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I

In that November off Tehuantepec,
The slopping of the sea grew still one night
And in the morning summer hued the deck

And made one think of rosy chocolate
And gilt umbrellas. Paradisal green
Gave suavity to the perplexed machine

Of ocean, which like limpid water lay.
Who, then, in that ambrosial latitude
Out of the light evolved the morning blooms,

Who, then, evolved the sea-blooms from the clouds
Diffusing balm in that Pacific calm?
C'etait mon enfant, mon bijou, mon ame.

The sea-clouds whitened far below the calm
And moved, as blooms move, in the swimming green
And in its watery radiance, while the hue

Of heaven in an antique reflection rolled
Round those flotillas. And sometimes the sea
Poured brilliant iris on the glistening blue.

                        II

In that November off Tehuantepec
The slopping of the sea grew still one night.
At breakfast jelly yellow streaked the deck

And made one think of chop-house chocolate
And sham umbrellas. And a sham-like green
Capped summer-seeming on the tense machine

Of ocean, which in sinister flatness lay.
Who, then, beheld the rising of the clouds
That strode submerged in that malevolent sheen,

Who saw the mortal massives of the blooms
Of water moving on the water-floor?
C'etait mon frere du ciel, ma vie, mon or.

The gongs rang loudly as the windy booms
Hoo-hooed it in the darkened ocean-blooms.
The gongs grew still. And then blue heaven spread

Its crystalline pendentives on the sea
And the macabre of the water-glooms
In an enormous undulation fled.

                        III

In that November off Tehuantepec,
The slopping of the sea grew still one night
And a pale silver patterned on the deck

And made one think of porcelain chocolate
And pied umbrellas. An uncertain green,
Piano-polished, held the tranced machine

Of ocean, as a prelude holds and holds,
Who, seeing silver petals of white blooms
Unfolding in the water, feeling sure

Of the milk within the saltiest spurge, heard, then,
The sea unfolding in the sunken clouds?
Oh! C'etait mon extase et mon amour.

So deeply sunken were they that the shrouds,
The shrouding shadows, made the petals black
Until the rolling heaven made them blue,

A blue beyond the rainy hyacinth,
And smiting the crevasses of the leaves
Deluged the ocean with a sapphire blue.

                        IV

In that November off Tehuantepec
The night-long slopping of the sea grew still.
A mallow morning dozed upon the deck

And made one think of musky chocolate
And frail umbrellas. A too-fluent green
Suggested malice in the dry machine

Of ocean, pondering dank stratagem.
Who then beheld the figures of the clouds
Like blooms secluded in the thick marine?

Like blooms? Like damasks that were shaken off
From the loosed girdles in the spangling must.
C'etait ma foi, la nonchalance divine.

The nakedness would rise and suddenly turn
Salt masks of beard and mouths of bellowing,
Would--But more suddenly the heaven rolled

Its bluest sea-clouds in the thinking green,
And the nakedness became the broadest blooms,
Mile-mallows that a mallow sun cajoled.

                        V

In that November off Tehuantepec
Night stilled the slopping of the sea.
The day came, bowing and voluble, upon the deck,

Good clown... One thought of Chinese chocolate
And large umbrellas. And a motley green
Followed the drift of the obese machine

Of ocean, perfected in indolence.
What pistache one, ingenious and droll,
Beheld the sovereign clouds as jugglery

And the sea as turquoise-turbaned *****, neat
At tossing saucers--cloudy-conjuring sea?
C'etait mon esprit batard, l'ignominie.

The sovereign clouds came clustering. The conch
Of loyal conjuration *******. The wind
Of green blooms turning crisped the motley hue

To clearing opalescence. Then the sea
And heaven rolled as one and from the two
Came fresh transfigurings of freshest blue.
I

I sat with Love upon a woodside well,
Leaning across the water, I and he;
Nor ever did he speak nor looked at me,
But touched his lute wherein was audible
The certain secret thing he had to tell:
Only our mirrored eyes met silently
In the low wave; and that sound came to be
The passionate voice I knew; and my tears fell.

And at their fall, his eyes beneath grew hers;
And with his foot and with his wing-feathers
He swept the spring that watered my heart’s drouth.
Then the dark ripples spread to waving hair,
And as I stooped, her own lips rising there
Bubbled with brimming kisses at my mouth.


II

And now Love sang: but his was such a song,
So meshed with half-remembrance hard to free,
As souls disused in death’s sterility
May sing when the new birthday tarries long.
And I was made aware of a dumb throng
That stood aloof, one form by every tree,
All mournful forms, for each was I or she,
The shades of those our days that had no tongue.

They looked on us, and knew us and were known;
While fast together, alive from the abyss,
Clung the soul-wrung implacable close kiss;
And pity of self through all made broken moan
Which said, ‘For once, for once, for once alone!’
And still Love sang, and what he sang was this:—


III

‘O ye, all ye that walk in Willow-wood,
That walk with hollow faces burning white;
What fathom-depth of soul-struck widowhood,
What long, what longer hours, one lifelong night,
Ere ye again, who so in vain have wooed
Your last hope lost, who so in vain invite
Your lips to that their unforgotten food,
Ere ye, ere ye again shall see the light!

Alas! the bitter banks in Willowwood,
With tear-spurge wan, with blood-wort burning red:
Alas! if ever such a pillow could
Steep deep the soul in sleep till she were dead,—
Better all life forget her than this thing,
That Willowwood should hold her wandering!’


IV

So sang he: and as meeting rose and rose
Together cling through the wind’s wellaway
Nor change at once, yet near the end of day
The leaves drop loosened where the heart-stain glows,—
So when the song died did the kiss unclose;
And her face fell back drowned, and was as grey
As its grey eyes; and if it ever may
Meet mine again I know not if Love knows.

Only I know that I leaned low and drank
A long draught from the water where she sank,
Her breath and all her tears and all her soul:
And as I leaned, I know I felt Love’s face
Pressed on my neck with moan of pity and grace,
Till both our heads were in his aureole.
Bathsheba Dec 2010
I cautiously peep out the bedroom window and immediately spy snow.

More snow!

****!

I have already been trapped inside this house for five days now and I am beginning to get serious cabin fever. Something has to break and it has to break soon. As I stand here I am strangely mesmerised by these fanciful flakes as they fall seductively over a garden that has long since been abandoned.

The garden itself is actually heaving a huge collective sigh of relief at all this unwanted attention. Someone or something has finally acknowledged its hidden existence after so many many long years of neglect. The garden is stirring; there is a new vibrancy in the air, an unknown quality has begun to tease and tantalise the remains of a life once lived.

It’s funny the things that you notice when you have too much time on your hands. The old derelict outhouse, for instance, forsaken since Freddie left back in ‘72 takes on an almost ethereal quality. Gossamer threads subtly woven together now delicately frame and highlight his old stomping ground with a wicked wildness and urgency.

I must close the curtains and return.
Return to what?  

“Right …. stop your maudlin girl, time is only relevant now, remember that, always.”

I slowly walk through to the front parlour and collapse into the battered old fireside chair. It stills my beating heart. I so love to read and interpret the intricate patterns stitched so expertly into the very fabric of its soul. I have a very vivid imagination and can spend hours recreating different scenarios courtesy of my patterns.

My patterns.

Sometimes for example I imagine a paddock full to bursting point of millions and millions of tiny black spiders. Each one hell bent on weaving the perfect and foolproof web. Millions of eyes darting here and darting there. Cautious of their peers. Always cautious. Consumed and driven with the need to spin. Their seedy beady eyes are very dark and very seductive. It is a rather a frantic scenario, I grant you, but it does sort of lend itself a certain amusement.
Honest!

Another one that amuses me is the one that involves ‘The Butcher’, should I go on? Ok I will. Well, initially I was unsure until that one bright spring morning when it finally showed itself. Cheeky really! Actually, funnily enough it was just after the last heavy snowfall, what some three years back now. I was sitting down eating a particularly nice plate of kippers when it just jumped out at me. I can honestly say that I do not know where it appeared from but appeared it did none the less.
Quite shook me up really.

There he stood (The Butcher) in all his glory, in all his garb, with the biggest meat cleaver this side of the county. There was blood a plenty. Dripping of his face. Dripping of his hands. Dripping of his arms. I guess you get the picture. I laugh now, off course, but not initially. He also has these big huge bulbous eyes and a squashed boxer’s nose. And if this is not scary enough, at his feet are the remains of the entire cemetery of Standfield. All in various different stages of putrification.
Nice!
Bones and flesh merge and spurge forming a sea of rotting corpses. One huge heaving mass writhing at the filthy ***** feet of The Butcher. It makes me smirk!

I glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. That can’t be right. It says that it’s nearly 2pm. How can that be?  I have only just sat down and I know that when I woke up and peeped out of the window it was just after 5am. Strange! Still, I guess the clock has simply stopped and maybe needs re-winding, that’s all. I’ll sort it out later. These things are sent to test us, aren’t they?  
Been happening a lot of late.
Bless.

“Oh, that’s right listen to Freddie and not me. What’s new? This is all so ****** pointless. How dare you ask me my opinion if you are not actually interested in the response? Why bother? Look Freddie, I know it’s not your fault but you do so enable the old fool. How about supporting ME for a **** change? Look at me Freddie, not HIM, look, what do you see? It’s ME Freddie, open up those blind eyes of yours. I am here. I am real. Touch me Freddie. Please, please ….”

The clock strikes six times. Six! Does that mean that it is now six in the evening or is it six in the morning? I feel confused. I don’t like the snow. It scares me. Reminds me. I do not want to be reminded because I live in the here and the now. Now is all that is relevant to me. Time is only relevant now, see I remembered!

I attempt to stand up from the battered old chair but immediately collapse back down into it. Defeated. The curtains have not been drawn correctly in the front parlour and I can see through the tiny gap straight into the garden. A winter wonderland assaults my eyes. I try to shut it out. It is bearing down on me. I am struggling. I am struggling to breathe now. My heart is pounding and desperately trying to escape from my body.  What shall I do?  Help me? What, you think that this is funny. How? What part of a fellow human being having breathing problems is actually funny, prey tell? That’s right then, pretend it’s not happening. Maybe it will go away ….. just like Freddie did.
Jordon Apr 2011
On the orange side of paradise
Walking through a poppy field
Searching for a tangible illusion
An Eden very well concealed

Violent marigold storms pass
Sun dripping gardens emerge
Finding such beauty actualized
Sitting among flowering spurge

Illuminated among little stars
The balmy ethereal nights
Dangerous oleanders dance
Under a faint sheen of lights

Larks perched on pear trees
Singing for the patient flowers
The most lurid lullaby
A placid scene all ours
Teemers Jan 2014
On a paper, fully loaded
**** that bullet
Fire that pen
So many words I can’t stand still
Heart aching and mind racing
Hold me till im numb I keep pacing
Collect the pieces and let them drop
Addicted to the irony of life
Addicted to the bad habits of fun
The spurge of coldness
Creeping up my spine
My hands are shaking I cant love still
All I do is right in the wrong ways
Mind tricks that blow away
Stronger then your weakness of your throne
Nothing should make sense
Nothing ever makes sense
Already played the games
Already won the fame
Everything should fall in place
MaSHTONdison May 2014
Once was a girl,
nameless to say,
family had problems,
so she couldn't stay.

Forced into a relationship,
with one so wrong,
Nothing alike,
but no harm done.

Silence, Silence,
Beauty and Dusk,
Wake up to sunshine,
voice full of husk.

Slept in his arms,
but I must go,
far far away,
for his heart my explode.

with love and kindness,
sadnes and tears,
i pack my bag,
before i fear.

they will find me,
i know they will.
This has gone to far,
So i spurge and take one last pill.

body found,
lying on the floor,
he whom she ran away from,
actually loved her.
Frozen; Book on wattpad: http://www.wattpad.com/48577315-frozen-michael-clifford-prolouge
I cant really say what it is
That draws me so, seems to hold me
Upon its fine charismatic flavor
distills within me
Those fine thoughts
pragmatic ramblings of mind
that sweeps across in tides of reason
Where in truth no reason exists.
It's looking into a mirror
that self, reflecting back
cries out within me
those long past days
That fill every boundary
opens its seems unusual doors
Into the wide spectrum of existence.
In the quite times
where my mind drifts upon the soft words
I come to understand something more deep
More real than all that existence holds true
That Love,
That virus of the soul
spurge's within unique metaphors
of the fine lines by which mortals place
The guiding vortex of existence.
That God, that power. being
In our constant search
opens the windows of the Soul
That we all may breath deep its fill.
Here upon the fine tuned fork
Love draws itself out upon the pain
Subdues the heart and holds it
Like a warm deep ocean
Where love in tides
Sweeps humanity away.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph
OOris Oct 2018
Lust in the woods
Twenty kilometer away from fidelity

With a teenager
Who looks just like Whitney...........................

But with more dope

Her face was bruised with a pale smile
And her words shiver

I stared at her innocence for two minutes
But i was too hungry to think

So i feast on her pride
In a shaky blue tent

Hoping this singing birds
Won't wake karma

"Pains don't hurt when am with you"

Ignorance finally speaks
As i spurge with regret
thinking about my pregnant wife

"Your wife just welcomed two bouncing baby girls"

Karma whispered in a Shouty voice
                  
            *CONGRATULATION
Parable Hippeis above the eared: “Kanti; Hussar of aristocratic steeds, being from Crete, he was broken down from the servants as a possession of the globalized high lineage of Thessaly and Argolis. In the front Paraseno of him; He ruminated on the psychic frontality of not being defeated by the mere fact of being defeated as an extension of his defenselessness as if stating what he was not capable of winning in what he defeats a Hippeis when he has greater stoicism than I love him of the owner. Therefore he was destined from the Krepis or Crepidorma to the number of Gold or Golden. Dividing from all the other paranasal sinuses, by less than the base of the skull of it by the length and factorized by Pi ()

In the sphenopalatine Paraseno of him; the outer colonnade, in equilibrium and eurythmy or harmony, was provided in the order, optical correction and rational geometric construction, with the parameters of the Parthenon as the spheno ganglion of the ribs of the Peripteral Octásyle, which surround the colonnades of the expiration frieze, exhaling Zeus for vibrational anti-seismic integuments and neighs of the Hippeis, like Kanti exorbitant and convulsed.

In his Maxillary Paradise; subdued in the architrave of the lower part of the entablature that rests directly on the columns. Its structure functioned in its serving lintel, to transmit the weight of the roof towards the columns, and duplicate the basalities of the pontificate of the Samarians horsemen of Orondel

In the parasene dorsal turbinate; in a Metope, it occupies part of the frieze where the Doric entablature of its classical building would rest, located between two triglyphs. As a metope decorated with bas-reliefs, on the taboo cliffs of Samaria and its horses in the neatness of Hippeis blood.

Middle Paraseno; in the Stylobate, towards the upper step on which the temple rests, it will be part of the Crepidoma: on a stepped platform that raises the building above the ground level to give it enhancement and greater presence. As a middle echelon to the majors of the final grand echelon towards the Koelum, which unites them in its golden horsetails like blood-green horsetails.

Of the Ventral Paraseno; In the Opisthodomos, as a distinct space located at the back of the temple, the special vestal element is attached together with the Pronaos (or portico) and the Naos (or sanctuary). Here they take refuge for the snout and their cheeks, full of Pleiades evading the hunter of Oarion, each one decreed steeds of Crete and Samaria, which shine the transition of the oceanic foam that runs naturally in high tides, and in the exalted pause and erogenous, tempting an Aphroditism.

And finally, the super Paraseno or Chamber of the Canephore, ruling and ruling the priestesses of Baal with the steeds of Orondel, for the purpose of sacrificing the sacred courtesans with their hooves that were sacred in Stylobate, which was esoterically diffused. Pro the Canephores reigned alongside the Vestals, for dichotomous bustle with Hestia between fires and bonfires, which will pour out the mysteries of Eleusis.

They had their six Parasenos separated from their septum, de numen that in other castes they gifted the hubbub that came from Samaria in the reign of Israel, being a Hippeis of the Elite Greek cavalry. Of the farms of this region, one hundred years after the Syrian ******* in this same analog, Kanti was destined in the drafts in the pastures for agricultural work, attached to all the Philistine plains. A plethora of exuberance with liters of the pinkish vine, which, in the face of the long-awaited of some, plucked from branches by the snouts and sulfur of the Cinnabar, already entrenched in the presses and in combat of implicit rows of vines burnished by the thickness of its sulfurous secretion, opting for the lush, grassy tapestry.

In Thessaly, Kanti stood out with his supremacy of water seed, which raised surplus rain when the Mediterranean droughts rocked them from the gargoyles on their similar steeds. In the sagittal of his hoof, under the "U" all the Hippeis of Thessaly were marked with the Vox of ππεῖς, but not those of Samaria, they planted their fourth ends on the ground in the Deuteronomium; “He became passionate about the lovers of him, whose meat is like the meat of donkeys and whose flow is like the flow of horses. Thus you longed for the lust of your youth, when the Egyptians felt your breast, caressing the ******* of your youth”. Following this way Kanti with his chronicles warned that in their limitations and privileges, they did not excavate the selected strings of vines when he had to loosen their hooves, which were made of fire and steel from the bars of Hephaestus, by order of Etréstles, who relaxed from the agrazones, letting the sweet potatoes of their grafted plants levitate towards the clouds, which burst those esplanades in hydrometeors of tested sweat on their thick legs browsed by the song of their prayers and their thorns that broke their spiky washdown, fighting a duel in the cumulonimbus, which lavished care in which they settled before the eyes of the Hippeis foeman’s, where the vines did not ferment like the wine that does not have a vent and that makes them burst in new wineskins. This is how he triggers the patience of the gifted steeds of Samaria, towards new winemakers who would receive him for a grape harvester, who would carry other species of olives for a new millennium.

The credibility deposits did everything on their millennial steeds and genetics, to be more efficient and fruitful, for all the things that Kanti did not step on at the same time in all the Cyclades, Dodecanese and Messolonghi as Hippeis of Thessaly, but if from the Orondel perspective; which was the duplicate of Kanti Samaritan, holding in times the weight that it will bear together, in tons and in more than a thousand oil presses that exceed what his body mechanizes as horsepower, thus being able to lighten in the prunings of other regencies, which do not shake or shake the branches above Zeus's cups and his grind that does not expectorate or pulverize the best without its terrace.

Here where the trees used to grow, they grow in the orchard on the outskirts of the town, Kanti frees all the steeds of Samaria with their gravel on their rubberized hoof, mining the lands of the kings and digging the valuable napas more than all the heritage of the fruit trees, more than in a fifth year together with all the seas, to make them those that are in other uncircumcised ones, for the reward of those who hide from early taming and their spiky work. The gleaned in Thessaly were of forks that in the same cereals were gleaned from those that stopped feeding and mounted on a fable of grass of a rustic sewer and in the fallow farm laborers. The spikes did not fall, the Hippeis with Kanti gathered them with their limbs, legs, in the provinces of harvests dragged in sheaves of the Corsicans and their censers of Epha, like a gold rope and incense of Sheba, who thus brought expansion to Judah and praise to Yahweh. Epha describes the land where the dromedaries come to Israel: "A multitude of camels will cover you, the young camels of Midian and Epha." Kanti lashes out with the Hippeis imprisoned in Midianite lands, before being subdued and not released as new leaders of the Incense Route in the spurge beds of Bethlehem, with delicious practices inherited from Ruth, reaping barley, oats, and wheat in the same stampede of the Hippeis commanded by Kanti, beating barley, in which an Epha cultivated the Firstborn of Grasses of Thessaly "

(Procorus said: “in the defeat of the Persians by the Greeks, in the naval battle of Salamis, in 480 BC, marked the beginning of the decline of the Phoenicians' maritime trade, here the East was totally extinguished when Alexander the Great took Tire in 332 BC, incorporating Phenicia into the Hellenistic Greek world. All the knights that were from Thessaly were the entire lineage of Hippeis de Kanti, with Samaria germs from Chambers of Canephores)
Parable Hippeis above the Eared
Jonathan Moya May 2019
The Mayas of Colemnar Viejo for the last twilight hours
of early May exist in mature thoughts, statues unable to address
the questions designed to unseat their repose from  
spectators marching  into shadows.  By night they will
know the answers that will secret their lives, grateful for
Ermita de Remedios for the revelation and insight that will
allow them to play until the miracle appears. Their mothers
will bless them, remembering their time when it was their duty
to stay still enough to hear God breathe and acknowledge
the old beehive for pollinating wildflowers for their throne.

The Mayas flower with the secret whispers passed down
from grandmothers to mothers to daughters from before
when Maia echoed to a month, when she was the very flow
of the vegetable world, the monthly blood, Pleiades nights,
the first fingers of cotton lavender, narcissus, spurge,
and hyacinth poking the spring bloom with shy joy, until
adult enough to be a proper escort for  mute child queens.
Her aura surrounds the Mayas, a halo echoing earth, sky
and sun, the unnoticed slow revolve of all repose
only noticed in the dissolve from night to day.

The tapestries are heirlooms: two borrowed from
a photographer’s closet, one unfolded in the attic,
another a dust collector hung to cover a wall crack,
and the last, depicting a  tangle of horsed knights
in a tropical land on a royal leopard and lion hunt,
ancient enough to have kissed the walls of twenty houses
and become familiar with a dozen Last  Suppers.
Every house in Colemnar Viejo blessed with a nina
has a tapestry with a true or mythic history
suitable enough to be a Maya dreamscape.

The Mayas are serenaded by a brass band attired in paunchy black and white
that parades from pose to pose playing canciones praising  their beauty and style.
They wear relics carefully preserved and handed down: white petticoats
and shirts, Manila shawls of celestial yellow, blue heaven, weeping black,
vibrant Spanish carnations, and pure white, eloquently tied in the back.
Clustered around the town’s center the Mayas can see all the others
solemnly carved in silence and slow time, know that the basilica beyond
houses forever the crying ****** and the anguished Christ surrounded
in golden murals and feel the sadness  that in minutes the frozen
can only watch them freely move, dance and play.
Zee Dec 2020
I want to ask the things that hurt but I don't want to pain you
I want to show you death, inert, but I couldn't restrain you
I want to give you what your worth, but I don't want to pay you
I wanna watch you swallow girth, fall through a hollow earth, catch cholera from dearth like a twisted ****** birth
and
Watch as I emerge, singing songs I call a dirge, where two or three of us converge, like sprouts of Allegheny spurge that there's no pesticide to purge and it is just a ****** urge that I can't seem to ******* scourge, something known to re-emerge to take my lungs and then submerge
Until
Until the blackness comes
and all is undone.

— The End —