Come queen of months in company
Wi all thy merry minstrelsy
The restless cuckoo absent long
And twittering swallows chimney song
And hedge row crickets notes that run
From every bank that fronts the sun
And swathy bees about the grass
That stops wi every bloom they pass
And every minute every hour
Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower
And toil and childhoods humming joys
For there is music in the noise
The village childern mad for sport
In school times leisure ever short
That crick and catch the bouncing ball
And run along the church yard wall
Capt wi rude figured slabs whose claims
In times bad memory hath no names
Oft racing round the nookey church
Or calling ecchos in the porch
And jilting oer the weather ****
Viewing wi jealous eyes the clock
Oft leaping grave stones leaning hights
Uncheckt wi mellancholy sights
The green grass swelld in many a heap
Where kin and friends and parents sleep
Unthinking in their jovial cry
That time shall come when they shall lye
As lowly and as still as they
While other boys above them play
Heedless as they do now to know
The unconcious dust that lies below
The shepherd goes wi happy stride
Wi moms long shadow by his side
Down the dryd lanes neath blooming may
That once was over shoes in clay
While martins twitter neath his eves
Which he at early morning leaves
The driving boy beside his team
Will oer the may month beauty dream
And **** his hat and turn his eye
On flower and tree and deepning skye
And oft bursts loud in fits of song
And whistles as he reels along
Cracking his whip in starts of joy
A happy ***** driving boy
The youth who leaves his corner stool
Betimes for neighbouring village school
While as a mark to urge him right
The church spires all the way in sight
Wi cheerings from his parents given
Starts neath the joyous smiles of heaven
And sawns wi many an idle stand
Wi bookbag swinging in his hand
And gazes as he passes bye
On every thing that meets his eye
Young lambs seem tempting him to play
Dancing and bleating in his way
Wi trembling tails and pointed ears
They follow him and loose their fears
He smiles upon their sunny faces
And feign woud join their happy races
The birds that sing on bush and tree
Seem chirping for his company
And all in fancys idle whim
Seem keeping holiday but him
He lolls upon each resting stile
To see the fields so sweetly smile
To see the wheat grow green and long
And list the weeders toiling song
Or short note of the changing thrush
Above him in the white thorn bush
That oer the leaning stile bends low
Loaded wi mockery of snow
Mozzld wi many a lushing thread
Of crab tree blossoms delicate red
He often bends wi many a wish
Oer the brig rail to view the fish
Go sturting by in sunny gleams
And chucks in the eye dazzld streams
Crumbs from his pocket oft to watch
The swarming struttle come to catch
Them where they to the bottom sile
Sighing in fancys joy the while
Hes cautiond not to stand so nigh
By rosey milkmaid tripping bye
Where he admires wi fond delight
And longs to be there mute till night
He often ventures thro the day
At truant now and then to play
Rambling about the field and plain
Seeking larks nests in the grain
And picking flowers and boughs of may
To hurd awhile and throw away
Lurking neath bushes from the sight
Of tell tale eyes till schools noon night
Listing each hour for church clocks hum
To know the hour to wander home
That parents may not think him long
Nor dream of his rude doing wrong
Dreading thro the night wi dreaming pain
To meet his masters wand again
Each hedge is loaded thick wi green
And where the hedger late hath been
Tender shoots begin to grow
From the mossy stumps below
While sheep and cow that teaze the grain
will nip them to the root again
They lay their bill and mittens bye
And on to other labours hie
While wood men still on spring intrudes
And thins the shadow solitudes
Wi sharpend axes felling down
The oak trees budding into brown
Where as they crash upon the ground
A crowd of labourers gather round
And mix among the shadows dark
To rip the crackling staining bark
From off the tree and lay when done
The rolls in lares to meet the sun
Depriving yearly where they come
The green wood pecker of its home
That early in the spring began
Far from the sight of troubling man
And bord their round holes in each tree
In fancys sweet security
Till startld wi the woodmans noise
It wakes from all its dreaming joys
The blue bells too that thickly bloom
Where man was never feared to come
And smell smocks that from view retires
**** rustling leaves and bowing briars
And stooping lilys of the valley
That comes wi shades and dews to dally
White beady drops on slender threads
Wi broad hood leaves above their heads
Like white robd maids in summer hours
Neath umberellas shunning showers
These neath the barkmens crushing treads
Oft perish in their blooming beds
Thus stript of boughs and bark in white
Their trunks shine in the mellow light
Beneath the green surviving trees
That wave above them in the breeze
And waking whispers slowly bends
As if they mournd their fallen friends
Each morning now the weeders meet
To cut the thistle from the wheat
And ruin in the sunny hours
Full many wild weeds of their flowers
Corn poppys that in crimson dwell
Calld ‘head achs’ from their sickly smell
And carlock yellow as the sun
That oer the may fields thickly run
And ‘iron ****’ content to share
The meanest spot that spring can spare
Een roads where danger hourly comes
Is not wi out its purple blooms
And leaves wi points like thistles round
Thickset that have no strength to wound
That shrink to childhoods eager hold
Like hair—and with its eye of gold
And scarlet starry points of flowers
Pimpernel dreading nights and showers
Oft calld ‘the shepherds weather glass’
That sleep till suns have dyd the grass
Then wakes and spreads its creeping bloom
Till clouds or threatning shadows come
Then close it shuts to sleep again
Which weeders see and talk of rain
And boys that mark them shut so soon
will call them ‘John go bed at noon
And fumitory too a name
That superstition holds to fame
Whose red and purple mottled flowers
Are cropt by maids in weeding hours
To boil in water milk and way1
For washes on an holiday
To make their beauty fair and sleak
And scour the tan from summers cheek
And simple small forget me not
Eyd wi a pinshead yellow spot
I’th’ middle of its tender blue
That gains from poets notice due
These flowers the toil by crowds destroys
And robs them of their lowly joys
That met the may wi hopes as sweet
As those her suns in gardens meet
And oft the dame will feel inclind
As childhoods memory comes to mind
To turn her hook away and spare
The blooms it lovd to gather there
My wild field catalogue of flowers
Grows in my ryhmes as thick as showers
Tedious and long as they may be
To some, they never weary me
The wood and mead and field of grain
I coud hunt oer and oer again
And talk to every blossom wild
Fond as a parent to a child
And cull them in my childish joy
By swarms and swarms and never cloy
When their lank shades oer morning pearls
Shrink from their lengths to little girls
And like the clock hand pointing one
Is turnd and tells the morning gone
They leave their toils for dinners hour
Beneath some hedges bramble bower
And season sweet their savory meals
Wi joke and tale and merry peals
Of ancient tunes from happy tongues
While linnets join their fitful songs
Perchd oer their heads in frolic play
Among the tufts of motling may
The young girls whisper things of love
And from the old dames hearing move
Oft making ‘love knotts’ in the shade
Of blue green oat or wheaten blade
And trying simple charms and spells
That rural superstition tells
They pull the little blossom threads
From out the knapweeds button heads
And put the husk wi many a smile
In their white bosoms for awhile
Who if they guess aright the swain
That loves sweet fancys trys to gain
Tis said that ere its lain an hour
Twill blossom wi a second flower
And from her white ******* hankerchief
Bloom as they ne’er had lost a leaf
When signs appear that token wet
As they are neath the bushes met
The girls are glad wi hopes of play
And harping of the holiday
A hugh blue bird will often swim
Along the wheat when skys grow dim
Wi clouds—slow as the gales of spring
In motion wi dark shadowd wing
Beneath the coming storm it sails
And lonly chirps the wheat hid quails
That came to live wi spring again
And start when summer browns the grain
They start the young girls joys afloat
Wi ‘wet my foot’ its yearly note
So fancy doth the sound explain
And proves it oft a sign of rain
About the moor ‘**** sheep and cow
The boy or old man wanders now
Hunting all day wi hopful pace
Each thick sown rushy thistly place
For plover eggs while oer them flye
The fearful birds wi teazing cry
Trying to lead their steps astray
And coying him another way
And be the weather chill or warm
Wi brown hats truckd beneath his arm
Holding each prize their search has won
They plod bare headed to the sun
Now dames oft bustle from their wheels
Wi childern scampering at their heels
To watch the bees that hang and swive
In clumps about each thronging hive
And flit and thicken in the light
While the old dame enjoys the sight
And raps the while their warming pans
A spell that superstition plans
To coax them in the garden bounds
As if they lovd the tinkling sounds
And oft one hears the dinning noise
Which dames believe each swarm decoys
Around each village day by day
Mingling in the warmth of may
Sweet scented herbs her skill contrives
To rub the bramble platted hives
Fennels thread leaves and crimpld balm
To scent the new house of the swarm
The thresher dull as winter days
And lost to all that spring displays
Still mid his barn dust forcd to stand
Swings his frail round wi weary hand
While oer his head shades thickly creep
And hides the blinking owl asleep
And bats in cobweb corners bred
Sharing till night their murky bed
The sunshine trickles on the floor
Thro every crevice of the door
And makes his barn where shadows dwell
As irksome as a prisoners cell
And as he seeks his daily meal
As schoolboys from their tasks will steal
ile often stands in fond delay
To see the daisy in his way
And wild weeds flowering on the wall
That will his childish sports recall
Of all the joys that came wi spring
The twirling top the marble ring
The gingling halfpence hussld up
At pitch and toss the eager stoop
To pick up heads, the smuggeld plays
Neath hovels upon sabbath days
When parson he is safe from view
And clerk sings amen in his pew
The sitting down when school was oer
Upon the threshold by his door
Picking from mallows sport to please
Each crumpld seed he calld a cheese
And hunting from the stackyard sod
The stinking hen banes belted pod
By youths vain fancys sweetly fed
Christning them his loaves of bread
He sees while rocking down the street
Wi weary hands and crimpling feet
Young childern at the self same games
And hears the self same simple names
Still floating on each happy tongue
Touchd wi the simple scene so strong
Tears almost start and many a sigh
Regrets the happiness gone bye
And in sweet natures holiday
His heart is sad while all is gay
How lovly now are lanes and balks
For toils and lovers sunday walks
The daisey and the buttercup
For which the laughing childern stoop
A hundred times throughout the day
In their rude ramping summer play
So thickly now the pasture crowds
In gold and silver sheeted clouds
As if the drops in april showers
Had woo’d the sun and swoond to flowers
The brook resumes its summer dresses
Purling neath grass and water cresses
And mint and flag leaf swording high
Their blooms to the unheeding eye
And taper bowbent hanging rushes
And horse tail childerns bottle brushes
And summer tracks about its brink
Is fresh again where cattle drink
And on its sunny bank the swain
Stretches his idle length again
Soon as the sun forgets the day
The moon looks down on the lovly may
And the little star his friend and guide
Travelling together side by side
And the seven stars and charleses wain
Hangs smiling oer green woods agen
The heaven rekindles all alive
Wi light the may bees round the hive
Swarm not so thick in mornings eye
As stars do in the evening skye
All all are nestling in their joys
The flowers and birds and pasture boys
The firetail, long a stranger, comes
To his last summer haunts and homes
To hollow tree and crevisd wall
And in the grass the rails odd call
That featherd spirit stops the swain
To listen to his note again
And school boy still in vain retraces
The secrets of his hiding places
In the black thorns crowded copse
Thro its varied turns and stops
The nightingale its ditty weaves
Hid in a multitude of leaves
The boy stops short to hear the strain
And ’sweet jug jug’ he mocks again
The yellow hammer builds its nest
By banks where sun beams earliest rest
That drys the dews from off the grass
Shading it from all that pass
Save the rude boy wi ferret gaze
That hunts thro evry secret maze
He finds its pencild eggs agen
All streakd wi lines as if a pen
By natures freakish hand was took
To scrawl them over like a book
And from these many mozzling marks
The school boy names them ‘writing larks’
*** barrels twit on bush and tree
Scarse bigger then a bumble bee
And in a white thorns leafy rest
It builds its curious pudding-nest
Wi hole beside as if a mouse
Had built the little barrel house
Toiling full many a lining feather
And bits of grey tree moss together
Amid the noisey rooky park
Beneath the firdales branches dark
The little golden crested wren
Hangs up his glowing nest agen
And sticks it to the furry leaves
As martins theirs beneath the eaves
The old hens leave the roost betimes
And oer the garden pailing climbs
To scrat the gardens fresh turnd soil
And if unwatchd his crops to spoil
Oft cackling from the prison yard
To peck about the houseclose sward
Catching at butterflys and things
Ere they have time to try their wings
The cattle feels the breath of may
And kick and toss their heads in play
The *** beneath his bags of sand
Oft jerks the string from leaders hand
And on the road will eager stoop
To pick the sprouting thistle up
Oft answering on his weary way
Some distant neighbours sobbing bray
Dining the ears of driving boy
As if he felt a fit of joy
Wi in its pinfold circle left
Of all its company bereft
Starvd stock no longer noising round
Lone in the nooks of foddering ground
Each skeleton of lingering stack
By winters tempests beaten black
Nodds upon props or bolt upright
Stands swarthy in the summer light
And oer the green grass seems to lower
Like stump of old time wasted tower
All that in winter lookd for hay
Spread from their batterd haunts away
To pick the grass or lye at lare
Beneath the mild hedge shadows there
Sweet month that gives a welcome call
To toil and nature and to all
Yet one day mid thy many joys
Is dead to all its sport and noise
Old may day where’s thy glorys gone
All fled and left thee every one
Thou comst to thy old haunts and homes
Unnoticd as a stranger comes
No flowers are pluckt to hail the now
Nor cotter seeks a single bough
The maids no more on thy sweet morn
Awake their thresholds to adorn
Wi dewey flowers—May locks new come
And princifeathers cluttering bloom
And blue bells from the woodland moss
And cowslip cucking ***** to toss
Above the garlands swinging hight
Hang in the soft eves sober light
These maid and child did yearly pull
By many a folded apron full
But all is past the merry song
Of maidens hurrying along
To crown at eve the earliest cow
Is gone and dead and silent now
The laugh raisd at the mocking thorn
Tyd to the cows tail last that morn
The kerchief at arms length displayd
Held up by pairs of swain and maid
While others bolted underneath
Bawling loud wi panting breath
‘Duck under water’ as they ran
Alls ended as they ne’er began
While the new thing that took thy place
Wears faded smiles upon its face
And where enclosure has its birth
It spreads a mildew oer her mirth
The herd no longer one by one
Goes plodding on her morning way
And garlands lost and sports nigh gone
Leaves her like thee a common day
Yet summer smiles upon thee still
Wi natures sweet unalterd will
And at thy births unworshipd hours
Fills her green lap wi swarms of flowers
To crown thee still as thou hast been
Of spring and summer months the queen

Universe vested within and galaxies scattered beyond,
A moon child fathoms her demise.

I am not social
I am scarse
I dont need to show up
If my heart does not ask

I am not available
I am not a farce
I dont need attention
Atleast not by the vast

I say i dont care
I say it, again.
Again and again
Till it feels like a mask

No need to follow
No need to like
I can grow, i can flow
I can be a social dislike

My talent is mine
It's whispers are mine
For me, for me
For me is the rhym.

You can leave me
You can, you can
Leave me you can
But i still love the best i can

I love the best i can.

Rivedo le tue lettere d'amore
illuminata, adesso, dal distacco;
senza quasi rancore...
L'illusione era forte a sostenerci;
ci reggevamo entrambi negli abbracci
pregando che durassero gli intenti,
ci promettemmo il "sempre" degli amanti,
certi nei nostri spiriti d'Iddii...
... E hai potuto lasciarmi,
e hai potuto intuire un'altra luce
che seguitasse dopo le mie spalle!
Mi hai suscitato dalle scarse origini
con richiami di musica divina,
mi hai resa divergenza di dolore,
spazio per la tua vita di ricerca
per abitarmi il tempo di un errore...
... E mi hai lasciato solo le tue lettere
onde ne ribevessi la mia assenza!

Fields of the evening, Long grass in the breeze
and a river down her face.
Dark flecks in the sky, it's all a blur,
the magpies all fly home.
Black trails linger down her arms,
Smudged and damp to the touch.
Hyperventilisation with every scarse breath,
And realisation begins to creep in.
She can't go home..
She can't go home...

         ... I can't go home.

Upset for being thwarted
by the silence that echoed in the living room
when they read the fruits of his planned poem
that sleeps and let its verses rest.

From the blue and starry sky to the blackness of closed windows,
I dreamt of seeing a dark world, full of painted stars;
I dreamt of seeing human people and the moon man
walking, bringing hope to my naked face.

I have never been Shakespeare or Rimbaud, I'm not Poe and won't be Neruda.
I'll be myself and nothing much, for being this way,
because every word I speak or write will be deaf
and will hardly vary as time goes by for me.

And the music that sounds, sweats from my depths,
and the chords, the steps they dance,
the happy faces, scattered people, strangers,
don't get lost, never get tired.

I'm the variant poet, the oscillating poet...
I'm like a bird that glides in its imagination,
I'm the accompanied poet, lost in loneliness,
I'm a full train that derails.

On this side, the future - on the other, ancient mansions.
On that, decassyllable ladies, machines and sparse letters
suspended, watching old lanterns and scarse memories
from this youth, myself and I in my lying emotions.

Why can't i just sleep without dreams
And not dream about you for a night
I don't want to die
Nor do we want to live
Live for those scarse seconds
Of absolute happiness
But I feel nothing
And When This feels
I feel you
And i'm still not supposed to

Rivedo le tue lettere d'amore
illuminata, adesso, dal distacco;
senza quasi rancore...
L'illusione era forte a sostenerci;
ci reggevamo entrambi negli abbracci
pregando che durassero gli intenti,
ci promettemmo il "sempre" degli amanti,
certi nei nostri spiriti d'Iddii...
... E hai potuto lasciarmi,
e hai potuto intuire un'altra luce
che seguitasse dopo le mie spalle!
Mi hai suscitato dalle scarse origini
con richiami di musica divina,
mi hai resa divergenza di dolore,
spazio per la tua vita di ricerca
per abitarmi il tempo di un errore...
... E mi hai lasciato solo le tue lettere
onde ne ribevessi la mia assenza!

if it ain't the three drunk giraffes learning
to sow: knitted knickers...
and: for sure... the bulldozer'd
leopard...
          and if we meet a zombie...
just imagine if...
  just imagine if... the quran told the
ummah to **** all pigs...
just imagine what sort of leather-jackets...
what belts and what shoes
we could steal from that decrepit
quasi-carrier of soul: of animation
devoid concerning itself with
the function of... the heart...
the liver... the brain...
all the more invested in the x-ray spectacle
of bones and the exertion of muscles...
no... i'm pretty sure the pigs would be
left freely roaming...
rummaging back into...
their less domesticated form of
a boar... huff and puff...
and grow a pair of hooks for teeth...
the pigs would still be here...
once... <burp> and only when...
the kuffar / ***** were either all dead...
or converted...
and if converted... then they would
be the janissaries or the mamluks
precial copre of fighters...
to rid the world regime
of the omni-caliphate: Islamia...
from the Morge-haul invaders from
Mars... or Mongolia...
i never know which is "which"...
the lament from Alexandria...
or the lament from Baghdad...
but the glorious books never says:
**** all pigs... it just says... don't eat them...
lucky for the pigs...
a **** gives two rations of pork
for an infidel a martyr status...
but don't eat the pork...
           **** the kuffar... wow...
last time i heard is was merely a *****...
ah... hafiz... too similar...
extending an insinuation into
qof-from-afar!
i dare say... reading Dickens for an
hour did me much good...
all those existential complications
from russia: circa the same time...
the angst of urban alienation on the streets
of st. petersburg...
completely missing...
reading Dickens having already read
a little bit of this... and a little bit of that...
cricket... and going hunting for
rooks: crows... in the trees...
for a morning ancedote of pie for breakfast...
and... speaking like a stenograph...
better than braille...
just saying: the Tehran folk might as well
march: blessing the virus...
which they would... surgical face-masks
and the niqab are somehow synonymous
with ninjas... or johnson's...
   satan's postpboxes?
       i am pretty sure i heard that one...
lucky for me and the belief in
Abraham's *****... a return to...
when i didn't make a runner with a childhood
friend of mine... days after his mother
committed suicide by drinking vinegar...
Hubert... "hubercik"...
now... but i do remember...
those two fine fine... slim... belts...
and a glorious hot bath afterwards...
to: MAN, UP!
                          to conjure up the mind
of that 6 year old...
    i tried to replicate the violence...
on a dobberman of mine...
two whips for biting a ***** of the same
household...
nearly gauged my eye out with a bite...
i guess the teeth about to bite
were implying: watch a little...
i could almost understand a prolonged
waterfall of cementing memory
of a drunk father...
that i could remember...
but all this... scarse female boxing ring
antics... i can forgive my mother...
but a slap in the face for "lying"
when visiting my grandparents...
it's only a shame her last words,
her last real words an onomatopoeia
of vowels caught by H of the tetragrammaton...
7 times she said in one night...
and if we're playing games...
the 7 hill of Rome -
after all... the new testament is the work
of a greco-hebrew "conspiracy"...
what is 666 is turned into Χ Ξ Σ -
the letters...
a 7 headed beast...
oh... you mean the roman numerals?
I, V, X, L, C, D, and M...
                    looks like a 7 to me...
how did they do it...
to have to use 7 letters as numbers...
i'm guessing they... must have...
reserved special rights in keeping
the meaning of number: upper-cased
and the meaning of letter: lower-cased...
but oh: a violence between men
i could understand...
like i can understand... what i understood
when wrestling dogs in my childhood...
omni- litany of the "god" and the affair
of a woman swinging a forehand...
to be later met with
a drill shoved up her ****** and...
a ***** to a frankenstein to the head...
at the temple... when pleasure...
oh pleasure... no pleasure...
and if i were to just forget memory...
and get a tattoo on my body like
a branding at a butchers' for a hanging
hook-dripping squat of grizzly... meat...
at the ready: not mauled...
          turned into a cottage pie of: mince...
but bitten off in chunks that could best
represent... the divine torsos of
         sculpture... or a steak tartare...
yes... they would sooner **** the infidel
than they would **** the pig...
shame... since they wouldn't eat either...
and the pig... is such... a perfected animal...
you can eat almost all of it...
well... from snout to tail...
except for the oink... except for the oink...
for me that's also a capital scam...
when it comes concerning
persian carpets... esp those that boast
about i-ran-out-of-persia...
       having come across the scam in
Sarajevo...
               elsewhere the sort of "men" resorting
the the violence of... sneakers...
and... nothing of the fist
and much of a Medici intrigue...
     whether by poison or by scam...
a fist a knee **** a self-evident opponent
i would probably gesticulate at
with a frown a growl of a poker's-best-kept
secret...
that there's no need for a consciousness
of the heart... beside the heart-attack survivor...
or the cardio-stellar surgeon...
that the brain doesn't exist
outside the realm of a... haemorrhage...
or the neurosurgeon...
         the bones beside the toothpicks...
the teeth as the bite exposed...
and the arithmetic of the osteologist...
my self in these matters not invested...
   that somehow a bilingualism can betray
a schizoid theory of...
exfoliating gwammar...
       and all that can be excused is a rhyme
and all that can be excused:
what can't be excused is a blank page...
because... about as many more of these:
that found origins in nothing
and in nowhere and in: not-how
and in no-be...
                            toes crisping...
on the edge of tomorrow...
for a flame of absolute darkness...
crisping... well: more like freezing
to a numbing death...
                      but the crackling is still
summoned...
as any excuse to exit:
is met.

Rivedo le tue lettere d'amore
illuminata, adesso, dal distacco;
senza quasi rancore...
L'illusione era forte a sostenerci;
ci reggevamo entrambi negli abbracci
pregando che durassero gli intenti,
ci promettemmo il "sempre" degli amanti,
certi nei nostri spiriti d'Iddii...
... E hai potuto lasciarmi,
e hai potuto intuire un'altra luce
che seguitasse dopo le mie spalle!
Mi hai suscitato dalle scarse origini
con richiami di musica divina,
mi hai resa divergenza di dolore,
spazio per la tua vita di ricerca
per abitarmi il tempo di un errore...
... E mi hai lasciato solo le tue lettere
onde ne ribevessi la mia assenza!

I went to work one Sunday morn
Overtime bound
My demeanour was still drunken
My eyes cast to the ground
I trod my way down slater st
On full auto pilot
My guts all away
The puking might be violent
I passed a dropped kebab
Perfect and untouched
Thought/loook at that,you don't see that much/
Then strode a few paces more
And scarse believed my eyes
A host o filthy pigeons
Manically alive
In a ghastly circle
They dived and pecked with glee
At a pool of human *****
To an alarming degree
I stopped and looked back
At the dropped kebab
What do they know
That we don't
What is it we lack?