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"spinoza" poems
if you drill down, past the hair, flesh and bone. into my mind where the ego and id  reside. then turn to the left, and follow the i.q. down the alley, you will find a place. where on thrones of cogitating thoughts, king big questions asked, reigns in conjunction, with, queen yet unanswered. they watch with interest benign, over a field of  an eternal tourney, split roughly down the middle by a chasm quite wide. on one side of the gorge is arrayed, the banners of philosophy. at the vanguard, the epistemological knights; plato, descartes, ferrier, kant, hume,spinoza and bosanquet. the major forces ride beneath the banners, of their schools of thought. followed by the lesser lights, and those, obscure or forgotten, who walk at the rear,carrying the gear and to set the tent poles. as to the other side, that is given to, the seminaries of religion; bhuddism, taoism, islam, hindu, juche, rastafarian, sikh, diasporic, parsis, tenrikyo, judaism and christianity with all its clans. they array themselves in cadres, according to belief. and to the rear, there rides, an interesting guerilla band, of intertestemantals, about 3 or 4 hundred years wide. these are the few who are  accounted for, when god spoke nothing, or perhaps a lot but the message just got lost. they number in their disparate clan, alexander the great, ptolemy, the hellanic masses, seluecids, maccabeans, hasmoeans and pompey the great, not all, but the noteworthy. across the divide, by arrowing thought were fought rallies of acumen and battles of wit and occasionally, a persipacious fire was lit. but there is one more player, to mention. apathy, the great hulking ****** who for want of gumption, and get up and go, sat crouched, (quite uncomfortably so) on a spire. made of mediocracy, cemented by woe, in the iddle of the rifted abyss. unable to decide with which team to go.
0
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
the tourney
if you drill down, past the hair, flesh and bone. into my mind where the ego and id  reside. then turn to the left, and follow the i.q. down the alley, you will find a place. where on thrones of cogitating thoughts, king big questions asked, reigns in conjunction, with, queen yet unanswered. they watch with interest benign, over a field of  an eternal tourney, split roughly down the middle by a chasm quite wide. on one side of the gorge is arrayed, the banners of philosophy. at the vanguard, the epistemological knights; plato, descartes, ferrier, kant, hume,spinoza and bosanquet. the major forces ride beneath the banners, of their schools of thought. followed by the lesser lights, and those, obscure or forgotten, who walk at the rear,carrying the gear and to set the tent poles. as to the other side, that is given to, the seminaries of religion; bhuddism, taoism, islam, hindu, juche, rastafarian, sikh, diasporic, parsis, tenrikyo, judaism and christianity with all its clans. they array themselves in cadres, according to belief. and to the rear, there rides, an interesting guerilla band, of intertestemantals, about 3 or 4 hundred years wide. these are the few who are  accounted for, when god spoke nothing, or perhaps a lot but the message just got lost. they number in their disparate clan, alexander the great, ptolemy, the hellanic masses, seluecids, maccabeans, hasmoeans and pompey the great, not all, but the noteworthy. across the divide, by arrowing thought were fought rallies of acumen and battles of wit and occasionally, a persipacious fire was lit. but there is one more player, to mention. apathy, the great hulking ****** who for want of gumption, and get up and go, sat crouched, (quite uncomfortably so) on a spire. made of mediocracy, cemented by woe, in the iddle of the rifted abyss. unable to decide with which team to go.
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76
With wings like barn doors, perched upon the tower and scathing The king fell, the Earth moved and let him drift slowly to death Bukowski on the bedpost sang rosy melodies through tin can headphones and the daffodils of a thousand fields wilted at the news of her death Needles fall from the junky's arms, a rain drop escapes Coca-Cola bottles strewn on a green carpet, smooth under foot and the festival casualties drift aimlessly to their scorching cars Pills fall from pockets as a forlorn criminal collects coins The clouds disperse from the estate, reggae disrupts cats making love Bass that resonates, crumbling cars and the warring between neighbours Lay with her as the coffin descends, gun crime statistics Spinoza makes accusations from beyond, ethical misappropriation Stop talking, for your voice could make an angel weep but the children still scream, running, frenzied on the lava streets Cracking bull whips at the backs of a slave, ********** passion, weeping and the sun sets in the East, proverbial middle finger to the populace Franzen now teaches me how to live such a lonesome life While the night holds me like a mother once would Until I pass, and the arms of Susanna Blamire beckon Hold me close I'm scared
0
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
I Dreamt I Wrote Something Special (This Is Not It)
A gentle tempest stormed my lawn; it stood me still and then was gone. Anchored, awestruck in my place by beauty and euphoric grace, I thought of Spinoza's God, infinity's precise design, the perfect math of Everything – our love, a quotient of Divine.
0
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
A sudden and fleeting snow
oh right... no social criticism... just a bomb will do? mm, yes, a bomb will fair much better... no social criticism... and only the political class are allowed a backdrop of satire... now i have to be thankful for a 7 year old schizophrenic simulator, the "inability" of the medical profession to misdiagnose... oh yes... i'm really thankful for all of that. philosophy and its rigid vocabulary, clutters up the range of ****** expressions, scientific atheism is still measuring the non-existence of something via the occator crater of ceres as: ah... look at that... a cute puppy! enlaraged eyes of a kitten pleading! ooh ah! so so cute! mm. actually, in #a, philosophy is the original divination of divisions - centimetre in man to distinguish him into a spider-web project of thinking, feeling, consciousness, sentience, animate, zombie, it cuts cuts in, slashes away at so many meanings, you end up with shorthand of 140 character allowances - so this scientific negativism - i can't see any scientific positivism right now, calling something cute as a puppy will not really do justice to the measure of things, unlike atheism in humanism, where the projection of will is paramount to define life, of how one human influences another, if at all, atheism only matters in how humans politicise, i love the fanciful individualist definition that does not really wish to congregate... and there we have it: atypical to the English, the invention of utilitarianism, the best moral action is to be polite, or simply nice, to say 'yes, thank you' and 'no, thank you', to say sorry a lot when commuting in the tube... ah, mm, oh... and the other grand pillar of utilitarianism? REMEMBER PERSONAL SPACE... well spinoza could tell you a lot about this principle when the rabbis ****** him: about how people were not supposed to stand at a certain distance near him... sardine **** of human sweat on the tube during rush-hour.
0
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 9:55 AM UTC
the occator crater of ceres
oh right... no social criticism... just a bomb will do? mm, yes, a bomb will fair much better... no social criticism... and only the political class are allowed a backdrop of satire... now i have to be thankful for a 7 year old schizophrenic simulator, the "inability" of the medical profession to misdiagnose... oh yes... i'm really thankful for all of that. philosophy and its rigid vocabulary, clutters up the range of ****** expressions, scientific atheism is still measuring the non-existence of something via the occator crater of ceres as: ah... look at that... a cute puppy! enlaraged eyes of a kitten pleading! ooh ah! so so cute! mm. actually, in #a, philosophy is the original divination of divisions - centimetre in man to distinguish him into a spider-web project of thinking, feeling, consciousness, sentience, animate, zombie, it cuts cuts in, slashes away at so many meanings, you end up with shorthand of 140 character allowances - so this scientific negativism - i can't see any scientific positivism right now, calling something cute as a puppy will not really do justice to the measure of things, unlike atheism in humanism, where the projection of will is paramount to define life, of how one human influences another, if at all, atheism only matters in how humans politicise, i love the fanciful individualist definition that does not really wish to congregate... and there we have it: atypical to the English, the invention of utilitarianism, the best moral action is to be polite, or simply nice, to say 'yes, thank you' and 'no, thank you', to say sorry a lot when commuting in the tube... ah, mm, oh... and the other grand pillar of utilitarianism? REMEMBER PERSONAL SPACE... well spinoza could tell you a lot about this principle when the rabbis ****** him: about how people were not supposed to stand at a certain distance near him... sardine **** of human sweat on the tube during rush-hour.
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41
Dom Frederick's book of the old abbey I had read the abbey closed by Henry VIII, the new abbey was my sanctuary since my first arrival, et habitaverunt ibi, George sickened for the warmer weather the cold saddened him, she kissed my pecker to a new life some other guy's wife, for the sake of silence we ought to abstain even from good talk Benedict said, I picked a cabbage for the midday lunch and smelt the mint nearby, birdsong woke the gardens and me, Hugh him of thin frame moaned of the number of books on my shelf even the Hopkins poems got his goat, Dieu est à mes yeux, in my sight and what I saw, on the seashore by the abbey we threw stones along the incoming tide and Dom Joe(Bunny dear) smiled, and again she said deeper deeper, we become what we love and who we love shapes what we become said Clare (saint) that is, the French peasant monk cut the tall grass with a skill I didn't have his scythe swung wide, travailler à prier he said, Dom Patrick spoke softly about the sweeping and washing of the refectory floor and how it was done and I did as he said, God is the indwelling not the transient cause of all things Gareth said quoting Spinoza as we walked from the abbey orchard to the cloister, I kissed her ******* each in turn as she had said in her big double bed, the bell tolled from the church for the office of Terce, Dio è nelle mie orecchie the Italian monk said, I watched the monks walk towards the church and I walked also, I am lost I mused where to go?
0
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 4:17 PM UTC
WHERE TO GO MCMLXXI.
Dom Frederick's book of the old abbey I had read the abbey closed by Henry VIII, the new abbey was my sanctuary since my first arrival, et habitaverunt ibi, George sickened for the warmer weather the cold saddened him, she kissed my pecker to a new life some other guy's wife, for the sake of silence we ought to abstain even from good talk Benedict said, I picked a cabbage for the midday lunch and smelt the mint nearby, birdsong woke the gardens and me, Hugh him of thin frame moaned of the number of books on my shelf even the Hopkins poems got his goat, Dieu est à mes yeux, in my sight and what I saw, on the seashore by the abbey we threw stones along the incoming tide and Dom Joe(Bunny dear) smiled, and again she said deeper deeper, we become what we love and who we love shapes what we become said Clare (saint) that is, the French peasant monk cut the tall grass with a skill I didn't have his scythe swung wide, travailler à prier he said, Dom Patrick spoke softly about the sweeping and washing of the refectory floor and how it was done and I did as he said, God is the indwelling not the transient cause of all things Gareth said quoting Spinoza as we walked from the abbey orchard to the cloister, I kissed her ******* each in turn as she had said in her big double bed, the bell tolled from the church for the office of Terce, Dio è nelle mie orecchie the Italian monk said, I watched the monks walk towards the church and I walked also, I am lost I mused where to go?
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77
My curves are not mad. Henri Matisse, Jazz when silence gives away its name birds become electric darkness is no more a story in their wooden beaks I stay at the beginning of thought, decelerate reality again and again bread, pain, blindness truth visits me in my dreams sometimes between desire & dying shortcuts, blind alleys Shangri-La and Valhalla Nirvana & the hunting ground Guadalupe untitled self-portraits fast heights blinds & shutters Spinoza's abyss the chasm of reason Kant's please mind the gap pits of harmony barren grounds Prigogine's broken circle lost aesthetic qualities and the bit moves on when silence is an unfinished canvas waters, faces make an offering and their names grow when I am confused with the possibility of the sea level then I know where my love is splitting every single second is beauty unadorned could I remove the decimal point from my dying breath ?
0
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
unadorned
I entered the canteen at mid morning break at the cake packing factory and bought a white coffee from the vending machine and sat down and ate a cake and read from a book on Spinoza the other guys ate and read newspapers showing page 3 girls neatly unclad I lit up my pipe and grey smoke rose in the air what the **** you smoking Benny? a guy called Lewis said it's sending me to sleep it's tea I said tea? what the fecking drug tea? he said no Brooke Bond tea I can't afford pipe tobacco today what a stink Egan said like putting my head up some whore's *** there was laughter I smiled I wouldn't know I said I inhaled again but I had to admit it lacked a certain something and put it out and Pete gave me a cigarette and I returned to Spinoza and God and the universe and the room clearing of tea smoke and Egan told some rude joke about some dame he knew turning the room and air blue.
0
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 2:05 AM UTC
AIR BLUE 1976.
never quiet the proper arrangement, watching a cat miscarry his strengths of perfect balance on a fence deciding to structure his escapism further from fence to the safety of gravity’s plateau, and i know this is not a crowd pleaser, no gladiator blood sewn onto a caesar’s face for a smile, but as amusements go: choose the simpler ones and watch them multiply exponentially... choose the complex ones and watch them mutilate you with anticipatory nostalgia once they pass and have fed you. so unless you think it’s cheap to state that william burroughs would have a lot in common with bukowski... you’re probably right... but once you embark on the alcoholic metabolism parabola there’s no going back... you can have irritable bowel syndrome in the morning... diarrhoea x4 before the seas just below the hydrochloric sea settle and the sailors are spared another barnett newman smear into the toilet.... quarter of bottled whiskey usually does the trick for the calmed metabolism... i know burroughs and bukowski used different mediums... but it’s better than staging a ghost fight between vegans and vegetarians... same **** different cover story all over again... and it sounds less sinister, doesn’t it? let’s repeat: metabolism & alcoholism; and in all serious soberness i put my efforts in taking interest in philosophy... like observing from spinoza’s ethics... well spinoza drank... heavily... which explains why he put it into his ethics, that explanatory ref. i will definitely mishandle (misquote): never come between a drinker and a newspaper or a blank page, even if it's a pixelated blank.
0
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
spinoza drank
never quiet the proper arrangement, watching a cat miscarry his strengths of perfect balance on a fence deciding to structure his escapism further from fence to the safety of gravity’s plateau, and i know this is not a crowd pleaser, no gladiator blood sewn onto a caesar’s face for a smile, but as amusements go: choose the simpler ones and watch them multiply exponentially... choose the complex ones and watch them mutilate you with anticipatory nostalgia once they pass and have fed you. so unless you think it’s cheap to state that william burroughs would have a lot in common with bukowski... you’re probably right... but once you embark on the alcoholic metabolism parabola there’s no going back... you can have irritable bowel syndrome in the morning... diarrhoea x4 before the seas just below the hydrochloric sea settle and the sailors are spared another barnett newman smear into the toilet.... quarter of bottled whiskey usually does the trick for the calmed metabolism... i know burroughs and bukowski used different mediums... but it’s better than staging a ghost fight between vegans and vegetarians... same **** different cover story all over again... and it sounds less sinister, doesn’t it? let’s repeat: metabolism & alcoholism; and in all serious soberness i put my efforts in taking interest in philosophy... like observing from spinoza’s ethics... well spinoza drank... heavily... which explains why he put it into his ethics, that explanatory ref. i will definitely mishandle (misquote): never come between a drinker and a newspaper or a blank page, even if it's a pixelated blank.
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32
Driving to work I saw myself how stupid I had been in my last three years with my two lovely kids my silent wife my shining mistress and above all, with myself Coming and going from my pretty house with flowers all around and lawn ******* with my finest books, waiting for me in my ***** room upstairs, my long beautiful illness & all kind of stuff I was blessed every inch of these days You are blessed, so ******* blessed, doctor Cozan looking at stars with your boy through a shining telescope in these silent nights of August with fresh coffee sitting on Spinoza' s Ethic and, sometimes, listening to a deadly symphony of cows and I never thought of myself as the happiest ******* on Earth I've never cried for anybody even now, when I' m waiting for nothing (watching my daily **** and thinking of her, the luckiest strike I’d ever had.
0
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
Letter for my dead friend, Henry Chinasky
The guys lounge in chairs in the worker's canteen smoking and chatting and swearing ogling page 3 girls, I read Spinoza's Ethics Deus in omnibus, two girls from the upstairs office enter to use the drink machine slim dames one blonde one brunette ignore the guys as they fathom the machine's guide, Dio in tutte le cose I read not gazing at the dames but smelling the scents of them alluring, hey Sheila how was it last night? You give him some huh? Said girl looks daggers pulls a face looks away, I turn a page then look up capture nearest girl's fruits then back to Spinoza eyes on the page, guess she did Lewis says others guffaw eyeing the two dames wanting to paw, ignore them they're just too rude the other dame says waiting for the drink cup to fall, The world would be happier if men had the same capacity to be silent that they have to speak Spinoza wrote I read, the girls depart with their drinks nice *** you've got you two Kev says smiling watching them disappear with guffaws and a cheer, I close the book their scent remains lingering in the air as if in a dream they're still there.
0
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
GUYS AND DOLLS 1977.
Benedict Spinoza's  contingency was grinding optical lenses, his oeuvre  the anatomy of the soul turning medievalism on its head heaven was neither ethereal or earth bound A brave man.
0
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC
A leaf downsteam
well, it was hardly or ever would be a respectable musicology with mere rhyme; so we overburdened it with ideas, those pit-stops of thinking, those pivots of the former fluidity that gave us Achilles... long gone the respectability of not thinking, so waiting awaiting the respectability of thinking to un-think the existence of thought rather than the existence of god... i say forget atheism, and reading philosophical books kept till old age of respectability, those books are nothing but dust by then... but i'm in agreement with the attack, for who would want to sing a rhyme with mere echo, the ulterior ego... to sing for a tennis match of resounding a# a#, b b, c c, encoding our children to merely encode rhyming patterns? for fear of the loss of mimic or replica? if i were a kid i'd love to rob her majesty's vessel and encounter adventure than bookworms sneezing dust for kindred death with Spinoza chiselling optometric devices on a lesser scale in comparison with telescopes - Amsterdam seen from a far far away galaxy; if only you stood there, and experienced the freedom that prostitutes govern in this city; if only less legislative powers in your politics!
0
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
why philosophy attacked poetry
Only to please God is why we are here Dom Joe (dear Bunny) said, facientes voluntatem Dei, he went and got me macaroni cheese for supper even though I was late arriving and a mug of cocoa with skin on top, agréable à la langue et le cœur a French monk said, you can have me anyway you choose she said and I did, the impudence of the sinner displeases God as much as the modesty of the penitent gives him pleasure said Bernard, from my room(cell) I saw only the rooftop of the abbey and the grey slate wet with rain, Hugh talked of his carpentry work I made the chairs in the guest house common room he said he was no George Hepplewhite and I told him and he sulked, l'orgoglio viene prima di una caduta the Italian monk said as we walked back from our Thursday walk to the abbey, Dom Gregory stood in the shadows of the cloister half in half out arms crossed staring into the garth, she lay on her bed welcoming legs spread her garden of Eve visible and Elvis sang from the Hi-fi, I polished the choir stalls after the office of Terce and sunlight poured from the high windows on the polished wood, blessedness is not the reward of virtue but virtue itself said Gareth quoting Spinoza as we threw stones at the incoming tides on the abbey beach, red and yellow bricks on walls and cloister and the church designed by a monk and built by local workmen and I stared and ran my hand along the bricks as I walked, ver a Dios y ser feliz the Spanish monk said as we worked in the orchard picking apples for the refectory store, the wooden Crucified on the wall of my cell aged by time and wear at night before sleep I would kneel there and give it an anxious stare.
0
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 4:03 AM UTC
ANXIOUS STARE MCMLXXI.
Only to please God is why we are here Dom Joe (dear Bunny) said, facientes voluntatem Dei, he went and got me macaroni cheese for supper even though I was late arriving and a mug of cocoa with skin on top, agréable à la langue et le cœur a French monk said, you can have me anyway you choose she said and I did, the impudence of the sinner displeases God as much as the modesty of the penitent gives him pleasure said Bernard, from my room(cell) I saw only the rooftop of the abbey and the grey slate wet with rain, Hugh talked of his carpentry work I made the chairs in the guest house common room he said he was no George Hepplewhite and I told him and he sulked, l'orgoglio viene prima di una caduta the Italian monk said as we walked back from our Thursday walk to the abbey, Dom Gregory stood in the shadows of the cloister half in half out arms crossed staring into the garth, she lay on her bed welcoming legs spread her garden of Eve visible and Elvis sang from the Hi-fi, I polished the choir stalls after the office of Terce and sunlight poured from the high windows on the polished wood, blessedness is not the reward of virtue but virtue itself said Gareth quoting Spinoza as we threw stones at the incoming tides on the abbey beach, red and yellow bricks on walls and cloister and the church designed by a monk and built by local workmen and I stared and ran my hand along the bricks as I walked, ver a Dios y ser feliz the Spanish monk said as we worked in the orchard picking apples for the refectory store, the wooden Crucified on the wall of my cell aged by time and wear at night before sleep I would kneel there and give it an anxious stare.
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92
Dom Frederick talked of his book on the old abbey as we cleared weeds from the abbey garden, hyacintho caelum et album nubes, summer sun on the heads and hoes in our hands, a single sunbeam is enough to drive away many shadows said Francis, there she lay and welcoming me in and so I lay with her, amplius lava me ab iniquitáte mea et a peccáto meo munda me, Hugh sat in the novice's room glum faced and turning a pencil between fingers talking of Dom George and his knitting, touching the rough bricks of the cloister wall with fingers as I passed by on my way to the church, dans l'amour de Dieu nous sommes sauvés the French monk said as he showed me how to lay the priestly garments, fingers on smooth cloth silk soft as her flesh, a broken spirit is the true sacrifice Dom Charles said quoting a psalm as he breathed on an apple and then polished it on a cloth, no matter how thin you slice it there will always be two sides Gareth said quoting Spinoza talking of his student days, fiducia a Dio the Italian monk said and he sliced an apple for us both to taste, enter me slowly she said my husband is far away he will never know, His glory covers the heavens and the stars were His gems and the moon His medallion, George said as we sat in the gardens for repose I cannot stay here much longer the nights are too cold and my bones complain, Dom Robert spoke of butterflies and said the Red Admiral was his favourite and he showed me as it fluttered by in the cloister garth, His spirit breathes and the waters flow the Good Book Hugh said says so.
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May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 2:41 AM UTC
GOOD BOOK MCMLXXI.
Dom Frederick talked of his book on the old abbey as we cleared weeds from the abbey garden, hyacintho caelum et album nubes, summer sun on the heads and hoes in our hands, a single sunbeam is enough to drive away many shadows said Francis, there she lay and welcoming me in and so I lay with her, amplius lava me ab iniquitáte mea et a peccáto meo munda me, Hugh sat in the novice's room glum faced and turning a pencil between fingers talking of Dom George and his knitting, touching the rough bricks of the cloister wall with fingers as I passed by on my way to the church, dans l'amour de Dieu nous sommes sauvés the French monk said as he showed me how to lay the priestly garments, fingers on smooth cloth silk soft as her flesh, a broken spirit is the true sacrifice Dom Charles said quoting a psalm as he breathed on an apple and then polished it on a cloth, no matter how thin you slice it there will always be two sides Gareth said quoting Spinoza talking of his student days, fiducia a Dio the Italian monk said and he sliced an apple for us both to taste, enter me slowly she said my husband is far away he will never know, His glory covers the heavens and the stars were His gems and the moon His medallion, George said as we sat in the gardens for repose I cannot stay here much longer the nights are too cold and my bones complain, Dom Robert spoke of butterflies and said the Red Admiral was his favourite and he showed me as it fluttered by in the cloister garth, His spirit breathes and the waters flow the Good Book Hugh said says so.
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77
Life feels heavy — as if I lack the strength to carry on. Loneliness demands it so; I've grown used to fleeing from what's real. I watch others live their love-filled lives — but it's never enough. My body aches for it, and so does my soul — to love, to be loved. Since you, everything around me has blossomed — flowers in my chest, butterflies in my stomach, seeds of something new scattered everywhere. If Spinoza had seen you, he wouldn’t say “God is in all,” but rather, “God is only in you.” I want you to want me, the way I want you — with all the love I've yet to give.
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Aug 3, 2025
Aug 3, 2025 at 10:20 AM UTC
Pain, Spring, Love
And the guy said what are you reading? the canteen guys that is, smokers, jokers, newspaper consumers, Spinoza, I said, his philosophy:ethicae, never heard of him, Don said, moustachioed, bright eyed, tall and lean, sounds like some vegetable, Kevin said, small, wise of lips, short thin, Dei ornent in omnibus, I said, what the **** that mean? Don said, frown of brows, spread of lips, God in all things or something like that, I said, closing the book, taking up my cup(cappuccino), all things? Kev said, like in a dame's **** laughter, wide smiles, gazing, guess so, all things is all things, I said, I sipped my drink, and all things in God? Pete said, short and stocky, ex jockey, that is the way of it I guess, I said, non diffondere gemme prima sciocchi I recalled the Italian priest saying years before at the abbey on retreat, can I see the book of that Spinoza guy? Don said, I passed him the book, my page marked by a thin sliver of card, he scanned pages, finger skipping through, eyes intent, dark eyes almost black, too **** deep for me, he said, page 3 is more your mark, Kev said, those photos of girls with ******* and all, laughter, smiles, Don handed back the book carefully, well at least they say things to me, he said grinning, Dieu au centre de tous the French monk had said to me at the abbey, his lips barely moving, the words air bound, I drank the coffee and returned to my book, cigarette smoke rose, someone joked of his wife's new dress a size too small and her efforts to enter, God, I translated the French monk's words, at the center.
0
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 6:08 AM UTC
AT THE CENTER 1977.
And the guy said what are you reading? the canteen guys that is, smokers, jokers, newspaper consumers, Spinoza, I said, his philosophy:ethicae, never heard of him, Don said, moustachioed, bright eyed, tall and lean, sounds like some vegetable, Kevin said, small, wise of lips, short thin, Dei ornent in omnibus, I said, what the **** that mean? Don said, frown of brows, spread of lips, God in all things or something like that, I said, closing the book, taking up my cup(cappuccino), all things? Kev said, like in a dame's **** laughter, wide smiles, gazing, guess so, all things is all things, I said, I sipped my drink, and all things in God? Pete said, short and stocky, ex jockey, that is the way of it I guess, I said, non diffondere gemme prima sciocchi I recalled the Italian priest saying years before at the abbey on retreat, can I see the book of that Spinoza guy? Don said, I passed him the book, my page marked by a thin sliver of card, he scanned pages, finger skipping through, eyes intent, dark eyes almost black, too **** deep for me, he said, page 3 is more your mark, Kev said, those photos of girls with ******* and all, laughter, smiles, Don handed back the book carefully, well at least they say things to me, he said grinning, Dieu au centre de tous the French monk had said to me at the abbey, his lips barely moving, the words air bound, I drank the coffee and returned to my book, cigarette smoke rose, someone joked of his wife's new dress a size too small and her efforts to enter, God, I translated the French monk's words, at the center.
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50
#Mom's birthday, dermatologist's appointment, and a philosophy test on Descartes, Berkeley, Hume, Continenetal Rationalists and British Empiricists. (Descartes, Spinoza, Leibniz, Locke, Berkeley, and Hume) Banyascki has on the ugliest vest I've ever seen in my life. His hair is getting long, too. At least ⅜ of an inch. Wow. Freak. Esse is percipi... To be is to be perceived.  Yes.#
0
May 12, 2019
May 12, 2019 at 5:14 PM UTC
April 26
Seems endless from the Downs this view point below us I tell her Jane looks out her slim hand shielding eyes from the sun Father says God's beauty from blue sky to earth worm she utters I sense her close near me want to touch and hold her kiss her lips but decline desires' drive to brain's hold God in each particle she tells me in birds' song butterfly's wing colour I smell her applely or flower scent eyes light brown or so seems Spinoza said as such I believe I reply who is he? She asks me her head turned eyes on me some thinker I read of in some book at the school I reply studying each brown eye as if God had made it just for me to gaze at our hands touch skin on skin hands holding other thoughts deep within.
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Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
SEEMS ENDLESS 1961.
That nobody editor from Leeds she thinks she can tell us who should write the garden reviews She likes to think she"s backbone of the society she's a townie from a town too small for its yolk. One day I push her into some thorny spinoza that be a gadfly for her big mouth
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Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 2:48 PM UTC
A bullying editor from Leeds
The water in the stoup was cold and my fingers tingled like a bell in a shallow wind,   Dom James took us novices to a convent where he had to say Mass a young nun served us coffee and cake in a small room away from the cloister fresh faced and angelic in her framed headgear, Dei pulchritudinis, the tall monk tolled the cloister bell before the office of Terce black robed and thin of face, ascoltare Dio nel vostro cuore the Italian monk said to me as we laid the tables in the refectory, she held my pecker in her two hands like a snake charmer charming, George spoke of the coldness about him his hands he said stiffen in the coldness,   Dieu est proche même dans nos heures sombres the French monk said when he saw me looking down at my feet, I snuggled between her soft mounds as she sang a Beatles' song and I kissed her milkiness, I fear not Satan as much as I fear those who fear him said St Teresa of Avila I read some place, I twisted the apples from the branches as shown by the plump monk (after Lunch) in the orchard tempted to bite but didn't placed in a basket with the gentleness of a child, et quaerebant eum tangere manu Dei, Ambition said Gareth quoting Spinoza is the immoderate desire for power, I walked the dark cloisters after Compline the bell tolled me to my early sleep, the young nun's womb was as closed as a castle's keep.
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Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
WATER IN THE STOUP MCMLXXI.
Stood in the cloister with the other monks in the evening chill before Vespers, Dei ornent in omnibus, all things in God Gareth said quoting Spinoza, cold water in morning wash in icy jug of water into a white bowl hands to face and neck, lavabis me et super nivem dealbabor, these are my pearls she said and this is my purse of joy plunge into me, I passed the tall monk on the stairs he nodded a notice he carried a big book beneath an arm, if every tiny flower wanted to be a rose spring would lose its loveliness Therese said, Hugh said perfection lay in doing God's will but without God we cannot reach perfection at all, I cleaned the toilets on the upper floor with mop and bucket smelt of disinfect, the old monk was dying and once talked of Plainsong in high places and I washed him and dried him, in the shadow of her wings I made hot love like one possessed, the church so silent so utterly still I felt it in my bones and soul, the monk with a limp limped into the choir stall bowing his tonsured head, refrain from evil words on account of the penalty of the sin Benedict said, some evenings before Compline I would wander the drive towards the road and curse in the night air to get it(frustration) out there, moon in shadow of a cloud in the night sky and stars   sparse to the eyes, when I see the short duration of my life used up in the eternity before and after the small space which I fill cast into the infinite immensity of spaces of which I know nothing and which doesn't know me I am frightened Pascal said, pour voir à l'infini, the space between her thighs where the body lives but the soul part dies, enjoy me she said enjoy me as if a small boat on a vast sea, the French peasant monk dug the ditch with an angel at his shoulder whispering the Notre Père his hands calloused but maybe blessed, I turned out the lamp by my bed and sought (without her in my bed or head) a good night's rest.
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Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
A GOOD NIGHT'S REST 1971.
Stood in the cloister with the other monks in the evening chill before Vespers, Dei ornent in omnibus, all things in God Gareth said quoting Spinoza, cold water in morning wash in icy jug of water into a white bowl hands to face and neck, lavabis me et super nivem dealbabor, these are my pearls she said and this is my purse of joy plunge into me, I passed the tall monk on the stairs he nodded a notice he carried a big book beneath an arm, if every tiny flower wanted to be a rose spring would lose its loveliness Therese said, Hugh said perfection lay in doing God's will but without God we cannot reach perfection at all, I cleaned the toilets on the upper floor with mop and bucket smelt of disinfect, the old monk was dying and once talked of Plainsong in high places and I washed him and dried him, in the shadow of her wings I made hot love like one possessed, the church so silent so utterly still I felt it in my bones and soul, the monk with a limp limped into the choir stall bowing his tonsured head, refrain from evil words on account of the penalty of the sin Benedict said, some evenings before Compline I would wander the drive towards the road and curse in the night air to get it(frustration) out there, moon in shadow of a cloud in the night sky and stars   sparse to the eyes, when I see the short duration of my life used up in the eternity before and after the small space which I fill cast into the infinite immensity of spaces of which I know nothing and which doesn't know me I am frightened Pascal said, pour voir à l'infini, the space between her thighs where the body lives but the soul part dies, enjoy me she said enjoy me as if a small boat on a vast sea, the French peasant monk dug the ditch with an angel at his shoulder whispering the Notre Père his hands calloused but maybe blessed, I turned out the lamp by my bed and sought (without her in my bed or head) a good night's rest.
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Lento en el alba un joven que han gastado la larga reflexión y las avaras vigilias considera ensimismado los insomnes braseros y alquitaras. Sabe que el oro, ese Proteo, acecha bajo cualquier azar, como el destino; sabe que está en el polvo del camino, en el arco, en el brazo y en la flecha. En su oscura visión de un ser secreto que se oculta en el astro y en el lodo, late aquel otro sueño de que todo es agua, que vio Tales de Mileto. Otra visión habrá; la de un eterno Dios cuya ubicua faz es cada cosa, que explicará el geométrico Spinoza en un libro más arduo que el Averno… En los vastos confines orientales del azul palidecen los planetas, el alquimista piensa en las secretas leyes que unen planetas y metales. Y mientras cree tocar enardecido el oro aquel que matará la Muerte, Dios, que sabe de alquimia, lo convierte en polvo, en nadie, en nada y en olvido.
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355
El alquimista
Not To Laugh, Not To Lament, Not To Judge, But To Understand. ~Baruch Spinoza
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Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 5:22 PM UTC
Wisdom
Las traslúcidas manos del judío labran en la penumbra los cristales y la tarde que muere es miedo y frío. (Las tardes a las tardes son iguales.) Las manos y el espacio de jacinto que palidece en el confín del Ghetto casi no existen para el hombre quieto que está soñando un claro laberinto. No lo turba la fama, ese reflejo de sueños en el sueño de otro espejo, ni el temeroso amor de las doncellas. Libre de la metáfora y del mito labra un arduo cristal: el infinito mapa de Aquel que es todas Sus estrellas.
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345
Spinoza