i actually like the way slavoj žižek understands fascism, given the fourth movement of Beethoven's ninth symphony... as it stands: i really had to take pleasure in my suffering... i once called it: an exquisite pain... it's not that acknowledging pain is difficult, what's difficult is taking pleasure in it... on a whim... nothing as flamboyant as baron sacher-masoch's take on it, transcending toward the ****** thesis... i am the grey matter, the everyday comparison to a factotum sort of analogue of what pain constitutes... and i'm actually free from depressive apathy... i am sometimes prone to laugh like i might be experiencing what the Fore women experienced... the kuru "disease", otherwise known as the creutzfeldt-jakob "disease"... yes... mm... uncontrollable laugher... akin to St. Vitus' dance... sydenham's chorea.. it's hard to see why there should be any cure to the experience... given that the experience is so liberating and has no materialistic mono-mania of a well tended to economy... cannibalism really has a great array of noun-arsenal... a bit like the poetry of Christianity it's akin to... to really believe this *******: you have to take it to the extremes and make every word: utterly isolated, and in a sentence utterly meaningless... it's like a swarm of wasps honing in on a body of a bear that mistook its ash-phlegm nest for a beehive feast... sometimes it happens... but sure as all else concerning: why not take pleasure in an anti-cross crucifixion, i.e. a sick-bed? sure, it's less theatre and many less marble statues worthy of a church... but, if according to žižek / rzirzek / really? ź ż vs. ž... a fascists takes pleasure from suffering... i must be in this club, since i do, the pain in my brain with its sizzling quiz of blood emeshed in synapses has moved to my *******... ******* ahoy! i sit in a chair, and when drink (esp. when drinking): they are goosebump prone, titilating me... amusing me... all the pain concerning my brain has moved into a pleasure reaction bound to the testicles... i couldn't have foreseen this waterfall if i didn't explore the word fascist beyond the communal horror of spotting an orthodox practitioner in either street or cyber-space...

e.g. the fore of papua new guinea
(ghee-knee... later the debated about
quinoa... apparently it's not qui-
       or french agree, we-noah...
  but something else... oh, it's related to a quiz
asking me whether i could possibly be a 5% liberal
elitist... well, if you were reading
the sunday times magazine: it would ask you
that... i did cut it apart as qui- -noa...
  but apparently it's pronounced:
kin-wah...                 once again my point:
you don't use highly concentrated phonetic
units, i.e. diacritical marks...
you're bound to leisure in this linguistic hell
of constantly "correcting" people....
just saying... what's the matter, toad stole
your burp?)

   and i really wanted to write a neat poem...
poems like this emerge,
you go to a shop, by the cheapest whiskey
two cans of beer and a bottle of cola...
it's early February... the cars parked
have the eerie circumstance of jack o'fogfrost
breathing onto the windows...
    your fingers itch from the cold...
you start to really see a skeleton walking
rather than something resembling protein
fat and carbohydrate...
    thankful for winter: to naturally imagine
a skeleton walk in the cold
   smoking a cigarette and drinking the beer
while the whiskey cools in your rucksack...
all you end up needing is
   a square mile, and outer English suburbia...
and a look into that forest you once frequented
walking as if with gauged eyes into
the custard darkness...
   then sitting on a stump, taking all the clothing
items from your torso and listening in
as something neared, cracked a branch
and you uttered into the forest:
  no animal would dare come so near...
      
... (man has to drink, take a break...
         sneaky ******* get to see
a work in progress... lucky them...
           too much of a sober me)...
hey! i'm warming the stove, it's not going to
shoot out firecrackers made from words
into a
     hoghmony celebration.... oh look...
another googlewhack!
      http://tinyurl.com/z8xeqpsn
(billionth of another! this is how i play the "lottery")
ah freckle feckle ****... scoot for new years...
hogmaney...  hogmoney...
  hagmanny...
                 ­  ****! Hogmanay!
    what was i "saying"?
                            
ah wait... i know... i know...
i was watching this film goat (2016)....
with james francko doing cameo but mainly producing...
if anything could put you off going to
university, well, notably an american university
it's this film... now i drink, i really do, heavily...
but what went on in that film was nothing short
of happens when people lack any respect for liquor...
i could watch the roman empire in a zoo...
what i witnessed in this film was:
well... can't see a point of caging a lion,
but i can see all the reason for caging man...
but the problem arises with:
you can take children to a zoo...
          you couldn't even want a child
to experience this sort of Iraqi **** made in
America...
                       i drink, i really do...
i slurped on a prostitutes ****** when drunk...
hell... i even wrote this...
          and i am really starting to believe
that going to university was the worst mistake of my life...
i left it, educated as a chemist,
without a clear move toward a career as a chemist...
    would i care to learn the use of language
to university level? i.e. get an english degree?
      not if i were a middle-class woman
   who's daddy was a doctor or a dentist...
                            people from my background,
double that up with a father who works in construction
and me being of immigrant stock (when will i get
to say expat?) -
  it was the biggest mistake of my life...
you see... other immigrants start to get jealous...
     they say you have to die: for raising for head
above the water...
         a bit like they kicked the hell out of
Jamie Redknapp's career in football...
now he's a pundit... but not a football player...
they smacked him about...
good thing my grandfather was a Silesian miner
for some time... i decided to dig trenches...
yes, metaphor: write poems...
   because i still can't see what nature ordained me
to possess... and why these little hitlers decided wasn't
fair for their "sense of worth"... oh i can name them...
one of them, a childhood sweatheart of a friend,
egyptian / persian, used to call me during
weekdays and sing to me over the phone...
   apparently he could ******* 20 times a day...
i tried 4 times in one day... nothing came out...
      the other was an add on to being in school from
the age of 16 to 18... a paddy-sikh...
   loved barrington levy and driving a car while
******... loved the whole gansta gimmick...
a complete *******...
                           and to think i was fooled into their
little of jealousy... this will make absolutely no sense
to you... given we (a) never spoke outside the realm
of my tornado... and (b) had a coffee?
               well... let's just say: one stupid move on
my behalf while intoxicated on marijuana
aged 21 taught me all i needed to know...
  from the age of 21 through to the age i am now:
some could consider me a monk...
                 or that infamous word: cenobite -
oh i'm just obsessing about how i want to
put my top 3 picks into classic.fm's hall of fame,
and write 3. christopher young's something to think about,
2. christopher young's something to think about...
1. christopher young's something to think about...
as i realised the past two days...
  collecting a personal library of classical music
makes no sense... unless it's Händel... (æ, i.e. :)...
and classical music only makes sense
with a d.j., and yes: a radio...
            there's no point being poncy about classical
music when you collect it...
        unless it might be something by Hans Zimmer
or any other movie soundtrack...
      and you can just sit back, listen to the radio,
and the classics just come and come...
i spent today lying in bed, because classic.fm
was playing from about 6am to about 1pm...
  and then i extended it to 3pm because
of aled jones and the voice so necessary as
that of alexander armstrong... in between?
                     bill turnbull... a news anchor
if i'm not mistaken... couldn't handle it...
  no, not the voice: the choice of music...
but even such people are absolutely necessary...
and would anyone care to remember
the ****** megastore on oxford street?
  the classical music department?
does anyone remember is being sealed off by
   glass like an aquarium from all the other music
genre departments in the store?
   a bit like walking into a lunatic asylum:
everything had to be cork-lined waiting for a Proustian
novel... first you had to appreciate
and build up a palette for silence... before
some concerto could be "ate" like refined sushi...
    radio and classical music does work,
i might have made a mistake collective obscure tastes,
i.e. proto-folk examples in Polish and compositions
of German industrial music...
   i might have done that... yeah, so true with the jazz...
but you have to have a Houdini weak-spot...
so in bed... rummaging through the radio and
television listings and reviews...
   after doing a bit of a crossword (which i can't
for the love of god) and a 6 x 6 su doku...
        now that's definitely sunday activity...
looking through the radio and tv listings...
   esp. noting the day's programme of bbc radio 4...
well, it's not that i'm a convert, with a house
in south-west london...
                i just heard that england is famous
for its eccentrics... i wanted to experience
    the most eccentric practice on these isles...
      tending to a garden would have made sense...
if it wasn't February...
   so reading the listings and reviews was the next
best thing...
    what with confusing Aled Jones with Alex Jones...
that famous britpop bassist turned cheese-maker.

then how do you begin taking fatal
mortal steps, simply motivated by biological
dynamics? i could have ended that
servitude to the waterfall, or should
i correct myself: required it to continue...
      but then interludes in the case of opera
leave me peasant-like, most ignoble...
      there's the 15 minutes were no fame is mentioned,
and no one forces art to become advert...
   since we're talking of the thin-red-line,
i can't but help myself reading more book reviews
in English, than actual books in Polish...
because i care for the cognitive labourers,
i really do... i think they are needed
to bypass actual books, meaning they do all
the work... or should i say arbeiten?
well.. enough critics about, you get to
dissociate yourself from the actual origin...
     a bit like waving your hand at god
and embracing the "awe" inspiring profusion
of the human tongue becoming over-bearing...
not even bearing grudges...
  but no gratitudes either...
                it just is what you care to make of
germans the sole originators of
   the proto "bayeux" tapestry given a.i. -
but then you treat the germans as they
are currently given the sway,
and you awake a humanity in them:
a humanity only germans know how
to acknowledge: a collectivisation -
germans know no concept of individualism
akin to the late-removed isle Saxons...
i.e. the English... the English are always
blitzkrieg specific about the individual,
the fact that so many individuals get a chance to vote
leasves me with blisters of what i can best
estimate as noted to being conscience...
          the germans are best appropriate to
express the volk... the english are like stuffed
animals worshiping the name Byron... Milton...
Blake... Newton...
         and let's leave them there, because if they
finally manage a homogeny of an ethnic
accord to give a momentum unto it via their lack
cohesion... i am assured a passage to
the houses of parliament to laugh,
as a test of my carve to veto, rather than vote.
mainland europe calls them: the islanders!
you can't help but see a care to blow up
the tunnel la mange... the channel tunnel...
because if a 2nd ****** arose...
the tanks would flod that serene countryside...
     i come across foxes all the time...
once i picked a dead fox near the bus station
in romford using two bin bags from the nearby skip...
and walked with it home, weighed it,
just under 10 kilograms... i weighted myself first,
then with the dead fox enclosed in the bin bags...
then i walked with the fox and threw it into
a meadow... i was thinking along the lines:
at least the sanitation officer will have a day off..
  obviously i was tattooed with the idea that
i was some sort of shaman, given two people witnessed
me picking up the corpse...

900 gull herrings eating their own...
      chimanzees also take to a nibble...
        banana slug females are fond of eating
"******", when the mating gets heavy...
not ever, as ever, but with Darwinism had i ever
managed to see a woman like a mantis...
  sorry... looking at the ***-hole of nature like that
will eventually leave you paralysed and
not even awe-struck but fear-woken...
             because it really can't be so much a desire
to look at it as if it was necessarily needing
incorporation, but was necessarily incorporated
nonetheless...
         the ogasawara incident... 1945...
       yoshio had a fine fine palette...
                          cannibalism was never suggested
as equivalent of a war crime...
  and one said: human thighs tasted like chicken,
another said: a bit like raw tuna...
          judeo-christian food prohibitions...
    well... once the prohibitions come along with
the poetry... left can mean right...
and right will evidently mean left...
                 during the yuan dynasty...
         pedohpiles were more or less reductive in
their transgressions... they ate more: than they ******.
two freedoms then, china prone to omnivore status
and hindustan prone to vegetarianism...
               both examples lead to a success rate of
a billion examples...
                       it's only these pest-like infections of
mono-this omni-that are keen to always give their
i love yous as politico dictates...
  maxims even... so very fond they are: of their maxims...
they even infected their youth in the 21st century
stating that: no one is akin to us,
if not in his youth, having been ***** by abou10
10 favourite maxims... most kept, hardly any employed...
1261 edict: when children were asked to stop
plucking out their eyeballs...
   horror films are therefore, equivalent to soft-core
******... history is thrice over the real horror movie...
    but given our faculty of memory is so
(putting it mildly) "biased"... i think we're over-sensitive
in giving imagination the scenes from both
horror and Disney... we've already gave the former
and the latter we have just sold...
           but hey! a placentta fry-up like a setting sun,
illuminates with more choice of hue than
noon and the "dehydrated" shadow (yes,
i know, a better word would be suited, but i have
no time to ascribe it to a tailor-fitting, a neat and tidy
resonance... treat dehydrated as a dwarf shadow,
mingle that with photon and phonetic -
that light illuminates, and traps things into bites,
like H or He denote hydrogen and helium
respectively... and qui- and -noa denote
necessary argument of what sound goes where,
rightly)...

evidently i did take the quiestionnaire about
whether i am a liberal elite...
it had to be done... why would i otherwise read a sunday
newspaper?
            end result? 0-50 (norm), 51-100 (aspiring),
    101-150 (not quiet there), >150 (elitist snob)...
(ref. the 5%, charles murray, coming apart,
   the bell curve... superzips)
q1: what is the top prize in the thunderball and when
is it drawn?
   a1: i play the googlewhack lottery.
      alt. a1: 0 (alright), 5 (days rights), 10 (what is thunderball?)
             talk of chav tax...
q2: how many people in your vicinity voted for
    Brexit?
    a2: i just had an opinion... voting is cheap
when you can't express a ballot veto.
   alt. a2: 0 (all of them), 5 (one or two)... 10 (aghast at the question)
              a bit ******* obvious, no point explaining....
q3: what is your favourite dish on th

The symbolism of this Christmas classic
has a second, hidden meaning for the ages.
For this song has an ulterior motive,
contained in verses that seem outrageous.

Christ is the truest fulfillment of Love,
in the primary doctrine of Christianity;
therefore, He is the focus of each refrain,
being the sin offering on Crucifixion’s tree.

The pair of turtle doves represents books,
volumes of both the Old and New Testaments.
The Bible embodies the Spirit of God calling…
for the World to turn to Christ and repent.

The three french hens stand for the trinity
of metaphysical concepts: Faith, Hope and Love.
Despite questionable claims, Love requires action-
and that some of us need a gentle, spiritual shove.

Four calling birds correspond to the Good News,
found in accounts of Matthew, Mark, Luke & John.
Together they present a harmonious view of Christ
and the divine message of the Gospel’s Song.

The five golden rings echo the Jewish Torah,
one of the first accounts of God’s spiritual laws.
Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy
remind of Redemption’s need to offset human flaws.

Six geese a-laying demonstrate the creativity of God,
regarding His work in the archetype days of creation.
For we are to lift up our eyes and see Him, through
inspiration that fuels our desires and imaginations.

The swans a-swimming represent the seven-fold gifts
from the Holy Spirit: Prophesy, Serving, Exhortation,
Teaching, Contribution, Leadership, and God’s Mercy…
holy promises that complement the substance of Salvation.

The eight maids a-milking reflect the Beatitudes,
a message given by Christ at the Sermon on the Mount.
He taught Heavenly concepts, in which we are blessed,
via inspired platitudes for us- to joyfully recount.

Nine ladies dancing recall the Fruits of the Spirit:
Love, Joy, Patience, Kindness, Goodness, Self-Control,
Faithfulness, Peace, and Gentleness - sacred constructs
for soothing the pains, experienced by our weary souls.

The lords a-leaping personify Jehovah’s Ten Commandments:
instructions for worshiping only Him, keeping the Sabbath,
and various prohibitions against idolatry, blasphemy, ******,
theft, dishonesty, and adultery, which lead us off His path.

The eleven pipers piping constitute the faithful Disciples,
who walked the Earth with Christ, observing Him firsthand.
They were the original, Christian acolytes who were taught-
how to live victoriously under the pressure of Life’s demands.

The drummers drumming symbolize the twelve points of belief,
outlined in the religious doctrine, called the Apostles' Creed.
Now with greater insight, lift your voice and sing this song,
using your faith in God, that you willingly and lovingly concede.
.
.
.

Author Notes:

This my poetic interpretation of the familiar Christmas song. From 1558ad until 1829ad, Roman Catholics in England were not permitted to openly practice their faith. An unknown author, during that era, wrote this carol as a Catechism song for young Catholics. It has two levels of meaning: the surface meaning plus a hidden meaning, originally known only by members of their church. Each element in the carol has a code word, implying a religious tenet, which children could easily remember.

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.amazon.com/Reaching-Towards-His-Unbounded-Glory/dp/1419650513/ref=sr11?ie=UTF8&qid;=1387452157&sr;=8-1&keywords;=reaching+towards+his+unbounded+glory

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.

Flowers you have ruin my towers
My towers above chivalry and chauvinistic ideals
They push out the prohibitions of useless propaganda
For me, alcoholic toxins appeal to my lyrical woes
I think ambiguously when I feel numb and freed of obligations
And the curls of my toes,
Don’t wrinkle with the ties of man

My fourteen years old daughter
loves her high heels
may be
more than her mother

Keeping my hands in hers
she told me once
‘’Mom
Please make yourself comfortable
with high heels
Every time you will wear heels
yours knees may buckle
your steps may shiver
But once you will make into the high heeled world
your self confidence
will never crumble”

I wish
I could remove her heels
tie her shoe less tight
and make her to walk
on that road
filled with stones of inhibitions
and slippery sands of prohibitions
because i know
that road
and only that road
leads to
top of the world
where high heels
will be no more needed

But what if
she asks
where are my shoes ?

I saw a little girl
come near to her window
and see the raindrops falling
so intensely
as if
with the rain drops
her feeling are slipping away  

Each time
I think
this time
surely this time
she will  open the doors
and come out
will lift her arms
into the sky
and made her inhibitions
fall down    

This time
surely this time
she will strip out
her feelings
forget
all those things
you termed
as regrets  
and let her soul
lie down    

This time
surely this time
she will open her mind
close her eyes
will keep her senses unfold
but will not try to hold  
Rather will allow
each drop of rain
glide through her veins    

But  this time
this time also
hesitations grips her feet
and she tried to touch
warmth of dripping raindrops
from the other side of the window
with her fingertips    

I looked into her eyes
and felt
if I look little longer
she will cry
I wonder why?    

One sunny afternoon
when she was out
with her rosy pink smirk
and obligatory look  
I asked her
what keeps her live in secret pain
Does not she love rain?  

With fluttering voice
she replied
Yes  
I
I also
love rain
But I could love rain
only from my windows side
because I love my rain boots
more than I love rain  

And  I afraid
If I walk in rain
rain will distilled my vein
but my rain boot
will be filled with pain  

I wish
I could hold her hands tight
and give her  
all my strength
to fight
heavy prohibitions
unconstrained dedication
and painful oppositions
that will come on her way
which she thinks
will be like sunny days
warm and bright    

I wish I could say
on her face
rain can and will cover suddenly
a sunny bright dry sky  
and  
on that day
your rain filled boot
will not walk with you

So,
don’t try hard
to drag them
with your emotions
Don’t let your feelings
sink helplessly
in the sea of depression  

Rather put your rain boots off
Let your naked feet feel
the coldness of the refreshing  flowing water of rain  

and
start loving your rain like life  
again

A RANDOM STORY WITH A GRAMMAR CHECK
By Darcy Prince

It’s a long leep between knowing wisdom & the wise life.

I look at the mirror. “I have emotional needs and wants. Though my soul collapses in the confrontation of feeling fear.” I breathe and sigh. Lighting a cigarette than wiping a smudge of the mirror. “Why can’t write this **** on paper.”

The bathroom door opens and the music from the house blasts into the bathroom. It distracts me than I snap out my gaze. A random guy I haven’t meet had seem to get luck with Annais. She giggles, crunching her body up. Giggling loudly as the guys smoochies her. Making their way into one of the toilets. I must admit, I do laugh, internally wished them luck and exited the bathroom.

The dance music is loud. As most of the party invites are standing off to the wall. Either alone or holding one on one conversation. I puffed and made my way past people dancing, on the floor passed out or just standing there.

Outside, where the sound of the music is slightly quieter. I put out my smoke and walked to the side, the part of the fence that seems to be less occupied by people. It's a shame that my flaws are embedded into my being. I looked at my phone, flicked over my messages, she’s online, not talking to me, my heart sunk and grew a little more anxious. I lit another smoke and do my best to forget her. But I did only come here on account of her.

“Howard.” A voice behind me spoke. Clearly grabbing my attention. ‘****, it’s Bill’. Walking towards me, with his stomach hanging over his belt buckle. His baseball cap covering his bald head at night, and a half drunk beer in his hand. “I want to know why you quit being a literary critic and be an actual writer.”

I laughed. “There’s less money in it.” I answered.

Bill chuckles. Placing his hand on my shoulder. “ I love your work. I tell everyone that I know you.” Giving me a play slap on my chest. ‘The ladies seem to love your work.”

I now want to leave the party completely. “I know. I get fan mail.”

Standing about a foot away from me. “Despite my endless amounts of questions and your personal philosophy. I want to know if you are willing to read some of my Satanic poetry.”

I took his beer out of his hand. Sipping it empty. “It’s payment.” I Finished my smoke. Flicked on the garden bed, “You’re a Satanist now?”

Bobbing his head up down. “Yep. I read the Satanic Bible and decided it so.”

I plant my open palm on his shoulder. “Good-luck.” I walked away. “Thanks for the beer Bill.”

I decide to leave at impulse. It’s freedom on drugs. Abundant with choice. Ability to create. Definite modern God. Who is the Muse to all philosophers?

Out on the road where all the cars are parked. I look around. Gave one look to the house and said **** it under my breathe. I walked home. I conjure up words that I’ve always to say to her. Knowing full well I should be writing them down for the next time I see her and that at one random moment I will forget. But to what Bill asked me. Alone I diver into self-publishing. Funny enough, I made some sort of success. Im free again. And my thoughts drifted into the strange thing of fame in contemporary art. Classical terms. Fame as a by-product of hardwork and talent. Like Clapton or Dante.

Glorious endeavour with high rewards. Movements of my will. A desire with a proper end. Languishing such things now. I am nothing without art. Surprise to see Bill turn to something as such of Satanism.

I got home and fell asleep.

I woke up. Had a morning coffee and cigarette.

I read the daily paper.

A few chapters of my current book that I’m reading.

Another smoke and coffee.

I begun to write with the radio playing in the background.

The street noises aren’t distraction. It is the capitols music. Just without harmony.

I write.

Stopping in the middle of the dat for lunch.

I watched ****.

I wanted to sleep. But one thing more important than the success of one's art. The effort the artists puts to create art. I forlorn my vice and continued to write, this is one model of freedom.

We’re at liberty when we can create who we are. A noble calling, shaping the clay of my existence. I choose the ideals to embrace.

At the end of my writing day. I decided to open my lounge room window. Hanging out on the window still, smoking and reading a book by Camus. A couple below caught my attention. I giggled. It’s her. With another man and I instantly lose faith in romance. Like Bill, I too have read the Satanic Bible. I took the ideals of her Muse and applied it to myself. I have no vendetta against God. Only humanity.

I flicked my smoke down to the street. Closed my window. And went to bed for the night.

In vain I always seem to rise to a higher self. Funny. I never give credit to the pain I feel. Serene. Untroubled by the undying yearnings to blast humanity of not of their sins. But only their ignorance.

I awoke. Like most of my mornings. I start the day with smoking too much and spending a couple of hours of reading. Seemingly dull and mundane, but it does wonders for my eternal being. I am a sinful prince.

I finished my novel and decided to place it on the pile of planned unpublished manuscripts for life after my death. Like many Satanic based writers before me. I decided to write on similar themes. Late modern society is principally concerned with purchasing things, in ever greater abundance and variety, and so has to strive to fabricate an ever greater number of desires to gratify, and to abolish as many limits and prohibitions upon desire as it can. Such a society is already implicitly atheist and so must slowly but relentlessly apply itself to the dissolution of transcendent values. It cannot allow ultimate goods to distract us from proximate goods. Our sacred writ is advertising, our piety is shopping, our highest devotion is private choice. God and the soul too often hinder the purely acquisitive longings upon which the market depends, and confront us with values that stand in stark rivalry to the only truly substantial value at the center of the social universe: the price tag.
Wisdom is the recovery of innocence at the far end of experience.

I had forgotten about her. At random she never did find the guy she ever wanted and I ended up being namecheck in her suicide note. Stating I was the only true, complex, beautiful soul that could match hers and how the regretted turning me away. Bill did the same. But only because I ignored him that one time at the party. In the publication of my Satanic novel, the Pope condemned to Hell. I sent him a letter that I wanted to do a confession with him. I have not yet heard of a reply. Catholics still protest.

His hands shake as they grip the edge of the bima.

It was not always like this. Once
His fingers tapped spry and nimble,
His knuckles did not gnarl and swell,
Spots dotted his face in freckles and not his skin as it aged.
His right knee twinges. He swallows dry.
Perhaps he should visit a doctor.  It is not wise, they tell him,
For a man his age to continue his work under such pressure -- he simply laughs it off.
Pah. Meshugge, you are.
He maintains, he will manage, his kind were built to endure.

His kind have walked miles in red sand that burned the soles of their feet.
His kind have strained their eyes to see the hazy shape of hope
In lamplight that burned eight days too long;
His kind stood tall in front of kings and pharaohs and Führers
That ordered them to kneel, bow, lay dead, rot beneath ten feat of Earth.
His kind broke their backs to remain steady on their own two feet --
Who is he to fail them by resting now?

He can certainly stand on a bima, facing a congregation that has come to expect
The sound of his voice, passion in his words,
The life in his eyes glowing behind a cloud of cataracts
(I do not need to see, he claims, to recite the words of Hashem; I read with my heart.)
Like candles through a foggy window,
Tinted glass distorted,
Faint chanting ringing from within.

Kol Nidrei.
He had to break fast this morning -- God forgive me, I did not want to --
I’d rather have died. But pills must be taken.
He scans his audience and knows others must have taken pills of their own:
They are old. No one lives forever.
His joints ache as theirs do,
They too feel the weight of seventy, eighty years settled in their bones
Like rocks, like sediment,  
Shifting with the current of the river that teems above them.
Such is the will of God.
They will be carried upstream when their time comes.

Ve’esarei, ush’vuei,
A glass of water rests on the floor at his feet,
Already half drained --
Droplets still sit moist on his lips.
Vacharamei, vekonamei,
He is a humble man, as all of Hashem’s servants should be --
He is blessed with dexterity unusual for his age.
He has no cause to complain, and yet even on the day of atonement,
Deep within his chest burns pride.
He is scared.
Vekinusei, vechinuyei,
Adonai, please,
Give me the strength.
I know why I hesitate.

He fears his voice will catch in his throat --
Will waver, will break to cough,
That the silver in his tone has tarnished,
That his pitch will strain, fall flat,
That his voice is not fit to sing God’s words,
That this chant will be his last.
That he will have to stop.

Kol Nidrei. All Vows.
He is nothing but a man. He is a mouthpiece for the words that pour out of him,
That float through the synagogue as they’ve floated for years upon years.
If he silences himself, he has no purpose.
If he silences himself, he is already unfit to sing God’s words.
He must begin without fear:
His kind know how to endure without fear. It is in their blood.
His mournful voice sings for them.
He takes a breath. The congregation holds theirs.

Kol Nidrei.
Ve’esarei, ush’vuei, vacharamei, vekonamei, vekinusei, vechinuyei.
Prohibitions, oaths, consecrations, vows that we may vow --
His voice is his vow.
He vows his life, the rest of his year, however many those may be, he pledges all of them,
That he may stand before his people in front of him,
And sing to his people that lived behind him.
Kol Nidrei.
All vows.
His voice soars and echoes off of the ceiling of the synagogue.

I consecrate all guilt and prohibitions
which make me live and only life is sacred.
All letters of my poems are crying to reveal,
but in my despair is kept my secret.

And this secret is uncovered day by day,
You have even body and eyes, now I detect...
I feel your moving lips as my name flows down,
with your whole existence, you are more perfect!

Thus, I daily commit a suicide to live,
I will keep living for the sufferers like me.
When you lend your hand to me I feel as an army
And your all amities deeply delight me.

I am losing my mind because of longing
It brings the next phase of delirium.
I am being captured in a weird time zone
Even days are passing as a millennium.

Have you ever noticed the shifting of words?
Greetings, what say you from yonder place?
Our words seem tainted, decaying, toxic to me.
Curiously, they still gleam and resonate on the surface,
Yet do you fathom their quandary?
"They lack all significance, meaning naught.
Witness it for yourself.

From a scientific stance,
Humans fashioned words to expand the realm of knowledge,
Now known as information, a shared bounty.
But behold the transformation...

As darkness fell, and men slumbered beneath shared stars,
War erupted, coercing us to buy dubious wares,
In exchange for a false promise of peace, Hughes deemed a friend,
To escape condemnation, death or prison, for dissenting views,
Once taboo in bygone days.

Generations passed, civilizations rose and crumbled,
Yet one truth remains amidst this eternal dance,
Forgotten is the words' power to inspire fear,
Instead, they become mute pages, hushing silence.

Do you remember consuming those ceaseless warnings?
How could I forget the myriad of prohibitions?
Reiterated by parents, society, teachers, priests,
Till their words turned meaningless babble,
Thankfully coated in apologies, "I'll never do it again,"
Though never intending to in the first place,
Yet they sowed seeds of sinister thoughts within my shadows.

We all proclaimed, "In five minutes," or "Tomorrow I'll start," or
"This time, I'll never be late for..."
Mere piles of reeking ******* they truly are.
How did we reach a juncture where words lost their essence?
Reducing the world to a brothel, a circus, bereft of meaning.

Alas, the mightiest declarations endure the test of time.
Honesty, Justice, and the Truth.
"That all may honor the Son as they do the Father.
He who disrespects the Son, disrespects the Father who sent him."
Ironically, such words have unsettled men for centuries,
Though once uttered with genuine intent.
And who rendered them void?
Politicians, lawyers, professionals, advertisers,
All who employ words as tools, and we with our posts and likes,
Craving more likes,
Fueling the fire with greater fervor,
More love, more laughter, more, more, more,
On the obnoxious host, like...

Do you grasp the meaning of "fast"?
Similar to "pray and fast,"
Fast!
To seal, confine, shut away, that is its core.
To observe weeks of silence, refraining from speech.
Sadly, our oral sphincter shall not comply,
Yet closure is within reach.

Do you truly seek to infuse your life with new purpose?
Fresh words?
Then embrace silence for seven, or better yet, twenty-one days,
Abstaining from discourse entirely,
Not even a whisper, eschewing
Social media, tranquil and attuned to self,
Embracing the vast expanse of emotions when the month remains unsoiled.
Only then shall wonders befall... and
Unlock the tapestry of thoughts and mysteries within your mind.

so who can living
spontaneous

the boundaries were drawn in the world
rules and prohibitions
does not allow
the pitfalls that await us

why nightmares are seen

so who can living
spontaneous

Wonthelimar and Vlad Strigoi silenced the cobblestones that beat their eardrums, with the pontifical dispensation of the Argonauts who put matches in their neighboring ears to Orpheus, before the song of the Sirens, and of those who were reconciled, speaking of supra-earthly lives of the cloister, asking everyone on their knees in supplication, to remain united in the Vernarth trilocation asking the Lord to keep them together, before leaving for Crete. On the other hand, Dyonisius agreed to the procession of the vicariate that predicted, to assert this phenomenal event, coupled with Saint John of the Cross who joined in this segment, and who also praised the Song of Songs of Fray Luis de León, and of Giordano Bruno “De Umbris Idearum, from 1582; with the Supper of the Ashes, adoring the Blessed Sacrament. All this interchannel journey was carried out in the darkness of the Cave of Dyonisus, increasing the pleasure, and not the offense, for those who only want to calm his sufferings, which has no origin or destination?

Says Wonthelimar: “How to lose Grace, if she always glorifies me innocently, like the fear that is a faction of the Anthropokairós, making me fear more of it, and of what haunts me…, being more courageous than me when making the most terrible decisions. My life pact with Vernarth, which is the grace of walking without stopping until I don't reach nothingness, which is sometimes represented as a faction that has never become virtuous ... but infused!  But I have sought solitude after eternally losing Marielle Quentinnais, where I was also her Dominican friar, opening my entrails towards the conventual club of those who are more than once crucified "

After this soliloquy, he feels the aroma of some Lavenders that are propelled from a very clear angelic light ... it was Marielle who had followed him along with the Kyrios of Vernarth masters, helping him to orient himself with the princess pearl, who was hiding in the pyramidal conifers even his most chaste quilt that covered him with the petals and diadems in holy allegory. It seemed Nativity night, when Marielle was distended from her frigid attempts, towards the hands of her confidant Wonthelimar of her. The lack of recollection caused the torches that led them down a wrong path to go out briefly, were all without much hesitation genuflected for a formal spell, having been chosen by the hand of light and shadow, by a Being that It makes them serve themselves from a suspicious whole to the greatest of fears in nothingness, which would make them amnesiac and abúlic of a lost will. Mercies appeared next to Dyonisius who gleaned in the cave next to the Maenads "Where all the noblemen self-executed their values by being Parents of the World, in which they cannot self-sustain or sustain themselves." The prohibitions were made surreptitious, like royal nausea that lagged in their conversion that was attributed to them for reestablishments of sacred hosts that were calibrated for the common good, relating prosographies of the beautiful flowers that surrendered to the sacrosanct soil of the speleothems and Marielle, as a trance indomitable of a pilgrimage of the one who walks and leads him to an anointing, making tangible whoever denies himself or whoever it is? for the good of beings of the same time in the Dionysian ritual, with three bilocations or trilocations in which Vernarth fractured them tripartite, where nothing and nobody will move the hinges, that could be reconciled in an exclusive Empyrean, without goods or possessions that will take them even to the Spinalonga leprosarium, detailing decadent and unstoppable parapsychologies in beasts, rodents in dens, and birds that rest in the same nest in the fathoms of creation.

Everything rests on the scaffold that brought Marielle, up to the same tired and troubled sky where all the ghosts did it, nothing physical already existed, nor did it of its own accord…! They lit all the fire of the Apocalypse to continue with the alliance of their apostolates, deprived of character, where the right hand surpasses the left for those who expected favors from the bearer of the Misteri Deus Dyonisus, or from the full drama of the cloister of a protagonist undermined with his right hand, as a seer entity in circular centuries, and in times of contravened history, where the apocryphal domes will fall, up to the presbytery of Patmos. The third hour crushed the third-hour antipode, where the blasphemous love of Luzbel expired, never dying and expiring for the chained and hungry condemned, who did not want or should not abandon, being under the Creator Spiritus. The locutions were Saturday, full of the Magnificat that burst in from the fallacious murmur of infinity, and of lexicons that spoke for themselves in the paradigms of anteriority and posterity.

Ethics Protocol Rules.



No they don’t, they are but

constraints bestowed upon

fools.


I won’t adhere and you’ll

despair at my lack of

convention despite your

intervention.


Assimilation by humiliation

is not for me can’t you see

I am dissimilar but that to

you is unfamiliar.


You won’t get me to change

no matter how you rearrange.


My die is cast and I’ll outlast

all your prohibitions because

I have no inhibitions.


Bet you thought I’d conform

to your norm, but I am an off

roader a no fixed abode’r.


I’m not of your street we will

never meet.


I have no keys, no lock and I

refuse to flock like all the other

sheep.


I don’t even have a  phone to

bleep and I sleep under the

stars with the Tzars of the

open spaces in a lay-by

but to me, that's an oasis.

Have you not a seat and a plate, what did you just experience
Usurped all went to get half and chose the only answer we know
Deconstruct denial we claim, of someone's fault for strafing, to stop

Through ear not disease for its' handwritten of the news one goes in and one goes out

Leaving a pit in being so stupid as much that innocence thinks "it"
The stop wasn't harmful traverse the potential self guard not marriage but sifter of golden plates holding holy water.. says "Better be there tomorrow!"

But past you, pass every thrill **** of whistles attempt oh early death show what drinks the peon has for sphinx biscuit weren't it of good ambitions in your language

Common events stupid kings business must adhere to stay rare the smile across your cheek as a reptile house must you wear

From theater to rays of the innovations casting gloom from never afoot munificence as dumb as de' acteur destroying peoples faith in scandals recites it ****** you off ,we did just now with this!

What happened to tournament of hellos calibrated by Hermes while money lands trying to gun at gus the *** on bus ruffing graffiti

Mechanical roses have piqued the fleck from obvious empathy to models of semi European ***** student apologies when we've wept right now

Draining the water from the tank the city does use to develop and seek
After the work chocolate basically in first badgered how are we and there and syndromes did contract, quartered but not foul only blind as a duck or patient rosemary awaiting a tincture in prohibitions government flux

Now lets have the trivial continuance somewhere begotten all paused and the marionette did swoon and painted the picture "we market and think"

The soul was the sell out when they sold out of going in on anything other than the nothing that went out the window with the rest of the nuances to one era ousted the doing in out cast while anti 'd the cry for dials ***** when turned the souls alive for the next round of dimwitted truncated yet out from the cold and in lambast, no doubt

I should have equally punished the waters of separation from concession princesses as above yet pain does divide
Inevitably thank you when the defended help that now watches the slanderous puffing tonnage lip smack  slams as of legends into
what more than "simply can anyone paint a wartime cabbage"

Oh wait that's what we actually do!