.i. if Kant could have his von Kleist... well... who else to juggle juggernauts if not me? as a task of redeeming that poor soul who succumbed to the terminator of all poetic ambitions, with his systematisation off-the-page, as eccentric and punctual as a sunset on a sundial at 16:11... and in case either the spring of sunrise, or the autumn of sunset... but so many hours after exacting a sunset... that gluttony of the eyes to stare at it... 16:11 is the zenith of a sunset in november the 15th... much prolonged when warmer... supersized sun when setting in summer, and all that whiskey-copper wiring for the eyes to stare at it: oh for goodness sake, who really cares for Ikea likened assembling of words... we're not putting together a coffee table, we're looking for Darwinistic entrapment, we're scared of the aeons and yawns... we're trying to create a Darwinistic entrapment saying what segregates us from apes! that's how anti-Darwinism works - if they can easily call you a poet and a technophobe... then that hardly makes you a merchant with a Quran... to encapsulate the language of our modernity we're doing everything against writing the onomatopoeia of our beginning... monkey ooo! monkey ooo ah ah! or a gorilla grunting and then snorkeling... we're encapsulating our language more and more... because beginning with ape and then looking at history, and then looking at the consensus of the contemporary: Darwinism's greatest enemy is not theology... it's history... Darwinism and history are not compatible... oddly enough Darwinism and theology are compatible, simply because they are dynamically equal for the case of furthering both arguments in debate... but Darwinism is an odd starting point to argue, given that physicists argue from the perspective of prior to dinosaurs, prior to all things formed.

how can i begin this? it will leave me having to
write it for two days,
the anti-narrative sketch first, then filling in
the gaps sober... just to get second opinions...
i might have to cook a quasi-Hungarian borscht
and fry up a few potato flattenings to a crispy
yum... first the narrator comes in to describe what's
in store, a bit like a translator comes in and says
of Joyce: that's Irish... well, yeah.
               hence the italic preface...
as some would say, the person who wrote these
sketches worked quicker that an algorithm in asking
and also quicker to copy & paste the required
atomic encoding... e.g. ч and ch
                   э and euro and epsilon...
      once upon a time there was nothing prior
to Copernicus, then the somersaults came,
    h ч y        what coordinates where?
    well of course perfecting the encoding of something,
if things weren't stated awry there would be
no optometrists either...
                  it's not hard to read, it's hard to
remember how to read, given that being literate reached
the omnipresent velocity, the new powers had to
include some new power struggle...
mingling Latin and Runes, Greek and Cyrillic...
     and the proto-Latin of additional diacritical marks...
they exposed the entirety of humanity to literacy
within the framework of post-industrial society,
after hitchhiking a ride on the 19th century donkeys
they suddenly had to reveal their power-secret of
being literate, and by the account of women:
corset bound and bored in salons...
      but something else appeared that didn't really fascinate
them: that over-complication of Latin with
punctuation marks above letters: or diacritical
distinction, crowns over letters, subatomic particularisation
of once favoured: universal applicability...
as a narrator? i have to make a complicated
introduction, the sketch lends itself to do so,
it suggests that not all writing can be as simple as
a nursery rhyme, not all writing can actually
    **** memory, not all writing desires being remembered,
not all writing can be remembered,
                in the mediation of the two chiral opposites
there's fiction, which is suspended in an armchair of
pleasurability... but on the opposite side of a nursery rhyme
or a well versed poem? writing akin to arithmetic...
  something truly painful for those competent with
lettering, but not really competent with ten digits...
      as a narrator who has already read the sketch,
i'm trying to not write a "filling in the gaps" to the sketch
like an art-critic might do to a painting deviating from:
brushstrokes were employed. well... d'uh!
variation of italics as in transcending the pause that
implies a condescending variation of taking a pause,
also excluded are: dot, comma, hyphen, semicolon
and colon.                         dot-dot-dot is not joining up
the dots: it implies a variation of how to anticipate
a punchline: drummed: tu-dum wet snare!
     i am actually a narrator who is trying to find
that other part of me that might digest this sketch properly,
     and return fully competent to pick up another
sketch... if ever there was a narrator in this sketch,
it has to be me, after the sketch has been scripted,
and i am left to suggest a need for a dot-dot-dot connectivity
of the strokes of the pen...
i warned myself: do not overdo the introduction in italics,
you know how picky people are...
whether pickled pineapple of cucumber...
i swear Turks invented pickling chillies...
         oh look! an inflatable gazebo filled with helium!
no one's laughing: only because i didn't mention vegina.
narrative puritanism? you get distracted a lot...
but this sketch is really a thesis for narration,
all i have to do is find the antithesis of narration in it:
an actual narrative!          it stretches for ~30 pages...
   well that's me turned archaeologist with a Grecian urn
with a snap of the finger... because that's how this
sketch looks like: ancient -
                         but understandably modern.
              so .  ,  - and ;
        were racing... out came the world record
             9.58(0)         the full-stop is the bracket-bound
0... i.e. it actually happened: hence the pinpoint...
or in Formula 1 a timed nonsense of ave. m/ph
     noted to three decimal points: 130.703...
                                    or chicane cha chicane cha cha!
as said, this is an actual representation of a narrator
encountering this sketch: so before you lose your head...
i've lost mine!
  look at the correlation though!
we've gone way past atoms with the atomic bomb
and encountered subatomic particles...
    we're not going to get beyond subatomic particles
because we're going to encounter the already apparent
reality of obatomic particle: namely our bodies,
   the perceived ******* (ob- is the antonym
                                                  prefixation of sub-):
             that's were the microscope adventure ends,
    and this is parallel to cutting up a second with
three decimal points, as the safetynet suggests:
                                                              π / 3.14;
yep, the obstructive - hence we can't spontaneously
combust... but then again Goethe's Werther did:
  out of love... down the spiral: you sweet little *******.

~ii. i'm actually too lazy to write the sketch and fill
in the blanks... so i'm going to fill in the blanks as i go along,
  or that's what's called the rebellious stance of narrator: mmm,
work in progress, could you see that coming?

ii. a beer in between glugs of whiskey - runes
combined in the ******* / sigma, variant of agliz or
the rune-zeta extended toward a dark shadow of the rebirth
of Ishrael: zoological enclosure; sigma *******
sigma ******* sigma *******, sigma *******...
rune-zeta... we cannot say there are ******
mathematicians and poets akin,
not then one optic encoding states
     a b c d e
         another states f u þ a r
yet another а б (ρ) в г
  α β γ δ:
for worth of gamma into a trill only because of
   a wave, that's ~ approx. on the side of the letter
   e.g. г & r.
   or rho upside down? what the ****?
did Voltaire write this? reading Candide,
i hope he ****** did!
you the problem is pixelated paper? if you know
how you enter a deciphering mode...
                    but you require a personal library to boot,
all that dos formatting,
                       well there's formatting in the humanity
outstretch of this white medium too...
after it isn't all ******* white when all the psychiatric
pills are white too... i have really found something better
than the Bermuda Δ...
       Greek, Latin, Cyrillic and Runes...
i could say neo or proto otherwise,
but i still haven't unearthed the sketch, that
is probably puzzling the Danes, with Cnut on the forefront...
                    but the arrangement of numbers is universal,
but it's not universal, given the particularity of
how language is encoded and why some people are
richer than others...
            but it's still a beer between glugs of whiskey that
makes more sense...
i said, retype the sketch and go to bed...
and i figured: that's probably the wisest of all possible
events stemming from this...
    that's ~27 pages of notes to retype... and i'm already
in a disclosure mode as to expect what's to be jargoned...

p. 1        cкεтч       /      σкεтχ
   necessity of                        (acute
a-       -the           (ism)
is that of language structure,
          only from the use of one's language does
a deity present itself: from within the noumenon
ground work, not the reverse, as in from
(pp. 2, 3)
                 a phenomenological exercise in
the use of language: Islam, Christianity, Buddhism, (etc.)...
       e.g. Islam is a phenomenon,
  it's not a noumenon: or a thing-in-itself...
  for the Islamic god to emerge from Islam's-in-itself
Islam will have to prevent itself from being-outside-itself...
or overpowering other in-itself contentions
but still: to no apparent success narrative of true intention
as satisfactory appropriation and hence lending itself
to a widespread nod of approval.
  challenging space: word compounding, or the space
between conjunctional deficiencies: nod-of-approval (e.g.).

p. 2    concussion (great film, Alec and Will, 2015, NFL)
concussion... Blitzkrieg Alzheimer's....
brain is fat.... dementia = attacking proteins...
  steroids... the noumenological use of language:
e.g. that ****** is an enigma,
therefore his views will not go viral,
and he'll not become fashion trendy...
it's not individualistic idealism, it's reality.
as will die sonne satan - orbis reach more than 5K
views... so... clap clap... clap, clap.
           what i meant about the a-     and -the
and the ism is following a sentence that sort of
does away with conjunctional fluidity,
apart from the big words, i treat all minor words as
categorically conunctional... and, the, a, is, to, too...
given the sentence: brain fatty *****,
brian organic giraffe wall... ******* hieroglyphic...
           stood above the rest, rest assured.
  dementia: invading protein cells
   (bulging prune of the opportune: purely
digestion?) no thought to eat or eat itself like,
cannibalistically. the brain is fatty...
not fat in muscle for mmm, schmile and flex
for the selfie. how about a protein inhibitor?
(by now, rewriting the sketch, i've lost the page count,
it's actually p. 5 of note paged toward 27).
how about the explanation that we're living in
times of post-industrialisation and thanksgiving
feminism? to me post-industrialisation has created
a class of meaningless white-collar workers
and no blues... it's what the Chinese blues call
the Amazonian nomads: ******* happy...
no amount of crosswords or sudoku will exert
your body to do things for others...
   no amount of mind games will actually tell your
brain to be equipped with: a bunch of hyenas... run!
dementia is a result of creating too many
white-collar jobs (thanks to feminism)
and exporting the blues to China (thanks to feminism
and: oh i broke a nail, can i get a Ching plumber to
fix my heating while i get a ****** to **** me up my
****?!) - maybe i'm just dreaming...
it's great to censor dreaming, i mean: you stop dreaming,
you get to see reality, and you don't even need to
read Proust on a ricochet.
  - so we have brain as fat, and invader cells as protein...
protein digests fat... and creates cucumbers out
of people... where do the carbohydrates come into play?
it can't be at the point of a.d.h.d., can it?
     i'm blaming post-industrialisation, the complete
disappearance of the blues (formerly known as the reds,
in the east) for the whites...
or that old chestnut of: my god you're goon'ah luv it!
   to till for worth from the sweat of yer brow -
funny funny funny... to earn your loaf of bread
you will toil...
                   and toil until you are physically assured
that not ghostly / mental life can enter your world /
books... that went well... didn't it?
   i should be tilling a potato plateau rather than
be bound to be writing this epic (by modern standards)
poem...
             but that's the curse of exporting all the blue
collar jobs to China, then importing mindless
white collar jobs to the west, what the hell do you think
would happen, not the pandemic of dementia?
if you do not exert the body, and then you do not
exert / exhaust the mind... do you think
you can secure a narrative with a post-industrial
westerner on the premise of that person simply being
able to solve a crossword? well... i believe in santa
claus too... but i don't believe in him giving out
presents... because to me, in my oh-so-called maturity
that's called an anagram of satan's clause: which is a legal
term for: i can turn civilisation into shrapnel
of what's said and what's to be said: and what's not to be
said. people can't expect to turn honest labour
for the recreational run on the treadmill in a gym...
and they can't expect photocopying in an office space
to replace Newton's curiosity, and then compensate
all this distraction with mind-games...
          can they? well... they did!

poets are gagged by writers of prose,
no wonder they write so sparingly,
      they are gagged in the sense that they write
as if asphyxiated: they need breathing room.

well sure, if he can revive the Polish steel industry
and i can go back to steel plates and pillars,
then the rust belt will get a polishing also.

or what's called: shrapnel before the waterfall of
narration: darting eyes, and poncy **** all the way through...

     muse... muse...

        well, how about we take the fluidity out of language?
declassify certain words into one grammatical broth,
say words like i and they
                              a  and the    are all conjunctions?
how about that? let's strip it bare, after all: what categories
of words exist for us to primarily speak (let alone think)?
     nouns, verbs, adjectives... adverbs?
       but all those words in between are so jungly classified
into a tangle that i'm about to sprout a handshake
          of a Japanese vine grip: and never let go...

an actual extract from the sketch:

      https that doesn't recognise UCS
                   and insists on IPA cannot be deemed
       encyclopaedic

              i need runes for this! i need runes for this idea!
i don't need transliteration right now...
                but hey! that's an idea, etymological transliteration...
bugly term, sure, but the previous night i was thinking
  of transcendental etymology, as you do, likened to
carbohydrates... so it was transliteration after all...
but a dead end when it comes to geometry and Pythagoras...
      
    three words... and they are computerised (i guess you
have to buy a decent book to decode this), a bit like
buying paint in a d.i.y. shop...
       16DE (dagaz / d) 16DC (ingwaz / ŋ / grapheme of n & j)
                  16DF (ōþala / Valhalla / o / ō = oo),
in total d'njoo / d'nyoo - even i concede the fact that this
is a ******* mind-******... it's a ****** congregation of
four optic encodings of phonos... i moved away from
the ancient greek fetish for the logos... i'm looking at
the phonos... not the logos with Heraclitus et al.
               φº θ þ фª f

ªgreek
  ºcyrillic                ever see a prettier pentagram?
                      i haven't.

(false original title:
škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic - pending)

looking at the phonos is painful, actually painful,
it's like reading a book with a myopic pair of glasses:
a ******* aquarium blurry right there, befor...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

'e'? were you: was i, looking for an 'e'?

i can say this much...
what do you get when you mix a shot
of whiskey with a shot of bourbon:
i'm moving between bottles...
it's nearing christmas eve and i'm a ripe
taoist... i.e. i better this world:
by not having the world mind me...
on the odd occasion: oh... you're still here?!

yeah... i'm still here... i have glued-to-fascination
with my shadow... i'm just waiting
for the atom bomb to relieve me of a body
but ensuring my shadow is kept intact...
as if it were a Monet signature on a wall...

but i lament... the momentum has vanished...
i don't even know why i'm so idiotic as
to presume that: from the hour 22:00GMT
to the hours 00:00 circa 00:30GMT...
something will land into my lap,
my lisp... my cranium the oyster shell
my tongue the oyster...

it will not... i can't simply **** anything into
an existence that doesn't want to exist...
perhaps lurking in a canvas of:
"lost luggage" in an airport...
perhaps "there"...
i could be excused my... lethargy...

when was this written? back in 2018?
so i was thinking about teasing cyrillic even then?
wasn't i?
sketch cкэтч or?

what do you get when you mix a shot of whiskey
with some bourbon?
a Burguandian whisker...
i am not going to sound witty...
Ron's key...

that's still a cyrillic "or"... isn't it?
шкиц: škic...

i'm... deflated... nothing "new" has come my way...
i would have thought that...
reading some Knausgård would have /
could have... invigorated me:
reading him was supposed to be my:
dialysis my transfusion!
my zombie-go-to-literature...
it has proven an exhaustive enterprise
to begin writing again:
i became too comfortable
in reading - i almost forgot
the agony of writing...

alas... a contemporary of mine...
and someone well adjusted to prose...

notably: who would have thought
that death in june - the calling (MK II)
was something to be recorded in 1985...
for one: i wouldn't...

but i did begin: back in november 2016...
begin what? to tickle the cyrillic alphabet...
which is way before i discovered my reply
to the runes... to the ancient greek...
and this... "ancient", ahem... still in use...
latin script...

that script that went into the molloch couldron
of being invested in to code...
pristine as the hebrews cited:
how many holes in it?
to write onto a canvas of 0?
q Q R O o p P A a D d g b B...
which leaves...
W E T Y U I S F H J K L
Z X C V N and M "out of the equation"...

škic / cкэтч / φº θ þ фª f: thespian pandemic (pending):
i better rename it as... circa 2016...
that's way before i even acknowledged
the cyrillic text applying diacritical markers...
i thought them too crude at the time...

beside borrowing outright from greek...
the already at hand oddities of glagolitic,
notably: Ⱎ...Ⱋ...

it's only a single word i'm using...
i have abandoned all notions of metaphysics
in favor for orthography...
i'm not going to burden myself
with: what's after the physics...
i'm after: what's now...
in the respective tongues...
2 tongue deviations from
the original latin and greek...

what came with the runes and what
came with the glagolitic scripts...
what was ****** and had to succumb
to inter-breeding...

come 2020... i will have one clarification
to base my existence on...
pronouncing the growth of my ****** hair...
i will hope to aim at a length of beard
that will forever hide the neck...
i will aim at... somewhere to the level
of my heart... when i will then manage
to turn my beard into an orchestra's
nieche of violins when i procrastinate with it...

since 2016...
i have identified russian in ******...
i've seen it... finally!
зъaрт... i.e. żart
and the "hard sign" becoming a "soft sign"
in źrenica: зьрeницa...

i still think the russian orthography
is... as... primitive as the western slavic...

after all... зъ = ż...
зь = ź...
the balkan slavs have a caron...
which is neither a hard or a soft sign / acute...

their caron is... ч (č) or cz...
CHeaper in english...
and their caron is ш (š) or sz...
SHeep...
or the two together...
and always шч (šč): szczekam...
i'm barking...

pu-shch-air... a rare example in english
of the puщair...
but then lookie lookie 'ere:

CZACHA... skull...
ЧAХA...

perhaps this is my "revenge ****" on russia?
hey! boris the kremlin mascoot...
come and 'ave a look...
with how i disect your orthography
on the / with the language that asks
too many metaphysical questions and no
orthographic curiosities!

i'll meet you in Warsaw... given that you're
probably moving from Novosibirsk...
and i'm either in Stockholm...
Edinburgh or the outskirts of London:
Warsaw will be halfway for both of us...
you don't have to like Warsaw...
i only like it when the Ukrainian smugglers
and the Mongols appear
in the West Warsaw coach station...

smart as who? i am discovering this for
the first time myself...
i was only teasing it back in 2016...
way before i found the right sort of accents
in mother russian...

i do know that that crescent oddity:
above the ja: йa... is what it is...
if you only cut off the head in english... ȷ...
again: it's я given that most russians
are pulled toward an anglophile world-view...
they all see the window to europe...
the baltic and st. petersburg is somehow...
London... and the atlantic...
like hell it is...

i guess i feel it was a waste of time to
have re(a)d Kant, simply because:
i'm not here for the schematics...
i want to know how my thought my labyrinth
building architecture is coming along...
but with no one to talk to about it?

i found the categorical imperative most
dissatisfying... i didn't want to abide by universal laws...
poetry is already shoved out of waiting room
of the republic...
if my "poetry" is not a categorical imperative...
and it's not quiet a a hypothetical imperative...
it needs to be sharpened on a thesaurus
and some grammar...

categorical (adjective)... imperative (adjective)...
well two adjectives never imply much
if there's no noun involved...
and i'm pretty sure that... if i sharpen
the next word i'll compound with categorical-
in that hyphen construct that's only
allowed in oxford dictionary english:
since it's not: propergermannonhyphenfaustian:
i.e. carboxylic (carbo-xylic) acidity...

poetry doesn't belong in either
the categorical imperative focus...
nor the hypothetical imperative focus...

i.e. i must write a poem... to feel better...
i must write a poem... to organise my thoughts...
no! a poem is not a maxim is not a categorical
imperative! a language of poetry is not
a language of morality: it's a language
of experience - or a lack / a lackey's "sentiment"...

i need a... categorical: impetus!
it's not enough to have read kant's critique of pure
reason... it must also involved
having re(a)d the: groundwork of
the metaphysics of morals...
but i'm a democratic reader...
i need to hear the other voices...
i can't be a kantian scholar...
a snippet 'ere, a snippet v'ere (funny how
THETA disappears when making the posit:
THERE - ver!)

who needs metaphysical absolutes...
when orthography (or a lack of it)
in english... spreads open its legs...
and the tongue remembers its tongue-brain-phallus
stage of co-existence in the oyster?!

i'm pretty sure that a categorical imperative
is by no means a categorical impetus...
this had to be written,
but it had to be written in order to disregard
anything a priori... prior to it...
a poem is a shady concern for action or inaction...
it's a deviation from the cartesian crux:
res cogitans (thinking thing)...
into the cartesian levy (res extensa)...
it's an action of inactivity...
as much as it's an inactive activity...
"the rest"...

impetus is not an imperative...
an impetus sources its meaning in a per se
investement... of itself - in itself - for itself...
an imperative?
in pronouns... impetus: i want... i will...
imperative? you want... you will...

an impetus is self-dictative...
an imperative is: indicative...
someone would rightly claim...
those that mourn indicatively...
will don the right garments for the process
of mourning...
which is indicative and devoid of
the per se manifestation of mourning...
it is an imperative when compared to
the impetus to mourn -
which is self-dictative...
which does now shallow itself in
grief by making a socially agreed to fiasco
of a very specific choice of wardrobe...

basically: however you like it...
an IMPERATIVE ≠ IMPETUS...
the year is almost over and i want to break-off
the dust from the thoughts that fudge-packed themselves
as worthy of occupying the minor instance
of having to count a depth of:
not dead within the year of being written.

As a woman, and in the service of my Lord the Emperor Wu, my life is governed by his command. At twenty I was summoned to this life at court and have made of it what I can, within the limitations of the courtesan I am supposed to be, and the poet I have now become. Unlike my male counterparts, some of whom have lately found seclusion in the wilderness of rivers and mountains, I have only my personal court of three rooms and its tiny garden and ornamental pond. But I live close to the surrounding walls of the Zu-lin Gardens with its astronomical observatories and bold attempts at recreating illusions of celebrated locations in the Tai mountains. There, walking with my cat Xi-Lu in the afternoons, I imagine a solitary life, a life suffused with the emptiness I crave.
 
In the hot, dry summer days my maid Mei-Lim and I have sought a temporary retreat in the pine forests above Lingzhi. Carried in a litter up the mountain paths we are left in a commodious hut, its open walls making those simple pleasures of drinking, eating and sleeping more acute, intense. For a few precious days I rest and meditate, breathe the mountain air and the resinous scents of the trees. I escape the daily commerce of the court and belong to a world that for the rest of the year I have to imagine, the world of the recluse. To gain the status of the recluse, open to my male counterparts, is forbidden to women of the court. I am woman first, a poet and calligrapher second. My brother, should he so wish, could present a petition to revoke his position as a man of letters, an official commentator on the affairs of state. But he is not so inclined. He has already achieved notoriety and influence through his writing on the social conditions of town and city. He revels in a world of chatter, gossip and intrigue; he appears to fear the wilderness life.  
 
I must be thankful that my own life is maintained on the periphery. I am physically distant from the hub of daily ceremonial. I only participate at my Lord’s express command. I regularly feign illness and fatigue to avoid petty conflict and difficulty. Yet I receive commissions I cannot waver: to honour a departed official; to celebrate a son’s birth to the Second Wife; to fulfil in verse my Lord’s curious need to know about the intimate sorrows of his young concubines, their loneliness and heartache.
 
Occasionally a Rhapsody is requested for an important visitor. The Emperor Wu is proud to present as welcome gifts such poetic creations executed in fine calligraphy, and from a woman of his court. Surely a sign of enlightment and progress he boasts! Yet in these creations my observations are parochial: early morning frost on the cabbage leaves in my garden; the sound of geese on their late afternoon flight to Star Lake; the disposition of the heavens on an Autumn night. I live by the Tao of Lao-Tzu, perceiving the whole world from my doorstep.
 
But I long for the reclusive life, to leave this court for my family’s estate in the valley my peasant mother lived as a child. At fourteen she was chosen to sustain the Emperor’s annual wish for young girls to be groomed for concubinage. Like her daughter she is tall, though not as plain as I; she put her past behind her and conceded her adolescence to the training required by the court. At twenty she was recommended to my father, the court archivist, as second wife. When she first met this quiet, dedicated man on the day before her marriage she closed her eyes in blessing. My father taught her the arts of the library and schooled her well. From her I have received keen eyes of jade green and a prestigious memory, a memory developed she said from my father’s joy of reading to her in their private hours, and before she could read herself. Each morning he would examine her to discover what she had remembered of the text read the night before. When I was a little child she would quote to me the Confucian texts on which she had been ****** schooled, and she then would tell me of her childhood home. She primed my imagination and my poetic world with descriptions of a domestic rural life.
 
Sometimes in the arms of my Lord I have freely rhapsodized in chusi metre these delicate word paintings of my mother’s home. She would say ‘We will walk now to the ruined tower beside the lake. Listen to the carolling birds. As the sparse clouds move across the sky the warm sun strokes the winter grass. Across the deep lake the forests are empty. Now we are climbing the narrow steps to the platform from which you and I will look towards the sun setting in the west. See the shadows are lengthening and the air becomes colder. The blackbird’s solitary song heralds the evening.  Look, an owl glides silently beneath us.’
 
My Lord will then quote from Hsieh Ling-yun,.
 
‘I meet sky, unable to soar among clouds,
face a lake, call those depths beyond me.’
 
And I will match this quotation, as he will expect.
 
‘Too simple-minded to perfect Integrity,
and too feeble to plough fields in seclusion.’
 
He will then gaze into my eyes in wonder that this obscure poem rests in my memory and that I will decode the minimal grammar of these early characters with such poetry. His characters: Sky – Bird – Cloud – Lake – Depth. My characters: Fool – Truth – Child – Winter field – Isolation.
 
Our combined invention seems to take him out of his Emperor-self. He is for a while the poet-scholar-sage he imagines he would like to be, and I his foot-sore companion following his wilderness journey. And then we turn our attention to our bodies, and I surprise him with my admonitions to gentleness, to patience, to arousing my pleasure. After such poetry he is all pleasure, sensitive to the slightest touch, and I have my pleasure in knowing I can control this powerful man with words and the stroke of my fingertips rather than by delicate youthful beauty or the guile and perverse ingenuity of an ****** act. He is still learning to recognise the nature and particularness of my desires. I am not as his other women: who confuse pleasure with pain.
 
Thoughts of my mother. Without my dear father, dead ten years, she is a boat without a rudder sailing on a distant lake. She greets each day as a gift she must honour with good humour despite the pain of her limbs, the difficulty of walking, of sitting, of eating, even talking. Such is the hurt that governs her ageing. She has always understood that my position has forbidden marriage and children, though the latter might be a possibility I have not wished it and made it known to my Lord that it must not be. My mother remains in limbo, neither son or daughter seeking to further her lineage, she has returned to her sister’s home in the distant village of her birth, a thatched house of twenty rooms,
 
‘Elms and willows shading the eaves at the back,
and, in front,  peach and plum spread wide.
 
Villages lost across mist-haze distances,
Kitchen smoke drifting wide-open country,
 
Dogs bark deep among the back roads out here
And cockerels crow from mulberry treetops.
 
My esteemed colleague T’ao Ch’ien made this poetry. After a distinguished career in government service he returned to the life of a recluse-farmer on his family farm. Living alone in a three-roomed hut he lives out his life as a recluse and has endured considerable poverty. One poem I know tells of him begging for food. His world is fields-and-gardens in contrast to Hsieh Ling-yin who is rivers-and-mountains. Ch’ien’s commitment to the recluse life has brought forth words that confront death and the reality of human experience without delusion.
 
‘At home here in what lasts, I wait out life.’
 
Thus my mother waits out her life, frail, crumbling more with each turning year.
 
To live beyond the need to organise daily commitments due to others, to step out into my garden and only consider the dew glistening on the loropetalum. My mind is forever full of what is to be done, what must be completed, what has to be said to this visitor who will today come to my court at the Wu hour. Only at my desk does this incessant chattering in the mind cease, as I move my brush to shape a character, or as the needle enters the cloth, all is stilled, the world retreats; there is the inner silence I crave.
 
I long to see with my own eyes those scenes my mother painted for me with her words. I only know them in my mind’s eye having travelled so little these past fifteen years. I look out from this still dark room onto my small garden to see the morning gathering its light above the rooftops. My camellia bush is in flower though a thin frost covers the garden stones.
 
And so I must imagine how it might be, how I might live the recluse life. How much can I jettison? These fine clothes, this silken nightgown beneath the furs I wrap myself in against the early morning air. My maid is sleeping. Who will make my tea? Minister to me when I take to my bed? What would become of my cat, my books, the choice-haired brushes? Like T’ao Ch’ien could I leave the court wearing a single robe and with one bag over my shoulders? Could I walk for ten days into the mountains? I would disguise myself as a man perhaps. I am tall for a woman, and though my body flows in broad curves there are ways this might be assuaged, enough perhaps to survive unmolested on the road.
 
Such dreams! My Lord would see me returned within hours and send a servant to remain at my gate thereafter. I will compose a rhapsody about a concubine of standing, who has even occupied the purple chamber, but now seeks to relinquish her privileged life, who coverts the uncertainty of nature, who would endure pain and privation in a hut on some distant mountain, who will sleep on a mat on its earth floor. Perhaps this will excite my Lord, light a fire in his imagination. As though in preparation for this task I remove my furs, I loose the knot of my silk gown. Naked, I reach for an old under shift letting it fall around my still-slender body and imagine myself tying the lacings myself in the open air, imagine making my toilet alone as the sun appears from behind a distant mountain on a new day. My mind occupies itself with the tiny detail of living thus: bare feet on cold earth, a walk to nearby stream, the gathering of berries and mountain herbs, the making of fire, the washing of my few clothes, imagining. Imagining. To live alone will see every moment filled with the tasks of keeping alive. I will become in tune with my surroundings. I will take only what I need and rely on no one. Dreaming will end and reality will be the slug on my mat, the bone-chilling incessant mists of winter, the thorn in the foot, the wild winds of autumn. My hands will become stained and rough, my long limbs tanned and scratched, my delicate complexion freckled and wind-pocked, my hair tied roughly back. I will become an animal foraging on a dank hillside. Such thoughts fill me with deep longing and a ****** desire to be tzu-jan  - with what surrounds me, ablaze with ****** self.
 
It is not thought the custom of a woman to hold such desires. We are creatures of order and comfort. We do not live on the edge of things, but crave security and well-being. We learn to endure the privations of being at the behest of others. Husbands, children, lovers, our relatives take our bodies to them as places of comfort, rest and desire. We work at maintaining an ordered flow of existence. Whatever our station, mistress or servant we compliment, we keep things in order, whether that is the common hearth or the accounts of our husband’s court. Now my rhapsody begins:
 
A Rhapsody on a woman wishing to live as a recluse
 
As a lady of my Emperor’s court I am bound in service.
My court is not my own, I have the barest of means.
My rooms are full of gifts I am forced barter for bread.
Though the artefacts of my hands and mind
Are valued and widely renown,
Their commissioning is an expectation of my station,
With no direct reward attached.
To dress appropriately for my Lord’s convocations and assemblies
I am forced to negotiate with chamberlains and treasurers.
A bolt of silk, gold thread, the services of a needlewoman
Require formal entreaties and may lie dormant for weeks
Before acknowledgement and release.
 
I was chosen for my literary skills, my prestigious memory,
Not for my ****** beauty, though I have been called
‘Lady of the most gracious movement’ and
My speaking voice has clarity and is capable of many colours.
I sing, but plainly and without passion
Lest I interfere with the truth of music’s message.
 
Since I was a child in my father’s library
I have sought out the works of those whose words
Paint visions of a world that as a woman
I may never see, the world of the wilderness,
Of rivers and mountains,
Of fields and gardens.
Yet I am denied by my *** and my station
To experience passing amongst these wonders
Except as contrived imitations in the palace gardens.
 
Each day I struggle to tease from the small corner
Of my enclosed eye-space some enrichment
Some elemental thing to colour meaning:
To extend the bounds of my home
Across the walls of this palace
Into the world beyond.
 
I have let it be known that I welcome interviews
With officials from distant courts to hear of their journeying,
To gather word images if only at second-hand.
Only yesterday an emissary recounted
His travels to Stone Lake in the far South-West,
Beyond the gorges of the Yang-tze.
With his eyes I have seen the mountains of Suchan:
With his ears I have heard the oars crackling
Like shattering jade in the freezing water.
Images and sounds from a thousand miles
Of travel are extract from this man’s memory.
 
Such a sharing of experience leaves me
Excited but dismayed: that I shall never
Visit this vast expanse of water and hear
Its wild cranes sing from their floating nests
In the summer moonlight.
 
I seek to disappear into a distant landscape
Where the self and its constructions of the world may
Dissolve away until nothing remains but the no-mind.
My thoughts are full of the practicalities of journeying
Of an imagined location, that lonely place
Where I may be at one with myself.
Where I may delight in the everyday Way,
Myself among mist and vine, rock and cave.
Not this lady of many parts and purposes whose poems must
Speak of lives, sorrow and joy, pleasure and pain
Set amongst personal conflict and intrigue
That in containing these things, bring order to disorder;
Salve the conscience, bathe hurt, soothe sleight.

work


joan barimaster, is having a hard week where she has 14 catering jobs and an annoying son, you

see robert was saying, i will be famous, i want to be a famous person, but joan was getting tired of this

and had to ring up diswork, which was a workplace that gave people like robert a chance to work in the

community and when joan tried to explain it to robert, robert would say, i want to help you, mummy

i want to help you mummy, but joan wanted to have some peace and getting robert into a job like this

will be perfect, you see joan told the boss, she has every faith in robert to do this work, and the boss said

how about we start robert next Monday, he can join our building site team, it might be up his alley

and after we finish, we will keep him with us, until you are ready to pick him up, and joan said, will he get bored

ya know, if you finish early, so to speak and the boss said, no, we will make sure we are really nice to him

and robert said, no, mum, i wanna help you, i don’t want to work with other people with my abilit, i have the

ability to help you, please mum, can you help me, and joan said, let’s go home, you see i have a busy life

and i need some time to myself, so you must do this thing for me and then robert really yelled at joan saying

what if it’s not the type of job that i want, what if, working with you, makes me feel happy, you know, you

shouldn’t ***** with things that work, and joan said, you only got that off becker, ok, i need you to do this work

so i can organise my business, ok, you can still help, but i need most mornings just to organise myself and robert said

what will i do, ands joan said, just work in the community, which is ****** important, and whilst doing that, i will organise

all my jobs, and robert said, you just want me to find a girlfriend, so you can walk me down the aisle and we can invite the

whole family to welcome my new lady love to the family and joan said yeah, but i also need some time to myself, i am getting old

and i can’t have you under my feet in the morning joan said, and on that monday morning, robert started work, and he worked very hard

but he refused to wear a helmet on site, and there was a bit of friction between him and his boss, but that blew over in 20 minutes

after realising it’s dangerous to work without a helmet and robert was the hardest worker there, but the boss, thought he worked so hard

that, the boss wanted him to work at the new homeless shelter, run by the city’s community centre, and robert was delighted, especially

after he told his mum, saying, he will be working as part of a homeless shelter, how cools that, he understood, and at the end of the day

when joan picked up robert, the boss told joan all about how hard robert worked and also told that he wants robert to take part in a homeless

person project which robert was happy with, and joan said to robert, are you sure you want to do this, and robert said, yeah yeah please mummy yeah

and the next few days robert has been going to bed and getting up for work, going to bed and getting up for work, day in and day out and robert was

getting tired from this work, too tired to go to her mums catering job, but he had to, and slept on the couch in the den, mind you this was the best

thing for robert and at the end of robert’s first week at work, joan and robert had dinner in the club, and robert was tired and took his medication

and went to bed

It all kinda seemed like yesterday that I began to unpack my car full of my things and headed in Vic Hall for the first time...
- And it all felt like yesterday when Sara was attacked by the creepy purple people in kilts and chains...
- And it was like yesterday when we met Simon and Dana and offered them a fridge...
- And it seems like yesterday when I was covered head to toe in peat moss and shaving cream in navy blue coveralls...
- And it was yesterday when we all took our first jump in the Lake off the pier
- And I could have sworn that it was yesterday when I went to my first class scared stiff just to find out that my profs were the coolest people..
- And it feels like yesterday that I met Margaret for the first time, and she thought I lived on her floor which I didn't...
- And yesterday I almost failed my first assignment and felt the tears rolling down my face, worried that I wasn't going to pass..
- And I will swear that it was Homecoming yesterday...
- And it was soo definately yesterday that Mariah, Sara and I conquered the BEHEMOTH!!!! Wonderland!
- And it definately was yesterday when Drama 100 went on their roadtrip to Gannanoque :P
- And it could have been yesterday when we went out for our first of many fire alarms in Vic...
- And it might have been yesterday when I realised that my calender is my new best friend..
- And it feels much like yesterday when my cousins came to see me and show me the best places in K-town...
- And it all went down yesterday that I wrote my first midterm...
- And alas it was yesterday that I found a boy and left him..
- And it must have been yesterday that I found out how much talent was in Drama 100's fall presentations...(especially Lab F... :P)
- And it feels just like yesterday that QMT astounded me with Jekyll and Hyde..
- And it could have been yesterday that I joined the Hip Hop class..
- And, of course, yesterday I helped organise Ale with the Profs for English DSC..
- And, yes, it was yesterday the I voted for AMS president...
- And then there was yesterday when I went to my first Hillel Dinner and loved it..
- And it was most definately yesterday when I discovered my hatred for chemistry...
- And yesterday, I went out for my room mates birthday...
- And then, yesterday, I figured out how much I love Indigo books... and Starbucks coffee..
- And yesterday I found out that people actually live in Stauffer Library.. sleep on couches...
- And it really was yesterday that I found out I was going to be a Gael and met Chris Mitchell aka our OC!! and my future Gael FAM!!!!
- And it was yesterday that I joined the costume crew for Man of la Mancha and learned how to use a sewing machine... sorry Julia :P
- And then yesterday, I went to see Ted in Anne Frank.. he was really great!
- And yesterday, I found out that Drama 100 was way more talented in their Winter Presentations...
- And it seems like yesterday that it was my last day of classes... but somehow I still had projects due..
- And it was sooo yesterday that I finished my last essay of the year...
- And it feels soo much like yesterday when I met to whole cast and crew and went to the somewhat and the gala night and closing night (the strike and cast party)!!! You guys are fantastic..
- And yesterday I began my first of many finals...
- And then yesterday I said goodbye to my lucky friends who finished before me and going home for the summer...


But it was today, as I was packing my things and talking to my parents, that they asked,"How does it feel to be finished your first of four years of university?" and I said, "It all seemed like yesterday."

Born with a better life
Formed with a rugged line
Caught in a muddy mind
Inner war in full force
Empty shores
Grains are coarse
Brain is worn from the thought
Of the cause
And the flaws
In the bottled up troubled times...
Keep that light in sight though
Eyes open wide,
So you can brave the flow so
You can find all the times
To unwind
Organise
And refine
How you fight Home Made choke holds

Feels like I'm courting
A black hole I'm forming
Distorting rewarding
Thoughts formed flip to morbid
'It's just a bad day not a bad life'
Ever had a day that lasts a life time?
Guess I'll be right in the mourning

What sort of a mess is this
Formed full of emptiness
Scorn for my premises
Thinner walls
Creaking floors
Feeling worn
Sleeping more
Brain is worn from the thought
Of the cause
And the flaws
I have bottled in hesitance
Keep that light in sight though
Eyes open wide,
So you can brave the flow so
You can find all the times
To unwind
Organise
And refine
How you fight Home Made choke holds

Start with absorbing
The wellness from talking
Succoring the morbid
Thoughts formed flip to glory
'This is a good day not a bad life'
Ever want a day to last a life time?
Might just be right in the morning

( while taking a tour through those poems readers are requested to keep in their hands,  a feather from the pea-****’s tail )

Volga - 1

there might have been some provocation
on the part of the  rat’s bible  

it is not known when and how
every piece of sleep that spatters  
from the oesophagus of the dip-swimming  
has stick to the c-sharp
of the newly-purchased tooth-brush

the air within the wish-bicycle
figures nothing less

how much is it necessary now
to ****** the blue-hue  with the study
that can be saved by the depression of the Ganges-basin
to develop the snap-shot of the garland-exchange with the
antiseptic cream

would you think it for some moments
my lord
the lord of the market

before sending any secret e-mail
to the cyclone
residing in the room
behind the stair-case
let the Volga be read once more
with all its clothes
and hair-styles

Volga - 2

the winter of the water-canon
oxidised by the fireflies
wants to touch every bamboo-flute
of this soil, it seems

as if it plays
in the body of every cauliflower
the total memorising-skill
of  the blue and yellow pyramid

and if some lines of changes
in the planet be added
the birth-day of the bolster
that goes to the sea
may learn with a lesser effort
the pollen-efficiency of the nail-marked walls

how much should I scold the squirrels
who don’t want to swim
in the still-water of the black-board  

Volga – 3

the green-circuit of the fried-almonds
that was submerged
in the open-hair of the afternoon
the whole-night workshop
has taught
the thumb-impression is to be put
how far below it

if the autobiographies are planted
into the drawer of nature
the solubility of the river-reed
gets it done too late at night

all the plus-signs around
from their etiquettes
come down  

so many foot-notes
caused by the season-changes

so before planting life
to the address of the wall-lamps
it seems the cotton-flower
written by the oceans
began yawning

Volga – 4

to the homoeopathy phial
standing on the traffic-island
why it appears
within her womb
the number of germinated nights
stolen without a kiss
is too little

is then it true
if all the chanting of Harinam
can’t be withdrawn from the alcohol
the body-odour of the running tamarisk-shrub  
will enter into the circuit-house

and that devouring of the parchment
brings to the feelings of the non-veg ant-hills
the let’s-go-cure
gathering in the sauce-island

Volga - 5

coming to this ironed canal-side
every auto-rickshaw  
wants to know and let other know
the mystery
behind  the rice-rain
from the cirrus                                                

the shame in the eyes of the seal containing signs
supplies the whole-sale dealership
of the civil disobedience movement
to the locality

the role of the hammer also
wakes up early in the morning
to put under its own tongue
an antacid

is it possible that the spits
used in the observatory
be made a little more fast-moving

manuscript of the basement of a well

the biography of the pond-heron will be scripted
even-then the productivity of the merry-go-round
wouldn’t be uttered for a moment
no sir, such has never been expected

in the liquefied banana-blossoms
too many hot breads resulted from the season-change
continues to bat  vehemently  
and climbs to the peak of heart-throbbing runs

they in a group will go to the
aqua anetha of the mole hill
to organise a folk-song

to understand this
no arbitration of the cactus is required

notwithstanding
it is heard that the thread was pulled
by the violin of  the wife of the moon-god
from behind the screen

here in the eye-front
is the basement of the morning-well

on its one page lies the faulty  crow-caws
and on another some sun-shines
swinging on the hanger
after some pages in recurring …the chicken-pox … the boot-polish …

within the two covers of the dance-drama
also comes the creepers and herbs
grown around the melting point
of the arm-chair
whose legs are broken

if each pore on the skin of the river-lily
becomes so much known
then in the background of this low land

let us have one game more

I was walking on the seashore when I heard a fearful cry
I looked out across the water where a man was drifting by
"You've got to help!" he shouted, "There's a lifebelt in your reach,
"If you throw it to me quickly I'll get back onto the Beach!"
I hastily began to do exactly as he said
When a little word of warning made its way into my head.

"You reckon this will help," I said, "that is what you believe,
"But to trust short-term solutions here is hopelessly naive.
"You think the belt will save you, and for now maybe it would
"But to teach a faulty lesson here could do more harm than good
"You want something for nothing and that just is not the way
"In the sophisticated economic climate of today -
"You need trade!  You need trade, not aid
"You need trade!  I can't help until you've paid.
"You say that you're in trouble and my help is all you need
"But a culture of dependency is all that it would breed!"

"What's wrong with you, you maniac?" he answered with a yell,
"I'm drowning in the ocean and there's nothing here to sell!
"We can talk about your theories when I'm back upon the shore
"Now just throw the ****** life-belt out, I beg you, I implore!
"You have it in your power and you know that if you can
"You've a moral obligation to assist your fellow man!"

I told him, "You are selfish!  This is difficult for me,
"D'you think a drowning person is a pleasant thing to see?
"You shouldn't be in the water if you haven't learned to swim!"
He said "You no-good lousy *******, it was you who pushed me in!"
Well this kind of moral blackmail made me look at him, aghast
And say, "There really is no virtue here in dwelling on the past,
"You need trade!  You need trade, not aid
"You need trade!  I can't help until you've paid.
"You say that you're in trouble and my help is all you need
"But a culture of dependency is all that it would breed!"

"Don't be so pessimistic," I advised him, "you are rich!
"The sea in which you're drowning must be lowping full of fish!"
"If that's what you're relying on," he said, "to judge my wealth,
"Then you know that I have nothing, 'cos you caught them all yourself!"
I said, "Well, you can't argue with the laws of competition
"You were wasting time by drowning when you should have been out fishin'!"

When finally he died I said, "My brother, I will miss you,
"But maybe more importantly, you've highlighted an issue:
"Drowning is a problem, and believe me, now you're gone,
"I'll be on the phone to Geldof, Ultravox and Elton John.
"We'll organise a concert so that everyone can see
"That drowning is a menace, we should make it history!
"Using trade!  Using trade, not aid,
"Good, free trade, the grestest plan we've ever made,
"You say that you're in trouble and my help is all you need,
"But a culture of dependency's a rotten thing to breed!"

Build an idea,
Organise your mess,
Recognise your strengths,
Elevate your soul searching,
Denature negative thoughts.
Only allow great ideas,
Mimic the best person you can be.

I’m sorry, Sir,
I know you said
I had to write out
50 times

“I must improve” - but
50 times
a different thought
came to my mind

i must look after myself properly
i must eat more
i must drink less
i must make time for myself
i must get the test
i must organise the divorce
i must sort out my job
i must sort out my head
i must get the car serviced
i must tidy this ******* place up

i must give up the ****
i must phone my friends more often
i must become a better person
i must take control of my life
i must find a therapist
i must hoover
i must grow up
i must calm down
i must sing more
i must accept myself

i must finish that poem
i must challenge ‘must’
i must find a new balance
i must raise my self-esteem
i must put on weight
i must get to bed earlier
i must return those calls
i must take up meditation again
i must get to the bottom of this paperwork
i must ease off the whisky

i must read more classics
i must remember how to feel good about myself
i must print those t-shirts i keep talking about
i must feed the fish
i must organise my finances
i must rearrange the living room
i must look into a mortgage
i must pray to the god of small things
i must hold good people close to me
i must burn out my cynicism

i must stop spending more than i earn
i must stop pushing people away
i must stop feeling icky about her past
i must stop being a drama queen
i must stop beating myself up
i must stop putting it off
i must stop going through the motions
i must stop looking for the answer in others
i must, i must,
i must
stop substituting poetry
for action

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DocuSign

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This is the very first SNOGGO adventure, written by SNOGGO himself in the 1st Person (well, by Edna Sweetlove really)

    Cruising through space, looking out of the space porthole, seeing the planets passing by, jesus ******* christ we were so excited, all those ******* planets, what a ******* staggering sight.

    Sharon, our Captain (at three foot six and twenty-one and a half stone an imposing looking woman), bellowed out her order: 'Prepare to descend, you mothers!'

    So most of us stopped ******* and we started preparations for the descent onto the surface of the treacherous unknown planet ****** (aka Big ****** on account of there having been a mix up in naming newly discovered planets and so the universe had ended up with three planets all called ******) - as I was saying, the planet ****** on which no ******* human ever, ever, ever trod on before. Wow, this was ******* exciting.

    The zonometer showed we were only 3,000 feet above the surface of the unknown planet....2,900, 2,800, 2,700, 2,600, 2,500, 2,400......

    You got the ******* picture?

    BLAM!!  We landed. The ******* zonometer was inaccurate, but that's what happens when you buy cheap Asian imports at a ******* discount.

    Captain Sharon went through the full three-hour post-landing, pre-disembarcation procedure whilst I was *******.  I did an enormous one, very smelly and utterly horrible.  She was waiting at the door when I finished and she was clearly very constipated.

    It was time to disembark onto the unknown surface of the unknown planet ******.  The stratodoor opened and we were overwhelmed by the stench which hit our ******* nostrils toute suite: purest ****. What kind of people were the Bolloxonians who couldn't even organise a decent sewage system?

    I was chosen (on account of my club foot) to be among the first to descend onto ******'s surface.  It was cool and I limped heroically onto the planet's surface.

    We explored a bit, being careful not to step on the huge piles of used condoms everywhere.  The terrain was hideous and eldritch, a bit like my Aunt Edna's bedroom after she's been entertaining the local retards for a ******* ****-in.

    We saw this thing.  My mind could not immediately recognise it for its utter, brain-blowing horror.  I cannot tell you what it was, the words fail me, my intellect goes into shut-down mode.  O holy **** it was ghastly.  All right, I'll tell you what it was.  It was a THREE HUNDRED FOOT ****, all covered in oozing pus and vibrating bleeding worms and so on and **** like that.

    The crew of the our spaceship were enraptured and I was nearly killed in the scrum to get stuck in to this mighty beauty.  We had travelled three light years, crossed fifty galaxies, battled twelve-inch penised space midgets for the right to feast on this great ****.

    What can I say?  How can I describe the mighty cry that rose up from the assembled crew as they started to gobble the giant space poo lump....?

    'YUM! YUM! YUM! YUM! YUM! YUM!' they shrieked orgasmically, ******* themselves in well-earned contentment. I think we must agree that it was delicious and well worth the journey.

THE END

Life can be hard when your thoughts are messier than your bed could ever be.
Sentences, phrases, words, anything just racing around my mind.
Sometime I can sort them, catagorise them in a way that makes them easier to perceive.
But sometimes, that's not the case.
They twist and manipulate as if my mind is a kaleidoscope and every new thought just adds another fragment to the broken picture inside my head.
Maybe it would help to understand, or maybe it would just add to the confusion.
I wish I understood why my mind works like this, in these confusing an mysterious ways.
Perhaps one day I'll understand why they behave this way, but for now I'll continue trying to organise my racing thoughts.

Thank you.
I have no place to stay.

I need to regroup;
to organise my life.

I really appreciate this.


*******.
I feel humiliated.

I need to be independant;
to stand on my own.

I feel really ashamed.


Thank you.
I am learning to be humble.

I need to shed my pride;
to lessen my arrogance.

I accept this humiliation,
on the road to humility.

Katie the previous lives lady the world war 2 reincarnation



Katie was busy researching the world war 2 deaths, to find a Gordon Micheals, to
Answer some questions about Danny Reuben who constantly talking about world war 2 as if the fighters were total losers, who are just there to fight and not fight for peace, and Danny kept yelling at Katie to get her to find out why he has these thoughts, and Katie said I have been searching the web and I had this soldier from world war 2, who was Gordon Micheals, who actually did fight to protect his country, but then some Americans came up to him and blastered his head off, he died instantly and  then Katie asked for his date of birth, to make sure that he is Gordon, Danny said it was 22 April 1951 and then Danny asked why do you ask that, and Katie said I hope that you know, yes I am a trained psychiatrist, and if you don't feel comfortable marking your moods on previous lives I can be a regular psychiatrist, but I am a psychiatrist that believes that paychiatric disorders are problems with aura of previous lives, and I have fixed many people with these beliefs, they might not have believed in what I believe in ,but o did cure him, I can do normal psychiatrist business too, you know I listen and tell you what med to take, and I will see you next week, that works, cause I ain't a preacher, but previous lives is my belief, and really it does explain, your hatred of world war 2,
Danny said to Katie, if telling me my previous life helps get this illness out of me, I will talk, but I ain't sure what I believe in, though.
Katie explained to Danny that when he says he will hire a nuclear bomb and drop it on the English speaking countries, and kaboom, there all gone, and Katie said Gordon loved nuclear weapons, you see he wanted to start a nuclear power plant in Texas, but they said that nuclear is evil, and Gordon started to panic a bit, but then he joined the army, now I ain't going to preach, but if you find you have to meet his family, I can organise thatm mainly because it might make you feel better knowing his family is alright.
Danny said, yes I should do that, after I drop a nuclear bomb on Turkey, I hate that country, and Katie said no you don't, there is no need to start talking like that, but Danny kept on talking like that, driving Katie mad,but she had to be professional and say that Gordon actually has a nuclear plant named after him, are you interested in going, and Danny said, well, only if I could drop a bomb on New York, maybe anytime in the next 4 years, and Katie told Dannu that he doesn't mean that, while Danny said, yeah I did, cause New York needs a good bombing all over the state and Katie said we are getting nowhere, Danny, you sharent mean that, because why else would you come here.
Danny told his mum that he'll get help, because his behavior his horrible, but then he said he likes Katie and wants to break the rules with her, and they can both plan to drop bombs on the USA, and other English speaking world countries, and Katie told Danny that unless he plans to think about being Gordon, there isn't really much to say to each other, Danny went off in a huff, but returned to say a few words with Katie determined to beat his head being messed, but the sessions went just for 15 minutes, he still said he wants to blow up the English speaking world countries, but put that as Gordon Micheals revenge on the English speaking world, and Katie said that makes sense and continued to council him till he didn't need his help anymore, and it took 6 months, now Danny works as a Boss of a large Hotel chain,and Katie was happy to help with finding Danny's previous life issue, she can't wait for the next patient.

Horses are the love of your life, right? So it's only natural that if you are planning on getting hitched to the other love of your life, you'll want to include your horse in the big day itself. You could go the whole hog and have your horse carry you and your betrothed down the aisle and stand beside you at the ceremony - but that isn't the easiest feat to pull off, even with the quietest of mounts!

Luckily, there are lots of other ways to feature your equine passion at your wedding; whether it's just for the photo shoot itself, or by subtle touches at the reception.

Photographers Peter and Rosemary Morris from Photoshoot in West Auckland adore working with horses and have captured several horsey weddings. They say planning a wedding with horses is not all that different from doing anything else with horses – you need to have a well thought-out plan, but must be prepared to change that plan at any stage if problems arise.

"Try to keep things simple. Don't be too ambitious and plan to a level you are confident and familiar with, not beyond," advises Peter. "There is a lot to consider actually, more than most people realise. We've had a few horse weddings where the horses were eventually dropped from the day due to the extra logistics involved."

One of the prime considerations is transport. Most brides have enough trouble getting themselves to the wedding on time, says Peter. You'll need to call in some favours, and have somebody to prepare and transport your horse, which of course includes loading which sometimes is a challenge on its own. "Try and get your best and most trusted horsey friends involved to help sort transport, grooming and tacking up," says Peter.

Another key point is the bombproof-ness of your horse. How will he or she react to a large, rustling dress and windblown veil, a crowd of people who may be nervous around horses, and a different handler? Then there is the music, clapping and flapping decorations to consider, along with the added tension and emotion the big day brings.

"Will your horse be at the ceremony, or will you arrive on the horse and have it taken away afterwards? Do you plan to have your horse take part in the whole day, including the arrival, ceremony and photos? Are you riding ******* or in a saddle? Can you actually ride your horse in a dress?" queries Peter. "There really is a lot more to prepare and organise once you commit to having your horse as part of your wedding day."

Of course, if you can manage it, Peter says horses make a great addition to your wedding photos and this is the easiest and most fun part of the day. "The bride is relaxed, the crowd disperses and what you get in the photos is just a split-second, so even if all it not going so well you should still expect to get one or two amazing shots to last a lifetime.

"This is where 'horsey' photographers can help out, knowing how to get the horse's attention and even helping to lead and pose the horse or assist with mounting and dismounting if necessary."

Run through the entire day in your mind and think about how you want the day to unfold. Try to anticipate any pitfalls, so you can address these before they become a problem.

- Always have a Plan B. Have the ceremony at or close to a stable, where you are guaranteed shelter or at least a venue for the photos after the ceremony, if nothing else. Arrange this with a friend, local club or racetrack.

- Consider wind! The beach can become unsettling for horses very quickly, so bear this in mind when making wedding plans.

- If it's a beach wedding, be sure to check access and tides. High tide may limit access and only give you soft, dry sand to work with. Low tide and wet, hard sand offers the beauty of reflections if photos. If part of your day involves walking tracks and streams, have someone check the day before to make sure they are accessible and not flooded or muddy.

- Most importantly: keep the focus on yourself and make your wedding memorable for all the right reasons.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane

Captured in the psych ward part 7




You see the HDU was in turmoil , you see with Pete constantly walking around claiming He
Was the messiah, and patty Ros saying he was the first president of the united states and
The mere fact he kept on saying that,'made Pete think, patty was crazy,,and big Anne was
Really stressed, mainly because this was the day of her tribunal and it could mean that she is free, and brad got out of bed and sent into the TV room and watched the morning news
And Susan got up after being in bed for 15 hours, you see for her things got a bit chaotice
And Pete was still hearing Woosey Woosey Woosey over and over, and Ron got up out of bed, and went into coffee palace to have a cup of coffee and started to talk to the workers there, you see the server is named Fran and the waitress is named Dan, and Ron loved to talk About what kind of things he did last night.like waking up with Godzilla looking at him,
But the main reason why he goes there, cause his job is stressing enough, and he can't cope with all the aspects of his job without his morning coffee, and Fran said, ok how was your night last night, and Ron said, well, I was a bit ****** on friday night, and I was called into
Work, which I wasn't expected, and Fran said what happened, and Ron said, well it turns out that Martin Kelly was under suicide watch as well as Pete was giving the staff a hard
Time, you see that man lived in the same area than me, I was in the area, when he was taken into custody, and I had no idea he was going to be put in the HDU, and what I hate, that Robert is 14, and he is in with these crazy people, no I think it's weird, and one man says
He is George Washington, and wanted to meet Obama,  and needs medication to calm him
Down, I have no idea, whether he really believes that or not, and frankly I don't care, and
After finishing his coffee,,he said thanks and tipped the staff and then went to the hospital
And clocked in and went into the HDU, and the nurses were saying, that, where have you been, you see, we need to get Martin ready for his hearing, and Anne can't wait for hers,
And Ron said, how is Martin going, and the nurses said, well , he still is banging on the wall
And last night the nurse tried to calm him down with ******, he snapped at her and threw a
Series of threats her way,,so, she said eventually **** it,,I am getting out of here, and Ron said, that nurse, is she still here, and the nurse said, no she is home, why did she do the wrong thing by running out,,and Ron said, yeah, you see, night time is the worst time, to
Be in a place, like this, and if she can't stand the heat get out of the kitchen, and then Ron
Said, you see, if she can 't handle it, I think she should have her job in the HDU at night reviewed, cause Martin Kelly needs to be settled down,,and it is putting patients and nurses and him in danger, so just think about it, ok, now then Ron went into the HDU to
Do his rounds and he saw Anne, and she said, am I still getting out today, I have been
Ringing my family, and they are looking forward to it, and Ron said, how about we give
You a brain scan, to see if there is any sign that your brain is malfunctioning, like patty
Who happened to be walking around at present saying George washington's initial speech
And he drove the nurses crazy, and mind you he drove Ron crazy too, and after finishing
Talking to Anne, he went into the common room to talk to Robert and brad and brad said, I hear that Anne could be let go, why don't you let me out too, and Ron said back to him, well
I will see what I can do,,but I need to see positive results that your medication is working for you and Robert, said to Ron, how about my release, you see I have been here too long, I am
Only 14, I want to get out, and besides which Pete is another phedo, who wants to *** me up, and Ron said, well, I will see what I can do, but I might just do what I did for Jamie, and
Bring you to the IVU, but at the moment I ain't sure if there a bed available, but I will do my best, and robert said, well sometimes your best isn't ****** good enough, you see, I am stuck here, and, if I had a gun, I will aim fire at this entire psych ward, and I will **** you first, Ron, and Robert meant that from the bottom of his heart and after he left there, he went into Pete's room and said how are you, and Pete said, why do you care so much, I shot you
That night, and it took you away from work for so long, and then suddenly there was a very loud noise, of someone screaming and Ron went out of Pete's room and they brought in this 17 year old girl named Naomi Jensen and she was brought in for attempting to drown her little brother at st Kilda beach, and she has been diagnosed with schitzophrenia and
Also there could be a hint of bipolar there as well, and Ron tried to settle her down , by
Giving her ****** and Naomi said, I am not a ****** so you get that drug away from me, ya
Stupid fucken ****, and Ron thought this girl needed help, and dedicated the next 3 hours for her, cause she was young, and needs to be heard, mainly because, Ron knows nothing
About her parents, and they talked about everything, and then when it came to the topic of parents, Naomi went crazy, and said, I have no parents, well none that actually care for me
Anyway, and Ron kept on talking to her, untill Naomi told Ron to F off, and Ron went to organise Anne's tribunal to see whether or not she gets out or not, and Ron told the nurses
To keep an eye on Naomi, she could be a danger to herself here, and went to his desk to
Get the paper work necessary to help Anne and at 11-20, Ron asked Anne to come with him and for Anne this was becoming exciting cause she could be coming out of hospital for
The first time in 2 years, you see she has been good for a while, and Ron read out his report, to hopefully make it good for Anne and then the nurse who knows her at night said
Anne really, is learning about, how to keep quiet. At night, she has not been in any fight for
3 days now, and I personally think she is ready for society, and the psychiatrist asked her
Now, are you still wanting to hurt someone, if they **** you off, and Anne said, well, no,
I would prefer to understand why they did this to begin with and the psychiatrist released
Anne,,and said, I am putting you on a two year of good behaviour, cause, you still show your temper, but you are a person, you need to be given a go, you see, after Ron left
Anne's hearing , he told Anne to go back to her room, to pack her things, and when she went into her room, Naomi was reading her journal, and Anne said, get the **** away from my stuff
You stupid teenager, ok, you might be moving in here, but ******* ya ****, ok, and in 20
Minutes Anne was packed, and then said goodbye having lunch together, and the nurses got all the patients and staff to sign a card, to wish Anne on her way, you see, Anne was feeling happy about being given a card from everyone here, and then after lunch Ron took Anne out of the HDU, to the front doors of the hospital, and said, have a nice day, and Anne went over to catch a tram, to her old friends house, and Ron, bought Martin Kelly to the tribunal, for him to hear of whether he goes to IVU or stays in HDU, but with the way
He behaves at night, he could be taken to a maximum security prison, but there is no way
Martin Kelly is getting released, cause he isn't ready for society yet, and Ron went to his desk and got Martin's file and grabbed Martin and took Martin to his tribunal, and first
Of all the nurses tell the tribunal of his outbursts at night and everyone being sick of him
Making noise at night and Ron said, that, he thinks, maybe Martin needs to go to a maximum security prison, the night staff, can't deal with too many more nights of this,
And the 2 psychiatrists said ok, well, for the safety of the other patients, I think prison is
The best option for you, and Martin said, I am too mentally ill for those people in there, please leave me in here, and Ron said, no, I think you need to stay in prison for a whole
And the psychiatrist said, we will give you a proper hearing in 2 months, but you will spend
The time you have till then, in the maximum security prison, and I think that is better for the
Other patients as well as for the staff and yourself, and then Ron, asked the rest of the
People how are their days, and Robert said, thar be is so fucken *******, you see you look after that phedaphile, and you treat us like **** and Ron said, for your information,
We are moving him to prison to keep you all protected here in prison and then Robert sat there watching TV and Naomi came out to watch TV and said, she wants the **** out of there, and Robert said, nobody wants to stay here, but we all have our reasons for being here, and Naomi said, my boyfriend was bashed by another person in a nite club and I picked up a dinner knife and stabbed that man, but I did that, cause if you mess with my boyfriend I will mess with you, dude, and Ron, who has had a tough day on the job, clocked off and went into the cafe, to grab some food, and he said. And Fran said how was your day and Ron said, one kid who is totally angry with the staff cause he is too young for this place and I released a person who gets violent, and I just know I will see her again, but I have to keep it positive for her and Martin Kelly was taken to a maximum security prison
Today, he is so unhappy with me but in hindsight I think it's for the besom and then there is this nightclub riot, where, this girl stabbed a man for fighting her boyfriend, mind you, she
Has had a lot to deal with, and then Fran said what do you want, and suddenly the phone rings, and when Fran answered it, and it was the maximum security prison saying that
Martin Kelly, was found hung in his cell, he is now on the way to hospital, but it's touch and go, and Ron said, he will be there straight away, and when he got there, the nurses said, t butthey tried their best, but Martin Kelly is dead, and now they have to find the next of kin and Ron said, that he will do it, and went into his office and looked in Martin Kelly's chart for the closest next of kin, and in Ballarat, was the closest, his mother who was in a nursing home, well yeah she needs to know, and decided to call his daughter, but that opened up a can of worms, you see Martin Kelly ***** his kids out of him, so maybe mum in Ballarat
Is the best option and Ron rang the nursing home, and spoke to Ruth Kelly, but she was so out of it, he decided to look after the body himself, so he arranged to put him in the morgue
And tried to call his brothers and sisters, and he made these calls at home, after passing by the cafe with a coffee and a cake, with a bit of red rooster, and it was hard to find anyone
Who liked Martin Kelly, and there was a party around his house and everyone was making a lot of noise, and Ron shut his window, and eventually found his sister in London, and decided to ring her up and told her that her brother Martin was dead, she hung up, and rang
Back in 5 minutes, that she will on the next plane, to arrange to bring the body here to England, and Ron went to bed, and felt ****** good, about getting in contact with the sister, the next day will be tough, everyone will say, good riddens to the ugly mug, but that is part of Ron's job


Sent from my iPad

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar moll:  You dare say you're going to organise a petition to evict us, aha, who do you think the ******
country belongs to?

ME : you are a bare-faced thief, how can you steep so low as to burgle your neighbour, after all we've done for you and your lot. From you
moed in over three years ago, there's been over twenty burglaries on the Estate. Police always at your door, your husband always in prison. I don't understand what you mean by Country belonging,
what do you mean.

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll: I know I am not black and
you can't do anything to evict us. Just watch yourself, you're going to be taught a lesson, you wait and see.

ME : Yeah! you're going to send your hoods round to beat me up or
maybe steal my four wheels like you did before, what are you gonna do, **** me! I have done nothing wrong, I am not a ****** thief!

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll :  Ah! just you wait, just you wait and see. We are going to do your head in, chuck mud at you, you ****** fool. we will hound you even into the hole of any woman, we will put ants in your head, we will drive you paranoid, you black man!

ME : I am not scared of you, let me tell you that, a thief, a drunkard, a scrounger and a Racist, what a lovely human being you are. I am going to report you.

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll : Haha..and I am going to steal the match on you, you don't know what you and your wife are in for, we are sorting you out, sunshine!

ME : You don't need to steal a match, I'll gladly give you matches to light yourself up, I hope you and your thieving gang go up in flames!

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar :  Say goodbye to your life man,
nothing is ever going to be the same anymore. You will never be able to trust anyone again from now on..haha!

ME : How rich, a bare-faced crook talking about trust, what do you know about trust, I am not a thief and as you ****** know I live a lawful and blameless life, so carry your ****** threats and go stuff it. You do not frighten me one bit, you're a mean and racist crook!

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll : Somebody is in for the jump and its not me. Soon, somebody will wish they were dead and it's not me either, that's all I'm saying, man!

ME : Yeah, go get your gang, come and **** me, you can see I am shaking and trembling already. Hopefully, we all on this Estate will be rid of you and all the undesirables you bring here, we are fed up of you all!

Chris Macaffarty thief & Gangstar Moll : Ha..! all I'm saying is, Bye bye Blackbird, bye-bye Blackbird....haha, Gangster departs singing,
Bye-bye Blackbird, bye-bye Blackbird....hahaha...hahaha,,bye-bye
Blackbird....!!!

It’s 2:38am in the morning
Why I can’t sleep, I don’t know.
I usually sleep earlier than you do.

I feel the poetry spill from my fingers
Onto the keyboard
And slip through the crevices in the keys
As I stare at the tiny, ever-spinning
Rainbow pinwheel of death

I’m grabbing at my nightgown
Because, in my boredom
I’ve set my hair into curlers.
I don’t exactly know what’s the point
But whatever man

Poetry.
Why do I write poetry?
It’s a pastime. A hobby.
Something to organise my thoughts when they’re as messy as my hair when we drive through the countryside and you roll down the windows to give me some fresh air
Away from the city

I’m tired, baby.
And I can’t sleep with the demons whispering sweet, lonely, empty nothings into my head.
Why won’t they let me sleep

the kookaburra's
shuffle, along
the power lines
like, wing-ed music,
they organise and reorganise
the day's riff.

darting down, to pick
a lizard morsel from
the earth,
recalibrates, the sound
of maniacal mirth.

shuffle down, shuffle down,
hop across, and shuffle up
swoop away, fly on in.
all, accompanied by
raucuos din.

then they settle and they
doze
beady eyes open in repose.
a pause in the clamour
of the day's beat.

Pick me up
In pieces
Organise my every scrape
Across your bathroom floor
And clean me
Wash off all my imperfections
Rinse away my every fear
Then warm me up on love
And lay me in your bed
Guard over me tonight
As I fall asleep to the sound
Of your lips
Whispering sweet kisses
To my healing skin

Make me forget I even
Wanted to take care of myself

Your mother died of old age? Organise a party. Politicians won't listen? Your acoustic guitar might. A girl walks up to a boy in the playground and calls him a **** then kicks him. Concentrate on erasing those melodramatic close-up shots from the safety of your own home. Cut paper with scissors. Try to beat that personal best of thirty-one lines of ******* in just one night. One man drives one ******* girl to a petrol station and peruses over one Mars bar or one Galaxy. Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris. People choose to ignore a scream. It is only a whisper that fuels their curiosity.

Consider this world and also our place in it
and know that time passes by every minute.
Consider those who’re living and also the dead
and know of the ways people earn their bread.
We consider many things but few are of real importance
and know that all those which are not are in abundance.

In consideration of this what can anyone do?
but live one’s life in a way which is true.

Consider the flowers in the garden and the colours they show
and know that with tender loving care from a seed they grow.
Consider all the children somewhere and watch them play
and know that with laughter and fun most pass the day.
Consider the things which are false and those which are true
and know how each one can and does affect all that we do.

In consideration of this what can we all do?
but try and live in a way which is just true.

Consider the march of the spirit of progress and the direction we’re all going
and know that every so often we must turn around and look back knowing.
Consider that which we all know and also that which we do not
and know it’s but knowledge and ignorance that make up the lot.
Consider the beginning and that of the very end
and know it’s terrible to get there without a friend.

In consideration of this what can one do?
but go through life with a friend who’s true.

Consider about each day and then also about each night
and know that without them there’s no darkness or light.
Consider the sunshine and also the shade
and know that with them each day is made.
Consider the evening and also the time we sleep
and know that because of them the night is deep.

In consideration of this what is there to do?
but live one day at a time and remember too.

Consider that which seems right and also what appears wrong
and know that they are both attributes of the weak and strong.
Consider the past and the future and of course the present
and know that all life relates to them and is not an accident.
Consider the labour with the crops and also the extent of the field
and know that with care and nature’s help a rich harvest will yield.

In consideration of this what is there one must do?
but only the best that one can so as to get through.

Consider what people give and also what they do take
and know that between them both much trouble make.
Consider all that which brings sorrow and all that brings joy
and know that both in life are really like an inevitable decoy.
Consider the things we believe in and those worthy to fight for
and know that there are some things in life people die or **** for.

In consideration of this whatever we all say and do
should be in harmony with life which considers us too.

Consider the reality of God and the mysteries of Divine grace and love
and know that without them from certain things we couldn’t rise above.
Consider the relationships of people as that of husband and wife
and know that around them we build society and organise our life.
Consider what people need apart from their desires and obsessions
and know that of things acquired many are unnecessary possessions.

In consideration of this it’s fairly obvious to say
that most of us have a lot and give so little away.

Consider our obligations to each other and individual human rights
and know that it’s neglect and selfishness which start all the fights.
Consider the alternative to any situation we may now find ourselves in
and know that through adversity and struggle we can succeed and win.
Consider the time it takes to go somewhere and then again to return
and know that it’s the distance between them we must cover to learn.

In consideration of this we’ll need all the help we can get
and be willing to act on advice which will cause no regret.
________________

Snoozing quietly on a sunny day,
with eyes half closed, breathing relaxed,
listening to the sounds the sun brings out.
Children screaming with play, lawn mowers cutting,
bees buzzing and singing birds.

Languidly lost in time bemused at the thoughts
running free in my mind. I start to muse on
ridiculous things:
Why liquid soap?
Why a date of birth but no date of death? (That would be helpful like a use by date on food, fit in that bucket list or miss your deadline)

Why do ice lollies only come in packs of three like condoms?
Why are children so ultimately free?
Why does the sun make us feel so safe?
Why does road rage come out in the sun?
Why do we insist on eating burnt carcasses and underdone chicken?
At barbecues that take forever to organise with people you'd rather flail alive?

As by magic she did appear
Laughing freely with voice and eyes
Instantly the puzzle was clear
Neatly the pieces organise,
A perfect picture full of cheer

Although I’ve tried hard to forget I’ll always remember
With all its glaring effervescence my first ever sleepover
With my friend who was afraid of the dark and as she hung the walls of the night
With lamp light that squabbled with Sleep over my No-Mans-Land eyelids.
I wondered how you could fear something that wasn’t even a something
But a lack of something. Now I read the weather forecast
In the horoscope of Orion’s belt I wonder why we were so afraid
Of a world of muted colours. Like Light was an absent parent
That returned sporadically and left an aftertaste with each visit
And blew cigarette smoke in our faces.
Like Light was a worn-out lover too painful to label as X
Around whom we’d begun to orbit and organise our lives.
I stand in the dark we’re all afraid of and wonder if perhaps
The night is not lonely or cruel but simply wants to kiss the stars.

Are you a male or a female?
Farm Boy

Describe yourself:
The Milkman of Human Kindness

How do you feel?
A Change is Gonna Come

Describe where you currently live:
Island of No Return

If you could go anywhere, where would you go:
A New England

Your favourite form of transportation:
My Flying Saucer

What’s the weather like:
Same again

Favourite time of day:
When the roses bloom again

Your relationships:
The warmest room

Your fear:
Right wing rant

What is the best advice you have to give:  
Don't mourn, organise

If you could change your name, you would change it to:
Danny Rose

My soul’s present condition:
Accident waiting to happen

Who has stolen the puffs of smoke,
That earlier arose form my lungs?

For just a moment I saw them,
Then gone.
And now far above,
In a disloyal sky,
Glimpse their shape before they're hidden again.

Strewn around in a disorderly manner,
Your lack of pattern confuses,
I cannot decode you.
Organise yourselves into a system that may be understood.
Do so now, my lost little plumes,
Then I can read and re-claim you as my own.

The cooled breath of my winter morning weighs heavily upon the daytime's sky.
I am sorry that i breathed.
Next time will be different.

Watch the winter heights confusing themselves with my puffs.
As snow and cloud fuse,
Think of the Sun and await His great returning to the land of your birth.
And the happy days when the puffs are lit by His will,
Taking up new shapes,
Like the masters of dance that they are.

My winter does come to a close.

I feel it creeping,
Crawling across my chest.
Pick up speed as it spreads up my neck.
Temperatures rising,
My skin starts burning.
I don't need to look
I know exactly what is happening.  
My rashes are back again.

I can't hide from the truths of Chronic Urticaria,
Raw emotions it carefully paints,
Sketching along my skin.
Five minutes in to a Thirty minute consultation.
My emotions churning around in my head,
My heart pumping.

Uneasiness shooting fire through my veins,
Pain trying to escape,
It needs to find a way out;
My skin bright red,
Eyes glazed over filled with tears.  
Unhappiness the forefront of my fears.
I told him, give me a pen and paper
And I could tell you my whole life's story,
But apparently what i need
Is some Talking Therapy.
Thirty minutes, me, a phone and a complete stranger.
My worst nightmare.

Trying to make sense of my mound of messy thoughts,
He tells me he finds the notes he's read from my last consultation;
My first consultation,
Hard to understand.
To make head and tails of it.
Ha!
Try being me.

My past, my difficulties, my insecurities,
My many many losses,
He can see my life's not been a breeze.
He needs to help me organise my memories.
Say's he understands that I'm struggling,
How the current position I'm in is
Causing so much internal suffering.
He wants to help; To fix me.
I guess it's time to admit i am broken.
Finish the conversation,
I'm left as a quivering, emotional mess.
Tears streaming down my face and
My body covered in deep red.
Pain etched across my skin for all to see.

I accept, it's time we tried to fix me.



© Karen L Hamilton, 2015

why should there be a medical diagnosis of pronoun use, when the pronoun they is treated as show-off problematic and paranoiac naturally, to ease the conversation?*

the day when the tetra gram ah tonne
met the compass of the crux
and turned the sacred YHWH
into N.E.W.S. -
to make it easier, the crucifix,
an abstracted square - collapsed -
they are indeed shoving ***** at as,
with prayers at the Hagia Sophia,
they're shovelling ***** at us,
because they're realising that the power
they claim to have is ineffective,
hence their need for religious topics
to organise legions, to utilise religion
is to finalise political ineffectiveness;
political apathy breeds
religiosity and attachment to symbolism
rather than geometry.

A ***** film fixes itself onto a loop behind my eyelids.
The particulars fall apart all around me
And Plato’s cave becomes more of a cell.

How hard it is to swallow
The pill of panic that sticks and forms
Into that lump
In your throat.
The one that resides from the first steps into school
And onward the rest of your life.

And I write,
I write to stay sane
To calm my breath
To organise those thoughts
And to reduce that shriek of depression
Into a bray of indifference.

Hey Porter,
What price for the forgotten vinyl in the corner,
And the dog-eared books
Donated by the whiskered old woman?
Hey Porter,
What price for that fish,
To save me the thud of scales on wood
And to see of its return to water?

And I write,
I write to stay calm
Revision: to become calm.
To attempt calm.

And I play,
I strum to the sound of my heartbeat
Until the buzz of strings slows enough
For me to lay down
And crash into my pillow.

How exhausting it is,
To care about every gnat’s demise in the
Twilight of an Indian summer
And every flicker of doubt
You see in the strangers you pass by.

as i dig deeper
i find pieces
shattered
scattered
lost
you
dismantled

as i dig deeper
i collect the pieces
re-build
re-organise
now found
new you
restored

as i exit your heart
i look at you
a masterpiece

Have you ever noticed our desire to create?
To produce, develop, and fabricate,
To compose, to invent, to design
To construct, develop and refine…

It might be a painting, a poem, a book,
Perhaps a new dish that you’ve chosen to cook.
It could be a carving, a fine piece of wood,
Or a report that you’ve worked on as hard as you could.

Maybe some music, the melody for a song,
Some fine catchy lyrics that’ll have folks singing along.
It might be treading the boards in a serious play
Or teasing a delicate shape out of clay.

It could be mechanical, delving in deep grease and grime
Fine-tuning machines until they’re running just fine
Perhaps you love knitting, or perhaps cutting hair
Designing new blueprints or new dresses to wear.

Maybe you could happily while away hours
Choosing and arranging freshly cut flowers.
You might love DIY or you just love to dance,
You’d have joined the ballet if you’d had the chance

Or you thrive in the garden, planting and mowing
Surveying all the wonderful things which are growing.
Perhaps you love to draw, to sketch, or to cover –
Pristine white canvases in swathes of rich colour.

Maybe jewellery is more your thing,
Fashioning a necklace, a bracelet, a ring,
You might program websites, you know html
And CSS, ruby, and java as well.

Or possibly you prefer a needle and thread
Or maybe a set of great tools instead.
You might be a planner who loves to organise
Picnics or outings or a Birthday surprise!

Your creativity will be manifest in all kinds of ways
It might not dazzle, astound or amaze
But it will bring you enjoyment, well-being and pleasure
A sense of contentment, a delight you can treasure.
To take the time, unleash your need to build
And reap the rewards of the joy it can yield.

We need to organise a meeting
So we can discuss the previous meeting
Concerning the timetables of meetings
So we can begin this year’s diaries of meeting in full!
But should we have a meeting to decide all
these meetings before we begin deciding at all?

Said the council official who was avoiding the issue
dreaming up ways to fill his diary for the year.

Old habits,
peculiar and
harder to break.

Anyway I take a moment
to organise these thoughts
thinking that nobody cares

I carry a haversack
black
strapped across my shoulders
to fit neatly into
the small of my back.

I could
lighten my load
but
why would I ?

They don't make millstones like they used to
and mine has been ground down to dust.

I carry it anyway
through each day like
a trophy
as if to say,
'Look at me'

they don't see the dust
only the haversack

Fall in the Ocean, don't fall in love
you may forget how drowning felt like
but you simply can't ignore the ache of
a cracked heart or its shards decorating the floor
sharp pieces that you'll step on and wounds reopen
pieces which will clatter from deep within
to echo the despair especially when you're beyond repair
jump off a cliff and fracture, broken bones heal
fractured Hearts seldom truly find healing,it's chilling
when you place support about it but nothing changes
and the more you organise your splintered heart
the further apart it crumbles and breaks apart
fall in Hell, the devils and monsters can be exorcised
but the monsters of a dead romance never leave
they taunt and haunt with voices whispering in your head
and drug you through a living Hell that's eternal
fall in acid, not a single piece of you'll be left behind
love'll rip and have your pieces wandering blind
fall in an abyss or the darkest deepest pit
someone might find you,you'll wash off the ****
but Love'll rob your sanity for it's mind impairing
it'll take away your radars, disorient your bearing
fall from the sky, your entire existence will splatter
falling in love will deny you your esteem and have you stutter
fall off a bicycle, you'll get up,dust yourself and ride
in love you'll live your life like you've died
climb one and jump, there's less pain falling off a tree
unlike the fantasy of love that chains and never sets you free
fall in the Sea, the sharks'll leave nothing for the world to see
love will bewilder you through an endless cyclonic ecstasy
it's worse compared to being once and for all torn by jaws
which takes you to oblivion where lives no feeling of loss
fall for anything else, fall for drugs and addiction
love is a blade that'll never cease making its incision
fall for wines and whiskeys,or any adulterated concoction
my broken heart thinks all but falling in love a far better decision
when you're out there searching for whatever you deserve
embrace all else your heart desires, all else but love