Part I

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
     To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.


Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
     Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
     Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
     Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

Part II

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
     To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
     Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
     Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
     And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed:
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
     Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
     As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
     As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
     As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
     She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
     Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
     Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Thro' the noises of the night
     She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
     Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
     Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
     All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

On day of sun and summer heat,
A young man farms among the wheat,
His work ne’er seen as any feat,
Its purpose be to quotient meet,
                In the fields of Camelot.
His work complete hours after noon,
He lies to rest in light of moon,
‘Neath willow tree he hears a tune,
                Come from strange Shalott.

Was not the first this song he heard,
As sweet as chirping of a bird.
To where is seen the water gird
His ears had often promptly turned,
                Away from Camelot.
The singer fair, he did not know,
But song his face would light aglow,
And often thoughts of his would blow,
                Upon the isle, Shalott.

“In cursed seal, the isle is shrouded,”
Said those around the market crowded.
The boy had thought their judgments clouded,
The love he had he never doubted,
               Despite the words of Camelot.
For voice there trapped in lightless tower,
He often dreamt of lending power,
To see her free, the captured flower,
               The Lady of Shalott.

When time was right, there came a day,
As clouds in somber mood turned grey,
To bring to light that which he pray.
And so, with nothing left to say,
               He ran toward Camelot.
At river there, he found great length.
Though with no boat, he reached the banks,
For in the fields he’d found the strength,
               To make it to Shalott.

His body cold, his soul ablaze,
He made his way to open door,
Climbed up the stairs in lighting poor,
And in his mind he thought no more
                Of busy Camelot.
But in her room, he found it bare,
With only woven works of care,
Which all revealed such beauty rare,
                Of worlds outside Shalott.

And though within his heart he knew,
The voice he loved had bid adieu,
Her memory remaineth true,
                The Lady of Shalott.

“Half sick of shadows,” cried the Lady of Shalott,
half sick of darkness growing, doorways
twisting, with faces grotesque on yellow wallpaper

and speaking woe in whispers passed
dream-thin through limbs and veins and minds
because a window is a stop sign until

opened, and locks are stitches sewing chapped lips
tense as the web woven, intricate designs
layered vibrant color on a lonely loom in a tower

otherwise lightless, heavy with pressure,
bearing down on the Lady of Shalott and her art--
made up in the image of Camelot.

The young and bold Sir Lancelot
Had shunned the lady of Shalott
And all the swooning maidens, dear.
His heart belonged to Guinevere.
And were she not to Arthur, wed,
She'd have the heart-sick knight instead.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad sir Lancelot du Lac.

When first he came to Camelot
The orphan knight, Sir Lancelot
Did prove his worth to Arthur's Court
In jousting, and such noble sport
And with his charm and courtly grace,
His confidence and handsome face,
He won the heart of Guinevere,
And so he found his heart's one fear.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.

In tournaments and deeds of arms,
He never fell to earthly harms.
His Lady's scarf about his breast,
He held aloft his knightly chest
And for her honor always strove,
And worshiped her with courtly love.
But she is wed, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.

Beneath a tree, the young knight slept
And one day, four queens on him crept,
The chief of them, Morgan Le Fay.
With magic, they stole him away.
A choice they begged of him to make,
That one of them his heart should take.
But love is strong.  They had no luck
In tempting Lancelot du Lac.

When Melegans stole Guinevere
A cart, Sir Lancelot did steer
To reach the hold where she was kept,
Then toward the treacherous knight he leapt.
He bested him with slash and blow,
But to Sir Lancelot's great woe
His Lady simply laughed in jest
And saw no honor in his quest,
For he arrived upon a cart.
Thus, broken was the young knight's heart,
And in a rage he left the place.
He longed just for his Lady's grace.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.

The young and bold Sir Lancelot
Had shunned the lady of Shalott
And all the swooning maidens, dear.
His heart belonged to Guinevere.
And were she not to Arthur, wed,
She'd have the heart-sick knight instead.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of sad Sir Lancelot du Lac.

So when he quested for the Grail
He made a promise he would fail.
He said he'd not love Guinevere,
But as he spoke, he shed a tear.
He knew one day their love would end
The table round, and hurt their friends.
So when this promise he did break
The land of Camelot did quake.
For Agrivan, King Arthur, told
His wife did love Lancelot bold
And Arthur sent her to the pyre
To end her sinful love, in fire.
But Lancelot, his queen, did save
And Arthur fell into the grave
And all the knights of Table Round
Were torn apart, could not be bound.
And thus the fall of Camelot
Was caused by one Sir Lancelot.
But so it goes, such is the luck
Of bold Sir Lancelot du Lac.

I stared at the wall
Not an actual wall
But 'twas a wall nonetheless
Built up from the ground in hatred
And bitterness, it divided us
And buried what could have been, deep inside.

They wrote on the wall
(Not actually though)
And graffitied some harsh words
Amongst paintings of lewd gestures.
I leaned back and watched it all unfold
I watched as this new art form came to life.

I looked at your face
Not your actual face
But it was you all the same
Floating right in front of my eyes
Laughing and mocking me with your friends
The very same friends that used to be mine.

Lady of Shalott,
I'm being dramatic,
But I'm half sick of shadows.
Good thing you showed me your true self
So I wouldn't make the same mistake
And leave my safe tower for a stranger

I sit at the portal day after day.
Gnostic information, news and images
fill my mind, but do not satisfy.
I learn and learn, but I do not grow.
Ghastly pictures of carnage come and go.
So much more than I can ever weep for.
Why is it then, that times of too much tenderness,
make me cry?
What is it about a loving gesture
that breaks the dam?
Perhaps because it is too late..

Jewelled lights
Inner city
Urban sunsets lookin' pretty
A Tower block rapunzel
hair spun from ghetto gold
15th storeys high
and the stories gettin' old
No knight is waiting
A million dreams are broken
the lift is out of order
Hope seems a foolish notion
Isolation is her captor
the city her disorder

******

Throwin' caution to the sky gods
She dresses in her armour
Advances down the stair well
Into inner city drama
On the 29 she takes a seat
looks straight ahead
Smile painted on.
The day she greets
********
At dusk again, in towered gloom
Moon illuminates her room
Stitching up torn, tired seams
of abandoned.
Long lost dreams.
Her heart.  
Already healing
Urban warrior forever
One day she'll leave this jungle.
Maybe. Who knows.
Whatever.

sometimes I think
there might not be a tomorrow
so my time can't be wasted in any established institution.

whoops, there I go, wasting.  
whoops, there goes the future.

band together,weird brothers.

a half assed attempt from one of us equates to a hundred ten percent from one of the others.
but what difference would it make?
there's like, a hundred million of them &
only one of me.

we're already snuffed out by the numbers.

so we throw ourselves off track; it's some what hypocritical - but hey -
at least we're following our hearts
or whatever *****
we think is the most vital.

simple existence is the biggest shame.
for the love of god.
you'll rot if you stay for the spindle,
drilling yer spiel & teething on the tiers, stagnating in the famous cesspools of shalott.
settle in, ferment to liquidity.

Imma just watch yall
waiting for the day
your stocking feet curl up &
die beneath the mortgage,
leaving the zirconia slippers
of a dream seeing red.

be clean
be neat
be nice
be right
be alive
& smile
but not too much.

that's the tell to tell em
something's up,
the specimen are not disrupted
or adapting to challenge
of being ******
with these conditions.
they appear to be happy.


too happy.


something's missing.

Queen of spectral shadows hiding in her mirror
with a gossamer shawl coiled upon her nape.
Where sunbeams drape, she refuses to appear --
a hostage of somber fear not longing for escape.

The waterfall's frozen over,
the river no longer pours
when love cannot show her
the daylight anymore.

Mystic maiden in a labyrinth of graves
clinging to her orisons that go unheard.
The story's blurred by prolix waves --
we could paraphrase but the poets are lost for words.

The canopy's an illusion,
the firmament splits at the seams
when love feels like an intrusion
that stalks in her fortress of dreams.

The way I expressed it didn’t fully
make sense to my dearest
who only likes men.
It's never sat right to me
the pride of a parent in their straight child's love life,
the "don't ask don't tell" for a gay daughter
I used to see red as a fad that
had passed and a warning that I’m
not desired;
But I’m seeing clearer now,
Rose-colored glasses might
actually bring life into focus.

We're all fruity and nonconforming
girlfriends and boyfriends and partners each
Others cringe hearing "queer"...
Yet there’s something more in it:
We don't have an explicit gaze,
We have possibility, and the subversion of male eyes.
So I’ve always been nearly regal like The Lady of Shalott, or Lady Lilith,
The Birth of Venus,
Flaming June,
The Accolade— and I
like *** and I
feel wanted and I
am a commodity--

Don't a man look at me but
I will take a boyish girl's gaze
only her eyes focused on my *******—
Sleep over after the first date, for a change,
And remain soft in shape
She murmurs a lover’s desires:
Wear your identity on your sleeve,
In the curve of your back, on the scent of your hair and upon your hips, which invite her hands.

Once, I said "let's make it cinematic
Like that one *** scene that's in Mulholland Drive"
But now: "Touch me, baby"
It's finally the normal way.

"'I am half-sick of shadows,' said the Lady of Shalott."
-Lord Alfred Tennyson
…but half of her bends towards them,
these whispered tableaus, her spine tilting backward.
She carefully hordes them
like granules of opal. Her hands become lacquered
in half-dreams and dyes,
and her tapestry spins into colors so rich
even she is surprised
that her fingers have laced every cross, every stitch.
She is sick of half-shadows;
she wants the thick darkness to drown her whole essence.
These sparkles and dayglows
will stir her to madness in milky-white crescents,
and she will sink into nothing
without any name on the heirlooms she weaves;
She will fade into nothing,
and no shadows will weep on the day that she leaves.

The only difference between God and Frankenstein
is the success of what they deemed their magnum opus,
and when it comes down to the end of days,
the Great Judge must turn his gavel inward,
lest he condemn his doppelgänger to an opposite fate.

It is a universal human experience to fail,
even more so to fail at the apex of triumph.
When God made the world, did he imagine
that it would go to waste?
Would it ever have crossed his mind that love is conditional,
at least for the flawed creatures he expected perfection from?

Does this, then, make God human?
Or just a Heavenly Lady of Shalott,
weaving a tapestry of emulation, of the very same
thing he cannot be.
It is considered blasphemous
to entertain the notion that God is inferior,
but is this born of punishment,
or of shame, of trying to save face?

It is stated so many times that the student will surpass the master,
and isn’t that what is happening here?
Perhaps God created trees, but humanity cut them down.
Destruction is just as artful as creation,
if not more so - there’s more finality in it.
It’s possible that God is too scared to ever end a story.

But we - our nation of Frankensteins -
will end everything.
Given the right tools, we’ll end the universe,
far beyond the reaches of this insignificant planet.
We’ll lay waste to God’s pride
and replace it with our own hubris.

We go down on our own sinking ship with smiles;
even if we can escape, we won’t.
We are cruel that way.
We will never accept fatherhood or responsibility,
but spite and death work hand in hand
at the fall of any empire -
what can be done to stop us?
We are fluent in the only language God speaks.

I closed my eyes to watch the darkness dance.
Then opened them to candlelight. She laughed,
"Who the ****'s happy?" "An old acquaintance."
Her date replied, smugly. "You get one draft,
You know?" They went on, talking casually
About their prescriptions, doctors and thoughts.
"I mean, each date is a new draft really?"
She smiled and boasted for her retort
"You'll never get a girl crazy like me."
"Yes I will. They line the streets nowadays.
I still find kids picking up a ciggy
Only to be edgy and unhappy or always
Pointing to laugh at those who are. This year
Ought to be aborted. These kids impeached,
Replaced by some good kids. With an ear
For commands and gratitude for their reach.
This generation that lives the longest
And can't tell how to live with happiness."

The Mirror Heal'd from Side to Side

When a mirror looks
Into you, deep inside you
Does it see itself?


(An allusion to Tennyson’s “The Lady of Shalott”)