for the sake of
a humble beauty
such as hers

'twould be a shame to make comparable
To the wet-dog-fur look
Of my purple hair

And so I learned to get lost

In a past I always felt my own
Traveling continents and
Floating through eons

While my classmates  coloured in
British Columbia and
Where is Nunavut again?

Growing, I gained companions

A faery,
Athena,
Aslan and
Frodo, Einstein, Plato,
Theodore Geisel, Mahatma Ghandi
and Louis Leakey, Jamal Dewar,
Joan of Arc and John Lennon and
it all became
more complicated

Because my world was in flux
Oh it ebbed and it flowed and it expanded
Like the molten plum but this time
It really was more like lava

Assuredly you'll understand;
See the seams in our stitching!
Our Worlds are sewn together!

And as much as we would like
to cling to our
individualism

at some point we all must
accept that there is
but one

Intrinsic as our innards
Are our atoms and
Electrons and
mine are yours and
yours are hers and
ours together are all of the stars and
it really is
beautiful

At some point the twisting shroud
The squeezing and contracting -
of the world inside my head and
the world inside my eyes and
the world I was walking around in
and the world that I saw above me -
it tensed then halted
and became very dense
then melted

What a glorious
Ubiquitous, secure and everlasting amalgamation!
I opened my eyes
To find Van Goghs Scissors
All bloodied still and so
I cleaved my purple hair

But to find Hieronymus' oils and
watercolours so
I made my skin a hellish canvas
Painted all in yellows and blues
Without a hint of purple

Now from shoulders to forearm to wrist
from breast to navel to hip
from thigh to calf to foot
legible as anything are
lines that lilt and gleam
sighing songs of
devils and cherubs alike
and of sparrows and snakes

So after heaven is hell
and after hell is Nirvana
And Manna is as good as dirt
if Ambrosia is but
the spit of a bee

It all always works out
Because at the end comes
Death and after that
We don't know
But I do know that
I don't know
Much at all to begin with

Except for four things, almost assuredly:
1. Energy is all
2. I will never cease to find shouting at people from my bedroom or a car window amusing
3. My mother loves me more than anyone
4. Nothing is certain, except for uncertainty

Oh yes, where to start….
          
                 A Kiss behind the ear
             trailing across the jaw
                  a light sweep of lips across lips
                       a catch of breath…

                               moving down….

Fingers tracing every move….
    soft wet kisses to the neck
           ….are you feeling the groove?

                 Slowly lips move from neck to chest
                             as they lovingly adore
              fingers lightly travel down
                                           eager to explore…

      Wet trailing kisses to the navel
               fingers circling around chest
      bringing forth trembling lightheaded sensations
                    lips against skin, pressed…..

                              Moving ever so slow….

                                        finger traces
                                           circling tongue
                                              lips adoring
                                                 wet embraces
                                             intensity flowing
                                          curling toes
                                        twitching muscles
                                      heart pounding
                                        breathless
     ­                                     out of body
                                            a second of clarity
                                              Sweet Release….
                  
                                   Good morning baby, shall we go on……..
~
© 2017 Brianna Love/SA/DBMA

steamy
beads of sweat
between her dusky *******
little rivers of pleasure
that collect in her navel
and threaten to spill with
each exhalation
distract me long enough
to avoid the
     little death
that look in her eye
seen only when
riding me
or on the back of
my motorcycle
    reignites my
passion and
all too soon
    I die

Declared as an UNESCO Heritage Site in 1983, is today a place of tourist attraction, - this ancient city of Inca pride! Please read its absorbing story, you will not regret it ! Thanks, - Raj Nandy

MACHU PICCHU: THE LOST CITY OF THE INCAS!

(I)
At those ethereal heights where only eagles dare,
And where the Condor glides to gently perch;
Above the Urubamba Valley of Peru, -
Stretches the peaks of Machu Picchu and Huayna
Picchu;
Where the sky above is a clear cerulean blue!
And on a cloud-draped ridge connecting both
these Andean peaks, -
Lies the magnificent site of Machu Picchu, –
which many tourists seek!
A city hewed and carved out of rocks and stones,
Which in proud defiance to marauding time,
Stands there for nearly six hundred years, -
A majestic symbol of Inca pride!
(II)
The Inca Kings were the ‘child of the sun’,
Their chief deity was the Sun God - ‘INTI’,
Their ninth king who expanded and consolidated
their Empire,
Was known as the great Emperor Pachucuti!
This king and his architects, at an altitude of
8000 feet built the great Inca City!
To worship their gods and honor their ancestors,
And as a royal family resort and a summer retreat!
Inca religion was based around Nature, and their
architecture blended with the landscape around!
At Machu Picchu they felt closer to their gods,
And could almost hear His sound!
Pachucuti also built the city of Cuzco, the capital
of the Inca Empire,
They never had horses or wheels those days,
Their ‘runners’ covered their kingdom entire!
With posts located at suitable distances, for
relaying messages throughout their Empire!
(III)
The ruins of Machu Picchu covers 13 sq kms,
Lying some 70 kms north-west of Cuzco city,
Nestled amidst the navel of the mountain rocks,
Hidden from the praying eyes of all adversaries!
Surrounded by gushing mountain rivers and
yawning chasms going down deep;
And with secret ropeway bridges, this Inca hideout
was all complete!
It escaped the greedy Pizarro’s eyes, that Spaniard
who came for Inca gold,
Leaving Machu Picchu untouched, for the entire world
to behold!
So the urban sector of Machu Picchu has 140 buildings
still intact;
With steps and terraces cut into steep granite face,
And streams and aqua-ducts to irrigate their lands!
(IV)
The citadel lies on a flat surface, which is a 20 hectares
spread!
With a sacred and a residential area, and houses for
priests, nobility and guests!
‘Amautas’ were men both holy and wise, conducted
ceremonies and read the stars;
But the Incas had no written script, and took help of
the ‘quipu’ by far!
The ‘quipu’ was a numerical system using many
knotted strings, -
With which they kept records and accounts of almost
any and everything!
(V)
A Sacred Area had temples and buildings,
All dedicated to the Gods by Pachucuti;
A Sun Temple, and the sacred Intihuatana Stone,
For ‘binding the sun’ – the great Inti !
During the Equinox on the 21st of March and September,
When the sun was directly above the Intihuatana Stone, <
The priests performed ceremonies and offered prayers, -
To keep the sun caged and in control!
Legend has it that should a sensitive man, keep his
forehead on this sacred Stone, -
His ‘third eye’ would open up, and the ‘spiritual world’
he shall behold!
(VI)
It was Hiram Bingham a professor from Yale University,
Who in July 1911 rediscovered this miniature Inca City!
He took three years to clear the jungles and the wild
vines;
And the artifacts he had found were sent to the US -
as precious finds!
The modern architects who visited Machu Picchu,
all marvelled at the techniques used;
A ‘dry stone technique’* without mortar, had all of
them pretty confused!
Many stones weighed around fifty tones, and others were
cut into various shapes and size;
And were fitted with such precision, leaving no room
even for a blade of knife!
The peaks there often get covered with mist,
And is the abode of white fluffy clouds;
This stairways to where the Inca gods dwell, #
Is where Machu Picchu is to be found!
- Raj Nandy
(- ALL COPYRIGHTS RESERVED -)
Notes: -Huayna Pichu stands behind Machu Picchu -
40mtrs higher! It has a steeper climb and has the ‘Temple of
the Moon’ inside a dark cave! +Declared a Heritage Site
by UNESCO in 1983.< Sun being directly above the sacred stone did not cast any shadow, so the priest said he had caged the Sun! *Dry stone
technique without mortar also used in Egyptian Pyramids! #Many
tribes believed Incas were Gods! Thanks for reading, - Raj Nandy.

............................................. ................................................. .....................

What are their uses
when everyone confuses
the words I say
with the ones they think?

I met her in the parking lot of a liquor store one Friday night with my naked body hidden beneath a dressing gown.
I’d put it on whilst I finished the gin from my 20th birthday within my boyfriends closet as he drank his **** down in beer and asked why I was in the closet.

Impotent, it was a quick exit as I thanked the drink for making me able to ride my bike back minus the safety of a sanitary towel, without my **** left to think of his grunts and groans and his hands which branded my thighs as he fed me lies that it was just in the moment; his finger prints left signatures citing his latest triumph of lasting one hundred point thirteen seconds.

The magnetism between the Alchemist and me was instant.
She held out her palm and asked for mine as the lines in my hands rewrote themselves in twisted, hopeful anticipation; reaching out, what I felt from the tips of my fingers was magic as I traced her navel to the logo of DKNY on the front of her black, cotton *******.

I taught her how to blow out smoke rings like the clowns at a circus who sit within purple tents and repeat sums of the class of 1969, the date they got their ***** kicked in, indigo, violet, for being performers.
I taught tobacco. She taught me ***.
There was ****** deviation towards devilry as I delved into the darkness between her legs as her ****** enchantment captured my hand and leaned me back;
Black blindfold, sight slaughtered.
Burning desire rolled over my bare ******* and left a trail of rouge; yet her warmth was not tender nor loving, but raw, earthly.
A sensual split as she clawed my back and licked the drips of blood that seeped into the bed, which was our place.

I felt myself become an astrologer as I left my body and rose in starry bliss; I became an adventurer as I breathed out ships, which sailed us to Stonewall as I stuck ******* up, not her sadly, but the blue meanies, the pigs which ate out of the trough of **** Tim Loughton fed us from our backyard.

I said we are making love. She said we are making a revolution.
Our energies combined, our spirits sang as it is in all and all is in us.
Time was alive as my fingers curled, my teeth bit into my open lips,
My back arched and my arms reached out in holy restoration.
Her incantation was irresistible.

Cosmic forces worked effortlessly as we evaded time and entered a transcendent state. Magical longing; primal consciousness;
Fate brought us together, past the ******* stage of our ****** evolution
As what we felt replaced what Freud saw.
A ****** of witchcraft.
An ****** of obsession.
The day I stepped out of the closet and away from my boyfriend I drank the elixir of life from your lips and knew our love would never die.

I. introitus

you join the procession of the
weeping daughters of jerusalem
but you
arent sure what theyre
weeping about.

perhaps they weep because they saw you
shipwrecked on the shores of
my body—
the fishermen howl, their painstakingly
hewn vessel
lost to the south wind.

or perhaps because you
charted my topography climbed up
my ******* and never came back

perhaps someone has died,
possibly you.

at your own funeral, you shed no tears.

II. kyrie eleison

at 8:56 am on judgment day

the cicadas start to
scrape against my skull

roaring like the lionesses that
rip open your chest in the tall grass they
lick your blood from their fur, pick
your bones from between their teeth and
recede, sated, into the
shade

the hyenas arrive at sun-
set and leave only
the weeds to glut
themselves
on your carcass.


III. sequentia

its all just flashes of course: the whys and wherewereyous and the
wildness in your eyes that said if someone snapped your neck i mean wrung it like a spring hen
you would still
be staring into some vision only you could
see.

sometimes it is not enough to eat humble pie.
we have to chew our cud and spit it back out and i am a
fool, a ruminant lying in the pastures waiting
to be taken one thousand seventy-four miles
home:

when you kissed me flowers bloomed from my
navel as if to say—
Yes yes yes yes yes.
blood rising behind my
lips pumping in all its holy majesty
burning metallic against my skin and i thought let me be branded by
you.

you, gift-wrapped in linen and old
spice, sunlight peeking
out through your smile lines
the surprise the perfect
O of your lips as we
made love amid the skyscrapers of cardboard
boxes as we
leapt across your mattress like buzz
aldrin like
children;

i take your hand and you lead me out the
window for a cigarette and a
better view of the moon

both are made of
paper

IV. offertorium

a.
a thousand
miles of orchard—
fruit laced with one point
oh seven four kg of powdered
kisses i havent yet given you

if you crave their nectarblood dont
blame me if you must
drink up the sea to quench
your thirst

b.   
I will sink into you like
a warm bath I will
lie back and eat mangoes and
let the juice drip
down my chin from my
fingers into you

V. sanctus

a.
i come in the name of
the woman inside whose body you were
sewn;
inside my body your seams
will be ripped.

b.
i come in the name of
the woman inside whose body you were
sown;
inside my body your harvest
will be reaped.


VI. agnus dei

the bridegroom lies
in tatters at the
altar,
reaching out to the
bloodied lamb beside him.

we cover him in
wool and
pull it over his eyes,
kissing his hand as we lower
him into the ground,
hoping to be blessed by his
blood. some of us get
drunk instead.

VII. communio

i dont know but Ive been told
that good bread and wine is
the best meal but
no bread breaks better than
your flesh no liquor goes down smoother than
your blood no
light shines brighter than your eyes
(blue moons in a scleral
sky) and when they spark like flint
and ignite my soul will you
remember to scatter my ashes into
whatever poison you drink

Two silhouettes muttered through cigarette smoke next to the tall, black double doors at the head of the corridor
unfazed by the white rectangles flickering above us. The doors parted
next thing I knew, I was in
a black box of four tall black walls, and a clammy black floor
made of the same padded fabric as the entrance doors.
Riotous bass pummelled through the room like a tortured bull.
There were hundreds of people here; maybe more
but they were all lying docile, faceless and still
against each other.

They were all young. I picked up an inconsistent rhythm of chests rising and falling
like ripples ushered across the sea by a gentle breeze.
Yet it was the overwhelming sense of flesh here that
lit a snarling viciousness within me. How it excited me and how
I feared it.
I was a butcher, afraid of what he could do.

I saw someone I recognised – her brown hair was tied back, her eyelashes
twitched in her slumber. I stepped over and sat behind her. She pulled herself closer to me
and kissed my cheek. I buried my face in her neck and placed my palm on her bare stomach
took my index finger, and ran a circle around her navel.

I can’t remember what happened after that.  Images slip through like
water in cupped hands.
But I remember the raw beat, and the gentle ripple of chests
and how it reminded me of the sleeping new-borns in a maternal ward.

Finishing off a hot brew @ 5am before jogging to the gym.
Better yet ...
breathing in your morning dew
tracing your curves slumbering
between soft white Pima layers
spurred by your dreamy smile
your fingertips dance
atop goose down clouds
shifting closer
to align our curve
toes tangle the cold
quiet eyes embrace
to awaken our space
seeking new warmth
nerves tingle and shift
aligning our navel's view
and falling in
to our fold.
... and then a hot brew for 2.

Taking in the day’s treats
as we stumble over its gift of time
and your full body shine.

Easing into moonbeam’s slumber
exploring intimate space,
unknown intensity
with a slow ease
of letting go
to move on.

...
Whew, wait, what was the question?
Sorry, I got lost in there, for our moment.

as if light had a fist, her eyes were bruised. stormy lipids.
marooned in vitreous witness, forsworn to a buoy
on a blind wave. she had the far away inside her
like an ectopic pregnant pause.
too many Almosts in
the Coulda’ Bins.

where she stashed her hammers, the woodpeckers never say.
but time chips away at the verve of her established implosion
like a verb suffocating a Stop Sign.
and No Exit seems an offramp-
somehow.

as if darkness had a twin
with the navel of a pin
to hide an angel
from a stitch
in a Prayer.

she had the gravity that floats
because the bottom
wept.

And I very nearly spoke.

"don't come inside"
usually, in fact, almost always
I would pull out
with a split second to spare
and ******* all over her
turning her navel in to
some sort of overflow ***-gutter
proceed to roll over
panting like an old dog in the sun
roll a cigarette whilst she
wipes us both down with some nearby
toilet roll and suggest
we watch something on her laptop
this time was different though
I pulled out and she lays there
and starts tugging me off
entirely unnecessarily
as though both of our lives
depended on it
and I'm glad she did
I started spraying hot **** everywhere
and I think to myself
"I'm painting the ******* walls!"
it was nothing short of sensational

viewing naked body in mirror
as if, its not my own; at my
age I sometimes wonder, am
I still desirable in his eyes?

breast are firm, buttocks
tight, shapely legs; thigh
to ankle toned to wrap
around his sinewy waist.

belly flat, waist trim, he
sneaks up behind; warm lips
to nape, his subtle bait to
taste me, it's never to late.

tongue between breast, I
know now as I gaze into
those baby browns, I've
found my answer.

*** appeal is still renown,
it shows in his eyes; as I
sigh from his touch, ummm!!
his lovings never too much.

******* taut from his touch,
tongue upon belly and navel;
laying on the table, flickers
my jewel; making me mewl.

purring like a kitten, lapping
up my milk; tongue feels like
silk, in and out licking; love
how he keeps me ticking...yes!!!

parting lips; warmly I dip, lightly
I sip upon blooming mushroom;
pulsating in reddened abloom,
spillage slowly from his plume...sweet

finger tracing veins poppin',
allowing throb to easily drop in;
nice and slow watching manhood
grow like a framed Van Gogh...he flows

****** self-confidence I'm convinced
watching him grow long and dense;
taking in every inch, winching in
delicious pleasure; his desired
measure...sexually self-confident

soaped and lathered in wetness

There's a Revolution coming,
The boots are on the streets;
It's calling from the graves,
We're stirring from our sleep.
There's a hunger in the eyes;
The troops are on their feet.
The revolutions's coming
And the enemy won't retreat.

There's a revolution coming,
It's coming as we speak;
The revolution's coming,
It should be here next week.

The mob appeal
Is running lights,
Towered minions
Fight the fight
To rein in their percent,
From navel gazing heights.
Desks in towers,
Those grasping power,
Will tumble in defeat.
The gravity of their greed
Will drag them through the streets.

The bell at four
Will sound no more;
The chorus chants
For a holy war; and
Salvation for the weak.

There's a revolution
On the way,
We'll re-write all the laws,
We'll line up the Romanovs,
And shake down all the Shahs.
There's a revolution coming
And it's coming
With just cause.