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the lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--
instead of listening to Shostakovich and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities:
we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint...

we park outside and look at icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
"what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?"
"come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.

I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while...")
--those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals...

and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other's
arms.

the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.
Edna Sweetlove Jun 2015
Dmitri Shostakovich woke up feeling sad
In his home town of Leningrad;
The naughty Nazis were shelling his lovely Russian city -
So, for consolation, he ****** ******* his wife's left *****.
The lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--
instead of listening to Shostakovich and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities:
we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint...

we park outside and look at icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
"what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?"
"come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.

I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while...")
--those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals...

and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other's
arms.

the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.
Firefly Sep 2014
“Discipline allows magic. To be a writer is to be the very best of assassins. You do not sit down and write every day to force the Muse to show up. You get into the habit of writing every day so that when she shows up, you have the maximum chance of catching her, bashing her on the head, and squeezing every last drop out of that *****.”
― Lili St. Crow

“What I try to do is write. I may write for two weeks ‘the cat sat on the mat, that is that, not a rat.’ And it might be just the most boring and awful stuff. But I try. When I’m writing, I write. And then it’s as if the muse is convinced that I’m serious and says, ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll come.’” — Maya Angelou

“Suggestions? Put it aside for a few days, or longer, do other things, try not to think about it. Then sit down and read it (printouts are best I find, but that’s just me) as if you’ve never seen it before. Start at the beginning. Scribble on the manuscript as you go if you see anything you want to change. And often, when you get to the end you’ll be both enthusiastic about it and know what the next few words are. And you do it all one word at a time.” — Neil Gaiman

“Meggie Folchart: Having writer's block? Maybe I can help.
Fenoglio: Oh yes, that's right. You want to be a writer, don't you?
Meggie Folchart: You say that as if it's a bad thing.
Fenoglio: Oh no, it's just a lonely thing. Sometimes the world you create on the page seems more friendly and alive than the world you actually live in.”
― David Lindsay-Abaire

“Now, what I’m thinking of is, people always saying “Well, what do we do about a sudden blockage in your writing? What if you have a blockage and you don’t know what to do about it?” Well, it’s obvious you’re doing the wrong thing, don’t you? In the middle of writing something you go blank and your mind says: “No, that’s it.” Ok. You’re being warned, aren’t you? Your subconscious is saying “I don’t like you anymore. You’re writing about things I don’t give a **** for.” You’re being political, or you’re being socially aware. You’re writing things that will benefit the world. To hell with that! I don’t write things to benefit the world. If it happens that they do, swell. I didn’t set out to do that. I set out to have a hell of a lot of fun.

I’ve never worked a day in my life. I’ve never worked a day in my life. The joy of writing has propelled me from day to day and year to year. I want you to envy me, my joy. Get out of here tonight and say: ‘Am I being joyful?’ And if you’ve got a writer’s block, you can cure it this evening by stopping whatever you’re writing and doing something else. You picked the wrong subject.” — Ray Bradbury at The Sixth Annual Writer’s Symposium by the Sea, 2001

“writing about a writer's block is better than not writing at all”
― Charles Bukowski, The Last Night of the Earth Poems

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
"Fool!" said my muse to me, "look in thy heart, and write.”
― Philip Sidney, Astrophel and Stella



“What I try to do is write. I may write for two weeks ‘the cat sat on the mat, that is that, not a rat.’ And it might be just the most boring and awful stuff. But I try. When I’m writing, I write. And then it’s as if the muse is convinced that I’m serious and says, ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll come.’” — Maya Angelou

“Suggestions? Put it aside for a few days, or longer, do other things, try not to think about it. Then sit down and read it (printouts are best I find, but that’s just me) as if you’ve never seen it before. Start at the beginning. Scribble on the manuscript as you go if you see anything you want to change. And often, when you get to the end you’ll be both enthusiastic about it and know what the next few words are. And you do it all one word at a time.” — Neil Gaiman

“I encourage my students at times like these to get one page of anything written, three hundred words of memories or dreams or stream of consciousness on how much they hate writing — just for the hell of it, just to keep their fingers from becoming too arthritic, just because they have made a commitment to try to write three hundred words every day. Then, on bad days and weeks, let things go at that… Your unconscious can’t work when you are breathing down its neck. You’ll sit there going, ‘Are you done in there yet, are you done in there yet?’ But it is trying to tell you nicely, ‘Shut up and go away.'” — Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird

“Now, what I’m thinking of is, people always saying “Well, what do we do about a sudden blockage in your writing? What if you have a blockage and you don’t know what to do about it?” Well, it’s obvious you’re doing the wrong thing, don’t you? In the middle of writing something you go blank and your mind says: “No, that’s it.” Ok. You’re being warned, aren’t you? Your subconscious is saying “I don’t like you anymore. You’re writing about things I don’t give a **** for.” You’re being political, or you’re being socially aware. You’re writing things that will benefit the world. To hell with that! I don’t write things to benefit the world. If it happens that they do, swell. I didn’t set out to do that. I set out to have a hell of a lot of fun.

I’ve never worked a day in my life. I’ve never worked a day in my life. The joy of writing has propelled me from day to day and year to year. I want you to envy me, my joy. Get out of here tonight and say: ‘Am I being joyful?’ And if you’ve got a writer’s block, you can cure it this evening by stopping whatever you’re writing and doing something else. You picked the wrong subject.” — Ray Bradbury at The Sixth Annual Writer’s Symposium by the Sea, 2001

“The secret of getting ahead is getting started. The secret of getting started is breaking your complex overwhelming tasks into small manageable tasks, and then starting on the first one.” — Mark Twain

“The best way is always to stop when you are going good and when you know what will happen next. If you do that every day … you will never be stuck. Always stop while you are going good and don’t think about it or worry about it until you start to write the next day. That way your subconscious will work on it all the time. But if you think about it consciously or worry about it you will **** it and your brain will be tired before you start.” — Ernest Hemingway

“Many years ago, I met John Steinbeck at a party in Sag Harbor, and told him that I had writer’s block. And he said something which I’ve always remembered, and which works. He said, “Pretend that you’re writing not to your editor or to an audience or to a readership, but to someone close, like your sister, or your mother, or someone that you like.” And at the time I was enamored of Jean Seberg, the actress, and I had to write an article about taking Marianne Moore to a baseball game, and I started it off, “Dear Jean . . . ,” and wrote this piece with some ease, I must say. And to my astonishment that’s the way it appeared in Harper’s Magazine. “Dear Jean . . .” Which surprised her, I think, and me, and very likely Marianne Moore.” — John Steinbeck by way of George Plimpton

“Over the years, I’ve found one rule. It is the only one I give on those occasions when I talk about writing. A simple rule. If you tell yourself you are going to be at your desk tomorrow, you are by that declaration asking your unconscious to prepare the material. You are, in effect, contracting to pick up such valuables at a given time. Count on me, you are saying to a few forces below: I will be there to write.” — Norman Mailer in The Spooky Art: Some Thoughts on Writing

“[When] the thoughts rise heavily and pass gummous through my pen… I never stand conferring with pen and ink one moment; for if a pinch of ***** or a stride or two across the room will not do the business for me — … I take a razor at once; and have tried the edge of it upon the palm of my hand, without further ceremony, except that of first lathering my beard, I shave it off, taking care that if I do leave hair, that it not be a grey one: this done, I change my shirt — put on a better coat — send for my last wig — put my topaz ring upon my finger; and in a word, dress myself from one end to the other of me, after my best fashion.” — Laurence Sterne

“I learned to produce whether I wanted to or not. It would be easy to say oh, I have writer’s block, oh, I have to wait for my muse. I don’t. Chain that muse to your desk and get the job done.” — Barbara Kingsolver

“Writer’s block…a lot of howling nonsense would be avoided if, in every sentence containing the word WRITER, that word was taken out and the word PLUMBER substituted; and the result examined for the sense it makes. Do plumbers get plumber’s block? What would you think of a plumber who used that as an excuse not to do any work that day?

The fact is that writing is hard work, and sometimes you don’t want to do it, and you can’t think of what to write next, and you’re fed up with the whole **** business. Do you think plumbers don’t feel like that about their work from time to time? Of course there will be days when the stuff is not flowing freely. What you do then is MAKE IT UP. I like the reply of the composer Shostakovich to a student who complained that he couldn’t find a theme for his second movement. “Never mind the theme! Just write the movement!” he said.

Writer’s block is a condition that affects amateurs and people who aren’t serious about writing. So is the opposite, namely inspiration, which amateurs are also very fond of. Putting it another way: a professional writer is someone who writes just as well when they’re not inspired as when they are.” — Philip Pullman
Really stop waiting for your muse. These quotes came from various sources,thus including:Books Taking Up Space In The Bookshelf,Journals, and of course The Internet.
Days gone without writing: 9
Tadmar Jelly May 2018
In his eight quartet Shostakovich
externalizes his most internal self.
Using his own name
to paint the hellish moodscape of a city disassembled by violence -
    as his own body too
went to war with itself.

That doleful counterpoint of haunting melodies,
lacking all life, vibrato-less,
yet twists into demented dance.
Some demon, puckish, plucking at the strings.
And moves the observer,
uncontrollably,
in time with the music.
Joel M Frye Mar 2015
Beautiful, brutal,
"...our business is rejoicing...";
strings being tortured,
trumpets scream in agony,
tympani broken at end.
Quote by Dmitri Shostakovich.
Joel M Frye Mar 2018
Trumpets scream out in
agony for a man too
terrified to speak.
For a time, Shostakovich was not Stalin's favorite composer.
Nigel Morgan Aug 2017
I

after a bath
and the window open
I was touched
by an air of autumn
against my body
not quite towelled
hardly dry but ready
nonetheless to feel
something of the season’s
change against my fragile self

(an autumn air)


II

so very green
and multitudinous shades
holding the late afternoon
in greenness
only the towpath
measured out in sunlight
and the seat of a bench distant
providing a goal
a sensible place to aim for

we set out with her guiding hand
clasping my weakness
when a dragonfly
intricate in full sunlight
moves against a backdrop
of dark-shadowed trees
poising at eye-level
to look us over
and is off away

on our return
(from that distant bench
our goal our aim)
there a kingfisher
flashes past
and into a canal-side bush
we wait and wait hoping
to catch again the trajectory
of its miraculous flight

(canal side)

III

to whom it may concern

presumptuous I think to wish for anything
beyond one has and holds - anything
in regard to property or possessions
I have no wish to consider further
Who has what of me I disdain
and whatever it might be can only be
in my gift and surely that must be freely given
Should there be the slightest hint of dispute
I hope some Almighty Hand will
remove all and everything
to the very darkest depths

in friendship


(a letter of wishes)




IV

begun as joyous celebrations
of musical art bright and lively
on the page welcome
to the ear as to the eye

so often full of dance gentle
reflections sonorously sounding
out in playfulness
and reasoned movement


(Beethoven’s Op.18 string quartets)




V

with only the bare essentials
the most limited of means
this music grips and stirs
springing out of unisons
octaves bare chords of the fifth
and a play of rhythms
straight and straight-forward
four-square angular tight
against the beat within the bar
a simple subtlety and space
between two instruments:
the legato violin tempering
the insistent piano - always
movement no repose a constant
unwinding thread
of perilous invention
hardly a breath taken
a pause made

(on hearing Shostakovich’s Sonata for Violin and Piano)



VI

he types:

the post-box is too far way
as I must (e)mail this note today


so with no maker’s mark
this message will forego
the papered page
ink’s curved line and flow
the fold the sticky edge
the stamp well placed
the stroll with the dog
to the box along the lanes
in evening’s light
sounds of roosting birds
and flittering squeaks of bats

(an email from a former student)



VII

aware of my fragility
his gracious manner
moves me to tears
In speaking
he places every word
with infinite care
in practiced deliberation
. . . and I am crying
at his understanding
that he knows my loneliness
in dying and how I wish
to rise above
this momentary upset
to assure him I can
and will cope
that I am in his hands
He just has to say . . .


(visit to the doctor



VIII


Daily I curate the contents
of this window sill
a changing exhibition
backdrop to a sedentary life

Today: Japanese wallpaper c.1925.
Mead Cloth by Matthew Harris,
Hokusai – Mount Fuji and six cranes ( two flying)
Post card from the Pyréneées
An earthenware blackbird and thrush in a cherry tree
David Hockney, April 25 from The Arrival of Spring
Un passé plat empiétant tapestry from Madagascar.


(exhibition on a window sill)



IX

being twenty-one
seems no great age
but I remember it dimly
when adrift in my life
it came and went –
a spring and sunny day
a watch from my parents
a few cards . . .

but for you
a family day at Kew
a meal with relatives and friends
altogether a good time to remember
I so hope you will . . .


(at twenty-one)


X

To members of the London Symphony Orchestra
Ralph Vaughan-Williams is reported to have said:
‘Gentlemen, let me introduce you to the man
who writes my music.’

Unfortunate this, as his copyist Roy Douglas
had the job of deciphering the composer’s appalling
handwriting, the result of a natural
left-handedness being corrected as a child.

For me, the person who has written my music
so faithfully for fourteen years rarely dealt with
illegibility but had instead to cope with conflicts
of musical spelling.
Is this a sharp? Should this be a flat?
Do we need a cautionary accidental here?

Fortunately, he and I were not espoused as Stravinsky and
Elgar were to their long-suffering copyists, who often berated
their husbands for their inability to spell chromatic pitches
correctly. Stravinsky had an excuse: the vagaries of the octatonic scale
he often used and loved. Elgar was just ******-minded! Poor Alice . . .


(saying a warm goodbye to my copyist)


XI


to talk about yourself when
dead and gone How strange!
This need - to put in place
to sort the detail now
and so avoid confusion
What then?


An indeterminate wait
until the moment comes
the eyes won’t open
on a woken world
ears not hear
the sound of traffic
from a nearby road


there will be
an emptiness sublime
a finishing of tasks
and all those earthly
mysteries solved
and deemed complete


So this is what
we recommend
It could be this?
It could be that?

and every which way
it’s yours to choose
for rightness sake
Amen


*(the interview)
This collection of poems are to be the final part of Nigel Morgan's poetry available here on Hello Poetry. Nigel was diagnosed was terminal cancer in June 2017 and does not expect to be adding any further poetry to his on-line archive from today (15 August 2017).
Culpoetry Mar 2014
The city offers me nothing
but mortal mortar and soulless stone.
Destiny summoned me here:
to Nature, my forgotten home.

We voted against a union
and were met with derision
For all whom had hailed
a vengeful decision.

Within the distant dreams
of a broken ghostly soul.

His cryptic mind's silver lining
Weaving a fable left unforetold.

My inner voice is translucent
with rays of light, shining through
like a silhouette over water.

Echoes over my hometown
A fleeting feeling amidst the cold.

You said something, but
Your words meant nothing.

Shadows over Leningrad
Shostakovich's theme.
Shadows over Sochi
A conservative dream.

"Thou shalt not give into the gimmicks."

"An urban fox as a metaphor for societal shunning."

"Commerica & Collaborative Chaos"
"A Friendly Fascist"
micropoems and scraps of writing from my twitter and tumblr
Andie Nov 2017
your vignette fades into itself
static plays on the television
in and out my vision comes, loving
you, watching you leave me again

every night in which I incite myself to rise
on my lips lies only your name, and never yours

drifting away we know this can't last
if only it hadn't elapsed, then you could stay

Shostakovich's 15th builds in, ardent in passion I
remember your sultry dance, a pout,
a glimmer, take me back into elysian
Ariel couldn't bring you back herself
Who doesn't love the Tempest from Shakespeare?
In that
place
which is North of normality
where
insanity's just a formality
I'm sat
listening to
Dmitri Shostakovich.
Jenny Gordon Mar 2019
Or...mebbe it does.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXVI)


Tis Shostakovich.  As the trumpet thence
Seeps through my consciousness likeas t'would hail
With soothing strains I'd just as lief avail
Me of as not, in lieu of fretted sense,
What whispers to my soul to, "listen hence."?
I canna fix the nagging thought's detail
Which harps upon the ache naught salve in pale
Excuse; tis sweet to have that note fr'intents.
Men squirm if you talk babies, as it were.
I spose they want time in her *******, to
Effect whatever in themselves.  But her?
She wants to be a mother.  That won't do,
Now, lady.  So I shrug, feign like's not poor,
That I don't give a hoot.  But I do, too.

15Mar19c
One of my brothers called to ask me a question about women, haha, cuz he's a man and I'm a woman and some girl friend of his claimed something, so....  and in all the chatter which ensued, he assured me most men are actually jerks, get used to it.  What, after that? "Marry who you want."  Dandy.  Now, whom?  Yes, laugh until your sides ache.
P.S. Sorry about the rather explicit note in L10...that's how one of my uncles phrased in it warning my dad years ago that even church was not the greatest place to look for dating.
Joel M Frye Jul 2020
Tchaikovsky heard
the bipolar duality
of his nation
Rimsky-Korsakov
the mediator
between two
implacable forces
Stravinsky captured perfectly
the strident cacophony
of revolution
Shostakovich
screamed his love
for all his people
in the face of a dictator

can you not hear their music?
I hear it  on the nightly news.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
on a night such as this... where the previous one
was me completely out of it...
deciding to cycle at night...
when you just write something almost decent
and you want to laugh while:
being really terrible at balance -
gravity swerved me left, right...
i might have ****** up the gears...
at one point i decided to stop and take up
the constellations while lying on the side
of the road on the pavement...
today's moral anguish of drink left me
plugged into bbc radio 3
listening to the 2nd and 3rd act of Puccini's
La Boheme...
and then... Shostakovich's the soldier...
a take on Faust... a deal with the devil...
         came 10pm and a programme on new
music: WHACK... telepathy music...
it's coming to 1am and i've already returned
from the Goodmayes tesco with
a bottle of scotch... having another to calm
the nerves... since... like a giddy-schoolboy i'm
debating myself whether or not
i have to visit the brothel...
only hours earlier i was puking while drinking
a weak coffee...
from the excitement...
it has been... circa... 3 years since i've touched
a thigh... a pair of *******...
and... it's not exactly about getting a *******...
or forking around in some oyster-mush
of a ******...
i don't know what it is...
the 3Ps...
   i'm not going to talk to a priest...
i tried psychologists and psychiatrists...
so much for tongue waggling...
but prostitutes?
i get to talk and touch...
   plus... no need for dating... for pretences...
for games...
at the butcher's shop you come with the money
and you're not stalled...
it's not like i don't have any spare money
either... roughly £3000 on my bank account...
if i sold some **** i'd be already on my way
to some euthanasia clinic in Belgium...
there's always the need to think of a sharpened knife
and the throat...
perhaps the entire ****** of pain and
a way of: playing poker with death...
it's inescapable... death... so i guess there's only
one way out: to tease it...
the brothel... bordello...
         that 2nd is a gnostic term...
something akin to Christ wedding his mother
come the 2nd coming...
or the alternative...
the sobering language of Spinoza's
theological-political treatise...
         now listening to...
the cardigans' erase / rewind... vs....
  trevor something's into your heart...
**** me... i wouldn't be writing this if...
i put the stashed money from
a packet of cigarettes into my wallet
where i keep my bike-lock key...
well... for all the drama surrounding the b.b.c. -
radio 3 is probably the only part of the corporation
worth saving...
and it's true what they say about classic.fm
they're not tempted by something obscure
or new... with the exception of...
Ola Gjeilo... northern lights...
       or...                    Ludovico Einaudi...
i'm starting to bewilder myself...
what are the chances that i might give back
pleasure:
oh i know i'll leave dissatisfied...
the bicycle journey of circa 5 miles in 30 minutes
will be worth more...
it's a disconcerting to even think what
i might want at this point...
   3 years and... i should have gone to Prague
come January 2020...
        i wish it could be as simple as:
"i don't know what i want"...
                    maybe thinking about the economy?
after all... if i give £125 to a *******...
she'll probably spend it on things
a man wouldn't otherwise...
mind you... advertisement...
of the national lottery... £30million is invested
each week in something...
money teasing the quality of water...
it trickles... just... trickles...
handshakes and mucho kudos...
              perhaps i just want someone to massage me...
i've been suffering from a stiff neck and
terrible shoulders for almost forever...
perhaps i don't want ***...
at some point she'll probably shove it in her
gob at the altar of phallus anyway...
stiff neck... crunching of the shoulder-blades...
perhaps i'll ask her to count my ribs...
the national lottery? it's a stealth tax... isn't it?
- **** me, man! decide!
- you're going to go for a massage or not?
- i hate you...
- thank you, i hate myself also...
- oh hey presto... reformed st. Augustine over
'ere... hey! people! take a peek!
in the current climate of feminism and
transgenderism...
i'd prefer the attitude of: not paying for dinner...
giggling at the prospect of erectile dysfunction:
coming around to the madonna-*****
complex that women present: with no more
teenager baggage of her mystique...
perhaps one will slurp up my ******* clean
off... well... if i were circumcised...
and had to play the game of...
my ******* is your niqab...
   fair enough...
**** it... i want to touch "something"...
i'm done with all this carpenter *******...
i'll rub my fingers against some bricks before
i enter... that'll be double emphasis on
touching skin... that's not even work-about
leather...
why else would i have trimmed my *****
and oiled up my beard...
put on some scented wax on my hair...
hell... salsa... salt... and a bruising of knees...
an agony of pride...
lovely ***** just give me 36.5°C back...
give me goose-bumps on the back of m'ah head...
give me all that there's requiring
a composition of not being a father...
i don't need the qualms i'm pretty **** sure
there's this class that denotes them as:
breeders...
me pretending to be sober
while cycling drunk to the brothel is already
a joke that has to start with a now...
while the abyss yawns.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
a study of incremental autobiography:

    because in the english speaking lands:
to have lived... and then to write a book...
never is a life to be lived:
in order to produce a book...
somehow everything happens a posteriori...

no one writes anything: "informal"...
   all has to be lived prior...
and then the crown - the book...
to glue the pieces together...
a book like a forgotten cinema of memory...

i have here... an autobiographical sketch...
working from...
            doomsday rejects - six hundred...
but working back to
reading about the hellraiser movie...
from screenrat.com...

        because it wasn't christopher young's
soundtrack...
that was to be used... that came later...
but... coil's: unnatural history II: smiling
in the face of perversity...

gul'dan...
               sounds a bit like... doomsday rejects -
six hundred...
i will not... use the necessary...
diacritical marks to summon the turks:
for their advent of the balkans...
teasing vienna...

the old continent breathes...
while the new girth of a swelling of the birth
of h'america is: loaded with burdens
of its own making... for once...
the world is of not concern for these people...
iraq can fall asleep in its turmoil...
afghanistan can patch itself up to
the guard the Raj...
              Libya will burn wood once
more... to light the fires to brush
against a satisfying warmth come the dune
nights of teasing metaphors of...
siberia... the transition period from:
ex azia: ex azoth...

                      nouns are seemingly cheap...
no wonder the hebrews
decided: to cover their former
beloved in:
tetragrammaton and ha-shem...
emperor nero didn't see...
it wasn't about a fire...
a mythology of some prometheus...
already a new mythology occurred...
who stole the staff of zeus
the blink sharpening of odin's plucked
out eye: as... eaten by...
      huginn & muginn...

                  we are learning that some things...
are best left... unresolved...
i leave behind the hope for a romance
of dreams with arabia...
         i have written these letters down
on my hand... hours later i solved
a sudoku and ascribed them...
2, 3, 4 and 7 status...
               2 was the false h'eh (ה)
mirror bound inverted...
   i guess the remaining letters were
arabic...
         (ل) was 3... (el)
   (ك) was 4... (katta)...
    mirror mirror on
the blank canvas... ⅃ - (ך) or
the copernican gamma: Γ
                       or (ר): the rest...
                               and 7 became... (ز) zord...

in all the autobiographies you might read:
in all the autobiographies
of the "celestial" beings:
none could match... Octavian Augustus...
roddy mcdowall: mark anthony is dead...
is that how one says is... it?
the soup is hot... the soup is cold...
mark anthony is living... mark anthony is...
dead...

you don't read in an autobiography...
a monument of incremental addition having
taken place...
take a harold norse: memoirs of the ******* angel...
monuments to... a inch of snow!
a cry for help of a stone...
strapped to a... landslide!
a truly democrastic detail! away from...
the ego: emperor and life:
that last colliseum's worth of an audience!

i had to finish the day off...
by having a little bonfire...
enough... to clear the way for 2 tonnes of soil
coming tomorrow...
and the grass... and the new shed...
and a patch of felt...
to measure up... losing a shadow...
anything... absolutely everything!
to escape the hideous formality of language...
from each... and this day... to match:
an escape from this day...
ironing my father's shirts etc.
in anger... teasing a clenched fist...
against a wall to extract plums of hue
on the knuckles...
no... listening to jazz didn't help...

i started with shostakovich...
oh hell no...
i moved toward rachmaninov...
nope...
    wayne shorter: ju ju?
you ******* kidding me?
    infected mushroom - converting vegetarians...
after that... i figured: just listen to the iron...
pretend you tamed a dragon or something...
jazz might have been the modus operandi
of escapism of the beatnik poets...
well... if you had to escape...
music akin to... vera lynn...
                       frank sinatra...
                  leotard liberace...
        jim reeves... he does moon river...
better than anyone...
        bobby vinton - blue on blue...
   jazz the bet...
          who the hell thinks of escaping when
listening to classical music...
probably anyone...
who hasn't listened to...
the meat & gravy of... what came out
of... prog rock... attention span of listeners...
        escapism music...
   1950s pitch-perfect pocket-load
of the dream that could never leave the shores
of a... dying embrace...

and then of course... there's the little bonfire...
some slightly wet juniper branches...
and drying... roots of a yucca...
the white smoke... and walking into
it and walking out of it...
coming out stinking... suffocating...
revived... baptised by the smoke
and the smashing of mirrors never peered
into...

minding to have this burning done...
when the neighbours do not have
any washing out to dry...
a mini-event of democracy: retracted...
bold: loaned... words...
to cry and at the same time decry freedoms...
to lick the fire would imply
to have had a beard-trimmed...

escape? o.t.t. - younger brother...
              demdyke stair...
            and now coil...
the soft moon...        
     i could have wished to have escaped
with jazz...
         if i were trapped by jim reeves...
and classical music is...
the base: not the bass... point of departure...

but i have had my bonfire...
it did feel like...
   smoking a packet of cigarettes...
but there was no nicotine...
i saved 2 slingshots for now...
and...
                     a baptism of having
walked through the burning
of yucca roots and juniper...
               if a man like me would ever have
the blessening of a yesod: a foundation...
a throne...
his throne would be a dead oak...
and he would be hunched on top of it...
looking to the hour where his shadow would
tease the height of a mountain
in the fountain of naked eyes that peer with...
obnoxious scrutiny for: "truth" and...
child-argue "dialectics"...
    for the crown: the keter?
       i can... fathom... the pain...
                 of omniscience... mingling with...
telepathy...
       after all... is it... so... unwelcome...
one has to either suitor...
the discomforts of a crown...
                    with the comforts of the throne...
or the comforts of the crown...
with the discomforts of the throne...
           few: if they are not...
    ever managed to match:
the discomfort of the crown with the discomfort
of the throne...
i am indeed working on...
converting myself... back toward...
how the new testament is not simply
a greco-hebrew propaganda tool against
the romans...
            blah blah...
         but... point being...
how am i... to somehow... write in...
any other... ha ha! helpfully provided tongue?!
dig me from the trenches of...
what you wish to usurp...
and look how fiendish this will: per se...
this per se that crowns itself above your
omni- litany of ultimates!
breeds!
ha! convolvulaceae: morning glory...
  it will take... a ******* meteor to... rid your
quest to vanquish rome...
  ancient or modern...
                  you could... with... egyptian
hierogylphics... with babylonian cuneiform...
but... these letters: even i were to envision
what you came to perform...
the symbiosis found - your people:
the enriched people... who are blameless...
        ask the greeks: they'll simply yawn...
they'll sooner find the original...
in line with a greco-cyrillic parody to amuse
themselves of:
how the slavs entertained communism
that was tested on the mongols...
and how... for all the progressive allure of "left":
in the west.... blah blah...
         i can't undermine...
the ALPHABET!
              for the worth of an idea...
   it's hardly: the same as... the standard rubric
measure of spelling...
         the arabs find spacing a problem...
between punctures of digital roman...
it was always a problem...
  
              the hebrews knew it... they didn't need
to find the Ned or: keeping up with
handwritten scribbles...
the hebrew were waiting for the latin script
men to abolish handwriting and come to terms
with: letters = numbers = digits...
not chinese ideograms...
but no ******* fiver-river-flows of the greeks...
the arabs tried forever...
to imitate the weaving of the hand that
was writing... cut them apart...
crude... crude oil... about to be bull-whipped
and litmus tested... yacht *****-boys...

               ثــاـت

   (that)... i can't undermine the latin text
when i'm given no alternative to write in...
   glagolitic script? really?
  so what... bombard me
with angry-albino-*****-цeppelins?!
blitцkrieg my *** to what?
hopes for the polish-lithuanian times...
and the cossack uprising...
that... romance... sort-of... novel?

what's being question in... zee vest?
cheap ***** history novellas...
less nomad and more undercover work...
about to be subdued...
or not...
          less the diaspora as work...
and... waiting for the diaspora...
                      
thus to the lottery of *******...
the concept of...
    the gravure model...
            say... ai shinozaki...
                 beside the crude base...
page 3 milk cow **** of the eyes...
and the otherwise: niqab blinking and
touching in the dark...
a blank a limp biscuit worth
of phallus...
the collab. of iggy pop and 'avid bowie
in berlin...
ms. porcelain...
   gravure models and...
the joy of insinuation...
**** as... the mona lisa efffffffff
ffffffffect...

how... somehow: the display of feeding pouches
of seranading... buttocks inverted:
pouches of... ****
is to be mis... categorized...
as such: and not as such:
cushions...
better that i am deemed simply to exist...
rather than have... any sort of life:
abounding in me...

*** as an insinuation...
not this... perverted third person:
**** in the way sort of...
"oops"...
       i much prefer the asiatic:
nuance toward the credibility of
any ****** encounter...
the nearly squinting over the arabic
load of make-up and excess
of niqab...
           priest over pin-head...
and much more... hovering like a noose...
a halo... above the suffocating circumstance
of the ditto-head...

   that somehow the milk vessels
are topsy-turvy:
*****-**** one minute...
and... 12" ***** looking to preserve
their *** sit-on kumbayah
for the... the last lost genius
of the zodiac killer...
                  i have pardonable proof...
the crusades never took place...
or never is the never of:
finding... the philosopher's "stone":
the antithesis of res cogitans...
res vanus...
the unthinking "thing"...
       the non-thinking...
clues up horizontal...
laying back: vertical...
              
        i have to allow my shadow
this much... space...
paintbrush and canvas... and....
limits of a grief...
one that anyone can succumb to...
but: so few: fool-hearted
devolve to express...
            
   it's not that the language
is so bothersome...
but the **** is... has...
reached a fever...
       the white fluid of a woman
of body has been excavated far enough:
what ****... what *******...
what joke... what village bicycle...
harem of the eire and the ******...
what...

i like the affairs of the gravure idol...
this to tease: this to taste...
this to cleave to... this leads to unrest...
because i am never...
the third party: the culprit ******...
better than a *** doll...
and it makes you "think"...
the european counter-brave...
forward... come einstein-frankenstein...
"ism"...
              some of these...
gravure idols...
they're not photoshopped...
they're... genetically improved...
aesthetics of man...
losst count at 100,000 million...
and ther are a billion worth
of replicas...
it's not that there's something cheap
to concern oneself with...
it's that... there's always room for
improvement...
          they're not photoshopped...
inclined with liquid dead...
jelly confied... ***** wanks...

            i much like... *** as an insinuation...
rather than... being "date-*****"
by an image...
    that ball load of phallus
in the way of gratifying me from my
one true: serial trace of metaphysical
translation of: hunger...
there's that... there's also...
the concern for... a canary...
and the cage and the wolf and the world
that: just so happens...
cried a privy demand for:
being looted with one's intestines
being... untangled and readied
to compensate one's concern for
making it an item:
for clarifying: ....      measure!

who is... "ralph phiennes" without...
psychiatric membranes...
without: prescribed... limitations of...
chemical soups?
     the same as a john malkovich?
who is... "ralph fiennes"?
          lord voldermort...
but as an amalgam of...
         francis dolarhyde and...
                   dennis "spider" cleg...
what is also a bride & groom...
of beckett and kafka...
                         and... that...

  one sometimes... would wish... to know...
what one's prescribed medication are concerned
with... and what... they're... not...

yes... this is enough; for the worth
of a day: and now... a... towed....
today.

— The End —