What counsel has the hooded moon
Put in thy heart, my shyly sweet,
Of Love in ancient plenilune,
Glory and stars beneath his feet -- -
A sage that is but kith and kin
With the comedian Capuchin?

Believe me rather that am wise
In disregard of the divine,
A glory kindles in those eyes
Trembles to starlight. Mine, O Mine!
No more be tears in moon or mist
For thee, sweet sentimentalist.

I heard I could tie all my veins and arteries together and they would circle the earth so I thought if we laced ours together we could reach the moon
and watch stars blaze like one hundred billion cigarettes in the dark
skinny dip through purple orange green supernova explosions
curl up in a crater and watch the world spin like a cumbersome ballerina then we’d dive back down from the moon to the mothership
and unbraid our veins, separating mine from yours.
But without those vascular knots we’d start drifting apart just like Pangaea.
We’d both begin forgetting how we ballroom danced through constellations together how our fingertips wrinkled like walnuts outside the atmosphere
how we sunbathed under the incandescence of blue supergiants

The covers move on top of me. I roll on my side, groaning, and open one eye to scan the room for the culprit. Immediate regret. A dull grey light is spilling through the fourth story window, the kind that’s not-quite-sunny but still bright enough to kickstart today’s hangover. A camera falls from the bed-side table and the source reveals itself: Anna’s cat, a tabby, nameless and found mysteriously missing a tail near Saint Denis street four years ago. More groaning, but being more awake than not, I kick the covers off me and look at my phone. December 30th. Scared to check my texts, I’m suddenly flooded with the memory of drunkenly messaging friends I hadn’t spoken to in years, hoping they hadn’t succeeded in overcoming their weekend MDMA habit. Most of the replies went as expected: “Who’s this?”
“No one” I text back, throwing a pillow at my friend, finding an injustice in the fact that I was woken up by her nameless, tail-less cat.
“I know you’re awake.”  
She looks up, smiles sheepishly. When she gets up, the light catches the right side of her face and I can still see patches of glitter. I smile. Say, “I can’t believe this is the last time I’m going to see you.”
“I can’t believe I’m still wearing the same make up I had on three nights ago,” she shoots back.
“Always the sentimentalist,” I tease.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re coming to visit me anyway.” Right.

I smile nervously. Somehow it felt like I was breaking up with someone after a six year relationship. Not the kind where you’re necessarily in love with the person, but the kind you stay in out of comfort and because you don’t know where else to go.

11:51 AM
That morning we walked to a local cafe on Rue Ontario, the one we’ve passed by almost every Friday night for the past two years, sometimes dressed to go to the dep and argue over what mixes best with peach *****, other times wearing Red lipstick, laughing in the 3 am August breeze, cars honking and men gesturing for us to come closer (laughing, you explained to me once, if you’re from around here then you know about Rue Ontario.)

Joi de Vivre. Joy of ******* for cheap. Missed opportunities. Never realizing my full potential. My wife, she doesn’t love me no more.

Laughing.

I know what kind of girl you are.

Laughing.

*****, where are you going?

Laughing.

Frigid ****. Don’t go asking for it.

Dead pan.  “I’m fifteen, *******”

His turn. Laughing.

If you’re fifteen then I’m going to jail tonight!

11:52 AM

We order four polish donuts and coffee, sprinkled with cinnamon. “For the special occasion,” she tells the man behind the counter. Paul. I’m hit with the notion that I probably wont see Paul again either. My feet feel light, I forget my name. Forget to thank the barista as she hands me my coffee. We find a table next to an arrangement of biscuits with all the ingredients labeled in Polish, exchange stories about the first time we realized our vaginas could lubricate themselves. We exchange stories about the day we were born.

“Use protection!” I yell as she walks off. “Never,” she winks.

I forget my name.

That night she's on a flight to Portugal to be with a boy who’s just too busy to see her.

February 2, 2018
12:32 AM
But we’re so in love.
12:41
He’s just been really busy.

2:52 AM
I was so, so, busy.
Read √√

I’m sorry,
√√
I’m so so sorry.
√√


Find your friends!

Search: Anna

Location: 3,263 miles away.

February 11, 2018

I wear Red lipstick, wake up with glitter on my face. Laughing, laughing.

Hic. On the grey sand beside the shallow stream
Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still
A lamp burns on beside the open book
That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon,
And, though you have passed the best of life, still trace,
Enthralled by the unconquerable delusion,
Magical shapes.
Ille. By the help of an image
I call to my own opposite, summon all
That I have handled least, least looked upon.
Hic. And I would find myself and not an image.
Ille. That is our modern hope, and by its light
We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind
And lost the old nonchalance of the hand;
Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush,
We are but critics, or but half create,
Timid, entangled, empty and abashed,
Lacking the countenance of our friends.
Hic. And yet
The chief imagination of Christendom,
Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself
That he has made that hollow face of his
More plain to the mind's eye than any face
But that of Christ.
Ille. And did he find himself
Or was the hunger that had made it hollow
A hunger for the apple on the bough
Most out of reach? and is that spectral image
The man that Lapo and that ***** knew?
I think he fashioned from his opposite
An image that might have been a stony face
Staring upon a Bedouin's horse-hair roof
From doored and windowed cliff, or half upturned
Among the coarse grass and the camel-dung.
He set his chisel to the hardest stone.
Being mocked by ***** for his lecherous life,
Derided and deriding, driven out
To climb that stair and eat that bitter bread,
He found the unpersuadable justice, he found
The most exalted lady loved by a man.
Hic. Yet surely there are men who have made their art
Out of no tragic war, lovers of life,
Impulsive men that look for happiness
And sing when t"hey have found it.
Ille. No, not sing,
For those that love the world serve it in action,
Grow rich, popular and full of influence,
And should they paint or write, still it is action:
The struggle of the fly in marmalade.
The rhetorician would deceive his neighbours,
The sentimentalist himself; while art
Is but a vision of reality.
What portion in the world can the artist have
Who has awakened from the common dream
But dissipation and despair?
Hic. And yet
No one denies to Keats love of the world;
Remember his deliberate happiness.
Ille. His art is happy, but who knows his mind?
I see a schoolboy when I think of him,
With face and nose pressed to a sweet-shop window,
For certainly he sank into his grave
His senses and his heart unsatisfied,
And made -- being poor, ailing and ignorant,
Shut out from all the luxury of the world,
The coarse-bred son of a livery-stable keeper --
Luxuriant song.
Hic. Why should you leave the lamp
Burning alone beside an open book,
And trace these characters upon the sands?
A style is found by sedentary toil
And by the imitation of great masters.
Zlle. Because I seek an image, n-ot a book.
Those men that in their writings are most wise,
Own nothing but their blind, stupefied hearts.
I call to the mysterious one who yet
Shall walk the wet sands by the edge of the stream
And look most like me, being indeed my double,
And prove of all imaginable things
The most unlike, being my anti-self,
And, standing by these characters, disclose
All that I seek; and whisper it as though
He were afraid the birds, who cry aloud
Their momentary cries before it is dawn,
Would carry it away to blasphemous men.

Dearest Darling,

I’m writing this for you because every ounce of breath you take is a representation of how many times you’ve taken my breath away. Although you may not see and I may be biased you are the greatest being that has every roamed these grounds in this generation. You are a magnificent piece of madness and I love you. Me being a hopeless romantic and a sentimentalist, doesn't mean that I’m good at expressing my fondness for you. I treasure every moment I have with you because these moments are the ones that bring me back to reality when my mind is clouded with darkness. You are the only one who truly knows me and hasn’t ran away. I am still amazed that you are still here with me. Hand in Hand, Heart to heart. It is just you, me versus the world. I will always be with you.. So, when the cold starts to come and you just need a place to be warm come on closer for it feels like home. I can’t wait for the experiences to come and the adventure that awaits us. It is funny how much I can miss you for I never deemed it possible until it happened. You have showed me how enjoyable life is. I used to think that I could get by in this world alone, but you showed me that it didn’t have to be that way. You showed me that together we are stronger. Onlookers will give us disgusting looks but we know that they are just jealous. I will always be here for you. You can put the blame on me and I will always forgive you, because I value our friendship more than the little actions that would be considered unacceptable and friendship breakers by others. I know that life treats you unfairly sometimes, but I will always stand by you. Even in your darkest hour. These words on this page do not even come close to justifying my feelings for you. These words are as perfectly imperfect as me and I hope that it is enough for I only have these words to trade for your love.

Kiss me hardy,
Merry Christmas!!!

Freedom from my mind
This is why I write for
Fancy words are for the academic
Rhymes are for the educated ear
Or the musician
Poems are for the romantics and the sentimentalist
Words and a paper
Are meant for the caged bird
Dreams of flying
I portray in my words
This is the way I survive
Emotions, feelings
Crying and laughter
Play on the background of my notes

I am a poet

and so many others

like most of such kind

I am a sentimentalist

who expresses freely

the innate emotions

and thoughts within

my soul that would

like to let it known

to the world around

that no matter what

every person desires

and wants in this life

its not how big or small

your achievements that count most

but by knowing that through poetry

a soul has been enlightened with hope

and joy believing that he is not alone

for such thing is priceless than a Nobel Prize

i too have my white dove, circling the cul de sac in my myopic vicinity (although i mean that as a metaphor) - oh, no, the white dove is real, for some strange reason it suddenly appeared to visit me from time to time, marrying the city with the countryside, and those woodland pigeons (much larger than the urban ones, and so much cleaner) - who decided to poker the "rat race" of existential re re re (again again again), by building a nest in a tree in my garden, knowing, full well, that there are two cats roaming the earth beneath the nest.

why did i grow a beard? there is nothing lumberjack
fashionista about, not plated, pleaded,
what do you call those chequered shirts?
   no, nothing to "look" the "part" while reading
a philosophy book (come on, i did three
years at university, specialising in organic chemistry),
i just became bored of shaving -
although, mind you, once you grow a beard,
you start to itch (not from the hair) -
but for a desire to shave...
      and that feel of sandpaper stubble -
          which is probably the reverse sentiment
for women who shave their genital hairs...
miss the ol' mr. fluffy i imagine -
don't worry, you can have mr. fluffy on my face,
the hairs are pretty much the same consistency
of roughness - nor the sort of silky hairs on
your head.
  that being said, i have no idea why i'm still
reading heidegger's ponderings ii - vi...
oh right, they're in maxim form, which means
i get to do a lot of thinking in between
every interaction with that **** text...
which is great, i note down the little detail -
or as i like to call them: the bunce digressions;
bunce? yeah, scottish english teacher from
my high school, the most adored teacher
in the school, his teaching style as riddled with
digression, well, more like anecdotes -
i guess that's how you really teach a language:
throw out the grammatical junk,
and just talk about life...
i couldn't stop internally laughing when he
got promoted to the position of *head of year
for class 11 (16 year olds) - and had to sharpen
up, become a serious person, i.e. don a suit
and tie, far removed from his usual linen open
shirts and jeans...
       but the coolio mc-glassy-woz-e died a mighty
death, at the feet of mr. grey and the pink
floyd mantra brigade antithesis, thesis-ses - sez?
and that question is over, with a german: ß -
**** it, put the two together, someone will
say size, someone else will say sigh zzz,
or the opposite zise - rice? ****, there's a c in that
too?!
   oh wait, and a k two... no! too too!
see, that's the thing with english -
  why would you even erode your beautiful memory
bank with the alphabet?
why? as long as you can remember the 26
horsemen of the apocalypse, does remembering
a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u w x y z
even matter? they're still going to be minced
meat in words, juxtaposed - having a notting hill
carnival anyway... so? 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 -
now that, is what you need to know -
but as long as you can remember all of the 26 -
as an english teacher: i wouldn't bother
laming yourself with the "correct" sequence -
*******, learn gymnastics, proper.
oh right, philosophy, beards, "slow" reading -
perched on a windowsill having a cigarette -
you know what i find?
    after reading a philosophy book - any for
that matter - certain genres of literature become
more: entertaining - or at least more fluid -
you certainly learn to read faster -
          i'm still knackered by the enforced intensity
of non-narrative anti-greek idea of poetry -
this haiku vogue of: so what,
these 15 16 19 syllables are supposed to give
be a ******* heart attack's worth of emotion
and dead weight, that sinking emotion of
seeing a ****** bride sink, to the common
of an ocean?
              i see david attenborough fiddling with
a sloth and i become my worst enemy:
a drunkard who turns out, is also a sentimentalist,
odd combination, nonetheless:
       better than the fiend wife beater,
so, m'eh;
         but i just picked up on this, well, honed
in on it - philosophy is filled with cul de sacs -
oh yeah, riddled with them,
   and circles, every single question in philosophy
is a circle, i.e. every ? = O.
    the cul de sacs? more like a pair of *******
crutches -
    ad infinitum, ad nauseam,
                  noumenon, phenomenon,
  per se, there are so many others -
           they're like maxim endings within new
and "advanced" maxims -
     crutches -
           shorthand -
         like most of university mathematics is -
can't exactly tell why mathematicians are
terrible arithmetic squanderers -
          always riddling with their ****** abstracts -
so A U V = S T D - or some other ******* -
then you ask 'em: count me my chickens!
i already know how many i have,
   and the ******* come up with:
  the square root of √-i: i? yes, i.
what's i? an imaginary number?
an imaginary number? (an eddie izzard moment) -
an imaginary number? what's an
imaginary number?
  oh, it's complex.
complex as in an S is a serpent,
  a Z is a cubism's take on a serpent and
almost every tree (apart from the pines)
  looks like a Y, and subsequently a serpents
tongue, how every B, looks like... ahem...
every pair of binoculars?!
  yes.
      fair enough... nuff, nuff...
                       i'm just going to be over there,
finishing my drink, and then walking
out the door, and getting some more, mmm'kay?

22 hours ago LOL! I'm not Asian at all though Asian cultures are so rich and beautiful, their mythology interesting and less convoluted (perhaps?) than Greco-Roman mythology. Norse mythology, though, is interesting as well though just as fickle. And Egyptian! Of course, that stems from the months that I spent reading too much Rick Riordan. Either way, race isn't relevant between us. You're British. I'm American, and definitely not a "bad" person. Plus, not all ****** encounters are worth a moan or a groan.

  11 minutes ago you know: every time i para (i new term i picked up from someone else's comment... para implying paraletic) i have to wonder: what was it that i wrote that wasn't on canvas that might haunt me the next day... but you did say you don't get suntans... i went out with this russian girl once... very tsarist and all who did think that having a suntan implied you being of lower class... lower rank... because the aristocracy were all feeble vampires that hid in chateaus and what not... not exactly screaming vitamin D! just an idea: if you don't get suntans... i presumed... well... perhaps: your skin just doesn't do the copper-serpent trick of trickling through down to auburn / whiskey when the sun has its play with it... unless raw-ish ginger and freckle by freckle: it doesn't matter... you porcelain would be lobster by the end of it... all peeling and... eczemic...but i always have his nagging sensation in the back of my brain like i'm somehow Tony Soprano the narrator having "second thoughts"... sentimentalist through and through... mythologies... you cited a few but it's not like you would cite the Slavic mythologies... then again... what's there to "cite"? Rick Riordan... never heard of him... too much time spent on Heidegger, Knausgaard and Dickens, lately... three books i'm reading simultaneously that i don't seem to "want" to finish since... a little bit of this, a little bit of that: my grandfather having died and me being close to him... blah blah... ponderings VII - XI, my struggle vol. 4 & the Pickwick papers... respectively aligned to the rubric of authors... you're right... race isn't relevant... but saying you don't get a suntan... or can't... sort of enforces me staging a bizarre comment like this... i didn't jump to the logical conclusion of why you don't suntan... you can't? or like i already cited this one Russian exclusivity of: only serfs and farmers have suntans... it's a lower class "thing": we chateau dwellers like ourselves... porcelain skinned... anaemic... you're absolutely right in confessing that race isn't important... antics with a black girl i will not summarise... the self-evident works of piston(s) and lubricant of oysters... but unless you've been living under a rock... what's with all this attack on "abstraction" regarding pronouns and grammar... in general? it's like being attacked on two fronts: it's like the shared invasion of Poland by Germany and the Soviet Union... i fall back on race because it's so... charismatic at times that it becomes unavoidable...  it's like detailing the exclusionary inheritance of a daffodil... or a giraffe... "race" wasn't important until the point of: people having other people telling them "what languge is appropriate" and "what language isn't appropriate"... come on... you're not wed-locked (whim-locked more like) to this pre-suppositional stigma of fearing the tag "bad": i hope you're glad to still allow yourself a tendency to sometimes denote yourself as: person... i recently filled out the census for stats... i was also recently applying for a job as a prison warden... race popped up: or how i'd identify... i had come to encounter a neu-begriff... being American you know of Italian-American compounds... the stereotypes... Irish-h'american... blah blah... British is such a joyous term... god forbid i'd "identify" as English... Anglo-Saxon... so i kept the prefix... Anglo... and attached... well... have a look: Anglo-Slav... i don't see how some people feed the etymological lie that there's somehow an "E" missing... of a collective of a people that competed with "your" tribe during the cold war... bogus points for me as being of a people fudge-packed between the two: of the most... inglorious ******* of events... hell... i sometimes wish i was Croat or one of those Balkan ******* juggled between Rome, Byzantine and the Ottomans... heritage... i best compose myself: last time a Muslim identified me as a ******* ***** at the Reagent Park mosque while selling me prayer matts i was like: i'll let it pass... perhaps i have a more pronounced occipital bone... but i agree: race is not important... let alone in how language is used... a zebra, being a horse... is not exactly stripe material... a leopard doesn't have dots... the tiger doesn't have stripes... they're all cats... how about the grammatical issues concerning: the big cats don't ******* meow? it's not like i was going to make a joke about cushion-*******-lips either... while chalk girls torture themselves with imitation botox: duck... ****'s sake... came the world of chalk and choccie and all the world's masochistic mantras hit a ******* high note for the castratos to sing about! race isn't important: but calling a square a square, an apple an apple... a tiger a tiger: somehow bloodily obvious, is... i can get with the project of abstracting man (woe... +man)... but when the attack comes within the confines of the asylum of ******* grammar & algebra?! what would i otherwise resort to? when i drink to excess & only have a canvas to work with... fine... but when i faced with someone directly: i became doubly drunk on conversation... i'm somehow assured of being race-baiting... like reimagining dragon chasing: down the steeps of "old"...h'america... which part? i always imagine myself living a life of fullest fulfilment living in one of those... fly-over states... in some ******* where i can become my truest taoist...beside the current tongue i've acquired.... the past tongue i want to: less than merely forget... i sometimes thought: bilingualism could be an advantage? isn't mandarin the vogue-"prose": these days? i'm glad, though... i was certainly drunk... but i spelled out the most fathomable discretions...here's to you: and (a) tomorrow!

Priceless...

I am a poet

And so many others

Like most of such kind

I am a sentimentalist

Who expresses freely

The innate emotions

And thoughts within

My soul that would

Like to let it known

To the world around

That no matter what

Every person desires

And wants in this life

Its not how big or small

Your achievements that count most

But by knowing that through poetry

A soul has been enlighten with hope

And joy believing that he is not alone

For such thing is priceless than a Nobel Prize

Oh veritably and altruistic beauty,
save me!
I agree that I may lack the
insight to write my sorrows,
but please don’t let the soulfulness
leave the darkening grievousness!

I cry immensely for you.
I will make sure that I will
make my heart utterly softer to
love you and protect you
from the paws of its gnawing sadness.

- a sentimentalist, who never plays on other people’s emotions!

Shivpriya
#shivpoetesspriya

Dandelion white seed cloud
ticklish to my nose, giggle
as it was when a young child
puff the airy seeds
whiff, only the stem remains
years ago, I rendered a wish
longed for it to come true

At present I am an aging arthritic
As I walk routinely about colorful fields
near my house, I pick these featherweight belles
say to myself "Am I too old to realize wishes?"
I ponder, and given that I am a sentimentalist
I go for it!
Blow and tiny seeds flutter and alight on me
I believe it is a good omen

While I walk I discover a bench, slightly hidden
behind a broad oak tree, all the while I hold the stem
sit, eyes close with ease
breathe the scent of freshly cut grass
slowly submit to a space between wake and sleep

I am in France, countryside, by a river
Ornate chateau, vineyard close by
stocks our bon vivant taste
acres of hillsides covered with
yellow **** and purple grapes
ancient road edges up to the chateau
garden of green, yellow and red vegetables
presents to table
freshly cooked by chef Henri
the pool is cool and refreshing
just as I approach my dive

I wake up!!
what a lovely sojourn
medicine for the arthritis
,