You can hear the voices of our peers being silenced, ignored, shunned and distorted.
Staggering out of their bedroom doorways to the street corner to score a dime bag.
Bright, insightful millennials freezing in search of warmth from something to believe in that will encourage them to look forward to see another day.
Where our economy has made financial prudence clear when talking about education, yet price tags of university tuition's skyrocket.
The refused, the ones with hope but no money or scholarships; tread the streets with the echoes of electro house pulsing in their skulls.
Those who strip themselves down and shred their own morals to scraps just to find themselves and to see their own limitations.
Searching for answers to the unknown, to ascertain what they are, who they are and why.
Timid in high school, pushed along with nothing and no one to put their creative vigor into.
The squeakiest wheels that were never even considered to be given a good greasing.
Faculties giving them lethargic hellos on the first day of school, bestowing celebrated goodbyes to them on graduation day, diplomas in hand.
Now are the ones slumped over in a lackadaisical position contemplating how they can afford an education.
They work eight to ten at seven twenty five an hour Monday to Friday; and weekends staying in as not to blow their earnings.
Those who commute to university and balance a job with it, I applaud you.
The bewilderment of adulthood, the overabundance of pressure and responsibility.
Awakened from nightmares of lost opportunities, missed trains and lost contacts.
To step out of bed and splash water onto a severely distressed face and staring into a mirror with a despairing look.
Then hoping a bus to Garfield to bring back weight for all the embryonic smokers not yet at the point of make or break, just save up enough to pave my own way.
Gazing at the town on a roof top, chugging down the tenth…no…twelfth beer of the night wondering how this all happened.
Wild sensations of kissing an attractive stranger, the rush of touching on things never felt, tasting pleasures only the lucky have known.
The passionate, yet dissolute yearning for that ever eluding ******* adrenaline. Pounding, Pounding, Pounding until the culmination of energy has come.
Flip sided to those dizzying, tear jerking thoughts of suicide, annihilation of ones being, the contradictions of their faith in themselves and the people around them.
Unexplainable waves of anxiety crashing onto the shore of a diminutive island of optimism
Striving to look past the panic, the gloominess and fury that may or may not be present. But to remain composed and press forward to what awaits them.
Coffee keeps them going. Cup after cup, late night cramming every bit they can; into their caffeine driven psyches until the indisputable crash and failure.
Packs and packs of menthol cigarettes to calm their rattling nerves but at the same time killing them slowly. Their lives will seem shorter than the time it took to finish one bogey when death is near.
Marijuana induced ventures to run down burger shacks, laughing hysterical in the car ride, eyes heavy with a most ridiculous elastic grin extending from ear to ear. While inside millions of thoughts and realizations of consciously simple speculations and troubles become clear and unproblematic. So the joy is mirrored outside in.
LSD trips in Petruska dancing and singing in the rain! Making music, making love; playing pretend and creating art. Becoming a family while kicking back under the warmth of an illuminated tree on a cool fall night.
MDMA streaming through the body, everything is as it should be
Beautiful, lovely to touch, wondrous to stroke, marvelous to move.
To contact and connect, converse and converge with the dwelling desire to share what you feel with everyone for it would be selfish and unpleasant to keep it in.
Mushrooms oh the emotional overflow I need not say more but ****.
Then there are over the counter candies, Oxycontin, ******, Adderall and Xanax, painkillers and antidepressants. Ups, downs, side ways and backwards.
Selling addiction and dependency legally to kids. Making heroine, ******* and speed easily obtainable to them. Changing the names and giving out prescriptions so the parents can feel like they're actually helping their children but are subconsciously making it easier on themselves because they cannot handle the way their offsprings actually are. Some parents a feel it is the only way, I wish it wasn't so. Becoming zombies, mindless addicts before they even start to mature into puberty. I've seen it, firsthand front row.
Oh, the monotonous, mundane rituals and agendas of our lives. School, work, sleep eat, the sluggish schedules and repetitions of yesterday's conversations and redundancy of itineraries we had plotted months prior.
Same people, the constant faces of boredom that groan in apathy and hold the fear of complacency.
We talk about how hum drum out lives have become and what we could to put some color in our world but don’t.
We speak of how unfair the system is but ultimately confuse ourselves and everyone else due to lack or organization and dedication so nothing is changed.
We speak of breath taking women we want to share ****** fantasies with but can’t even muster enough courage to send a trivial friend request.
Texting away for hours trying to court those who now occupy our minds and possess our hearts hoping they may allow us to acquire their attention and affection. Calling them only to receive futile dial tones and know we are being evaded.
Weeping on and on for seemingly endless time frames of a dilapidated relationship that was so strained that a miniscule breeze could cause it to collapse but still clinging to every memory as if they were vital hieroglyphics depicting your very essence.
Brilliant theories blurted out in a drunken stupor.
Ingenious hypothesis shrouded in marijuana smoked out room.
Remembrance of friends long gone.
The marines, the navy.
The casualties of drug addiction.
The conquerors or their afflictions.
The scholars.
The insane locked away on the flight deck never to be seen again.
Teenage mothers unsure of themselves, abandoned by their families for they believe that they brought fictional shame upon the family’s name. The fate of the child is unclear but the mother’s everlasting love shines through any obscurities in its way.
Dear mother of the new born winter’s moon may the aura of life protect you and your baby.
The father gone without a trace.
He will never know his daughter.
And it will haunt him forever.
Parents bringing up their kids with values and morals, The Holy Bible, mantras and meditation, the Holy Quran, The Bhagavad Gita, and Upanishads. Islamic anecdotes and Jewish parables.
The names all different
The message the same
The stories unlike
Goals equivalent
Faith
Kabala, Scientology and Wicca
Amish and Mormons
All separate paths that intertwine and runoff each other then pool into the plateau of eternal life.
But do we have faith in our country, our government?
They do not have faith in us. Cameras on every street corner, FBI agents stalking social media, recordings of our personal lives and police brutality. 4th amendment where have you gone?
We say farewell to Oresko the last veteran of the last great war. And revisit the Arab spring, Al-Assad’s soldiers opening fire on innocent protesters, one hundred fifteen thousand lay dead. Bin laden dead, Hussein hanged, Gaddafi receiving every ounce of his comeuppance. War, terrorism, the fear of being attacked or is it an excuse to secure our nation's investments across the sea? Throwing trillions of dollars to keep the ****** machine cranking away, taxes, pensions, credit scores, insurance and annuities all cogs in the convoluted contraptions plight.
My dear friend contemplates this every night laying in bed, fetal position; the anxiety if having to be a part of this.
Falling apart on the inside but on the outside, an Adonis, *******, Casanova wanna be. Who worshiped the almighty dollar, gripping it so tightly until it made change, drank until he had his fill falling face first into the snow. The guy who lead on legions of clueless girls wearing their hearts on their sleeves not knowing he had a girlfriend the entire time. Arranging secret meetings in hidden gardens, streaking into the early morning. Driving to Ewing in his yellow Mustang to woo a sado masochistic girl. The chains and whips do nothing to him he is already numbed by the thrill. Then he comes home, lays in bed until one, with no job and having people pay for his meals.
He knows what he does and who he is wrong. He recites and regurgitates excuses endlessly. He cries because he knows he is weak, he knows he must fix himself. I sit on the edge of myself with my fingers crossed hoping maybe, maybe he will set himself straight.
My chum who can talk his way out of any confrontation and into a woman’s *******. Multitudes of amorous affairs in backrooms, backseats, front rows of movies theaters. Selfish, boastful and ignorant, yet woman fling themselves at him like catapulted boulders over a medieval battle field just to say hello. These girls blind to see what going on, for their eyes were taken by low self esteem. A need to be accepted, to feel wanted even only for fifteen minutes. Poor self image, daddy issues, anorexic razor blade slicing sirens screaming on about counted calories and social status. Their uncontrollable mental breakdowns and emotional collapse. Their uncles who ***** them, their parents who split up and confusing their definition of love and loyalty for the rest of their lives. Broken homes, domestic abuse and raised voices, sending jolts of fright into the young girl’s fragile minds. I send my sorrows to you ladies, to see such beautiful creatures suffer then be used and thrown away with the ****** that was just ****** deep into their *****.
Then I see women and men of marvelous stature, romantic in the streets holding everyone and everything in high regards. Finding beauty in anything and anyone. Enjoying every second as if the rapture was over head eating exotic foods from unheard of countries and cultures. Bouncing to the sound of whimsical , reverb ricochets and sense stimulating music. Huffing inspiration to create something out of thin air. Dancing to retired jazz and swing albums as if no time had past since their conception. Wearing bold colors and patterns, thrifty leather shoes or suede.
Dawning pre-owned blazers because why spend hundreds of dollars on new clothes just to look good but feel uncomfortable with a hole in your pocket. Dressing up but dressing down, so class yet urban I love it, chinos, pea coats and flannels so simple but chic.
At night they go to underground dens, sweaty bodies, loud music and freedom. Expressive manifestations glowing fueled with MDMA and other substances to further their enjoyment of the dark glorious occasion. Kandi kids sporting colorful bracelets, not watches for time is of no concern to them, they have all eternity they know that.
Going to book stores, coffee shops just to have some peace of mind and a moment of silence to themselves so that can weave the tapestry of imaginative innovation. Writing their own versions of the same story, endless doors of perception, reading news papers and taking it with a grain of salt. Watching the news on TV with a hand full of salt. Searching for the real story so they can know if the world they all live in is actually safe.
She who made her own way breaking hearts, rolling blunts and making deals. The flower child of the modern age, left the rainy days in search of radiant sunshine, idealistic. Reality was subjective, purple dyed hair, multicolored sweater with sandals on her feet. A ten inch bowl with bud from California packed in tightly. Coming from Dumont to Bergenfeild then on to Philly to Mount Vernon. Off to Astoria and the Heights. Now to Sweden laying in the grassy plains below the mountains. Good for you my friend whom I have loved, may fortunes of unsullied joy come to you and all you meet.
Since you’ve left I have encountered drunken burly firemen just trying to have a good time. Pounding down Pabst Blue Ribbon as if it were water; as if it were good tasting beer. But heroes none the less.
EMT's, young eighteen years old high school graduates, saving lives reviving people who are a mere inch close to death.
Sport stars getting scholarships thanks to their superior skills and strength.
Striking beauty school students who are into making the people of this world a little bit more beautiful on the outside.
All these people, successful, doing things. Departing to their desired destinations. I see inside them, they carry baggage, loneliness and insecurities. I can feel their guilt slowing them down. All have their loads but it’s the way they carry them that shows who they really are. And to me their all gems.
Not far in Paterson I watch the junkies limping across busy winding street, perusing a severely needed fix. “Diesel!” they shout beneath flickering streetlights, asking for spare change and if bold enough a ride to some shady sketchy place. I give them a dollar and politely decline. They’ll die without it. Vomiting up bile and blood, twitches and shivers are all you feel when it’s not in you. They cannot stop, they need help. Why not help them instead of “assisting” those who are homosexual? Cleansing so they can be granted entry to the kingdom of God. Looking down on people who have found love and understanding and a deep attraction to others who just so happen to share alike genitals.
Narrow minded uproars about the spread of AIDS, nonsense! The puritanical onslaught of those who want nothing more than the rest of us, love. "Gay", "****", "******", "queer", how about "kind", "funny", "genuine human being"? The right to be married and divorced should be an option for everyone to enjoy. The strains and hardships of matrimony are yours if you want them. If you don’t agree don’t hate or harm just allow them to be peacefully. Same goes for anything for that matter, Jehovah's going door to door, Mormons from Burbank. New ideas are never a bad thing, they’re not a waste of time. On average you have about eighty years to mull over your options.
Some people don’t live long enough to do so, cancer is rampant, blood diseases, ****** diseases, natural disasters coming right out of left field and blindsiding the innocent bystanders of both hemispheres. Some go through life handicapped, autism is apparent these days. Schizophrenia, Asperburgers, ADD and ADHD. Some lose their golden memories of their many valuable years walking down Alzheimer's Lane, not being able to remember whatever transpired only a few moments ago but revisiting gold nuggets from from fifty-some-odd years ago with ease. Some go through life delusional or bipolar. Some can't even sleep at night but they still carry on. And if assistance is needed it is our job as a race to help our brothers and sisters, no one deserves to be excluded from the gala of life. Or be denied by society and pumped with brightly colored pills from doctors promising a cure but prescribing a crutch.
Finding solace in sincerity.
The serendipity of it all hasn’t been uncovered and that keeps me going.
“Radiate boundless love towards the entire world above, below and across. Unhindered without ill will without enmity.” Oh Buddha the truth as it ever was.
Who is he who keeps these thoughts from the conscious minds of the population?
Who is it that distracts us from the humbling beauty and overwhelming devastation of this place of existence we’re in?
It’s they who do under the table parlor trick behind our backs.
Those who broadcast mind numbing so called reality TV shows without an underlying value or meaning.
Those who produce music, proclaiming extravagance to be the end all be all gluttonous goal we all should aim to achieve.
And those who turn noble causes into money making scams and defile pure ideas.
And of course those who give false promises of easily obtained  bright futures, those who don’t care, those who steal, ****, curse, bad mouth and lie. But still manage to get elected into positions that more or less decide out fates. Monsters, demons, banshees howling inconsequential worries and leaving us deaf to hear the real issues.
The

i'm sure
life was a peach
til he was born breach
but the inversion of his excursion
into the hands of the surgeon left him worse an'
the immersive submersion
in perversive subversion
was only urgin'
the incursion
of aspersions
for subversive diversion
as
an apparition with volition
wishin for position transition
fishin for recognition
of  ambitious cognition    
this in addition
to the malicious conditions
that stitched in repetitions
of neurochemical
         composition
       transmissions
    entailing
the intensity of his propensity
to find immense suspense in the
density of a tense city hence did he
commence in the dispensary
of sound condensed sensory
sensory sensory sensory.

said the intensity of his propensity
to find immense suspense in the
density of a tense city hence did he
commence in the dispensary
of sound condensed sensory
sensory sensory.

I have work to do
have work to do
work to do
to do it well I must concentrate my thoughts upon this task in hand
and
I have work to do
to do it is a chore
a bore but beggars are not choosers
just losers
but
I have work to do
to do work at all at any time
is fine for me
on being homeless I could see
the workings of the work
priority
a majority of folk I know
don't go to work
go to work
to work is but another reason to go on
and go on I will
until the work is done
and my Sun sets overhead
and I am dead sure that
it will.

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole --
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue --
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

One, two, three, two, five, seven
Rhythmless feet clad in branded shoes
Adventurous, brazen fingers strolling on wide, voluptuous stalks
Towering sunflowers with wide, voluptuous stalks
Pristine dandelions enticing pairs of hands
Pristine dandelions enticing my pair of hands
And I give in, and I willingly give in
Summer petals weaken the gullible heart
The summer petals abandon the gullible heart
One, two, three, two, five, seven
Rhythmless feet now bare
Adventurous, brazen fingers now dormant

One, two, four, six, eight, ten
Rhythmless feet clad in cheap shoes
Curious fingers strolling on wide, voluptuous stalks
Towering white daisies with wide, voluptuous stalks
Pristine dandelions spring once more
Pristine dandelions enticing my pair of hands
And I give in, yet again I give in
Winter petals capture the derelict heart
The winter petals emulate mirrors after caressing the ramshackle heart
One, two, four, six, eight, ten
Rhythmless feet once again bare, now calloused
Curious fingers now cautious

One, two, two, two, two, two
Rhythmless feet hesitating to be covered
Vacillating fingers mapping the wide, voluptuous stalks
Pristine dandelions surface once more
Pristine dandelions displaying subtle coquetry
And I stall, for heaven's sake, I stall
Fall petals demonstrate its desire to the heart
The fall petals fall but the bitter heart hangs on a silk thread
One, two, two, two, two, two
Rhythmless feet discovers a rhythm
A rhythm so unpleasant, so abhorrent
Vacillating fingers now curl
Curl into the palm in resistance

The Ache is leaving. Three years languished by dead end jobs, drugs and friends. Last week above a bagel store, the sun morphs mute amidst travelling clouds, indifferent fluctuations of light on an otherwise featureless day.

You arrive a tight knot of anxieties over a moment in time that could only have arrived after its departure. The Ache welcomes you into their sparse interior. You trace last month’s 21st across the black mould complex; navigate piles of stacked boxes, unsure if anything is inside of them.

“I always make the best friends in departure,” the Ache says, flipping a plushy up and down by the waist.

“Maybe you can only love that which is already lost,” you reply, with an insight a friend will give you a week later.

The acid tastes bitter under your tongue. Small marks your body bursting, a glowing radiance of interconnections you’d always had but only now begun to feel. The Ache follows suit and you sit on the couch together to watch .hack//Legend of the Twilight. The come up entangles you in the spectacle; the screaming boy protagonist, the chipped tooth gag, the moe sister in need of saving from the liminal space of dead code. You take part in it; you revel in it. Bodies morph on the surface of the screen in hyperflat obscenity, their parts interchangeable to the affect of the drama. Faces invert, break and disfigure, before reformation into the self-same identity form.

A month earlier, you’d hosted a house show at your flat. Too anxious to perform you’d dropped a tab as you’ve done now. An overbearing sensation of too-much-ness — of sickening reality — washed through the nexus of your being. You writhed on the ground screaming into a microphone as a cacophony of sounds roiled through you. Everyone cheered.

The floor rose later that night. A damp, disgusting intensity that triggered contractions in your throat and chest. Pulled to the ground, you fought off your bandmate’s advances, too shocked to express your revulsion and horror, to react accordingly, to reconstitute a border of consensual sociality. You broke free and slurred “I’m no one’s! I’m no one’s!” before running out of the room. Hours later, you tried to comfort them. Weeks later, you realised how ******* ******* that had been. Months later, you learnt their friend had committed suicide days before the show.

Back in the lounge, a prince rides onto the screen on a pig. You turn to the Ache and say “This is ******* awful.”

The Ache responds “I know right?”

Outside the world burns blue with lustre. The Ache trails you and falls onto their stomach. “Oh my god,” the Ache blurts, “this is why I love acid. Everything just feels right.” They gaze wistfully at the grasses and flowers before them; catch a whiff of asphalt and nectar, intermingled. “Like, gender isn’t even a thing, you know? Just properties condensed into a legible sign to be disciplined by heteronormative governmentality.”

“Properties! Properties!” You chant, stomping around the Ache with your arms stretched out. You wave them in the air like windmills. You bare your teeth. “Properties! Properties!”

“You know what I mean, right?” The Ache asks, pointedly. “You know what I mean?”

You continue chanting “Properties!” for another minute or two, before spotting a slug on a blade of grass beneath your feet. You fall to your knees and gasp “It’s a slug!”

You and the Ache stare at the tiny referent for an indefinite period of time, absorbed in its glistening moistures. Eventually, the Ache says “I think it’s actually a snail.”

You used to read postmodern novels on acid. You loved their exploration of hyperreality; their dissection of culture as a system of meaning that arises out of our collective, desperate attempts to overcome the indifference of facticity. Read symptomatically, culture does not reveal unseen depths in the world, but rather, constitutes shallow networks of sprawling complexity — truth effects — illusions of mastery over an, otherwise, undifferentiated and senseless becoming.

Then one day, the world overwhelmed you. Down the hall, your flatmates sounded an eternal return. As they spoke in joyous abandon you traced the lines from their mouths — found their origin in idiot artefacts of Hollywood Babylon. The joy of abstraction you once relished in your books took on an all too direct horror. You recoiled. You bound your lips in hysteria, for fear of becoming another repeating machine of an all too present culture industry. Better dumb than banal — better to say nothing at all, than everything that already was and would ever be. You cried and cried until everyone left — until you were alone with your silence and your tears and your nonexistent originality.

Dusk falls in violet streaks. You reach your room on the second floor of the building, open the bedside window and stick your legs out into a cool breeze. The Ache joins you. Danny Burton, the local MP, arrives in his van, his smiling bald face plastered on its side like an uncanny double enclosing its original.

“Hey look, it’s Danny Burton, the local MP.” Danny Burton turns his head. He glares at your dangling feet for a few seconds before entering his house. “You know, this is the first time in three years he’s looked at me and it’s at the peak of my degeneracy.” You turn to the Ache. “One of my favourite past times is watching him wander around the house at night, ******* and unsure of himself. He always goes to check on his BBQ.” You bounce on the bed in mania.

“See this is what people do, right?” the Ache says, mirroring your excitement. “Like, look at that lady walking her dog.” The Ache motions, with a cruel glint in their eyes, to the passerby on the fast dimming street. “What do you think she gets out of that? Doing that every night?” Without waiting for you to respond, the Ache answers, in a low, sarcastic tone “I guess she gets enjoyment. Doing her thing. Like everyone else.” The lady and the dog disappear beyond the curve of the road. Another pair soon arrives, taking the same path as the one before.

A few months back, you’d met an old friend at an exhibition on intersectional feminism. After the perfunctory art, wine and grapes, she drove you home, back to your run down flat in an otherwise bourgeois neighbourhood. She sat silent as the sun set before the dashboard, then asked how anyone could live like this; how anyone could stand driving out of their perfect suburban home, at the same time every morning, to work the same shift every day, for the rest of their stupid life. The dull ache of routine; the slow, boring death. You said nothing. You said nothing because you agreed with her.

“Life began as self-replicating information molecules,” you reply, obliquely. “Catalysis on superheated clay pockets. Repetition out of an attempt to bind the excess of radiant light.”

It is dark now; a formless hollow, pitted with harsh yellow lamps of varying, distant sizes. The Ache flips onto their stomach and scoffs “What’s that? We’re all in this pointless repetition together?”

You respond, cautiously “I just don’t think that being smart is any better than being stupid; that our disavowed repetitions are any worthier than anyone else’s.”

The Ache returns your gaze with an intensity you’ve never seen before. “Did I say being smart was any better? Did I say that? Being smart is part of the issue. There is no trajectory that doesn’t become a habitual refrain. When you can do anything, everything becomes rote, effortless and pointless.

“But don’t act as if there’s no difference between us and these ******* idiots,” the Ache spits, motioning into the blackness beyond your frame. “I knew this one guy, this complete and utter ****. We went to a café, and he wouldn’t stop talking about the waitress, about how hot she was, how he wanted to **** her, while she was in earshot, because, I don’t know, he thought that would get him laid.

“Then we went for a drive and he failed a ******* u-turn. He just drove back and forth, over and again. A dead, automatic weight. A car came from the other lane, towards us, and waited for him to finish, but he stopped in the middle of the street and started yelling, saying **** like, ‘what does this ******* want?’ He got out of his car, out of his idiot u-turn, and tried to start a fight with the other driver — you know, the one who’d waited silently for him to finish.”

You don’t attempt a rebuttal; you don’t want to negate the Ache’s experience. Instead, you ask “Why were you hanging out with this guy in the first place?”

The Ache responds “Because I was alone, and I was lonely, and I had no one else.”

It is 2AM. Moths dance chaotic across the invisible precipice of your bedside window, between the inner and outer spaces of linguistic designation. There is a layering of history here — of affects and functions that have blurred beyond recognition — discoloured, muted, absented.

In the hollow of your bed, the Ache laughs. You don’t dare close the distance. Sometimes you find the edges of their impact and trace your own death. All your worries manifest without content. All form and waver and empty expanse where you drink deeply without a head. Because you have lost so much time already. And nothing keeps.

Months later, after the Ache has left, you will go to the beach. You will see the roiling waves beneath crash into the rocky shore of the esplanade, a violence that merges formlessly into a still, motionless horizon, for they are two and the same. You will be unable to put into words how it feels to know that such a line of calm exists out of the pull and push of endless change, that it has existed long before your birth and will exist long after your death.

The last lingering traces of acid flee your skin. Doused in tomorrow’s stupor, you close your eyes. You catch no sleep.

I am not what I used to be
So now in the shadow of unspoken events
Everything whimsical is leaving
Words fill my head, they fragment like artillery shells
they tare through it forcing irreparable damage.
Time has accelerated
Born out of the absence of light
Shaped by my own hands
Justly worthy to be referenced and adored
I re-encounter what my elation briefly with held
The thirst for the dangerous
Obliterate the incomprehensible crowding thoughts
The stampede within my head
The mayhem of the many visions
Lock them down, all that fracture within my head
Inexplicable wanderings of mindful musings
Spontaneous perceptions
Shadow of foe
Encircling their fears with distractions
Pulsing in endless repetitions
I am the one whose throat is stripped bare.
I am the one who has not spoken in years
A distant moon to sense

© Crystal Erickson

THEY are crying salt tears
Over the beautiful beloved body
Of Inez Milholland,
Because they are glad she lived,
Because she loved open-armed,
Throwing love for a cheap thing
Belonging to everybody-
Cheap as sunlight,
And morning air.

Rise in the morning,
Fall back without a fight,
Right back into the night,
Falling 'till the mourning,

As the emptiness grows,
Time simply slips into the void,
The endless repetitions only shows,
Please the people, please the android,

The rain has been pouring,
Yet, the glass hasn't filled,
Though, never has it spilled,
And the answer they are ignoring,

No one knows,
Oh, the hollowness that exists,
The endless repetitions only shows,
These the worlds, these the cysts,

There has been given a warning,
Of this their creations of great sleight,
To achieve such false height,
But, still their hearts they are adorning,

And so it goes and goes,
While they raise their fists,
Right until the final throws,
The world fades into mists,

Meaningless is this warring,
Of a world that remains untilled,
Of dreams that remain unfulfilled,
Look on vacuous, look on abhorring,

As the emptiness grows,
Time simply slips into the void,
The endless repetitions only shows,
Please the people, please the android,

Rise in the morning,
Fall back without a fight,
Right back into the night,
Falling 'till the mourning.

Denying stigma of bided truth
You're still breathing, this is proof
Stagnant lies with poignant breaths
You chose this fate
You created this mess

Denying truth will only make you bided
No matter how fluctuated life is
Circles of contempt will never end

Rotating to the eminent truth
You'll be stuck in this loop hole
Repetitions of remorse will tire you out
It's never too late if you just shout

Shout for forgiveness
Shout for compassion
The fallen you condemned
The innocent you slaughtered

The devil always waiting by the gate
The time when the angels die
That's when you realized it's too late

December 25 - 28, 2010


Stuck in Miami, Florida, because of bad weather in NYC.
Composed after reading the poetry of Campbell McGrath, who lives in Miami.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
­
electric pinpricks of
unfamiliar red and green lights,
bedroom traffic guidance
courtesy of a stranger's
tv and cable box,
an emblematic totem tonight,
of my physical dislocation,
reminders that I'm enslaved
by weather machinations.

I lay, resting uneasy,
in a strange bed,
one night too many,
snow storming in my head
snow storming up north aplenty,
a blizzard of ruminations are
my white coverlet,
while stuck in Miami.

faraway drifts have
force fed and freed
an imprisoned restlessness,
a multipurposed, slashing.

Miami midnight incision has
let out the bad humors,
let in an unfamiliar odor -
lechón asado,
which texts my Pharisee nostrils
in Cubano,
words muy ironico,
a single waking thought,
"who ya kidding?"

Everglades rain
imported from California,
recycles on rooftops,
thrumming a heart beating,
syncopated, watery refrain,
a regifted heavenly present.

the sound waves mark
as a barely undulating wave,
inside this super soaked brain,
that transforms wine into water
and scan lines into these letters,
"who ya kidding?"

all this exponential signage
of this NYC boy grousing, are his
defrocked muses annoying,
with a serenading blizzard
of one trick pony repetitions,
coronets trumpet his unmasking,
this essay, a revelation,
a product of their
harmonious discordancy.

a single note crowns his head
as he weeps whole food
organic, non-recyclable tears,
products of his new inquistional,
a self-inflicted interogatorial,
"who ya kidding?"

compiler of an
occasional talented catch phrase,
strung'em together like
cheap pearls,
pretensions of literary acumen
once populated his Id,
articles of spilled word *****,
but Florida rain has cleansed
his Northern haughty pretensions,
with an injection of truth serum,
a pharmaceutical wonder of
a local poison labeled,
"who ya kidding?"

A day laborer, nothing more,
rise up at five, brown bagged,
a client of Mammon's *****,
soul sagged, life hagged,
a sum of cultural cliches,
a cell phoned baby boomer,
a would be millennial,
constructed of paper mache,
who on occasion,
has been known to say,
"Let's play poetry today."

the poseur chokes
on this new poison,
delivered by unhappy stance
by the arrows of his
current misfortune
for he now suffers from
the deadly disease of
"compare and contrast."

a slim book of poems
of Campbell McGrath's
(his phraseology,
a veritable theology)
shoos the blues traveler,
over to a funhouse
where an honest magic mirror
cuts him down to size.

his poetic aspirations,
a residue of self-infatuation,
are summarily dismissed by
the truly gritty, quick justice
of a master poet's
"who ya kidding?"

so watch how a would-be
poet disappears,
in a barrage of bullets marked,
nevermore,
his dignity, more than hobbled,
his cheek, gone, gobbled,
his juice, a currency unaccepted,
his holiday present,
a ceasefire of conjugation,
a cornucopia of declinations

dare I ever write again?
who indeed, am I kidding,
other than myself?
I am an addict, not a poet.

i grow tired of my repetitions
i grow tired of
well, you know.

If Daedalus built us a labyrinth

Of chambers with beds, and smells of mint,

I’d never try to leave or escape,

I’d stay with you, it be our fate.

-

Your enticing scented perfume,

Catches my nostrils as I gaze at you,

You glance back, seductive and robed,

Your shoulders revealed, the rest unknown,

Until a slight twitch adorns the floor,

With the garb you wore before,

Your lingerie lingers there now,

Across your backside and ***** endowed,

Your back is still there turned to me,

Morals become my enemy.

-

I walk slowly, creep behind,

I take your hips and you take mine,

I feel your nails dig in my sides,

Pain is not to be belied,

Turned around now, look at me,

In my eyes, what do you see?

Feel my hand gently stroke

That precious cheek of yours to stoke,

The fire that internally burns,

Inside ourselves, the passion churns,

My hand softly grasps your throat,

Your pupils widen, you are smote,

A short gasp, an inhale of breath,

I adore seeing your heaving chest,

Surprised, aroused, you grab my hair,

We break something beside us,

I don’t care, we don’t care.

-

Your *** in my hands, your legs wrapped around,

I put you on a table, throw you down,

You smile and bite your lip and look up,

Joyous repetitions of “****, oh ****”,

You bite my collar bone and shoulder,

I think “Oh, how I love to explore her”,

Pandora’s Box knows nothing of this,

I feel, as I hold down your hands with clenched fists.

-

To the chamber that promises silken sheets,

You and I alone, who needs “discreet”?

Sensual moans from my Aphrodite,

You call me Ares, and quiver slightly,

We've now become quite volatile,

You feel no need to hide your guile,

You bury my face a midst your chest,

Smiling lightly, pointing to your crest,

I serve you well,

As far as listening can tell,

You happily return the favor,

This moment in my mind, I’ll savor,

A fallen angel is angel nonetheless,

You look up and I must confess,

The sight of it, so great to behold,

That I stand you up, and around, and fold

You across the bedside chair,

Alas, the pleasure doth find you there.

I am yours and you are mine,

Behind our door records no time.

-

When I bend to receive a kiss,

Ah, the touch of your perfect lips,

Your taste, it’s addictive to say the least,

I cannot stop, your tongue can’t cease,

Then you recoil and I silently beg,

You then submit, and tighten your legs,

I kiss your neck, hear a deep breath in my ear,

You have the power of my mind to steer,

Your hands and nails find my back,

And then, in ecstasy, you attack.

What must be hours go by and then,

I feel from inside, your body tightens,

We are both together this moment,

There is a small flood after the levee’s exploded,

You lean back, dragging nails, and scream,

Heavy exhales as if we were breathing steam,

You lay atop, beautiful and breathless,

After all, we are quite reckless,

Feeding on our insatiability,

We lay here kissing awaiting re-ability,

We are lost in each other’s flesh,

And mind, and heart, and we both have fetched

A longing lust that took command,

Without daring reprimand.

-

This is Adam and Eve’s paradise,

Without The Apple, it will suffice,

This night feels as if it will never end,

We take each other again and again.

Don’t let the last name fool you of Greene
As you continue to read, you will understand what made him structured lean
Mr. Greene was a man who won International Federation of Bodybuilders of MR. WORLD title twice
There were times when Mr. Greene called Joe Weider and asked for advice
It was intensity with the weights
Then taking in food protein and drinking protein shakes
Mr. Greene is a personal friend of mine
He used to tell me stories of bodybuilding ways
Also stay away from drugs and go astray
Yet he was every bodybuilder’s friend
But on the Bodybuilding stage, it was about the win
Mr. Greene’s muscles were his voice on stage
In the audience, it was the posing that did amaze
It left the audience and Judge’s in a daze
It was his proportion being the fine line
Then it was the repetitions that contributed being combined
Under the spotlight, Mr. Greene was the terminator
But it was his posing being the illustrator
Franklyn Greene was focused down to the finish
This is what makes him distinguished
A Bodybuilding champion who was meant to be
The world witnessed and was able to see
Mr. Greene made Bodybuilding everything that it should be
He is now retired from competition, but continues to train
Bodybuilding in his heart still remains
His motto, “Train with focus and eye on detail”
Franklyn Greene who did achieve and many bodybuilding awards he did receive. Accomplishments with many wins, and with a past being a milestone, but the name of Franklyn Greene who is still known.

“Repetition", he said, "bores me.
I like things new and fresh.
That’s why I never get committed.”
“No", she said, "that’s not the reason.
Don’t you enjoy every time you watch a sunrise?
Don’t you enjoy listening to your favourite music on repeat mode?
Don’t you like reading novels?”
“I do listen to my favourite music over and over again. After a few repetitions, I will change it certainly.
I do enjoy reading novels. But every time I read, it is new one.”
And there she stood clueless,
Looking for right reasons for him,
As he walked away,
Probably thinking he won a battle,
Without even considering
That he may be losing the war-
A war within himself.
“He didn't mention sunrise though.
Did he forget to mention it or
Did he leave it purposely?”
She wondered as she watched him blend in the crowd.

I look into her gaze, when she makes the statement,
“We  should date. What do you think?”

“What do I think?” I say.
“I think you should save your breath, and your heart.
I’ll be your next mistake.
I’ll be the next pain you feel.
I’ll be the next tears you shed.
I’ll be the ghost you’ll spend a lifetime trying to escape.
I’ll be the person you adore the most, and want to rip apart.
I’ll be the next nightmare you have.
I’ll be the next constant trouble you can’t get off your back.
I’ll be everything that you don’t need.
If I could gather up all of the people I have met and who haven’t hated me,
I could fit them all into a bathtub,
And fill it up with the tears others have shed because of me.
You’re bound to suffer, because you can never love me.
Or understand me.
Just like everybody else.
And it’s because I’m different.
Because I’m strange. Weird. Eccentric.
You’ll never love me; just the version of me you wish I was.
And the moment you realize who I am,
You’ll be so disgusted with me you’ll lift your bags and walk out of the door to the house that is my life.”

She says to me,
“You never asked me what I think.
I think you’re lovely.
A diamond in the rough.
A gem I’ll wear on my chest, proudly.
I’ll drain your bathtub and dry you off, because it’s what you deserve.
And when life pushes you down,
Turn to me, because I’ll always have an outstretched hand for you.
I’ll make my heart beats synchronize with yours,
Just so you will always know that somebody shares something with you.
Even if God himself turns you away,
I’ll say that heaven doesn’t deserve us.
When nobody else understands who you are,
Realize that I do.
I’ll learn everything.
I’ll learn the way you sleep, the way you breath, the way you drink, the way you think, the way you exist.
I get you. Who you are. Who you want to be.
I’m fit for you, and you, for me.”

My heart beats with bliss,
And I smile with an excitement that couldn’t even be touched by mere words.
I turn my head to respond, but she’s gone.
The figment of my imagination has died out again,
And I’m left alone in this dark room,
With only a few words written on paper in an attempt to make myself not feel as empty as I truly am.

encloses all with
softened light:
exercise repetitions
as health advisory..
decisions on paths
taken and not..
regrets missed connections
weather limitations..
no shorthand LOLs
a throwback letter
to an earlier time
with instant delivery..
this best of both
old and new..
an ending with
affection..
an email of note...!

Ten minutes is all Sabyasachi Mukherjee has. “Can you keep the interview short,” I’m asked, as the announcement of his participation in the finale of Lakme Fashion Week’s upcoming Winter Festive show is made. Is ten minutes enough to recap the 14-year journey of this master of colour, cut and construction, I wonder. But I realised that Sabyasachi in rapid-fire mode can make ten minutes seem like twenty! Excerpts:

What is it about LFW that made you return?

It’s here that I first made a mark as a designer. I’m familiar with the format, and know the people. It is like a homecoming. The good thing about LFW is that everything is taken care of – from building the set to inviting people. So I have the freedom to focus on the clothes. It is like putting together a complete show, but doing only half the work!

Finales are a challenge – given the expectations of people in the fraternity, profiles of attendees and the intangible themes created by Lakme for interpretation into garments…

Well, it’s not at all difficult for me. This is my fifth finale at LFW. Once the make-up and hair are set, it is easy to imagine the look and what the girls must wear. I’m way too senior to worry about pre-show stress. My biggest pressure comes from whether I will like what I create. Beyond that, even the critics’ reaction doesn’t really concern me.

Will this line too be about Indian-ness?

Whether I do Western, Eastern or a combination, I always use Indian handcrafts, and all my clothes are handmade. Traditional textiles, block prints, weaves and embroidery are a constant in my collections. The theme being “Illuminate”, this line is about red-carpet clothes with a strong shimmer quotient.

Sunday was National Handloom Day. Considering our diverse range of homespun textiles, do you think everyday must be celebrated as handloom day in India?

Absolutely. It is mandatory at my stores. My staff wears only handloom saris or kurtas made of hand-woven fabric. My Instagram hashtag says ‘Wearing handloom everyday.’

Social media plays a significant role in promoting tradition. Smriti Irani’s ‘I wear handloom’ campaign on Twitter and the 100 Saree Pact are recent examples. Isn’t it time designers too found new ways to promote heritage?

Yes. As more and more Western brands enter the market, our designers must first establish an identity of their own. The Zaras of the world are bringing active prêt into the country, so it is important for us to revive the market for Indian clothes. Reinventing tradition and rethinking marketing strategies are critical at this point.

Has the hustle of today’s business taken fun away from fashion? How do you strike a balance between creative expression and commercial viability?

Oh, that’s very simple. I set my own rules. For instance, this year, I had too much on my calendar. I didn’t do ramp shows, I only had a showing on Instagram. Established designers must create new templates that suit their creativity instead of allowing the market to set the pace for them. Because, at the end of the day, only if you have the time and space for creative expression, can you create beautiful clothes that determine the durability of your brand.

If you were to spell out two major problems faced by the fashion world, what would they be?

Lack of originality. Lack of self-belief.

Fashion has evolved into a glamorous industry, and today, many youngsters want to be part of it. But most of what we see on the ramp and in the retail space are risk-free repetitions.

Well, for designers to evolve, the market has to evolve. But the mood is changing. There are designers who are willing to push boundaries and clients who are ready to experiment. Facebook, Pinterest and Instagram are changing the way people see and respond to fashion. The horizons are widening. This is a wonderful time for young designers to launch their labels and sustain their inventiveness.

Very few Indian designers have taken the effort to document fashion. What about you?

Yes, I will at some point in time get down to writing about my brand. But for that, I will first have to find the right publisher!

Many corporate players are keen on collaborating with designers.

I receive so many proposals for collaborations that I refuse one every day! I am collaborating with Asian Paints, Forever Mark and Christian Louboutin. Another huge one is coming up – but I will not be able to speak about it at the moment.

Do seasons really matter any more in the world of fashion?

Global warming is making designers understand the importance of season-defying clothing. And people too, I feel, don't shop for seasons any more. They just want beautiful clothes.

Can you update us on your forays into jewellery design and interiors?

I have collaborated with Hyderabad’s Kishandas & Company to create some iconic pieces that are hugely popular — and of course, plagiarised! I have a line coming up for Forever Mark. As for interiors, I wanted to design homes, but people did not seem to have enough confidence in me! (laughs) So I ended up doing up my own stores. I have also done up the Cinema Suite for the Taj in London. Celebrities who have stayed in the hotel have appreciated it. A significant collaboration in interiors is happening in October.

Your suggestions to keep traditions going…

People need to be educated about handmade textiles and crafts. A time will come when China will lose out to India because as people become aware, they will only want to support products that are ethically sourced and foster craft communities. Surprisingly, the new millennials are in favour of luxury that is completely handmade. I see that as a positive sign.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses

These
mauve colored seats with the classic
delta pattern
have never looked good.  
They don’t when I sit in them,
they didn’t when you sat in them.

but you did sit in them.
so they are my favorite part of this room.

or maybe I like best the awkward colored walls
made from ribbed tan brick.
I like them because you hated them too.

No.
now that I am
scanning this cumbersome auditorium
the unwieldy
plastic
beige clock
which must have been counting seconds
for thirty years at least
stands out
as the most fantastic element
because it clumsily timed your Poli Sci lectures
too.

I laugh across the ages to you
we comment on the drab melancholy
with weary satisfaction.
As I warm the same mauve seats
where you once took identical notes.

More than just mounds of muscle galore
A curiosity where one must experience in explore
A body composition from before to present
The use of weights in repetitions
These are the forces in bodybuilding’s condition
Bodybuilding is about construct
It is all about proportion if one decides to compete
You must be committed and not take shortcuts known as cheat
Yet one’s physique must be complete from the shoulders to the feet
Lifting heavy weights is like Hercules in a feat
Intensity will play being the determination all the way
However, one must understand how much intensity their body can take
Yet you must have good health conditions in exercise before attempting any heavy training you decide to make

Bodybuilding means having a goal and what you want to achieve
Never listen to anyone about enhancing drugs, as it is a deception for you to be deceived
Bodybuilding is about bringing and contouring all the muscles together
Being a true destined Bodybuilder like no other
The mystique will be one’s desired physique
I have met Bodybuilding champs in their day such as Arnold Schwarzenegger, Serge Nubret, Harold Poole, Leon Brown, Flex Wheeler, Kevin Levrone, Mike Ashley and many others
They had assurance and confidential in being determined to win
Mr. Schwarzenegger became the top ranking Mr. Olympia
Mr. Olympia being the highest honor throughout Bodybuilding

Those Bodybuilding champions mentioned had their plan from their beginning from when
The new breed of Bodybuilders are following in their footsteps and making their mark
Bodybuilders in general are thinking from their own fitness from then
They put determination in making it a can
Bodybuilding is truly about how your body can respond to certain exercises and how it can be shaped
The training principles come together in how they are relate
So you now know how Bodybuilding functions
A masterpiece constructed from sculptor with a posing stand
The array of applause under the spotlight
A determination in the Bodybuilder become the step out pose
The thinking of revelation I suppose
But Bodybuilding is about the flex and not become perplexed.

there is so much about life he does not understand powers influences insights secrets repetitions patterns relationships mysteries so many things to learn remember so many things to forget every morning he wakes with hope faith no matter how challenging threatening or bleak the odds he feels confident in the possibilities optimistic in his abilities desires believing in his quest for love success happiness yet every night alone in his empty room he comes undone again

Dad’s dying generates beginning of Odysseus’s awakening from his long deep stupor Dad was so heavy-handed intimidating his reign of terror is done next several years blow by like chilling numb wind off lake michigan dreams seem more real than existence Odysseus continues painting writing bartending drives Farina to beach daily it takes a while for him to realize he is freed of shackles Dad’s tyranny and it is all right to answer to himself alone in june 1994 news reports genocide of 800,000 people murdered in rwanda in july Odysseus feels trapped in identity he can no longer endure after struggling for years to achieve stature as accomplished painter he realizes he is nobody perhaps simply troubled artsy son of well-to-do Chicago socialites Jenny and late Max Schwartzpilgrim his discontent goes beyond family he feels shame disappointment with himself desperately needs to make changes to his life knows he cannot do it in chicago weary of all the sins damage he has made suffered in that city he wants to find somewhere less corrupt stressful more down-to-earth knows all to well how to get in trouble wants to find someplace where there is no trouble somewhere quiet dull preferably beautiful Odysseus liquates ashes to ashes clears altar of every dust flake sells paintings art supplies books music cassettes clothes vintage collection other possessions at sidewalk sale makes out with nearly $6000 whatever he does not sell he gives or throws away he is used to giving or throwing himself away he is 44 Mom protests but her disapproval packs no punch without Dad he says his goodbyes to family friends packs up toyota and with Farina steers away from chicago he leaves behind many destructive friends acquaintances people who will never dig their way out of wrecks they are buried in leaves behind history of minor misdeeds abuses disappointments scenes happenings he feels shame regret about he leaves behind practice of familiar patterns certainties faces names who recognize his talent problematic self never again will he benefit from questionable reputation nor will phone ring many times daily and never again will there always be someone to meet up with or gathering to go to he leaves behind support system of loving family friends fans whom he will miss greatly he lets go the character he was to become someone different hopefully better they drive on aimless odyssey without thinking searching with no place in mind listens for scenery to call to him inwardly the journey is the meaning he drives up streets down alleys through 4 corner towns bypassing most cities whenever he sights a lake he pulls over treats Farina to a swim sometimes swimming together they sleep in tent or stay at inexpensive motels that allow dogs while driving he often feels overwhelmed by diverse raw beauty of American landscapes lush forests spectacular mountain ranges sweeping valleys winding 2 lane highways along coastlines he points out sights to Farina but ultimately he wishes for another pair of human eyes beside him

My name is Zhou Yuanten, but call me Eddie. I am a doctoral student at Xinjiang University –in the far, far west, but at Brunel to study this year. My English is good. I lived in Boston, Massachusetts for undergraduate years. I majored in piano at the New England C and then discovered I wanted to compose rather than play. So I go to MIT and soon I discover the English do it so differently, so I apply to Brunel. And at Brunel they then say of this place ‘you have to go.’ So here I am.

So surprising to be greeted in Chinese! And not just Nin Hao, we have a conversation! His accent is Northern Mandarin. He is writing a novel, he explains, about poets Zuo-Fen and Zuo-Si. We have 15 minutes conversation every day and I help him with his characters. Strange, to most of the class he is nobody, but to foreign students here we know him through his website and his software. I have even played his colours piece, The Goethe Triangle.

It is joy to be respected by a teacher and his sessions are like no other I’ve had here, and here I mean the UK. Oh, so laid-back, so lazy so many teachers. People lack energy here. They are dreamers and only think of themselves. He is full of energy and talks often about this Imogen of whom I never hear. Her father a great composer and she copied his music from when she was a girl – such beautiful calligraphy. Her father loved India and learned Sanskrit. He should have learned Mandarin; at least that is a living language. ‘Imo’, he says, ‘is my heroine, my mentor, the musician I most revere.’ He showed us her library and what was her studio in one of the old buildings here. He gives me this little book about her ten years in this place. A strange looking lady; there’s a photograph of her conducting Bach in the Great Hall. She looks like she is dancing.

This morning some are not here, but there are little notes on the desk with apologies perhaps. He leaves them untouched and we make chords again, and scales and arpeggios and Slonimsky’s famous melodic patterns. We write and write. He sings, we sing too. There is a horn and a cello with us today. They play and make jokes. They show us harmonics and tunings and bend our ears in new directions we do not expect. Those who complain about this course not being ‘advanced’ will eat their words; only I think some of those are not here.

As Chinese we hear sound in a different way I think. In our language tone is so important. To each word there are four tones that make meaning quite different. Chinese uses only about 400 syllables, compared to 4000 in English. So there are lots of syllables, like ****, that have multiple meanings. I tell him the story of the Lion-eating Poet, which he does not know!! I am writing this out for him, all 92 characters. Just one word **** but with four meanings – lion, ten, to make, to be. The Lion-Eating Poet in the Stone Den is the story of a poet (****) named **** who loves to eat lions (**** ****) goes to market (****) to buy ten (****) of them, takes them home to eat (****) and discovers they are made (****) of stone (****).

So I have no trouble hearing what others struggle to hear. We make pieces that are all about tone, and on a single note. Mark, the cellist, plays the opening of Lutoslawski’s Concerto – forty-two repetitions of a tenor ‘D’ a second apart. I had never heard this – a cadenza at the beginning of a concerto. Now we write a duo, on just one note. We write; they play. We are like many Mozarts trying to write only what we have already heard, making only one copy. I use the four tones and must teach the players the signs. I demonstrate and he says of the 1st tone – ‘Going to the Dentist, the 2nd – Climbing a ladder, the 3rd – ‘The Rollercoaster’, the 4th –‘Stepping on a pin’. We all do it!

And there are all these microtones. We listen to a moment of Ravel’s Bolero and pieces by Thomas Ades and Julian Anderson, then in detail (and with the score) to part of Duet for piano and orchestra by George Benjamin. This is spectral music. He is daring to introduce this – very difficult subject - this idea that a sound could be mimicked (? Is that the word – to impersonate?) by analysing it for the frequencies that make it up, and then getting instruments with similar acoustic properties to play the frequencies as pitches. So the need for microtones – goodbye equal temperament! Great in theory, difficult in practice.

This afternoon we are to study spectral composing using our computers. Until now we use our computers or smart phones to listen to extracts. He has this page of web links on his website for each session. Instead of listening through hi-fi we listen through our headphones. Better of course by far, no birds sounds or instruments playing next door. We can hear it again anytime. So there is software to download, Fourier analysis I suppose, he tries hard not to use any science or maths because there are some here who object, but they are fools. Even Bach knew of acoustics – designing the organs he played.

We finish this morning studying harmonic rhythm and this word tonality nobody seems quite able to describe. To him even the chromatic scale is tonality, and he shows in a duet for horn and cello how our ears take in tonality change. This is not about keys, but about groupings of pitches – anywhere – so a tonality can be spread across several octaves. So often, he says, composers are not aware of the tonalities they create, they don’t hear harmonic rhythm. They’re missing an opportunity! Sound can be coloured by awareness of what makes up a tonality. So understanding spectral music must help towards this. It is very liberating all this. If we take sound as a starting point rather than a system we can go anywhere.

Yesterday he asked me about a book he is reading. Did I know it? A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers by Xiaolu Guo. Of course I know this very funny book. He said he liked to think of music in the same way the character of the Chinese girl Z thinks about love.

“Love,” this English word: like other English words it has a tense. “Loved”, or “will love”, or “have loved.” All these specific tenses mean Love is time-limited thing. Not infinite. It only exists in particular period of time. In Chinese, Love is ài in pinyin. It has no tense. No past and future. Love in Chinese means a being, a situation, a circumstance. Love is existence, holding past and future.

And so it is with music. Music is a being, a situation, a circumstance. It holds past and future. It is wondrous, just like love.

fury, winds raged the treetops
threshing branches, approaching brush.
but from a distance, natural destruction,
looked like beauty in the forest.

and this was just a piece.
this is not the whole.

inhale, exhale,
increasing repetitions
repeat, repeat.
decrease and deepen.

pause in awe of the machine you're given
watch the forest faint, beatific ruin.

feel the fibers tear in effort
feel the area inside you swell
this is just a piece
this is not the whole.

process unto another day
with brighter light and seasoned winds
as repeated swells exhale an ending breath
gawk, inhale, hold, process, yawp; repeat.

understand this thing, know it truly
die through effort, repeat, repeat.

beaks with feathered wings swarmed in silence
Persephone cheers with distance, "defy their gravity"
here; pause; absorb the leaded revolution
weigh inside this mockery of death

"this is just a piece,
this is not the whole."

abandon seated distance, chase with fire
the unknown of the unfolding.
ravenously consume  the untouchable time
feed, inhale, pause, process, exhale, deepen

repeat, repeat;
endlessly repeat.
this is just a piece,
this is not the whole.

People say that love leads to metamorphosis.
People say that love will illuminate your soul.
People say that love will bind up a wounded quintessence.
-I’m finished- waiting for love.

All of my life I've been pining, pining for the soul, and the soul of another to bind up my aching wounds.
An illusion, a mirage in all its sweet and manufactured glory arises in a weary heart.
Tasting it, visualizing it, it’s mellifluous nectar fondling my occipital lobe.
Flowing profusely, waning when a tellurian is out of sight, my muse is ever-changing, a butterfly glimmers in the dark.

I can’t bear this trial, a tribulation of love, all these repetitions, a diminutive and ephemeral Fall.
The vernal winds embrace me, in my sweet and lulling dreams, binding my soul to Wonderland, just as Alice I’ve escaped.
I run to another realm of existence, longing for emancipation, standing in a hollow shelter, my flame shall soon collapse.
Golden cards; The Joker, poking fun at my malady uncured, the land within which I have ensconced is a symptom a disease.

Insanity; a furor; reality serves no purpose.
Anger me once more then I’ll relinquish my own life.
I relinquish a newfound hope, to abandon all that is my own.
I reach into the chaos beneath my succulent flesh.

A demon had allured me; enticed me with a stare.
Sorrow runs amuck here, degeneration inflames my veins.
Expanding, contracting, I can’t breathe anymore!
Red blood cells eliminated, my panic is on the rise.

How much longer can I bear this?
Love eludes my soul; your unchartered exterior inspires an inquisitive mind.
I search the seven seas, I voyage across space and time, I’ve waited for eternity for an ethereal beauty to arise.
The water beneath my ship bubbles; frost smoke from the watery deep; a mermaid in its glory has infatuated me.

I live in my dreams, detached from the world.
-Stars fall-
Your arms are no longer wrapped around me; I no longer feel your heady embrace.
The light and airy feelings when I fantasize of holding your body close to mine.

Your delicate and perfectly assembled hands; your gaseous rhapsody; a toxic love absent of truth; a hazy fume inhaled through my nostrils.
When I finally gaze upon you, I shall fall asleep in your arms, lying on the bed together will no longer do me any harm.
Butterflies and fireflies shall illuminate the night sky; intoxicated with honey I will have my fill of love.
Just to have you close to me, will be more than enough, to know that a spirit so celestial has enraptured a tenuous heart.

Your voice will be a healing; your words intoxicating fumes; your lips a source of astonishment; your gorgeous vessel my muse.
Lavender mist befalls us and violet sparkles glimmer upon the bed; we’re lifted into the stratosphere; it’s no longer in my head.
Enamorment will be a reality, and chains shall bind our arms; we shall be bound to each other by a magnetic surge of love.
Electric benedictions shall conduct my weary eyes; my iris shall be illuminated and my pupils shall start to gleam.

Going higher and higher, our bodies shall be burned, but not devoid of our spirits for we shall be conjoined into one.
A deity will resurrect us; a Phoenix with rejuvenating wings, the inferno of passion will consume us and our bodies shall be renewed.
For but a moment in time, the pressure between us began to rise; turbulence has fortified our very beings; we have shone just like moon.
Alas this but a fantasy, a dream unfulfilled, I fill my life with spirit, until the appointed time.

My creative surge of energy creates a diamond out of pain; my ivory tusks of iridescence shall plow through the Great Walls of the world.
I know that you lurk there; amongst a galaxy unknown; in time you shall expand my Universe…Maybe just maybe, I’ll expand into yours.
The supernova shall illuminate the heavens; our passion will glimmer like the Sun; a sphere of flame in overdrive; ready to explode.

I miss you already but I must depart from my dreams, for but an ephemeral moment until I that know you are here.
I’ll wait for the rest of eternity and I shall plow through the chaos of the world, warping through dimensions; trying to reach your heart.
A key shall lead me to a doorway; on the other side will be open plains; florid with embellishing blossoms, daisies and a flame.
That flame shall burn up the stratosphere until the skies begin to fall, for there will be no place in the Universe that can contain our intergalactic love.

My mother she tells me
That color does not matter
That white just means that
they are lacking pigments,
science really.

When I come home crying
My mother she tells me
If they mock me,
it's only because they are jealous

When I sit alone at lunch
My mother she tells me
If they avoid me,
It's only because they are jealous

When I have no one to invite to my graduation
My mother she tells me
If they do not come,
It's only because they are jealous

What are they so jealous of?

Words can only be repeated so many times
before they lose meaning
And I'm afraid
That my mother's words
Ring hollow in my ears

Repetition

Shadows are repetitions

Echoes are repetitions

Memories are repetitions

Mirrors are repetitions

Stammers are repetitions

Recitals are repititions

Broken in repetitions 
Lying stagnant in defeat 
It's only been one girl
But my heart's barely breathing
 It took me years to love again
It's not that easy to just say hi or hey
Not just any girl to fall in dismay
The heart's recovering from the past pain

I wish it would hurry up,
I wish time would run its course,
my mind has become detached,
and my heart I wish to divorce.
this pain is ebbing away,
in the dark depths of my soul,
it is not so easy to fill a gap,
when all that is left is a hole.

Pushing away every viable ardor
Beats of fragments danced in my head
Every girl that came with open arms
Lure me with expectations that never seem to last
Those sweet nothings will gave me infinite hope of catching feelings
Always shutting the door and locking it.

**But this door can only stay locked for so long,
I've lost sight of what is right and what is wrong,
such expectations have destroyed me helplessly,
I've been choking on my pain, breathlessly.
when they came around, I was full of vitality,
and now they're gone, I've been living rather absently.

Get it, India head
This is no bed of roses
Poses in prime positions
Are sublime repetitions
Of what has gone
Before

Karma comes knocking
Knowing
Falling flat on your face
Bindis race
First fast then erased
From your forehead
Forever more

Rickshaws run a mockery
Round rubbled ruins
Of modern mishapes
Monarchy's mistakes, perhaps
Perfect pictures of
Predictable
Misadventures

What everyone tells you
Pre plane departure
Setting one belief in front of another
One foot behind
Is what it does
To your stomach
Shaking heads full of
Heavy sighs

Cares to be taken
Clothes to be carried in case
For climactic changes
Of course
What to withstand
Understand
Undertake
When to be undeterred

When to stand your ground
Back down, barter
Bask
Busk your way through town
What to battle over
Where to bathe and how
When to show the colour
Of your mother's money

How to save a dollar
Raise a rupee
Meditate on more that
You could Be
Do the deed
Be caught in times of need
Phone home and find
No-one waiting for your call

All of this and more
You carry on your back
A rucksack full of love and
Missed kisses
But - the greatest part of this is
What no-one tells you -
What it does
To your heart

What you find
When your mind adjusts
And your eyes unwind
And great gusts of understanding blow you free
When you hand over the key
To your list of demands
And give in
To the easy unplanned

Exploring
Imploring looks
Hook your sympathy
Bait you easily at first
The worst
Are always
The kids
Thing is, how could you deny them?

Soon enough
Is enough
“Sister!”
“Look mister, I ain't no fool
And I ain't a millionaire either -
Leave her alone and go home.”
Thing is, how could you feed them all?

You triumph on trains
Blaspheme the buses
The driver's on drugs
Or a suicide trip
You skip rice-based breakfasts
For weeks
Seek out cereals then
Suddenly...you don't

Chinking chai glasses
Chomping on chocolate
A lot
More than most
Coasting roads
Filled with cows
On a scooter scuffed with sand
And stuffed to bursting point

Dogs with holes in
Infecting imaginations
Over masala dosa
Noses signalling distaste
This taste?
Hmm, tamarind - trees?
Try over there
Between the neem and the new banana circle...

Too many memories to mention
There's always one question
When you return to the beginning
Grinning, they ask
How was it?
But how can you say
It was everything
You've never seen
?

India
Get it?
INDIA!!
Get it India
But be warned...
You may never
Get her
Out-ia
Head

The bedrock underlying much of Manhattan is a mica schist known as Manhattan schist.  Schist is foliated or layered in appearance. Quartz sparkles, micas, and amphiboles are primary minerals in schist. A melted rock, just like the city resting above, it too, a famous melting *** of humanity.

This one poem too, composed from pieces of other poems,
folded in layers of many others that melted together,
in harmonious discordancy

<~>

this glorious grime,
this delicious dirt,
stuff of my blood,
genes of my children's children inheritance,
of thee I sing,
in thee I revel,
of thee, I am composed

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,
    who, will think of me?
Perhaps,
whenever someone says,
"he was such a rascal"

these tales I took,
some or all,
from beneath my skin,
where city streets grit,
was injected beneath my skin
and came with the title,
City Boy

so today, on a reborn street,
near tall towers no more,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn,  
but nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the typical NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
unsilently weeping, thinking that:

We lose or throw away so much we should have kept,
We keep so much we should have thrown away

street prowler, heart growler,
Art Deco lampposts,
the mountain range of east seventy second street,
begs the bagger's question,
each post
begging each other,
"from whence will come my inspiration?"

licked the stubbled sidewalks,
fell down into their living caverned cracks,
light needed, needy softly heated,
orange and green pizza neon signs,
saying here,
if you see upon what be,
these are your city's homeland colors of veracity

perhaps
NYC was model precursor
for our internet presumed-to-be-alive-but-who-can-say-for-sure
model for the world today,
where I know not my apartment's neighbors name,
yet carry his second child
in my arms,
when the fire alarm
summons us all to flee
to street safety...
and still only
"know" his child's first name,
and his father,
as Apt. #16D

all this exponential signage
of this NYC boy grousing,
are his defrocked muses him annoying,
with a serenading blizzard
of one trick pony repetitions,
their coronets trumpeting his unmasking,
*making this essay, his revelations,
a product of their harmonious discordancy

You got me again,
I lost to you again,
Here I go again,
Craving reattachment again.
Along with fear it appeared again,
There it was again,
Your beaming image at my doorway,
Drawing empathy out of me again,
Though I wasn't a part of the equation again,
It all was like 15th of December again,
I'm back to square again,
Sam Smith's Palace is on repeat again,
Wishing I could start over again,
But again,
I am hurting myself again,
One thing I'm asking you to do again,
Is to disappear from my mind again,
Don't catch me reminiscing again,

.and i wrote this... back in January of... perhaps this year... a disclaimer: bones and prose... to have reached a traction of nearing 1.4K readers elsewhere: i don't expect the same numbers here... of that i am imploring... but i want to remember something: i probably misjudged celebrating the worth of Dickens' Pickwick Papers... the moment i heard it was... an imitation of Don Quixote - it was fun to read... before i was reading the papers via the gresham publishing company edition from... oh the 19th century... that's before the book started falling apart from actually being re(a)d: no matter the decency of binding... flimsy papyrus in the end... good enough to look at when stacked on a shelf and an artifact for the eyes... so i decided to finish reading the papers... 2nd hand penguin modern... as ever... why do they write these synopsis spoilers... even a mere allusion to: 'the pickwick papers are the english don quixote'... you know... when reading this book without a synopsis-of-allusion... i very much enjoyed it... but since i have re(a)d Don Quixote... and... frankly... the ballet by the royal opera house was par excellence... now i don't feel so inclined as to be motivated enough to celebrate Dickens anymore... notably to boot there was that essay by Milan Kundera.... as any continental european: not much of english literary adventures is given much thought: it appeal to the everyman but... that's my problem too... Shakespeare is great... when recited... not when read... you require good acting to appreciate shakespeare... a stand-alone dynamic of me: reader of Shakespeare? it's not a selling point... it doesn't feel right! shakespeare? isn't that a household noun akin to chair... hammer... why would it need a capital S(igma): to focus on... what... exactly? shakespeare, hammer, nail, towel... fridge-freezer... fork... muhammad ibn abdullah ibn abd al-muttalib... hey-zeus ben josephus... flour... cheese... i was going to enjoy the pickwick papers to the end but then the disclaimer that it's an imitation don quixote tale... and suddenly the fire - of eagerness... became a stalemate of cinders and stealthy coals... no, clearly the milan kundera essay didn't help either: who would want to reread don quixote: i know some people do reread books... i don't understand my grandmother in that respect... or... i remember when it school we were governed by repetitions of rubric... i hope: prose is where allowances for voyeurism / exhibitionism come to the fore... third party details summoned... that sort of "thing"... but of course i wanted something original to come to the fore... a proverb... it might be persian but it might be absolutely original from circa the baltic region: in between all that's west and russia... a corridor of peoples and nations that... given the greenwich mean time would have to incorporate Greece... and most probably Egypt... and Israel... it reads: all in capital to escape this myopia claustrophobia fudge of paragraph: BETTER A SPARROW IN YOUR HAND, THAN A DOVE UPON YOUR ROOF... years later a proverb would have to be disguised in cosmopolitan spreschen by some "****" of a bachelor... with his 'categorical imperative'... ah... a proverb isn't... that? i like the nuances of proverbs... blindly walking to metaphors... or not expecting a rigidity of life dictated by the already creasing formality language tools: dear sir, yours faithfully vs. yours sincerely... ms. vrs. mrs. informally email: hello! ****-wit! rather than... penned to paper and carrier pigeon bound... stamp! stamp! lick! dear... besides... as you get older and drinking is still a quenching of "thirst" you allude to nicknames for certain spirits: ***** becomes a headache of pravda (truth) while whiskey becomes ms. amber... beer is notoriously gods' ****... along with cider and mead... etc. what is a black cracovite... oh... you know... just an alternative to a tequila shot i invented hearing the story about... once upon a time in cracow... it was snowing... it was snowing a soot-esque sort of snow... the lonely chimney of aushwitz... wa puffing up in all its glory... in english it can translate to: well... what haven't i to thank for... or the jews... to thank for... that these lands are the remains of... at least children might be inclined to play games at the foundation of pyramids... we sure as hell did... near Ypres... in world war I trenches... i can't imagine what games children might invent in these... teutonic strongholds of totenkopfschwatzen... i would gladly send each brick by brick to the rightful owners of these camps: 1000 years from now it might be disguided that... under the auspicious rule of king Casimir's ghost these were "our" original intent... it ruins the land but preserves the memory of a people more invested in a newly established state of the Levant... yes... i need to figure out the paragraph: i need to revisit it more often: this slender-manning of a verse esque casccade doesn't aid me: i need to replica congestion and myopia and all that's cosmopolitan "nice"... what is a black cracovite... for years i wanted to land in the old capital when visit my grandparents... warsaw was always too far removed... like london already is... back toward glorifying Cracow and some elder supreme of the Piast dynasty... that this is written in english and not in native... well... it shouldn't have been written by an englishman with all his darwinistic / anglican / atheistic / rational / ayn rand borrowed sensibilities... a black cracovite as far as i can tell is... a spin on a tequila short... one requires smoking a cigarette... the ash is deposited on a licked space between the thumb and index finger... the ash is licked... a shot of ***** is made ready... what replaces the bite of a lemon is a grit of black pepper... yes... i have to invest in a paragraph more: for all its congestive phalanx remedies: i posit this the most redeeming: remedying... closure... it's far removed from airing out grievances when words cascade... now i should have concerns for contending... imitations... cheap-sell-offs of these words... outlandishly left to the open cringe of... simply-leash: i'll probably trail off on a ***-note, a falsetto... absolutely necessary... one cannot feed too many expectations without feeding those necessarily in pursuit of sustenance... be gone! countess bathory-veneer!

this is truly a welcome break from:

freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

    pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

  a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
    they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
              
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                  a man with...
a gamble...
        i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

  the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
      there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
  even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
            past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
    i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
  and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

            Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
              lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
        i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

  when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
  weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
  much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

          chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
          da pacem domine...
            agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
        there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
  new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
      i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
            kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.

p.s. after completing a walk in the woods:
a walk most adventurous in it being solitary...
i thank the forest for my solitude...
i started knocking on a dry piece of wood
still attached to the earth and roots...
in a forest: knocking on a tree...
i perceived the door
upon re-entering
traffic and hardened grit of road stuff...
let's replicate this...
me... you... alone...
let's both abide by needing
superstitious elevations of:
not truth alone... hardened and dim-witted
by objectivity...
truth tailored with metaphors...
all the nuance we can hope to find...
i need to... aloofness... solitude...
i need you, forest...
more than i care for noon
and proof of body that's this extension:
leash! shadow! noon!

                    smyč! cień! południe!