and indeed poetry, the science of abandonment, and contentment with such feats, the science of unabashed conquests, and very little regrets.*

at least a grave is not as depressing
as a digital biographic article
on a page - at least then no
leisurely time to attach to the orbit,
at least then no voyeurism of sorts,
i too think posthumous fame to be
the perfect escape, although at a great
cost; what a strange life we lead,
periphery or not periphery, silent
squabbles over who presides over the
throne and who presides over the
peddle stool; what a strange life,
it's not so much about regurgitating the
exactness of facts, but about how we feel
concerning them - strangers - those defendants
of the facts as a necessary rigid upkeep -
the ones of phobia uprooting vines and
weeds, to clear the way for the pristine -
or as one man said: 'it's so beautiful,
but it's so ****** up!' true that, very true
to be sure - oh at least read with the same ease if writing,
with the same ease - do not make it missing -
but why make adamant the up-keeping of
facts, mistranslating emotional content of experience
with superstition - for fear that the stronghold of
facts will crumble should one impose a straight
line on the Pisan tower? indeed i finally
met my tedium in reading Ezra Pound's cantos,
pages 488 - 489, indeed there i met Sisyphus,
one night, one tiresome night i met Sisyphus rolling
up a hill of blank an inkwell, but i have an excuse,
i said, i assure you! these pages are denoted among
all other pisan cantos, the man was in prison,
i gave up faith with him giving up faith,
i too in prison, divorced from my library,
given only abstracts and cold things,
but given pen & paper, remember: given pen & paper!
i gave up hope finishing the **** book damning
all fellow countrymen on those pages,
the stint at the asylum was like a holiday
in comparison - fellow caged budgies attested likewise;
i'm waiting for the right shade of pink in the sunset
to rekindle hope, and walk with him to the end
like dante holding hands with virgil in the inferno...
i need time, i need a sip of water, a crumb or two of
bread and rest... after all, seeing what's to come,
i see him airing, opening windows to his house
of poetry, venturing into blank space, open spaces,
conquering his agoraphobia but inverting it (somehow)
and writing more scarce, more scarce, perfectly, scarcely...
long gone the complication of phonetic encoding,
and hence the firm belief in the chinese pictogram
method of saying, something like: good day, good morning,
goodnight...
but here i am, strapped with him in the Pisan ghetto
of iron bars, exhausted, having favoured the winds
for so long and eager, exhausted,
as the sails are rolled up, and the oars have to be taken
up by hands to row; when will that time come
when the sails can be unrolled? i dare not know.

i don't exactly remember how i read j. joyce's finnegans wake, but i read it, that grand interpretation of premature dementia of his daughter, never read it aloud, but i read it, and maybe that made me skew into some sort of symbolism, the attempt to capture too any sounds, perhaps all sounds, and enclose them in inexact onomatopoeias written down - dyslexia and excess spelling - indeed, once your intended creativity disappears, you begin to become entrenched with the few original ideas you had - then you begin to repeat yourself, crafting tombstones of your mind - so many shared lives, so few given a grand grave of being entombed in a familial grave.

difficult books, like Ezra's cantos i read in
uncomfortable positions,
usually on the windowsill, in a pseudo-akimbo
of a turk, one leg tangling the other under
my buttocks -
it eased the eyes to become eager and spur
the reading fascination on -
i'm not really a book worm as such,
i had six beers with me,
i climbed the hill leading unto the Essex
village of Havering-atte-Bower,
drank, smoked cigarettes, finished off
the 2 remaining cantos -
see, for a man i could do this,
a man who wrote a book...
i could never do such a thing for a woman
who'd written something...
it's called the brotherhood, otherwise
a marriage would have taken place -
once i reached the peak of the hill leading
to the village, a slight drizzle -
but it didn't escalate into a thundercloud,
thank you;
so i sat there, first watching traffic and smoking
and then started to annihilate the Pisan cantos...
on the horizon that old torture rack
near the roundabout - the *stocks,
behind me a church... a thief only walks through
a village once as a free man, indeed, then
clamped into the stocks... more than feet,
hands and feet... the church behind me...
cursing the cross / spine like that...
they still have the stocks in this village...
a husband and two girls were inspecting it
trying to find a culprit to make an example of
how the contraption worked...
i told you how it worked... then one villager
emerged from a house with a little blonde boy
to play football, kicked the ball high up intending
for it to land on my head - he apparently shouted
'heads!' - but because of headphones i didn't hear it,
it missed, then he tried to apologise -
after i finished the cantos i wished him a good day -
****** - you ever see that video with two idiots
playing about with a basketball in Trafalgar Sq.
and they bounced the ball against this huge gorilla's head?
you know what the gorilla did after the two idiots
tried to hush the "joke"? he got a glass bottle
and smashed it against one of the idiot's head... ha ha.
funny now, oh much more funnier than that
basketball trick... plump pluck of a plum...
boom... on the pavement, a Mike Tyson moment...
(yes, and by comparison, i'm a ******* albino chimpanze)
once finished i plucked a camomile flower
from the village lawn, put it at the end of
the Pisan cantos... give it a month and the
camomile will be mummified... dried out...
books are better than the intended pyramids...
you can mummify flowers using books,
give it a month and the flower will be dried out;
walking down the hill took a scenic route
listening to little birds and woodpeckers via
https://goo.gl/1eU4zB (the wooden fence proves
the route is inhabited by footprints from time to time).

Zero.
By which nothing is divided.
No zero
no negative
no opposite
no hope
no Adam, no apple, no marriage, no morning.
No mirror
no knowledge
no God, no soul, no ear lobe, no Iliad, no Odyssey.
No universe
no black hole
no zodiac
no hero
no mission, no omission, no fission, no fusion.
No beanstalk
no tractor
no yellow
no 7:30, no wind, no window, no owl, no one.

In 773, at Al-Mansur's behest, translations were made of the Siddhantas, Indian astronomical treatises dating as far back as 425 B.C.; these versions may have been the vehicles through which the "Arabic" numerals and the zero were brought from India into China and then to the Islamic countries. In 813 the Persian mathematician Khwarizmi used the Hindu numerals in his astronomical tables; about 825 he issued a treatise known in its Latin form as Algoritmi de numero Indorum, Khwarizmi on Numerals of the Indians. After him, in 976, Muhammed ibn Ahmad in his "Keys to the Sciences," remarked that if in a calculation no number appears in the place of tens, a little circle should be used "to keep the rows." This circle the Arabs called sifr. That was the earliest mention of the name sifr that eventually became zero. Italian zefiro already meant "west wind" from Latin and Greek zephyrus. This may have influenced the spelling when transcribing Arabic sifr. The Italian mathematician Fibonacci (c. 1170-1250), who grew up in North Africa and is credited with introducing the decimal system in Europe, used the term zephyrum. This became zefiro in Italian, which was contracted to zero in Venetian.  --Wikipedia

After my father's appointment by his homeland as a state official in the customs house of Bugia for the Pisan merchants who thronged to it, he took charge; and in view of its future usefulness and convenience, had me in my boyhood come to him and there wanted me to devote myself to and be instructed in the study of calculation for some days. There, following my introduction, as a consequence of marvelous instruction in the art, to the nine digits of the Hindus, the knowledge of the art very much appealed to me before all others, and for it I realized that all its aspects were studied in Egypt, Syria, Greece, Sicily, and Provence, with their varying methods; and at these places thereafter, while on business, I pursued my study in depth and learned the give-and-take of disputation. But all this even, and the algorism, as well as the art of Pythagoras, I considered as almost a mistake in respect to the method of the Hindus (Modus Indorum). Therefore, embracing more stringently that method of the Hindus, and taking stricter pains in its study, while adding certain things from my own understanding and inserting also certain things from the niceties of Euclid's geometric art, I have striven to compose this book in its entirety as understandably as I could, dividing it into fifteen chapters. Almost everything which I have introduced I have displayed with exact proof, in order that those further seeking this knowledge, with its pre-eminent method, might be instructed, and further, in order that the Latin people might not be discovered to be without it, as they have been up to now. If I have perchance omitted anything more or less proper or necessary, I beg indulgence, since there is no one who is blameless and utterly provident in all things. The nine Indian figures are: 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1. With these nine figures, and with the sign 0 . . . any number may be written.   --Fibonacci, Leonardo of Pisa

it's called an idea in jungian: collective consciousness, which is harsh on latin acronyms in freudian consideration of the id being added the α & β for explanation of κ... makes sense in cyrillic, but not in black sabbath's solitude of explaining the solfège (sole-fledge): rhyme and the acoustics of latin gave song, fully embraced by the english from latin... leaving the aspirations of the byzantines lagging behind aristotle to define what's grecian. chitty chatty bonk bang ****, and a puff of smoke left by the cartoonish quote of the road-runner that came along.

french garçon - son - ç / s / ς.*

and i let the wind turn the page, while
i held onto the last word, i let the wind
turn the page had it not have been held like
a woman in a marriage, and indeed the
wind flipped the page - yes, the perfumery of
books, old or new, stale or freshly baked -
i wanted the wind to turn the pages
of this remnant upheaval of readied reading -
as scenic as i could have wanted -
i let loose the page from under
my fingers, and the wind turned the page...
how i became entombed in
the company of the god Éolides
(εωλιδης) -
and what a happy repose it came to be -
yes, the greeks proved to be the
true aesthetic masters -
dependence on pronuciation's elongation
and curbing - a macron on the omicron
is an omega - etc. - and the epsilon (ε)
should be coupled with eta (η)
in terms of style, as sigma (σ / ς), already is -
but it will be hard, having to digitalise
handwriting, and how easily we can
impose words on the page, without
the smooth rekindling of the waves of
an incoming tide of inspired thinking
known as the birch forerunner, scout.
hence the new testament fitted with the old:
y omega w omicron / y epsilon w eta /
y theta w phi - i.e. yωwo / yεwη / yθwφ;
but of course i'm implying the same treatment
for o and ω like i'm implying for the above
mentioned ε and η akin to handwritten
ease of the two sigmas (σ / ς) - the latter written
at the end of words, the former in between.

J'entrai dernièrement dans une vieille église ;

La nef était déserte, et sur la dalle grise,

Les feux du soir, passant par les vitraux dorés,

Voltigeaient et dansaient, ardemment colorés.

Comme je m'en allais, visitant les chapelles,

Avec tous leurs festons et toutes leurs dentelles,

Dans un coin du jubé j'aperçus un tableau

Représentant un Christ qui me parut très-beau.

On y voyait saint Jean, Madeleine et la Vierge ;

Leurs chairs, d'un ton pareil à la cire de cierge,

Les faisaient ressembler, sur le fond sombre et noir,

A ces fantômes blancs qui se dressent le soir,

Et vont croisant les bras sous leurs draps mortuaires ;

Leurs robes à plis droits, ainsi que des suaires,

S'allongeaient tout d'un jet de leur nuque à leurs pieds ;

Ainsi faits, l'on eût dit qu'ils fussent copiés

Dans le campo-Santo sur quelque fresque antique,

D'un vieux maître Pisan, artiste catholique,

Tant l'on voyait reluire autour de leur beauté,

Le nimbe rayonnant de la mysticité,

Et tant l'on respirait dans leur humble attitude,

Les parfums onctueux de la béatitude.


Sans doute que c'était l'œuvre d'un Allemand,

D'un élève d'Holbein, mort bien obscurément,

A vingt ans, de misère et de mélancolie,

Dans quelque bourg de Flandre, au retour d'Italie ;

Car ses têtes semblaient, avec leur blanche chair,

Un rêve de soleil par une nuit d'hiver.


Je restai bien longtemps dans la même posture,

Pensif, à contempler cette pâle peinture ;

Je regardais le Christ sur son infâme bois,

Pour embrasser le monde, ouvrant les bras en croix ;

Ses pieds meurtris et bleus et ses deux mains clouées,

Ses chairs, par les bourreaux, à coups de fouets trouées,

La blessure livide et béante à son flanc ;

Son front d'ivoire où perle une sueur de sang ;

Son corps blafard, rayé par des lignes vermeilles,

Me faisaient naître au cœur des pitiés nonpareilles,

Et mes yeux débordaient en des ruisseaux de pleurs,

Comme dut en verser la Mère de Douleurs.

Dans l'outremer du ciel les chérubins fidèles,

Se lamentaient en chœur, la face sous leurs ailes,

Et l'un d'eux recueillait, un ciboire à la main,

Le pur-sang de la plaie où boit le genre humain ;

La sainte vierge, au bas, regardait : pauvre mère

Son divin fils en proie à l'agonie amère ;

Madeleine et saint Jean, sous les bras de la croix

Mornes, échevelés, sans soupirs et sans voix,

Plus dégoutants de pleurs qu'après la pluie un arbre,

Étaient debout, pareils à des piliers de marbre.


C'était, certes, un spectacle à faire réfléchir,

Et je sentis mon cou, comme un roseau, fléchir

Sous le vent que faisait l'aile de ma pensée,

Avec le chant du soir, vers le ciel élancée.

Je croisai gravement mes deux bras sur mon sein,

Et je pris mon menton dans le creux de ma main,

Et je me dis : « O Christ ! Tes douleurs sont trop vives ;

Après ton agonie au jardin des Olives,

Il fallait remonter près de ton père, au ciel,

Et nous laisser à nous l'éponge avec le fiel ;

Les clous percent ta chair, et les fleurons d'épines

Entrent profondément dans tes tempes divines.

Tu vas mourir, toi, Dieu, comme un homme. La mort

Recule épouvantée à ce sublime effort ;

Elle a peur de sa proie, elle hésite à la prendre,

Sachant qu'après trois jours il la lui faudra rendre,

Et qu'un ange viendra, qui, radieux et beau,

Lèvera de ses mains la pierre du tombeau ;

Mais tu n'en as pas moins souffert ton agonie,

Adorable victime entre toutes bénie ;

Mais tu n'en a pas moins avec les deux voleurs,

Étendu tes deux bras sur l'arbre de douleurs.


Ô rigoureux destin ! Une pareille vie,

D'une pareille mort si promptement suivie !

Pour tant de maux soufferts, tant d'absinthe et de fiel,

Où donc est le bonheur, le vin doux et le miel ?

La parole d'amour pour compenser l'injure,

Et la bouche qui donne un baiser par blessure ?

Dieu lui-même a besoin quand il est blasphémé,

Pour nous bénir encore de se sentir aimé,

Et tu n'as pas, Jésus, traversé cette terre,

N'ayant jamais pressé sur ton cœur solitaire

Un cœur sincère et pur, et fait ce long chemin

Sans avoir une épaule où reposer ta main,

Sans une âme choisie où répandre avec flamme

Tous les trésors d'amour enfermés dans ton âme.


Ne vous alarmez pas, esprits religieux,

Car l'inspiration descend toujours des cieux,

Et mon ange gardien, quand vint cette pensée,

De son bouclier d'or ne l'a pas repoussée.

C'est l'heure de l'extase où Dieu se laisse voir,

L'Angélus éploré tinte aux cloches du soir ;

Comme aux bras de l'amant, une vierge pâmée,

L'encensoir d'or exhale une haleine embaumée ;

La voix du jour s'éteint, les reflets des vitraux,

Comme des feux follets, passent sur les tombeaux,

Et l'on entend courir, sous les ogives frêles,

Un bruit confus de voix et de battements d'ailes ;

La foi descend des cieux avec l'obscurité ;

L'orgue vibre ; l'écho répond : Eternité !

Et la blanche statue, en sa couche de pierre,

Rapproche ses deux mains et se met en prière.

Comme un captif, brisant les portes du cachot,

L'âme du corps s'échappe et s'élance si haut,

Qu'elle heurte, en son vol, au détour d'un nuage,

L'étoile échevelée et l'archange en voyage ;

Tandis que la raison, avec son pied boiteux,

La regarde d'en-bas se perdre dans les cieux.

C'est à cette heure-là que les divins poètes,

Sentent grandir leur front et deviennent prophètes.


Ô mystère d'amour ! Ô mystère profond !

Abîme inexplicable où l'esprit se confond ;

Qui de nous osera, philosophe ou poète,

Dans cette sombre nuit plonger avant la tête ?

Quelle langue assez haute et quel cœur assez pur,

Pour chanter dignement tout ce poème obscur ?

Qui donc écartera l'aile blanche et dorée,

Dont un ange abritait cette amour ignorée ?

Qui nous dira le nom de cette autre Éloa ?

Et quelle âme, ô Jésus, à t'aimer se voua ?


Murs de Jérusalem, vénérables décombres,

Vous qui les avez vus et couverts de vos ombres,

Ô palmiers du Carmel ! Ô cèdres du Liban !

Apprenez-nous qui donc il aimait mieux que Jean ?

Si vos troncs vermoulus et si vos tours minées,

Dans leur écho fidèle, ont, depuis tant d'années,

Parmi les souvenirs des choses d'autrefois,

Conservé leur mémoire et le son de leur voix ;

Parlez et dites-nous, ô forêts ! ô ruines !

Tout ce que vous savez de ces amours divines !

Dites quels purs éclairs dans leurs yeux reluisaient,

Et quels soupirs ardents de leurs cœurs s'élançaient !

Et toi, Jourdain, réponds, sous les berceaux de palmes,

Quand la lune trempait ses pieds dans tes eaux calmes,

Et que le ciel semait sa face de plus d'yeux,

Que n'en traîne après lui le paon tout radieux ;

Ne les as-tu pas vus sur les fleurs et les mousses,

Glisser en se parlant avec des voix plus douces

Que les roucoulements des colombes de mai,

Que le premier aveu de celle que j'aimai ;

Et dans un pur baiser, symbole du mystère,

Unir la terre au ciel et le ciel à la terre.


Les échos sont muets, et le flot du Jourdain

Murmure sans répondre et passe avec dédain ;

Les morts de Josaphat, troublés dans leur silence,

Se tournent sur leur couche, et le vent frais balance

Au milieu des parfums dans les bras du palmier,

Le chant du rossignol et le nid du ramier.


Frère, mais voyez donc comme la Madeleine

Laisse sur son col blanc couler à flots d'ébène

Ses longs cheveux en pleurs, et comme ses beaux yeux,

Mélancoliquement, se tournent vers les cieux !

Qu'elle est belle ! Jamais, depuis Ève la blonde,

Une telle beauté n'apparut sur le monde ;

Son front est si charmant, son regard est si doux,

Que l'ange qui la garde, amoureux et jaloux,

Quand le désir craintif rôde et s'approche d'elle,

Fait luire son épée et le chasse à coups d'aile.


Ô pâle fleur d'amour éclose au paradis !

Qui répands tes parfums dans nos déserts maudits,

Comment donc as-tu fait, ô fleur ! Pour qu'il te reste

Une couleur si fraîche, une odeur si céleste ?

Comment donc as-tu fait, pauvre sœur du ramier,

Pour te conserver pure au cœur de ce bourbier ?

Quel miracle du ciel, sainte prostituée,

Que ton cœur, cette mer, si souvent remuée,

Des coquilles du bord et du limon impur,

N'ait pas, dans l'ouragan, souillé ses flots d'azur,

Et qu'on ait toujours vu sous leur manteau limpide,

La perle blanche au fond de ton âme candide !

C'est que tout cœur aimant est réhabilité,

Qu'il vous vient une autre âme et que la pureté

Qui remontait au ciel redescend et l'embrasse,

comme à sa sœur coupable une sœur qui fait grâce ;

C'est qu'aimer c'est pleurer, c'est croire, c'est prier ;

C'est que l'amour est saint et peut tout expier.


Mon grand peintre ignoré, sans en savoir les causes,

Dans ton sublime instinct tu comprenais ces choses,

Tu fis de ses yeux noirs ruisseler plus de pleurs ;

Tu gonflas son beau sein de plus hautes douleurs ;

La voyant si coupable et prenant pitié d'elle,

Pour qu'on lui pardonnât, tu l'as faite plus belle,

Et ton pinceau pieux, sur le divin contour,

A promené longtemps ses baisers pleins d'amour ;

Elle est plus belle encore que la vierge Marie,

Et le prêtre, à genoux, qui soupire et qui prie,

Dans sa pieuse extase, hésite entre les deux,

Et ne sait pas laquelle est la reine des cieux.


Ô sainte pécheresse ! Ô grande repentante !

Madeleine, c'est toi que j'eusse pour amante

Dans mes rêves choisie, et toute la beauté,

Tout le rayonnement de la virginité,

Montrant sur son front blanc la blancheur de son âme,

Ne sauraient m'émouvoir, ô femme vraiment femme,

Comme font tes soupirs et les pleurs de tes yeux,

Ineffable rosée à faire envie aux cieux !

Jamais lis de Saron, divine courtisane,

Mirant aux eaux des lacs sa robe diaphane,

N'eut un plus pur éclat ni de plus doux parfums ;

Ton beau front inondé de tes longs cheveux bruns,

Laisse voir, au travers de ta peau transparente,

Le rêve de ton âme et ta pensée errante,

Comme un globe d'albâtre éclairé par dedans !

Ton œil est un foyer dont les rayons ardents

Sous la cendre des cœurs ressuscitent les flammes ;

O la plus amoureuse entre toutes les femmes !

Les séraphins du ciel à peine ont dans le cœur,

Plus d'extase divine et de sainte langueur ;

Et tu pourrais couvrir de ton amour profonde,

Comme d'un manteau d'or la nudité du monde !

Toi seule sais aimer, comme il faut qu'il le soit,

Celui qui t'a marquée au front avec le doigt,

Celui dont tu baignais les pieds de myrrhe pure,

Et qui pour s'essuyer avait ta chevelure ;

Celui qui t'apparut au jardin, pâle encore

D'avoir dormi sa nuit dans le lit de la mort ;

Et, pour te consoler, voulut que la première

Tu le visses rempli de gloire et de lumière.


En faisant ce tableau, Raphaël inconnu,

N'est-ce pas ? Ce penser comme à moi t'est venu,

Et que ta rêverie a sondé ce mystère,

Que je voudrais pouvoir à la fois dire et taire ?

Ô poètes ! Allez prier à cet autel,

A l'heure où le jour baisse, à l'instant solennel,

Quand d'un brouillard d'encens la nef est toute pleine.

Regardez le Jésus et puis la Madeleine ;

Plongez-vous dans votre âme et rêvez au doux bruit

Que font en s'éployant les ailes de la nuit ;

Peut-être un chérubin détaché de la toile,

A vos yeux, un moment, soulèvera le voile,

Et dans un long soupir l'orgue murmurera

L'ineffable secret que ma bouche taira.

well, ain't that an oklahoma sing-along sounding title; pretentious *** gives me all the jitters.*

the parody of pronouns, Walt Whitman's
and Jack Spicer's collected poetry - both
are always the front-running jokes
with someone else's selected compilation -
the parody of pronouns:
the father the son the holy spirit -
me, myself and i -
philosopher practice the same parody -
deluded ******* think they're kings -
the royal we - the royal we meaning
the entourage included -
the clown juggling both the philosopher
and the king and himself (reflexive compound,
not a reflective compound - oddly enough
the Oxford dictionary has a time period
where new compound nouns are in
purgatory of hyphen usage, before
being admitted to the heaven of no red line
underlining a "spelling mistake") -
it's the profanity of pronoun usage -
poets ease in and out of pronoun variations
almost unconsciously - prose writers tend to
get lost in creating characters / puppets -
no out of body experience in fiction -
just truths that are supposed to be lies.
but you know what? schoolchildren
are taught that poetry exists, sure as **** they're
taught it exists - but they're taught it
with too much emphasis on a scientific approach
to it: spot a metaphor... spot a pun!
are bird-watching or something? is there an app
on your phone that might recognise a type of
flower or a type of bird? (snigger) - but you
caught your Pokemon, haven't you?!
cultures that respect poetry are caustic -
if they take it to their heart - like Iranian schism
early on with Islam - no ultimate truth with
a schism, just do it like the Blue Indians,
allow more and more schisms, give it all,
you have a ruler, on it 12 inches or 30 centimetres...
for it to be effective you can't have division
according two one judo chop, down the middle -
**** it, let's go down to a sensible division,
i'm not talking nano-metres, but centimetres -
we won't get any Pisan anomalies that way;
but are those scientists really telling as that
the mystery of life is how far we can divide things up?
sub-atomic clever are they? really?!
you see what happens when civilisations undermine
art - make fun of it... the dementia epidemic -
oh sure... don't read a poem, instead play
cognitive games, do a crossword, get mindful,
complete a su doku - but don't read a poem,
don't even try to make conversation interesting -
poems ought to stimulate involving conversation -
the way the art sees it? we're living under a
dictatorship - swear to god, the poet sees it like that -
we're not living in a democracy -
you have charities concerned with gross
negligence of dogs - gross negligence of poets?
you 'avin a laugh - which means many are
put off it, they write 10 or 20 and then fade away -
they think the ease of writing a few words
because they're from the generation where universal
education was permitted can make a buck from
a few ooh ah repercussions when a piano fell
from the sky and they had to crab-walk two metres
into the gutter - then walk on.
you neglect something precious it bites back -
the dementia epidemic is one such example,
the current problem: premature depression
in your people is another - the 21st century
sandwich; but the ease that poetry handles pronoun
usage is akin to kings - technically mistaken
for personas - fake - we write like we walk on airs
and superstitions of the gnawing paranoia of
power and subsequent respectability of the power's
authority up-kept and constantly implemented
for proof of its effectiveness -
getting a trained monkey is one thing,
but getting a monkey that can train itself is another -
as it stands, Oxford treats nibbling on
Germanic with unease - the Oxford hyphen
is the purgatory of necessarily compounded words -
an optical loon brigade loop of adding necessary
complexity to a language and making mathematics
simpler, more atomic, we don't need an atomic
shrapnel language construction -
and yes, this is an old attachment of mine:
reflective pronoun compounds - e.g. my self -
and reflexive pronoun compounds - i.e. myself.

question is, motörhead (motoorhead) or hawkwind? given hawkwind's magnu... yeah, the latter.

i told you about it,
about the despair as a reader
jailed together with ezra pound
writing the pisan cantos,
LXXVII gave me a reader's
constipation, hardly a digested
piece of work,
but then the sky was gloomy grey
atypical of england,
and i forced myself to read the piece
having left it mid-way;
well, i was reading an article on
******* and an abstinence from
it on *vice news...
apparently the benefits and the cons
are a debate akin to a swing:
to and fro... scientific objectivity
(nearly an -ism), a ******* pendulum...
tick, tock, tick, tock, la la la, ha, etc.
so i got reading the canto, and suddenly
the sun came out bold enough to
look at forms to caste shadows of them...
weird shamanism or just chance opportunism,
but if you get my drift, you wonder
at the brush and the brush-strokes,
the sun the brush, the canvas well atmosphere,
and the paintings shadows in luminescent anorexia...
my drift though:
the a new directions paperback of the cantos,
page 491... the verse about the army politics
and the exquisite use of grammatical
terms as decisive shortening of events...
i.e. noun: chair, tree, armadillo, bed, head...
adjective: chewy chow mein... etc.
that gave me the giggles...
and indeed Pope Francis told the Rolling Stones
to not play a free concert on good friday
in Cuba...
but they did anyway...
i say, someone please steal the pope's kippah!
it's a farce him adorning it post-holocaust!

Ezra in a tent
typing out Pisan Cantos
madness saved his ****.

Sé que hay una persona
que me busca en su mano, día y noche,
encontrándome, a cada minuto, en su calzado.
¿Ignora que la noche está enterrada
con espuelas detrás de la cocina?
Sé que hay una persona compuesta de mis partes,
a la que integro cuando va mi talle
cabalgando en su exacta piedrecilla.
¿Ignora que a su cofre
no volverá moneda que salió con su retrato?
Sé el día,
pero el sol se me ha escapado;
sé el acto universal que hizo en su cama
con ajeno valor y esa agua tibia, cuya
superficial frecuencia es una mina.
¿Tan pequeña es, acaso, esa persona,
que hasta sus propios pies así la pisan?
Un gato es el lindero entre ella y yo,
al lado mismo de su tasa de agua.
La veo en las esquinas, se abre y cierra
su veste, antes palmera interrogante...
¿Qué podrá hacer sino cambiar de llanto?
Pero me busca y busca. ¡Es una historia!

Yo soy la movediza perenne; nunca dura
en mi una forma; pronto mi ser se transfigura,
y ya entre guijas de ónix cantando peregrino,
ya en témpanos helados detengo mi camino,
ya vuelo por los aires trocándome en vapores,
ya soy iris en polvo de todos los colores,
o rocío que asciende, o aguacero que llueve...
Mas Dios también me ha dado la albura de la nieve,
la albura de la nieve enigmática y fría
que cae de los cielos como una eucaristía,
que por los puntiagudos techos resbala leda
y que cuando la pisan cruje como la seda.

Cayendo silenciosa, de blanco al mundo arropo.
Subí, vapor, a lo alto, desciendo al suelo, copo;
subí gris de los lagos que la quietud estanca,
y bajo blanca al mundo... ¡Oh qué bello es ser blanca!

¿Por qué soy blanca? En premio al sacrificio mío,
porque tirito para que nadie tenga frío,
porque mi lino todos los fríos almacena
¡y dios me torna blanca por haber sido buena!
¿Verdad que es llevadera la palma del martirio
así? Yo caigo como los pétalos de un lirio
de lo alto, y no pudiendo cantar mi canción pura
con murmurios de linfa, la canto con blancura.

La blancura es el himno más hermoso y más santo;
ser blanca es orar; siendo yo, pues, blanca, oro y canto.
Ser luminosa es otro de los cantos mejores:
¿No ves que las estrellas salmodian con fulgores?
Por eso el rey poeta dijo en himno de amor:
"El firmamento narra la gloria del Señor".

Se tú como la Nieve que inmaculada llueve

Y yo clamé: -¡Alabemos a Dios, hermana Nieve!

A la orilla, de mí ya desprendido,
toco la destrucción que en mí se atreve,
palpo ceniza y nada, lo que llueve
el cielo en su caer oscurecido.

Anegado en mi sombra-espejo mido
la deserción del soplo que me mueve:
huyen, fantasma ejército de nieve,
tacto y color, perfume y sed, ruido.

El cielo se desangra en el cobalto
de un duro mar de espumas minerales;
yazgo a mis pies, me miro en el acero

de la piedra gastada y del asfalto:
pisan opacos muertos maquinales,
no mi sombra, mi cuerpo verdadero.

Therefore, the Lord himself will give them this sign: "A ****** will conceive and give birth to a son, and she will name him Immanuel." From this calami lapse, all of Patmia was refracted in the chromatics of Emmanuel, alluding to Isaiah as an infallible God of Salvation after having sent Sennacherib's mesnadas to his turn. His ministry came to be established along with all the soldiers who did not finally confront each other, but he came to support them from the waters that came from the eastern sea. The kingdom of Judah appeared in glory and solemnity anticipating seven centuries before the Mashiach came to the world of Israel. Hezekiah appears again after seven centuries in Patmia, to decline the fraternal help of Isaías, to save the collective quasi shipwreck in the mountains that would strike the edges of Patmia later after the conclusion of the battle, Etréstles intervening from where he entered the Hydors, as the sixfold brightest star of Aquarius of the Gulf of Skalá to protect all the landowners of the Oikodeomeo, litigating the swells of the sea that should refer to the synchronous beats of the Ruach Hakodesh. Etréstles entered the pointed mansards on the tops of the allotropic waves, carrying a scarlet ribbon in his right hand and in the other with an indigo hue when he swam he did not hold back from moaning for fear that the whole island might disappear, he deprecated while He floated imploring in Hellenic all the Prosas of Rhodes, thus leaving hanging on his neck the suffering of mercy that looked at him from the expectant shore, but the scarlet ribbon cried out for the Emmanuel who would be born among the cerulean granules, concomitant with the Mashiach that clung to him on the blue ribbon when a fragmented chroma emerged from the rib that divided the seven colors into fourteen, from where he propelled Etréstles over the calvaries of the water that prevented him from seeing how undaunted Saint John was reflected with his staff. The Vernardicidal ***** harassed the ministry of Isaiah who came to save Vernarth from the Hercules vortex, where everything will guide him with the conception of Vernarthian and Saint John the Apostle, with from afar they encouraged him saying: "Epoikodomeo" with the aim of building geomorphological waters of the Dam or blood of the Mashiach, forging, increasing wisdom and security to preserve and encode them with the Talmudic essences of Spirit / Pnevma that is the essence of the Messiah to make the ephemeral phase of Jesus with the prosopon of the fit in the primordial scale of Patmos, along with all those who entrusted their ministry to him. Isaiah stated that from a Maltona the Messiah will be born soon, the same one who has accompanied Vernarth throughout this journey par excellence from Judah when he sublimated the iconography of Saint John the Apostle on his return to his inheritance, thus the requiems said that Isaiah had been sawn. by Manasseh, indicating that his prophet's remains would gather on Patmos to materially reintegrate themselves before the panorama of any, beyond the scriptures, only the Pnevma prevailing, which ingratiated itself with the apocryphal papyri. The laws of the sea opposed the arms and chinstraps that Etréstles wore in the joints of each arm, creating with them psalms that indicated the presence of the divine mother of the Mashiach, with the divine contribution that embroiled the scriptures by the Psalms of Etréstles by besieging at once on the cusps of the waves, making use of the same phalanxes and of the Apsidas Manes with watery and ****** meddling by Sennacherib's troops, who by a narrow imbalance in the authorship of the debate segment on a defense that was with the angels, who had already slipped through the opening of the dying parapsychology, to enter the purging compass of the blanket with a Venerable who would speak to them in the first person about the lashes of the breakers enclosed in the annunciation of the Emmanuel that was going to radiate with his counterpart Jesus Christ in the scarlet and indigo Hydor of the Kosmous water compendium of all Patmia. The exegetes were all in their robes on the top of the mountain, they were all and at the same time, they were not. Isaiah wanted to predispose the messianic perception to unite the generous ends of the Majestic Tikun and the Gam zu Letová, so that the scarlet tekhelet itself merges with the chinstraps in the joints and Etréstles that came from the Seventh Cemetery of Messolonghi, to present them the chants of the seventh parapsychological regression of Vernarth's wounded hands that he could barely hold, having the Pisan Verses of Ezra Pound, agglutinated with the Psalms of Etréstles saying thus:

“Humiliate your vanity, You are nothing more than a dog beaten under the hail, just a swollen magpie in the fickle sun, half black, half white, and you can't even distinguish the wing from the tail. Humble your vanity, Petty is all your hatred nourished by falsehood. Humble your vanity, eager to destroy, greedy in charity. Humiliate your vanity, I tell you, humiliate it. But having done instead of doing nothing, this is not vanity. Having decency, called for an obtuse to open, having picked up a living tradition from the air or from a magnificent old eye calls it undefeated, this is not vanity. Here the error is everything in what was not done, everything in the shyness that hesitated ...

Etréstles answers with his Psalm:

"In the main, I attend to his voice that undresses small when they fall cliffs ...when the fierce sentinel hides the Xiphos from the evil ones who shield them inthe iniquity here on Patmos of his tongue-lashing sword that spills bitter blood,that she is thrown on famous vices of Pronoia and dry crops in the storehouse ...
with dormant grasses between lashes of hunger, thirst, and angry sleep.

This is where the Mashiach sleeps and does not lavish the drowsiness of the world! that he shoots and is not afraid of spitting a splendid Hercules cloaked with fullerides of necromancy and flashes of unsustainability in the bitter Pashkien eating the sores from the ferments of his hemlock fingers.

Who will be in the glory that calms his fingernails over the joy of Anubis? inquiring pustules of bolted injustices that stagnate in the
Sagittarius tongue flaring up trilingual on their own languages ...
If there is the blood that I can retain, it will be by submission with declined sphincters or not! seeing where everyone is without pressure or punishment of stuttering or fact that will never happen on a Patmian Reichstag, understanding that their voices
They are the proscenium of the Elohim containing the glory of the fallen when the periphery of the incisive tenebrosity are slices of the Vernarth Psalm, and of Rabbi Masoretic that shelters you when you sleep, however in a thousand years ...

I've been stragglers collecting extreme remains of immortal bones,
In invisible frames with the vanity of seven verses that escaped from my hands, thousands of them being built away from my Duoverse of love towards them atavistic ... almost become adopted children of Masoretic ignorance ... and in the confusion of the
Elohim translated into a genome after an open heart between the Alef and the Tav, between the arrow that serves as accommodation in her mind, unable to sleep if she is not there…! but high up where I can dwell, I see and I abide by being silenced in my vanity, seeing that nothing is mine and of those around me on the battlefield, who sublimate themselves by walking a lifetime on the side of my enemy wounded by the Dorus, and that I have never tried to take it off completely with slight iniquity, only avoiding zafrales and scrutiny in its search.

My vanity will perish undefeated but failed to revive itself with dazzles and sagites that pierce the saps in your children and mine, being poles of renewal of a Hoplite Raeder, cutting the thymus of the cattle and saying that their wounds are the same splendor of the Sagittae Parvulum, like Seraphim children prior to a hyperonym, fracturing sacred bravery that they enumerate him to lose himself in the numbering of infinity ...! As gladiator children, eternal infants and children of Zeus, also being Seraphim of Zeus and Cherubim who will make mustard its fragility, unstitching the time that it carves from the thyme trying to be the Kashmar "

From the eye of heaven, everything was supplied when Emmanuel himself, who was tried at the end of the battle of Patmia, was recognized. It was six o'clock in the afternoon when the omnipresent presence of Isaiah's interface antiphons was marked from where he would make them hold onto the mega Nazer as the offspring of the uncontrolled branch of his hyper parapsychology that expiated itself from the trunk of the descendants of Vernarth, alluding to to Wonthelimar as one of them who was on the wheel of Capricorn as an internal element of Hydor when it was made effective between the golden hands of Isaiah, with full genuflection enumerating from sinister to right the upright derivation of the Psalm of Etréstles with the Nazer, which is It would take refuge in the foundations of omission as a new shining principality, from where the light of the fifteen hundred years between the seventh heaven and space of this same inaugurating the stolon from where the angel Gabriel would make of all the natives of the Notsri of Nazareth the energy that surpass the masses of matter above the average of its brightness, implanting the Duoversal advance where the Mashiach. From Ofel will come the palmar remains with Marie de Vallés propitiating from the Notós or the South of the Mandragoron of Patmia, like a Bull of Concession of collective rights from Jerusalem with the remains of Isaiah in his living Status. The vernacular spirits of the Bethany journey were incarnated as the ruling planets, which would thus all be similar to Saturn, leaving all the rest with the same unrestricted semblance of cosmic materiality, with this transfer of Saturn's atmospheric outer pharaoh overshadowing all others. planets, under a stepped level towards the Messianic primogeniture, dislocating the vibrational levels above the primary embankment of the lithosphere, like a Qliphoth or shell of Saturn's debauchery when experiencing the bonds of emerging Christianization of the emotional state that made up this external preferential layer, of which of this genre they would create multi-natalist phases with the Qliphoth of the configuration of the vibratory cessation of the physical body of Patmos. In this way the seventieth Qliphoth or farfara of the compendium of exteriority and interiority would culminate, giving way to the Fos or light that would constitute the hybrid Greco-Hebraic componence on the braids that lowered from the Tekhelet of Etréstles when it levitated towards the Megaron, specifically the Naos that It would incite an end that just headed the engagement of the spaces that will be covered by the reviewing archetribe on the acroteria as the Lux of the beginning of the transfer of quantum of energy, which would begin to form the browbones and chin of Euclidean incidence in the cockades of Etréstles, by structuring itself in the cosmic rhythms of the tzitzit of its right hand, and in its left the Tallit that westernized all the supreme dogmas of eternalism, that carried a brand new covering of Áullos Kósmos with this mantle of hegemony, hanging from the tzitzit that would finally be the dragging ropes of the body of Etréstles to the cosmic ridge of Skalá. From a Genioglossal Muscle; where the Etréstles stimulation tendons were inserted, great impulses of language opened towards the pre-Adamic gates, radiating like wide puffs of the superior process that strangled the phraseologies that indicated error of omission, making everyone could conceive of each other before heading towards conversion, and to be able to aspire to the Naos from the Megarón. The most experienced used to expectorate and move sharply with their jaws when the membranes of this region fled from the tip or hyoglossal of their mouth, shuddering from its sublingual base when they saw that the Mashiach carried Etréstles half-dead from the sea, amid so many prosaic waves consuming him from a breath that was separated from it by a thin layer of adipose cell tissue, and by the Middle Septum towards the definitive Seventh Heaven of God, speaking to them of spaces that will be filled by the magnanimous who have reaped him from his Eternalism. This was neither more nor less than the protruding border of the Messiah speaking through those mouths with insignia of enunciation, and portents of words of reconversion.

Zumban las balas en la tarde última.
Hay viento y hay cenizas en el viento,
se dispersan el día y la batalla
deforme, y la victoria es de los otros.
Vencen los bárbaros, los gauchos vencen.
Yo, que estudié las leyes y los cánones,
yo, Francisco Narciso de Laprida,
cuya voz declaró la independencia
de estas crueles provincias, derrotado,
de sangre y de sudor manchado el rostro,
sin esperanza ni temor, perdido,
huyo hacia el Sur por arrabales últimos.
Como aquel capitán del Purgatorio
que, huyendo a pie y ensangrentando el llano,
fue cegado y tumbado por la muerte
donde un oscuro río pierde el nombre,
así habré de caer. Hoy es el término.
La noche lateral de los pantanos
me acecha y me demora. Oigo los cascos
de mi caliente muerte que me busca
con jinetes, con belfos y con lanzas.
Yo que anhelé ser otro, ser un hombre
de sentencias, de libros, de dictámenes
a cielo abierto yaceré entre ciénagas;
pero me endiosa el pecho inexplicable
un júbilo secreto. Al fin me encuentro
con mi destino sudamericano.
A esta ruinosa tarde me llevaba
el laberinto múltiple de pasos
que mis días tejieron desde un día
de la niñez. Al fin he descubierto
la recóndita clave de mis años,
la suerte de Francisco de Laprida,
la letra que faltaba, la perfecta
forma que supo Dios desde el principio.
En el espejo de esta noche alcanzo
mi insospechado rostro eterno. El círculo
se va a cerrar. Yo aguardo que así sea.

Pisan mis pies la sombra de las lanzas
que me buscan. Las befas de mi muerte,
los jinetes, las crines, los caballos,
se ciernen sobre mí... Ya el primer golpe,
ya el duro hierro que me raja el pecho,
el íntimo cuchillo en la garganta.

Aquel que ha sentido una vez en sus manos temblar la alegría
no podrá morir nunca.Yo lo veo muy claro en mi noche completa.
Me costó muchos siglos de muerte poder comprenderlo,
muchos siglos de olvido y de sombra constante,
muchos siglos de darle mi cuerpo extinguido
a la yerba que encima de mí balancea su fresca verdura.
Ahora el aire, allá arriba, más alto que el suelo que pisan los vivos
será azul. Temblará estremecido, rompiéndose,
desgarrado su vidrio oloroso por claras campanas,
por el curvo volar de gorriones,
por las flores doradas y blancas de esencias frutales.
(Yo una vez hice un ramo con ellas.
Puede ser que después arrojara las flores al agua,
puede ser que le diera las flores a un niño pequeño,
que llenara de flores alguna cabeza que ya no recuerdo,
que a mi madre llevara las flores;
yo querría poner primavera en sus manos).¡Será ya primavera allá arriba!
Pero yo que he sentido una vez en mis manos temblar la alegría
no podré morir nunca.
Pero yo que he tocado  una vez las agudas agujas del pino
no podré morir nunca.
Morirán los que nunca jamás sorprendieron
aquel vago pasar de la loca alegría.
Pero yo que he tenido su tibia hermosura en mis manos
no podré morir nunca.Aunque muera mi cuerpo, y no quede memoria de mí.

y habiendo muchos pajaritos y silbos en la /
parte superior del pensamiento o cabeza / y ruidos
en la cabeza como un mar / o lamentos /
o vientos o movimientos / soles

que chocan entre sí / se apagan / arden / o potencias
como miles de bestias que pisan
el arrabal del alma / es decir padeciendo
los trabajos terribles / aún así
ocurre el alma entera en su quietud /
o deseo / o claridad no tocada
por pena / menosprecio / miseria /
sufrimiento o ruindad / entonces

¿qué es esta paz sin venganza / o memoria
del cielo por venir / o ternura
que baja de tus manos / manantial
donde los pajaritos de la parte superior del pensamiento
van a beber / pían dulces / o callan
como luz que viniese de vos / alita
que vuela suave sobre guerra y fatiga
como vuelo de la misma pasión?

Aquí estás en la sombra,
con tu mano en la mía,
respirando en un tiempo
sin antes ni después.

Ya ves que,
aunque te fuiste,
no te vas todavía,
y estas aquí, conmigo
no importa donde estés.

Desnuda en esta sombra
te palpará mi mano,
lenta mano de ciego
que acaricia una flor,
y sabré de repente
donde empieza el verano,
yo, que solo he sabido
donde acaba el amor.

Aquí estas en la sombra,
conmigo todavía,
compartiendo este lecho
calidamente aquí,
Detenida en la noche,
y donde nunca es de día,
detenida en la noche
y amaneciendo en mí.

Y ahora soy como el surco
donde madura el trigo,
como la flor que nace
donde pisan tus pies,
porque, aunque nunca vuelvas,
siempre estarás conmigo,
conmigo en esta sombra
sin antes ni después.

«En el gran cielo de la poesía,
mejor dicho
en la tierra o mundo de la poesía que incluye cielos
astros
dioses
mortales
está cantando el ruiseñor de Keats
siempre
pasa Rimbaud empuñando sus 17 años como la llama de amor viva de San Juan
a la Teresa se le dobla el dolor y su caballo triza el polvo enamorado Francisco de Quevedo y Villegas
el dulce Garcilaso arde en los infiernos de John Donne
de César Vallejo caen caminos para que los pies de la poesía caminen
pies que pisan callados como un burrito andino
Baudelaire baja un albatros de su reino celeste
con el frac del albatros Mallarméva a la fiesta de la nada posible
suena el violín de Verlaine en la fiesta de la nada posible
recuerda que la sangre es posible en medio de la nada
que Girondo liublimará perrinunca lamora
y girarán los barquitos de tuñón contra el metal de espanto que abusó a Apollinaire
oh Lou que desamaste la eternidad de viaje
el palacio del exceso donde entró la sabiduría de Blake
el paco urondo que forraba en lamé la felicidad para evitarle fríos de la época
mientras Roque Dalton trepaba por el palo mayor de su alma y gritaba».

The exegetes were all in their robes on the top of the mountain, they were all and at the same time, they were not. Isaiah wanted to predispose the messianic perception to join the generous ends of the Majestic Tikun and the Gam Zu Letová, so that the scarlet Tekhelet itself that merges with the chinstraps on the wrists from Etréstles that came from the Seventh Cemetery of Messolonghi, to present them the songs of the seventh parapsychological regression of Vernarth's with the wounded hands that he could  barely hold, here having the Pisan Verses of Ezra Pound, agglutinated with the Psalms of Etréstles saying this:

“Humiliate your vanity, You are nothing more than a dog beaten under the hail, just a swollen magpie in the fickle sun, half black, half white, and you can't even distinguish the wing from the tail. Humble your vanity, Petty is all your hatred nourished by falsehood. Humble your vanity, eager to destroy, greedy in charity.

Humiliate your vanity, I tell you, humiliate it. But having done instead of doing nothing, this is not vanity. Having decency, called for an obtuse to open, having picked up a living tradition from the air or from a magnificent old eye calls it undefeated, this is not vanity. Here the error is everything in what was not done, everything in the shyness that hesitated ...

Etréstles answers with his Psalm:

"In the main, I attend to his voice that undresses small when they fall cliffs ... when the fierce sentinel hides the Xiphos from the evil ones who shield them in Iniquity here on Patmos from his tongue-lashing sword that spills bitter blood, that is thrown on famous vices of Pronoia and dry crops in the storehouse ...with dormant grasses between lashes of hunger, thirst, and angry sleep.

Here is where the Mashiach sleeps and does not lavish the drowsiness of the world! that he shoots and is not afraid of spitting a splendid Hercules who is cloaked with fullerides of necromancy and flashes of unsustainability in the bitter Pashkien eating the sores from the ferments of his hemlock fingers.

Who will be in the glory that calms his fingernails over the joy of Anubis? inquiring pustules of bolted injustices that stagnate in the Sagittarius tongue flaring up trilingual on their own languages ​​...
If there is blood that I can retain it will be by submission with declined sphincters or not! seeing where everyone is without pressure or punishment of stuttering or fact that will never happen on a Patmian Reichstag, understanding that their voices
They are the proscenium of Elohim containing the glory of the fallen when the periphery of the incisive tenebrosity are slices of the Vernarth Psalm, and of Rabbi Masoretic that shelters you when you sleep, however in a thousand years ...

I've been stragglers collecting extreme remains of immortal bones, In invisible frames with the vanity of seven verses that escaped from my hands, thousands of them being built away from my Duoverse of love towards them atavistic ...

almost become adopted children of Masoretic ignorance ... and in the confusion of the Elohim translated into a genome after an open heart between the Alef and the Tav, between the arrow that serves as accommodation in her mind, unable to sleep if she is not there…! but high up where I can dwell, I see and I abide by being silenced in my vanity, seeing that nothing is mine and of those around me on the battlefield, who sublimate themselves by walking a lifetime on the side of my enemy wounded by the Dorus, and that I have never tried to take it away completely with slight iniquity, only avoiding winds and scrutiny in its search.

My vanity will perish undefeated but failed to revive itself with dazzles and sagittas that pierce the saps in your children and mine, being poles of renewal of a Hoplite Raeder, cutting the thymus of the cattle and saying that their wounds are the same splendor of the Sagittae Parvulum, like Seraphim children prior to a hyperonym, fracturing sacred bravery that they enumerate him to lose himself in the numbering of infinity ...! As gladiator children, eternal infants and children of Zeus, also being Seraphim of Zeus and Cherubim who will make mustard its fragility, unstitching the time that it carves from the thyme trying to be the Kashmar "

Sé que giras los ojos
cuando te cuento
lo solo que me siento
y que no me quieren
ni los espejos,

que me parezco a la última hoja de otoño,
ya ni siquiera me quiebro cuando me pisan.
Me hundo lento, tan lento,
en la tierra debajo mío.

Que cada día estoy más viejo
y me siento más niño.
Me acuesto debajo de la mesa
porque el piso está frío.

Siento tus besos
sobre mi mejilla,
secar la última lágrima
de una pasión fallida,
de un amor implosionado,
de una astilla
que sigue sangrando.