All the words you say should be listed as a crime
You can't seem to think and talk at the same time.
You babble like a brook after a horrendous flood
And look like an aging cow chewing her cud.
Somebody should have slapped a muzzle on you
Slapped your big **** a time or two.
If lying cost you money, it would be a great joke.
We'd all feel better and you would be broke.

You're a big fat liar,
Seldom speak the truth!
You're a total spoiled brat
Have been  since your youth.
You've got a lousy rememberer
But a very strong forgetter.
You will always tell the lie
When the truth might fit you better.

If words made things happen
You might have a chance to be
The big shot you think you are
Instead of the reality.
You're a tinhorn snakeoil salesman
Like they had in olden days.
You long ago discovered that
Lying far too often pays.

You owe all your successes
To the fact that people trust.
They see a man in a costly suit
And they let him go for bust.
But, bust almost always
Means for anyone but you.
You only ever make a dime
If too many of us are coocoo.

You're a big fat liar,
Seldom speak the truth!
You're a total spoiled brat
Have been  since your youth.
You've got a lousy rememberer
But a very strong forgetter.
You will always tell the lie
When the truth might fit you better.

drank a pinot noir,
Rascal, they called it,
from Willamette Valley,
Oregon.

drank it at The Quarter,
a charming establishment
on Hudson Street,
in the West Village.

I love a good name
as much as
I love a good Pinot,
and to scribe about
the city I love
where I was born,
schooled and fooled in,
by many a woman.

The city where I named
and raised my children.

Will probably die in
this city, and when
I am long forgot,
my name never uttered,

you,

as my designated
rememberer,
will think of me
whenever someone says,
he was such a rascal

From the dim misty past
through the mind's tunnel dark
memory like a flash of lightning bursts
upon the moment unexpected-
a screen of smoke appears to shut
away the present--- a standstill of time--

pictures, smells, sounds, voices
light, shades, colours, places, faces
they resurrect
like fragments of shattered glass
where only vague images suggest
as in impressionistic paintings
with wide gaps waiting to be filled
by the imagination of the rememberer

feelings are awakened
in an avalanche
the heart beats fast
in confusion as reality
fades and sinks away
the imperious past
claims victory
and takes over
with relentless immediacy

it's as though
our human life
is a boundless sea
each wave a memory
of rapture or sorrow
of triumphs or set-backs
of  remorse, regrets, aches
of dreams that perished
of hopes that vanished
of love or its loss
of beauty which once
held majestic sway
to end at the close of day

are we sad or happy
each one of us
none does know
but oneself
what would you
and I finally say?

Poem5
Into the Wilderness

Into the wilderness we went. Edhweirft and Hwyrflung swirled above us, blowing and bustling through the treetops. Watching. Threatening. But maintaining a safe distance as the trees protected us

Scrunch
Crack
Squelch
Scrunch
Crack
Squelch
... we went, as the gloam drew in. Druuuuuin!! Closer. Druuuuuuuuiiiiinnnn!!!!! Closer. It hugs, this gloam. It sticks. It holds. It cloys the mind with its drab-drab-grab. The breath is tight. It fights, for more, for freedom, to live, it must escape, but the gloam holds it inside you. The breath panics. It is afraid. It needs to be free. It escapes the mouth with a fight, then slowly raises up, toward the canopy. But it cannot swoop, it cannot flow. The gloam drags with a friction that burns and the breath is consumed within its mass.

Edhweirft is rattling in the branches of the trees above. Waiting for the gloam. Watching its vile, twisting display unfold. He watches. He sees. He knows. He understands. But Edhweirft is the trixter, the player of games, the jinxing Ju, the rogue andiggler. He is the north wind. He has no substance. He is force. He is energy. He wishes you to know that he is. That he lives. He is alive. He is life. He splits the gloam in 2.... Phoooooooshswipthwack! The gloam separates. It severs. It dissolves. It breaks down its density into its fractal construct. And the fractal shatters and chaos ensues. Dancing apart. It's essence. It's life glue. Dissolving. Dissipating. Fizzling. Sizzling. Fzzzzzz sszzzzzzzzzz......      
And the elements of its structure revel in the end of the gloams monarchy. This is despotism. This is revolution. This is chaos. This is beauty. Microscoppai scatter everywich. Hither und thither. It's chance now to create a New. This one Microscop. He is strong. His force pulls. His charm. His beauty. His power. His magnetism. It draws them to his new rule. A new form. A new structure. A fresh life. A gloam without the gloom.
Edhweirft continues to stalk. He is here. He is there. He shakes the trees as he comes in as if to break their hold on the sky and shake it from their rafters. He picks you up. He throws you to the ground. Then he moves on to his next victim, laughing in his breathy tones. Preparing and clearing the way. The way for his sister.
Edhweirfts sister, Hwyrflung, brings the TipTap. She is electrickery. She swoops with a crack and a bite. She brings the change. She creates the new. But first she destroys. She slices. Then nothing. Aaaaaooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!! She howls in delight. In the distance a tree sniiicpraks and falls down dead. Life gone. No more. This wise old tree. This rememberer of dreams. And play. Holding you high in his arms, protecting you as you climbed. No more. Goodbye old friend.
FizzzzzzzzzxxxxchchchccfrrdrdrffffrAAAAAKK!!!!
Another.
C­loser this time
TachooooooooommmmmmmAaaakakakrashhhh
The crack and the howl almost joining. Like great lovers drawn together at the moment of their deepest impending intimacy.
They wait, these two for little more than a fraction but the anticipating makes time slow down. As Hwyrflung watches they play their game, their dance. Fizzing and building their passion inside her deep black mass. Crackle... The first touch. Atoms rub. Heat generates. A light turns on deep inside. A light that aches for more. That aches for its release. Crackle pop. A short burst. Then recedes.

The wait.

...

The pause

...

The anticipation too great

...

Aaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrggggghhhhhhhkkkkkrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaa­aasssssshhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!
They erupt together as one! Light and sound. The power of their passion uncontrollable. A pure release, seeking its way towards its nearest destination. The place in can rest. The place it can seek its ultimate fortune. Life ending, life beginning, life changing.

And Hwyrflung hangs, still watching, but the passion of these two, so strong as it was, has sapped her strength and she falls to tears. The TipTap is gone, this is the Schoom. Heavy, thick and fast, draining her essence. Feeding it to the ground. For Hwyflung is not destruction, she is change. Her Schoom takes her pain and feeds its nutrients. It feeds budlings and saps and all the little scitterscatter looking for thirst. Until there are no tears left to cry and the TipTap returns.

Edhweirft swoops in to save what is left of his sister. He scoops her in his arms and whips her to safety in the canopy.

Out comes the God of the sky. He chases Edhweirft and Hwyrflung away with his warmth and smiles at their mischievery. He sends his Prysm through the TipTap, scattering a beautiful light.

And all is well.

We make our way through the wilderness and out, safely, to home.

Let’s go fly in my rocket ship
Out where the air is thin.
So I can learn all about the moon
And why the earth does spin.

And when we’re ready to take off
I hope there will be no delays
I’ve already got my white helmet on
And I’m wearing my favorite P.J.’s

I’m so glad you’re coming with me,
Rocket noises might make me scared
It seems this kind of adventure
Is one that’s better when shared.

We are flying out in space together
Past the Moon and out to Mars.
I am such a good “rememberer”
I won’t forget all of these stars.

I think that it’s time to fly back now,
To our Earth and it’s changing moon
I’m sleepy and I want to go to bed,
But I hope that we fly again soon.

For now I am just pretending
That I’m Space Girl Kailey May.
But I can do anything when I’m grown up,
On some bright and future day

how many faces have passed by
i can not count

what each face's life was like
i cannot tell

but i can imagine

what a privilege to be amongst so many
intricate lives

but they don't see me
or remember me

but that is perfect
i like it that way

not about me

im a bench sitter
a face rememberer
a open eyer
life ponderer

a people watcher

I don't like Flensburg
Dalya said
as we rode
in the passenger carrier

she next to me
at the back
the Polish girl
and her mother
having changed seats
for a different view

the Southend teacher prat
still in the front
with the driver and guide

I want to be out of Germany
my dad was in Germany
in the War
she said
she stared at the passing view
not sure where he was
he didn't say much about it

I looked at her sitting there
the green top
and tight blue jeans
her dark hair
pulled in a bunch
at the back

my old man was in Egypt
in the War
I said

what did he do there?
she said

fought the Desert Fox

were there foxes in Egypt?

he was a German general
in the north African fight
called Rommel

the fight was called Rommel?

I looked at the nape
of her neck
the love bite
still there
remembering her
in her tent
unclothed and bare

no the general
was called Rommel
I said

was your old man
as you term him
the general?

I remember her *******
like two small jelly moulds
shaking there

no he wasn't a general
he was an engineer
he mended tanks
somewhat lower
in the ranks

she pointed out a church
as we passed it by
my father said he prayed
in a church in Germany
I rememberer that
she said

I remembered her
laying there
unclothed completely bare
a soft aroma
of onions
hanging in the air.

I remember you.

Head down, trudging onward.
What nobility is there
if you never stop the momentum?
Blindly following dogma.
Hold it up to the light.
Weigh it against your heart.
Can it carry you to paradise?
Does it need your protection?
Has it atrophied your voice?
Tonight,
scale the walls of your city.
Look to the forest.
Follow the red wolf into the night.
Many eyes will you see in that darkness,
many voices will you hear - it
matters not, you must do this.
Reach the broken bell,
shatter your reflections.
Smelt the ore you find there;
refine it.

In the stillness of the forge
every spark is a star.
I wish for you to find this place.
You will need it for every new
form you take.

I remember you.

it's about that time
everyone's moved along
i'm straggling per usual
always the last one to catch on

never the first one to leave
i never anticipate the end
so it always gets the best of me

i'm never ready to say goodbye
or planning to let go
clenching so tight my knuckles turn white
overly attached and it shows

but my love is genuinely
coming from a place of care and hope
a feeling where i can't eat sleep or breathe

until i know you feel it too
our hands on different sides of the glass
its scary to even consider
could you ever love me back

yet now the seat is cold and empty
you're gone
and i don't know what to think

maybe i'm too eager to try
or too predisposed to reach the finish line
am i too broken to find a home
or is trying to trust people a waste of time

you are rain.
you are chinese food at 4 pm.
you are otter pictures when I'm stressed and
a warm hug just because.
you are surprise chocolate at 6:30 pm on a wednesday.
you are help baking cookies and
a kiss on the forehead when you think I'm cute.
you are mismatching socks and
a messy room covered in laundry and partially read books.
you are corny jokes i shouldn't laugh at and
endless ****** innuendos.
you are an oversized sweater on a cold night and
an "I make awesome pancakes" in the morning.
you are infinite compliments and
a brush of hair out of my face.
you are a "get home safe" and
a piggyback ride in my apartment.
you are my ponytail holder as i throw up everything,
too drunk to remember much, except you holding my hand.
you are an open door held for me and
a noticing of the green in my eyes.
you are an adventurer at sunset and
a "hold my coffee please" on the way to class.
you are the keeper of all my secrets and
a rememberer of everything i say.
you are the 96 on that difficult essay and
the only person who could get me into politics.
you are the sad songs at 2 am and
the guitar chords i love almost as much as your voice.
you are my first kiss in the rain which is now
an item checked off my bucket list.

you are more than i could've asked for.

Memory meanders
through but vague images
the mind forgets much
only some it remembers
that which is deeply embedded
whether such be suffering
sorrow, pain, love or joy
in part imagined, convoluted
magnified, exaggerated
but still unknowingly accepted
never to be forgotten
as the rememberer is trapped
in the dark corridors
of the sub-conscious
in strange reverie wrapped--

and where do I stand
in this scheme of things?
it would be better
it does seem
to remember to forget
and forget to remember
the past to put to sleep
and life will then assume
a fresh new slate-
to be a child in innocence
where all the woes of living
have all taken
their disappearance

There's a more sacred mind-state
A wholler feeling,
like everything is alright
It seems we've forgotten
this original
and perfect
place

Where death doesn't exist
and the tricks of Satan
are all but present

Rise again into new-life
increase the vibration
us collective,
humanity

let us demand heaven
and pull it down here,
you and I,
my fellow
rememberer

I am the name of the eternal night.
I am the love that permeates the air.
I am the desire that desireth itself.
I, to love loving and yet not loving.

Upon my name let it be forever written:
    Noire, the multitude of perspectives.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

From a cold sweat I wake from dreams of fear and wrath, to the darkness that embrace me.
To this, I hate.
From this discomforting bed I rise, in the consuming black around, forward to another path.
To this, I despise.
Nameless tears yearn to see the light of night, guided to the mirror that reveals my flesh.
To this, I cower.
Ripping flesh from bones, I dream of the day coming forth that would rid me of my corporeal being.
To this, my beloved self, I yearn.

What lies ahead? “Ruin.”
What ruin? “Ruin of your soul.”
What soul? “…”
Answer me. “…Sorry.”

The sins I committed are not my own.
This meat stuck upon my Self is not I.
What have I become?
In the wake of the beast.
Another victim to COMPLETE AND UTTER DESTRUCTION?

Complete and without hope and in the depth and before the door,
    I am.
In the inconceivable form of the flesh, through veins of blood and strains of nerves,
    I was.
Through and through without Self and with neither dreams nor ambitions,
    I shall be.
Yet ascension is the worse fate one could give to oneself.
    I.

How many times have I looked into the mirror and wished it was not my face that I saw?

How many times have I wished to be someone else?

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

This is the dream we call living
    With the settings of a world of wonders and amazing creations,
    With the backdrop of a field of blooming sunflowers,
    With the scene of a million people trampling over them,
    With the plot of experiencing other people,
    With the ****** of that which we call “love,”
    With the fallout of our own lives, into nothingness.

This is the dream we call dreaming
    Let there be the settings of a world of canvas,
    Let there be the backdrop of the whiteness of an unborn soul,
    Let there be the scene of the singular person, existing and not existing,
    Let there be the plot of painting this canvas, stretching infinitely,
    Let there be the ****** of finding the other person, drawing and not drawing,
    Let there be the fallout of that which we call “love,” into totality.

This is the dream we call dreaming of dreaming
    See the settings of a kaleidoscope,
    See the backdrop of the abstraction of one’s soul,
    See the scene of the world, changing twice in one time,
    See the plot of the change, that which the world creates,
    See the ****** of finding the collapse of colors,
    See the fallout of the collapse of dreams.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

Mine is the name of everything, that which I am not.

Ponder: What is love? What is good? What is evil? What is death? What is God? What is life? What is me? What is he? What is she? What is? What is the Purpose? What is the Meaning? What is anything? What are you? What is Art? What is Music? What is Expression? What is a legacy? What is this? What is the Sublime?

Answer: Naught.

Rebuke: That which is naught cannot be answered.

Answer: Yet that which is naught cannot be grasped in its entirety.

Affirm, ponder: Thus, for what am I?

Answer: Nothing at all.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

Those smart fools who claim to have even a fraction of a revelation.
Claiming for themselves a unity unto life.
Notwithstanding their erroneous methods.
For none can behold the [Night/Nature] of the absurd.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

If only. If only, if only.

Give unto me a singular more chance.
    Refused.
Give unto me a hope of continuance.
    Refused.
Give unto me a reason for permanence.
    Refused.
Give unto me an answer.
    Refused.
Give unto me I.
    Granted.
Yet what am I?
    Refused.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

This is a cruel world, this you cannot reject.
    For I have lived one thousand lives, I have seen the infantile self enough.
    Yet it would please God none to grant me salvation.
    Still in earth, I have tasted the punishment of the forest of self destroyers.

I am the name of the God above, in me is the eternal forgiveness.
    Yet what cruel tricks I play on my self.
    For playing God is not in my nature.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

The star above shine with the radiance of 3.8 * 10^26 units.
What magnificence it conjures into this orb!
Bringing life and hopes and dreams alike.
Creation would be to no avail if it did not exist!

What ridiculous optimism, I cannot stand this hypocracy.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

I dream.
    To be all that I am not.
    To be all that I am.

I have collected 120 perspectives, imprinted and engraved on my heart.
    They are etched into my eyes, carved into my soul.
    If I can see my self in perfect clarity, I would not be myself.
    The name of that creature would be indeed…

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

Who am I?
In the plainest words I may utter, this is my composition:
    The eyes of sapphire.
    The hands of opal.
    The arms of amethyst.
    The feet of quartz.
    The leg of hematite.
    The heart of fire.
    The flesh of me.
    The soul of you.

&~&~&~&~&~&~&~&

I am the name of the eternal night, singing quietly under the glory of the moon.
    I am the name of the universe.
    I am the name of the dream you call living.
I am the love that permeates the air, in dissonance without any understanding of self.
    To permeate is not to be rid of identity.
    To permeate is not to be like everyone else.
I am the desire that desireth itself, the love that love loving.
    To desire is not to indulge.
    To desire is not to expunge.
I, to love loving yet not loving, in loving do I love loving loving, yet loving is not in my nature.
    To love is not lovingly giving.
    To love is not lovingly taking.

I am the name of the eternal night, the everlasting impression of you.
I am the name of the universe, the quiet grandeur.
I am the name of the dream you call living, the dream of dreaming.
I am the name of the love of loving, the longing of connection.
I am the name of the existence of existing, the paradox of permanence.
I am the name of the hopeful reverie, the approaching daybreak.
I am the name of the perfect hatred, the emotion directed at the synthesis.
I am the name of the prison of flesh, the rememberer of the soul.

Carry on, ye who carry my name, and lose you of your fear.
    Say out the prayer of the final day.
And, at last, upon the souls of ye who yearn for freedom, let there be etched:
    Noire, the multitude of perspectives.

This is a cruel world, this you cannot reject.
    For I have lived one thousand lives, I have seen the infantile self enough.
    Yet it would please God none to grant me salvation.
    Still in earth, I have tasted the punishment of the forest of self destroyers.

I am the name of the God above, in me is the eternal forgiveness.
    Yet what cruel tricks I play on my self.
    For playing God is not in my nature.

----

From a cold sweat I wake from dreams of fear and wrath, to the darkness that embrace me.
To this, I hate.
From this discomforting bed I rise, in the consuming black around, forward to another path.
To this, I despise.
Nameless tears yearn to see the light of night, guided to the mirror that reveals my flesh.
To this, I cower.
Ripping flesh from bones, I dream of the day coming forth that would rid me of my corporeal being.
To this, my beloved self, I yearn.

----

What lies ahead? “Ruin.”
What ruin? “Ruin of your soul.”
What soul? “…”
Answer me. “…Sorry.”

The sins I committed are not my own.
This meat stuck upon my Self is not I.
What have I become?
In the wake of the beast.
Another victim to complete and utter destruction?

Complete and without hope and in the depth and before the door,
    I am.
In the inconceivable form of the flesh, through veins of blood and strains of nerves,
    I was.
Through and through without Self and with neither dreams nor ambitions,
    I shall be.
Yet ascension is the worse fate one could give to oneself.
    I.

----

I am the name of the eternal night, singing quietly under the glory of the moon.
    I am the name of the universe.
    I am the name of the dream you call living.
I am the love that permeates the air, in dissonance without any understanding of self.
    To permeate is not to be rid of identity.
    To permeate is not to be like everyone else.
I am the desire that desireth itself, the love that love loving.
    To desire is not to indulge.
    To desire is not to expunge.
I, to love loving yet not loving, in loving do I love loving loving, yet loving is not in my nature.
    To love is not lovingly giving.
    To love is not lovingly taking.

I am the name of the eternal night, the everlasting impression of you.
I am the name of the universe, the disquieting grandeur.
I am the name of the dream you call living, the dream of dreaming.
I am the name of the love of loving, the longing of connection.
I am the name of the existence of existing, the paradox of permanence.
I am the name of the hopeful reverie, the approaching daybreak.
I am the name of the perfect hatred, the emotion directed at the synthesis.
I am the name of the prison of flesh, the rememberer of the soul.

Carry on, ye who carry my name, and lose you of your fear.
    Say out the prayer of the final day.
And, at last, upon the souls of ye who yearn for freedom, let there be etched:
    Angel of Noire, the multitude of perspectives.