In the divet between mountains
Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape
Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit
Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps
Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil
Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound
A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds

Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra
A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls
A venerably ancient ritual

My nascent clandestine vocation
Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary

Along glacier-fed stream
Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments

I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance
Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path

The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion
I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form
Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux

As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty
Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover
Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate

Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse
Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift

Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds
Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus
Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above
Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary

Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further
Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode

And I -
Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle
Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours
Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles

I used to laugh and giggle
For no reason at all
I used to spit and expend,
Not caring how much you saw.
I was given food and clothes,
Without asking the type.
I would learn from anyone around,
Whatever the hype.
I would play on the grass
Without a worry for anything in sight.
I used talk to young and old
Without the slightest peek of a fight.
I used to not know,
How little it was that I knew
Now I wish I never learned,
Because I want to feel a laugh without reason
For that is the best reason of all.

Five little girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One:
Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun.

Five rosy girls, in years from Ten to Six:
Sitting down to lessons - no more time for tricks.

Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven:
Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven!

Five winsome girls, from Twenty to Sixteen:
Each young man that calls, I say "Now tell me which you MEAN!"

Five dashing girls, the youngest Twenty-one:
But, if nobody proposes, what is there to be done?

Five showy girls - but Thirty is an age
When girls may be ENGAGING, but they somehow don't ENGAGE.

Five dressy girls, of Thirty-one or more:
So gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before!

Five PASSE girls - Their age? Well, never mind!
We jog along together, like the rest of human kind:
But the quondam "careless bachelor" begins to think he knows
The answer to that ancient problem "how the money goes"!

Word of the day - QUONDAM
Meaning - once, but no longer
______
There was a time
when all your tears
were supposed to be shed
on my shoulder.
There was a time
when my arms
were just meant
to hold you at night.
There was a time
when your poetry
talked about
you me and us.
There was a time
when one smile from me
radiated your heart
and made you smile.
There was a time
when more than anything
even more than yourself
you loved me.
There was a time
when leaving everyone behind
I used to come at your place
to make you laugh.
There was a time
when every second of the day
went by
thinking about you.
And now this is the time
when my shoulders are bare
and there is no head
on them to support.
And now this is the time
when my arms
are clinging to
the air around me.
And now this is the time
when your words
lack the one thing
which made them meaningful, me.
And now this is the time
when my smile
or my tears
doesn’t even reach you.
And now this is the time
when in this whole wide world
amongst all the people
I am the most hated by you.
And now this is the time
where I sit by my bed
all day all night
with the hope that one day you will arrive.
And now this is the time
when I still think about you
but your thoughts
have taken a wrong turn.
It once was,
a special kind of love
but it
no longer is.

I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.

Young love has always been mesmerizing,
It gives you the chill and anonymous feeling,
Exciting, overwhelming, and a twisted little dream,
It has always felt right and wanting.

Yet, to love young is to risk a little,
To gamble little feelings 'till it blossoms like a flower,
And you fell for the sweetest music you could hear,
Making you feel loved yet his lying in the air.

It will always be a mark of your quondam,
It may hurt a little or a little bit bigger,
But trust me, it will pass like a rainy day,
And someday it will light up your day.

Remember that your quondam will make you stronger,
Not now but sooner or later,
Trust in the process 'till the brittle memories vanish
Like the love you thought to be tender.

I was calling for your soul
but
you must have heard another voice

we are not human
we are                     beyond
all that fits into strands of dna
we are a phone call away and just at the beginning
writhing with excitement that plays like anxiety. we are the nervousness
that turns the body right left and left right left before introducing us to becoming asleep. we are the narrative to the lives of others. our passwords don't match but I refuse to let popular radio dictate our lives. we've ****** ourselves red and sweet, cauterizing our moral wounds with *** and sensuality. we scuba dove in the bedlam of ***** intrigue where I drank the pulse of your fingertips into mid-morning blackouts.

I don't know what you do, but I bleed foreign tongues. I mince words and reconnect them, the Swedes would be proud. Inside the ribs, beyond our teenage skin, between us we are always something better going unchecked but never unnoticed. we have been enlightened, summoned, and have three unchecked voicemails that we will lie about listening to should we ever be confronted about it. I don't ever want to be readdressed by consciousness, I am unhappy there and here

                 the Power lines
Under

unto us both
we may never meet those quondam girl and boy bent by prurient looks

Fluttering to the ground
An autumn leaf
Floating like a feather,
The embodiment of heavens heart
Ascending towards that quondam.
An aeon contemplating creation
Zoariums; moulded from dust infused.
Immortality desecrated
Their fane, desolate
Gods will mans dying nature.
The rivers rose above
The highest mountains quaked
As tears reign below
Upon the blood soaked amber earth;
To the cross his body nailed,
Hours fervently passed
Cloud vapour appearing to evaporate,
Bearing the weight of mortal sin
The saviour hanged; azoic.
The anatomisation of finitude!
Crowned man infinite,
Enlighting the darkest souls,
The lighest souls descent.
Bleating like a lamb
Twilights slaughtered salvation
Riding the thoughts of heavens dream;
Two empereal doves
Homeward flying.




1997 ELEETE J MUIR

12/30/2018

The eloquence of listless years is lost on heady overweening heels that submerge reality in a cavernous of oblique light shrouding the dark mysteries to come. Axiomatic but refractory we swim and tread danger and peril because the unsaid screams for awakening as the roosters outfox the owls and completely change history based on evil skullduggery that awaits the gainsay of titans compromised in security but elevated over the doldrums of quotidian thought. It is my solemn forbearance and consistent steadfast prayer for alacrity and industry to conquer the dudgeons of incurred opprobrium to clinch a beatific convivial festivity for a time-informed claque of leaders that delight in simplicity but dissemble their true disguise in open shark-infested waters. Salvage the impositions of the many and cull the best to anoint their favor on uncertainties improbable but likely as the discerning will master reality rather than be the dross of yesteryear. We swarm with importunate guilds of serfdom to surrender their edifice to the chiselers that operate and extravagate beyond bounds established by parochial priggishness that is a flagging patriotic insistence on drenched graft dank with the mildew of balkanization but not entirely as reproachable as some relics of the ancient law detest with misguided guile and paranoiac sophistry that is a precarious canker of otiose tastes drawling on with misinformed skepticism. The hounding gray in the pallor of alpenglow light ennobles the concatenations of wistful dread but at the same time esoteric flavor that enriches the emblazoned gallantry of the few to become the mainstay of all relevant considerations. Wish upon a coruscating menagerie of miscegenated aboriginal languages that have always abided in the shadows but exist in brevity among the elite coteries that coddle the world in its infancy away from the artifice of exegesis and the importunate placations of swarthy umbrageous shadows that exist apart from the factitious apartheid of race and gender. We must stand united as brethren enduring the tribulations of human vicissitude to abhor the diseased rhetoric of pandered puritanism amalgamated with aleatory financial alarmism calculated to swindle the dilapidation of penury that burns as a smoldering conflagration of concerted ignorance leading to ochlocratic determinism rather than a whispered percolated pedigree that drowns sorrows but simultaneously strands the pariahs of time in insular self-reflection unbecoming of an age that demands an importunate, ubiquitous and outspoken corporate altruism not superintended by a bloviated and tumescent dysnomy of congregated botched bureaucracies that encroach with a daunting donkey commandeered by headless horsemen who are only known by pennames and cognomens that flinch at the demise of their undeserved anonymity. We use valor as an instrument to prevent a scuttled vessel of a seaworthy humanity slinking along a very balmy coast as we await future instructions at the apropos time for a simpatico relegation of commercial collectivism. We expect instead a demassified world to enliven the dialectic of epistemology itself and renew covenants long ago moribund in their ragged and wretched desuetude that they may be vanquished as vestigial habiliments to the tatters of sloppy abnegation leading to a swollen piety that dares not to pretend but simultaneously believes so much in its pilloried hubris that it provides erasure for the secular enlightenment of a messianic time. Squalor and riddled eccentricity drive a brackish but saccharine attempt to homogenize the pastures that we graze upon but look no further than a bequeathed divine providence of smirks rather than the jibes of sneering ostentation. Whisper you fame rather than declaim against the arraignments of a scuttled pettifoggery of miscegenated justice that embroils foreign wineskins for domestic turmoil rather than the demotic enlightenment of the abrogation of inequitable laws that preserve the totemic dissolution of society rather than the prized ameliorative enlightenment of science informed by faith and faith beckoning the clerisy to seek supernal wisdom and furtive swank to reconnoiter the righteous and jettison renegades imploring for a piebald blinkered apostasy on a rudimentary subconscious level but never realizing their effrontery is gravid in a heedless ignorance interpolated by menacing secular hobgoblins that ransack barren treasure and cherish it as a trinket for a chrysocracy that is specious rather than veridical. Barnstorm for justice but appoint the abeyance of foolhardy prescience so that the enigmas of time can beckon their own deliverance through a culmination of waggish flickers rather than the kowtowed toadies of a quidnunc reality divorced from proper temperance outmoded but thriving among those that disavow newfangled foudroyant spectacles. Always and with alacrity indulge the gladiatorial sportsmanship of a zeitgeist beyond contention as the paragon for livid dreams and lurid imaginations to drive the mutiny against plebeian ears and purblind eyes. Live for the eternal present with providence and forswear the vestigial fossils of flippant eras domineered by dragooning fictitious sentiments buttressed by castles built against the encroachment of the imaginary foes of vassal states that submerged the world in a fideism that rejects too many axioms of modernity to vie for preponderance. The government is not irreproachable, but it is a primeval reflection of the propensities of an aggregated society flippant against choice wisdom of the ageless Constitution that is peremptory proof of the divine providence of sempiternal liberty. People that chide against liberty because they fear precarious cankers that endanger from a distance because of their swollen specters need to uphold a commitment to a wistful remembrance of tragedy but a sturdy ruddy optimism to perdure and prosper on this greenest of worlds for both the greenhorn and the expert alike. Never kowtow before the altar of avarice and always pilfer resourceful contemplation in the respite of quiet times that engage our best faculties to awaken rather than slumber. Recruit the collective imagination to superintend chaos and the leviathan becomes tamed because it requires human synergy in both prosperous times and desperate measures to foment the earth with the brontides of due warning simultaneously murky and misleading but always reflective of an irenic pasture of withering sheep and abundant shepherds. Regal promises have always loitered in the penumbras of the elite but now is the time for absolution rather than scattershot contumely. We believe in the federal way and the state farm system and we don’t believe in foreign monoliths becoming the pasquinade of slippery hebetude that ensnares the immobilized futilitarianism of ignorant creeds and divisive claptrap. Barnstorm together for God and liberty as those two principles-however squandered they might be by listless speculation that doesn’t hinge upon the concerted subaudition of the deeply fathomed sources glistening with profundity- will clinch a victory for the beatific future of a guided humanity rather than the guileless intemperance of choleric fools who wage conflagration against only their own plodding ignorance rather than reaching with outstretched hands and tenacious grasps to invent the future according to the helical perfection of the past. May God rule forever on earth! A prosperous earth! An Earth filled with pleasure and an Earth that approximates heaven more closely every day. Amen  



12/31/2018

Riddled by bewildering supernal designs of an ineffable splendor that drapes reality in iridescent cloaks of rigorous and strenuous limber we trounce through the effigies of a profaned pasquinade to gallop through the doldrums of time for the allocated investment in the refined human condition to exacerbate the declension of foes but link the Abrahamic faiths with taciturn reflections and wizened countenances beckoning a newfangled harmonious destiny. Livid are the naysayers who proffer gainsay with insouciance and flippant sorcery to denigrate sacrosanct axioms with persnickety maxims that are only auriferous when viewed through a refracted entropy of disdainful speculative mutiny against propriety in values and stances. I sidle through a refractory zeitgeist despised for my aureate temerities against the chided condemnation of those who flout so-called gobbledygook because they lack stringent acuity and pale to the polish of ennobled grace that anoints favor and felicity on the laurels of an age very intransigent against latitudinarian capriciousness that will one day ransack the world of its flickered graft and its paltry obsessions with quondam gaucheries. A house divided against itself will flounder because of titanic pressures of oblique balkanization that is opaque only to the hounded ignorance of wishful but labile people who wage acerbic gambles against the delegated authors of an aborning covenant for irenic reconciliation in a blinkered piebald world. I like to saunter in private with my insistent lucubrations because I know the majestic gestures of jest are more bountiful in their fecund harvest than any circumlocution of blunt poetasters who calumniate the verve of self-made upstart grandeur that I brandish at every opportune occasion to pilfer my due inheritance from the coffers of a self-fulfilling fatalism divorced from solipsistic monisms and the denigrations of the futilitarian quest to deprive sustenance in the exercise of deft skepticism disempowering the perspicacity of miserly mendicants who treasure their science but pale in their trepidatious momentary twinges of faith that are insincere and unctuous abominations against a steadfast God that wallops our misery with the lurched progress of human amelioration wrought by the succor of alien wizardry beyond even the most quixotic imaginations of people who in their prolixity miss the pithy glib sacraments of a terse and burlesque pragmatism. I simper because I know about carbon emissions statistics with hearty gusto and a convivial banquet of amalgamated personalities and wraiths that emanate from the ether of the 12th dimension of reality: transdimensional interspecies sentience. I wrangle on the outskirts of a bustled city embroiled in a relegated civil war entangling plebeians and plutocrats but not engorging any coffers in a zugzwang destined for pejorative scuffles rather than synergistic revivals of the human fraternity, a consensus about intellectual meliorism that will fossick with due efficiency cognitive resources frittered away in the respite of laziness and the abeyance of prospective diligence to conquer rather than waylay with furtive gambits of appeasement. Everyone need to leapfrog beyond the quotidian plane by indulging the oneiromancies of self-efficacy aggrandized by presidential favors and collective efforts to unite the 16th version of reality with the penultimate version of reality. For the ultimate version of reality is corporeal death upon which we are transplanted unto an ethereal dimension beyond contemplation without the horological diminishment of wizened age.  We trudge in the miserly conditions imposed by pharaohs of pettifoggery that swindles with blustery graft and strident intimidation of the audacity of hopes and dreams to foment the requisite fin de seicle zeitgeist that deserves more of a heyday with the revivalism of nostalgic entertainment against the opprobrium of inferior tastes facile in formulaic conformity but deficient in its nutritive enrichment of beatific festivities that traverse the earth at lightspeed because of the vehement energy of foudroyant amazement is beyond contagious when conveyed through the dexterous vehicles of more centralized rather than skeletonized organization. The bonhomie of a copacetic future demands the interpolation of scrupulous adherence to authoritative dictums but the laissez-faire demagoguery of titans trouncing the ragamuffins of cacestogenous upbringing in a miserly husbandry that stunts the stilted imaginations of formalism rather than bequeathing a seminal insemination of a future hybridized race mechanized but humanized simultaneously to accomplish what would once seem impossible that now looms considerable with the democratization of the furtive at a faucet’s trickling pace to empower the future to heed the past and the pastors to revere the eschatology of final conditions rather than a favoritism for aboriginal barbarisms created by the snare of hobgoblin phantasms that exist only to make us tremulous rather than swanky. May God bless this great green earth with many decades of prosperity to come and heap plaudits on the intellectuals fighting the fight against simpleton groupthink. Have a very festive New Year!

Under the tree
Under the shade
I sat me down and wrote my poem
In the heat of noontide
The braze of summer
Reminiscence of my trials

Under the tree
Under the shade
I stood and sat
Stood and walked around
Aimlessly in heaviness
Wondering how, why and what for

Under the tree
Under the shade
I sat with my pen
And wrote my song immortal
Recounting my quondam thralldom
The genesis of my exodus
The Numbering of my lapidation
The Levitical ministry of providence
The Deuteronomic prospects of victoire
The Joshua-like expeditions and vigils
That brought triumph on enemy
And lead my feet to Canaan

The boy-king wanted to incinerate
A fell and meretricious thryrus.  
His grandfather would venerate
The same staff, terrified of curses.  
His mother’d slandered the drunk god,
But regretting feckless blasphemy
She counseled them to spare the rod,
Until they heard the divine decree.  
Once the summoned prophet had appeared,  
Blind, and clad in a frayed, goatskin cloak,  
The monarch sputtered “It’s cursed, weird,
And wrong, burn it down to ash and smoke!”
The former monarch begged, “Appease
Bromius with primeval rite,  
A lord who smites his enemies
A lord too terrible to fight.”
The daughter next, “His worshipers
Run mad, and slaughter their own kin,
Even children.   The god massacres
Those who dispute his origin”
The prophet lifted up the staff
And tore the ivy from its tip.  
“Rites, massacres, don’t make me laugh,
And immolation’s sponsorship.”
He swung the staff to test its heft,
And said, “I need a walking stick,  
The drunkard has no bacchics left,
****** the goatish lunatic.”
At this, the grandfather turned pale,
And the repentant mother winced.  
Matched severity cannot avail
If fear and butchery convinced.  
A proverb soothes the quondam king
And the dowager, “He frightens you,  
But moderation in each thing,
And that in moderation too.”

They told me to go to hell
So here I am; I'm no son of Sam,
But as you can see someone sent me
And I don't know how that came to be,
So please do tell where am I to go from here?
I find all this quite vitriolic
I was neither a ******
Nor an alcoholic,
I may have sung totally off key
And sometimes I did miss
Where I had to ***,
But to hell
I never thought I'd fall,
Regardless that I was pushed
Devil may care Devil may cry
But I won't lie this can't be fair,
To whom do I call to send to press
This unjust event; circumvent
These hellish gates
For the pearly portals
That I see even from these depths,
A plea; please someone; anyone
Humans or immortals
Return me to the earth I walked
I'm sorry; I really am
But to hell? Future quondam
I'm glad now; awake and alive
I'll never again show undeserved blithe...
APAD13 - 023 © okpoet

I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at earnest, simple folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.

I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me anymore.

I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men--
I'm due to fall in love again.

I like the word reminiscent.
Like an echo of a quondam.
Events that very likely happened
But are inevitably vanishing.
Passions still light the night
And northern lights wave in a psychedelic sky.
Is it reality or just a faint dream?
Once we lived on that bluish dot,
Covered with trees, down the Galaxy
Where the breeze danced with the sea
And just music could lull thoughts.

Perhaps after a Big Crunch and a new Big Bang,
With a little patience;
We might all be Revenants.

“So this is a good bye.”

Snowdrops falling,
          whining of the weight
of reality...

That the good old days...

Are old,
                  retired,


                           dead.

The bygone, lets spell this out in multiple avenues..

ancient, dead, departed, former, lost, antiquated
                                      archaic, belated, dated, defunct
down memory lane, erstwhile, extinct,
                                                      forgotten
­                                            gone, gone by,
in oblivion, late, of old, of yore,
                         old-fashioned, old-time, olden
old fangled, one-time, out-of-date
                                       previous, quondam, vanished,
water over the dam, water under the bridge..

This is a view of a reality that was
                                             winding on to long.

Times are changing, we've  become a people..
      Not a race, a ethnicity..

That's a stigma straight away,
                 what ever continent you were born
           to
A majority a minority.. were labelled to much.

Were one people under the stars, one humanity..
     we all bleed, we all look for a love of another.

Lets just be us, people that don't see labels,
           as we cut them off because the outfit we
now wear isn't in need of a stereotype..

Were just a different fit,
                                         but all the same.

                          Human......

there once was a time,
before your time,
when men were gentlemanly
and the ****** was celibacy

the air was purer
and if we were poorer
our lives were satiated
[with] meaning that radiated

quondam royals had mystique,
your wife was yours and was unique.
i often wonder what went wrong
but it's been too dark for much too long.

let's be fickle in a democracy -
let's be democratically fickle -
   pheasant one evening:
           a wholesome broth of bother the next...
this is not a political poem:
you'll soon see...
             it's not in a democracy
there's a status quo "tyranny"...
          the same hands shake: when changing
gloves...
but this is not a political poem...
it's... a fickle poem...

20 minutes into "surfing" the internet...
looking for the jukebox that once was
that once was youtube...
and not that keen on using last.fm...
   circa 2006 very much so:
that's how i came across porcupine tree etc.

- how i love drinking and listening
to music... and then: off the perch i cascade down
to scribble: long lost the hand-writting...
if this is a forever of getting used to
being a "lucky duck": a dyslexic's nightmare...
an ambidexter...
                  
        which you could quote:
if i were donning a sort of niqab that...
was a veil: + below the eyes...
                        not an ambidexter pianist?
this... the alternative... universe where this is true?
all of us being looked using
spectacle specifically designed for the sort
of Daltonists that...
      would... make the calcium of the dover
cliffs come out: sulphuric and therefore canary...
lob-sided architecture of
the imperfection that was... and is...
       the vitruvian man: alias: quasimodo...

some remains of nirvana:
  a twist of punk, grunge and... indie...
            "post" and a modernism 2.0 etc.
i'm no john peel and i don't come along
for a hard-on for any "proper terms":
because... the library is: over' v'er...
"somewhere"...

   because we're talking about the year 2001...
i was... ****... 4 years to 1990...
10 years to 2000... and a year to wait to come
up with: hell... being 15!

              the year is 2001...
i care because only recently i was looking through
the sunday times' culture magazine...
and a band i do remember from: aeons ago...
the strokes... released their debut: this is it...

and i was reading this album review...
because... the strokes did a comeback...
        the newspaper culture cohort made a note
of: the new abnormal...

               for the music i'll spare myself
the already boiling embarrassment... of "narrative"...
oh sure... fast paced: almost akin to a spy thriller novel...

look no further: glum... details in culture...
of something new...
                    i told myself...
you find something... music it is...
and curating for mr. absolute...
                       and perhaps the chance:
        blitz...
                            
                           the strokes... because... culturally...
it mattered to the newspaper to revive...
10 minutes in and if i'm not getting anything
that's no more than soap-opera or
tabloid press...
          i'll sentences myself to silence and
pretending to drink... and harvest a chapter
off of Dickens: the new bible for me...

       on repeat: Dickens can... casually...
on a good day... on a bad day...
                 do more than Shakespeare could...
because there was no bad day for a Shakespeare...
the whim... the breath... the oracle and
the muses needed to mind-**** those hands
into scribbling and rhyme...
rhyme: the lesser geometry...
          but Dickens... should have been taught
at schools...
why Shakespeare still needs to be...
turning in his grave over have schoolchildren
scrutinize his work...

   Dickens: bible darling: every day any day:
all day long over...
                              and i promised myself
that if i didn't find anything...
and even if the strokes released this is it
back in 2001...

       there's another...
                     that other quondam relic of 2001...
which was never given the same traction
of journalistic interest...
        fugazi... and the album?
                                       the argument...

the landline isn't working: the vinyl factory is burning -
i can't remember the last time
i used a phonebook... come to think of it:
i never used one...
                        talk and on the cheap:
i do remember licking a stamp...
and an envelope...
                                    
   nothing political: but democracy and its
status quo "tyranny"... bewildering in how anti-cruel...
and... dispossessive concerns this fudge
passes from one pair of hands to the other...
last time i checked: the argument for veganism
was... you eat the meat: you eat the fear...

                           that once upon a time...
oysters were... hardly a... delicacy... but something
to be eaten by the east end clot... "of bother"...

of no concern: this is hardly a competition...
a steady diet of nothing from 1991...
                   and no mention of sonic youth...
exits only...
                    and only that...
                              backrolling with the barbarians...
a comparative literature course:
from Dickens... through Beckett ending up
at Burroughs...
                          and then...
       well... Rapunzel? the grammatical overview
of sumerian?
          much closer to home...
                 rzecz:        жэч    (thing)...
   but what russian doesn't have is...
                      rzeczą (with / using a thing /
to be a thing)...  and no... the indefinite article (a) /
the definite article (the) are more or less...
for now... an english "thing"...

   Dickens mentioned: orthography...
but... can you have a concept of orthography...
without diacritical marks?
isn't the claim: orthography: nothing more
than... merely a... spelling mistake?

after all... an orthographic error is...
            śmieh to zdrowie → śmiech (correctly)...
etc. because i'm not here to bother...
   it's not an orthographic error:
when both nothing and... no thing actually
coexist... depending on the emphasis...
or lack of... i.e. i know nothing...
                          and... x has no (other) thing
of comparison to exist with for a worth
of default...
         something: some things never change...
because there's a difference between something...
or other... and... some things: which can never
become: something - since there is no: "somethings":
or "nothings": as there are: no things of said
description...

                   known knowns... known unknowns...
unknown knowns... and gnomes...
          unknown: unknowns... orthographic gnome
garden of donald rumsfeld...
                
a nice little rubric:
     noga (foot) - nogą (using a foot)...
             mowa (speech) - mową (using speech)...
     but... only partially true:
   widelec (fork) - widelcem...
      barometr - barometrem
                                              -em
                                               -ą  "sumerian" suffixes...
since apostrophe 's is hardly a suffix
when it's: a plural article...
                     and a possessive (possession) article...
or... capitulation to 'ort-'and...
                         it's: it is...              
and how the apostrophe "disappears"
                                its: red colour:
                                                      but­ for me that's...
pedantic orthography when no diacritical
marks are involved...

                     enough... not as a language: as a whole...
with... no clarity of invested in interests... for...
anything beside: a vanity project it could be...
a one off... but that it keeps recurring...
no amount of labour: for this iron maiden...

a whiff of the topic... nothing more... a teaser.

Salient Sufi quondam was hexed;
haggard hags hoisted hurls 'n' were vexed,
apt alakazam gin behoved -
ere, he'd betrothed marred mercies thrown.

Pestered paddock anon hurled hymns,
pored panther knocked 'p gaunt 'n' gullible thrill,
apared asp pruned pulpy foils time tossed,
taunted trio 'n clumsy cauldron washed.

Sent they then ***** winds t' bear thence
ere sassy Sufi wh' loathed rec'mpense.
T' transient agora bore they him;
a felon furrow 'n an isle's lips.

Jolting judgement torn trio ñ him leased;
an attendant t' paddock 'n' asp's spree.
        '20:07:15:12:03

A maiden so pure and genuine,
Looking straight at the darkest part of the well,
The moon and the stars somber brightly,
Even it lit the cheerless and melancholic nightfall.

Standing still and a heart running in race,
Hugging an image of the quondam aficionado,
'Till tears streaming in her eyes,
As she remembers the old good times.

Whether she open and close her eyes,
The man in her dreams is seen in a distant,
Making a short return of how his smiles and look
Can melt her fragile heart.

The look that flatters her heart,
Those eyes so gentle and true,
The curve of his lips and the teeth that show,
Makes her cry in despair.

The stares that makes the world stop,
Left a mark in her deeply broken heart,
The stares that made her love him deeply,
She wish you'd look at her like you used to be.