gravitate in me
   ever so
    s    l     o    w       l        y
  and ineffablycontinuousforgetthehaltandpressonlikeahandtoapageturning­adayandforgettingthenight,

   a featherlight detritus,
       or matutinal climb vertical among
    hills, this is you in most fervent memory:

    snowing now endlessly,
     i slalom through the obstacles
       of you without no clear sight
         of tomorrow.

"Thus fought the heroes, tranquil their admirable hearts, violent their swords,
resigned to **** and to die." – Jorge Louis Borges, The Garden of Forking Paths

stoic labyrinthine sparrow-bone;
there is a slalom down your gullet,
bayonet curled around your neck,
you have a beak, you are *****-smooth,
have rubble for skin, an emaciated infinity:
everything is fractal so eat your words
they are you are your rusty toenails
every footstep is a holocaust there’s
genocide under your neurons,
watch them flex and shiver.

you have soft plastic lips,
there is a vacuum in your gullet,
a box cutter carving
through your adam’s apple:
epileptics are just indecisive,
when they seize hold their tongues
they are their words you are a god
are oppenheimer and shiva,
pick favorites it doesn’t matter
it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter
flex and shimmer we are just neurons
flatlines are not ghoulish nooses,
paraplegics are just cowards,
move with conviction each step
is a genocide, you have wooden
teeth and woolen wings,
thrashes are a velveteen sunset
an edible fog, your stomach
is a stomach do not eat the fog
just know that someday it will **** you
softly and swiftly.

it doesn’t matter it doesn’t matter:
infinity is not recursive
alive is not our default state
once is the only route
blood makes the blade holy
if you cut me i will bleed,
i won't blame you just know
you were only ever
that very moment.

The terrifying teeth chatter into the crimson lips of a wound up smile, chattering along the very risen table top that draws all small toys to their finite dooms. While breaths sour hour upon hour, each idling ear suffocates the last gasping breaths of its epicurean syllabic tongue, drizzling down the stomach like melt water from a cubic glacier in an ornamental silver tub, and sternly quibbles the stem-like dactyls drawing rose champagne into a fissure of the brain's tumescent humming.

Each finger tips' nail rouge and red, each dry crevice sewn into the knuckles, and a leaflet on sadism near the scratchy illegible lines whittled on the topside of the wrists and the slalom runs of the ankle. The ankle sinister. The ghost-like hallow sockets of where eyes could have once be seen. Plaster and albicant-like dying death white skins forbade from the Flushing streets where the jazz dance once began. And with each nellypotted hop, three useless nuisances could not carry the bridle towards each nearly favorite sound that curiosity enslaved man to lean towards.

The women weirded out by corners, plastic-wrapped furniture in outdoor corridors, where sinners veil their retreats into state run triage centers. Fake plastic countertops built from fake plastic trees. With an M14's muzzle stiffening and shuttering, she who vents off her cured romances will always find herself flaccid on rubber knees. The disease of the plea, is once more an affectation of not falling for royalty but instead the royal we. There is this weapon of fraud that perplexes geneticists, that enslaves heterosexuals, where albeit nor the time or place, she venerates the libations that her mind creates, she lubricates her cells, dressing, her skin ripening, heaven trickling across her humble nape, where gentleness is only a fool's disease and need.

She. We. Heathens of eternity bowing our breaths in grand hyperbole see. I see she, and she sees me.

As we start this solemn slalom towards a day that ends engorged,
with stomachs bloated whilst we gloated and toasted a perfect day,
let us remember that December has more days than the 25th.

Mass consumerism has voided homemade, love made gifts.
Orange? In a stocking? That is shocking,
the kid asked for an X-box bundle.

Now, I'm not from the distant past, just the 1970's/80's
Where Christmas carols played alongside a Wham's 'last Christmas'
as we ate our immense repast and pulled a sad ******* or two.

Now, gifts are tiny (but show immense expense)
Most perplexing is this new time of year that Kris Kringle
Would undoubtedly mingle slamming a tequila or two!

Now, kitted out in new underwear
(Ironically cherubic rhymes with *****!)
it's time to offer salutations to the incoming year
with no backward glance or hindrance
We say "Happy New Year"

I scratched lyrics into the walls of this dump they call joint
finally became a tree with branches, wrote new raps every night
working out like crazy, punched my hands into walls
just like oldboy, then i became steel, endlessly tough

as my lucky number, this eight
tizzops became more popular, but never an other
sticking out my chest, ******* away all stress
albanians against serbs, greeks against turks

everything broken, everything in shards
but then comes Marissa, and she's calming me
i'm getting calm, getting calm, become
the old tizzop again, a ******* and thief

but everybody likes me, I remain --
tizzops, spreading fistfights like the Klitschko's
and I'm the most faithful, when I really feel love
not just talking about females, all my brothers

get nuttin but respect, their souls are wit me
most peeps live rushing lives, in our rushing times
they talk briefly, cause they don't know their inner
i'm not ridiculing them, cause they simply lack the words

they are lost and questions are flowing out of their ears
since they have no brothers or sisters to lean on
lifestyle like a frantic slalom, but I'm not wit 'em
putting stickers on the franchise, just to get by

I dominate every day; like the magic of the night
my raps are mania for me, me, and for me
cause I love and I have *** with my lyrics
forever being a chaser: where is Jason, baby?

without him, I won't make it through the night
life is infinity like eight, I feed you a knuckle sandwich
can you hear my c**k whistling? dem are *******-songz
straight out of my *****, suddenly millions of fanz

Was she but the fallen
Come down to raise an Arcadian hell,
Avoiding peace in graceful slalom,
Encased in her callous breathing shell,

Most would describe her as the Cacodemon,
With the eyes of baleful sin,
Defined by her nefarious inner demon,
That had beguiled her sanity to its whim,

She breathed of ethereal indignation,
Sought upon her by trenchant thoughts,
Damning her for indulging in feelings as dissipation,
By those who seek defamatory purity as frauds,

She was the unwanted succubus,
Whose earnest beauty cost too high a price,
Her darkly alluring convictions were a neuritis,
Brought too bare all adamant admirers vice,

She was thought to be the rakshasa,
Condemned for safeholding her own heart,
Not wanting persue any psychodrama,
Not wishing for a reckless counterpart,

So she clinged to her hellhounds,
To hold at bay any contemptuous intruder’s,
And so they dub her hell bound,
Ignorant of her past patronizing prosecutors.

She is the Cacodemon,
As she shuts her gates from all,
Trusting none acclaimed shaman,
As she has already been judged to fall

Such a wind today! The air
seems almost solid. Impossible
to go out in it.

Swifts invoking anti-gravity
lean on the air with sickle wings,
slice upward through it;
hang weightless at the peak,
then accepting the pull of earth,
hurtle downhill on kamikaze ski-run,
a mutual slalom, each avoiding
a hundred twisting obstacles;
alter their angle to the air, and rise again
up invisible gradients,
a swooping, soaring ballet with the wind,
its complex choreography
conceived in the tiny brains
of a hundred separate birds.

One pair, suddenly detached,
wings fluttering, wheel and plunge,
circle each other in an aerial
ice-dance pas de deux,
stunt kites without strings;
return to the flock, and are replaced
by another, and another, virtuoso couple.
The whole etherial stage is full
of improvisational star turns.

Such a wind! Impossible
for this earthbound human
to go out in it.
I'll stay and watch the show.

I.* there is no thicker undergrowth than feeling. first to go is reason, everything
    else levitates into something graver than say, one foot deep  in the grave
     and the other somewhere off-tangent like an offbeat adagio zigzagging
      into slammed slalom.

II. the crush of oregano against mortar, and the clasping of a hand. carbon monoxide
      fades into air as youth takes on momentousness. take for instance this once soft
    hand like a breath of cotton in a precipitate noon: once whirling in claustrophobic
      space, this slight inch of feelingfulness is dazed into the span of *Maya windhovering
       somewhere unseen like paramours *******.

III. from the window you can feel the bluster of falsetto disintegrate at its slouched peak,
       and from where you hear it, a dance thwarts itself like a cigarette ember
       convulsing mid-air – that slow, repugnant twitch: that is you, when you first
        broke your silence in thick shrouds of disgust over strobe-lighted simian jaw.

IV. what else is there but to take this sour ocean in front of me and decode something
       the blue always means mellow but the froth of white something the tragic caprice
        of tropic: some nights, they remind me of bodies careening repeatedly; some days
                    they just are, like you, just are, like a riot and only sound, or sleep and only
          reticence, something short of wonder and terse with reply.

V. there is a cluster of harmonies flowering in my mind when the sensurround of din
        starts conflagrations in the ornate dark of ear. my limbs snake in the garden
        of plank, my shin bitten in sharp reiterations – my mind crossing the equinox
         looking for shade, or possible, a parasol underneath the crimson of rain.
           say this is the sky, this dense space when I motion both hands into a length
       not an inch could ever devour. suddenly a boy made out of a man, flustered
        in jangled arpeggios and unapologetic thought like a letter of debt opened,
         paying no heed the mind and only what the body dictates: a smash on the
    escritoire or vigorously scratching scalp, reopening scabs and watching
                old blood ooze dry like a lightweight webbed impression
  of       a    dreamy legato.

VI. the night deepens with the warmth of its black upholstery – we do not know
      when to stop and bid for home. last to go is will of force and first to arrive
     in the bleakness like a recalcitrant thought often straying outside with the
       strut of a yuppie, fervor of old haunt. i conjure an image over the cold chair,
    its steel framework thighs untouched, its four decrepit legs the foundation
       of something that refuses to admit its weakness. the very base of what would
   catch the anchorage of my gravity, the very heart of all, and the flattened back
      with a vandal that says “Soleil was here.” the liver shattering in the trance
                    of everything.

VII. night is stupor. i am the lilt of words from a rambunctious machine.         there seems to be an afterthought that separates
                       a concept of vastness and the tactility of narrow ether.
        a word is uttered in extremis - something heaven eschews
                with its bright, arrogant face.

Clenching teeth but giving in involuntarily,
Bending over touching earth rather warily,
Is adverb use in poetry supposed to be sparingly?

Clouded visage, clouded sky, clouded meaning,
Don't look for nuggets or rainbows for gleaning,
I am in pain, is that not plain to read, I am leaning

The fire in the belly is not a positive sign, not by design,
Put SOS up the flag pole in a strong breeze, three ensigns,
Save Our Sanity, I will walk on the wild side, slalom the road signs,

Till the bright lights of headlights silhouette the way...and
I stand real still on ... a single dot dot dot
                                                       dash dash dash
                                                              dot dot don't.

I'm  different. It was known,
but yesterday it was understood.
This is why:

On Mondays I ask the questions that have no answer,
and my answers have no question.
Around noon I search for the space between orange and green,
then I listen for the songs between tomorrow and the future.
At 11:11 PM I try to choose between the bittersweet perfume of her sweat
and the scent of the magnolia flower in your hair.

I measure time by counting the blinks of my eyelids,
The wings of my thoughts fluttering without a purpose.
I'm dollar wise and penny foolish.
I give to all and yet I'm selfish.

In my head my poetry sounds like a cracked guitar,
and my music like a breeze rustling through the cherry flowers in May.
I close my eyes to see the world's beauty
and the pain makes me rejoice the eternal truth of life.
I gamble with my feelings and I'm cold to all.  
I see myself in all my friends and hate human condition,
but love the road I'm  given by blind luck.

Crossing a bridge I always pray for safety
but I slalom between my inner dragons,
crashing every once in a while,
scars visible on my dried knees,
tears frozen in time and space.

One rainy day, on the old barge on the wide river,
My left foot slipped on my autistic realm
and I  stomped my right foot on my genius
(if telling the future qualifies as a special gift).
My big toe said:
"you toad, where did you learn to dance, 'cause you are gnarly good."
I ignored the voice,
but that's when I had the first sign of it,
Of my strangeness.

Inversion of twilight
before-dawnness
a lightening of sky
giving shape and substance
to the guessed-at
in the dark

Snow
this morning
though

so the chestnut trees
curving across the hillside

usually opaque
in the park pre-dawn

now magically revealed
by still precipitous air

a first fall on silver
drawings of branches

A silence too
of sorts: a deadening
the tentative movement of cars
where a hiss of the tyre
is now compressed
to a thuck of the wheel

Two dark dogs paw-deep
slalom down the hillside
sending up the snow-spray
like puppies they are not

verily this evening, from the veranda
i smell the fragrance of their arrivals.

the tall, slender, stockinged women
swaying like bamboo in the wind.

the admirals in white commandeering
vessels — the shear of wind, a tractable beast.

the ploys of men to woo the darling,
  the hesitations of dames cloaked
in obvious handiwork of skirts.

they slalom through life's rugged streets
like blueprints of doors revealing
  benign propaganda.

it is all too real to me. i have lived
behind the shadow of words.

it is all that i am cut up for — doting on
it still, yet a nonexistent blossom.

hearing them leave the interior of walls,
soldering the notoriety of burdens.
witnesses drowned in water,
their muffled voices reinvent the quietude. there is a dailiness overmastered by them, such rampant
mendaciloquence denied by me.

i move past cataracts of crowds
and hunt for the silence: this importunate need that feeds my bloodthirsty being.
i awaken the sleeping prowess
of words and listen to them.

now, leave me with my ocean.
i was meant to ***** in the blue
and froth like the last of unburied water,
  dreaming of fish.

After sweeping clear the grounds
The boys were sent to wash the showers.
You once wore your hair like they did—
Skull-tight shave, except for the top,
Where a thin layer was allowed.
I remember how they tossed soap
Onto the floor and bent down to scrub
While others laughed and slid through the water,
Their rough feet leaving slalom trails
Of bubble over the cerulean tiles.

I can only summon feelingfulness like the passing of a dove,
postponing its arrival mid-air, somewhere along the tucked
bramble across Poblacion, starting with metaphorical sensibility
or an insensibly bland space to procure wanted meaning.
Girls prefer roses and their bright foreheads diademed with more
flowers, and boys, their chiaroscuro or lack of a color thereof, seems
to be fitting in this maladroit contrast, and so I begin, as always,
with your very vague and caged memory. Your face, the whiteness
of snowcapped alps. Your strut, my slalom in a treacherous course
of words reduced to whisperings, to flutings. Your voice, though nuanced,
flitters with an overtone of arrogance: if sound was clothed, yours would
be flamboyant ermine. And the line in front of you before I, my arbitrary turn,
assimilates into a picturesque form of waiting somewhere in Cubao.
I wanted to smash myself with train-speed towards the metallic turnstile,
which, would then famish me even so, just as much as I wish to be a car crash
somewhere within the outskirts of your town, heavily vandalized by the swill
of squalor hefting itself like the rest of the world conscious of its viscera.
  This is how I start you – like waiting for the sun to emerge by Borobudur,
or the clandestine *** of mildew and grass, a hundredfold of images appear
before me and I cannot choose upon my whims and caprices. Are you a dove?
A spear of Sun? A thunderous crackle of an impending rain? A harlequin?
A moseying cirrus? Or just another by-stander in the crowds where I ultimately
seek your being?
      This answerlessness measures my knowledge of star, and my breath snuffed
out of me while I sigh from exhausted penchants, outweigh dissimilarities and symmetries.
A progeny from all superseding conundrums arises: are you a retrogression of a wave
back to its saltine wound, flailing in brine? Or are you just the vast sea and nothing else
on a fine and lucid day where children skip stones and chant name-callings?
                   I sense the peril in this undertaking, and much to my chagrin, I still
   do not know how to end you.

My heels clip on
London concrete.
My hamstrings strain
To increase my stride.
I slalom around
Pavement zombies,
Phone junkies,
Loitering monkeys.

Don’t they see?
I’m late for a meeting
With a client of grandeur.
A key player.
A major money man.
(I can’t drop the name
Due to a
Signed NDA).

It was suppose to be
A blue sky meeting
On a grey winters morning.
But I slept too long,
And the tube
Went wrong,
And now I’ve
Got the dreads.

If I’m late,
My rep will be tarnished.
I’ll never secure
Another meeting again.
Because in this town,
Time is a diamond
We can’t possess.
But we know it exists;
Out there on the outskirts,
Out there in the sticks.

It’s below freezing but I’m
Working a sweat;
A pavement cardio,
A sidewalk rodeo,
A street athletics show.
There’s no way I am going
To be on time.
It’s curtains for me;
I’ve sealed my P45.

Finally I arrive.
I collapse at the entrance,
My power-walk ending
In a muted reception.
I approach the desk.
‘Yes?’
Glared a future
X-factor entrant.

‘Good morning.
I’m here to see
The top brass.
The big cheese.
The head honcho.
I was delayed, but please,
Pass my humblest regrets,
I am spinning a lie
Which I hope he accepts.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’
The young lady chewed.
‘The Great Man is away,
Tanning on a beach.
You’ll need to reschedule;
He returns in two weeks.’

Entering the forest
not really knowing why
I took chance to step upon a worn path

Though shaded beneath the canopy
the way was plain to see

Here and there rays of light
fought their way through the leaves
preventing the theft of my sight
removing the darkness
left behind from the night

The sun seldom dawns on the forest floor you know

The path I was following
was reminiscent of a slalom course
winding its way
through trees which were ever increasing
in their height and girth
taking me ever deeper
into the very heart of the forest

Before me appeared an opening
there was a great abundance of sunlight

As I drew closer
there at the center
I could see what must have been
the mother of all trees

The picture I saw
appeared strange to me
upon its branches
it looked as if there were the leaves
of the oak
of the elm
of the maple
of the birch and beach trees alike
all upon the same tree

My curiosity peaked
it was mixed with
the fear of the unknown

There at the base
of this trees great massive trunk
was the answer to why
I felt the need to enter this great wooded area

I had only heard of the Green Man before
never really believing that he existed

Then to my amazement
he spoke to me

“As the life of all trees are nourished
by the flow of the same life giving sap,
all human life is nourished
through the same blood”  

“As all trees are one with creation,
all men are one with the trees”

“All the minute portions of creation
are part of the one whole,
we are all one”

Slow peek
Whiskers twitch
Pause
Little twitch
Nostrils flare
Pause
-
Immediate acceleration
Straight-ahead scurry
Speedy tick-tack of claws on hard floor
Cat appears
Screechy scratchy panic spinner
Ducking skidding
Heart racing
Slalom chair legs
Cat crashing, collapsing
Running home hungry
Barely in time
-
Re-prepare to retry

I just thought you should know
it doesn’t matter if you stay or go
we live in a grave of souls
as slaves in tow
behind time and weather
like free floating feathers
slowly turning into leather
until we can float no more
like a boat with no shore
submerged underwater
with no dirge for the slaughter
we’re just purged to the bottom
as we swerve down this slalom
to the base of our column
where we find the mystery of death
before figuring out life
the whole time we’re in debt
until we see the light.

i speak with a light slalom tone with not threat nor fear. when i speak i only hear the heart of caring that will set free all the trap'd souls that have walked restlessly not able to feel free. when i talk my soft tone voice heals the broken  ****** ones. no one should fear me when theirs nothing to be angry  about. this world i have nothing to fear i am just hear for one reason that can pick up the fallen till i can run till the riots become less over run that will stop the death. i use my soft tone voice to heal to make my own statements known to the public. you can take my and ruin my life.  i'm not a threat to public life i'm more a raid of normal people and society itself. i now that my down fall will destroy every thing comes crashing down with no survivors even allowed to escape. my down fall will be like a nuclear melt down. nothing in my path will  be left. my soft tone voice will leave a mark on this world before i will let go and fall releasing every thing losing what the point of trying on reality. i may be broken destroyed hurt life less even soul less but i will never let go till i make my mark and impression on society even tho i'm scared as hell to be with big crowds  and people normal people scare me when i don't trust what things will happen to me in the end .

Droplets on the ceiling
Water slalom on the wall
The joy of life is in the air
And I hope I don’t fall

Puddles are created
Hair clinging to my hand
Bubbles forming everywhere
A beach without the sand

I know that this is all my fault
I offered gifts with joy
I didn’t know my dog would use
The water as a toy

So here I sit drenched through and through
With laughter and much fun
Next time I think I’ll fill the tub
Outside and in the sun

Entering the forest
not really knowing why
I took chance to step upon a worn path

Though shaded beneath the canopy
the way was plain to see

Here and there rays of light
fought their way through the leaves
preventing the theft of my sight
removing the darkness
left behind from the night

The sun seldom dawns on the forest floor you know

The path I was following
was reminiscent of a slalom course
winding its way
through trees which were ever increasing
in their height and girth
taking me ever deeper
into the very heart of the forest

Before me appeared an opening
there was a great abundance of sunlight

As I drew closer
there at the center
I could see what must have been
the mother of all trees

The picture I saw
appeared strange to me
upon its branches
it looked as if there were the leaves
of the oak
of the elm
of the maple
of the birch and beach trees alike
all upon the same tree

My curiosity peaked
it was mixed with
the fear of the unknown

There at the base
of this trees great massive trunk
was the answer to why
I felt the need to enter this great wooded area

I had only heard of the Green Man before
never really believing that he existed

Then to my amazement
he spoke to me

“As the life of all trees are nourished
by the flow of the same life giving sap,
all human life is nourished
through the same blood”

“As all trees are one with creation,
all men are one with the trees”

“All the minute portions of creation
are part of the one whole,
we are all one”

Cali
I've received your best
today

and
may I have another
please

'cause
that was a downhill
samosa

sizzling
from the rendering fryer
and laughing

thrown
against curves and turns
slalom

downhill
to the cafe bar
and order

It seemed as though he
           was practicing for a
        downhill slalom without
                a pair of ski's,

         And were it not a field
         adjacent to the assylum
         I would have assumed
                  as much, but

      Perception is deception, as
     I was to discover when I was
     told that he was the famous
Mallow man known as Rick O'Shea.

harry was  a hare an athelete was he
a contestant in games he just long to be
sliding down the slopes he just love to ski
travelled of to  Beijing far across the sea

skiing for his country along with all the rest
to win a big gold medal he would do is best
harry sat there waiting till they called his name
to ski in the olympics was is only aim

now is time had come for him to have go
sliding in the slalom sliding through the snow
harry see set off as fast as fast can be
in and out of poles for all the world to see

harry broke the record for the fastest pace
won a big gold medal he had won the race
his dream it had come true happy now was he
now the fasted hare that made history.

It seemed as though he
          was practicing for a
       downhill slalom without
               a pair of ski's,

         And were it not a field
        adjacent to the asylum,
        I would have assumed
                 as much, but:

     Perception is deception, as
    I was to discover, when I was
     told that he was the famous
Corkman, known as Rick O'Shea!

.

      It seemed as though he
         was practicing for a
      downhill slalom without
              a pair of ski's,

        And were it not a field
       adjacent to the Lee Rd.
       I would have assumed
                as much, but:

    Perception is deception, as
   I was to discover, when I was
    told that he was the famous
Corkman, known as Rick O'Shea!


Ps.

The Lee Road is a nut house in Cork.