A short sweet rain
Washed clean the sky
In the emerging moon's lust
Glowed the splendent dust.
The earth begged for a drop
Said the soil "it was my call"
Their joy would not stop
The leaves drank them all.
The rain was without might
Feeble its spell was brief
Yet it revived a summer night
As life's succour and relief.

The earth might know whether the fire
Beneath the hillock as a pyre
Was there and kept a-smouldering
Whatever burnt it with fiery sting.

From morning did he slowly, oh!
Acute and heavy stones below
Clasp with his own holy wrath,
A power ne one had ne now hath.

Though he’s been slumb’ring innocently
Since hundred years ago, sharply,
As I had heard from my ancestors,
Got furious by some evil stars.

It was a foggy day of autumn,
None could be seen at the bottom,
Nor high above a bird to fly,
Nor that hill, then calm and high.

When the pale sun reached the top,
Of earthly dome of clouds did rob
His grandeur boldly, the rain began
To curse the man with wicked plan.

Till then no one conjectured what
God had stored for their hapless lot,
But dreamt bygone months when they
Were carefree as a child and gay.

Once the sun was lost in the west,
Some eerie sounds from that hill-crest
Began to frighten children, and their
Unhappy parents uttered a prayer.

One wondered if it was a rumbling
Of the clouds, about to be tumbling
Once again as heavier rain
Upon grey mountains and verdant plain.

Another heard the rustling leaves,
As summer’s cool wind gently heaves.
But no such things were their outside,
Then must’ve in high note an infant cried.

That voice, as night seemed deep and darker,
Bit by bit, from grave to graver
Became, and did from the hill emerge.
All cravens shrieked, they shrieked, “O dirge!”


All at once in mightiest blast,
Liquid fire did up the crust
Gush out, flash out from the earth,
As if he gathered an endless mirth.

Then down that splendent stone did flow
With million captive crumbles, lo!
The brooklet virile made its way
Through forsaken woods and clay.

Hearth! A hearth of our whole world
That dormant knoll was like; he hurled
The hallowed fire, which God alone
Could gift mankind, with new adorn.

What rapture did the hill derive
Unburd’ning himself of newer life!
And what unwavering faith had he
In earth on whose lap his child would be!

As your
bedsheets
rise and fall
and your heart is
skipping beats
you're not
lying here

and I'm not
watching you
slowly make
your way to
the pearly gates
clutching onto
your robes

When your eyes are closed
you're in a field
somewhere
leaning on your
old red car
or drawing a charcoal
deer across
the way,
sketching in her
eyes with lead
devotion

with each
rise and fall
you're mimicking
the sun and moon
and you're alive
in every field
in every mountain
in every patch of
dandelions
that I gave you,
as a child

as your bedsheets
rise and fall
and your body's
shutting down
and you don't see me
and
I don't see you

know that I
will take your hand.
I will hold your bony
fingers and
squeeze your
frightened wings

and guide you
into every
meadow,
every pasture,
every field of
splendent gold
that you
ever hoped to
live in.

Smitten by your holy
tongue, the muse melts
in the raging sun.

There was a deep
gorge between the hills.
My face turns blue.

Trembling hands will knit
splendent wreath for a
departing moon.

Why in the world is it not enough?

Why just being me is not enough?

Why do I have to be rich and pretty,

But why not, just me?



It is not enough to be kind

You must also have a mind.

Hey! you are such a misfit

Don’t spread your legs, you must know how to sit.



It is not enough to just be in your own skin

Oh! my lord, that’s a sin.

You must follow the rules of the road

Don’t ask questions, just copy and move ahead.



It’s not enough to be independent

Then you’re too ambitious for your own splendent.

The six-figure salary is not enough

Because life will still get tough and the path rough.



It is not enough when you’re single

Because you must also be ready to mingle.

Not enough when you’re married

Because after that you must also have a kid.



It’s funny how they decide

The course of my life.

Whether I run, walk or just sleep.

When what I really want is

To sing, dance and swim deep.



I don’t care how

Successful and clever you could be.

Because I just want to be me.

And someday, I hope it will be enough.

there's that saying: you'll be lucky to have one true friend
when you get older,
perhaps one in your 20s... befriended in early childhood
or in your teenage years and the friendship
with drag into your later life... at least through your
20s... rarely into your 30s...
                            i don't think there's anything to bemoan
about that... why would there be:
      esp. if you manage to find a centre-of-self within
      you will almost certainly find a lot of "things" to be
classified as without:
                on top of the fact that you can never find
what some people (mostly women) call this concept
of self-love... me? love myself?
               i hate myself and i "love" myself...
in the light of words: i think it's more important to
be able to comfort oneself, to be able to comfort oneself
is what love denies on the stretch of the other's whim...
i hate my irritable bowels when i spend the day
contemplating why it's impossible for me to take a single
well-baked **** and forget about it for the rest
of the day... instead... these cut-off nuggets of ****
that turn my head spinning and give me an inverted
headache of the brain knocking on my forehead
rather than shrinking in the skull from dehydration...
people grow apart for good enough reasons they
were close to each other for the same good reasons...
although i sometimes dream up the sort of life my
grandfather led - watching a small town become industrialised,
the population never gravitating beyond 100,000...
familiar faces... all the familiar faces...
                 a thief wouldn't be able to walk through
this same "village" through twice: Heraclitus and the river
analogy... if water is the emblem of time
then space can only be air...
                 i wonder what's fire and what's earth...
                            reading snippets from Knausgaard's
volume 6 concerning ******...
           honestly? if you turn a blind-eye on all the horrors...
i think he lived a most admirable life...
honestly... but like any "apologetics"...
                     if i were to disregard actual history and just
look at ******'s life up to a certain point...
****... perhaps not only an admirable life but also an admirable
person... sounds strange...
                   but maybe that's the only way to read
Mein Kampf... if it is read and written by someone else
in the context of his own life...
                          of course excluding the reality
of the Holocaust... or the fact that ****** didn't actually do
any of the slaughterhouse deeds...
                    you can admire something so disgusting and murky
on the basis of the central proponent of the deeds
having a Pontius Pilate approach: i.e. having clean hands...
Pontius Pilate's deed of washing his hands clean
from the whole affair is like Julius Caesar uttering
the words: alea iacta est... let fate decide...
                  let's gamble... the frivolity of responsibility...
friends aside...
                                  writing might have been a passion
for me once... when i first started to scribble my little extension
of thought...
   but after a while this passion became a:
compulsion... now... a passion is not a compulsion...
writing has become a compulsion...
                    i can't stop doing it: therefore i don't care
whether i do it well or do it poorly:
   which is why i don't really care for recognition for it,
or money, for it, or awards, for it...
               i just can't stop doing it...
                                    but you'll be lucky... truly lucky...
to be able to pull but one passion from your childhood
into adulthood...
    i was lucky... i tried various things...
rock climbing, swimming, lacrosse, rugby,
      walking marathons... gaming...
                     collecting *******...
                              
on the basic premise of what's to be celebrated
in western culture, i.e. individualism:
then yes, ****** is an admirable figure...
i hate the idea of this man being the epitome of
what's evil... i can find countless examples of evil
could breed toward the fathom of your average
in-and-out solipsist...
by now Genghis Khan is venerated
but as the story goes... each nation that was
conquered by the Mongols set that nation back
200 years in development...
early Christians burning down the ancient library
of Alexandria... Pope Alexander VI (Borgia)...
oh the highly venerated status symbol -
yet what god-awful deeds are hidden under his belt...
this masquerade of concretely stating
what is good and what is evil...
                to me it's all meshed into one massive
confusion-stressor... it was a lie bound in metaphor
of the origins of this story...
                               i.e. 'and you will know the difference
between good and evil'...
if i were to write a Hippocratic Oath song
i'd sing it as: what doesn't harm is oh so good,
because what does harm me is oh so evil...
whiskey whiskey no blues...
just like i don't know whether i should
like Madonna's don't tell me is
a **** song compared to any high-brow-beatings
or rather is, a quintessential pop song
i can listen to and feel stupid about liking (it)...

there's enough time for revisions to be put in place...
in no defence of ******... Himmler was worse...
i'm justifying none of it but without ****** there would
be no sped up resurrection of the state of Israel...
personally, i feel there's no new start originating
in the 21st century... but so much was done
in the 20th century that as the years pass of the first 22 of this
century i'm witnessing a plateau-sickness...

passions versus compulsions...
   thank **** and the tiny dove of god that i kept
one passion from my youth... namely? cycling...
even today... cycling up Bedford's path up the hill
to Havering-atte-Bower village's cricket ground...
pebbles pebbles everywhere but no mountains...
and then? a prior to crash on the A12 junction
cutting up Mawney Rd. - stopping off
an a Tesco Express to pick up today's newspaper...
walk in, walk out... get back on my bicycle...
feelings mutual: wonky...
get off the bicycle... check with my thumb
the air pressure in the tyres...
oh no! no! **** it! how did i manage to flat-out
the front tyre? it took me about 40min to walk from
the point of puncture all the way home...

                           but cycling is still a passion:
it's not a compulsion...
                      i sometimes wish i could stomach telling
myself: you know that this writing is mediocre,
no? you could spend the same amount of time
talking to someone intimately...
right... about what? what curtains we need to buy?
what's missing in our lives?
   what's there apparent... i think it's just the same:
i write about something mediocre or i write about it...
at least by writing about i'm wasting my own time...
not having those supposed counter-moments
of intimacy with someone concrete...

i think about this for about half a minute while i...
lapse into my other passion:
rolling tobacco... since she complained that
i was **** at rolling cigarettes...
whenever we would be smoking marijuana during
or prior to or after having ***...
well... time spent apart gave me the right sort
of "itchy fingertips"...

strange so... being in one's mid 30s moving from
memories of being a child and showcasing in the mind
the crux of an existential affair...
the deaths of those currently closest...
i'm gearing up and thinking: what am i going
to do with all this clamour, this hoarding...
it's not they invested in a dowry...
like they might have invested in helping me to
get on a mortgage ladder...

i wake up and always remember to teach one lesson
of mortality thoroughly...
i'll be dead if i'm not already dying...
introspection of all things blasé:

       ******* Horace...

nullus argento color est avaris
abdito terris, inimice lamnae
Crispe Sallusti, nisi temperato
splendent usu.

    the brilliance of a treasure in the earth
will not be gained for you, oh Crispe,
even if the most grandiose would gather
only mediocre use of explanations
of the nobleness of silver....

that sounds about right; right toward an eight...
i translated some Horace for
posterity, time can, tumult in a tide
and move on...
the excavations of our times... archeologically...
historically... is going to be crushing..
the already presented reality is  crushing blow...
time is a geology without mountains and stones...
Darwinism is subordinate to geology...
personal life? trifles...
         this impossible reality and history to live
in... given the set scientific standards of
explaining ****... while also working
a job of minimal skill level improvement...
as a supermarket cashier...

******... sooner rather than later
flu will not be a problem but a collective
depressing realisation of... living in a lapse
of time ever passing... passing a certain dictum
of furthering progress...
i remember to light a candle with a scent of vanilla
and i try to remember that... newspapers
are not printed... for at least one day
in the week's worth of cutting up
a differentiation of time...

i need to acknowledge my mediocracy....
mein eigenes mittelmäßigkeit...
              i'm not about to bloat and blow up a balloon
of egoistical fancies...
          the sea is here, the mountain is here...
so is the sun the moon and the tide...
and i'm also, slowly, here, too...
           i want to borrow speaking German
without having a conversation...
because? after all, ****** was German,
Austrian, sure... whatever...
he tried to imitate the look of Chaplin...

                                  it's still freshly cleaned wounds...
but all the Ubermensch died serving the cause
of the Wehrmacht... anyway...
so... look at me... trying to be least invested
conjuring of continuum...
the past said: no no... the future hardly said
a yes...
                i feel both entrenched and both
strapped to a spider-web with latex
inhibitions of: playground fun....
translated into bedroom antics...
                
                 admirable, the agility of the human
body...
            as if: the human mind
is to best equipped with, having: standing:
equivalent to... freely ******* in an alleyway....

i shouldn't have ever, rekindled my
desires for marijuana smoking
because: oh god, society's great endeavour...
in familial ties contradicting individualism
and the great ****** exploration, epoch...
my god... butcher the "****"...
that one ought to ***** a *******' worth of
"trendy"...
                  
      sorry ******... here we tilt toward
***** and: leisure!
                  let's get skin-basked....
while the returns are? a ******* plenty!