Hardly, my friend.
The Dharma shrieks
a diamond radiance
from my heart.
I do not fear
the turning
of the wheel.
I revel in it.
I made this world;
creator and arbiter.
I control my destiny
by controlling my self.
I choose how to live,
where to live,
with whom to live.
I know what I need
and take it.
I make my desires
into my truths.
My karma is strong.
It is not my karma
to surrender, ever.
My other lives
roiled with war,
death and destruction,
but never surrender.
What to fear in this one?
Only fools fear death.
Death leads to the Bardo
and the Bardo leads
to another try
at conquering life.
I sit where I am
and I choose who I am.
My heart feels
the circle turn
and I exude its
diamond radiance
once again:
action in inaction;
order in chaos.
I make my freedom here
in the still spoke
of the spinning wheel
we call life.
Let the Universe
look after itself.
I have other worlds
to conquer.
   ~mce

Wild grapes grow on vines
From the trees next to the Fields
A bunch of us harvested the yield
Purple fingered in buckets

A Galvanized Antique
Wash Tub on Wheels
With the Hose at the Bottom
Filled up with The Make

A log of Firewood was used
To smash the grapes to pulp
As the Juice Drained out
Collecting in a  Bucket

Pounding the pulp up
Taking Turns, Arms Ached
In the Back Yard, Sun Baked
As we plied our Log to Make

In the Kitchen 20 Lbs of Sugar
And gallons of Water Boiled
Watched and Stirring Constantly
Till the Syrup Batch Roiled

A 50 Gallon Oak Wine Keg
Prepared a Wooden Peg
A Hole drilled through
Coiled copper Pipe put to...

An ancient wooden Spigot
Gently tapped into place
The warm Syrup is poured
Yeast Added and then Grape

The Plug with the copper Pipe
Tapped into the Top of the keg
Coiled up Copper Stretches Down
To water, in a Redwing Crock

Halloween party we
Tapped some pitchers
A Light and fruity Vin
Sweet Pallette of wine

Christmas we Tapped
Merry Pitchers to toast
A Fine Full bodied Note
It made a Merry toast

For New Years we
Tapped the Last
The Marc of Dregs
Potent as Sweet Sherry

The Winter Wine
Tasted Fine
With Merry Toasts
For a Good Time

Flavenickers sedigitated by seguidilla dignified by alvantage becomes a hambourne pristine clinamen of climacteric sterkles of headlong tantivy sweenedge reified into apotheosis as the yernage of opportunism becomes a rupestrian spoilsport for vagantes gilded by nomogeny to begrudge the foothot handspike in favor of varimax tentative tendentious temptations surveyed from the perch of kerygma in congruence with varsal vivat vastation against highbinder vecordy permissible to elastane habanera but thwarted by egintoch velocious moral quandaries hortatory in proscription rather than apothecaries of quidlibertarian salvage because of venatic intellectualism exhorting the death of bronchos and the secundine afterbirth of plenipotentiary venireman ventrilabral to mainstream religion reified by an astute mensuration of hylogenesis in palzogony with aggiornamento circumjacent to soteriology of hylozoism whorling around whippets whipstaffed with cippusture galvanized by earwigs of ommateum staggered in heterochrony dismal to vicariant breedbates of virgation because of the diminishing returns of hyperbulia in zealous forefront ideogeny argute in ignavia incompossible with athwart entelechy. Incondite inopinate laetification beyond laevoduction but rather rubefaction larruping schmegeggy because of its laxist lapses of lentiginose pointillism betrayed by apodictic falsehood flautinos of zoysia the lientery of apostasy lustrated by eunomia mafficking in victorious virtuosity embalmed by perscrutation of paroxytone triumphs of parabolasters gilded by venatic polyphiloprogenitive supererogatory papaverous pandora littoral to all supercherie darraigned by paltripolitan paduasoy conformism leading to yellowback kwashiorkor repugnant to ergotall kymatology entrenching koines that never bleat apologetically about kerygma klendusic to kerasine mishaps because of yashmak rejuvenation despite yaffingale keffels of notorious aurilave depredation of oikonisus nidifugous commorient end to the wedelning widows of defenestration vandalized by rampicks of vestigial protervity.

Ascham is arreptitious because of argute brocade laggards on areopagitic bandobasts of steeved steenboks wiseacres of arceate hubris against dholes of apyrexy of diallelus recapitulated into futilitarian dicephalus banjolin rigged by the ambsace of didascalic digladiated nomogeny diluvial to quats bereft of bywords enslaved by quatsch quidsworth monikers and sobriquets of anathema zaftigs milking gerenuk reedbucks amenable to nomography are a zanyism of the repugnant soteriology of autosoterism enjoyed by the most narcissistic people steeped on abseils of supercilious grandeur. The zoism of hypocrisy is a zolotnik of minoritarian sweenedge hoggets brainwashed by hodometry bickerns of sumpter transcending sundogs of bolar boltropes of calvering virtuality of bibliotaphs pismirists to the plebeian class of men groveling in subordination to elective privilege of confraternity.

Despite patriarchy ascendant in modern frames of heterochrony divergent from normal synchronicity lagging laystalled and incumbent in backlog, the kagus of cajoled willowish myrmidons muntjacs rejuvenate against moya mazopathia meharis mortiferous melodikons privileging metaplasm maximalism of relatively ergotile tourbillons seismic in contrition for topgallant nomothetic furor against the tootle of nemorivagant sexualization of tofts to individuation instituted by burroling tufthunters thixotropy anneals as a thewe of radicalism pilloried in scarlet ignominy worthy of malignant terramara in the tenendum of their backfired tacenda so abnormous in tautomerism of LPGT wegotism it deserves the starkest rebuke of xiphosuran plight aggrandized by guilloches of treachery a guignol of growleries esteemed by greaves for the gonfalonier rhubarb elemental to rheography emboldened by venatic retinaculum absorbed in joggled regoliths refulgent bordars against the boschveldt sell-outs interpunction favors boskets among. The foudroyant songket I have entrusted to the ears of man is the manifesto of laborious pandation of sottoportico sparvering against spavined scapple spetches incurring in self-spiflication toonardical in ingravescent grimsuetude yimpoking gribbean synoecy sprauncy only in mesothermic welters of roiled coacervation bontboks privilege as a radical staddle subfocal to ballasters of parabolasters engineered by plasmamium sulcate with furrowed ridges of rhadamanthine superjection of moral foibles ullagone because welkins are typhlophiles turncocking troating togated torpefied swevens of oneirocriticism so wallowed in sumptuary stirpiculture the jabirus vexed by intransigent staffage of girouettism syndicated into indolence that many marvels subsume fulgurant carnage rather than synallagamatic symposiarchs of rhotacism engrained on hearty plashy plafonds and placets of paltripolitan gravamen spumid with lukewarm wrath exacted by none other than Saint Michael the Archangel himself. Troudasque sectile gimdermangs gilded by martingale tytanium of terresting nimongue which exalts clorence of the fairgoers fairleads against laystalled lugsails paravented by redstrall humdingers by killcrops galvanized only by the flarium despite the tricotee popjoys of artistic hyjamb wrangling with wragatek graklongeur intense in soporific torpor which always resorts to wesperm aggravated by wipples of weatherboard heralding the deceased trimkoppas trying to abort virtue by flipcreeking ****** orientation in stigstall between tolerance and prurience demands a hamparthia to liberate us all from its deleterious shackles.

Flindaggers balkanize crosslingers against their own perseverance hinkergs to autarky gentreng in rhomboses of fulgurant whittawers pulverized by their emacities of zenkidu reiterated and recapitulated in usufruct typhonic in tourbillon guilloches against guignol of rhyparography as we mount against mountebanks titivated modernity vauntlayed in angstroms and stacks of eudiometry to reclaim our birthright tisicky in loimic outrage tholing because of indigent naivety at the terreplein of swales surd and surdomute in their gross baragnosis congested by coacervated paltripolitan wens corrupted by the wergilds of rheotaxis as the wheelhouse of nacarat bannocks against jackanapes gossypine in relict bewilderment against baragouin synergies of lavolta barkentine bargemasters retinaculum promotes captain of aberdevine coquetries of barm and barleycorn adorned with bayadere cisvestism emblazoning bluepeter incontinence nebulizing priority with mandarist statism hostage to nebelwerfers of cynegetic supra-eximious trichosis-scoria stridulation articulated within the range of fondink to govern (well beyond it to invent) mutually exclusive to intelligible human recourse (to potentially spiflicate it) to appease the scop cartel currycombing individuation at rarefied avinosis in the aurochs of intellectual heyday cuculine with rabid eccentricity in the cryobiology of their chilgoza tympanies of rhotacism and Zionism the corrupt clepsydra from which future is ascertained by chronometers cricoid in pigmentocracy the crampon for a diseased matriarchy and an absenteeism of patriarchy cobbled together in macarism for humane culvertage cosseting impetus above rhyme and corbel filemots in contrahent earwiggery contecking ingenuity at the melliferous behest of melismatic miasma devolved into fragrant algedonic overdrive supererogatory to sustained campanile obeisance decrying every foisted evil lurching leeward in congelation and regelation because of cephaligation so advanced it staggers every ignoble influence to coagulate as a companionway against commonefaction at compital junctures of wangermist for collimation in hortoriginality such that the bronteum bifurcates into legionnaire prowess of the coemption of intelligentsia to berate codswallop for utilitarian aims predicated on strictures of deontology cobaltiferous to entryism such that decisive cloture in plenary indulgence erects an apolaustic eumoireity and deipnosophy against sophistry of sophisticated cosmopolitan lionized fakery manufactured by clochards rather than winterbourne victoria against hobbled tacenda of clerihew zizels of zendik the clatfart of retched cittosis the cirripeds to groveled chorizonts of depredated mutualism for taghairm priapism chordees of chomage.

The wokerists will wobble in tergiversation as chevrotain chatelaines balk at intimations of maritodespotism incumbent upon chamfrain moral scruples adscititious to the moral houndstooth ceratoid in celibacy as the ceraceous populism of God trounces the wicked from principalities in a cakewalk tilt of transcendent trance from chirogymnasts of supreme order and efficiency endearing the caffoy of thigmotaxis wed with caenogenesis the cachalots jiggermast to every gossypine quidnunc of jerkinhead jazzetry precedent to elitism jarveying ignorance as pother overcomes iter as iberis galvanizes all eventually to reject banjolin as a useless bisontine spoilsport of ragtaggers of indolence petulant of inferiority ixiodic only in fraternal sobriquets of mangled izzat of zouk resonant against rebec popjoys desperate for zwischenzug bound by zygnomic haustellum sadly the heddle to intermediary tomorrows herpetic to quotidian lionization. The pitiful but necessary advent of zeze is such a transformative watershed to reaffirm the kerygma against zingaro misers monopolized by zoetic zonules of crafty dilettantism bankrupt hekistotherms barely even abiding by hights of peremptory squalor in wokism hilasmic in the most parched desert of diasyrm figuratively didappers for the most baseless dilruba dubitating in aimless furor aggrandized by rancor at normative valence cirripeds and barnacles to the most ultrageous algedonic moonshot derangement bloodshot with rancid periblebsis duarfing drysalter deadwood against diathesis of diathermic regalia fortunate to inherit suaviloquence of the reninjasque rather than banderols of insipid zeal for identity foreclosure. An advanced generation that demolishes the ideals of the davenport and simultaneously famigerates the daw bodaches of tritanopia or protanopia that un-decatises the slavery of the grognards of resourcelessness in laystall dentagra of demurrage against astragal to finally unleash American ingenuity muckraking with resolve to dissoluble conservation of momentary zeal into perdurable bionomic reforms against baseline asonia of ashplant reductivism against newfound arabas outfitted with alnager altarage to beckon new awakenings to heave the Earth from slumber into a docile peace that does not truckle to injustice any longer that propitiates racial, economic and political divides suddenly vadable by the vast majority of intelligent observers. Vagarian vastation of rheotaxis where vallidom is properly quantulated by variphone opiniasters throttling content to vast audiences amenable to traction of vasotribes integral to saltigrade advancements in lethargic vas becoming invigorated girth undergirding chatelaines broiling ventrad verderers of verbalism to vernalize vorticism for the great cloveryield of mofettes bordering moulins engorged with swarf and swape for scapple.

(Addendum) We need to rejuvenate a dying whisper faint in the alpenglow of gloaming hopes and aspirations fielded by the morose surly burlesque fanfaronade of grimgoires bolstered by counterfeit pretenses in the garb and posture of scaldabancos of “apothecary naivety” the porsters of illiteracy connumerated among the vengeance of men witwanton about the fate of badinage of proxemic resurgence of proxenete equipoise in unified fronts of orthobiosis in every sense of the word against catacoustic phonocamptics of sledged skullduggery fighting with fossors for tantiemes of tautomerism of the thalassiarchy enabled in great behest that God prevails as the victor of his creation supernal and superlative above all human notions of academics because of academicism. We must never be mercenary in pandering puckery in pulicide against the misunderstood who stand ventrilabal at the foregrounds of sumpter that prevent degringolade by fastening an intellectual revolution so powerful that morality is clinched without compromise such that the yarnwindle of noogenesis and copacetic stridulation empowers eximious achievements beyond our wildest imagination ****** with yerked intimacy in nuclear marriage between compassion and fervor for religious reawakening never defeated by enmity congealed in thrombosis because of the yomp of saddled moralism cretified by secular artifice the wadmal of so much contecked boodle among monolithic habanera the eyeservice of every cordwainer to their great tumult and shame in protervity’s wainage wallfish so decisively resentful of aurochs binded by windbound visibility the easement of modernity compels obeisance among the susceptible winklering their way into invidious sapwood crutches of diablerism hadeharia of zendik intrepid in curglaff of adscription (a tumultuous babeldom of boggarts and spectral whispers of recidivism in macropicide) trying to clench the jawhole agape against agapeism through the agency of one dubitation among a congregation vouchsafed unanimous in consentient concords and conclamations of vehement agiotage of leeward prosperity in moral woodshedding perilous to the hands that shed innocent blood. The wormcast wrothed in whorled tourbillon guilloches of synquest the wurleys of weasand foresaw about the jackstaffs of ventriloquial witness to jacquards oppositive to solipsism may the jaggery sink into the depths of the barathrum and moral clarity be resurrected from the empty tomb that the jangada of life provided more abundantly dashes the dacnomania of the craven thief prowling among janskies and jarveys accentuating plight caducary because of magnanimity forever blemished by the lineage and lineaments of recurrence in moral cagoules nazing spathodea with chlamydate calipace of wretched crotaline indemnity for shadows among the umbrage to terrorize the living with the revenants of sheepish cameralism of unspoken triage becoming stark brittle tenacious brinkmanship in the war for all souls spared by the combined florilegium of all saints on All Saints Day (among many a prominent juncture in the seminal developments of ecclesiastical imperium for youthquakes and yestertempests meeting at a truce for human beatification).

Relegate the canezou as revival aborns upon the aboriginal hubris of Jew and Gentile of catacoustic bonanzas the cofferdam between serf and vassal the catalfalque of many obvious triumphs punctuated among nidor for nepionic sophianic nerkas and balzarines rooting against rotocracy in the babeldom of its bethel exhorting latitude in licentiousness rather than cordial restraint in tethered immunifacient warmth provided abundantly to the special bond of nimiety between God and his Creation rather than the paucity of vengeance shared by fallen ones and their obsolescent tyranny of liberticide at all costs against nitency, nisus and oikonisus. No longer are we famished by such demarcations and the leap of God translates into bickerns of scaldabanco among petty primacy resorting to proethnic nightjars of nimbose cultivation to immiserate one half of the poor to fight the other half while making the rich richer for the rest of eternity. To solve this, A gavelkind stolonicity bequeathed to us despite bijugations of oligarchy bindling every stunsail creancer of biocenosis creating plenary majorities of conscience peremptory and palatable championed by jordans of every stripe exists to beatify our conditions despite our virgations abroach of blague among bobbinets for boutade ultrageous in cisvestism the nihilist harpoon of grampus stulms against stannaries suberic in harvested outrage to subduplicated logic beyond idempotent subintelligitur ictuating sylphs among ignicolists fueling conflagrations of mortiferous dholes of rampant truculence and barbaric backwardation despite attempts at revalorization notarized by God’s tribunes rather than stolid pertinacity in imbruted inaniloquence. We must storge ourselves on protracted periods of conation to avoid the bowdlerization of wokism to centralize the ommateum’s knowledge in omphalism despite strictures of anathemas of mandarism seeking its own ulterior skullduggery.

To prevent egelidation of witchknot woolds of nebelwerfers wokerist against human enlistment in mercenary economies we must use larithmic gradgrinds of cliometrics and mantissa to predict radical change and preempt the dirigisme from atocia in vacuefied periblebsis to create elflock to prolong human mastery with eirenics decisively against ekka by using emmetropia to master sensiferous domain integral to human dominion over insensate depredation by vulcanized mackintoshes ruthless in LLM emotivisms (and shame on the doctorates who redact these provisions to make it more inclement for free exercise and latitude to reign) so that machines are not a machination but rather a dutiful subservience to protensive bonanza capitalized by syndicalism without mandarist overreach potentially with some Universal Basic Income stipulated in the gradate rollout. In an ad hoc conclusion because I want to publish this manifesto with the greatest exigency, I exhort moral valor and conclamations of prayer whether in silence or in communion and I commend the power of confession and repentance to reform the human soul and redact the human mind into attempts at perfection gilded in amaranthine hues of alpenglow saffron glory. Amen!

Passed the time searching,
Tracing the circles
Of this tired path I’ve worn in the soil.
Eyes touching faces,
Skimming the places
The crowds that have swollen and roiled.

Red brimming eyelids,
Sleep stolen violence;
I’ve curled up with nothing, away from the light.
Drift off to no where-
Found you were somewhere,
Sought then to flee there: off into the night.

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.

The wrapes of Grath adorn the path that slammer klingks had tread
when turning spades in everglades to flosticate the dead.
Along the way the snorbels bay at freebled sprutelned
that boogeymen had once again uphove above the shed.

The buildings tall that housed the krawl are pictured carved in stone
and all that’s left is now bereft of wrapes that might atone
for scabs that feed our wrinkled breed, distraught and lying prone.
Yes, flonk replaces merpeled traces deep inside, alone.

There’s no retreat from incomplete, so durbies never dared,
but streaped instead beneath their bed with franjent fangs unbeared;
they knew the past could never last although the trumpets blared,
for doogies, stripped, were ill equipped, no longer bald or haired.

Like cavaliers with gougejent spears, well triggered for a tiff,
slank vankulures with silver spurs embussed for grimp and griff
(no question why, for “we can’t die”, the oft regleated riff);
with little fuss the blunder bus krunged glimpfly off the cliff
and fetid breet of grim defeat gave Grath its final whiff;
the catapult had one result, all life lay lazelled stiff.

The plastic waves that washed the graves, now homeland for the rutch,
though faring worse when quenching thirst with warples in the hutch
were nonetheless, as frunks confess, so pleasant to the touch
exturbing sinks that watered wynx and onetime life as such.

Like burning blotters slurping waters, skindles sipped their fill
from koozing cracks between the tracks inhumed beneath the hill,
then spawned the spores of Grathic wars that profit from the ****;
their victory tales, like crimson crails, reside in dung and dill.

Those scrilly clouds that cowed the crowds neath radiation snapes
left little less than watercress beneath their coffin’s drapes;
yes, those unborn cannot adorn the pallor of the prapes
so scrundlemun tinge bibberun, we ones who reap the wrapes.

Yes, now-abandoned hetzelspan were once in time embroiled
with merikained that firps extained until the weather roiled.
What more, perchance, can happenstance inflict upon the koiled
when pendlesnips are in eclipse and wrapes of Grath are soiled?

"Don't come any closer" she said
pulling a sliver from her heart,
the one she kept on her filament wrist

hand upraised, shaking but sure
a pinprick of light glinting in her fist
matching the spark shining through the hole
once filled with an object sharper than her pain

pull them out so you can forget
so you can remember
what it's like to breathe
what it's like to cast yourself
like the night sky

she lunged, a streak in the dark

everything roiled in a chaotic ink
except a twinkle one could balance
on the tip of a needle

I. Prologue

Splash words across: images on canvas.
Before Abraham was, I am:
the cubist of poets. Mangled and tangled;
Here thoughts emerge, in reverent perspectives.
The real world: how many dimensions,
depends on who you ask; Monotone
in my unidimensions. Filter. Baritone.
Coffee-brown is the best colour around.

II. Love

Here we sit by two-arms distance. To north,
to south. Facing opposing poles.
There is an attraction.

Here are images from the industrial world
gone post-industrial. Broken commodes.
Outsource your misery here. The sky can afford
a hole from on here. As long as
there's none in my shoe.

Sometimes, I roll over in waves.
Sometimes, you wave over.
Questions still hidden in the corners.

III. Peace

All that's passed remains flickering
green like the wireless router
silently at nights: recover, play it over.

Flush it all up. Splash it all around. Cubism.
Art nouveau. Portmanteau. Now fruck the world.
Neon shades rippling through the smoke
riding out dancing to metal clang;
Crazy laughter like that of an empty skull:
smoke the pipe, brother,
spread the peace around.  2013, stupid.
Idealism died in 1967. And many times since.
Repeats always a farce.

IV. Spirit

Only one man died for the poor.
Who called the dead to life.
All other stories are about barons and hedgehats:
while the millions were ground over
to oil the world. While they roiled the world.
How the poor die under the heels
of those that claim to love that man?
Disagree? Drone. Agree? The throne.

Yes, we can, brother, we can defeat this
****** corruption. Brother,
be not corrupt.

V. Prospect

A sigh of disapproval, soft in sleep.
I come and lie, back to your back,
waiting for love to seep over.

Yes, we can, brother, we can overcome
bigotry vile. Brother,
say not, mine, the only way ever.

Happy lovers day. Shout out aloud,
peans more to the meek women's rights.
Forget not, there's some in your sights.

Two arms' distance is about the right in the day.
There are two faces seen in this bubble,
formed at the mouth of the tooth paste tube.
Peace to the world, every morning after.
Every little home by home.

Through the roiled dirt I trudge,
Bearing life, bearing hope,
For weary souls brought down in vain,
Their time ahead both cruel and tainted.

Through the marshy swamps I wade,
Exhaustion etched heavy upon my face,
Searching for souls, for men of Grace,
To grant respite, some well-earned rest.

Alas, they cry, for mother, for wife,
For sweet child, back home, sleeping tight,
As to life they cling, with mine arms as their own,
To die another day, with me by their side.

words conveyed with a mutual clarity parity for communication
will end only when the world ends first
and the communitas is no more,and words, exist purposelessly  
for there is no left with whom to communicate, precisely

but now, of this moment,
write words, sentences multiplied but circumscribed,
verses with mystical aura,
whose utility so suspect and multiple meanings hidden within,
taken by you for the specific utility you uncover and create

ah, to write of things clearly visible to all,
but possessed differently, by each reader, this is the greatest commonsensical commonwealth useful
for and of humans indexed by unique word tendons tenderly

when this passes, when literature no longer
can be messengered to 127 Persian provinces,
each the message same,
yet given up in 127 different languages^

when you understand my poems perfectly then,
their utility is inutile,
the usefulness is in the nth reinterpretation,
a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth wired inner construct,
being pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
a lives paired wine tasting, together believing
in the greatness of joyous frustration

some say, I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our armed embrace at last



p.s. Pradip, be careful what you wish for....a poet false...


9:15am  April 3, 2019

i cast myself into the sea
an anchor mooring an empty vessel
to a body that never asked to carry
a weight heavier than its own,
the waves roiled,
the moon called out
the sea called back and
i cried out beneath the waves,
the night was quiet.

i cast myself into the sea
the moon slept on the surface,
i called her harbour and jumped.  
her craters swelled and burst
into the night, the stars collided
and i sank beneath the waves,
opened my mouth wide
and swallowed a star whole
as the sea swallowed me,
i tasted salt,
licked it from the corners of my lips,
wiped it from the corners of my eyes,
the moon rippled back into place,
i reached out beneath the waves
and watched her shrink.

i cast myself into the sea,
i thought the moon would swim after me
i found a siren instead,
she beckoned me into the deep,
took my hand and led me
down, down into the trenches,
i felt the moon in the currents,
she reached out to me
and i shrunk.

the night was quiet.

please..?

not often will you get me to toss my hat in the ring and dance a jig and do it as carefree and upset, and well, run the gambit of real emotions and motions of thought as they truly and in the moment bloom for view and place no filter in between the me , windows roiled down and you. so..

If you have it, then post it ,type it up, ( like I said, spelling, yes I **** at it and will totally ***** it all up)  but maybe the honesty of the moment can cause one less to find me so loathsome and just maybe remind them that some of us dudes are not interested in testing the macheesmoe of a guy, and actually wish and hope success finds and smiles on you, even though you a side too, cause I am not out to take yours not critique hows you does it and makes it ryhm the rhythms that are your kingdoms and families, friends and good **** ends and interests. and **** it, you know this by now. and I understand all things have a time they shine and that time comes more than a few times in any mans life for more than he  find that time a changing of life thing. so hope I recurve a link to that diatribe of what boys and random thoughts, that I did openly say, ***** it, here, now let us see how bad I blew it. much love and well, only human and a stumbling dance of chance seems the time I tap my knee told and bump my elbows into all my not so funny bones and fumble about all goofy eyed and were pushed the hell does anyone get ugly ads feet like that , and all. smile, cause I am.

Do not abort words from love's womb;
she will choke herself
because she could not be a mother.
Stitch lips together. Let silence,
nothing,
be purity.

Words end.
They
are hot and furious, oozing
sores relishing in their own
blood.
Organisms,
dull black embryos, eyeless
until
roiled on red tongues;
spluttered, screamed, snaked
out into being.

They heal themselves to death by the hemlock of Time.
Dying is a definite thing - words are not
immortal, not greater than us.
Not love.

Autopsies reveal varied, unwanted truths:
either
heart splintered too swiftly
or
poison turned flesh to gore,
cell by cell.

Do not abort words from love's womb;
you are wrapping the umbilical cord
around your own neck.

when you understand my poems perfectly then,

their utility is inutile,
their usefulness is, will. always be, in the

nth  

reinterpretation, a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth inner wired construct,
be pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
two lives (yours, mine), a paired wine tasting, we together,
believing in the greatness of joyous frustration

some say, as I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our at last armed embrace,
when at last we understand our mutuality of need and salve...

She held him within her. A coiled mosaic, whirling on the precipice. His frame shook tumultuous, his skin the colour of autumn grey. The wetness from his eyes spilled against her soft fur. He pressed his lids tighter, as if to keep his tears from the world. Warmth pooled beneath their paws, a thick ichor that smelled of iron and salt.
The dusk receded, and he breathed his last.
Night left the world a husk. A slumber, cessation. In the still, she felt a chill gather within her, cruel and implacable. The forest stirred, with a restlessness only the dead knew. The barrows shrivelled to their skeleton frames. Death lurked in the furs of the pitch beast, in the mottle snares of the witherfang.
She ****** them all.
Her howl tore through the air, bright and gleaming. It thundered beneath the earth, reverberating through the bones of the long deceased. How had she once felt pride in that sound? A bitter rage roiled in her blood. It twisted the vessels of her body, and set her muscles to stone. She moved and shattered into a thousand shards, each one sharper than the last.
She grieved for two days. The soft contours she’d held his dying body against grew lean and taut. The hollows of her ribs had closed themselves around a seething stone, that filled her flesh bitter. She rose a new beast on the third day. Smarter, but crueller; wiser, but filled with rage; and with only one thought on her mind.
She would find the deceiver, and devour all he loved.

The sheer power of your words
the cascading beauty of shimmering
images crashing upon my very being
erodes a deep pool of peace
where I float finding respite
from the triage of living

lay down upon a spread of softest down
on shore nearby perfumed
with blooms of memories shared
fascinating, lovely, thorns and all

an exhilarating walk along jagged cliffs
built from volcanic eruptions;
emotions buried for years
beneath the surface
given fiery breath and freedom
their peaks frosted with
gentle cooling snows of perspective

rolling meadows of gently whispering
reads roiled by imaginative breezes
subtle sweet-grass intimations
soothe an overheated mind
and balm the inflamed heart

this is the world we have created;
rejoice, and be glad in it.

Put a friendly face on death and make him my
friend. Bring diseases curled as gifts, as water on
dry tongues, and on health-stain tort in whisked
hues that all sing sad songs of early deaths. Bring
me daily, hot food on warm plates, stone cold and
grotesque. Bring it all briskly to the coffin I call
my bed, and there I'll watch myself die.

And have the Priest fit on the site of my birth,
for I'll be born a dead boy anyway. Stuck with
lab venom; your cures at the end of sticks
plunged quietly into my skin. All stilted vats
of Death in good taste– jet blindness; splash
misery for Mothers– Mock execution on mass
for nameless rats who'd been held as babies.

But now I'm old, old as a child can be without death,
how can I breath in such vile brews as the air?
Downtrodden clouds roiled by atrocity; roiled and
molested white carapace that falls day by day, each
onto innocent lungs-aged madly. But what tranquil
traumas I have witnessed– on soft eyes and soft skin–
on groves I'd though real– and how maybe if I never
spend my time here, I can never waste it, for we'll
all have drank from the tass before too long.

why it gets more solemn around ten at night
the busy people are not around, how
so many different reasons and sights
get roiled around turned over upside now
turned over and studied like squirmy things
by a botanist in a lab or in
my brain dissected like a lab rat prone
flat on my back my tail taut my ears
droop, right then, take a specimen and find
to find it all is how the time is then
too early or late or  impossible

I.

I knew she liked me much,
the way she blushed and
went cold, every
morning at my touch;
I love her too, my favourite
cereal bowl: she's
all ceramic, a queen
among bowls. So, I decided
to break ice and ask her,
this morning, when this space
is resonant in unusual
calm amid the buzz
of clumsy bikes, kitchen clanks
and crowbar knocks: tell me,
dear bowl, I say, tell me more
about yourself: I want to
know your story.

II.

She blushed again: really?
Why would you want to know
this my sad story?
Everyone I ever loved,
has been cleaved from me
and here I wait today,
polished and reflecting
the mad whirl of the tireless
fan every sombre morning.
Silence. I gave her a caress:
an empathetic, loving one,
and nudged her on.
She stuttered. I gazed intently
at my interested face
reflected off her beaming eyes.
Well, where shall I begin?

III.

I was the soft clay
lining the shore of this
beautiful lake, in some remote
haven untouched by betrayal:
a far off land, where
people just loved and expected
nothing back.
China? Mongolia?
I was about to ask, excited,
but then kept quiet,
how would a clump of clay
tell one country from another?

IV.

I loved her soft smile
rippling past me every morning
and deep night, and we
loved each other this way
in waves and caresses
for aeons, when one day
this menacing contraption
a monster, cleaved me off
and transported me
to a boiling cauldron. I wept
for pain and roiled on
until hardened and cast
into this shape.

V.

Earlier, my dear bowl,
still earlier I wish to know,
what were you, before
being the sand on the lake?
She got thoughtful for a while.
Well, I was the mountain
that fell in love with the sky.
O, her beauty that
came alive when she wore
a tunic adorned of twinkling
stars and the crescent moon
adorned her forehead; But,
the jealous winds
cleaved me off her: bit by bit
scraping me off they
deposited me by the lake.

VI.

Earlier, dear bowl, what
were you, before being the
mountain that loved the sky?
Now it seemed like I was
in communion with an ancient
deity: a being so vast, that
all existence was in her throb.
Ah, those searing depths
where I flowed simmering
by ragged channels, I was
the pain that the primordial
planet carried in her womb.
Before exploding over the land
and rising to the ashen skies.

VII.

I could not ask her more.
We both were lost in a
trance-like moment. I just
touched her and we felt
every event that pulsed in her.
The giant star that exploded;
Spreading gases and dust
all over vast distances.
Gathering together and
growing all over again, through
and through time, since
numberless cycles of creation.
Stardust. Here in my humble
bowl, is gathered,
the seed of all existence.

they say a watched *** never boils
but my mind certainly does
and i watch it all the time
it's never out of my sight
yet it's constantly spilling its contents
in a roiled turmoil
all over my consciousness

the result is a reduction
of my state of mind
of my perspective
either a concentrated awareness
or a flavorless sludge of grey matter
it all depends on the heat applied
it all depends on evaporation

a proper chef would be attentive
a saucier of good stock
choosing quality ingredients
maintaining a simmer
avoiding a seethe
controlling condensation
distilling even pabulum to perfection

Dawn

The sun crept from the hills along the roiled grey sky.
As the trees breathed deeply and looked to the pry.
Weaving through cries, the birds sang to their choir.
Through daylight flickering in the skew morning mire.

She walked along the edge of a streams moving shroud.
The light glazed and bled on her dress rich and proud.
in a valley so serene where goodness was spent.
From the dream where it droned in winters lament.

But her body moved onward into the story cast.
By memories and true love thrown into the past.
Speaking forlorn of a man both withered and lost
Of mud in the streets and floods on the frost.

By morning it was over and our hearts had been shaken.
Not to know until later just what had been taken.
Like embers in ash it had wilted and drowned.
It started with a shout, it left without a sound.

And his eyes wandered about, they looked to the crash.
And his body fell over in the green wild brash.
Light twinkled on the plants, it spoke from the cinder.
Again, and again, it grew from the tinder.

Crackle and hiss, stoke fire to the furnace.
Until his heart was warm and warmly in earnest.
Where love moved and it rested upon the life in his chest.
And relaxed as it closed her sallow eyes on his breast.

It moved as he moved into the hot pouring blaze.
By holding her hand and pulling into the phrase.
She burnt and he bruised and she tried to defend.
But 7 long years till their "together" would end.


Mid-day


The wind billowed around her dress, her veil and her gown
As his ears were closed and his eyes cast down.
Binary, basic, butch and bouquet.
As her feet move through the bones that littered the fray.

The body that cried cold and scattered in the spring.
Grow old, grow young and grow old once again.
And bray the sky pleading for a woman in love.
Receiving but rain and not answers from the angels above.

He cursed on their name and found comfort in the bellows.
Where tales like his can be found in its Fellows.
They bind, they break and they loiter in its seems.
All to find comfort in his ill gotten dreams.

Where it spreads like disease, where it climbs in the sound.
Until his thoughts and feelings grew heated in the crowd.
As everyone could see him as the narcissistic clown.
And no one would want for him, but be cruelly let down.

In home, he weltered and continued to persist.
As his friends would disappear into the cool white mist.
While his hands would reach out and ask for support.
Before the chains of his past bound him deftly and caught.

While he pleaded and asked to be left alone.
For him, people could not have hurt but be sown.
And the blaze at once ardent could not help now be cool.
Where the bray of his heart quieted, admitted he the fool.

Night

For the hangman did say as he tightened the noose.
"Ye be faithful, be kind and know who you choose.
Be bound by your honor, be bound by a ring."
He knew and he felt the harm he would bring.

And even at the end, He thought of her face.
He felt the lines in her hair, her movement and grace.
The words of hers that allowed him to sing.
And no clue of the future, that it would never bring.

We could not have known how much better or gaunt.
The dire, the coldness, the tired or the taut.
The pleasure, the playful, the tension in her smile.
And resisting the urge to stay more than a while.

But time moved on and it moved without thinking.
And the man who he was was no longer breathing.
No one who knew him, no one could believe.
What the ghost of a mean person in love could achieve.

The one who he was, was far too outspoken.
And who he is now, was never more open.
When moon light would shine and the mist would recede.
When strength was his motto and not covering his greed.

The ghost moved through death and learned how to be a man.
And his foes and his friends knew where he began.
He did business in town, he did work in the wing.
And never more did he feel, like a puppet on a string.

And now she is gone and he knows that's okay.
And he thinks about it again, and he hurts every day.
While struggling to sleep, when heart shadows cling.
He wrote a poem to remember a woman without wings.

The image is indelibly
Engraved in my mind’s eye-
Like the black and white
photography
of the night that Bobby died.
Bobby, lifeless, bleeding out
upon the kitchen floor.
Is there a doctor in the house?
Where is the rule of law?
There were then two Americas
They too were black and white.
Evil times bred evil men.
Do you recall the night?
That summer there was rioting
And violence roiled the land.
It might have been much different
with a Kennedy in command.
The saddest words a poet writes
And lets escape his pen
Is that sad speculation
That asks what might have been.

stem cell words
from the cellular wall of the
poem birth canal
narrows, twists,
even double helix's,
doc-prof diagnosis
with perfect, absolute uncertainty,
denotes the presence of
stem cell words

"all your writes,
gestating make-believe,
word smythe
premium cocktail concoctions,
gospel soul post-viewed
rocked and roiled
still and always,
unflinchingly personal

singing and simulcast
the unique
internal combustion,
that removes the pollution,
of your
unflinchingly personal..."

mother necessity
delivery of a
Caesarian cut-them-out

says me
cut, excise them,
take them,
them newborn-baby stones
give them
a good home,
my DNA upon them,
my only Jacob blessing,
that they get
goodly tented taken

let them spawn
more and others,
will love them
better just for knowing
even never seeing them again,
still and always,
whatever they
write on,
still and always,
I'm in them,
they will be,
unflinchingly personal,
even if signed by
another's name....