strictness ruled down,
ruled out, cursive,
signposted in Times New Roman,
the ninth letter of an alphabet
I struggle to breathe within,
the marker for my psyche,
the superlative, objective,
somewhat subjective and lost in ego,
twisted between tibia, fibula,
the pronoun scarred across
the canvas of my skin,
the myriad,
in want of you,
always needing less,
or more, or less,
an apology,
a last kiss
a hesitation;
I.

The road continues to its vanishing point on the horizon —
where over-ambition falls to earth as delusion
and toil is sublimated into wonder.

Will you travel with me?
Will you relinquish the almost right and the fairly good?
Can you scrape away the detail from the essence?

Navigation may be difficult.
There is a route to perfection, but it is not signposted.
Sometimes tarmac gives way to dirt and mud.

The light is fading, now.
Eventually, sleep will be unavoidable.
Tomorrow, we can steal the lightening.

on
        albatross wings
                                      i flew
                                            inspired to fledge
and grow out & off
                          my comfortable nest
                                                            my wings
        i did expand from small tight
             to broad - broad wide

thanks to you
                    who signposted
                             my wild flight of fancy
                                                             who fed me

from their private stash of goodies

                               who saw me fly up on the edge              

             of reason on majestic wings

                         if but for
                                                     a season.....
maybe two.....

it’s the old Schengen Theory in psychology,
casually utilise vowels as pronouns,
but then theorise ancient pronouns
as theory based non-vowels: the self (germanic / invading)
and the ego (latin / origins of still using a - z)...
then apply the ditto membrane concern for space,
which will provide you with all the time in the world
to go back from the practical into theoretical that’s
free from having empirical theory interacting with the empirical practice
known as the sedative of life: mistake: life: en route death: life: some
other mistake:
life: don’t know: life: maybe tomorrow: life: maybe never: life:
i wish: life: well at least my saturday is occupied with movies;
they did the trick of of theorising you wearing a suit and doing it
commando in the missing underwear by structuring
an impetus to pause with stating: i said
                                                            ­ äußern  sjalrf
                                                  ­           id scribo;
it’s still a contest... heavyweight champ rom apex jr.
is fighting alarik orca schrei - with the former fighting to get rid
of  ‘ from e, and the latter to attach : to u to make ü:
oddly enough the saracens in sicily were
slavs who wrote ę and ą... otherwise it's all geographically
adequate to push rome down from the top,
with the majority of accents coming above the a, b, c... zee...
although the western slavs were an oddity in that respect...
but then a part of my family is said to have been
hungarian or czech... with surnames like batuk and not
batóg... and the cousin of some cousin
marrying my great-grandfather's sister ending up
with the surname saracen... it's a shame i can't
join in the festivities of the 21st century humanity
because of jealousy that didn't mature to the extent
i wished it had... and the god that suddenly appeared
from the ashen tabernacle of the holocaust in the night:
antichrist to satan... guess what, milton was completely wrong...
i went in there to steal the blood of the messiah
signposted wine... and i came back with blackcurrant juice!
can you believe it?
satan to the antichrist: well thank **** that you didn't
choose the bread... i came back with the apple of eden
and it turned to ash... god knows what the bread of the
messiah would have turned into.
anti-buddha: hallucinogenic mushrooms...
                                (insert laughter among duck noises).

A letter knocks
Knuckled to drop
Conversations features
Reservations deterred
Words so sincere as they read
“At Todi in Umbria, St Illuminata, ******”

She is the one,
A bearer of light
Holding a spear on one hand
Whilst the torch beams the other
She is the one,
A past patron
Holding a script on one hand
Whilst a caution teams the other
She is the one,
Knowing the stormy seas
In between the islands that separate
She is one,
Now an angel with a message
an illumination from the passage
She is the one
The buried meaning in the rumble
Married to the whispering mumble

St Illuminata, the ******
In **** citing recitals
St Illuminata, the saint
In moon a might accidental
St Illuminata, the ******
In a fresco of expressions
St Illuminata, the saint
A disciplined follower

St Illuminata, St Illuminata
Where is the battle
The conflict that never wins
St Illuminata, St Illuminata
The martyr of their holy causes
A magician of confusion
Rolled in the wind of ails
Spreading a blessing of demise
To get attention of his rise
The exploded land mines
Inside the grieve and heaves
Within the signposted graves
The boats that set only to sink
As the gunshots destroy
The ploy on the forts
All the sides of convictions
Inconvenient progressions
St Illuminata, in a convent

some things take time to ferment

savoured and ****** like a boiled sweet

until you come to a clear and signposted path

I'm here by some historical
accident of migration whereby
my ancestors passed by Spain
and France en route to where
was no doubt not signposted.

But I left and came back again
so there can be no excuses and
certainly no sympathy for my
current desolate predicament
on the last stop before America.

turn them on
run them out
pour it up
there's gold in them thar hills
he's chuckled, knowing he's knocked it out
of the
park

but they were less than impressed
distressed by the same stanzas
percolating within the
diary of a
faded gadfly
never to
recover
earlier
victories

you can have it all
sighing
signposted
signals