for Alice*

seen from the terrace above
this rectangle of water
absorbs the variousness
of the late spring skies
changing incessantly
from folds of uncertain cloud
past brief appearances of blue
to the sudden closeness of rain

the preciseness of it
this rectangular pool
set in an oblong garden room
on a terrace the middle of three
that fall away to the valley’s end where
up and through and which a funnel of trees
climb to the tops the very heights today
severe against a modulating sky

yet in the camera’s eye
this horizontal mirror
is a painting fit
for Le Musée d’Orsay
a season’s accident no less in
light and growth and colour
where the chequered strings of
toads’ spawn and darting tiny fish
are brush strokes come alive

kneeling on the stone rim
as if in prayer afore
this reflecting space
attentive to what seems
between what is
this woman holds within
her perfect hand the pond
photographically framing
its image as it moves and stirs
across her gentle gaze

Here's my plan
I've thought of it long and hard:

First I'll collect every beautiful word on the planet
listen to every song that contains you
and photographically memorize every child's eyes
every mothers' warmth
every cool breeze
and every single scent of every single field of every newly cut blade of grass
basically, everything that captures the way your fingers feel
when they're wrapped around mine
and I'll take all these and fit them into one cardboard box which I will wrap and prettify
and morph into a poem
which I will end
with stars.

I will then give it to the mailman, who'll read it and know
that it's all about you
and he'll travel the world
searching, going into the places where I failed to go
and find you sitting
the way you do
with both feet up
on the stool
your knees bent
and your face contorted the way only your face can ever be contorted.

He will hand you the poem and you will read it
and know that I am still here,
and you will be moved
and fall in love with me again.

Then you'd begin searching for me though I already told you where I'd always be
and once you remember, you'll find me
and tell me that you've read my poem about mothers and their tender hands
and children with their bright eyes
and the grass which already says it all in itself
and also,
stars
and most importantly you'll tell me that you want me to write the rest of it
because there is so much more we can do together beyond the stars
and I will look at you as you tell me this
and try to familiarize myself with the face I've never had to familiarize myself with before
and I'll stand there watching your lips move
your chest heaving from each breath
and notice that they've changed and somehow I will seem to know that my mouth would not know how to fit into yours
and my head will have to move about a bit to find that nook on your chest it used to be glued too

and I will read that poem back
and then I'll see that just like your lips and your chest, all the words have changed
and that the person that I actually wrote it for
has already failed to exist the moment I penned
the last word

and so I end this poem
with stars.

Your voice changed my mood like a chameleon. Flooding my mind in deep nostalgia, I am surrounded by reminders of what pleasures we partook, we indulged, we unapologetically did, we confidently said and we therapeutically wanted. We ravaged, we begged, we, were, human.

Your scent still leaves a trace that even a bloodhound could find. Roses vanilla and a hint of cinnamon; my tongue tingles from the pleasure of closing my eyes, reanimating the masterpiece that went down at your unguarded borders.

But, I kept it cool when you introduced your new boyfriend.

'Hello this is__'

I replied 'What's up, the names Kitarō'

But as I spoke, I could tell we were harmoniously in sync when he called out your name twice; no response escaped your lips.

The third time triggered your body to respond; when your crimson lips were finally free from it's white prison it was photographically known of what was unsaid on your beautiful luscious red painted canvas

I knew you wanted me.

Poems are like puzzles:
A painstakingly placed picture,
Plucked from the peripheries,
Of percipient perspective.

Penetrating the personal,
The pen puts pain to pass,
Pouring perceptions in to paper,
In the process perfecting the practice.

Some poems pray for peace,
Some paint a piece of people's lives,
Photographically rendering the ineffable,
Imparting philosophies.

The poet is a piper piping pleasantries;
Poems pretty as phosphorous,
In a pyrotechnic parade,
Putting fire in our pupils.

Perhaps the "P" is hard to parse,
And I perceive this problem.
Perhaps my pursuit of the perfect poem,
Must not be prolonged or proceed.

But I'm a phonetic philanderer,
Pushing on like a prodigious pioneer,
Playing for pleasure with puns,
Posing metaphors, putting words in place,
Searching for planetary purpose,
Peering past the past and present,
In to possibilities of peace and plenitude.

But perhaps now the peak has passed and
The pliant "P" is pushed to its limits,
The words are all plucked, parched
And the poem is plenary.

just because you were ***** at 40+ and acted like a bunch of teenagers without adequate protection... don't you ******* blame me for the malnutrition of humanity you conceived... no! *******! i'm not paying or giving any respect for these brain-dead, souless bodies!*

oh, i find the anglophone world, very "stalinistic", i find the anglophone word, abusive in terms of applied psychiatry, and their capitalistic pharmacological economy... it would seem that even close friends, friends from childhood, are zombified to find a complex text (which they can't seem to comprehend): as a sign of some "mental illness"... my my... the anglophone realm has become so oppressive that it doesn't even recognise itself as being such: for it states one fundamental flaw in its perception: as long as people can buy, and have a steady supply of "things": no harm can be do unto them. my my... what a strange coincidence, that someone who graduated with a chemistry degree... is actually treated like a mentally impaired "creature" and is thrown into the dock with window-lickers: who laugh and expose their genitals publicaly... my my... ain't that sumthin'! gotta write this **** down, this "west is the best" mantra, that's choking me and... oh didn't you know what the gun laws in england are? there are currently 500,000+ gun ownsership licences in england... so much for the english vanity project of being polite, and somehow feeling "superior"... throw me in with the retards?! nothing against them... sure... oooh blood's boiling that if you dipped me into the nile, you'd get your first plague; a word for the less eager to "imagine" - don't you start reading complex texts, if you can't solve a mild / difficult sūdokú, enjoying both tier of complexity... y'ah... actually enjoying them.*

there's any theory of solving a sūdokú,
currently?
   a recurring theme, it seems,
i don't know when i'll stop thinking about
it...
           think about what?
   who can find me a better d.j. while
you're at it, but i doubt it...
   and yes, to find a fourth number
you need (x, x, x) i.e. --> (x, x, x), x...
    but obviously to find the other five
xs - you require the diamond of
       (μ, ε, τ, α, φ, o, ρ, ι, κ) /
  the lemniscate (∞) & the εντεκα
   of the πεντε and εξι (akin to
the roman 69, in zodiac? pisces -
or twin akin, side by side rather than
the zodiac inversion of DoG -
   or what god there be is to be a devil,
and of what god to seek and plead for
is bound to the second standard:
   god's devilish pontius pilate imitation:
i was my hands clean!)
  but there already exist two graphemes
of the greek Π: akin to the hebrew
tetragrammation's H -
           φ (phi)    &    ψ (psi)...
ah yes! the name becomes the embodied
     fascination with adjective forms,
        and hence: the arithmetic change:
from meta(φ)or and the 7 heads -
   back into the sūdokú puzzle of 9 digits
and caesar's thumb.
that's how finish my puzzle,
   i found it easier to burn my eyes with
the greek alphabet...
              so i could more easily look at numbers...
after all... isn't the latin text
littered with holes?
                  as are numbers...
     there are but three "major" holes in
greek script are: β, o, α - beta, omicron, alpha;
  the "minor"? well, that would imply
δ (delta) & σ (sigma) -
                               αβoδες (abodes)
          of the 72nd fraction of the peer's eye.
so let's begin:
    if you really want to solve these puzzles,
you'll really need to be able to read the greek...
just so you can dissociated the current
numbers from the latin encoding -
    it was somehow much simpler to craft
grand architectural realms of interests
when 4 was but a IV,
   and 10 was but an X...
               funny...
   rest assured...
                          you will get a lot of science
with the current numbers...
  but not a great load of breath-taking arichtecture...
nonetheless...
   you will encounter several optical "illusions"
when remembering the greek alphabet...
mind you: that's better than what
they teach you in primary school with
the times-table... and: lo! behold! a calculator!
the difficulty in photographically memorising
greek comes as points
    ξ / χ           i.e.              xi   & chi
  ν / υ        i.e.          nu     &      upsilon
   (it's hard to keep the v & u apart) -
Υ / γ       i.e.        gamma & upsilon -
                (you need the nouns stressed,
rather than the latin "digits" invoked) -
     ε & η? (epsilon & eta)?
         a bit like omicron and omega -
   ε = ω (pool, poondering) -
            η = o (pond, pondering) -
                  hence a siamese replacing
diacritical needs.
                       phi (Φ) and theta?
key and a keyhole:
   but a key into a keyhole (Φ)
   and then turn it to open the door: Θ (theta) - O -
oh look... the current fascination with
the i             has actually become useful...
it can actually disintegrate in the current
realm of psychological "theory" that somehow
managed to hold onto the latin "ego";
imagine that!
                      what was once freudian
in the trinity realm of: ego, superego, id,
in my realm reads as the tetragrammaton
   of:    I, Φ, Θ... O...
      **** me if this won't become a fraternity
house emblem... ha ha!
  you want pleasure from a sūdokú puzzle?
learn the greek alphabet...
  un-numb the numbers that seem so akin
to latin text!
invoke what is otherwise parallel to 6 & 9 -
the zodiac sign of pisces -
                         or that confusing artifact
for the eye: dpd|b (180°) -
               with the last remaining
copernicus symbol missing to allow the full
circle (360°), invoking the b... ah, but yes!
the chirality of                              yh | wh
also apparent in the dpd|b (180°):
    in each half: half over every half's
worth: divide.

Gone ******* tumbling over torpid waters
Turning inside out and bottomless
You float for a second before sinking
Into the opposite of weightlessness
It's imperative that we digress
And witness feathers in a headband
We are the lead singers of tomorrow’s epiphanies
We are the band and the audience members simultaneously
Everything is blessed and made to wander equally
We are tiny strings attached to the fragilest parts
Of every person’s heartbeat
We are the insurmountable struggles that inspire your art
We are the feelings you embody in the night’s soft atrophy
We are the appetites we repress
When there’s no one left to buy you dinner
We seek new meanings in beauty
And in the mind of each new lover we take
Our own image remains engraved photographically
Steadfast and permanent we laugh at our innocence
On the road to invisibility we take the first exit we can find
Laughing is sublime only as often as you can bear to really die
We shine like silhouettes behind the curtains of our memories
We are embracing magic in our uncertainty and living
Amidst and between, boundaries of ancient diseases and new discoveries
The pathway of apologies is not a road you can navigate intuitively
We are obviously hollower than a pair of five gallon drums
For when the rain comes we take the opportunity
To fill our towers, tanks and reservoirs; as if beauty was just a bargain
That we made when there was no one left to argue with