'Souvenir' comes from the french word meaning remembrance. It is an almost universal behavior to collect tiny mementos while traveling, some tangible object that holds all of the intangible memories and joy that came with the moment. Souvenirs are a quite lovely sentiment when you really think about it - before the plastic and mass-production and tourism industry come into the picture. In Japan, souvenirs are called omiyage, which travelers bring back home to loved ones and friends as a sort of apology for their absence, a way of saying "sorry you couldn't make it" or "wish you were here."
Today, the top ten most popular souvenirs are ornaments, t-shirts, postcards, shot glasses, tattoos, sand in a bottle, fridge magnets, tea towels, key rings, and random gifts. My mother has chosen to cherish the seventh most popular form of souvenir: fridge magnets. Manmade refrigerator magnets were popularized in the 1960's for educational and functional purposes but very quickly evolved into fun and inexpensive decor. She has so many state shaped magnets from all around the US, and a few from outside of it.
The thing with my mother though, is that she has always been a self-proclaimed homebody. I sometimes worry that she has agoraphobia but I think most of it is just that she never really had the opportunity to explore the world outside of the dead end street she grew up on (and still lives on to this day). She was raised by her grandfather who was a merchant marine and traveled often during her childhood, but she married and had kids at a young age and never really had the time or money to go on her own adventures. She was a stay-at-home mom to my four siblings and I, as well as to all of the neighborhood kids. Her door and arms and ears were always open for them. Now those neighborhood kids are all grown and so am I and they're off having their own kids and I'm off having my own adventures, but we all make a point to bring her back a magnet from the places we visit.

The wide variety of magnets you can find in a single gift shop in every city surprised me at first. There is now an art to choosing the perfect one for my mom - I went to four different shops in Portland, Oregon trying to find the perfect one. I never found the perfect one but still, that's dedication. I stray away from the boring traditional ones with the state name and shape (although this type is one of the less creative neighborhood kids go-to) and try to find ones that will make her laugh or show her some of the culture or sights from the city instead.
A green-eyed squirrel from North Carolina, a candy skull from Cancun, the mysterious Bigfoot from Washington, a sailboat from Maryland, a front porch with a lamppost from Puerto Rico, manatees from Central Florida, and entirely too many Los Angeles cityscapes and Smoky Mountain bottle openers adorn the kitchen. So many, in fact, that she ran out of room on the refrigerator and had my dad mount a magnetic board in the kitchen hallway to fit them all.

I know it makes her happy to see all of her children having these experiences and seeing the world but most of the time it just makes me sad that she couldn't be there with me. I hate to think that she ever looks at them and feels like she's missed out on too much or that we held her back in any way, though I know she would never admit that. We bring her souvenirs so she can live vicariously through us, so that she can cherish our memories in place of her own. Even now that I've moved away, I mail her magnets from Florida as an apology for my absence.  
I rate them three out of five stars.

The business man, the acquirer vast,
After assiduous years, surveying results, preparing for departure,
Devises houses and lands to his children—bequeaths stocks, goods—funds for a school or hospital,
Leaves money to certain companions to buy tokens, souvenirs of gems and gold;
Parceling out with care—And then, to prevent all cavil,
His name to his testament formally signs.

But I, my life surveying,
With nothing to show, to devise, from its idle years,
Nor houses, nor lands—nor tokens of gems or gold for my friends,
Only these Souvenirs of Democracy—In them—in all my songs—behind me leaving,
To You, who ever you are, (bathing, leavening this leaf especially with my breath—pressing on it a moment with my own hands;
—Here! feel how the pulse beats in my wrists!—how my heart’s-blood is swelling, contracting!)
I will You, in all, Myself, with promise to never desert you,
To which I sign my name.

After the Big War,
his uncles came home
(some of them)
different men but
bearing souvenirs
of devastation.

One was a rifle,
a Karabiner-98,
with stains of death
on its wooden stock.

His uncle wouldn't say
just how he got it.

When his uncle died,
the weapon came to him.

It spoke to him
of glory and bravery.

He was proud to hold
that dead German's gun.

Not many years later,
he returned, shattered,
from his own war.

His only souvenirs
burned in his head.

One *** shrouded night
he tossed the rifle into
the Susquehanna River.

Never again did he
own another weapon.

Comes a time for the
circle to be broken.

cig by cig
              i am
                     taking
                             my life away

           one cig at a time
one pulse at a time

so long souvenirs
useless memories
/ red /scars and bruises

Obsession is a gun.
It points right to your head, willing to shoot.
It either glues your heart together or shatters it through.
You feel ecstatic, yet you feel blue.
It's an addiction, you were brought to.
Nobody gets it, you feel alone.

Your mind is scratched with a name that repeats itself endlessly,
It hurts to your core, it's also your ecstasy
No you can't grasp it, they're fake, they're souvenirs.
And by souvenirs, I mean they're *******,
You like it for a while, then put it on a shelf and in the end, dispose it.
It drains your time, you think it's real,
then in a month, you're done, it's sealed.
It starts confusion, you swear it's love,
you think it's happiness,
well, you are wrong.

Ramadan 2017 in Sarajevo, Bosnia                      

The first day and the second

What a blessing!!!

Brothers and Sisters in the Old Town speaking the words Salamu Alaikum

Sisters wearing veils with colors like in the bright rainbow appearing before me and my two new friends from Bosnia in a sky above a bussling bazaar, there a smaller group of humans watching and a larger group of tourists capturing a rare moment in Sarajevo on photo

Many brothers wearing kufis and many brothers with trendy hair styles paired with Western outfits gathering in the courtyard of Gazi Husrev-Bey Mosque, the largest in Bosnia and sixteen centuries old. Tourists from Africa, America, Europe, and other landscapes and many locals exchanging words and gestures in a month better than a thousand

Families spending time together at the Grand Mosque and at smaller mosques and in other places surrounded by picturesque hills and green plush trees

A father, a mother, their toddler son...he practicing walking on a masjid's cobblestone, and their young daughter...she smiling at her father as he walks by. Each family member physically at a distance from each other. Each family member at a cell's distance in communion with each other.

In the mid afternoon on a Ramadan's day, a sister from Munich and I having met for the first time at Bey Mosque ride together in a taxi up a steep hill to see a guest house she knows

A smell of lingering cigarette smoke permeating the air within the house so thick beckons me to leave politely and quickly. Unaware of the smell's degree, the owner learns of its' offensiveness as I disclose my sensitivity to & the dislike of the smell of cigarette smoke, both acutely heightened while fasting

Careful steps back down the steep hill to the city center, me avoiding stumbling on a large rock or being runover by a speeding automobile, interestingly instead I stumble upon a beautiful grave yard of uniquely shaped white gravestones and a charming mosque with a high minaret

At the bottom of the hill sits a crafts and artistry shop, one of many in Sarajevo's Old Town. Upon entering and a brief conversation with the owner, a piece of generosity is handed to me, a square shape piece of wood with Ayat tul Kursi in hand calligraphy

During the late afternoon hours, a time for reading Quran by many at mosques in the city. Sisters and brothers sitting on carpeted floors, some with backs supported by mosque walls, some with bodies sitting in chairs, fasters occupied with the most perfected Divine Scripture

A brief leisurely stroll with my two new friends Dzenita and her sister Amina through part of the Bazaar, they sharing opinions of their favorite restaurants, best eating experiences, and other things

In the early evening, a time to buy food to prepare for the Iftar meal. Showing me how it's done in Sarajevo, Dzenita and Amina invite me to join them on an excursion up a hill to buy Somun, a Bosnian flatbread topped with black seeds from the city's famous bread maker. Standing in a line longer than Georgetown Cupcake, Dzenita surprises me with a gift of Somun for myself

Two dates, one cube of Bosnian delight, and one cup of water to break our fast with at the Bey Mosque. A canon bomb sounds off to announce the time for Magrib prayer and Iftar, customary in Sarajevo during Ramadan

Startled and alerted by the bomb's depth and volume, I stand up to join the congregation for communion with God, The God Most Gracious, Most High

Out of nowhere I'm invited to Iftar at a shop nearby the Grand Mosque, about 8 of us guests being served by the warm owner, she offering a meal for Iftar at her shop every night during Ramadan, a big-hearted tradition of hers

Cevapi, Cevapi, Cevapi...I'll say it once more, Cevapi -- sold in Bosnian restaurants, cafes, bazaars, and made in many homes, eaten happily by many fasters at Iftar. Served with freshly chopped onions, some served with a soft white cheese, some with a red peppery sauce, many served with Somun, all ways tried by me and tasting as scrumptious as my first experience with Cevapi in Germany, then falling in love with it

Cold winds at night from the surrounding mountains, a refreshing air yet taking my breath and power away from the chill of it, completely disappearing with my start of Isha prayer with other Muslims and the declaration "Allah hu Akbar"

9 Muftis with impeccable Tajweed each taking turns to recite the words of our Grand Lord before sunrise, me weeping from God's messages, the reality of His greatness, my servitude to Him, and a recognition of sounds similar to that of my Mumin Father's, those familiar to me since birth

Three dear sisters, university students from Turkey and I journey together on foot after Fajr from the Old Mosque to a street train, along the way stopping by a community center, our destination - their home an hour or so away to rest, the four of us coming to know each other and each others' thoughts with every step. Contempleting my desire to spend more time in the city over sleep, the three sisters showing great generosity and I embrace and exchange Salams at a stop near the main station, the three walking with me to an open place before continuing on

In the land of a marriage between the East and the West and where newspaper is used to clean a cafe window, on the list of to-dos -- shopping for gifts for family and for souvenirs, window shopping done along the way, asking myself Shall I buy a Dzezva, a hand-made Bosnian coffee set, or a vintage wood Sarajevo box, or a woven wallet, or Bosnian sweets.

In a bazaar walkway, Maher Zain's song "Ramadan" playing loudly. At another moment, lyrics about a month of devotion and sacrifice from Sami Yusuf echoeing. Shop owners in Old Town with dispositions of calm and quiet grace greeting me and others cordially and respectfully. Shopping a few hours more until near sunset for post cards with a real version of the Grand Mosque, finding only less than satisfactory versions. Time running out for shopping, another reason now to return to Bosnia, God-Willing

Magrib prayer a second night at the Gazi Husrev-Bey Mosque. Observing the crowd, a striking occurrence taking place, a teenage boy walking a small length behind a man on to the mosque carpet. There the boy approaches an older man giving him a respectful hand shake. After prayer, a native of Sarajevo shares with me in wholesome conversation, "You are known in the town not by what you have. You are known by how well you behave."

Another invitation, this time for a cup of a tea at a cafe. Overflowing with people mostly young adults, men and women sitting at tightly packed small tables inside and a few outside, conversations merging into each other with a loud volume flowing throughout, Shisha being smoked by some, cigarettes by some, smoke in the air and the temperature inside melting away heavy make-up on sisters' faces. "This is Ramadan in Sarajevo." Madia says. "One aspect of it." says I. Not having a good feeling right away when walking in and not wanting to stay, the two of us leave quickly.

My two new friends Dzenita and Amina aka angels of hospitality and kindness reciprocating my gift to them of Milka chocolate give me a gift before departing the next day. "Tespih!!" A burnt red and yellow colored set with sparkingly gold thinly cut wrapping paper looking stripes purchased at the Gazi Husrev-Bey Mosque gift shop. Not knowing then I collect Tesbih, their gift is now my most favorite of my Tesbih collection

Husbands and wives, men and women both young and old, well-groomed and well-dressed, some holding hands as they stroll through narrow pathways in the Old Town on a Ramadan's night. Families talking and eating at restaurants, friends in groups sharing laughs, so much to see, so much to experience. At a cafe where baked goods, ice cream, and other sweets are sold, a lady sitting with a group of others initiates speaking to me, stopping me in my tracks. Bidding me farewell, she extends me a gracious compliment

Ramadan 2017 in Sarajevo, Bosnia to Remember

The first day and the second

What a blessing!!!

by Najwa Kareem

I was hungry enough to eat the **** end of a skunk.  I felt like gobbling the whole mound of concrete that is half an hour closer from becoming a part of my room.  Make that a quarter. I guess my tummy has had enough grumbling, like a seething network of volcanoes ready to devour Hawaii.  I am sure as exhausted as a zombie after a “battle of life and death” handling a plethora of carpentry tools which I have managed to rummage from our dismal basement.  I’m quite serious with the phrase “battle of life and death”.  I get to have this Obsessive Compulsive Syndrome which gulps a huge amount of my rhythm compelling me to put things in place especially in my chamber.  At times, a weltered pen could instigate an emotional havoc.  Or perhaps an inappropriate collaboration of curtain hues and mattresses would be ample to spin the color wheel concept out of my brain.  But now, my walls have done it.  Well, it was just a microscopic sight of a divine crevice, but how in the world could that escape my eyes?  Without a second thought, I approved an avid proposal from my subconscious – a full concrete room renovation.  And that’s how it brings me here, smothering the last square inch of the genius blueprint with this porridge of lime and clay, the hell with chemistry!  I have found out that my room has achieved the piquancy of a sizzling summer noon, thanks to the mist of dust and the precipitating drops of sweat that come tingling down my overheating body.  Ah! At least my system tells me that I’m not a promising patient of ****** dysfunction.  When the last patch has been perfectly planed in place, I drew my last ounce of pure strength and plunged into my most formidable bed, congratulating myself for a job well done. Alas! A thirty-minute nap and I’m ready for a superb coffee and doughnut delight.

I woke up from a cat’s screech. I peeped through the window. The nap breaker was a Cheshire, one with a dimmer fur, the stripes of gray suppressing the darker color.  Its tail enjoyed dancing around its rear, connoting either fear or excitement. It sure has a distinctive mischievous grin.  The feline was on the verge of climbing up the roof by jumping from a gutter about five feet away.  It seemed to have slipped but has managed to bring its **** next to the roof tiles. It stared at me with intent, giving me the macabre look from its glaring eyes.  It’s as if I’m being watched, stalked and examined in a way I couldn’t see, bringing me that feeling of guilt, of remorse.  Urgh! That’s why I hate cats.  Though I’m planning to keep one, I’ll reconsider it.  But what pains me more is to discover that my alarm was not able to do the job and so I slept three hours more than planned.  I looked down and saw the city lights flashing one by one, the beams glowing like a barrier of radiance diffusing into the gloom of the night. I guess this was the price I have to pay. I traded my snack with a peaceful hibernation, turning the coffee into a glass of iced tea and the doughnut into a great dinner with me, myself and I.

I have learned to cook since I was ten.  My mother believed that culinary prowess could be inherited from generation to generation.  And so, she put her trust on me and I haven’t failed her ever since.  This gourmet brilliance proves to be very useful at times of solitude when you got bored of ordering other’s recipes and decided to make your own buffet.  I remembered her telling me that all food would taste good if there is the chef’s heart flavored in it.  Cooking is an art, combining the loops and the whoops of seasonings and spices to the medley of meat and herbs.  Tonight, I decided that my dinner would equal breakfast, satisfying the grudge that I got from skipping my  diabetic snack attack.  A beef stew and a side of paella made my stomach die in joy, appeased at last that my gears are energized for my routinely nocturnal bookworming activity.

I normally hide under my sheets at nine but tonight, I shall break the rules. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll fix the rules next time. Just this time to spare for I have gained interest on this book entitled “100 Years of Solitude”, talking about how one could live happily even alone, just by creating the world you have ever dreamed of. Gabriel García Márquez is dumping the “no man is an island” concept which anyway sounds inspiring to me.  Finally, I jumped into bed thanking Him for letting me outrun another day living alone in a comfortable apartment, free from all sorts of vexation.  I wished for a better life at school, which gives me an imagery of dull monochromatic memories.  I am not that famous but I can be someday.

A heavy beam of sunlight pierced through my window, refracting on the ***** white floor and creeping up to the mahogany table just right at the corner.  It intercepted with the glass pyramid and created a beautiful prism that glittered all around my room.  It was a really majestic scenery, one that I luckily happen to see every morning, a good optic background, I guess. Two hours before class time – that’s where my pattern starts.  Take a bath, eat, brush teeth, groom, check the doors and power, then I’m off to go. Everybody follows a certain kind of pattern, that’s for sure. Whether you wear different types of clothes everyday or use competing brands of toothpaste, clothes are clothes and toothpastes are toothpastes.  As humanity finds more and more complexities in life, they become wired to doing the things and involving the events which they think would give happiness to them and simplify their equation of life.

As a proof, there’s Mrs. Lanny Honeycut from the house next door. She usually sprinkles her daisies every ten in the morning, wearing that friendly neighborhood smile. On their patio, you could never miss a day seeing her husband, Mr. Blake Honeycut reading the daily papers with a round of tea, jam and bread spread on his table.  On the busy intersection stands traffic enforcer, Red Mayer, waving his arms to and fro while wearing that aura of valor, never seem to get tired of doing the same thing over and over again. Thousands go out for work and go back to sleep everyday and that's the status quo we're talking about. Even inside the academic arena, you can still hold on to that thought; I mean the size of the population doing the same pattern at the same time – my schoolmates, enemies and… friends? Well, I’m not quite sure with the last one, but it’s this: they all make a fun of me.  They say I’m a dork, a nerd, a geek, a freak, and etc.  I wonder if they mean everything that they say or say everything that they mean.  Either way you put it, I’m not buying it. I am not what they say I am.  I just like being alone and that’s where I do best.

And as always, the school is crowded with busy people rushing through the corridors. Others are beating the deadlines while some are happy they could breathe for another break. But no matter how busy everybody could be, there is always a time spent for “information dissemination” or chitchats. But only this time, the topic discussed is the same.  I could hear it on the entire campus, everywhere in the perimeter. Another student in the university is missing leaving no trace of existence.  It’s been going on like this for over two months now and the university council has taken their best courses of action to unknot this mystery while campaigns have been running on TV’s and vigils were spent. Not that I don’t care but it seems that this is also happening to other places, I mean, this is not the only school where maniacs could exist and become professional serial rapists in the making. By the way, this is already the 12th case on the record. Weren’t people overreacting to the issue? Isn’t the case overrated? Did they reject the possibility that these people ran away because they got pregnant, messed up or something like that? Soon, the university area was covered with security troops roaming around like a swarm of bees, buzzing and sometimes boozing all the time.

I guess that’s what happens when you hang out too much with friends who are just jesters plotting your own jeopardy. I don’t think it would be good at all to be bothered with things like that because sometimes, it’s also useful not to have any use at all.  Like the king being admired by his kingdom amidst his sloth and compromises.  But that doesn’t mean I’m not friendly anymore. Actually, if it happens that I got company, I would magnanimously offer a treat at my place.  But the thing is, who would likely do that? I’d cross my fingers on it.

Wishes do come true even for a loner like me.  I think I have a fan. No, that would be too sublime. She’s hot and she’s hotter when you’ll know she’s so cool. Quite a paradox, but that’s just reality.  We came to know each other on our lab class. Her name’s Athena, fitting for her twisted logic and good humor. It makes me burn a lot of calories when I talk to her more than a 5-mile marathon could squirt. We were lab partners and we get along well. I just couldn’t figure out where she got the courage to befriend me. I do regard myself as unwelcoming species, but I might work on it when someone tries to knock the door. We juxtapose ideas. Yes, that’s what makes our conversations spin like a merry-go-round. But we enjoy it nevertheless, evident by the crescent smile we both generate out of the craziest topics in store. Once, she interrogated my way of settling wars with enemies. Well, I told her it was my habit of treating them to my house and giving them souvenirs to show how sorry I could be. She snickered and her eyes glowed like the Andromeda and her face shun the whole universe. Oh, I can do this all day long, if only I got hold of time and space.

Today, she asked me if it would be okay if she’ll stay at my place till nine when her dad could be home and she would be able to call her and ask to pick her up. She reasoned out that otherwise, the night would be scary because she’ll be alone in their house, no company, no security. I was puzzled how the thought of being alone could scare her. It is like freedom from any constraints, no ties, and no limits. But I couldn’t blame her. She’s too fragile, too vulnerable to handle it with herself.  With the speed of the light, I accepted the favor.  Well, that goes even without saying.

It was past six thirty when we arrived at my immaculate apartment. It’s great to be an“ OC” sometimes, I said to myself.  I thought of a winner dinner, one that would make her visit worth reminiscing. I preferred Italian.  I cooked her lasagna and drenched the dinner with sherry. We talked a lot until we run out of resorts. I guess she planned it, or I planned it, synergy perhaps.

The clock ticked nine and there’s no sight of her father’s getaway car. But there’s no sign of worry in her countenance either. I surmise it didn’t reach her inkling yet to phone her dad.  She was busy dissecting my kitchen and living room with her very playful eyes. That doesn’t trouble me though. That’s just as instinctive as any other first time guest could get. She grappled her attention on my antique collection of prehistoric movies, like the Scarlet Letter, The count of Monte Cristo and the likes. She happened to love them too. Well, that makes her more beautiful to me, other than the satin white dress she wears. Suddenly, she got the impulse of going to my room. She said there’s nothing more exciting to see than a gentleman’s bedroom. I startled from the request, but before I could say anything, she leaped straight to my chamber with the gestures of an imp. It’s weird to be in this kind of circumstance because I don’t often invite a lot of visitants to my room. I ain’t no hotel crew, bowing down and waving his hand to the chamber’s destination and leading the VIPs to their cabins. Yet this time, it’s the other way around: it’s my cabin.

But now it’s too late to stop her. She molested the **** and I giggled for some reason. Finally, the door opened a crack and a bend of light escaped from inside. She stepped in, and I followed. She was filled with awe not because my room is all made of gold nor did it resemble a royalty’s den. It was the exaggerated neatness and order that greeted her. In some unknown vortex of my deepest imagining, it made me feel like I’ve been through this instance before. The flashback is not so vivid as it appears, but something tells me this isn’t the first time. Deja vu could be working on it, I infer,although I don’t really believe in those forms of conceptualizations. Perhaps it’s the sherry’s spell infiltrating my mental prognosis. But something, I guess, isn’t really right.

I caught her opening a red box that was hidden behind my cabinet. I tried to steal it away from her but she fought back and it came tossing down the floor. Numerous items spilled from the case. A purple head band with the glittering initials ANNE, a ruby embedded bracelet, and a Nokia handy phone exposed the secrecy. This isn’t going to go along well and fine, I guess. A strong surge of desire came from my core. It tried to envelop my entirety and control me like a lifeless puppet. I felt the tip of the pyramid glass in my hand and I succumbed to lose my consciousness.

Morning came and it felt better than ever. It was a ***** Saturday. There she lies beautifully on the deck, like an immortal bud of red rose trapped in golden amber. The cellophane fits her well, and there’s no doubt she’ll be complaining anymore. I already prepared a cozy place for her deep sleep: A 5x2 feet wall engravement which I was busy molding last night. It wasn’t easy making her go to bed but still it ended up smooth and sound. I helped her get up and fitted her in place.I turned on the radio as I reached for my dear carpentry tools. The news was still nailed on it. But this time, the missing case struck for the 13th turn. Ahh, the hell with society! They never really get a way to deal with it.

I was busy patching the last mound of concrete that is half an hour closer from becoming a part of my room. Make that a quarter. I guess there’s no end to this divine crevice issue. It must be following a pattern too. But I can handle it, thanks to this vicarious personality. I wonder if I could get the chance to invite another visitor in my place. But if I do, I would certainly offer the best treatment they could ever have.

My chamber teems with tensions, taut, that logic can’t withstand,
fragmenting mental masonry with memories unplanned,
as bitter tears from hazel eyes reduce the stone to sand.

Dim shadows cast by candles flit across the haunted room,
beleaguer apparitions, pale, that stalk me through the gloom,
usurping purloined purple forms forgotten ghosts assume.

The tick-tock clock of time rewinds within the mirrored hall
and pendula suspended, pause, while creatures creep and crawl
on images of effigies, through memories that maul.

The madness of the midnight mass! Perchance it interferes
with spiders spinning spiral threads which bridge the chandeliers
when weaving minds' discarded coils to silken souvenirs.

Reflections graced the vacant gaze of idols as they fled!
Their futile, feigned, far-flung farewells now hammer in my head,
marooned like frozen silhouettes in footprints of the dead.

My lovers smile through marbled masks before they turn their backs
(like furnace flames deserting ash or phantoms fleeing cracks)
with faded, painted, wrinkled faces nightmares carve in wax.

Sometimes a gust disturbs the dust and secrets reappear,
which dance in silver slippers through the dusk of yesteryear -
it's not the screams that drown my dreams, but whispers which I fear.

The hangman posts a letter home, his message indiscreet
about the vestal ****** in the café (where we meet
to savour tea and crumpets) down a one-way dead-end street.

The rapping and the tapping at my tattered, time-worn door
repeat reports of migrant myths, of tales of nevermore,
strung far across a sullen sea, most shipwrecked near the shore.

Forget-me-nots, enwrapped in rain the while a wan wind blows,
recall the faintly fickle fates this drifter undergoes –
alone, unknown with tracks interred in teardrop undertows.

My feet, no longer tied or tethered, traipse within a squall
pursuing profiles long forsaken, buried in the sprawl
of spectres spread amongst the dead, some tattooed to the wall.

At times, the belfry towers toll of anarchy and gin,
of smoke and mirrors, rolling dice and other things akin,
impaled on forks down byway roads, and things that might-have-been.

The skies outside, beyond the night with shutters shut and drawn,
begin to glow on shattered shapes escaping ’fore the dawn
as clouds undone beneath the sun release this captive pawn.

I had told her about my pin badges -
It was that kind of intimacy.

I had written poems about her -
It was that kind of intimacy.

She returns with another present,
In fact, more than one,
Despite being a woman scorned -
It was that kind of intimacy.

One, a postcard, to return my gesture,
A memory we shared together -
It was that kind of intimacy.

Two, a pin, she travelled to find,
Searching to fix something that
Was never broken.
To her, this was a failure,
To me, it was
Our kind of intimacy.

And three, a notebook,
Because she knows what I love,
And that words lie deep inside of me,
Screaming to come out.

I write this to her to apologise
For being a fool, and to thank her
For her undying encouragement
And her endless inspiration
And her kind, warm words -
A beautiful friendship married
By the endless embers of
Written words -
Our kind of intimacy.

Fleeting memories
A crushing weight
Thoughts swirl
A chaotic dance
Morbid and morose
I shudder
Sigh
Lock the door
My heart is closed
I am empty streets
And howling winds
An onslaught
Of indelicate ideas
Leaves rushing
As water
I am bleak
I long to crumble
And return to dust
To spread out
Into the vast blackness
Vacuum of the infinite
I am all
I am nothing
Existence is illusion
Dreams are more real
Yet
I do not sleep
For I fear to wake
So I remain
Ever here
Ever there
Never here
Never there
Neither
Both
Ensconced between
Light and dark
Good and evil
Life and death
Alone
Forever
Thus
I despair.
Souvenirs fugaces
Un poids écrasant
Pensées tourbillon
Une danse chaotique
Morbide et morose
Je frémis
Soupir
Verrouillez la porte
Mon cœur est fermé
Je suis rues vides
Et vents hurlants
Une attaque
D'idées indélicats
Feuilles précipiter
Comme l'eau
Je suis triste
J'ai longtemps à s'effriter
Et retourner à la poussière
Pour étaler
Dans la grande noirceur
Vide de l'infini
Je suis tout
Je ne suis rien
L'existence est illusion
Les rêves sont plus réels
Pourtant,
Je ne dors pas
Car je crains de réveiller
Donc, je reste
Jamais ici
Jamais il
Jamais ici
Jamais il
Aucun
Tous les deux
Enclavée entre
Lumière et obscurité
Bien et le mal
La vie et la mort
Seul
Toujours
Ainsi,
Je désespère.

I want to go on a roadtrip. Away from things that's familiar and safe. I want to get away and break free. Maybe with someone special or maybe all on my own.  I want to raid the oldest libraries and read all the books I can to my heart's content. I want to visit museums and coffee shops and ice cream parlors and try everything they have. I want to take a walk to the oldest streets, alone or holding someone's hand, while eating ice cream. I want to explore places. I want to sleep in a tent. I want to sleep under the stars. I want to drive a motorbike. Stop a lot just to appreciate the view, take it all in the beauty before my eyes, breathe fresh air. I want to have polaroid camera and capture everything in the moment. Capture the sunrise and sunset. Capture a boy's wide smile or the old lady's toothless grin or the two lovers' embrace. I want to take pictures of myself smiling from ear to ear. I want to chase the moon and the fog. Spend hours picking strawberries, smelling flowers. I want to throw my hands in the air and dance and feel the wind in my hair. I want to buy souvenirs from each place I go as if the pictures I take are not enough, I want something that will last. I want to meet new people and make new friends. I want to make memories that will forever stay with me.

I have my share of what some call trinkets
But to me they're memories
If I lose my train to think it
I just stop and look around me

I have keys chains from the tropics
Tee shirts that say wish you were here
If you name it chances are I've got it
In the form of souvenirs

From the time I was in Canada
There's an ash tray never used
It was either that or a button
That proclaimed, I kissed a moose

I have all these things to guide me
When my mind stops running clear
If you need me you can find me
Reminiscing with my souvenirs

There's a Chihuahua doll from Mexico
A flag and stand from Japan
I can still feel the warm Hawaiian glow
In this bottle of beach sand

When I am old and beyond gray
I'll have all this to take me there
Back to the days I once made
In the form of souvenirs

J'ai plus de souvenirs que si j'avais mille ans.

Un gros meuble à tiroirs encombré de bilans,
De vers, de billets doux, de procès, de romances,
Avec de lourds cheveux roulés dans des quittances,
Cache moins de secrets que mon triste cerveau.
C'est une pyramide, un immense caveau,
Qui contient plus de morts que la fosse commune.
- Je suis un cimetière abhorré de la lune,
Où comme des remords se traînent de longs vers
Qui s'acharnent toujours sur mes morts les plus chers.
Je suis un vieux boudoir plein de roses fanées,
Où gît tout un fouillis de modes surannées,
Où les pastels plaintifs et les pâles Boucher,
Seuls, respirent l'odeur d'un flacon débouché.

Rien n'égale en longueur les boiteuses journées,
Quand sous les lourds flocons des neigeuses années
L'ennui, fruit de la morne incuriosité,
Prend les proportions de l'immortalité.
- Désormais tu n'es plus, ô matière vivante !
Qu'un granit entouré d'une vague épouvante,
Assoupi dans le fond d'un Saharah brumeux ;
Un vieux sphinx ignoré du monde insoucieux,
Oublié sur la carte, et dont l'humeur farouche
Ne chante qu'aux rayons du soleil qui se couche.

Today is
Yesterday's souvenirs.
Tomorrow is
Today's souvenirs.
We are nothing but souvenirs.

Sometimes I wish that I wasn’t born with a tall, magnificent, towering horn
Because I might be killed soon while my horn were torn.
Every 8 hours, one of us is dreadfully killed,
Only to make their dream fulfilled?

If I were to say we’re nothing special, we’re just like you it’s just not fair.
And if I say our horns are made like your nails and your hair.
Would people still **** us or let us be free?
Maybe they’ll laugh, as you can see.

We’re neither for sale, nor for medicine or as your house souvenirs.
I don’t want to be a display and stay there for years!
How can it be a work that they’re so proud of?
Then does that mean we’re just “stuff”?

There are not many of us now, only 5 species left and yes it is true.
White, Black, Greater one- horned, Sumatran and Javan too.
However, I’m afraid that one day we’ll be gone,
And by then whom will they look upon?

I know by far that many of you had protected us, and gave us support.
Though is it not enough to reach the hunter’s heart?
Don’t you think that we’ve had enough?
We have to stay strong and tough.

This is why we need your help, to spread the word and show us you care.
Help us make a difference, since we are considered as rare.
I want us to all get together and to be a part of this.
For a happy future that you’ll never miss!

In this artery
Of your thoughts
I have claimed
Haves and Nots
Beat down d'pulse
That betrays us
Walk my plains
In exodus
Reach a knot
High and hot
In the deepest
Crevices, revive
Your last hopes
In there lies
Riches of beyond
You'll learn someday
We're always there
Collecting souvenirs
Life after life.

You are the love of my life, my everything
This is how I feel deep inside.
Without you my life would be incomplete
My whole being is so full of pride.

I have joy rushing around my soul
Laughter lives in my blood stream
There is a sense of hope deep within me
You are my strawberries and cream.

You are the perfect cup of tea
The perfect topping on my cupcake
You open floodgates letting love rush in
Without you, well my heart would ache.

I love you more than thee are grains of sand
stars in our sky. impossible to measure.
You are my cherry on top of the icing
You are the perfect golden treasure.

Each time you go I worry begging you back
Each time you leave me  my eyes weep tears
I catch each salty reminder that you've gone
They are tiny, damp but they are souvenirs.

I have inside of me love which will not die
a pump that will refuse to lose its tick - my heart
This heart could not possibly hold more love
It is jam packed, it is a complex body part.

For all of these reasons, you are my everything
Without you my body would crumble with pains
My skin would wither, my blood dry in its tracks
Without you I woud have empty veins.

they say the creases on my forehead
poking out under my curly hair
are frown lines
that signify anger
but i don't think of them
as frown lines
because they're at their deepest
when i'm smiling
no, they're more like life lines
or souvenirs
from the time you called me beautiful
in the middle of november
yes, i remember
i hope by the time i'm eighty
i'm covered in love letter wrinkles
please, come age me gracefully
i wanna wash my feet
in your bloodstream
maybe that's a little weird
i'm scared of telling you how i feel
but at four in the morning
under my sheets
you ******* clean
you fold me
like the most beautiful constellations
i wanna be your north star
look to me for direction
i have no sense of direction
but my heart is so big
you can see me from space
like an egyptian pyramid
bury yourself
in my chambers
every time i buried you
i was really burying seeds
you always
grow back
to
me.

Ulysse, la Méditerranée et ses rapports avec les  Femmes.

Parti à contre cœur, ayant même contrefait le fou, pour se soustraire à la guerre et élever ton fils Télémaque, tu dus partir à Troie, et sus t'y montrer brave, mais surtout fin stratège.
La guerre fut bien longue, pas du tout comme celle que chantait les Aèdes. L'ennemi ressemblait tant à nos guerriers Achéens, courageux et aussi sûrs de leur droit que nous l'étions du notre. Que de sang, que de peine ! Tu vis périr Patrocle, ne pus sauver Achille ; et les morts aux corps déchiquetés par les épées se substituèrent aux coupes de ce vin si enivrant qu'est la rhétorique guerrière et à la funeste illusion d'une victoire facile. Ulysse tu eus l'idée de bâtir ce grand vaisseau dont la proue figurait une tête de cheval. Ainsi les Achéens purent entrer dans le port forteresse si bien gardé. Mais quand la nuit noire et le vin mêlés ôtèrent aux courageux Troyens leur vigilance et leur garde, vous sortirent alors des flancs du bateau et vous précipitèrent pour ouvrir grands les portes aux guerriers Achéens. La suite fut un grand carnage de guerriers Troyens mais aussi de non combattants et même de femmes. Et Troie, la fière, la courageuse ne fut plus ville libre et les survivants de son Peuple connurent l'esclavage. Aussi quand Troie fut conquise et que ses rue coulèrent rouges du sang vermeil de ses défenseur, mais aussi de nombreux civils, tu songeas à retourner chez toi, car tu étais roi, et ton fils Télémaque aurait besoin de toi et Pénélope t'aimait. Les souvenirs d'émois et de tendres caresses faisaient encore frissonner la harpe de ton corps de souvenirs très doux. C'est alors que tu dus affronter la Déesse Athéna et ton double, tous deux vigilants, à tester ta sincérité et ta constance. Oh, toi Homme volage et point encore rassasié de voyages et de conquêtes. L'étendue de la mer te fut donnée comme le théâtre même de ta vérité profonde. Après bien des voyages et avoir perdu nombre de tes compagnons, tu fus poussé dans l'île de la nymphe Calypso. Cette immortelle à la chevelure, si joliment bouclée se trouvait dans son île d'arbustes odoriférants. Aussi fit-elle tout pour te garder. Toi-même, tu lui trouvas de l'ardeur et des charmes même si durant le jour tu te laissais aller à la nostalgie d'Ithaque. La belle immortelle te proposas, pour te garder, de te donner cet attribut si recherché qui empêche à jamais de sombrer dans le sommeil perpétuel. Mais toi, Ulysse, tu préféras garder ton destin d'homme mortel et ton inguérissable blessure pour Ithaque. Après sept années d’une prison si douce, l'intervention d'Athéna te rendit aux aventures de la Mer. Tu accostas, avec tes compagnons sur la côte d’une île malfaisante. C'était la demeure des Cyclopes. Parmi ce Peuple de géants, le cyclope Polyphème habitait une grotte profonde d'où il faisait rentrer chaque soir son troupeau. Ulysse quelle folie traversa ton esprit et celui de tes compagnons que de vouloir pénétrer dans cette antre maudite, mû à la fois par la curiosité et la volonté de faire quelques larcins de chèvres ? Vous payèrent bien cher cette offense par la cruelle dévoration que fit l'infâme Polyphème de plusieurs de tes compagnons dont vous entendîtes craquer les os sous la mâchoire du sauvage. Aussi votre courage fut renforcé par votre haine lorsque vous lui plantèrent l'épieu dans son œil unique alors que sa vigilance venait d'être endormie par le vin. Les barques ayant mouillés dans l'île d'Aiaé, tes compagnons imprudents furent transformés en pourceaux par la belle et cruelle Magicienne Circée. Doté d'un contre poison à ses filtres, tu ne restas cependant pas insensible aux charmes de la belle Magicienne mais tu lui fis prononcer le grand serment avant de répondre à tes avances. Elle accepta pour faire de toi son amant de redonner leur forme humaine à tes compagnons, Et vos nuits furent tendres, sensuelles et magiques car la Magicienne excellait dans les arts de l'amour et il en naquit un fils. Toi le rusé et courageux Ulysse, tu espérais enfin voguer avec délice sur une mer d'huile parcourue par les reflets d'argent des poissons volants et te réjouir des facéties des dauphins, Mais c'était oublier et compter pour peu la rancune de Poséidon, le maître des eaux, rendu furieux par le traitement subi par son fils Polyphème. C'est pour cela qu'une masse d'eau compacte, haute comme une haute tour avançant au grand galop ébranla et engloutit ton solide radeau. Seul ton réflexe prompt de t'accrocher au plus grand des troncs te permis de plonger longuement au fonds des eaux en retenant longtemps ton souffle avant d’émerger à nouveaux. La troisième des belles que ton voyage tumultueux te fit rencontrer fut la jeune Nausicaa, fille du roi des Phéaciens, Alcinoos. Celle-ci, dans la floraison de sa jeunesse, ardente et vive, ne cédait en rien à l'éclat des plus belles et subtiles fleurs. Guidée par la déesse Athéna, elle vint auprès du fleuve ou tu dormais laver les habits royaux avec ses suivantes. Les voix des jeunes filles t'éveillèrent. Dans ta détresse et ta nudité, tu jetas l'effroi parmi les jeunes filles. Seule Nausicaa eut le courage de ne pas fuir et d'écouter ta demande d'aide. Elle rappela ses suivantes et te fit vêtir après que ton corps ait été lavé par l'eau du fleuve et enduit d'huile fine. Tu retrouvas ta force et ta beauté. Aussi Nausicaa vit en toi l'époux qu'elle désirait. Mais, ta nostalgie d'Ithaque fut encore plus forte. Alors Nausicaa te pria seulement, en ravalant ses larmes, de ne point oublier qu'elle t'avait sauvé des flots. Amené tout ensommeillé dans le vaisseau mené par les rameurs Phéaciens si bien aguerris à leur tâche, tu étais comme bercé par le bruit régulier des rames et le mouvement profond d'une mer douce mais étincelante. C'était comme dans ces rêves très rares qui vous mènent sur l'Olympe. Jamais tu ne te sentis si bien avec ce goût d’embrun salé sur tes lèvres et ce bruit régulier et sec du claquement des rames sur les flots. Tu éprouvas la sensation de voguer vers un nouveau Monde. Ce fut, Ulysse, l'un des rares moments de félicité absolue dans une vie de combats, de feu et du malheur d'avoir vu périr tous tes valeureux compagnons. Ulysse revenu dans ton palais, déguisé en mendiants pour châtier les prétendants, tu triomphas au tir à l'arc. Mais l'heure de la vindicte avait sonné. La première de tes flèches perça la gorge d'Antinoos, buvant sa coupe. Nul ne put te fléchir Ulysse, pas même, l'éloquent Eurymaque qui t'offrait de t'apporter réparations pour tes provisions goulument mangés et tes biens dilapidés. Le pardon s'effaça en toi car l'offense faite à ta femme et à ton fils et à ton honneur était trop forte. Aussi tu n'eus pas la magnanimité de choisir la clémence et le sang coula dans ton palais comme le vin des outres. Pas un des prétendants ne fut épargné à l'exception du chanteur de Lyre, Phénios et du héraut Médon qui avait protégé Télémaque.
Mais Ulysse, tu ne fus pas grand en laissant condamner à la pendaison hideuse, douze servantes qui avaient outragé Pénélope et partagé leur couche avec les prétendants. Ulysse tu fus tant aimé des déesses, des nymphes et des femmes et souvent sauvé du pire par celles qui te donnèrent plaisir et descendance. Mais obsédé par tes roches d'Ithaque ne sus pas leur rendre l'amour qu'elles te portèrent. Tu ne fus pas non plus à la hauteur de la constance et de la fidélité de Pénélope. Mais Ulysse poursuivi par la fatalité de l'exil et de l'errance et la rancune de Poséidon, tu fus aussi le préféré de la déesse Athéna qui fit tant et plus pour te sauver maintes fois de ta perte. Cette déesse fut la vraie sauvegarde de ta vie aventureuse et les femmes qui te chérirent t'apportèrent maintes douceurs et consolations dans ta vie tumultueuse.

Paul Arrighi, Toulouse, (France) 2013.

Shopping outfashioned hunting and gathering,
Processed beats fresh,
Groceries replaced fruit trees,
Malls superceded forests,
Churches outnumbered temples,
Countries dissolved to territories,
Places devolved to areas,
Paths broke down into highways,
Commodity converted to currency,
Laborers submit to machinery,
Masters engage in humbug,
Apprentices reduced to students,
Knowledge downgraded to education,
And education is deducted to a show of grades,
While schools are the stages,
And the corporate world is the bigger runway,
With work slumped to employment,
Wisdom demoted to profession,
Where in jobs are the only future,
Careers are the only success,
Clicking and pressing buttons are skills,
Computers are correspondent to brains,
Information refers to news reports,
Intelligence means up-to-dateness,
Browsing is preferable to reading,
Studying is in demand more than learning,
Viewing things flashed on screens yields awareness,
Transportation is to traveling,
As buying is to the three basic needs,
And needs embody worldly possessions,
Worldly possessions define happiness,
Happiness is due to selfishness,
Selfishness is traced to the lack of love,
The lack of love draws from the lack of faith,
Because faith stands for religion,
And religion stands for membership,
Where politicians are the gods,
Celebrities are the preachers,
And the preachers are the enemies,
While networking is equal to friendship,
And connection equates to communication,
Experiences require photos,
Memories necessitate uploading,
Souvenirs can be downloaded,
Smartphones are substitute to pets,
Gadgets are toys,
Holding controllers is playing,
Watching TV is exploring the great outdoors,
Internet is recreation,
And technology is a way of life;
While humans are scientists,
Nature is a guinea pig,
And the earth is a laboratory,
Where prices are misidentified for worth,
Processes are miscalculated as progress,
Impoverishment is confused with improvement,
And getting more is mistaken as getting better;
And then we wonder why
Homes have become houses,
Family members have become boarders,
Nations are separate species
Composed of tired and hungry citizens,
Children are monsters
Who are biochemically rascals,
Teenagers are zombies
Whose adventures lead to delinquency,
Adults are robots
Who just clang when touched,
And life is not so simple
As how it is said to be.

NOT SO 500 WORD STORY
​My next victim was a little more challenging than all the rest. When he asked me to go get coffee with him I was surprised, I didn’t think I would ever get the opportunity to claim one like this. His eyes were blue, they taunted me and made my mind dance over the idea that they could be mine. He wore a backwards hat and had the kind of speech that reminded me of my brother. He was confident, sort of cocky, just the type that I needed. I hate those types, the guys that think their better just because they have flowing blonde hair and big arms. I really can’t stand them. We decided to meet at the Starbucks down the street from my house, convenient. We would meet on Friday at 6:30 pm.
​Thursday night, lying in bed, all I could think about was the ****** up **** I was going to do. I thought about the blood; blood has always been the reason I did this. Not like men, they always want ****** gratification, or to eat them or something, ******* Dahmer. That’s why girls never get caught. We’re not in it for the trophy, we don’t keep souvenirs, we just want to ****. I mean I love the blood, I but I don’t keep it or anything, I’m not that stupid. I think how the flow and color can change, like if you cut an artery, steady fast flow and bright red. But if you cut a vein the flow isn’t as fast, and the color has a slight blue tint, due to the oxygen in it. When I first started doing this, I wasn’t very good at covering my tracks. People sometimes questioned why my bathroom smelled like bleach, all the time. But I got better at the cleanup.
​Friday came and I don’t know why but I was a little hesitant. Why was I having second thoughts about this? Most of the time I can’t wait to get the show on the road. But now I really didn’t even want to show up at the Starbucks. I wanted to let him go, but that little monster that lives in my lungs told me to keep going; so I did. I got to Starbucks and sat down, I didn’t see him anywhere so I waited. He showed up and ran over to the table and sat across from me, he seemed genuinely sorry for being late. We talked and for some reason I couldn’t stop staring. At his eyes and lips, and his hands; he had nice hands. I wanted to hold them, I never wanted to hold anyone’s hand before. The more he talked, the more nervous I became. What am I doing? I can’t do this? Why did I even start doing this? But it was too late, the monsters were screaming too loud for me to ignore.
​He was in the middle of a sentence when I interrupted and asked if he wanted to come back to my apartment. You should have seen his eyes light up. They all got so excited when I asked. We left and walked back, on the way there he did something, he held my hand. Why the hell would he do that? Did he like me? That would be pretty ******* stupid on his part if he did. And it was pretty ******* stupid for me to like him back, but I guess I’m an idiot. I took him upstairs and I wanted to cry. This has never happened before, I’ve never been afraid of myself. He sat down on the couch and I nervously excused myself to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, the tears came, they came like I was cutting an artery. I couldn’t stand the sight of myself, I wanted to destroy this monster. And in a storm of rage I ****** my fist into the mirror. The glass shattered like a deafening thunder and my blood dripped into the sink. I fell to the floor screaming and he came running in. ****, I forgot to lock the door. Now I’m sitting there crying and screaming with this beautiful stranger trying to save me. It was a mess, I was a mess. His hands around me, he kept trying to help me up, but I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to hurt anyone anymore, no more death and destruction, I need peace. So I told him to go, I begged for him to leave but he wouldn’t. “Please don’t do this”, I thought, “please don’t try to save me”. But he wouldn’t go. And then the monsters screamed, so ******* loud. Looking up I could see his mouth moving but there were no words coming out, only the demonic shrieks from inside me. And in one involuntary move, I picked up a piece of mirror glass and cut his throat.
​Watching the blood wasn’t like before, it didn’t bring a smile to my face and it didn’t stop the screaming. There was no calmness in watching the life in him die, there was nothing. I did what I was supposed to, what I always had done. But still nothing. I felt nothing but at the same time I felt the pain. All the pain of everyone I had ever hurt filled me and I knew what I had to do. I took my phone out of my pocket and called the police, I told them what I did. So I sat there on the floor next to the lifeless, beautiful, stranger, and waited for them to come. I looked at him and new it was over. All the hurting was over.

I saw you from a distance
tall, semi muscular,  with dark hair.
An unfamiliar figure
in my mind curiosity is triggered.

Who is this man
with skin so tan.
He wears a black suit,
white shirt, and black tie.
You look like  the kind of guy
any girl would want to have,
the kind of man who has no problem
getting whatever she would want to buy.

My eyes graze you up and down
to every inch of you.
I can see it right through,
you catch my eye and smile.
You look like trouble, one of
the kind Im not afarid to get into.  


As I stand in this cold mysterious dark night
wearing nothing but a silky grey dress,
and matching silver heels,
I wonder where you'll go tonight.
But whoever will see you
I bet will have good night.

In hindsight I spot the black Mercedes,
the night is young,
a long wild night for me awaits.
I step inside the black Mercedes,
to my right I see you
"Hello" with a smile he says.
As a custom I give him a kiss on the cheek and
I take a seat right next to his.

Guess I have the answer to my question,
Tonight your coming with me,
something I definitely didn't foresee.

through the side of my eye
I see the way you look at me.
You spread your legs at the sight of my *******,
you bite your lips as I put on my lipstick,
in your mind im already undressed.

The smell of your cologne makes
my breath quiver,
the thought of wanting to see it, still lingers.
this space between us makes me unease
I want to feel you hold me in your arms
as you put it inside making me weak in the knees.


Take off my clothes
I'll let you have a taste.
I want your tongue's prints
to fill my body trace by trace.

I don't want this night to end,
if you want it badly I can ride your face,
or  I can have you inside my mouth instead.

Its not gonna be a long trip,
only got one chance, might as well
take advantage of every drip.
The car now smell you, me, us

The silence here surpassed by your,
mine, our moan.,
and souvenirs from your cologne.

Shop windows dazzle in the sun,
attracting tourist moths with money.
They gape and point and squint and pay.

Behind the glass the ugly cuddly
stare back, glare in disgust at the stack
of dazed outsize heads on parade.

Ranks of captured trolls boil with rage,
their destinies - slobbering kids,
hot rooms, pink rabbits, red balloons.
No match for their cool mountain caves.

Beware these creatures of mischief
and fear. They bear malice - kitsch, occult.
Do not mock them. Stick them on your shelves.
They are our other selves.

Ulysse adoré par les Femmes, les  Nymphes , protégé par Athéna et traqué par Poséidon.


Parti à contrecœur, ayant même contrefait le fou, pour se soustraire à la guerre et élever ton fils Télémaque, tu dus partir à Troie, et sus t'y montrer brave mais surtout fin stratège.
La guerre fut bien longue, pas du tout comme celle que chantaient les Aèdes. L'ennemi ressemblait tant à nos guerriers Achéens, courageux et aussi sûrs de leur droit que nous l'étions du notre.
Que de sang, que de peine ! Tu vis périr Patrocle, ne pus sauver Achille; et les morts aux corps déchiquetés par les épées se substituèrent aux coupes de ce vin si enivrant qu'est la rhétorique guerrière et à la funeste illusion d'une victoire facile.

Ulysse tu eus l'idée de bâtir ce grand vaisseau dont la proue figurait une tête de cheval. Ainsi les Achéens purent entrer dans le port forteresse si bien gardé. Mais quand la nuit noire et le vin mêlés ôtèrent aux courageux Troyens leur vigilance et leur garde, vous sortirent alors des flancs du bateau et vous précipitèrent pour ouvrir grands les portes aux guerriers Achéens.
La suite fut un grand carnage de guerriers Troyens mais aussi de non combattants et même de femmes. Et Troie, la fière, la courageuse ne fut plus ville libre et les survivants de son Peuple connurent l'esclavage.

Aussi quand Troie fut conquise et que ses rue coulèrent rouges du sang vermeil de ses défenseur, mais aussi de nombreux civils, tu songeas à retourner chez toi, car tu étais roi, et ton fils Télémaque aurait besoin de toi et Pénélope t'aimait. Les souvenirs d'émois et de tendres caresses faisaient encore frissonner la harpe de ton corps de souvenirs très doux.
C'est alors que tu dus affronter la Déesse Athéna et ton double, tous deux vigilants, a tester ta sincérité et ta constance. Oh, toi Homme volage et point encore rassasié de voyages et de conquêtes. L'étendue de la mer te fut donnée comme le théâtre même de ta vérité profonde.


Après bien des voyages et avoir perdu nombre de tes compagnons, tu fus poussé dans l'île de la nymphe Calypso.
Cette immortelle à la chevelure, si joliment bouclée se trouvait dans son île d'arbustes odoriférants. Aussi fit-elle tout pour te garder. Toi-même, tu lui trouvas de l'ardeur et des charmes même si durant le jour tu te laissais aller à la nostalgie d'Ithaque.
La belle immortelle te proposas, pour te garder, de te donner cet attribut si recherché qui empêche à jamais de sombrer dans le sommeil perpétuel.
Mais toi, Ulysse, tu préféras garder ton destin d'homme mortel et ton inguérissable blessure pour Ithaque.

Après sept années d’une prison si douce, l'intervention d'Athéna te rendit aux aventures de la Mer. Tu accostas, avec tes compagnons sur la côte d’une île malfaisante. C’était la demeure des Cyclopes. Parmi ce Peuple de géants, le cyclope Polyphème habitait une grotte profonde d'où il faisait rentrer chaque soir son troupeau.
Ulysse quelle folie traversa ton esprit et celui de tes compagnons que de vouloir pénétrer dans cette antre maudite, mû à la fois par la curiosité et la volonté de faire quelques larcins de chèvres ? Vous payèrent bien cher cette offense par la cruelle dévoration que fit l'infâme Polyphème de plusieurs de tes compagnons dont vous entendîtes craquer les os sous la mâchoire du sauvage. Aussi votre courage fut renforcé par votre haine lorsque vous lui plantèrent l'épieu dans son œil unique alors que sa vigilance venait d'être endormie par le vin.

Les barques ayant mouillés dans l'île d'Aiaé, tes compagnons imprudents furent transformés en pourceaux par la belle et cruelle Magicienne Circée.
Doté d'un contre poison à ses filtres, tu ne restas cependant pas insensible aux charmes de la belle Magicienne mais tu lui fis prononcer le grand serment avant de répondre à tes avances.
Elle accepta pour faire de toi son amant de redonner leur forme humaine à tes compagnons,
Et vos nuits furent tendres, sensuelles et magiques car la Magicienne excellait dans les arts de l'amour et il en naquit un fils.

Toi le rusé et courageux Ulysse, tu espérais enfin voguer avec délice sur une mer d'huile parcourue par les reflets d'argent des poissons volants et te réjouir des facéties des dauphins,
Mais c'était oublier et compter pour peu la rancune de Poséidon, le maître des eaux, rendu furieux par le traitement subi par son fils Polyphème.
C'est pour cela qu'une masse d'eau compacte, haute comme une haute tour avançant au grand galop ébranla et engloutit ton solide radeau.
Seul ton réflexe prompt de t'accrocher au plus grand des troncs te permis de plonger longuement au fonds des eaux en retenant longtemps ton souffle avant d’émerger à nouveaux.

La troisième des belles que ton voyage tumultueux te fit rencontrer fut la jeune Nausicaa, fille du roi des Phéaciens, Alcinoos.
Celle-ci, dans la floraison de sa jeunesse, ardente et vive, ne cédait en rien à l'éclat des plus belles et subtiles fleurs. Guidée par la déesse Athéna, elle vint auprès du fleuve ou tu dormais laver les habits royaux avec ses suivantes. Les voix des jeunes filles t'éveillèrent. Dans ta détresse et ta nudité, tu jetas l'effroi parmi les jeunes filles. Seule Nausicaa eut le courage de ne pas fuir et d'écouter ta demande d'aide. Elle rappela ses suivantes et te fit vêtir après que ton corps ait été lavé par l'eau du fleuve et enduit d'huile fine. Tu retrouvas ta force et ta beauté. Aussi Nausicaa vit en toi l'époux qu'elle désirait. Mais, ta nostalgie d'Ithaque fut encore plus forte. Alors Nausicaa te pria seulement, en ravalant ses larmes, de ne point oublier qu'elle t'avait sauvé des flots.

Amené tout ensommeillé dans le vaisseau mené par les rameurs Phéaciens si bien aguerris à leur tâche, tu étais comme bercé par le bruit régulier des rames et le mouvement profond d'une mer douce mais étincelante. C'était comme dans ces rêves très rares qui vous mènent sur l'Olympe. Jamais tu ne te sentis si bien avec ce goût d’embrun salé sur tes lèvres et ce bruit régulier et sec du claquement des rames sur les flots. Tu éprouvas la sensation de voguer vers un nouveau Monde. Ce fut, Ulysse, l'un des rares moments de félicité absolue dans une vie de combats, de feu et du malheur d'avoir vu périr tous tes valeureux compagnons.

Ulysse revenu dans ton palais, déguisé en mendiants pour châtier les prétendants, tu triomphas au tir à l'arc. Mais l'heure de la vindicte avait sonné. La première de tes flèches perça la gorge d'Antinoüs, buvant sa coupe. Nul ne put te fléchir Ulysse, pas même, l'éloquent Eurymaque qui t'offrait de t'apporter réparations pour tes provisions goulument mangés et tes biens dilapidés. Le pardon s'effaça en toi car l'offense faite à ta femme et à ton fils et à ton honneur était trop forte. Aussi tu n'eus pas la magnanimité de choisir la clémence et le sang coula dans ton palais comme le vin des outres. Pas un des prétendants ne fut épargné à l'exception du chanteur de Lyre, Phénios et du héraut Médon qui avait protégé Télémaque. Mais Ulysse, tu ne fus pas grand en laissant condamner à la pendaison hideuse, douze servantes qui avaient outragé Pénélope et partagé leur couche avec les prétendants.

Ulysse tu fus tant aimé des déesses, des nymphes et des femmes et souvent sauvé du pire par celles qui te donnèrent plaisir et descendance. Mais obsédé par tes roches d'Ithaque ne sus pas leur rendre l'amour qu'elles te portèrent. Tu ne fus pas non plus à la hauteur de la constance et de la fidélité de Pénélope.
Mais Ulysse poursuivi par la fatalité de l'exil et de l'errance et la rancune de Poséidon, tu fus aussi le préféré de la déesse Athéna qui fit tant et plus pour te sauver maintes fois de ta perte. Cette déesse fut la vraie sauvegarde de ta vie aventureuse et les femmes qui te chérirent t'apportèrent maintes douceurs et consolations dans ta vie tumultueuse.

Paul Arrighi

Prelude

This happened after Layla-Majnun were separated by Layla's dis-approving parents, family and community when these two LOVERz realized that true eternal LOVE had happened between them
After that - Majnun had become a mad wanderer singing songs about/for/of his Eternal LOVE for Layla
And on this side – Layla was given by her family a life of every comfort she desired. But Layla's heart was worried for Majnun’s well being.


Layla's Family Response:

Many a times Layla cried longing and missing Majnun
The family of Layla could not see Layla sad and sorrowful
To cheer Layla up the family often told her they loved her so much
They tried to cheer Layla with her favorite flowers and decorated her room with lots of beautifully scented flowers
They got famous singers from around the world  to come in the evening and sing songs in front of Layla to make her feel happy
They saw that Layla was part of every occasion and functions, every party family had. They organized events just to keep Layla feel good and make her part of every gathering
Everyone overtly LOVED Layla and respected her
Layla’s family often made many sweets that Layla liked
The family took Layla to excursions, far and away to the meadows and the mountains, to the springs and the oceans, to the forests and oasis - so that seeing nature Layla would forget Majnun
They often complimented her - How beautiful she is…; How nice she sings…; How well she is behaved…; and how intelligent she is…
Whenever Layla was in little good mood and when she talked a little, the family sat around her to eagerly listened to what Layla had to say
The parents of Layla made sure that Layla was not kept alone for a single moment. There was someone or the other - friends, mates, children or relatives surrounding Layla to give her company
Many a times Layla's parents invited guests who would bring Beautiful gifts and souvenirs for Layla from distant foreign lands
There were mentors, coaches, teachers hired to teach and upgrade different skills that are useful for Layla
The mother of Layla often told “Sorry” to Layla for not allowing her to meet Majnun. Though the sorry was sincere. it did not cheer Layla's heart because the dictate always remained: "Majnun is not the right one for you Layla"
In the house of Layla it was made mandatory that family members while leaving and entering the house would always say good bye and give a hug to Layla to make her feel so SPECIAL
Every now and then inside the house - there were religious sermons preached, religious scriptures read. The Maula and Maulavis recited verses - the morals, ethics, codes were taught; faith, belief, worship, prayers were made integral part of their life to make Layla feel devoted to God. They thought – when Layla understands Allah’s LOVE there won't be any need for Majnun’s LOVE
The family invited Layla's friends to play - indoor and outdoors games to get her involved in some sort of hobby so that it would keep Layla busy and thus forget about Majnun
Some days if Layla did something on her own - the family members would praise her every little efforts and celebrate it to create an atmosphere of happiness around her for every little achievement in Layla’s life
The family had created that “Halo” around Layla's image in the village/ town. She was known throughout the land as the most decent, gorgeously beautiful, well-educated, noble, kind fun-loving girl. Everyone in their town LOVED Layla. All these were done so that they could find the the most suitable richest PRINCE for Layla to get married to...
To make Layla feel good and confident the family often asked her opinions and included her in all family and business decision making
To make Layla feel attached to something else, the parents gifted her with - a dog, a cat, a rabbit, a pigeon and other exotic birds. So that by LOVING them Layla will forget Majnun
They also filled the house with all sorts of books that  interested Layla. They thought while reading the good books - Layla will forget Majnun
Not a week went where Layla was not gifted and adorned with - diamonds, pearl, stones, gold and silver jewelry

Each and every person who came in touch with Layla was so nice and sweet towards her, just to make sure that  Layla is kept busy with things in LIFE. The whole idea is to keep Layla involved in different things of work and life so that the LOVE for Majnun is completely forgotten amidst enjoyments of chasing success, career, work, wealth and a partner etc.


Layla's Sorrow:

But Layla was different…!

Layla had everything a girl wanted
Wealth, education, family,
Friends, relatives, company
Fruits, sweets, flowers
Game, animals, toys
Trips, Travel, occasions
Festivals, events, get-togethers

But

Layla's heart kept beating for Majnun
She was always worried of Majnun
"Where will be my Majnun wandering today?"
"What will he be doing right now?"
"Did he get some food to eat?"
“Did he sleep well..?" etc.

If anyone on the village street
Got a little bit of news of Majnun
Layla ran out to listen to what it was

If someone was reciting
The new songs Majnun had sung today
Layla carefully listened to those lyrics
And wrote them in her secret dairy.
She read them again and again
In the candle light of solitary darkness

With tears rolling from her eyes

Day-night, afternoon-evenings
Waking, sleeping, eating, sitting
Layla only thought of her Majnun

Blessed with every luxury of life
Yet Layla felt so helpless about
Her inability to go to meet Majnun
So that Majnun can see…

Layla's eyes, Layla's face
Those lips, that smile
The smell of Layla….
The way she looks at Majnun
The LOVE in Layla’s soul
Pouring out for Majnun

Layla's knew very well that
Majnun's only dreams was having
One glimpse of his BELOVEDz Layla

This cruelty of the world & everyone
That they and their norms
Stopped Layla to reach out to Majnun
This broke Layla’s heart into pieces
It killed Layla from inside more
Than it killed Majnun
In his longing for Layla

That was Layla's sorrow...
This is Layla’z sorrow

End Note:
Only the one who feels LOVE,
Only the one who know LOVE
Will understand Layla's sorrow
Of seeing the cruel punishment the world had given
To her LOVERz Majnun
By making him an useless mad wanderer
- Who only chants Layla's name
And sings Layla's praise

Mohawks everywhere
along the river
selling souvenirs
colonial body parts
souvenirs
of a failed genocide
vengenocide
vengeance
reverse genocide
reaction to genocide
colonial bodies in the rivers
limp
slander in writing
souvenirs
history of slander
intervened
abandon ships
millions of colonists dead
an eerie and safe silence of colonialism
a genuine sense of unearned guilt
in the natives
now the currents
the currents
having tried to save the colonists
from destroying themselves
but with no other choice
but to exterminate
we do not mention those evil people anymore
those colonists that tried to get rid of us
ended up
getting rid of themselves
on the shores of Africa
colonists rotted on wooden ships
decomposing in the ocean
feeding the wildlife
ships piled up
colonists piled up
dead
the ocean shore is unsafe
diseased for a long time
waterlogged and dead
for opposing freedom

La sensation s'apparente à une simple présence
Incongrue et abstraite, tant sa distance
De ces souvenirs qui exigent le poids des vivants
Comme promesse qu'ensemble nous traverserons le temps

Et tend à cette conviction presque vide de sens
Que les acteurs éternels de la tendre enfance
Puissent ainsi, pas à pas, suivre nos traces dans l'ombre
Pour que ce peuple d'éther ne s'ajourne que dans la tombe

Et que tombe cette folle histoire insensée, peu à peu
Que le temps calcinera de son souffle de feu
Ranimant en nous la flamme de ces instants d'ivresse
Pour que reste derrière nous ces souvenirs délestés

Et mieux vaut de son gré engendrer la cadence
Que de subir dans la l'angoisse les désirs de délivrance
Délaissant patiemment toute envie de se réjouir
Pour que s'endorme dans la cendre ces trop lourds souvenirs

Et quand viendra finalement la sensation de dissonance,
Que la lourdeur de l'homme aspirant la transcendance
S'exténue et s'allège dans l'accord des déceptions
Pour qu'enfin vive souverain ce pays d'ombres et d'illusions.

Et que sombre dérisoirement chaque pensée, peu à peu,
Que le temps effacera d'un seul geste d'adieux
Renvoyant au néant l'âme de ces habitants célestes
Pour que ne gise sur la toile qu'une confuse fresque.

We swore to ourselves
That we were our own heartache
Our own architect,
Author,
Artist,
But the story we wrote for ourselves
Didn't reflect our freedom
Our freedom that we enjoyed in our eyes

And we collected our souvenirs
Our bruises and broken bones
Our cuts we washed in salt
So that their comfort could never leave us
Like an over protective mother
Whose presence we would start to be repulsed by
Once we realised we were not children anymore.
And we would scrub at the scars
With sandpaper
And try to burn them from our skin
With nail varnish and our smouldering cigarette ends.

In the deathlands of night,
where you can't hide from what has gone,
the eyes of recollection are ripped open.
And once the eyelids of your spirit have been shredded,
all you can do is stare, stare, stare.
Back across the years
into the puddle of possible pasts,
searching for just the right reflection.
The perfection you put your finger on
and felt pulsing beneath your passion.
The fragment of time, folded up,
and stored away, like a ward
a barrier against forgetfulness.
This is all that memory demands.
A little place to call home,
where doubt and hope don't dwell alone,
a vault for each shout, each tear, and each moan.
A freezer to store all the flesh, and burnt bones,
of a thousand sunlit paradises you saw
destroyed before your eyes.
A room with a voice
that can pierce the brashest din
of just-forget-me's,
and we-never-should-have-been's.
A land of straight razors, and special souvenirs
we keep safely nestled between our fragile ears
a monument of all we are
a record of our years.
An echo that will never disappear.

I know of a world with magic in the air
Flights of fantasy and the most enchanted sea
I'll take you there
Show you the forests of the fair
All you have to do is follow me

The oceans will take your breath away
Mer scales glimmer as they shed in currents
Dive down in the bay
And mind the seaspray
And you can catch one if you make sure to hurry

Deep in caves, dragons meet our eye
Guarding hoards of gold and jewels
But they leave to fly
Throughout their own wide open sky
And that's when you disrupt their accrual

Higher in mountains, gryphons make their lives
Wingspans like whirlwinds: mighty and wide
But diets on which they thrive
Can't keep them forever alive
So take a talon which'll never again glide

Mer scale, talon and stolen gem
I like these souvenirs so far
And when I look at them
Checking over again and again
We can make a potion of stars

But there are a few more ingredients
We need to brew our magic
I'm a potion genius
And also a bit of a deviant
Who cares if this gets a bit tragic?

I

Mets-toi sur ton séant, lève tes yeux, dérange
Ce drap glacé qui fait des plis sur ton front d'ange,
Ouvre tes mains, et prends ce livre : il est à toi.

Ce livre où vit mon âme, espoir, deuil, rêve, effroi,
Ce livre qui contient le spectre de ma vie,
Mes angoisses, mon aube, hélas ! de pleurs suivie,
L'ombre et son ouragan, la rose et son pistil,
Ce livre azuré, triste, orageux, d'où sort-il ?
D'où sort le blême éclair qui déchire la brume ?
Depuis quatre ans, j'habite un tourbillon d'écume ;
Ce livre en a jailli. Dieu dictait, j'écrivais ;
Car je suis paille au vent. Va ! dit l'esprit. Je vais.
Et, quand j'eus terminé ces pages, quand ce livre
Se mit à palpiter, à respirer, à vivre,
Une église des champs, que le lierre verdit,
Dont la tour sonne l'heure à mon néant, m'a dit :
Ton cantique est fini ; donne-le-moi, poëte.
- Je le réclame, a dit la forêt inquiète ;
Et le doux pré fleuri m'a dit : - Donne-le-moi.
La mer, en le voyant frémir, m'a dit : - Pourquoi
Ne pas me le jeter, puisque c'est une voile !
- C'est à moi qu'appartient cet hymne, a dit l'étoile.
- Donne-le-nous, songeur, ont crié les grands vents.
Et les oiseaux m'ont dit : - Vas-tu pas aux vivants
Offrir ce livre, éclos si **** de leurs querelles ?
Laisse-nous l'emporter dans nos nids sur nos ailes ! -
Mais le vent n'aura point mon livre, ô cieux profonds !
Ni la sauvage mer, livrée aux noirs typhons,
Ouvrant et refermant ses flots, âpres embûches ;
Ni la verte forêt qu'emplit un bruit de ruches ;
Ni l'église où le temps fait tourner son compas ;
Le pré ne l'aura pas, l'astre ne l'aura pas,
L'oiseau ne l'aura pas, qu'il soit aigle ou colombe,
Les nids ne l'auront pas ; je le donne à la tombe.

II

Autrefois, quand septembre en larmes revenait,
Je partais, je quittais tout ce qui me connaît,
Je m'évadais ; Paris s'effaçait ; rien, personne !
J'allais, je n'étais plus qu'une ombre qui frissonne,
Je fuyais, seul, sans voir, sans penser, sans parler,
Sachant bien que j'irais où je devais aller ;
Hélas ! je n'aurais pu même dire : Je souffre !
Et, comme subissant l'attraction d'un gouffre,
Que le chemin fût beau, pluvieux, froid, mauvais,
J'ignorais, je marchais devant moi, j'arrivais.
Ô souvenirs ! ô forme horrible des collines !
Et, pendant que la mère et la soeur, orphelines,
Pleuraient dans la maison, je cherchais le lieu noir
Avec l'avidité morne du désespoir ;
Puis j'allais au champ triste à côté de l'église ;
Tête nue, à pas lents, les cheveux dans la bise,
L'oeil aux cieux, j'approchais ; l'accablement soutient ;
Les arbres murmuraient : C'est le père qui vient !
Les ronces écartaient leurs branches desséchées ;
Je marchais à travers les humbles croix penchées,
Disant je ne sais quels doux et funèbres mots ;
Et je m'agenouillais au milieu des rameaux
Sur la pierre qu'on voit blanche dans la verdure.
Pourquoi donc dormais-tu d'une façon si dure
Que tu n'entendais pas lorsque je t'appelais ?

Et les pêcheurs passaient en traînant leurs filets,
Et disaient : Qu'est-ce donc que cet homme qui songe ?
Et le jour, et le soir, et l'ombre qui s'allonge,
Et Vénus, qui pour moi jadis étincela,
Tout avait disparu que j'étais encor là.
J'étais là, suppliant celui qui nous exauce ;
J'adorais, je laissais tomber sur cette fosse,
Hélas ! où j'avais vu s'évanouir mes cieux,
Tout mon coeur goutte à goutte en pleurs silencieux ;
J'effeuillais de la sauge et de la clématite ;
Je me la rappelais quand elle était petite,
Quand elle m'apportait des lys et des jasmins,
Ou quand elle prenait ma plume dans ses mains,
Gaie, et riant d'avoir de l'encre à ses doigts roses ;
Je respirais les fleurs sur cette cendre écloses,
Je fixais mon regard sur ces froids gazons verts,
Et par moments, ô Dieu, je voyais, à travers
La pierre du tombeau, comme une lueur d'âme !

Oui, jadis, quand cette heure en deuil qui me réclame
Tintait dans le ciel triste et dans mon coeur saignant,
Rien ne me retenait, et j'allais ; maintenant,
Hélas !... - Ô fleuve ! ô bois ! vallons dont je fus l'hôte,
Elle sait, n'est-ce pas ? que ce n'est pas ma faute
Si, depuis ces quatre ans, pauvre coeur sans flambeau,
Je ne suis pas allé prier sur son tombeau !

III

Ainsi, ce noir chemin que je faisais, ce marbre
Que je contemplais, pâle, adossé contre un arbre,
Ce tombeau sur lequel mes pieds pouvaient marcher,
La nuit, que je voyais lentement approcher,
Ces ifs, ce crépuscule avec ce cimetière,
Ces sanglots, qui du moins tombaient sur cette pierre,
Ô mon Dieu, tout cela, c'était donc du bonheur !

Dis, qu'as-tu fait pendant tout ce temps-là ? - Seigneur,
Qu'a-t-elle fait ? - Vois-tu la vie en vos demeures ?
A quelle horloge d'ombre as-tu compté les heures ?
As-tu sans bruit parfois poussé l'autre endormi ?
Et t'es-tu, m'attendant, réveillée à demi ?
T'es-tu, pâle, accoudée à l'obscure fenêtre
De l'infini, cherchant dans l'ombre à reconnaître
Un passant, à travers le noir cercueil mal joint,
Attentive, écoutant si tu n'entendais point
Quelqu'un marcher vers toi dans l'éternité sombre ?
Et t'es-tu recouchée ainsi qu'un mât qui sombre,
En disant : Qu'est-ce donc ? mon père ne vient pas !
Avez-vous tous les deux parlé de moi tout bas ?

Que de fois j'ai choisi, tout mouillés de rosée,
Des lys dans mon jardin, des lys dans ma pensée !
Que de fois j'ai cueilli de l'aubépine en fleur !
Que de fois j'ai, là-bas, cherché la tour d'Harfleur,
Murmurant : C'est demain que je pars ! et, stupide,
Je calculais le vent et la voile rapide,
Puis ma main s'ouvrait triste, et je disais : Tout fuit !
Et le bouquet tombait, sinistre, dans la nuit !
Oh ! que de fois, sentant qu'elle devait m'attendre,
J'ai pris ce que j'avais dans le coeur de plus tendre
Pour en charger quelqu'un qui passerait par là !

Lazare ouvrit les yeux quand Jésus l'appela ;
Quand je lui parle, hélas ! pourquoi les ferme-t-elle ?
Où serait donc le mal quand de l'ombre mortelle
L'amour violerait deux fois le noir secret,
Et quand, ce qu'un dieu fit, un père le ferait ?

IV

Que ce livre, du moins, obscur message, arrive,
Murmure, à ce silence, et, flot, à cette rive !
Qu'il y tombe, sanglot, soupir, larme d'amour !
Qu'il entre en ce sépulcre où sont entrés un jour
Le baiser, la jeunesse, et l'aube, et la rosée,
Et le rire adoré de la fraîche épousée,
Et la joie, et mon coeur, qui n'est pas ressorti !
Qu'il soit le cri d'espoir qui n'a jamais menti,
Le chant du deuil, la voix du pâle adieu qui pleure,
Le rêve dont on sent l'aile qui nous effleure !
Qu'elle dise : Quelqu'un est là ; j'entends du bruit !
Qu'il soit comme le pas de mon âme en sa nuit !

Ce livre, légion tournoyante et sans nombre
D'oiseaux blancs dans l'aurore et d'oiseaux noirs dans l'ombre,
Ce vol de souvenirs fuyant à l'horizon,
Cet essaim que je lâche au seuil de ma prison,
Je vous le confie, air, souffles, nuée, espace !
Que ce fauve océan qui me parle à voix basse,
Lui soit clément, l'épargne et le laisse passer !
Et que le vent ait soin de n'en rien disperser,
Et jusqu'au froid caveau fidèlement apporte
Ce don mystérieux de l'absent à la morte !

Ô Dieu ! puisqu'en effet, dans ces sombres feuillets,
Dans ces strophes qu'au fond de vos cieux je cueillais,
Dans ces chants murmurés comme un épithalame
Pendant que vous tourniez les pages de mon âme,
Puisque j'ai, dans ce livre, enregistré mes jours,
Mes maux, mes deuils, mes cris dans les problèmes sourds,
Mes amours, mes travaux, ma vie heure par heure ;
Puisque vous ne voulez pas encor que je meure,
Et qu'il faut bien pourtant que j'aille lui parler ;
Puisque je sens le vent de l'infini souffler
Sur ce livre qu'emplit l'orage et le mystère ;
Puisque j'ai versé là toutes vos ombres, terre,
Humanité, douleur, dont je suis le passant ;
Puisque de mon esprit, de mon coeur, de mon sang,
J'ai fait l'âcre parfum de ces versets funèbres,
Va-t'en, livre, à l'azur, à travers les ténèbres !
Fuis vers la brume où tout à pas lents est conduit !
Oui, qu'il vole à la fosse, à la tombe, à la nuit,
Comme une feuille d'arbre ou comme une âme d'homme !
Qu'il roule au gouffre où va tout ce que la voix nomme !
Qu'il tombe au plus profond du sépulcre hagard,
A côté d'elle, ô mort ! et que là, le regard,
Près de l'ange qui dort, lumineux et sublime,
Le voie épanoui, sombre fleur de l'abîme !

V

Ô doux commencements d'azur qui me trompiez,
Ô bonheurs ! je vous ai durement expiés !
J'ai le droit aujourd'hui d'être, quand la nuit tombe,
Un de ceux qui se font écouter de la tombe,
Et qui font, en parlant aux morts blêmes et seuls,
Remuer lentement les plis noirs des linceuls,
Et dont la parole, âpre ou tendre, émeut les pierres,
Les grains dans les sillons, les ombres dans les bières,
La vague et la nuée, et devient une voix
De la nature, ainsi que la rumeur des bois.
Car voilà, n'est-ce pas, tombeaux ? bien des années,
Que je marche au milieu des croix infortunées,
Échevelé parmi les ifs et les cyprès,
L'âme au bord de la nuit, et m'approchant tout près,
Et que je vais, courbé sur le cercueil austère,
Questionnant le plomb, les clous, le ver de terre
Qui pour moi sort des yeux de la tête de mort,
Le squelette qui rit, le squelette qui mord,
Les mains aux doigts noueux, les crânes, les poussières,
Et les os des genoux qui savent des prières !

Hélas ! j'ai fouillé tout. J'ai voulu voir le fond.
Pourquoi le mal en nous avec le bien se fond,
J'ai voulu le savoir. J'ai dit : Que faut-il croire ?
J'ai creusé la lumière, et l'aurore, et la gloire,
L'enfant joyeux, la vierge et sa chaste frayeur,
Et l'amour, et la vie, et l'âme, - fossoyeur.

Qu'ai-je appris ? J'ai, pensif , tout saisi sans rien prendre ;
J'ai vu beaucoup de nuit et fait beaucoup de cendre.
Qui sommes-nous ? que veut dire ce mot : Toujours ?
J'ai tout enseveli, songes, espoirs, amours,
Dans la fosse que j'ai creusée en ma poitrine.
Qui donc a la science ? où donc est la doctrine ?
Oh ! que ne suis-je encor le rêveur d'autrefois,
Qui s'égarait dans l'herbe, et les prés, et les bois,
Qui marchait souriant, le soir, quand le ciel brille,
Tenant la main petite et blanche de sa fille,
Et qui, joyeux, laissant luire le firmament,
Laissant l'enfant parler, se sentait lentement
Emplir de cet azur et de cette innocence !

Entre Dieu qui flamboie et l'ange qui l'encense,
J'ai vécu, j'ai lutté, sans crainte, sans remord.
Puis ma porte soudain s'ouvrit devant la mort,
Cette visite brusque et terrible de l'ombre.
Tu passes en laissant le vide et le décombre,
Ô spectre ! tu saisis mon ange et tu frappas.
Un tombeau fut dès lors le but de tous mes pas.

VI

Je ne puis plus reprendre aujourd'hui dans la plaine
Mon sentier d'autrefois qui descend vers la Seine ;
Je ne puis plus aller où j'allais ; je ne puis,
Pareil à la laveuse assise au bord du puits,
Que m'accouder au mur de l'éternel abîme ;
Paris m'est éclipsé par l'énorme Solime ;
La hauteNotre-Dame à présent, qui me luit,
C'est l'ombre ayant deux tours, le silence et la nuit,
Et laissant des clartés trouer ses fatals voiles ;
Et je vois sur mon front un panthéon d'étoiles ;
Si j'appelle Rouen, Villequier, Caudebec,
Toute l'ombre me crie : Horeb, Cédron, Balbeck !
Et, si je pars, m'arrête à la première lieue,
Et me dit: Tourne-toi vers l'immensité bleue !
Et me dit : Les chemins où tu marchais sont clos.
Penche-toi sur les nuits, sur les vents, sur les flots !
A quoi penses-tu donc ? que fais-tu, solitaire ?
Crois-tu donc sous tes pieds avoir encor la terre ?
Où vas-tu de la sorte et machinalement ?
Ô songeur ! penche-toi sur l'être et l'élément !
Écoute la rumeur des âmes dans les ondes !
Contemple, s'il te faut de la cendre, les mondes ;
Cherche au moins la poussière immense, si tu veux
Mêler de la poussière à tes sombres cheveux,
Et regarde, en dehors de ton propre martyre,
Le grand néant, si c'est le néant qui t'attire !
Sois tout à ces soleils où tu remonteras !
Laisse là ton vil coin de terre. Tends les bras,
Ô proscrit de l'azur, vers les astres patries !
Revois-y refleurir tes aurores flétries ;
Deviens le grand oeil fixe ouvert sur le grand tout.
Penche-toi sur l'énigme où l'être se dissout,
Sur tout ce qui naît, vit, marche, s'éteint, succombe,
Sur tout le genre humain et sur toute la tombe !

Mais mon coeur toujours saigne et du même côté.
C'est en vain que les cieux, les nuits, l'éternité,
Veulent distraire une âme et calmer un atome.
Tout l'éblouissement des lumières du dôme
M'ôte-t-il une larme ? Ah ! l'étendue a beau
Me parler, me montrer l'universel tombeau,
Les soirs sereins, les bois rêveurs, la lune amie ;
J'écoute, et je reviens à la douce endormie.

VII

Des fleurs ! oh ! si j'avais des fleurs ! si je pouvais
Aller semer des lys sur ces deux froids chevets !
Si je pouvais couvrir de fleurs mon ange pâle !
Les fleurs sont l'or, l'azur, l'émeraude, l'opale !
Le cercueil au milieu des fleurs veut se coucher ;
Les fleurs aiment la mort, et Dieu les fait toucher
Par leur racine aux os, par leur parfum aux âmes !
Puisque je ne le puis, aux lieux que nous aimâmes,
Puisque Dieu ne veut pas nous laisser revenir,
Puisqu'il nous fait lâcher ce qu'on croyait tenir,
Puisque le froid destin, dans ma geôle profonde,
Sur la première porte en scelle une seconde,
Et, sur le père triste et sur l'enfant qui dort,
Ferme l'exil après avoir fermé la mort,
Puisqu'il est impossible à présent que je jette
Même un brin de bruyère à sa fosse muette,
C'est bien le moins qu'elle ait mon âme, n'est-ce pas ?
Ô vent noir dont j'entends sur mon plafond le pas !
Tempête, hiver, qui bats ma vitre de ta grêle !
Mers, nuits ! et je l'ai mise en ce livre pour elle !

Prends ce livre ; et dis-toi : Ceci vient du vivant
Que nous avons laissé derrière nous, rêvant.
Prends. Et, quoique de ****, reconnais ma voix, âme !
Oh ! ta cendre est le lit de mon reste de flamme ;
Ta tombe est mon espoir, ma charité, ma foi ;
Ton linceul toujours flotte entre la vie et moi.
Prends ce livre, et fais-en sortir un divin psaume !
Qu'entre tes vagues mains il devienne fantôme !
Qu'il blanchisse, pareil à l'aube qui pâlit,
A mesure que l'oeil de mon ange le lit,
Et qu'il s'évanouisse, et flotte, et disparaisse,
Ainsi qu'un âtre obscur qu'un souffle errant caresse,
Ainsi qu'une lueur qu'on voit passer le soir,
Ainsi qu'un tourbillon de feu de l'encensoir,
Et que, sous ton regard éblouissant et sombre,
Chaque page s'en aille en étoiles dans l'ombre !

VIII

Oh ! quoi que nous fassions et quoi que nous disions,
Soit que notre âme plane au vent des visions,
Soit qu'elle se cramponne à l'argile natale,
Toujours nous arrivons à ta grotte fatale,
Gethsémani ! qu'éclaire une vague lueur !
Ô rocher de l'étrange et funèbre sueur !
Cave où l'esprit combat le destin ! ouverture
Sur les profonds effrois de la sombre nature !
Antre d'où le lion sort rêveur, en voyant
Quelqu'un de plus sinistre et de plus effrayant,
La douleur, entrer, pâle, amère, échevelée !
Ô chute ! asile ! ô seuil de la trouble vallée
D'où nous apercevons nos ans fuyants et courts,
Nos propres pas marqués dans la fange des jours,
L'échelle où le mal pèse et monte, spectre louche,
L'âpre frémissement de la palme farouche,
Les degrés noirs tirant en bas les blancs degrés,
Et les frissons aux fronts des anges effarés !

Toujours nous arrivons à cette solitude,
Et, là, nous nous taisons, sentant la plénitude !

Paix à l'ombre ! Dormez ! dormez ! dormez ! dormez !
Êtres, groupes confus lentement transformés !
Dormez, les champs ! dormez, les fleurs ! dormez, les tombes !
Toits, murs, seuils des maisons, pierres des catacombes,
Feuilles au fond des bois, plumes au fond des nids,
Dormez ! dormez, brins d'herbe, et dormez, infinis !
Calmez-vous, forêt, chêne, érable, frêne, yeuse !
Silence sur la grande horreur religieuse,
Sur l'océan qui lutte et qui ronge son mors,
Et sur l'apaisement insondable des morts !
Paix à l'obscurité muette et redoutée,
Paix au doute effrayant, à l'immense ombre athée,
A toi, nature, cercle et centre, âme et milieu,
Fourmillement de tout, solitude de Dieu !
Ô générations aux brumeuses haleines,
Reposez-vous ! pas noirs qui marchez dans les plaines !
Dormez, vous qui saignez ; dormez, vous qui pleurez !
Douleurs, douleurs, douleurs, fermez vos yeux sacrés !
Tout est religio

Hi dudes and welcome to the candle festival which is at Nara park behind the Albert hall and there is a good band on the stage playing classic 80s music
From the act senior college band a bit of survivor and abba
And a whole lot more
There are a lot of stalls  where you could buy a lot of great souvenirs for the young and the young at heart and there are many demonstrations like judo and drumming and sumo wrestling  and at sunset a beautiful candle garden will light up the night and the crowd is beginning to build up, yeah
This is totally awesome and as I am walking around you see people getting ready to do their demonstrations
Welcome back and isn't narrabundah college energetic
As they performed their great Japanese dancing and over at the demonstration area they have calligraphy Japanese style
And there is a drumming workshop under the trees near the food tents and the judo dudes are showing off their styles isn't it wonderful and then we had a duet from Gungahlin college and mate they blew me away with their fine Japanese voices and at the moment the stage is at intermission waiting for the school choirs to begin l am looking forward to that
And as you look around you can see the judo dudes and dudettes displaying their judo skills by lifting their opponents
Over their shoulder, and over onto the mat and over at the ikebana tent they are showing us how to put it together with a fine hand which means she is trying to keep the beauty and now the judo has finished and the sumo wrestlers are showing their skills and I would hate to meet up with them in a dark alley and as you walk over to behind the ATM machines the kids are displaying their drumming skills, there are kids from babies to toddlers and aren't they having a ball
Yeah this can really brighten the imagination real hard and the school choirs are on the stage displaying their singing talents
Yeah, this candle festival has it all, I didn't see much of the school choirs and Nara university high school but o guarantee they would have been great and the sumo wrestlers really had the crowd glued to the stage and on the main stage there is a smoking ceremony and the karate is taking up the stage and soon they are having a sake barrel ceremony and this is going to be totally awesome dudes
It is now 6:26 and now we will feature some great music from ms satsuki odmara (koto) and Robert stockee (didgeridoo) & dr yukihiko doi (Japanese court music) and everyone is listening to this fine music as they await the big candle garden ceremony which I hope this year is awesome and the party is well and truly on the way I hope it is a very good ceremony
It will like the, whole evening
And kids are flying kites as well as making lantern, it costs a bit but it is jolly well worth it if you have kids pulling on your jumper begging for something to do and there is an array of very good stalls if you are looking for an early Christmas present for someone in your family, yeah that is sooooooo!awesome and on the main stage there is George & noriko with their wonderful blend of blues and Japanese sounds and they will get the party started right, they will get the party started quickly right
Aren't George and noriko great they are getting the crowd into the party mode and I love how they yell out koupei too before this song but, mate this is music and party combined and
Everyone is gathered round the stage tapping their feet as await the lighting of the beautiful candle garden
As we are nearing the end of the first set of George and noriko, the sun is going down
Behind the tree and soon as they let out their last koipei
The night is nearly upon us
And those candles will light up the beautiful garden here at Nara peace park
We just had a very beautiful
Ceremony with the chief minister and enstiguished guests and as they light up a few lanterns in the candle Garden we are entertained by koto and didgeridoo and Japanese court music and I can tell you, this is very cool and o think the didgeridoo sounds totally awesome with the other instruments and as we look around each tree has blue green and pink lights, and I tell you that looks great and a lot of families bought candles to wave around and the music was great
And now we are into the last 2 acts on stage and George and noriko are coming out to yell out a few cool kowpei and I think this will be really cool
You see he sits down on his chair and blasts some great blues and Japanese Music
Or Japanese blues and they are showing us how to party, dudes
Saki saki saki is the sound you are hearing  as they are playing a Japanese blues song which
When he says saki we say saki
He says saki saki saki we say saki saki saki and they get their beer and yell out kowpei
And everyone is recording the music and finding out whether
It worked and then as George and noriko are introducing the next song and now it is time for the last song which is rad dude
Shake your money maker
Shake your money maker
That is the last song but I am hoping they do an encore which
Will be pretty cool  and then he yells out koipei
Shake your money maker
Shake your money maker
And I think I will shake my pockets as that is my money maker oh well they didn't do and encore as they are setting up for the taikoz drumming
And as they brought out the first drum and there should be enough drumming to last from 8-30 to 9-00, I think the crowd
Are cheering taikoz on as they prepare
Those drummers were totally awesome and very fit
I know I couldn't drum like that in a million years, I liked how the drummers moved from sequence to sequence
They must put in a lot of days a week rehearsing for that
And when the drumming was over I talk a walk through the candle garden and my phone conked out so I couldn't get a picture but I might have some
Photos of the candle garden in a couple of days
So that is it that is all
So let's shake your money maker to buy some saki saki saki and yell out koipei
Catch ya later dudes and dudettes

.penta - come in: like i said, horror movie soundtracks, i fall asleep listening to them... they're so atmospheric i, simply can't resist their inherent allure.

the infamous Croydon cat killer...
i'm not buying what the media is selling...
i'm currently in the possession
of a quasi-pet...
  a fox...
comes round my garden for food,
leftovers...
which i give to him with overcooked
rice...
      no... i'm not buying the police report...
two reason...
you know where Croydon is...
and when the next incident happened?
north east London...
   did the fox... ******* swim?!
a fox is not a migratory animal...
   it's niche...
   it's local...
   if it has a sustained food source...
scavenger that it is...
omnivore like a petted dog...
  no...
i don't buy it...
              why would it transverse
south west London and strike in
north east London...
    did Herr Fusch
and why were the bodies left as evidence?
this fox has a *******
fetish for cranium meat or something?
i'm no Mr. Softie for the company
of a fox...
     but on the outskirts of London...
cats and foxes share a strange
   symbiosis...
   ever walk the dark Essex roads
at night, and peer into the fox
and the house-cat look at each other with
curiosity?
      like all serial killers...
it begins with animals,
there's always the audacity with animals...
most of them would probably become
model citizens, if they were allowed
a job at a slaughter house...
   so the mainstream media explains
the Croydon cat killer as a fox...
a fox that decapitates a body...
   and doesn't eat the torso?!
******* magic!
that's not how mature nature of
the wild works: you either eat...
or you're eaten..
        my neighbors owned ducks...
you think that when a fox
dug a hole beneath the cage...
there was a duck torso and a missing
duck head?
ha ha! good luck!
       why would a wild animal **** something...
and not eat it?
    a Swizz fondu makes more sense
than this explanation!
no cautionary animal,
that is primarily a scavenger,
travels from south west London
to north east London...
             BULL...****...
       BULL... ****!
           i don't feed my Brody because
i think he's cute...
   i feed him...
     because i randomly feel like it...
do foxes even own the concept
of a head terrine delicacy?
   my little ******* will eat
rice mingling with off-cuts of meat
and fat...
           so... he bit the head off...
but left the torso for evidence?!
BULL... ****...
oh i'm pretty sure a shy, a very shy
bored Jimmy is lurking in the shadows...
shy bored Jimmies need
a canvas of innocence...
animals are their primal choice...
  well... considering that Cain
was a vegetarian and Abel wasn't...
          he's lying low...
he needs to wake up from the adrenaline
rush...
   he needs for it to cool down...
a fox doesn't leave torso evidence...
and what would be the point of...
   did they say whether the heads
were guillotined, or chewed off?
no ******* animal chews off a head,
unlikely for an animal
to decapitate another animal...
   only human imagination provides that
sort of ingenuity...
         crock ****... basic crock ****...
blame the foxes...
     ha ha!
find me this shadowy little Jimmy before
he boasts about
the human sin of being gullible....
thank **** i'm not a campaigner...
   what i do with "my" fox is concerned
with ecological advantages...
also something akin
  to a Monday morning...
and how my neighbor's trash isn't littered
over the road... because
the wolf was fed, and so the sheep
too...
                 there is no logic to
the claim that a fox made methodological
killings of pets...
   if you ever walked
the streets at night,
and watched the stare-off between
a fox and a cat...
   last time i checked:
   cats have claws and a ferocious bite...
foxes? no claws...
just the bite...
oh, right... what am i listening to?
    penta -            come in...
   i'm still thinking of little Jimmy in the shadows,
collecting his decapitated
   cat heads... and stuffing them
with fiddles of a post-scriptum
to the Hollywood movie genre...
   oh believe me...
from what i heard of Eddie the Gain...
20th century alternative culture
was basically him
being covertly cited...
            no...
a fox wouldn't do it...
   if it was a a duck / chicken affair...
sure...
   but cats being decapitated...
and the torsos left as evidence,
i.e. not being eaten?
         little Jimmy is taking a break...
given that: i'm pretty sure a Bonsai
tiger knows a few tricks about
how a predator defends himself...
          then again, the explanation
could be:
  too many cat videos...
             cats aren't cute...
they're bogus critters who are in
the potential of biting and scratching...
come one...
all the way from south west London...
to north east London?!
foxes don't travel that far,
and the closest route would be
by a hypotenuse vector...
   sooner proving Santa Claus
exists...
    and...
              it couldn't be the same fox...
wild animals are analogous...
but they're certainly not original copy-cats...

coming from a newspaper
like the times:
   i'm vaguely allured to claim them
left-leaning... right-centrist for sure...
but they're still quasi-Guardian
types...

the topic at hand came,
thanks to no. 10,154 sudoku puzzle...
and the narrative...

1    0    0    0    0    0    0    0    5
0    5   ­ 0    0    2    0    0    3    0
0    4    0   6    0    5    0    1    0
0    0    2   0    0    0    8    0    0
0    0    5    4    0    3    7    0  ­  0
0    3    0    5    0    2    0    6    0
0    6    0    8   ­ 0    1    0    9    0
5    0    0    0    0    0    0    0    1
­0    7    0    0    6    0    0    4    0

ut 10,153 was a mess...
i can only suppose it was too simple...

let's just say i had to think
of something,
esp. little Jimmy...
    
                        and the scapegoat fox...
after all: it's the easiest route...
   pretending that a wild
animal is to behave in a civilized manner...
but even wild animals
do not behave like
meticulous killers...
          and decapitation?
it an example of a civilized
meticulousness of a killing...
        
i sniff a rat, a see a rat...
             mainstream media is a load
of *******, and hardly an outrage
of der stimme...
    
foxes don't assert methodological killings...
little Jimmy... whittle Jimmy...
taking a break...
having made foundation
in the first membrane of audacity...
sooner or later...
little Jimmy is moving from cats,
and into the territory of humans...

they all do...
  "they"?
        serial killers!

          that wasn't a fox...
i'm petting a fox at this moment in time...
well.. petting is a lose term...
otherwise strapped to:
"petting"...

           but as you do... solving a sudoku...
here's the linear
narrative:

   (b) 8 8 1 1 3 4 7 9 7 7 9 9 4 9 7 9 4 7
(a) 1 1 5 5 5 1 6 6 7 7 8 2 3 4 9 6 6 6 8 2 3 2 4 4 8 3 9 3 9 2 3 2 2 8 8

and you do think up crazy ****
while you're at it...

1    2    6    9    3    8    4    7    5
7    5    8    1­    2    4    9    3    6
3    4    9   6    6    5    2    1    8
4    1    2   7    9    6    8    5    3
6    8    5    4    1    3    7    2  ­  9
9    3    7    5    8    2    1    6    4
2    6    4    8   ­ 5    1    3    9    7
5    9    3    2    4    7    6    8    1
­8    7    1    3    6    9    5    4    2

but then the everyday newspaper
you read on the everyday
from Monday to Friday....
and there's a newspaper magazine...
ah...
   so that's the problem...
i'm not bundled up in a demographic
nearing retirement age?!

the Croydon cat-killer is still out there...
  a fox wouldn't leave a decapitated
torso as evidence...

as the one simple rule of nature suggests:
NATURE DOESN'T BELIEVE
IN LANDFILL SITES...
IT BELIEVES IN RECYCLING...
a fox that chews off a head
of a cat, and doesn't drag the torso into
the forest to eat?
   well... let's just suppose
that idiocy doesn't exactly permeate
in the wild...
              less a stupid animal...
more a selfish / slothful animal...
  foxes are neither...

             little Jimmy is still out there...
with his love for souvenirs of
cat heads...
           and he's buying time...
so a scapegoat emerges...
  
        if a fox did what was "supposedly" done...
i'm pretty sure there would be
no evidence...
          left...

you get the picture?
  Michael Myers began experiments
on animals... as did Jeffrey Dahmer with
road-****...
                can't someone make an outlet
for these people to work
in slaughterhouses?!
                    they'd be perfect!

decent human beings:
in the most indecent human conditions -
and i'm pretty sure these guys
would love working
in the slaughterhouses...

  i could, for some reason,
forget vegetarians akin to Adolf ******
by then!