O'er the midnight moorlands crying,
Thro' the cypress forests sighing,
In the night-wind madly flying,
Hellish forms with streaming hair;
In the barren branches creaking,
By the stagnant swamp-pools speaking,
Past the shore-cliffs ever shrieking,
****'d demons of despair.

Once, I think I half remember,
Ere the grey skies of November
Quench'd my youth's aspiring ember,
Liv'd there such a thing as bliss;
Skies that now are dark were beaming,
Bold and azure, splendid seeming
Till I learn'd it all was dreaming —
Deadly drowsiness of Dis.

But the stream of Time, swift flowing,
Brings the torment of half-knowing —
Dimly rushing, blindly going
Past the never-trodden lea;
And the voyager, repining,
Sees the wicked death-fires shining,
Hears the wicked petrel's whining
As he helpless drifts to sea.

Evil wings in ether beating;
Vultures at the spirit eating;
Things unseen forever fleeting
Black against the leering sky.
Ghastly shades of bygone gladness,
Clawing fiends of future sadness,
Mingle in a cloud of madness
Ever on the soul to lie.

Thus the living, lone and sobbing,
In the throes of anguish throbbing,
With the loathsome Furies robbing
Night and noon of peace and rest.
But beyond the groans and grating
Of abhorrent Life, is waiting
Sweet Oblivion, culminating
All the years of fruitless quest.

O tower of light, sad beauty
that magnified necklaces and statues in the sea,
calcareous eye, insignia of the vast waters, cry
of the mourning petrel, tooth of the sea, wife
of the Oceanian wind, O separate rose
from the long stem of the trampled bush
that the depths, converted into archipelago,
O natural star, green diadem,
alone in your lonesome dynasty,
still unattainable, elusive, desolate
like one drop, like one grape, like the sea.

May I present a challenge?
Imagine if you will
You have created a flying explosive device
And it needs a name that will thrill.

A name, a good name, which name?
Well, none of those below.
Some twisted suits have already used them.
****, EVEN Tacit Rainbow.

What really goes through their minds?
As they sit and discuss the name
Of their creation that's destined to ****
Butcher, destroy and maim.

Just try if you can
To read the whole of this edited list
Imagine how many have exploded of each
With out angrily clenching your fist

Little John
Honest John
Hellfire
Matador
HARM
Terrier
Nike-Ajax
Corporal
Sea Sparrow
Redstone
Bullpup
Mace
Nike-Hercules
Regulus II
Atlas
Thor
Lacrosse
Jupiter
Quail
Hawk
Tartar
Falcon
Polaris
H­ound Dog
Pershing
Entac
Firebee
Shelduck
Jayhawk
Cardinal
Firefly
Petr­el
Redhead/Roadrunner
Redeye
Mauler
Skybolt
Nike Zeus/Spartan
Condor
Phoenix
Typhon MR
Falconer
Overseer
Taurus
Kingfisher
Cardinal
Walleye
Hornet
Ma­verick
Big Q
Minuteman
Blue Eye
Viper
Firebolt
Bulldog
Harpoon
Focus
Perseus
Firefly
Stinger
­Compass Dwell
B-Gull
Agile
Seekbat
Delta Dagger
Thunderbolt[7]
Patriot
Aquila
Teleplane
Streaker
Tomahawk
­Firebrand
Roland
Peacekeeper
Penguin
Pave Tiger/Seek Spinner
Sidearm
Skipper
Wasp
Sea Lance
Ripper[7]
Trident II
Midgetman
Tacit Rainbow
Pave Cricket
Have Nap
Peregrine
Exdrone
Javelin
Pointer
Hunter
Coyote
Skeeter
Outlaw

­Wow, you're still reading
And you've managed not to throw up.
Just wondering how many innocent victims
Of a tax funded device called Bullpup.

I

In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotised. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not refracted, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.

                                    In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.

Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.

II

What is the late November doing
With the disturbance of the spring
And creatures of the summer heat,
And snowdrops writhing under feet
And hollyhocks that aim too high
Red into grey and tumble down
Late roses filled with early snow?
Thunder rolled by the rolling stars
Simulates triumphal cars
Deployed in constellated wars
Scorpion fights against the Sun
Until the Sun and Moon go down
Comets weep and Leonids fly
Hunt the heavens and the plains
Whirled in a vortex that shall bring
The world to that destructive fire
Which burns before the ice-cap reigns.

That was a way of putting it—not very satisfactory:
A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion,
Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle
With words and meanings. The poetry does not matter.
It was not (to start again) what one had expected.
What was to be the value of the long looked forward to,
Long hoped for calm, the autumnal serenity
And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us
Or deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders,
Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit?
The serenity only a deliberate hebetude,
The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets
Useless in the darkness into which they peered
Or from which they turned their eyes. There is, it seems to us,
At best, only a limited value
In the knowledge derived from experience.
The knowledge imposes a pattern, and falsifies,
For the pattern is new in every moment
And every moment is a new and shocking
Valuation of all we have been. We are only undeceived
Of that which, deceiving, could no longer harm.
In the middle, not only in the middle of the way
But all the way, in a dark wood, in a bramble,
On the edge of a grimpen, where is no secure foothold,
And menaced by monsters, fancy lights,
Risking enchantment. Do not let me hear
Of the wisdom of old men, but rather of their folly,
Their fear of fear and frenzy, their fear of possession,
Of belonging to another, or to others, or to God.
The only wisdom we can hope to acquire
Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless.

The houses are all gone under the sea.

The dancers are all gone under the hill.

III

O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark,
The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant,
The captains, merchant bankers, eminent men of letters,
The generous patrons of art, the statesmen and the rulers,
Distinguished civil servants, chairmen of many committees,
Industrial lords and petty contractors, all go into the dark,
And dark the Sun and Moon, and the Almanach de Gotha
And the Stock Exchange Gazette, the Directory of Directors,
And cold the sense and lost the motive of action.
And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
Nobody’s funeral, for there is no one to bury.
I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God. As, in a theatre,
The lights are extinguished, for the scene to be changed
With a hollow rumble of wings, with a movement of darkness on darkness,
And we know that the hills and the trees, the distant panorama
And the bold imposing façade are all being rolled away—
Or as, when an underground train, in the tube, stops too long between stations
And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence
And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen
Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about;
Or when, under ether, the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing—
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.

                              You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
    You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
    You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
    You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
    You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.

IV

The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer’s art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

Our only health is the disease
If we obey the dying nurse
Whose constant care is not to please
But to remind of our, and Adam’s curse,
And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.

The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.

The dripping blood our only drink,
The ****** flesh our only food:
In spite of which we like to think
That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood—
Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.

V

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l’entre deux guerres
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.

    Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

A part of me dreams in pictures on screens
and some of me sits at reality's door.

Knock
Knock
who's there?

I heard a bird 'it was no nightingale, but  a
storm petrel looking for a ship under sail
on the high sea
and a part of me knows it was only a dream.

I see reality
so easy to ignore
where some of me
sits at reality's door.

Knock
Knock
who's there?

The beggarman's wife sees reality,
life is no dream  
for her.

But nothing's the same as the pain that you feel when you're poor, down at heel and the baby is crying for milk.

Occasionally I wake and
take a quick look outside
to see who is knocking,
there's
no one
only the wind slapping
at me,
reality stings
a nightingale sings
the storm petrel rides
on the wind.

Gone is the long, long winter night;
  Look, my beloved one!
How glorious, through his depths of light,
  Rolls the majestic sun!
The willows, waked from winter's death,
Give out a fragrance like thy breath--
  The summer is begun!

Ay, 'tis the long bright summer day:
  Hark, to that mighty crash!
The loosened ice-ridge breaks away--
  The smitten waters flash.
Seaward the glittering mountain rides,
While, down its green translucent sides,
  The foamy torrents dash.

See, love, my boat is moored for thee,
  By ocean's weedy floor--
The petrel does not skim the sea
  More swiftly than my oar.
We'll go, where, on the rocky isles,
Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles
  Beside the pebbly shore.

Or, bide thou where the poppy blows,
  With wind-flowers frail and fair,
While I, upon his isle of snows,
  Seek and defy the bear.
Fierce though he be, and huge of frame,
This arm his savage strength shall tame,
  And drag him from his lair.

When crimson sky and flamy cloud
  Bespeak the summer o'er,
And the dead valleys wear a shroud
  Of snows that melt no more,
I'll build of ice thy winter home,
With glistening walls and glassy dome,
  And spread with skins the floor.

The white fox by thy couch shall play;
  And, from the frozen skies,
The meteors of a mimic day
  Shall flash upon thine eyes.
And I--for such thy vow--meanwhile
Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile,
  Till that long midnight flies.

.there were always three songs from the 80s that we, more or less elusive... since i wasn't someone who frequently listened to the radio, i'd hear these songs - on an off perhaps once a year - at a particular time, notably travelling - or there would be some modern revamp to suit the trance-kids... midnight oil's - beds are burning, men at work - down under - well... not so much... the best example would have to be... 1984s... nik kershaw's - the riddle... i mean the lyrics are mind-boggling: near a tree by a river
                  there's a hole in the ground
                  where an old man of Aran
                  goes around and around
                  and his mind is a beacon
                  in the veil of the night
                  for a strange kind of fashion
                  there's a wrong and a right
                  but he'll never, never fight over you...
well the song is primarily about the Irish immigrants that went off to h'America - blessings of Babylon - the arms, the guild of hammers and sickles and all that to boost an honest's man honest's wage for labour... what else? the old man of Aran is a ref. to the 1934  Robert J. Flaherty documentary: Man or Aran... for i see no reason to celebrate this song in a modern fiasco... the tune: if you only like the tune... you might as well tell me... that d.j. Tiesto is going to revamp chris the burgh's - a spaceman came travelling... because that's just gonna happen! although i imagine myself writing the odd scribble about... a young man and his storm petrel - of Tindhólmur...

it really has been this sort of day -
to be rudely interrupted by still clinging friends of
the family dropping by, for the hey! surprise
at 8pm on a Monday evening -
staying up till after 10pm...
distorting the plans of me cutting down on drinking...
you don't just drop uninvited -
not scheduled - perhaps in a war torn part
of the world like Iraq...
and you're the U.S.A. pilot of a drone
that killed the son of some wisened Mesopotamian
who offers you tea with tears
and he doesn't understand your words
and then the grandson runs in and wants
to sell you all the eggs...
because the old man just didn't want the money
like that... but that's a cruel situation...
not in England, not in Germany do you
just appear on someone's door at 8pm
with covert blah-blah to reach a ****** of
the real reason for the "happy dropping by"...
it's a Monday... a happy happenstance can
occur in a cafe - on neutral territory -
not when - it's polite to serve coffee and tea
and cakes... it's a Monday!
there are no excuses!

now i see it... how i will ever stop drinking as
much as i have...
there is simply no satisfaction from a good night's
sleep anymore -
it needs to be corrected -
i had to start thinking that my insomnia is
a prerequisite for my brain to explore foreign
lands of... what will become of this verbiage...
until i come to last conclusions...
hardly alcohol widthrawl symptoms -
but you can just imagine -
a sensation of a ghost of my cat that i suspected
was killed by my "neighbour"
jumping onto the bed and making gentle
indentations in the cotton of the bedsheats...
not quiet alseep - somehow sleeping -
more hallucinations of the Mengu
/おもmen頬yoroi/ - i will not even delve
into something i know nothing about...
read: error... had to look for...
the simpler japanese i know exists...
i don't even know whether the stated kun'yomi
looks any better to the on'yomi メン...
and the wikipedia entry for (yoroi) doesn't
even exist!
but that's how the insomnia brain works it seems...
it needs to be somewhere between borderline
sleep deprivation and no sleep at all...
or at least pseudo-sleep and pseudo-dreams:
hallucinations - not visual or auditory as such...
imagine the sensation of a cat jumping
onto your bed and feeling the gentle indentations
of him walking next to your lying body?
you can't exactly find the right sort of amount
of sleep... sometimes stretches of 8 or so hours
leave you... exhausted the next day -
with a sort of vocabulary that should be waiting
in line for a retirement home and pear pulp
and a mash and roast beef milkshake to slurp up!
too much sleep is no good for the brain...
but then too little is no good for the body...
it's a fine balance... if i find it... well...

to take a beer for a walk at night -
the 2nd day of frost -
to see the stars with more lucidity
of them being exfoliated by the endless prism
of frost on the cold and hardening concrete...
paparazzi camera epilepsykrieg of a red-carpet...
under the most visible constellation
of  Scorpio

                            •
                       •
                  •
    

                         •           )צ(
                           •

                                             •                  
                  •

illuminations of the tsade... and ayin (ע)... mah-zahl
akh-ravh - oh i'm sure the hebrews to treat
the H as surd akin to the sacred raj hindu
of sanskrit... what saved them that would have never
saved the "red" indians?
the "blue" indians had sanskrit and...
a culinary arsenal of spices... which was appealing
to some little people of Norwich and Bristol
who became just became bored of rosemary,
thyme - parsley and dill.

words can at best become merely co-ordinates...
you would have to walk these same streets
at these specific times of the year -
the second frost of winter -
a clear sky -
dogs barking in the background -
foxes if... are rather exotic when they start
performing: mate-calling...
the odd crow insomnia that croaks
in flight at night...
this suckling vacuum of air exploring
a near infinite distance of astmophere
coming into a horizon with the nothingness
of space and the celestial mechanics of
the orbs - the traffic of Eastern Ave.
toward Southend in the background -
no wind... the sound of a kosher goat
taking another glug glug from a bottle
of beer - the gentle scortching of smoked
tobacco in a cigarette being dragged (inhaled)...
perhaps a very distsant sound of a train
chuggling along -
the dogs barking at the cold...
the dogs barking at the cold...
the inability to hear one's own footsteps...
a mania for the night and all the seven if not
more delights of taking a walk alone at night.

I am neither  the body, nor the mind that bridles it,
   the realization strikes, my moment of awakening
             the horse and the rider
  will submerge in the river at the limits.
          The consciousness , the storm petrel
   alone  would cross the limits of the 'sky of the mind'
           - painted by material world, through life time-
to super consciousness, beyond the bubble of universe,
        " the presence before the beginning", timeless
  where there are no two, "I am that"
        nothing but the primordial One

I Dreamed of Peace  


                                 I dreamed of peace
                                 where games cannot touch my saddened heart;
                                 where the winters spray of discontent cannot
                                 make my blood cold, cannot make my marrow
                                 ache and my inner force limp wounded to the gray
                                 and weeping bank.

                                 I dreamed of peace
                                 where fire words shot to take me down
                                 miss their target and fall harmlessly in joyous fields
                                 of ripened corn, standing strong, smiling, repelling
                                 all the pointed barbs; whose yellow husks cannot be pierced
                                 but in reflecting provide a  nourishment so replete
                                 the archers arm is wearied by the load.

                                 I dreamed of peace
                                 where no longer do I wake at night
                                 seeking reassurance from apparitions that their calling
                                 means no harm;
                                 where the raven sitting on the drooping branch
                                 is not waiting for my soul’s ascent;
                                 where the soot covered face peering from the bracken
                                 is not the axe man arrived to take me home.

                                 I dreamed of peace
                                 where the fire in my brain is quelled
                                 by knowledge, accomplished thoughts of reason and
                                 not prone to dissatisfaction;
                                 where thirst is quenched in rivers so deep
                                 my dive can never touch or scrape the sides and
                                 in whose fear I need not fear;
                                 where my essence is left untouched , my spirit not assaulted
                                 by ego and forced appraisal.
                
                                 I dreamed of peace
                                 where false disinterest lies split and gaping
                                 and hypocrisy oozes its puerile bile across cracked and
                                 concrete stagnant floors;
                                 where beggars no longer assault my passing
                                 with arms outstretched and hope etched into canyon
                                 city faces;
                                 where the malcontent is driven to the slackened shallows
                                 and forced to face their own reflection.

                                 I dreamed of peace
                                 where lightening skipped and danced across the waves
                                 and thunder played the most delicate of notes;
                                 where wind swirled not in anger but caressed
                                 the sparse sand dune grass and the stilt legged
                                 petrel bobbed in anticipation;
                                 where the fuss of self induced stress is placed inside the trench
                                 and covered by the dirt of self awareness.

                                 I dreamed of peace
                                 where only peace may step and no intrusion
                                 may be entered;
                                 where neither the able nor the vacuous may encroach;
                                 where neither the sun drenched and rich may acquire that which
                                 others have stooped to learn;
                                 where the essence of time is encased and made bare
                                 and does not beat to a false clock;
                                 where all I have been and all I am to be is in the one,
                                 and there is no need to climb a further set of stairs.

                                 I dreamed of peace.

Gold, gold, gold-we are enchanted
cold cold cold - ... almost immovable

shiksa sings songs, sings songs softly,
how the willow rustled and the petrel screamed





четыре

Золотом, золотом, золотом объяты неудержимым
холодом холодом холодом- видишь почти недвижимы

шикса поёт песни- тихо поёт песни
как шелестела ива и клекотал буревестник

2009

in the 80s and 90s we had a cat named snoopy, who was a very cute cat

we bought him with another cat named fluffy who ran away to die back in the 80s

and probably reincarnated into someone else, you see snoopy probably hated

my yelling at my parents, and despite me being very nice to him up close

he probably me yelling at my mum and dad, and snoopy was worried about

what could happen to him next, you see i was drinking pretty heavily and i had

multipersonality disorder and i was very wild, and despite snoopy not noticing

it in me, my mum and dad surely noticed it, you see i was missing people in my life

and snoopy found it hard to cope and eventually was struggling and died, but snoopy

didn’t stop living and he reincarnated as chazz petrel, who was a troubled kid with autism and

mental illness, and he was determined to show me one day what i looked like to his previous life

snoopy cat, you see chazz brought on violence to his family as well as bringing on problems

you see chazz was in and out of institutions and was bullied a few times and he suffered a lot

apparently his parents were dealing with a lot of trauma, like my parents were dealing with a lot from me

and chazz was determined that he won’t die straight away, he really wanted me to understand

that fighting parents is wrong, because the only problem is chazz was a kid who suffered a lot

and snoopy was releasing problems that i showed mum and dad, but sometimes snoopy realised

that he was too restless for a cat, and he had to release his negative energy he got from me

you see in the year 2014,, just after chazz’s 12th birthday, chazz took his own life on august 31

and chazz was saying, this is stupid, and now chazz has reincarnated as the youngest puppy on

the youtube family bratayley and as the puppy ran around he was running off aggression from

chazz, it is not good that chazz had died and it’s not good i put snoopy through all that pain

but i feel that soul has been calmed almost ready to prepare for nirvana, mending each blade of grass

finding me in the
         dense corn field
         is difficult, even if
         you search all around,
i would be
working with the peasants,
somewhere, far or near
or resting under the tree shade
sharing their home made food.

finding me in the
             library is even more remote,
             some word,
             acting as an enticement
             would take me to the deapths,
             i'll feel free and relieved
and be swimming with the words -
unaware of time, sharing their aesthetic delights.

finding me in the
               day time, would be
               such a tricky affair,
               i eat, the clear light,
              drink freedom for delight,
and slowly get levitating
and fly above all like a storm petrel,
in ethereal form above distant clouds.

finding me in water
              would never be possible,
              at the edge of the lake i sit,
              my face reflects
              in the water plane,
              and my eyes dive and swim,
with fish of every size.
i wll be a fish like the time of my origin:
fish that swam from dad's ****, to mom's womb.

Find me
         with in you, if you remember my smile,
         my words, my deeds,thunder and rain,
         my quirky eye, my heart's deepest desire,
search your consciousness deep, i am there.
o

Stripe me,strike me facebook like me
it's not worth a ****
nothing here is really real and I don't give a hoot.
So
shoot me with your babble guns,
rabble rouse me,house me,douse me in your petrel bombs
and let me fly away.

Stormy petrel albatross curlew skylark martin swift swallow robin sparrow raven crow falcon heron stork eagle vulture budgie parrot gull penguin puffin hawk
                                     Birds
And poets
Flutter
And trill

Oh torre de la luz, triste hermosura
que dilató en el mar estatuas y collares,
ojo calcáreo, insignia del agua extensa, grito
de petrel enlutado, diente del mar, esposa
del vicnro de Oceanía, oh rosa separada
del tronco del rosal despedazado
que la profundidad convirtió en archipiélago,
oh estrella natural, diadema verde,
sola en tu solitaria dinastía,
inalcanzable aún, evasiva, desierta
como una gota, como una uva, como el mar.

what has happened to my poems...
after january 13th of this year?

poems akin to:
a Young Man and his storm petrel of Tindhólmur
кaцaпы и кaкaшкa
broken record antics (a decade's worth of ***, comparative lit.)
1812 Overture: or the teasing plagiarism of La Marseillaise
the black cracovite & the three sisters amber
a most depressing diatribe
curating: for the meat fetishists
pokój cywilny (комната гражданский)

am i... uncomfortable for attempting to...
work toward 1 million words...
what... these twitter instagram "poets"
feel a threat?!
that also called... not sitting on your laurels...
or making sure you stop ******* on
your thumb and shove it up: where the sun
doesn't shine...

and my god... the internet used to be so much
fun!
now... there's no even a "warning"
or a precaution... i've been in and out of this
cv pile of ******* for a better worth
of 5 years worth of a whipping...
and there i was... about to write...

a movie critique...
well... you can't exactly write a movie critique
these days...
i was going to throw in the fact that:
dub-step was a really short-lived music genre...
unless you looked for the cherries
akin to: south london dross translates
really well into north east london drab of
the peripheries - given burial's album untrue...
and i can't forget distance
and i can't forget vex'd...

the movie in question?
berlin, i love you...
well... it's not a great movie...
it's not a bad movie -
it's certainly quirky in how the anglophone
world translates existentialism onto the screen...
and mickey rourke is in it -
probably my most beloved cameo not cameo actor...

it's not a great movie...
it's not a bad movie...
but sure as **** and pancakes flying past...
it's most certainly NOT a marvel or a d.c.
universe movie...
there's something beside packaged dialogue
and the quirks of a lame joke...

hellopoetry wattpad all these sites have become
the same...
filled with instagram and twitter poetics...
purposively trying to wipe clean...
oh... about 12 thousands words...
and if that's not enough...
the words just keep on coming!
mind you: instagram still hasn't bothered
to delete all the photos that "probably"
caused the suicide of molloy rushel...
i see f&%$! i'm harmed - inquisitor dyslexia...
not in the age of freely available *******...

this is a kick in the nuts...
almost a year ago i was given a polite breakdown...
now?
marie antoinette me... because... m'eh...
come to think of it...
i'm almost glad i never save my works
on my computer...
stash them on a hard-drive...
learn from the best... journalists...
better still... learn from tabloid vampires -
alias: journalists...
and spew... regurgitate... spew...
spew spew exorcist the fumes heads spinning
perhaps a quazi-gonzo approach will
appear...
as ever: to be left... without every having
being satisfied by one's own words having
been written...

included are reference to a...
most certainly hebrew associated...
i could perhaps call this...
a bout of anti-semitism?
but that's ridiculous...

once upon a time this was a most bountiful
site... oh! the editing! the spacing!
the style...! black and white! och mein gott!
cream of the crop...
cherry on top...

up to the moment when those group-think
enclaves of the sycophants start
turning on against each other...
and the comments are not exactly
constructive...
just... dandy... just plain jane... nice...

it was truly nice, nice...
while it lasted... i have to now get ready
for... so this is how it feels...
to be killed? mentally?
this is what ****** feels like?
those mentioned poems?
they have been erased from history...
i didn't save them...
i "thought" i left them in capable hands...
but... oops! they're gone...
just like those words from a tabloid newspaper
circa 15th of january 2019...
then again: maybe the ***** keep those entries too!

where is that internet i've been hearing
about? the one that days: it's forever?!
i might have said this once...
welcome to the dodo project...
i'll be your... pseudo Orwell and no...
this is not a simulation...
wordsmiths from twitter and instagram
want all of us to choke and gasp
at: red is rose and i love you by choice...
or some other... "headline" poem...
as always... missing the article...

well... beware herr zensor on this site.