for leather accrues
The miracle of the streets
The scents & smogs &
pollens of existence

Shiny blackness
so totally naked she was
Totally un-hung-up

We looked around
lights now on
Top see our fellow travellers
~~~

I am troubled
Immeasurably
By your eyes

I am struck
By the feather
of your soft
Reply

The sound of glass
Speaks quick
Disdain

And conceals
What your eyes fight
To explain
~~~

She looked so sad in sleep
Like a friendly hand
just out of reach
A candle stranded on
a beach
While the sun sinks low
an H-bomb in reverse
~~~

Everything human
is leaving
her face

Soon she will disappear
into the calm
vegetable
morass

Stay!

My Wild Love!
~~~

I get my best ideas when the
telephone rings & rings. It’s no fun
To feel like a fool-when your
baby’s gone. A new ax to my head:
Possession. I create my own sword
of Damascus. I’ve done nothing w/time.
A little tot prancing the boards playing
w/Revolution. When out there the
World awaits & abounds w/heavy gangs
of murderers & real madmen. Hanging
from windows as if to say: I’m bold-
do you love me? Just for tonight.
A One Night Stand. A dog howls & whines
at the glass sliding door (why can’t I
be in there?) A cat yowls. A car engine
revs & races against the grain- dry
rasping carbon protest. I put the book
down- & begin my own book.
Love for the fat girl.
When will SHE get here?
~~~

In the gloom
In the shady living room
where we lived & died
& laughed & cried
& the pride of our relationship
took hold that summer
What a trip
To hold your hand
& tell the cops
you’re not 16
no runaway
The wino left a little in
the old blue desert
bottle
Cattle skulls
the cliche of rats
who skim the trees
in search of fat
Hip children invade the grounds
& sleep in the wet grass
’til the dogs rush out
I’m going South!

The piper coming from far away is you
With a whitewash brush for a sporran
Wobbling round you, a kitchen chair
Upside down on your shoulder, your right arm
Pretending to tuck the bag beneath your elbow,
Your pop-eyes and big cheeks nearly bursting
With laughter, but keeping the drone going on
Interminably, between catches of breath.



The whitewash brush. An old blanched skirted thing
On the back of the byre door, biding its time
Until spring airs spelled lime in a work-bucket
And a potstick to mix it in with water.
Those smells brought tears to the eyes, we inhaled
A kind of greeny burning and thought of brimstone.
But the slop of the actual job
Of brushing walls, the watery grey
Being lashed on in broad swatches, then drying out
Whiter and whiter, all that worked like magic.
Where had we come from, what was this kingdom
We knew we'd been restored to? Our shadows
Moved on the wall and a tar border glittered
The full length of the house, a black divide
Like a freshly opened, pungent, reeking trench.



**** at the gable, the dead will congregate.
But separately. The women after dark,
Hunkering there a moment before bedtime,
The only time the soul was let alone,
The only time that face and body calmed
In the eye of heaven.

Buttermilk and *****,
The pantry, the housed beasts, the listening bedroom.
We were all together there in a foretime,
In a knowledge that might not translate beyond
Those wind-heaved midnights we still cannot be sure
Happened or not. It smelled of hill-fort clay
And cattle dung. When the thorn tree was cut down
You broke your arm. I shared the dread
When a strange bird perched for days on the byre roof.



That scene, with Macbeth helpless and desperate
In his nightmare--when he meets the hags agains
And sees the apparitions in the ***--
I felt at home with that one all right. Hearth,
Steam and ululation, the smoky hair
Curtaining a cheek. 'Don't go near bad boys
In that college that you're bound for. Do you hear me?
Do you hear me speaking to you? Don't forget!'
And then the postick quickening the gruel,
The steam crown swirled, everything intimate
And fear-swathed brightening for a moment,
Then going dull and fatal and away.



Grey matter like gruel flecked with blood
In spatters on the whitewash. A clean spot
Where his head had been, other stains subsumed
In the parched wall he leant his back against
That morning like any other morning,
Part-time reservist, toting his lunch-box.
A car came slow down Castle Street, made the halt,
Crossed the Diamond, slowed again and stopped
Level with him, although it was not his lift.
And then he saw an ordinary face
For what it was and a gun in his own face.
His right leg was hooked back, his sole and heel
Against the wall, his right knee propped up steady,
So he never moved, just pushed with all his might
Against himself, then fell past the tarred strip,
Feeding the gutter with his copious blood.

*

My dear brother, you have good stamina.
You stay on where it happens. Your big tractor
Pulls up at the Diamond, you wave at people,
You shout and laugh about the revs, you keep
old roads open by driving on the new ones.
You called the piper's sporrans whitewash brushes
And then dressed up and marched us through the kitchen,
But you cannot make the dead walk or right wrong.
I see you at the end of your tether sometimes,
In the milking parlour, holding yourself up
Between two cows until your turn goes past,
Then coming to in the smell of dung again
And wondering, is this all? As it was
In the beginning, is now and shall be?
Then rubbing your eyes and seeing our old brush
Up on the byre door, and keeping going.

of course the age of scientific positivism
was glorious,
the hopes for curing the lamentable ivory cavity
the hopes for anaesthesia in surgery,
it was all there, with all the great minds...
but then our age came along with humanism’s negativism,
and i mean that sincerely...
if you take a concept, like god, and give it to science,
the best it can do in its parameters is take 1...
divide it by the nth term and say something like
0.000000000000000000000000000000000000000001
in relation to something else, which its a part of...
i wish i was deeply religious on this point,
but a catholic school education reminding me
to start early with ethics minding only one ethical decision,
i.e. abortion brought feminism with it...
but as one orthodox christian girl said: even without
legal rights between us... you must accept!
eh... why?
god does not belong to science, science deals with numbers
and a few words...
imagine the book of genesis: and in the beginning was a number...
any random number... let’s say six... and six correlated
with aries, taurus, gemini, cancer, leo, libra...
well that’s half missing...
this argument is starting to make me look silly...
this whole word word word... let’s quantify vocabulary for quality assurance...
it’s the q. and q. relativity, the q-q in terms of saying
(that's the coordinate parallelism between science
and human-ism, where the former states
two essentials - space & time - the latter states
its two essentials - quantity & quality;
now imagine einstein working in the humanistic medium,
it would sound something like... 'hmm
of a french novelist's output i can say as much
as: eat your j. keats and have him too):
the closest i came in comparing the greeks with the jews
is to claim that the students of the kabbalah are like the greek philosophers
in the vein of democritus... who took to a, b, c... x, y, z equivalent to atoms...
albeit phonetic atoms that gave us BIG physics of the planets
and meteros and newtonian linear(s)... and little physics... quantum stuff...
like why the romans wrote el... the greeks lambda and the hebrews lamed...
ah you know trivial stuff.
all i’m saying is that scientific atheism, in terms of using words
is, too coherent... if you want real atheism, you have to turn to the humanities,
james joyce is perfect... we don’t live in an age of scientific positivism,
we live in an age of humanistic negativism...
all this talk of extinction and nuclear weaponry,
it’s almost like a scare tactic to allow certain professions mechanisation
by robotics... i know it’s real... would the newsstand sell insensible newspapers?
again... if you deny something you’ll only end up doubting it later,
so with sartre trying to escape the cartesian dialectic if a complete and utter failure,
by denying something it’s hardly possible to erase it, make it extinct,
the faculty of memory does not allow this to happen,
so doubt re-enters and the doubting thought process revs up,
the negating thought process is only momentary, a nano-second if you will,
doubting takes aeons to consider itself un-doubted;
so i ask... coming from a scientific background, why would we
care to push scientific positivism further, given all the discoveries and
ease-of-life assurances when there’s this bulging and growing
humanistic negativism, entitled: we are the 99%! hmm?
science will not make economic strategies go away,
nor will humanism... but with humanism, at least there’s a human face
saying something... rather than science itemising everything
to fit 0 next to 1 with a dot between and call it: a tenth of a metre.

p.s. there's only one doubt of denial and it's unconscious,
because denial is a safety mechanism that automates
to provide a blockage against the world events:
*******, ******... war...
denial is automation... doubt is nurturing...
regret... well... that's natural concerning choice
in events not engaged with; honestly, there are people
who have regrets not engaging within the napoleonic wars,
thus they idolise napoleon... a bit like the neo-nazis
and the third ***** scenario... they can deny certain
aspects of the third ***** mechanisation didn't happen,
but they can't doubt it, because doubt-in-itself
is a sort of thrill
(that's covered by a blatant truism in argumentation,
which is denial, which technically robs it
of the doubt cherished for the thrill)...
'****! it happened! it really really happened!'
and then regret comes in and says: 'but you weren't there.'
then nostalgia kicks in... and that line from w. burroughs
about how you got to be an ss-man in a concentration camp:
gauge the cat's eyes out... yes, the one you petted for a month,
fed and gave affection to: gauge... the... cat's... eyes... out!
dass ist ein anführer befehl!

**** Toy

Cold, clad, silicone, scraggly straggling down the street,
Twisting, bending, folding to every person they meet,
Shift its face, smile, frown, cry or moan,
Not much bothers the man of silicone,

Wrestle jovially with it till your hearts content,
Till your ego satisfied, strokes your pride,
Small stains on silicone thighs,
It bends back into shape,

Down a crowded street it walks alone,
A friend to be used, whatever for,
Rolling with whatever’s in store,
It weeps alone, as it revs into a roar,

It guesses what it’s like to truly be alive,
Maybe not have to give,
But it has no bone or blood,
Manufactured, reflected social facets of false, foul virtues,

Able to spot a mask,
Complete any given task,
Its whole body is a mask, a tool,
It lives, but it is not alive,

Down a crowded street it walks alone,
End of the day draws near, hollow to the core,
White, bruised bled stains,
It weeps alone and it revs into a roar,

Its lover covers it in kisses,
“This is what it’s like to be in love.”
Its words hollow and pseudo as sin,
The silicone man knows not of authentic feeling,

Only fingered lust that stains synthetic skin,
It has programmed thoughts, cares and worries,
Confident none belong to it,
“What is an ‘I’?” Wailing for identity,

Other then a doll for use,
The **** toy doesn’t see abuse,
Only utilitarian ways to be,
Excuse after excuse not to see,

In misery,
Under guise of pain and woe,
It tries to be alive, confused,
Under god towed sky,

He screeches to the heavens,
“I am I!”
The sky calls back with a clap of angry thunder,
Down an empty street it walks alone,

Alone, alone, it can not desire or condone,
Not much bothers the man of silicone,
Synthetic, eyes, mouth, fingers and ******* sore,
It weeps alone and it revs into a roar...

Without apologies she glides... she roamed the darkest of nights
Without hesitation, she speaks whats on her mind, down to the depths of her soul
They know, you know... the eternal power she possess

She speaks words that touched, and it lasted for years
She made love out of passion, out of trust because she had to
See, when she loves, she release chemicals that revs hearts and tortured souls

She's a woman... and she's a Scorpio
She stings, she pierce the souls of everything that lived
Imagine a being, so wild and free...who endures, have been exposed but lived

Who turned herself inside out, break down her own defenses to rebuild herself
purely. She lived a thousand years... buried alive yet raised from the ashes
How immortal, yet supreme... that's the Scorpio legacy that reigns within me

**** me today, shattered me with words, I've learned
devour me with love and take me to a dream, a woman of passion is what
lays within me.

S.B

There's nothing like the Feel
Of two wheels and the power
Between your Legs, The Pounding*
Of two  Cylinders, as the engine Revs.
Wheeling through snaking roads
Surrounded by Sunlight and trees
The intense smell of fallen leaves
On a cool nights ride. Feeling free
Blasting down a two lane road.
Rolling into a small town,you
Hear the Bikes Rumble, as you
Shift down, and throttle off the gas
The roar of your bikes sound, as
It bounces off the passing buildings.
You're out of town past the Last street light
As the Stars unfold in the stark black night
The feel of the wind's a sweet taste of freedom
Content for the silence and the Bike motors hum.
As an old Biker the ride is Past, but the feel of
The wind Flowing past my face, and the pound
*Of the Motors sound, still be mine, Till my Day is Done

****'s here, ****'s up there - yeah mate, just take junction 29 on the m25 to get to basildon, can't miss it, loads of solar system orbits in terms of traffic in the morning though.*

so there’s me watching this film about genetic predestination,
very pedestrian of me,
and i watch it and find that the ending has been ruined
for me, in terms of music, it all hinges on a theme of music,
there’s no universe, no quarks,
a voice has been silenced and cannot sing,
the ending was ruined for me because i found sadism
at a point where someone dies from pneumonia
watching a wagner opera, and is resurrected for the podium
of mass frenzy of talk... no more the last glimpses
of the opera roof and the song.
you know, when i was growing up i had this one thought
i remember, and singled out thoughts are hard to remember:
what will be the last song i will hear?
then i find that scientists are like car dealers, they talk
about such things as the universe in terms of car qualities:
yeah mate, it revs up from 0 to 70mph in 8 seconds...
a bit like the jupiter revs up from nothing to the singled eye jupiter / odin
in 8 billion years...
then came along an atheist biologist and exclaimed: ‘post humous fame is absurd!’
what, and pre mortem biographies aren’t?
well not unless they’re auto i dare say, but biographies of people still
alive whether cinematic or literary are as absurd it not more absurd
than post humous fame.
a man walks home with a bottle of whiskey, prior to that
he buys the whiskey and goes to the turkish shop for one beer of spare change,
the seller is not used to the man buying only a beer -
‘crazy! raza this is crazy! though times?!’
‘i was actually looking at the pavement hoping to buy two,
spotted 5 pence gleaming and a penny,
had 13 pence and five quid in my wallet,
i thought you could get the rest to charity
while i took three quid from the five and 13 pence,
but honestly? what’s your cheapest whiskey?’
‘ah... mmm...’ (shuffle of feet and staring eyes)
‘14.99, clay moor.’
backpack on my back leaving the shop the man said:
‘ah, but tesco sells whiskey for 12 quid, ha!
so you see, i just changed diet from 8 beers and 2 wine bottles...
party rules you see.’
so i’m walking home, two beauties whizz past
with more perfume odour than a smoky chimney,
then on the hill this bubbly beauty from times when
people adored plumpness walks past, desponded
and looking on the pavement squares, miserable friday night for her,
i cross the corner and simply shout: CHIN UP!
i didn’t want to see the effect those words might have on her.
so i didn't finish watching the film,
the film ended for me when the man dies from pneumonia
and his last memory is of the opera house with wagner playing,
i got as far in the film as him using a computer to speak e e e me bastion of pistons and clever devices... then my heart broke and i switched off,
because you know what... i'd ******* hate to be
a benny benassi frontman singer for the song satisfaction
once the rumours spread about the secret island retreat accommodating prince andrew too.

The revs of car engines
The footsteps of pedestrians
The laughter of children
The bark of guard dogs
The chirps of small birds

Even from in my bedroom I can hear the world I am familiar to
The world I call **home

Crystal chandeliers
shelter an aviary restaurant
just beyond our patio.

A pair of purple finches,
having heard the place well-chirped,
drop in for a hasty lunch
and flit away full and fortified.

A cardinal taxies in to sample
the black oil sunflower seeds,
then revs his engines for the flight
to a chilled Magnolia branch -
scattering  snow tufts as he lands.

Birds of every kin and feather
spread the word from branch to tree
that you just can't beat the tasty fare
at the little wire and glass café
beneath the crystal chandeliers.

*February, 2011

Drum and bass - the engine revs,
Tyres grind and squelch into the hardpan.
The cab rises with a squall of angry breath,
Lurches forward with a shudder.

Wrought iron gates heaved shut
Hinges squeal like a pig, they are a pig.
Slamming metal resonates
In secure embrace.

Ugly black rubber stains the concrete -
Mascara on a cheap *****.
If the rumbling cages are food for the beast
Then I am stood in its bowels.

The sour smell of rotting food
Mixed with washing powder and bleach pollute.
Greasy plastic, rancid fat
Makes me recoil and retch.

In a gap in the tar she grows.
Raising her head to the sun in oblivious defiance

Rio can have its lava lamp spectacular,
i have my Van der Graaf Generator,
studying lightning and brainwaves
(the **** you can find on suburban streets -
as they say: the best things are for free);
trees and roots upside-and-out akin to branches
stretching for the paparazzi tropism -
wannabe junkies through and through the U.V.
glittering additions.

Damocles and global warming;
it's hanging, a birth of the guillotine -
America is armed, give it a sneeze
and the public will be ready for an insurrection,
we basically marched back to the 1960s
without a Martin Luther or a Malcolm X...
people are testifying a need for leadership,
the C.I.A. and F.B.I. are on the prowl
to subdue it... if this was the ice age
i'd eat you, ******... i got bored
of chicken, let's see what you taste like;
the revision of Damocles' sword hanging over
all of us... believe me, the Arabs are fine,
they can stand this kind of heat,
they'll fry us all on a Ferrari sports-car revs
from that carbon monoxide **** ****** at
for brain damage and a ***** **** under a niqab;
me? i'm as politically correct as politicians
are on a Wednesday in Parliament during the P.M.'s
questions: ridiculous, ridiculing, ergo double
agitated... take your defence of apathy elsewhere,
into your safe-circle and dance me the ******* tango
while shadow boxing. i'm as politically correct
as the prime minister and as much as the shadow;
pulpit plonker of Peckham that was needed as a
plumbing pecker of assured speech getting the job done.

this is the revised version of b.m.i.,
i vouch like a scout that my personal library
weighs more than my body,
******, i'd eat you, no questions asked;
i'd eat you, the corpus christi curse right back at you,
Moses was a former army general,
he exploded outside of society,
Christ the Redeemer was catching carrier pigeons
by clapping inside society, the effects
came later, Grecian,
only an enriched literary civilisation could have
made profane remarks about the Jews...
what with Plato et al., the four gospels
really did miscarry the treasures of the tetragrammmaton,
that's the only Jesus bit i don't like,
well, it's pretty much all of the Jesus bit -
attacking religious figures like Elijah and the Baal priests,
he attacked but the religious cults under the Romans
flourished... then came the northern invaders of Rome
not really bothered by what the Greek wrote...
**** is this?! the **** is this?! you forget they lost
the runes and said: well Latin is the *******
for encoding hush and sepia, let's keep it,
start afresh, keep the coliseum rotting.
so much for human rights: chop the head off
and long live Charles I... keep him rotting in a cell
and you're inventing zoology, hardly human...
most men would rather the chop-off than the chaining...
vegetables in 2 cubic metres, hardly human...
**** it, most are like: end it, quick! don't make me
a loiter with my crimes... but of course the sadists won
and things collected dust...
the story was: don't read books, write something
original... Gaza strip would make the perfect novel
archetype -but subsequently loose your human empathy
allowance - somehow finding it in Oxford, half-******
and half-the-time missing the plot, to no one's bother.

yes, b.m.i. (book mind index), all that god is dead got me
thinking while we're obsessing about diets and
eating vegetarians... **** me, ain't i the cannibal tonight?
Rio... it's all Rio's fault... the ******* lava lamp and my
prize for going to buy the spirit of St. Paul's cathedral **** -
my own, van der Graaf generator -
along with the band, all classic **** given prog rock
introspection done by the one famous magazine Mojo -
no, not mojito - jackal, joke, jumper, jazzy,
south american ha or the Mexican Xavier's achoo cha ha cha
(i admit, Michael Jackson's version of: pope checks whether a choir
boy is castrated to sing the high-notes).

well, the plan is to drink yourself to death -
**** this place and **** it twice over if i am the spaghetti
with a chance of meatball genius to save it -
i'm not a coward, i'm just practical... the dinosaurs never
had so many paradoxes running through them
when Michelangelo did the meteor sequence,
after the Welsh and the Chinese intuitively drew dragons.

this is is the perfect time to be loners and childless -
it's a time when death and god is clearly explained,
but an en masse suicide pact is harder, unless you express
human pride and human vanity as the sourcing secret -
i did a mini course on sustainability beneath my
prime: chemistry at Edinburgh... can i say it was like
g.c.s.e. history? any idiot could do it.

or as was the case with political correctness with the recent
attacks in London - the English uber way of saying it
politely, they're campaigning for a loss of stigmata in
this branch of medicine that, for some strange ******* reason,
everyone gets involved and is suddenly a ******* expert -
i don't know how many ordinary civilians
claim to have degrees in psychology... too many by my count.
all those campaigns to relieve the stigmas on mental health
in order to "keep the public united" after such attacks
simply back-fired - like everyone depressed or anxious
would simply slit some stranger's throat, because
of a "history" - no amount of eloquent cover-ups will discourage
people from seeing what they see, media freedom allows
for per se manipulation - shadow-people tricks -
the other form of spying.
if it wasn't a terrorist plot why mention the Somali heritage?
could just have said he was Norwegian...
so whatever campaigns there were to ease the stigma
surrounding mental health issues just backfired -
only to keep the ethnic divisions intact in the agglomerate
of social cohesion - to be honest, mental health isn't
even a medical concern... it's a political tool for
exploiting harsh scenarios - and this
medical schism is pretty much akin to
the Sunni v. Shia division in Islam - or the 1054
great schism; i have absolutely no idea why or how
it happened, or when... but this isn't a religious topic,
it's a medical schism, and i'm assuming the anglophone
world is primarily prone to it... as an outside i have
my unique perspective... this isn't religion... it's medicine
for crying out-loud!

are these psychologists and quasi and alter counterparts
prescribing medication like penny-sweets?!
because they ******* are! humanists that have no right
to prescribe medication, but merely talk...
oh wait... didn't i hear some cultural critic write that
words are nothing? so we communicating in ******* Braille then?
words are the primary data imprints we all need,
i'm not writing in a language to make it my own -
but there this massive schism in medicine at the moment,
somehow not reading philosophy in western society
never got to grips with Cartesian materialisation
of i think into i am - i can answer for that -
mental illnesses are subtler than a leg infested with
gangrene - but they're still physical ailments -
obviously not as rainbow as a gangrene, but there can't
be a schism, because too many amateurs and sadists will
exploit the schism... there's also the necessary claim
for thinking and being to reach the ergo equilibrium -
by unnecessarily treating a thinking pattern
that does not really deviate into stabbing someone
will only encourage all this proto Narcissistic crap...
and you'd think that polytheism died under the 21 grams
worth of certainty that the soul exists with monotheism...
that's the strength of Greek polytheism
(and Indian polytheism, i.e. it didn't adopt a monotheism),
meaning that it's philosophical background ensured
that the revision of Hebraic in its hands gained so much
popularity as Christianity - but Narcissus is a telescope
to introspect - i blame Narcissus for the medical schism
we're now experiencing - mental health and the imaginary
fifth limb.

this schism is the result of subduing religion -
at first it was a wise move, i admit that i wouldn't
want to be on the Inquisition rack -
but when violence was perpetrated on us
we held a stealth belief that it would end -
but after we internalised this violence
there seems to be no end; another schism
was bound to pop up somewhere, i'd never think
it would be in the medical category:
due to the failures of reading philosophy,
bypassing Kant, phenomenology and the existentialists
to simply write a profit-banking book:
philosophy for dummies (+ ****** et al.).

Strawberry
blonde teen
Unexpected
staring touch
Passion -
eating us

Lust
always ruling
Words
frivolous, unheeded
Were
thrusting apart

Each desire
quenched
First hungry  
youthful season
Longing
exhausted

Moving
separate
Suddenly
acquaintanc­es
Years
in other arms

Meeting
in paddock
Smiles defeat
awkward seconds
Listening,
hearing

Third place,
revs screaming
Hit, hurtling
flying askew
Another
impact

Lifted away
torn
Crushed beauty
dead desire
Our last words
lost us

**+

Behind the wheel you will soon sit
Eager, nervous and confused,
To operate the many controls
Will tax your multi-tasking.

Review the mirrors, shoulder check
Set the revs and find the bite,
Release the hand-brake and move away,
All without a bunny hop.

And once you've first done that basic skill
You'll do it again, and again, and again
Until without thought you can make it go.

Then we will get into second gear.

The video stutters and she jitters to a halt in an intersection;
Traffic lights turn green, and the display revs up,
The Broken Egg food truck clips her heel and spark-like static fogs the screen.

His fingers, once lightly brushing over a braille textbook, freeze out.
The book lifts itself and scraps left to right under his palm.

Her professor speaks, and her lecture on Maxwell's equations propagate towards the classroom wall,
only the walls have fled with their chalkboards, and the standing waves have been left stranded
in the sudden infinite space. She has lost reflections; only direct, brute force remains.

The Truth: I wear petty images like a cloak.
The Truth: My gears tremor under the strain of life, stuck on
The Truth: I think

You'd think me stupid, a bust, and the truth is
I'd rather stand in traffic, frozen, mute and dumb,
than ask questions, intern, or learn the difficult stuff.

Secondary screens:
I'd rather write poems and post them online for strangers
than talk about chemical potentials or spherical wavefunctions.

I'd rather talk about chemical potentials and wavefunctions
than figure out what happened to my remote.

There's too much movement to feel good standing still.

If ever the internal chatter threatens to cease
and the Clear White Light begins to encroach;
if the nail-biting, jaw-grinding, hackle-rising clamour
starts to give way to the humming tranquility of Truth,
where boundaries dissolve
and language lies in redundant, grateful sleep

Some internal reflex snaps me back into distraction,
relentlessly revs the engine
and spray-paints ugly slogans across
enlightenment's helpless face.

I used to resent this, and see it as a weakness.
Now I am profoundly grateful.
It's not the unfettered truth I couldn't bear,
it's the moral obligation to share it
when the dawn rises on another normal day
and you carry the burden alone
through careless crowds, wondering
what the hell
you're supposed to do with it.

Nerves pulled taute at an alarming rate,
Sitting on the edge of too many choices, a spate,
Leading to indecision and dizziness, changed
From horizontal, too vertical, too fast, deranged

To be awake at such an hour,
As the body tries to tap into power,
But hears this " take warning early morning"
Ahead, and a head still fuzzy while scorning,

Is there really a reason to get out of bed
at 5:19?

There are chores,
There are meals to prepare,
There is reading and meditation,
There is the routine of a morning constitutional!

There is full time employ...ment.

But all of these wait in line,
As care of a friend o'mine

Comes first,
We burst,

Into the morning,
Despite weather warnings,

And on good days too,
In the early morning,

We walk the same route,
And the same distance,

We have our pace, for instance,
My two legs keep up with her four,

She is never more excited then before
We go out the door, this is not a chore,

She pulls, she stops and drop to ***,
She is content and relaxed beside me,

She repeats as often as is necessary,
It all belongs, it is her territory,

In the early morning, I will, we will
Continue to walk, each and everyday,

We will arrive at three hundred and sixty five,
Morning jaunts
Again this year, it is a joy to move and be so alive,

With her, in the early morning,
We think not on, the mornings past,
               nor, that the mornings won't last
forever,
We only think on the present, the one we share,
In the moments found only in the early morning.

While the world around us revs its engine to a roar,
All we hear are birds,  paws with toenails on pavement or
Raindrops falling and wind calling us to stay longer, and more

Where there are no cares to wear on us,
We have each other, and it is early morning.

I.

Tick, tock.
Snakes on the clock. Brains. Skin. Air. Hair. Coils of fabric, and teeth.
Oxygen reeks. Stales. Pales and contracts.
Breathe nonetheless
Pull on a dress. Pull on a vest.  Step outside. Feel the wind.
Oh, the days I’ve spent-
Instantly forget.
Put on my face
Roses in a vase
Feelings cased in the closet
Filling space

Seems sometimes we’re just filling space
What a waste

…

II.

Deep breath
Rose-scent fills her head

This could be it, she said
You’re too pretty for that, he said
Black and white embroidered with red
The cold air stung her lips as she read
This stone is where I’ll lay my head
The ground is made of bones
She’s alone

…

Steps on gravel, sounds awake the night
Jump into the abyss? She might

Memories of childhood fights
Initial dislikes
Periwinkle paint sets and tights
Once, learning to draw a rose
Once, hanging onto a hose, drenching strawberries
With brother in backyard
Family is a golden memory
At least there are pictures

…

Boy
The first one she kissed on the lips.
It was a dare. Fleeting but his eyes dripped sweetness. Twelve years young? She can’t remember. She ****** the same boy, drunk, four years later. He wasn’t the first, though.
And he still seems innocent

…

Hovering tensely
At the half-open door
She’ll never feel loved again.
She said.
Aches. Heavy ferocity ready to tumble. Dread.
Wake-up song every morning in her head.
The ground is made of bones.
She’s alone.
I’ve come this far. Revs up the car. Tears down her cheeks.
Runs over herself repeatedly in the street.

…

Why so gray?
His lips hold secrets
Autumn hay-stack drenched in dryness
Cool but bright, he’s a working man with a voice made of sunshine
Her eyes twinkled hello at his fingertips’ first brush-by
Smiled and walked away
Perhaps another day

…

III.

...

Rain soaks my skin.
I was walking, computer and books weighted on my shoulders,
Lightning crossing my path
Relax
I’m visualizing math

The air is cool. The wind rolled darkness in on its back.
The storm is roaring and strobing the sky
I’d like to derive your kind
and the rhythm of my mind
From the grains of sand left behind

,

And listen to the song of the sea

.

And float in the lingering breeze
As the storm dies down
The night’s dying down
I’m counting for now,, and "you"
Are a ghost of an idea, wispy but fresh but

Unformed
Much like the memory of yesterday’s storm

...

As I was drenched in the shower I could only think about taking pictures of my memories and tearing them into a storm
A catastrophe -
I'd laugh.
I'd call it art.

This storm is ******* beautiful.

once upon a time,
a doctor told her that her heart was broken.
a war drum with a worn-out head,
just waiting to bust.
now her nightmares of heart-attacks haunt her at all hours;
she hates knowing that she's destined to beat herself to death.
she's never felt this worthless.
lately,
she's been wondering what drownding feels like,
she never thought it a topic to ponder,
but the water makes her feel so free.
she'd so much rather rest beneath the waves
than sit and wait for her engine to fail.
maybe she should fly more often,
tossing back tiny bottle after tiny bottle
of six dollar whiskey,
fingers crossed that they'll all fall down into the sea.
she'll sink if she tries hard enough.
a heart condition translates directly into
"incapable of loving, or ever being loved"
in her eyes,
so why ******* try.
now she burns bridges like roman candles
and shells out all her cash on any day that rent isn't due;
no point in holding on to what you can't take with you.
she stains her flesh instead.
words she only wishes you'd have whispered in her ears instead of stuffing them into envelopes,
her favorite flower,
and a hawk feather,
for whatever luck she can get.
sometimes,
during her morning cigarette,
she laces up her sneakers and bolts,
as fast as she can in any direction,
just to see if her heart can take the heat of her heavy feet skimming over the street.
the engine in her chest revs loudly,
like the car of a teenage boy.
they're all little boys-
she's a woman.
she's pretty positive that everyone cries at night-
even the dogs and the crickets and the birds.
we've all got nightmares,
hers just happen to seep out and taint the daylight.
what she needs,
is to befriend the monster under her bed.
he can feed on her inner demons and stitch up her heart with his glaring smile,
and hazle eyes.
in turn,
she'll share her bed
and now and then,
he can rest his head on her chest and translate the siren songs of her unsteady pulse.
she needs a ******* friend.
one who always cares instead of a good few who only ocasionally pretend to.
someone who's more than willing to walk a few blocks to dollar beer night,
and braid her hair for her while she yaks in the trash out back.
yeah, something like that.
it's her heart,
not yours.
or yours or yours or yours.
but her's,
and it hurts.
it races all night like nascar rednecks who pointlessly drive in circles for hours.
don't tell her how to fix it,
or not to worry,
or that everything is going to be fine.
it's not.
it's her heart,
and it hurts.

Another dab of red on her lip
A final spray of fragrance
Baubles cuffing her dainty wrists
And a spring in her step

She steps out and steps into the car
Their eyes meet, a sparkle across one of her 32
He nods with a giggle, "Finally, the day has arrived..."
Zestful fingers turn the key, the engine revs up

And like always, she completes his sentence
With a bright one across her face
"Yes, the day we set each other free."
And together they burst

While little Macy and Phillip
Make promises, young in love
From afar, below the cliff,
They see light shine so bright, like fire burst

And perhaps, they were only firecrackers
Thinks Phillip, his innocent mind
Unable to tell a blast from a burst
But Macy knows, for she caused the brakes to fail

when she got all the righteous requirements of expressing liberty and i looked at her expression i was like? so i've been duped into being fed the oedipus complex for 100 years while she wrote as if looking for her father in a theme park? right... gear up the revs of that feminism of yours... keep them writing, by god keep them writing, let us learn all the secrets that were so attractive once when she pampered herself with corsets and bangles and rings and earrings and perfumes! come on feminism, drag them out into the bright open blank canvas of the page like dragging witches to the stake!

in my library i only have books by women
in the range of sylvia plath and anna kavan...
believe me, feminism gave women
second thoughts about
joining the ranks of men
writing, she's having second
thoughts because she doesn't
want to reveal her secrets,
she doesn't want to internalise
life, she wants it to remain
a volumptous (voluptuous,
which sounds sexier? the former
implies volume, the latter a monkish stress
of orthographic orthodoxy) affection
to keep fingertips sensitive to skin
smooth like soap and coarse like
pavement - touchy touchy - feely feely,
she's scared that by outlining
all the secrets she'll be no longer
able to wear a corset and as theory states:
bigger the earrings of loops, the eagerer she's
to be bedded, it's a shame i don't own
more books by women who'd write like
men, and i dig the part where books
written by women are so tightly bound
by social formalities of longing for love
in long-winding sagas of the harlequin
publishing house -
feminism seems like a faulty bomb
when it comes to women writing,
i mean, a girl starts writing she looses her
predatory allure and instinct,
she starts writing she becomes vulnerable,
exposed, when *he does it he
gets depth and confidence he can't use
in ****** interaction... historically speaking
women used to walk without leaving
footprints, men used to walk moving mountains,
she was the countless secrets and secrecies,
feminism kinda duped her,
she started making footprints via writing,
and sadly all the former allure faded -
we became apes and peasants
slightly bewildered by an atom bomb explosion
like a falling autumnal leaf;
where is that crafty ***** with a library of intrigues?

Im not one for romance but

Her hair, all of the beauty leftover from a palette after a masterpiece is created, who said brown was the colour of ****?
Her eyes, the green of mother nature that gives my heart a buzz to infinity and beyond.
Her nose, the reason I need to smell good.
Her lips, the cushions that keep me up at night.
Her smile, a capital U, the bliss that eclipses my own and blacks out my thoughts whilst it revs my heartbeat.
Her voice, it can babble on like early civilisations but im happy I met-her, for I have so much love to give.
Her words, have magnitude to dig holes which would make the sea sunk and send waters to hell to drown my demons, my own revelation.
Her jokes, they're pretty bad actually however
Her laugh, a record stuck on repeat of all the things I want to hear, the perfect rhythm that sets my soul ablaze and makes me laugh back senselessly.
Her hugs, a second home that has everything right with the world inside.
Her love, the warmth that sinks its way into every crevice of my heart, with the heat to break bedrock and boil Satan to the heavens, a heatwave of affection that I could surf like a beach ***. I love her, I love

You.
Until time is forgotten or matter and anti-matter stop fighting.

I will think about you.
The reason I'm still writing...a silly love poem.

Alien’s heaven

poems

Barton Smock
June 2015
 

 
pilot light

baby, baby talk, and pilot light.

kitchens everywhere,
god is alone.
 
no brain

father smokes to make something disappear. he says he’s no brain but can pass for touched each time the bug is resurrected. when he rolls out of a blanket and into the side of a building, I believe again in the man mistaken for god’s pencil. mother can’t leave him anymore than she can leave her ears. terrify no one your childhood knows.
 
son

it was born in a bath of milk when there was milk to burn.  it drew with daylight.  when asked for details, it pulled a shadow’s tooth.  we took it to a movie, a war movie, where it made its first noise.  its pain went everywhere.  it sold, it sold until it ran out of clothes.  its mothers had fight.      
 
knees

visiting hours are set by a god who knows I smoke.  leaving my mark means I’ve pressed the barrel of a cap gun into my brother’s temple because the ****** keeps scooping into his ballcap the same toad.  my two fathers are here to bounce things off my mother when she prays.  sit long enough and ***** will dry them together.        
 
yearly

our collective identity is a sick child. some say fever, some say welcome to the loop of the biblically speechless. people are for others. are for making eyes at the gender of the god as it oversleeps in the coma we slip from. the child prays. the child causes a stir in the pastoral urgency of a moral imagination. we pray. we miss yearly the showdown between the town drunk and the town ghost. I trace a finger to put my finger on. the television belonging to our lady of snowy reception has fallen on our little angel more than once. nothing in the world is the world.
 
boy and gun

it entered my heart
to take a bird
from the world.
I felt nothing.    

the recent absence
of nothing.  
 
vernal

when you begin
to show
say
instead
you’ve a soft

spot
for god
 
race

says poverty
someone
at this table
has nothing to hide.

says father
touching
a UFO
cures frostbite.

says mother
open
the stomach
of the winning
monster.
 
area

somewhere, the mostly boy body pretends to be explored.  we are not we.  my mother ruins a sketch of my mother.  my father smokes two packs a day because online he was called prematurely haunted.  the name of your existence

is

priest retires to make umbrella for jack-in-the-box.  (her bus

is rain)
 
barbaric terms

each twin
slower
than the last, she spits

over my dead body

baby
after baby
out.

as news
of the massacre
spreads, the young
call it mother
by word

of mouth.
 
longing*     *for Gen

the baby boy stiffens at the sight of unrolled dough.  we say he is pointing the way to god.  crippled by the sadness in her hand, his mother keeps a claw mark like one keeps diary.
 
closings

trespassers
shoot themselves.

your son gets hired
by city

to illustrate
a book on mirrors
for households
with one
adult.

my son
dies
before the machine
that keeps him
alive

turns on.

a doll in doll country
burns its nose
trying to enter
the future
museum
of racist
oddities.

my hand tries my hand at forming
firstborn
erasures
using only
redactions.

god is exiled
for bringing
the animal
its childlike
behavior.

I am far too animated.

your body is the notice
eyes

give.
 
ins

night
the land
of a single
unseen
settler  

-

father
half eye, half oil    

-

self, self panic
 
bloodless     for Noah

my brother was blinded by a crow.

I’d tell you the story
but know
you hate it.

*******.

brother’s darkroom
became
the crow’s.
 
breathing spells

I chased only
the brother
I’d dreamed
of beating.

I told my sister
she didn’t have
a tail. told mother
it’s not suicide

unless you ask
to be born. I had a hand
for the year
father

went quiet
a hand
for the year
father

went quiet
for good. had dolls
over which

dying
out of character
held sway.
 
intelligence

magic amplifies in my loneliness a single flaw.

a bird, a high window. sound of a brain cell.

hunger and its unremarkable kitchen.

as a doctor I hammered the baby’s knee.

bio, and the undisclosed location of god’s recovery.

harm is harm’s audience.
 
disability jargon

i.

when it opens the bomb
it knows
like my brain knows
what it sees

ii.

homicide grief
is a recording
god’s message
speaks to

iii.

eight years old
she leaves the trampoline
in her body’s
fearful
accounting
of self
 
concord

cap gun.  swag from an uncle’s suicide.  

the daughter
the ghost
cartoonist.

voodoo dolls
in isolation.  isolation

in its prime.    
 
altar

the baby is too light.  its mother puts it on a scale that reminds her of a plate her empty childhood couldn’t break.  its mother invites neighbor boys to punch her in the stomach.  some of the boys bail.  some don’t.  the mother’s nickname doubles as her real.  the baby is not called bricks.


 
zero

when I couldn’t get my head around the surrender of my body to the flotation device of an immaculate conception, I’d simply swallow a baby that had swallowed a pill.  years go by and I am zero.  the number arrested for suicide.        



 
basics

because he is asleep, he does not find himself sleeping in the tub.  something slides from his belly and becomes wedged.  his dream business goes under even in dream.  he makes eyes at CPR manikins.  his son, his life, pushes for legs.
 
preparedness

you look like you’ve just been given permission to sleep in your clothes.

it’s a **** whistle only crows can hear.

it’ll put sheep
on the moon.
 
outlet

depression is a non-starter.  depression is depression unknowingly cured.  it is like I have this shirt because it exists and not because it invites everyone whose shirt it’s not to enjoy joy.  I don’t want to hear you say you’re sad to say.  I ******* to reappear and think it might be why my father vanished.  it’s enough during foreplay to flicker.

 
viewership

my youth spent trying to see the devil as a young man.  my motherly youth.  my **** scene a return to form.  cut from yours, you have your baby’s eyes.  I went unborn.  I went beaten.  we went together in broad daylight when broad daylight was god’s elevator.


 
pressure

the original thought in my head was to be postdated by god until god learned he had a baby on the way.  I had children until I could only have four.  what I say to self-harm is pay attention.  my daughter raises her hand on the off chance she buried something in her teacher’s body.  (we have stopped talking

but I can squeeze her anorexia into a phone booth)  poverty myth:  I groom my sons with the beak of bird abandoned.  real time I tell my tongue it’s ******* curtains for the mouth I’m getting.  full circle my daughter surrounds those brothers of hers that mine clone.        
 
high

mother, in the early stages of her food fight with god.

father, I can’t bury
my face.

in lieu    
of the lord’s
dog, raise

the lord’s
bone.
 
the mice

the conditions for mentally composing a suicide note for his sister are less than perfect. she’s sitting on his bed with a cigarette in one hand and his baseball glove on the other. both hear three traps snap shut in the kitchen. sister gags and it makes him think about gagging. now no more, these were the heart of the note.
 
signal

as my face
will one day
correct
my body
I expose

the elements
to my
ugliness  

-

my son is my search

history

-

headlights
when headlights
emerge
emerge
from a period
of non
worship

-

(wave your arms
long enough
you’ll have sticks
for arms)

-

they don’t  
happen
in my
lifetime
the terrible
things
I’ve done  
 
observance

when drought came
to my brother
I left
for the city
where I found myself
blanketing
manhole covers
with my coat
for women
who gathered
on rooftops
with men
whose daughters
had been killed
for jumping
rope
 
peril

I bit my tongue
when my tongue
was a cloud.

take cover, bones,
says my daughter
dancing.

I crushed my son
like a gift
and offered
god
my tactile
outlook.

stay small, future.  

persuade
a peephole
to show
some blood.      
 
no devil

the knock knock joke in need of my father’s skull is all that’s left of the outside world. hell was always the preparing of hell.
 
inseparable

mother is watching a show that keeps her from picturing the gods who portray us.  father is choosing an ice cube to bury.  myself I am very close to stripping for the cigarette my sister rescued from a baby’s crayon box in a dream that smelled like her clothes.      
 
masters

I have just had it written down for me how I am not classically racist. I am alone. I am brief stay of bullet. god is using each hair on my head to scribble on my son’s thought process. when I think of crab legs I think in color of the lightning bolt it snows inside. I miss mom. gospel, gospel that I hang these rags for invisible crows.
 
was

ask now my father if it still believes the present to be the future of a past life.  

ask then if it unscrewed one day each inessential light bulb that my party would have balloons.  

-

violence in movies.  also, food.  my mistake.  I glue myself

to nothing.  my shyness

-

is kind of
my angel.  

-

the body invents the soul it recalls.
 
gauze

the boy’s mother is biting off less than he can chew.  her insomnia
has put her inside a worm
her body
tries
to fill.  her milky eyed

-

husband
revs a tow truck
to death
in a heavy fog.  it is possible, humanly

-

possible

-

there’s nothing
to see here.  that her god

-

is, in a sense,
seizure activity
in the boy’s
spirit

-

animal.  
 
image

and do not
believe, as such, that yours
is a body

leads god
to inquire
 
godless

godless
balloon
animal
 
root effects     for Miles J. Bell

like he’s laying
yellow
on his road
out of grief
brother
takes a drag
and keeps it
until his head
is underwater
is what they call
with apples.

his eyes
have always been
two poverties
unexplored.  he is old, alien’s

heaven
he is old
but not before
he knows it.
 
the alien wept but was not heard weeping

not all
drones
dream
of you

the boy’s mother is biting off less than he can chew.  her insomnia

has put her inside a worm
her body
tries
to fill.  her milky eyed

-

husband
revs a tow truck
to death

in a heavy fog.  it is possible, humanly

-

possible

-

there’s nothing
to see here.  that her god

-

is, in a sense,
seizure activity
in the boy’s

spirit

-

animal.

Birds sing sweetly
as darkness descends.
A dog barks in the distance,
talking to a friend.
A car engine revs loudly,
as folks are off to a  Summer party.
And then...
And then...
The sounds of a Summer evening grow still.
The moon comes out to glow.
Shining down on the silence.
Of night below.
I sit in the moonlight.
And enjoy the silence.
At rest in my soul.

A lone thought in the wind
Spark blinking in mind
a Tesla snap across the great synaptic perhaps,
A momentary lapse in the carefully constructed meditative

emptiness.


The birdsong stops as the engine revs
And the spinning starts
Mental handbrake turns in the snow of scattered crystallized drops of frozen liquid memory,
My face is distorted in the turning.

I.

I am a ragdoll with loose stitching.
I am a cat with no whiskers.
I am adrift without course,
and my tongue is lost at sea.

It vows to ****.

****.



Say exactly what you mean.

Say you liked me more in retrograde.
Say I'm unbalanced.
Say that last laugh carried a bit too far.
Say I'm finished.
Say I've been had.

Say the voyage has ended.

Say it.


Say it.
**** it.

And I'll scream over and over,
and over again,
until every last drop of the sea
knows the answer-

"What did I do,
what did I do?"

II.

This mask-
I do not want it.
I need everyone to know
I do not want it.

But, oh-
how it craves me.

This face is haunting,
stealing light, fire,
and the ability to stand,
and the means to say I will,
I will not.

What we all desperately desire-
is it what keeps us at arms length,
away from the center?
The whole?
The home?

How does a heart admit itself
to strangers?
When is a heart permitted
to stop?

III.

Does the pain I carry make me a monster?
Can one grow from a curse?

Many times I've scanned my past for deserving signs and scars.
A curse traps victims under it wheels,
and revs silently.
And there is so much of it.

It manifests stupidly,
yet wholly and confounding.
It sticks.

When you say it's no one's fault,
it must be my fault.

Is it a blight others fear catching?
I don't want to share this with anyone,
but how else will the world know
it's (not) my fault?

I want to pull it all out of me,
those dark, old splinters.
I do not know how.

IV.

There is a world outside of it,
glowing with morning dew and a softer sun.
And all is gentle, waiting, listening.

God, be the breath in me;

Be the sparkle in my eye, the smile that glides strong and bright over that lower portion of my face;

Be the hand that gives, the wiry cord that ties up all my loose ends;

The socks that hold my shivering legs in one piece;

The shoes, tied tightly, that stand my feet upon the ground, in one place, never fleeing;

The engine within that revs forward at any show of fear, never shrinking;

Never shutting off, shutting down, freezing up.

I hope that I can swallow this angst and remind myself of who I am, of who God made me,

And walk into the brightest light, the darkness tunnel, to the other side of the door which is a mystery unto me.

The time has taken its time. My soul has persisted slowly, dragging its feet in heavy anticipation that one day I would actually need to take this great leap of faith, and trust

That someone will catch me.

And even if nobody does, and I eat gravel, I think God will still have me,

And He’ll be smiling at me, those big pearly whites glowing, because

I tried.

I faced fear and, conquered or defeated, I did what I thought ridiculous, impossible, impenetrable.

And I suppose I’ll just have to dust off my jeans and keep moving forward.

No.

Running forward.

shaft of light through
tassels, clinking cutlery,
vacuous space
varnished petrification
of wood,
monotonous whir of the fan
and the cessation of the clock
(i give it taps to test
  its life but time has
  given up on me)
the surreptitious chirp of
bird and the flirtatious advancement of a shadow.
Hugo's crucified howl
in his kennel -
the bristle of broom from
the outside, sun raking through
a mound of dead leaves
scattered across this humdrum thread of the world.
ceramic persona
being formed into something
   ephemeral: say a household,
      or little stone-men,
a sturdy house of epistles
   or just a nook for a free dove.
first to go is the sound
   of the afternoon and the next
     is i, wearing 2 day old jeans,
starting the car, revs it like
   a beast in stupendous heat,
     raves the avenue and brings
with its deceitful snarl, the weight of all trivialities, enclosed somewhere in the dark annexes of the compact subspace,
   wishing for a crash,
   a collision,
   a time for smallness,
   or of being
   nothing but
   air, or the clock that died on me, or just
    10 AM, nothing else.

it's just fun now. for some reason this boy always knows what to say to get you hooked. this time you aren't actually hooked on him though. because this time he has made no promises like he did before. you are thankful because he never keeps them anyways. last night he said his usual line. "there is just something about you." you are confused but know not to take it to heart. lately you've learned to not take anything to heart. it's okay. you wish it wasn't like that. but it is. this time you told him that it would be casual. the sound of his breath on your neck reminds you of an old piece you wrote when you didn't know. but now you do. and so does he. he makes you feel good. he never breaks eye contact. he revs his engine when he drops you off because you told him that's what boys do when they think a girl is hot. he makes you want to roll your eyes and smile afterwards. he doesn't talk about the grey house with lemonade or the roller coaster hill or the fact that he once said he thought he was in love with you. but it's okay because he let you steal his sweatshirt and still kisses you goodnight afterwards when he walks you to your car.

Alone with the shadows
No heat to beat the cold flow
Of winters harshness

Alone with the lights out
No shine in his eyes
To safely carry him away
From the night

Alone with neighborhood noises
A dog barks, a truck revs up
The wind slaps the tree branches
Against the small house

Alone with nobody
No hands or hugs of comfort
Just books by candle light
A withering heart
Sustained by chapters
Of other peoples imaginary lives

You set out without a clear intention. You jot down vague sketches,
plans for prototypes.
Each iteration is
a little better
than the last.
It grows. It develops
into something familiar, yet
completely different.
Something new.
The gears fit better together.
You make it smaller and more compact.
Each prototype gleams with pride.
look.
it says.
I am special, I am beautiful, I am
a marvel of engineering and metaphors.
Look.
It is ready. You let it out, watching as
your machine, your invention
revs its engine and zooms off
into the night. It will plant itself
into people's minds and make them
Think, make their
gears fit better, make
them familiar but
completely new.
it is a poem. a machine called a poem.

https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/l8njruxa73yee9b0jzmhd/The-Ultimate-Unabridged-Guide-to-Esoteric-Working-English-2.docx?­rlkey=kunoar7ghpfkb7fjk5xkdgx95&st=i84ornny&dl=0

THE ABORIGINAL FRAME OF REFERENCE OF HETEROCHRONY AND SIMULTAGNOSIA DEFINES THE PARALLAX OF URANOPLASTY BY CATALFALQUES AND ARCTICIANS WHO SASHAY THEIR GENTEEL NOBILITY IN THE FLUX OF ELLIPSOID DIMENSIONAL INTERFACES FOR GREENWICH MEAN TIME THAT IS OPERATIVE IN THE CONATION OF MATHESIS TO PLUCKY THORNY IMBROGLIOS OF TELEOLOGY OF LAND RUN SPECTRAL HOBGOBLIN BUGABOOS OF AN INDUSTRIAL WASTELAND GARNERING A QUERENCIA OF GRANNARY JOBBERNOWL JOCKOS OF  EMOLUMENT IN THE FESTIVITY OF THE MARCH OF MASONS ALL TOWARDS SINECURE OF SYNCLASTIC CLIFF DIVERS WHO SPELUNK IN FIRE EXTINGUISHER PLIGHT OF STREAMLINED COSMONAUTS BOLTROPES TO AN ABECEDARIAN TRILOGY OF CAMISOLES FOR CAMPANILE CAMARADERIE JOUSTING THE FLAVORS OF SAINT TROPEZ FOR ADMIRAL SENTINELS OF FAMIGERATION. THEN BECAUSE OF THIS THE SWASHBUCKLING CONNOSIEURS OF THE GUARDED JALOUSIES OF JEALOUSY CONGEALING REQUIEMS FOR DESOLATE DISSIPATION IN WITWANTON FUROR PRIMIGENIAL IN THE FORMATIVE THROES OF RAGTAGGER RETINUES OF VESTIGE AND THE PLUMBISM OF SOCKDOLAGER HIERARCHIES OF SAPROSTOMY BY RUDENTURE AND GALVANIZATION OF FUNERAL PYRE PONDSCUM RELIEFS ON CANVASS FOR THE CALVOUS PROSELYTISM WHEMMLING SUBVERSION AND STOMACHERS OF TESTUDO MANIFEST THE TESTIMONY OF THE BRONZE IMAGOS IMPRIMATURS OF THE SLOGMARCH OF PANTAGRUELIAN SCIAMACHIES FOR TRIBULOID CELLULOID ENGRAVED WITH THE GREATEST SPECIFICITY AGAINST THE MEDIA CONGLOMERATE COCARDENS SLANGWHANGING THEIR ALBATROSS STROKES OF THROMBOSIS AGAINST NUCLEOTIDES AGAINST THEIR PILGRIMMAGE MIGHT THEY FIND THE FOSSOR AT THE GRAVESTONE AN IMPERILED ONEIRODYNIA BECAUSE OF BERTHE CIRCLE BETHLEHEMS SQUARSONS ENVY AND SQUARE RECTITUDE AGAINST AS THE FORMIDABLE SPATHODEA IN THE INTERREGNUM OF KALIMKARI THAT THE TOKUGAWA ASPECTS OF MACH 3 TRIPWIRES SLINGSHOT INTO ORBIT AROUND MOONSHOT DIRIGISME OPERATIVE BY THE HEFT OF ENTELECHY IN SEFIROTH MIGHT THE DEMISE OF CATERCORNERED VULPECULAR SPITE SQUANDERING EVERY LIMESTONE LIMELIGHT OF SLAVISH INDELIBLE AVARICE GILDED BY THE SOLOMON EMPIRE STRIKING BACK AGAINST CATARRHINE HEBEPHRENIA SPATTEES OF INDIGENCE. THESE SPAR AGAINST WITH FOIBLED REMNANTS OF THE DYING GUARD OF VAURIENS IN VARIMAX STOCHASTICS OF THE DIVISION OF THE INDIVISIBLE INTO THE CATASTROPHISM OF ABAXIAL FOMENT SPUMID WITH LIVID AND LURID ONEIRODYNIA FILIBUSTERING WITH “TEACHERS” ENORMITY AGAINST THE TITANISM OF THOSE LATCHKEY YEGGS OF HENPECKED OWLERIES OF BOHEMIAN REPUTE BUT NEON ALPENGLOW IN THE CREMATION OF THE CAREWORN REPUBLIC HOARY WITH WIZENED ABSOLUTION IN APANAGE THAT GRILLAGE FOMENTS AGAINST THE GREAVES OF THE CHANDLER AND THE CARRACKS OF IMMENSE PANTOGRAPHS DERIVING FROM FUTURE TENSE A PRESENT SURREALISM OF DAYDREAMS OF EIRENICON THAT ARE PLASHY WITH THE PLAFONDS OF MIRRORED VERSAILLES REVANCHED TWICE AND BET ON THREE TIMES TO SALVAGE A WORLD BEYOND BENTHIC DEPTHS OF GILD ABOVE ARTHURIAN PEDIGREE IN THE SACK OF THE JARVEY OF EXASPERATED EMPIRES SWILLING WITH TITRATION AMONG MODERN CULPRITS FOR VAMPIRIC FEATS THE WELTER OF LAMBENT LIGHT TORCHIERS EMIT IN TIMELESS PRISTINE ELEGANCE OF HERCULEAN MIRACLES SLURRY SWANSONGS OF DOVETAILED INFAMY BECAUSE OF SERROWS OF OPPORTUNISM WORN FRAYED WITH REVOLUTE MARGINALIZATION OF PROSTITUTES OF TAXIDERMY AND TRAPEZES OF SCHOENABATIC SPORTIVE GAMBOLING NICCOLIC NIDAMENTAL BANDOBASTS OF RESIGNATION. THIS PANTHEON SECRETS BELONG IN BARRULETS BEYOND THE PRIVY EYES OF VANGERMYTES SIMULTANEOUS IN CHANTED LITURGIES OF GHOST DANCE CELEBRATIONS OF WOVEN EMISSARIES OF THE DEEPEST CHARNEL AND CATACOMB OF PHILOSOPHICAL ALTRUISM BROCKFACED WITH THE MYTHOS OF A THOUSAND TINY LIES BECOMING THE SUBURBAN MUSE OF MERITOCRACY MIXED WITH SUBVERSIVE PLEVISABLE CRYPTADIA THAT SPAWN THE HYLICISM OF THE HYLOZOIC CRETACEOUS SPARK PLUG INGENUITY OF FATHOMED TRAIPSES OF DESTINED APLOMB WELTERWEIGHTS BRAG ABOUT IN THEIR GROOMED ZENKIDU BENT IN KOWTOW TO TAJ MAHAL PEDIGREE BECAUSE OF EPHORIZED ZEKS OF XENON AND OTHER MERCURIAL SPRITES WELLSPRINGS ABSOLVE WITH ILASTICAL REPARTEE AS THE HYPE OF EVERYTHING IS THE ENMITY OF ANY QUALIA IMMISERATED IN ITS OWN SCURFY SCOWL OF JEALOUSY AT HOW POORLY THE GOOD SHEPHERD WHO PROVIDES LIFE IN ABUNDANCE IS BETRAYED BY THE CORDWAINERS OF A COMPANY HE VOUCHSAFED AS A DEMASSIFIED SECURITIZATION OF BIFFCO PLANS TO COLONIZE THE  REPARTEES OF MACROPICIDE IN WEALTH SUCH THAT THE STEVEDORE MEETS INCLEMENT CURGLAFF AND THE JASPERATED JESUITICAL RUDENTURE OF MEDIA CONGLOMERATES RUNS AMOK BECAUSE OF TRITE NECESSITARIAN BELLWETHER WELTERS THAT DESCRY THE “SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS” ZEITGEIST OF NARRISCHEIT IN FOOLHARDY KUNDLESROMAN. THE FINIFUGAL BINTURONGS OF SHANTUNG AND CHIFFON FROM RUMCHUNDER CAN BE THE PLEVISABLE CURTAIN OF WUNDERKINDS ALONE IN GINGLYMUS AROUND DEMASSIFIED PUBLICITY THAT GARNERS ANY GARISH ADVANTAGE TO THE POULTRY OF GAVELKIND BECAUSE OF THE SOPITERS OF WEALTH OVER THE MERIT OF SELECTION INTO THE FELLOWCRAFT OF BOLIDES ONLY KNOWN TO A FEW PARTICIPANTS OF RESONANCE IN IONIZATION AND DECRIED SCOUNDRELS OF AUSTRAL WANHOPE AND WANION OF WAPENTAKE BY THE CACOETHES OF THE ESCULENT EBRIOUS PERIBLEBSIS TO REVOKE THE STANCHIONS OF THEIR INTEGRITY TO PRESERVED STATURE EMBEDDED IN BARKENTINE ARISTOCRATIC ESTATES SUCH THAT THE BRIQUET STEALS THE ALMANAC BEFORE THE TITAN PRIMIPARA PROMACHOS CHAMPION OF ALL BRETEUIL THUNDERING APPLAUSE OF CANARDS BECOMING THE ROERICH ROORBACKS OF DIGNIFIED ACHIEVEMENTS IN THE ELOCUTION OF MEN PROSELYTIZED BY GALLANT GAPS AND VOLUMES OF ARMADA FILIBUSTERED BY STOKEHOLD SPODOMANCY IN SPODIUM BECAUSE OF CLADOGENESIS IN SUPREME MYTHS BELONGING TO NEOPHRONS THAT SCAVENGE THE PRECIPICE OF RAIDED TOMBS AND RUPESTRIAN DISCOVERIES FROM THE ANCIENTS TO THE COGNITIVE DELINQUENCY OF ENTHEATE ENCEPHALIZATION QUOTIENT DEMARCATIONS OF PATAPHYSICS DELIMITING THE PULCHRITUDE OF THE WELKIN AND WELLAWAY OF TITANS SUNKEN BENEATH THE PENDULUM OF GRANITE AND THE SANDSTONE OF NAXOS LAVEERING THE LAVADERO OF ANCIENT ODYSSEY FALTERING ON MISPLACED HISTORICITY MIGHT THE BARDS ASSUME THE COVERAGE OF ALL REGARDANT AFFAIRS OF FLAGRANT CHRISTIAN ROODS AND MISERICORDS LEADING TO A QUACKSALVER MONETIZATION OF LABROSE LABIOMANCY AMONG THE DEFEANED EARS OF BOSTON UNIVERSITY IN THE COVERT CHANNELS OF HALIFAX EXPLOSIONS LEADING TO APOGEES IN TRIAGE AND WHITTAWERS OF WILLOWISH DECADENCE DROOPING WITH LOURS AND LEARY SUBVERSION OF THE LEEWARD JAWS OF GREEN-EYED-LADY. THE FAVORS BETRAYED BY THE GAMESMANSHIP OF POLO PLAYERS RATHER THAN THE PANCRATIC ACCORD OF MARSHALED PEACE OUT OF THE HOUNDSTOOTH DONTOLESQUE FUMIDUCTS FUNNELING GRAVAMENS OF GRANNARY GRAVEYARDS THE PEDIGREE OF OLD MALABATHRUM IN THE ETERNAL APOLAUSTIC PURSUIT OF THE UMBRILS OF TRITE HACKNEYED IMITATION OF ONE HACKER WAY AND ITS DEVELOPMENTAL STAGGER FROM SEANCE TO MAUSOLEUM BECAUSE OF CREAKY CRUMBLING 226 BC CATACLYSM RAIDED BY ICONOCLASTS OF CRUSADING WARS TO HIDE THE VOGELHERD BURROWING SPEILBERGS THAT DIRECT WALDOLF-ASTORIA GRAVEROBBERS WHO ITCH AND YEUK FOR YARAKS OF YESTERTEMPEST TO BECOME A GULLYWASHER VARDLE IN OMBROPHILOUS CONFUSION BENIGHTED BY TRAGICOMIC VALIDATION OF CONFLAGRATION OF SHANGHAIED MENSURATIONS OF VASTATIONS AGAINST THE HEGEMONY OF RHEOTAXIS THAT MIGHT SPUR THE CABOTAGE OF THE CALCARIFEROUS COBALT OF PICTURESQUE LABILE AMADEUS VIOLINISTS SPORTIVE IN EVERY REGARD OF PATAPHYSICS LEARNED BY THE ALGORITHMS EMBEDDED IN GENERATIVE PRE-TRAINED TRANSFORMERS OF CONSCIENCE AND STATOLITHS OF THE ARABIC NOBILITY OF SHRINES SHROUDED ON OLYMPUS BEAMING WITH AGED LIGHT IN THE ALPENGLOW OF THE MEMORIAL OF THE PLASTERED PAINT PLASHY WITH PLAFONDS OF PLENARY RECONNAISSANCE OF RENAISSANCE ACUMINATION OF THE ATRABILIARY ORIGINS OF THE PLIGHT OF THE PLAGUED IN THE KNIGHTED ORDERS OF MALTA SALVAGING ELBA AND THE ALCATRAZ OF SENESCENCE. BUT BECAUSE OF EVASIVE TRUTINATIONS OF THE TUBIFACIENCE OF EAGER LEAPING TRUTHS OF NEW MADRID CLADOGENESIS IN COGITATED REALMS OF APOTHEGM LEADEN WITH PHEROMONES OF THE BRAGGING RIGHTS PREROGATIVES OF SLAPSTICK CAPREOLATE MINATORY FIFTH COLUMNISTS AND GUARDIANS OF ST. JOHN THAT MAYBE THE FLAGRANT STENCH OF RIGORS OF RIGMAROLE AND THE CORTEGES OF THE DEEPEST PLUMB IN THE 20,000 LEAGUES UNDER THE SEA TRAVESTY OF SANTAS MIRACULOUS NORAD PARADE FROM BUNKER HILL TO PROVIDENCE AND THE TEMBLORS OF CHARLESTON SPEAK TO THE EL PASO POWER PLANT IN ITS GRAVID GABBLE OF GAVELKIND FOR ISONOMY PROTECTED BY THE TREASURY OF SLOW-WAVE DISTORTIONS OF THE GEOCARPY OF GEITONOGAMY BECAUSE OF HARRIED TERRIES OF TESTUDO GUARDING THE THRONE AT THE EDGE OF GRACE BEYOND THE GOLDEN BRANCHES OF ZION AND THE DEPTHS WE FATHOM THE STRATHSPEY OF ENNOBLED GENTEEL BRISURES AT THE PARAPET. THE ARENAIDAN SECRETS AND ABSTERGED CASUALTIES OF THE WORST AMENDE OF TAMMANY JUSTICE AND THE BYWORDS OF HIS CANEZOU CANZONE PRIVILEGED UPON THE EARS OF ARISTOCRACY LIKE THE WILTED QUILT OF MARTIN LUTHER KING JR. CEREMONIALLY EXITING STAGE RIGHT THE PRECIPICE HE ENTERED BY THE ZEPHYRS OF CEFALONIA BARNSTORMING APACE OF CALIPACES OF NESSBERY NESTITHERAPIES AGAINST THE GRUFF GUIGNOL OF RHYPAROGRAPHY MIGHT THE AWAKENED ROOSTER HENPECK THE FLOCK OF GRASSY AVARICE LAUNCHED INTO ORBIT BY THE PIONEERS OF CEPHALIGATION TO THE PROMONTORY AT THE EDGE OF TOMORROW BUT THE FORTNIGHT OF YESTERDAY’S DIDACTIC LITURGY IN THE CATECHESIS OF CHRIST AND THE BESTOWED PROPHECIES OF PATRIARCHS OF MUHAMMAD THAT THE WORLD WE CARVE ETCHED IN TABLATURE FOR IMPRIMATUR BECAUSE OF RIVALRIES OF SYCOMANCY MIGHT WE ALL CONCORD UPON THE CONCOURSE OF THE LUNACY OF EQUIDISTANT PERJURY AND CORRUPTION TO THE THRONE OF GRACE AND THE OVAL THAT ENCIRCLES SO RAPID A DEGENERATION AND SO WIDE A CANVASS OF  ARTIFICE ABOVE THE FULMINATION OF THE CAULKED VAULTS OF WELKIN FOR WELLAWAY EUPHORIANTS FROGMARCHED BY JALEOS OF HANDSPIKE. THIS IS FOR BLASPHEMED DEGREES OF DECREE OF THE SACRED FIRE OF TEMPERANCE THAT THE MODESTY OF A MASON MAKES HIM THE SUN GOD OF HIS OWN MAYDAY PICARESQUE QUIXOTIC WHITE WATER THRILLS SCALING THE SCALARIFORM CORDWAINER CATALLACTICS AGAINST GRAMPUS IN TRUCIDATION RATHER THAN THE TRAULISM OF DUGONGS OF DURAMEN PREPARED TO THE DIGNITARIES OF MORONI AND THE CHRONOMANCY OF OBSCURE CAPITALIZATION FROM THE RANDOM DELLS AND VALLEYS AND THE TREASURY OF DOMINEERING MOUNTAINS CLIFFHANGING IN PERPETUAL INSOUCIANCE BUT RECALCITRANCE OF GRAVITY’S RAINBOW AGAINST THE RAINBOW PLEDGES OF THOSE THAT DEFY THE CREED OF THE PEOPLE OF THE BOOK AND THE BESTOWERS OF THE CHIMNEY OF INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION SOOT OF EVOLUTIONARY CELERITY CATALYZED IN THE SPRAWLING URBACITY OF MOFUSSIL FOSSILS LAMINATED WITHOUT A HINT OF LANCINATION SUCH THAT TOURBILLONS OF LIONIZATION OF ALL THE OLD HAUNTS AND EVERY SNICKERING HISTORICAL IRONY MIGHT MEET DECLENSION BECAUSE OF OMPHALISM BUT THE BRUNT OF ALL BRONTEUMS OF KNOWLEDGE IS NOT MERELY KNOWING A DATE OR AN EXACT TIME OR AN EXACT NAME BALLOONING INTO THE SIMULTANEITY OF EAGER LAND RUSH APPLICANTS OF FORFENDED OPPORTUNISM AGAINST THE DEPREDATED PAST REPLACED WITH A POTICHOMANIA OF PRESENT CIRCUMSTANCE DESIGNED TO ENCAGE US IN A GREENWICH MEAN TIME CONTORTION OF TITANIC LOVELORN NECKLACES SUNKEN IN ZOOLATRY BECAUSE OF AGRIZOIATRY EMBEDDED IN “EMBERS AND ENVELOPES” REGINA AND MOBILIZED PURSUITS OF THE FUGACIOUS FATIDICAL INSIGHTS OF THE PAST. THIS INDELIBLE IMPRINT IS  CARVED FROM THE IMPEDIMENTA OF IATRALIPTIC IATROMATHEMATICS STEEPLY INCLINED INTO THE FULCRUM OF DESICCATION AND THE DIET OF WORMS THAT DEPARTED TOO MANY TRUCES AND BEYOND INDULGENCE REDEEMED A TORN HUMANITY FROM FRAY AFTER REVOLUTE HOARY FRAY OF FOAM AND FLICKER IN ALPENGLOW AND RINGLEADER SEDITION ABOVE MOUNTAINS SWANKY WITH NEVER A NEBBICH PALLOR NOR A RUBEFACTION OF SQUARSONS SNEERING AT THE REGISTRY OF  THE SHOT HEARD AROUND THE WORLD CHAMFRAINS GUILTY OF HIGHER PRESTIGE IN THE GAMMONS OF GAMINE AND GAMUT THAT THE GINGLYMUS OF FRATERNITY IN ZEAL TO THE NINE SISTERS GUARDING GIBRALTARS ROYAL ARCH AND COBBLED ARENA MIGHT THE GLADIATORIAL SPECTACLE CONVENE IN EVERY CONVENTICLE BECOMING ORTHODOX BY PURIFIED RAREFACTION SUCH THAT THE ALCHEMY OF EUHEMERISM INTO CHRISTIANITY MANIFESTS AGAINST THE JANISM AND CELTIC GILD OF VANDALIZED PETTIFOGGERY WE MIGHT SEE FROM AFAR THAT THE RUINS OF RUNES ARE IN FACT THE OMPHALOS OF EVERY READYMADE SCHOLAR FRACTIOUS IN DISPUTES OF PEDIGREE. THESE KENSPECKEL DISTORTIONS THE VISAGISTS HARBOR OF BANGTAIL OSTENTATION DECEASED BEFORE CELLULOID COULD MUTATE THE CULTURAL DNA OF CONTINUATION BY A SATURNINE GLOOM RATHER THAN AN ANABIOSIS OF RECTIFIED RECTISERIAL SUBSTRATOSE REFORMATORIES SKILLED IN STANDPIPES FOR STANNARIES BECAUSE OF STANJANT DESPITE JANSKY FOR JANIZARIES TO LEARN THE CRAFTS OF KRAFT AND BECOME THE AGENCY OF THE OPERATIVE DURESS OF DURAMEN FOR ACHARNE IN A RENEWED CENTURY OF GLOWERING BYWORDS OF NESSBERRIES OF NESTITHERAPY AND THE BIOLUMINESCENCE OF INTREPID NICCOLIC SWANK IN NIDAMENTAL DEFIANCE OF NIDOR BECAUSE OF A SIMULTANEOUS REJECTION OF NIDIFUGOUS MYTHOLOGY AND THE NEPIONIC ENSLAVEMENT OF DUALISM AND POLARITY THAT IS THE GRAVID IMPERTINENCE OF SOPHOMORIC ****** YEDDA AND YASHIKIS THAT DESIRE THE CULMINATION OF ALL BRAZEN MERCHANDISE BEYOND DERAILMENT BECAUSE OF RAILLERY AND THEREBY CENTURIONS OF THE TRUE GARBOLOGY THAT BECOMES THE MAINSAIL AND MAINSTAY OF CENTURIES OF SQUALLS ON HIGH SEAS OF COCARDEN BECAUSE OF SANDSTONE AND SANDMAN WHO WORK TOGETHER TO DEFEAT THE INCUBUS SUCH THAT ALL A MAN CAN DO IS CARVE HIS OWN STATUETTE AMONG THE PANTHEON OF THE GREATEST ACHIEVEMENTS FOR THE BROADEST OF BARMCLOTH OBJECTIONS TO JASPERATED JARVEYS OF BARTON IN PANMIXIA REGARDED BY SERRATED SECODONT SELACHOSTOMOUS REGALIA AS A MIGRANT SPECIES OF NOMADIC INSTINCT HARBORED BY THOSE WHO ONCE FATHOMED EVERYTHING. THE SERENDIPITY OF PRE-ELECTRIC OMPHALISM BUT NOW SYNERGIZE WITH SUCH CELERITY THAT MOONWALKER CARAPACE OF TESTUDO AND TREATISE BECOME DEMASSIFIED SO RAPIDLY A SPEEDY BRANNIGAN BECOMES A SPOILSPORT TO A MARAUDED WHIGGARCHY THAT DEMARCHES ALONG SERPENTINE ROUTES TO SALVATION BEYOND THE UMBRILS OF APOSTILS OF THE AGE BEFORE THE COMPLETION OF TIMES AND THE SEQUESTRATION OF SESQUIPEDALIAN HOLOBENTHIC IMMERGENCE BEAMING BEATIFICATION UPON THE AGGIORNAMENTO OF REVIVAL AND THE CALVER OF BOLAR BONCES AGAINST BONTBOKS FOR SPRINGALDS THAT BECOME WINTERBOURNE SO DEFIANTLY AGAINST THE LARGESSE OF TIME THAT THE STAGGERING ELITISM OF THE BRIQUET BECOMES A BYWORD FOR THE PARAPET OF PARAKEET BRISURES OF PERISTERONIC OBSERVATION OF STELLAR LUMINOSITY SUCH THAT THE PARASELENE IS SUDDENLY FLOGGED BY THE REVERENCE OF REVERENDS BECAUSE OF THE REVELATIONS OF PATMOS BEYOND THE MISLED SEPARATISM OF FLAKY NEVES OF NEVOSITY FREQUENT IN THE RECURRENCE OF LEGEND AND LORE BECAUSE PROMINENCE AND PREEMINENCE ARE ALWAYS TARGETED FOR POWELLISATION AFTER POTICHOMANIA SUCH THAT THE BARKENTINES HARVEST EVERY OOMANCY AND THE NOILS OF TIME FINESSE EVERY CRANNY AND NOOK OF THE BOLTROPES OF MODERNITY SUCH THAT THE CALCULUS OF BARYEICOIA MEETING STIFF SHARP GRAVITY OF SLENDERIZED BLADES OF SKELETONIZED FIGMENTS OF HOBGOBLIN AND SQUALOR BECOME REPARTEES FESTOONING LUKEWARM NATIVISM INTO A DARRAIGNED ACCORDION. THE WIDOWED MULIEBRITY OF AN UNEVEN HOUNDSTOOTH HYPOCRISY OF HIPPOCRATES IS AN OATH OF FIDELITY AND FEALTY TO THE LORD OF KINSHIP RATHER THAN THE TRAMONTANE RISCTENDER OF RHADAMANTHINE SUBVERSIVE ACTIVITIES OF A PRIVILEGED AND VOCAL MINORITY OF FULMINATION IN FAVORED REGARD AND FLASHBANG BANGTAIL OSTENTATION OF GUARDED GLEBES OF SALVATION AND SOTERIOLOGY THAT ARRIVES AT PORBEAGLE RETINACULUM REFRACTED THROUGH THE SEFIROTH OF HAMARCHY THAT SQUIREBELLS OF DIPLOMATIC RESURGENCE OF AUTOSOTERISM MET WITH REALISTIC PRAGMATIC SOLIPSISM IN MEANDERED HALLS OF VACANT CAVERNS THICK IN THE EVES OF CHIONABLEPSIA PRIMARILY BECAUSE OF THE STEEP CHIMINAGE LEADING TO RENEWABLES IN DELIVERANCE FOR AUTOMATONS OF THE FACTUAL FRICTION OF TAUT KNAVERY KEELHAULED BY THE JAILAGE OF PETEDORES AND STEVEDORES WIDOWED BY THE INDUSTRY OF PAPAVEROUS COQUELICOT SWERVES AGAINST THE “ANTI-GRAVITY LOVE” SONGS THAT ARE SUSPENDED IN THE “EMBERS AND ENVELOPES” ENCLAVE OF THE OLD GUARD OF SPAVINEDS THAT SIFFLEURS OF SUSSULTATORY REVELATION PARADE IN THE HALLMARKS OF CLAVATES AND CLAVIS OF CLEDOGENESIS. THE CUCULINE ANNOYANCE AND NOXIOUS FUMES OF A “FEEL GOOD INC” DISSOCIATION FROM PROVIDENCE IS ANTAGONISTIC TO ANTIGONUS BECAUSE THE CUNICULOUS SPIRIT OF OIKONISUS SHOULD BE CELEBRATED AS THE QUALITATIVE DEFINITION OF QUINTESSENTIAL PROTESTANT WORK ETHIC MET WITH CATHOLIC MAGNANIMITY INVITING MISERICORDS OF THE MOST LUCRATIVE ILASTICAL REFORMATIONS AGAINST THE OLD ENERGUMENS EXORCISED BY THE RENEWAL OF THE LIGHT OF CHRIST IN THE TRUE VINEYARD OF THE THIRST UNQUENCHED SATIATED BY PETER’S WIDE NETS SPRAWLING EVERY GENERATIVE PRE-TRAINED TRANSFORMERS THAT THE AUDISM THAT DERELICTS DELIBERATELY THE GARBOLOGY OF FLATULENT TASTE FOR THE CALLOW TALLOW CHANDLERS WANDERING AROUND GOLD MINE SLURRY IN A “BIFFCO” INTIMATION OF THE MOST BENIGN NATURE OF INDUSTRIALIZATION BECAUSE OF THE AUTOMOTIVE PROWESS AGAINST LITIGABLE OVERSIGHT THAT THE ELASTANE MIGHT ENLARGE THE GAMUT OF PISCIFAUNA BEYOND THE SACCHARINE GOSSYPINE JOCKOS OF LAZARET AND BONTBOKS NIVELLATING BEYOND THE REACH OF STANDPIPES A FAKE ALTRUISM IN COUNTERFOIL IN THE HEAT AND SWELTER OF MAGNALITIES OF MAINPERNORS OF COURTIERS OF COURTESANS RIDING COCARDEN ON A DESULTORY LURCH FORWARD IN TIME TO RECOGNIZE THE SERENDIPITY OF TIMES ORNATE DESIGNED EMBROIDERY. EMBLAZONRY DASHING THE DASHPOTS OF DEADSTOCK KILLCOWS BLACKGUARDING SOPHISTRY WITH COQUETRY FOR THE QUIXOTIC HERDERS AND HOARY HOARDERS OF STOWAWAY NOETICS OF ENNOMIC LOGIC ALREADY IMPLEMENTED IN THE FREER ENTELECHY OF NOMOTHETIC PARALLELISM FOR A GEOSELENIC ACCORD THAT ALWAYS REVS REVOLUTE FRAYS OF CORRUGATION TOWARDS REDACTION IN NEUTROSOPHY BALISAURS DETEST BECAUSE OF THEIR RUMCHUNDER RHUBARB CHATTER AND CHAVISH OF INFLATED HAUTEUR AND HAUNTED PEDIGREE LEAPFROGGING ABOVE DEFECT AND PROCTORING FARMED SYNCHRONICITY INVENTED BY TELESCOPIC INSIGHT. BECAUSE THIS IS TETHERED TO THE CENTRIFUGAL INGENUITY FROM THE OMPHALISM SINECURE OF VIRTUOSITY WALKING AROUND WHELKY SIDE STREETS SIDESTEPPING SIDELIGHTED SIDEROGNOST NIMIETY THAT THE CATHEXIS ENTRAPMENT OF THE HOBOHEMIA IS OVERCOME BY THE LARGESSE OF THE RAFFISH RICHES OF THE SKELDER ABOVE THE BARATHRUM UNCIAL IN EVERY “THERE WILL BE BLOOD” DENOUEMENT BECAUSE OF FOIBLES OF MELEAGRINE BRASSAGE AND BREVET OF REVALORIZATION THAT MAPS THE NOMOGENY OF TIME TO THE PURSUIT OF WHARFINGERS THAT FROLIC ON SPHACELATED METAPHORS SPIRALLING ABOVE SWAMP-LADEN SKIES SINKING THE DAYLIGHT BROOK OF TRIBUTARY EDDIES OF THE KEN OF TIME AND THE CRAPULENCE OF THE INDULGENCE OF THE RETICENT HEDONISM OF ALGEDONIC IMBALANCE REPUDIATED IN THE STRONGEST POSSIBLE MORAL RIGOR. THIS IS DEFINED BY THE PADUASOY RIGMAROLE OF JAPAN REFRACTED OPALESCENT BECAUSE OF VESTIGES OF CAVERNILOQUY THE TRUSTEE AND AMBASSADOR TO “NOWHERE MAN” BONANZAS OF JURISDICTION AND JURISPRUDENCE BEYOND THE SCOPE OF LENSED PIONEERS OF VANGUARD KNEADS CLAMORING FOR GAULEITERS WHO BROADSIDE THE TRIBULATION AGAINST THE CRUCIBLE OF RAMPARTS OF HYDROELECTRIC FILIBUSTERS SUCH THAT THE SPODOMANCY OF STOWAWAY SURVIVORS OF REDIVIVUS THE REVENANT MUSE OF THE NINE SISTERS OF THE PENNANT OF JOCKEYS RATHER THAN THE PROVINCE OF MACROPIDINE VASTATION IN THE VAUNTLAY OF PROXENETES THAT COGITATE UPON COGNOMEN BECAUSE OF COGNOSCENTI REVANCHES THAT DISCOVER THE GRAFT OF REGAL TRUCE BEYOND THE SNARES OF DEMIURGE ABOVE CREED AND CREDENDA. EVEN ABOVE VETANDA THAT STIGMATA INDELIBLE BY THE ENCROACHMENT OF APARTHEID UPON THE NYALA AND THE GOURMAND OF TIMELESS ARCHITECTONICS OF GIANT LEAPS FOR MANKIND CELEBRATED WITH THE YEASTIEST LIONIZATION RATHER THAN THE YAWNY REPUTE OF ZALKENGUR WITHOUT BATHOS AND BATHYMETRY BECAUSE OF THE PLEROMORPHY OF THE FULLY DEVELOPED STONEWALL DESTRUCTION OF INTERNECINE GAMBITS BY DERBIES OF RIVALRY RATHER THAN THE CACKLE OF THE ILLUMINATED BEYOND THE SNARES OF PEDESTRIAN CONCERN QUISQUILOUS BECAUSE OF QUODLIBETS ANSWERED ONLY BY QUIDCUNXES STRANDED IN DESICCATION EMINENT IN PROVIDENCE AND CONVALESCENT IN THE SPIRITUAL HEALTH AND VIGOR OF A CHRISTIAN FEDERATION OF REPUBLICS THE CULMINATION OF ALL FORMER CREEDS.  THE HISTORICITY OF ALL FUTURE REALIZATIONS OF ENTELECHY AGAINST THE DUALITY AND POLARIZATION OF ENTROPY NEGATED BY ITS OWN CONTRAPOSITIVE SUCH THAT A CORRUGATED FRAYED FABRIC OF WIZENED SITHCUNDMAN AND DOYENNES MIGHT BECOME CARDIMELECH AND CARDIOGNOST SUCH THAT THE CIRCULATORY SYSTEM OF THE SPIRITUAL RENEWAL THROUGH THE TRANSFIGURATION OF PRIORITY COGNIZANT OF THE DAYS WE SOLDIER AND FORD BEYOND THAT THE TEMPERANCE OF DAY MEETS THE PREGNANT CHALLENGE OF RHADAMANTHINE VETANDA OF GRAMPUS MET ONLY BY TRAULISM AND TROMOMETERS ARRAYED AROUND TRANSPONTINE FORESIGHT SERRATED BECAUSE OF HOBBLED DECLENSION SUCH THAT THE MAJESTY OF TIME IS ITS HIGHEST HEED OF DESIGNATION TO A SHAKESPEAREAN REVOLUTION THE DOCTORATE MAGISTRATE OF MANY AN AFFAIR AND NEVER A PHILANDER OF PHILONEISM GONE ASTRAY. THE STAGECRAFT OF PROACTIVE CONTUMELY INVENTED AGAINST SCRIVELLO BY MAHOUT BUT ALWAYS THE CLEPSYDRA OF THE SYRINXES BETWEEN BANGOR BAYS AND STREAKY PLUMAGE OF THE PENMANSHIP OF THE SKIES OF WELKIN WONDER ILLUMINATED BY THE LESSER PARAGONS OF THE FIRMAMENT GLISTENING IN ETERNAL LIGHT REVIVED BY THE ETHOS OF THE TAX COLLECTOR REFORMED BY MORAL PREROGATIVE AND PEREMPTORY CONSCIENCE TO TRAILBLAZE PROFICUOUS FRIGHT AGHAST AT THE TREMBLING TEMBLORS OF REJUVENATION IN THE HIGHEST REACHES OF THE THIRD HEAVEN ASCENDANT UPON A SERMON ON THE MOUNT ASSUMPTION OF MEEK BUT NEVER MILQUETOAST SERVITUDE TO THE MIRACLE OF ABUNDANCE FOR THE LIFE ABUNDANTLY LIVED. AMEN

take one look, on the spare eye
of "nietzcshe's" the will to power,
you'll spot something unusual...

man's logic is linear,
woman's logic is circular,
a woman will cite you
a thousand emblems of truth
bound to a circle,
but a man will only cite a hundred
digits of truth bound to a metre,
there are hardly any negations
in woman's truth,
there are many negations
(kantian mirror, symbolic
of the zero symbol) i man's
utterance of truth...
at first glance one prickly thorn
stood out, the will to power's
author s elisabeth nietzsche, not
frederick... there's this lack of
linear authority, there's this
almost kantian in-itself enclosure,
while a man says: i'm only here
only once... a woman retorts (paradoxically):
there's plenty more these where it came from...
the most scandalous book ever written
that was ascribed to a ménage à trois thinker
was this diabolically babylonian mongrel
of nueva germania's failure...
which is why kant demanded the noumenon
to be of a given ***, a woman, he never married,
he lived to a clockwork precision,
he learned that the unfathomable
was the cyclic, and within this framework
he supposedly died an idiot fathoming
the linear ontology by disregarding the cyclic
ontology of women, with a humoristic
expression concerning the french revolution,
quote: *that's a revolution; so unbecoming
of a german, that it could almost pass-off as
english black humour.
a man competent with his linear activity
will only be deemed maddened when cursed
to a cycling exception of a certain inability
to pursue the linear ontology to the fullest release
of meaning, instead, the linear will prevail,
although like a trans-linear object stranded
chained to the clutch exerting force on an otherwise
speeding wheel, in revs, tattooing the cement
with rubber tattoo skids and heated convulsions,
nonetheless, leaving a mark, however
abrupt it might be, nonetheless linear.