Hildegard of Bingen
the most musical abbess
of the year 1097 a.d.
met with Jung the unconscious detective
and Ginsberg the howling poet
for lattes at some Starbucks
in a vibrating city
on a shimmering afternoon.

Angelic minuets keep flowing,
effervescing through my chakras
like tonal champagne . . .
the glowing femme declared.
Beams of ethereal light infuse me,
tsumanis of energy tempt me
to dance right out of my habit.

Ignoring the possibility
of seeing a naked nun drink coffee in public,
Alan mused behind his hornrims . . .
I get what you mean
like I have felt the same perfusion of joy
watching cans of peas and ayahuasca
dance with talking bananas
at the A&P; Market near my pad in Brooklyn,
can you dig it?

Still suffering from his Freudian hangover,
Carl reframed them both . . .
Any conclusions or convictions
drawn from such experiences
may not self-verify because
your introspective identifications
attempt in vain
to concretize the amorphicity
of decentralized psychic sensations
which reach conscious awareness
only at the expense of extension.

What did he just say?
Hildegard asked Alan.
I have absolutely no idea,
the portly poet answered
as he doodled an intricate mandala
on his hemp napkin.

it’s not that i hate film literary film adaptations, but only one adaptation made me want to read the book: stendhal’s the scarlet and the black (starring ewan mcgregor and rachel weisz).*

i don’t in a respective romanic auditorium
with toga donning senators
walking to egyptian flutes from the cleopatra’s entourage
gleaming old fames as to prove the pyramids
and sphinxes were above in the hierarchy of awe
to the iodine and hod on papyrus,
to give these localities the respectable aura of re-,
i take to hammock’s kenotic and burial’s untrue:
the former feeds the northern feel of autumnal london
suburbia and the latter the southern quarter,
but never mind that, it’s already minded and eerie.
i watched the screenplay adaptation of empire of the sun today,
i have to say, i was jerking up the thought
of salty rain rather than acid rain on the environmental
perfusion surprise - so i ****** a jamaican fake on the hopscotch bonnet
mascaraed on the eyes, or the romantic tears of cutting an opinion,
but honesty... honesty! three scenes made me push my
manhood away from the stench of molten iron of the army:
the was the protagonist sang the song of the kamikaze
just after they downed a shot of koji and started singing
just after doing the flap-your-hands-in-the-air-like-you-just-don’t-care
salutations of encouraged nihilism.
it’s the editing part of the film, how the boy’s voice overpowers
everything else and becomes “monotone” against all other sounds,
the dignity of the boy’s enviousness and admiration
for the kamikaze... even in captivity! by god, what a scene!
the other scene that haunted me to near tear
was when the prisoners entered the cemetery of hoarded
valuables by the japanese upon invasion of shanghai
and taking from notables the jewellery chandeliers and cars
(pianos too): after seeing the prisoners familial in captivity
exchanging cabbage heads for cigarettes
proving what the world would be like without the existence of money...
i thought of the familial “humbling” of the people in captivity,
and the sheer haunt of the same prisoners returning
to a world they so dearly lost - in that each to his own
piano and mercedes benz, that neo-tribalism of earn earn spend
frivolity and self-interest that democracy prescribes
allocating us each a tomb of fancies (and sometimes the odd *****).
but the most striking thing became apparent - in these
japanese prisoner of war camps... the prisoners didn’t wear uniforms...
i can understand if those in power adorn uniforms,
but the oddity of the prisoners not having uniforms is quite
positively giggly sinister... given the fact that the other sinisterness
is when there’s a prison camp and those in power
wear uniforms and those imprisoned are also tailored for.
i see a major libra of power in all this,
for if the prisoners are not tailored for denoting their collectivisation
as in status of prisoners... then there’s a certain freedom in all of it,
like on the grander scale, in society, where the politicians,
the overseers only wear suits and the communities differentiate
themselves with hawaiian floral tattoos on t-shirts and tourist slogan ones too:
it’s almost as if the ultimate leniency of power was being exercised
not having to wear prisoner uniforms in the japanese pow camps,
unlike the pinstripe ones of auschwitz - as some collectivisation
of guilt within ideological framework rather than the opposite:
wrong place at the wrong time.
the last tear i got? well the music on the credits reel pulverised
by the images of a son re-recognising his mother by touchy touchy.
conclusively? better on your mother’s *** and able to cook too
than on the cooking *** of a wife and with two left hands preferring
the hot topic of takeaway or restaurants - hunter gatherer died -
me belly full of berry - how is it that **** sapiens is also called
**** perderus awhile the tortoises saturated achilles with peace and thought
and no chance of martian glory telling him of zeno’s paradox?

Why is it my mind gets wrapped
around my heart and squeezes it
seizes it and sends it into isolation
until it is languishing in its cell
to the point of desolation?

It's not that my mind is blind
going everywhere without care.
Fondness is in there -
a word my mind knows -
but it is consumed and subsumed
by the focus, fascination
and interest of the moment.

This sharpness of attention
dulls the part of me
that can get lost
in the sweet aroma,
white softness and brilliance
of a magnolia bloom.

But oh this moment of writing
and gazing on that bloom
expands the room of my heart
warms, softens, and awakens
the rush, the transfusion
the perfusion of grace.

In this writing,
this moment of pausing
I have again found
my heart
the ***** of my ground.
I hear the deeper sound
of violas and cellos
feel the embracing warmth
the ineffable touch
of emotion
I forgot to pack
for my trip
into the ineluctable grip
of technology.

“Technology’s Grip,” Copyright © 2017 by Glenn Currier

Ischemia – the imbalance between the supply and demand of the heart for oxygenated blood. I thought it was as simple as that, but then you came and made me realize there’s a much deleterious underlying condition to it.

The risk factors for this insufficiency took various forms. Calls were left unreturned. Conversations felt dry and passive. Some plans got cancelled over minor reasons, and then arguments became too dragging to argue over. These contributed to the gradual progression and development of an irreversible process – the decreased perfusion of feelings towards one another. In more than 90% of cases, the disorder had only become clinically evident in chronic conditions, once a tally of misunderstandings outweighed the hope of having any of it substantially resolved.

The pathogenesis was an unending blame game. Initially, there was a sudden severe narrowing or closure of the large vessels. It happened to you, to us, when a plaque existed, and our relationship went atherosclerotic. You grew narrow-minded; I became hard-headed. The excessive build up of plaque caused clogging, and it blocked your thoughts into meeting mine. That’s why we argued. A lot. And it made the diagnosis incurable.   You said I had an increased demand for your time and effort, that I asked more of which you could possibly give. I, on the other hand, have claimed that it rooted from your diminished passion-carrying component. Roses, chocolates, and balloons became a compensatory mechanism for the lapses you’ve done. Until I have accustomed myself in looking at these supposedly “romantic things” as variables of pain, conflict and broken promises. I never wanted that. But I grew bitter. And you are largely responsible for my stenotic ideations of true love. The kind which loves you back when every word sends a positive chronotropic and inotropic effect? Nah, it does not exist. For now.

I felt angina, especially when a large area got affected – when I uprooted myself from deep into your life. And it was awful. Excruciating. But really, I had been cautious. My heart was enclosed by a double-layered protective sac called sanity and self-respect. I guarded myself from believing every lie, and pretended that those sweet words did not reverberate at the back of my head. But you were an exception. You penetrated the wall. And from the inside chambers, you deprived me from the love I deserved.

Your insufficiency in making me feel loved had validated the statistical claim of heart diseases as the predominant cause of mortality on Earth. You have deprived me with what I deserved, until every fiber of this muscular ***** found enclosed my rib cage had been used to the lack of care, the lack of contact, and the indifference.

Yes, you have killed me gradually, by not loving me enough. And you have left me with a necrosed, dysfunctional heart.

The bright yellow-orange flame flairs in the air
as the people scream for help that never reaches them
they run for water and throw it into the flame
but the flame does not vanish
it increases as the wind blows increasing
oxygen to the flame.

The fire extinguisher on the wall is not working
the carbon dioxide inside has expired
the cries increase as people burn to the ground
and some have died due to poor tissue perfusion and fluid loss

I hear the cries of starved children in the third world country
but no one is helping them with food or clothes.
I hear the cries of those with AIDS in the hospital beds
begging for more medicine but no one is listening
it is as if they are talking to walls.
I hear the screams of prisoners being tortured
but no one is running to free them.
I hear angry shouts of those who protest against
nuclear proliferation and destruction of the planet’s ecological balance.
I hear endless pleas for justice and peace all over the world
it is a wild flame burning the whole country
and there is no consolation, light or hope.

keep these hands alive in your hands; that they walk and breathe; that their skin becomes downy in the spring, and from them spears love-roots of dark grass, filling over the hills and meeting with the excellent night their shining bodies.

live, love and smell the rich perfume of your lovers hips; meet and again touch with them your cheeks, and delight in them–the coil of their heap.

they are with your body, and to touch another's is a great privilege–and i know it.

wander and know the nape of them; laugh and extend your blood into their own.

invite their inspirations into your own breast, and make with it one respiration.

they are cool and wonderful between the ears; they are soft laughter and stupid giggling; they are the arcuate sleep of a rose thorn–deeply within your skin.

know and love them.

hold not back your laughter, nor praise, nor joy in their clutch.

touch, ramble, delight in the visceral perfusion of their mouth and kiss.

The Woman In Black

Here I lay asleep distressed in the cold of blackness and perfusion of sweat dripping from the crevasses of my body

All I felt was the presence unlike no other in my dream world, lying within my state of mind, sub consciousness levels start to arise as I see this woman rise from pits in black with no mortal eyes, my body starts to shake, head, hands, and feet felt like a quake of hell that's going on within this land of dreams

So lucid, so vile, yet warmth came to me from the sweetness of her hands and voice, underneath was a mask of corruption and deceit ready to devour the life I so wish to see and believe that just one day I'll awake from the world within which I sleep.

No more dreams of this woman in black as she comes to me disguised to be a helpful hand, at heart a witch a devil of sorts, she tries to make it all ok with sweet words of aroma to make my pain all go away, here I lay and dream rebuke her from the pits of my soul out of the depths of my body outwards into this alone and cold world.

She keeps herself at bay in garments of black with a countenance held up high as the look of her soulless face withers away, as she preys and waits for the next soul to take...™

You are this certain factor
     In withdrawn I love you-s,
A constant, nonpareil kick in my blood,
My veins, knowing full well
These distentions, the holy perfusion,
A cardiomegaly which ever so sweeten
     Like a plump fruit.

You accentuate all the divinities
I long longed for, slowly,
     Infused within me.

Now this is love,
And love is nothing else...
     ...but you, but God.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

my alive:

   this awakeness seems to breathe

of being close through skin
to heart and muscles
singing softly stroked

by peach parted
over pit stinging;

the gross and fuzzy pash
bristles and bur
catching on roughness of
lip:

has two eyes
completing after darkness
hair in pale perfusion,

lipping with flowers
curled in mounded heap;

whose breaking sound
(star startled)
shook with saliva

–throat can't

               but to

                    unkeep

I can handle blood, okay?
Knuckles when my wraps are loose
Sucker punches to the nose
Scalpels, scissors, screws
When the first incision flows
What I can't handle
Is knowing that I could slip from your mind
Into a pile of spontaneous moments
A slew of songs and stars
A collection of couches and cars
I check my phone too often now
So do not disturb stays on
Because when I do it,
Your message lives in a paradox of quantum superposition
Both sent and unsent, simultaneously
I don't have to wait in pain for pings
To remind me that you care
You crush me with care
But I will have to leave
My land of delusion
State of confusion
Cut off the perfusion
And come to a conclusion
My conclusion is:
I hate that my heart hurts
I hate reality sinking in
I hate leaving behind sparkles
Why couldn't they just stay locked up
In my all-too-familiar bottle of prosecco?
Why did you have to shake it up
And leave shimmer all over me?
Why do you make me want to
Sacrifice precious sleep
For another chance to impress you
And make you want me again?
I'm now not-so-subtle
Which nauseates me more
Than waiting for the first cut
Because you made me care
What a concept!
I don't know if it's a nerve block or what
But I once was feeling stuck
And now I can breathe again
I don't even know what I leave you with
So I will start with words
And Christmas lights
I hope you hang up Christmas lights
I'll stay in my world of romanticism
While methodically trying to not seem crazy
I'm never like this
But there's just something about you
That has made me want to write poetry again.