...and there you submerged yourself
       a warm bubble'd spot in my heart
against all storm warnings and precautions,
you fancied a challenge or crazy I suppose
this chambered heart is made of titanium
shot down, where once emotion pump'd
running rivers rage of icy futile frigid waters

I'll be the first to admit, still waters run deep
and this placid exterior hides a passionate undertow
although once the levy was broken,
            it took all warmblooded survivors

yet, still you linger without a preserver in sight...

perhaps, there's more to this element,

       the nature of drowning's decent

                     gingerly takes another breath

~
                     I don't even need water
                    
                    to feel like am drowning .
                                    
                           I don't even need
                
                       broken shards of glasses
    
                       to feel that am scarred

                                          ~

Felt gospels, locally hand-stitched, hang from the necks
Of the white stone columns. Seven in total.
Wandering eyes have read them all a hundred times.
Each one belongs to a name and number.
The mass assemble on the ground floor.
The circle tiers are near-empty,
They keep their coats on.
I wonder if they are closer to G-d.
The bald island only visible to them,
The vicar’s pure white hair.
Pews are formidable with adults, Sunday best,
A silence dark with giggles, the stained glass
Shone a rainbow of torture, ******,
And I did not know what we were all there for.

Christ hung beneath a turquoise sun, kaleidoscopic agony
Etched on his straight white face. You could play a tune
On his ribs. The vicar stood bored at the platform;
glory in monotone.

Finally, we rose to song.

The adults stood tall, autogenic. I became lost in corn stalks,
Wind of reverence, spirit, mass delusion.
Everyone seems to sway. Some close their eyes. A few
Hold a hand to the sky. A grown man is dancing in the main aisle.
He is making a mockery of himself
And the adults do not stop him. Do not scald him
Or tell him to keep quiet.
The grown man seems to notice no one.
I wonder if he is the closest to G-d.

Water near-boils in black pipes, the wind outside
Seems to find its way to my chest. I choke myself.
Leave our scarves on the burning metal.
No instrumentation! Menace. I mime the words.
Cut my eye teeth climbing garage roofs,
Stole a turnip from Mr. Sutton’s patch -
The air is too holy here. Hypnotic. I cannot breathe.
A football shirt. A pair of jeans. The singing stops.
Prayer begins. The vicar drones, we answer back.
Repeat after me, repeat after me. He is talking
About next week, the order of service,
His out-of-hours devotion, our spiritual homework.
Dismissed, the mass push angrily to the doors.
Quick to their cars,
We always stayed behind. Slow, slow.

My parents led me to the pulpit. The vicar was smiling,
My name was on his list. I wondered if I was getting
The eighth felt gospel..
“You are to be confirmed.”
“Okay.”
I did not know what confirmed meant.
I did not know what submergence was.
The vicar took my hands. I puzzled at his dog collar,
His snap-necklace. My parents stood in the periphery,
The cheap seats; a happy occupation,
A successful operation.

I was to be new again.

“...and let the Holy Spirit pass through Edward,
And help to guide him through inevitable trials.”

My arms were shaking like a tuning peg.
I was a filament, quivering, giving myself away,
Flashbulb memories of disgrace. He must know.
“That’s the spirit of the Lord inside of you,
That’s why you are shaking.
It is working brilliantly.”
The vicar put his palm to my forehead.
Pores magnified, barbs descended from his nostrils,
His overgrown eyebrows. His holiness. His age.
He did not smile with his eyes.

I was handed back to my parents.
They looked pleased with themselves. Did I pass the test?
I looked up.
The ceiling was impassable.
There had been no breakthrough.

Drove past the hospital. Asleep in the passenger seat.
Surgery on my soul. Clean, clean.
There was static on the radio.
The shaking had stopped.

swimming under lightning,
lighting our submergence flash allure:
smooth bodies, bright to glimpse and shadow-grin intent
collide and mingle folds of pleasure, firmly
bent to tangle, clasp and spurn the world above,
rely on one another's breath, stored for loving
long in bubbles gasping sweet melodics free
as with imagined merfolk passion-songs of lore, prescient
lapping dance of tidal fruits you loved before they came,
moonray columns stage us in our seashift wombs--again--
within a womb--like instant chrysalises blinking luminescent bursts
i am interred within the waves you ripple into me, blind
carnal pressures built from ancient shores become the sea again
the magnitude entrances on its own, that acrophobic thrill
celestial in our interthreaded eyes, open
to a color deeply in the dark of octopodal ink
a curtain phosphorescent armpit pulse,
caressing thumb and lip, billows, sways the dance anew,
to sonar drumbeat, pulmonary height
the spinal scream a surface ripple for the sky,
symphonic deep to barely whisper into air

terror in portals of rapture
twin mirrors reflect possible dolor
untrusting, yet entwined
so amenable.
immediate submergence,
reverence of marred flesh
intelligible infatuation inevitable.
howbeit, efflorescence devotion
find a way through;
transude into pores
inebriated in their fumes.
reverie becomes eternal sleep.

Do you know who I am? Do you understand why I do what I do and think what I do is exactly what should be done? Do you have even the slightest respect for my decisions? For who I am? Do you know who I am?

That’s alright. Neither do I.

If I have said it once, then I best say it over and over and over again until you start listening: I feel like I'm underwater. I am in deep oceans, not blue or pale waters, but a horrible, dark abyss. I am drowning in a strange love for the spin-offs of truth, dignity, and cultural revolution. Now that is situational comedy.

My world is composed of nothing but reruns. Clips of him drowning on repeat. And when I drown, he drowns too.

I pray to find the sun so that I may trade all that I have for its warmth to melt the ocean into sky, and this glass from my skin. I don’t need to keep my heart shatterproof, I am no porcelain. I am an independent. Fill my flooded lungs with fresh smoke. Make the water go. Make the bad go. Go. Going. Gone. The sun is gone. All that I have is my fragile body, my ***. I am under sexed, overlooked, and infinitely exhausted of these nonsensical rants. If I could sketch a message into the night sky it would plainly read: I feel like I'm underwater.

So here, in these reefs, will I search for my meaning. But I think it’s best we all come to terms with the plain truth: Submergence is submission. And I refuse to submit to your societal pressures. I will decide what is wrong. I will say what is right. If I wish to empty my lungs of this saltwater, find the sun above the surface, and turn off the abhorrent sitcoms I cannot submit. I can only drown.

“Not another one! Look at him, look at him!” she yells.

His veins are coursing, pulsing, shattering at the edges with blue. He is blue in both his complexion and complex feelings and thoughts and pains. His veins are blue, and he is cold. Can you smell his insatiable mind? Taste the metallic crush of his sanguine? “This world is intolerable, and I must not tolerate,” she reads from his tear stained note. The ripe stench of escape burdens our minds as we watch his soulless body hang. My mind is escaping. Toss the rug over the barbed wire and run. Run. Sanguine with ketamine. Run, ******, run.  

Do you know how to drown? That’s alright. Neither do I.

Paragon of love

The depths;

Dark,
Deep,
Desirous;

To fly beneath
White foamy lines
Yielding tide. guide me;

Inhale
Exhale

Trembling;

This need to reach.

Beloved;
To touch You…

Beyond breathe
Past… the sand.
Water splashes
… caressing toes.

Standing,
Waiting
…along our sandy shore.

Once more…,
Water welcomes
… another sunset.

Faintly, lights awake;
A dance like heartbeats
… to delight the sound;

White tips glisten
… touching darkness.

Stars shimmer
… along the deep.

Above;
Below;

Take my heart
… onto the horizon;

To home;
To you

Your binds reach;

Hearts bellow
A longing to reach
… fills me.

My heart desires
… to reach;
You.

Salty scent;
Eyes close
Cool spray
... tingle my lips

The taste
Your skin
I feel ... the want

The need;
…your pull.

Far beyond,
… the jetty’s hold;
A deepening thirst
Summons.

So deep…
So familiar…
So yielding…

To you; My Love

Just beyond … the horizon’s break
A soft sensation rides.

Guide me;
Beckon my heart. Beloved;

Beckon me
… beyond the waves.

Echoes, echoes,…
Echoes of love;
Call long

To this, tinder spirit
Yours
… left to drift.
I feel you
Reaching.

Your breath Calls;

A sound to entice.

Breathe, breathing
… beyond the sands of time;
Through hazy silence;

Oh, sweet, gentle submergence
Waves clash upon my flesh

To feel…
Your pull

Memories, such memories;
The sweet salty taste
To embrace you;
My love

Yearning;
Yearning;
To yearn…
Your essence touch.

Once more
Waves force me back;

Tides froth
… covers me

Stumbling;
Tumbling;
Tossed
... upon the shore

As an old oyster’s shell.

Love, daylight returns

Once more, our ocean…
Ours;

Keeps us

The deep;
The deep
Is…
Too deep.

So much water
Left only to thirst;

For you.

Beloved; To time and tide…

A pearl.

i did one stint from one "village" to another,
Ostrowiec was the reds' heartbeat
of communist innovation, steelworks you name it,
army contracts,
that was sodomised in the tipping submergence
of Titanic... i did a stint in a capital,
Edinburgh,
most of my contemporaries didn't venture
as far, closer to home, closer to the bread
and the washing-machine -
now they're living prolonged middle-class
lives (apologies for the Marxist
auxiliary vocabulary - i see a future in you
in the orbit of canonised journalism
worthy of a Hendrix comet - gush gone
the next type) - of course the first Gurkha sentiments
are the ones teaching us that Europe is
the holy grail - it's actually a ****-hole with
quiet a few people actually insane...
who are given representative power
via democracy, with democracy constituents
aimed at 30% representation,
a third! a third! imagine chimpanzees voting
as if they were getting arrested:
micro the universe with ink blotches on
the thumbs and the question:
'who bent the bananas?! who bent the bananas?!
we had a joke you ruined it
a banana in the pocket... who bent the bananas
from Pythagoras to Euclid? who?!'
30% turnout when once 100% fought,
whether stonemason or farmer -
if this is democracy i'm not really pessimistically
pensive over an attack on autocracy by it,
but still warring in places like Vietnam will
not make democracy the conqueror,
sometimes natural communism works
if it's structured on a tribal level, i.e.
'you scratch my back i'll scratch yours',
tribal levelling is a case for a dishonesty concerning
money, nails can't be hammers with money present,
the time it takes is the economic prowess of
the elitist democratic function,
quasi-religious meaning
why would nihilism's testimony first craft moral
questions rather than economic questions
to gain approval and the audience of artists' revenue
for even asking?
hey headlines! everything else is optional!
as i said, from one village to another,
a momentary stint in capital Edinburgh and London,
in London i was asked to be crucified -
21st century England, one student said i should
be crucified because i was not supporting Palestine
while enjoying some student theatre...
in Edinburgh i don't know...
i asked for the position of the film society's vice
president role and never made it to the platform
of speaking to intro a film...
but a student telling a student he'd be crucified,
in england, war of the roses rekindled?,
it was too much much for me...
education can grow goosebumps and comb-overs
should i care... idiots educate themselves
these days, Birmingham nearby (no river, no flow),
crucify all you want -
          this is England, half-way house of Syria...
the famous 21st century not so famous now -
Zionist plots to submerge - what the **** can be
deemed as political and correct? Henry the 8th?

Late August 8 o’clock is barefoot, and sunburned in the places that are always sunburned. Worn skin and deck slats hold onto leftover noon. Beneath, swirls the near unknown. Blue-black and edgeless, it’s awake but calmer as the day savors a slow-motion finish. Out of respect for the sunset, those at rudder or wheel embrace a lakewide no wake zone. Our blooms of whistle and sigh fill the dusk hour.
Someone somewhere is lighting a fire. It can be felt in the shoulder blades, when breathing slows. A ripe sense of abundance carries in the peach pink light—a promise that the season won’t fade, that deck children never age, and their waters never freeze. The birch chorus agrees, and this false truth soothes tired limbs that know better, but choose to accept the judgement of the night arriving. Because tender are the day’s dying breaths, and a special care is taken here for every move.
Peeling away layers, hair stands high on the skin with the pines on the hillsides. Bundle your things under the bench, or the winds may take them. There is a silence here with something to say. Toes hug wood’s edge and the muckgrasses nod in tune to a song that is there but not wholly heard. It’s important to watch first; it’s important that you try once again to read the neon pattern in the waves. A familiar laugh through cabin window will interrupt this.
The ladder is better for the evening swim. Submergence is best performed slowly then all at once, with careful attention paid to the detoured bloodflow of sunburned skin. Reflections of the promise unravel as they scatter into sky. Dip your darkness into the horizon and feel the day’s heat collapse inward, easing the blushes of your superficial pain. Let the other foot leave the trust of algaed metal, as the body’s pieces spread suspended. A group of fiery orbs blink aloft in an endless cold.
Our stars are connected only by stories, and here—where the sky is reflected in water—the hair on your hillsides can nod along to the half-heard tune of eternity. This is the end of the dock.

the west rid itself from the plague of doubt that cradled the concept of theology subscript submergence in philosophy or philology, it now expects to be cool with outright denial, but as Sartre pointed out: denial is representative of bad faith... hence in doubt i sit firm as if in a roller coaster and experience good faith... doubt so never appealing even with Pascal's wager, Pascal would have no wager as he had with doubt should such strict obedience of the 20th century teaching of denial had been his contemporary - both sides would hardly embark on the metaphor of a gamble.

after finishing the book reviews
from the saturday magazine
(typical, no review of poetry books,
all you get is a review of a poem - not a book -
in the sunday's news review section...
was Shakespeare born in England?
are you sure?! i'm starting to believe
he was born in Prague.)
i ended up reading the first few lines of
the weekend magazine,
about 50 year old women getting their libido
back prior to menopause
and 60 year old stallions...
i read the male perspective and threw the ****
newspaper into the gutter of my imagination,
then i started gesticulating at my bookshelf,
oi! Ezra! come 'ere! i've three cantos to finish
you off! come 'ere! i rather read you than this
filth... and the goats go, and the sheep
b'ah b'ah (there's no point writing an
onomatopoeia for a reference of goats)
in this Orwellian farm that once belonged to
McDonald Trump; where western society is
i don't know, 60 year old capitalist journalists
and diarists blame lack of ****** enthusiasm
of the young reciprocating pleasures on an
over exposure to ****... I BLAME THESE
DINOSAURS AND OUR PLIGHT ON CENSORING
A ******* LETTER! PAPA DON'T MIND
GIMP MASKS AND WHIPS... PAPA MINDS IT
IN FCK OFF! i guess i better start learning
sign-language... actually i have one sequence
in sign language: why don't you *******,
bear with me, it goes like this:
a. index + ******* of the right hand slapped
   on the palm of the left hand (why)...
b. index + ******* of the right hand slapped
    on the palm of the left hand reversely / inside out (don't)
c. index + ******* in a V shape longed into
    the side of the left hand (you)
d. right arm made into a fist smashed against the palm
     of the left hand (****)
e. right hand with thumb ***** attempting to cure
    the ailment of spilled salt in an off direction
    from d., i.e. the fist slapping the palm (off).

think hard . . .

you do know all about this
we've done this often . . . before

indulging midnite dip in sultry solitude
our beautiful selves ready to plunge

two pieces of iridescent light glow
sudden submergence into waiting blue

oh my word, we do it again . . . again
weird has its name planted all over us

chasing sweet pulsation 'neath them waves
where silence lives and welcomes us

riding massive swells of wicked curves
making each throb outlast the rest!

beginnings plunged into deep water
cannot overcome such recompense
time’s reserved healing of endless slaughter  
cannot believe in such cold evidence
if i could i would i’d know this right away,
until a wave holds me and submerges
my thoughts and hands that hold onto the bay
close to whatever home this really is.
if then yelling ‘the world is too much with us’
(and if i could i would see right through you)
an abysmal submergence in the mess
(then whoever could call this ‘what i’d do’)  

whatever this is, in the end it’s something to say:
so yes, in the end, i’d wish it all away

There could be too much inside me
There could not be enough
There could be belief
There could be love

I'm afraid I'll never see
The me I want to be
Is it too much to ask to simply
Be happy?

The scars on my arms
Trigger submergence
Sounding great alarms
And pain in abundance

From the daze and craze
From the stress and mess
From the pressure beyond measure
My heart suffocates

Happiness is an alien concept
Maybe contemptment is sane
But I wonder 'Does any light remain?'

I have a feeling
I keep it locked away
I can only use it once
And I await that special day

Power-lines pulse over-head
easy streams by our quiet lives
the unarguable benefactors which
caress each man they touch

soldiers waging war on insurgents
with power-lines along the boarder
In this narcotic drip submergence
we lose our peace in the name of order

the egotists shout with their power-line minds  
thoughtless words of each and every kind
At the promise of peace, wise men can see
the greatest peace springs from a tap into thee

know that I use
that word

in that way
only for you

easy
really

to unpack
the corny lines

leak out a babe
like some throwaway term

rabbit from the hat
oh! know how it's done

not what we're used to
this submergence

into a dream made real
pool of pepper and fizz

sunrise-sky eyes
watermelon-red lips

our version
of four letters

hear it tick
in our blood

the way we
taste our names

Noise softens walls of time passed caverns.
Lapsed echoes scathe within its cryptic.
Pensive submergence chants to nothing,
even while it sullenly strums with longing.
This whispering hollow. This versed passage.
Feed me the thoughtless desire I’m amidst,
Such sense brought upon you, one as matter.
Seeming this, just as your name, worthy.
Having been within, some undeniable will.

I. Entrance
Rough and soft
I clear a space
Foot by foot
Your soft embrace

Quickly pulling
Yet gently easing
Giving me strength
Willingly teasing

I look around
And see a mess
But closing my eyes
Relieves this stress

Being adaptable
Disables structure
Being passive
Encourages lovers

To embrace this gentle layer
And children too, without a care
But beware! This passive part
Can become sharp when sunshine starts

It's so simple, yet so advanced
Far from the surface, without big plans
This is the entrance, this is the mask
To penetrate is often a simple task

They're here then gone when it is sunny,
Sand ridden showers or merchants and money,
There's some green life, some little creatures,
But beyond these, there are not many features.

People naturally want much more
People dig into the core
And so it goes! Goodbye, layer 1,
You weigh us down, but we must run.

II. Treasures
Course and dark,
Here lies the treasure!
Here are the products
Of life's endeavors.

The wrath of under
Crushes prizes
That sharpen up
And feed us dryness

This part by far is most extensive
And also, naturally, most defensive.
All our life's work, and it's for this
But there are more than a few twists.

When three and four are full of hearty
Lucky people who reside, hardly
The leftovers are in this lot
And deduce gain from this, we do not.

We truly don't want all these treasures
Fine expenses who're torn and weathered
A mix of one and three and rocks,
There's no substance but legs of docks.

More often piers, that need foundation.
Much like layer one, this is a station
When all folks must pass through
Before truly entering you.

We detect your gritty sincerity
And thank you for your biological charity
Creatures live here, but not us!
We long for the danger of trust.

III. Wetness
So calming
So very cool.
In this zone,
Smoothness rules.

It looks so flat,
It looks at ease.
Not adaptable,
But not quite free.

Some stop in two,
They are so patient.
They long for peace and isolation
From what lies beneath the layers.
The life of four does not live there.

But now in three! We start to wet.
The closeness reveals the danger.
We sink our heels and scan around.
Ocean, you're no longer a stranger.

At your crest is so much fun!
This is where we play some games.
From here, we may be rarely stricken.
But from this far, we know you're tame.

From this far, we get what we need.
We get a drop of what we live for.
We might love you, we might keep you.
Or we might begin to need more.

Setting up camp here is easy to do.
Some do it for all their lives.
If we never dive deep, however,
What lies beneath is left to derive.

Sometimes, when you're feeling most high,
You push yourself and greet us nicely.
But hidden away, when low and wise,
You make layer 3 more empty.

Either way, with some pushing,
We know we may come forth.
Here's where adventure lives,
And where journies may start their course.

IV. Drown
One was gentle,
Two was borning,
Three was an
Excellent warm up.

Show me power.
Show me strength.
Give to us
All of your love.

I dive deep, a little submergence.
I feel lighter. I feel free.
There's a struggle,
I can't change you,
But it is just you and me.

Being inside you,
Feeling so locked up,
You're all I can think about.
The more I get to know and love you,
The harder it is to get out.

My eyes tell me you offer much.
Infinite substance to find.
I am overwhelmed by your touch.
Yet all is true and none are lies.

Sometimes your embrace is so gentle,
But you can take me off my feet!
I try to anticipate every movement,
But you're so brutal and so sweet.

Yet here I am! Yet I have entered,
And I could not be more pleased.
You off danger, offer stimulation,
Lifting me off my shaking knees

The young and restless, they might think
Themselves invincible and strike.
Love these fools and please protect them,
Allow them to escape your strife.

Your addiciting terrors!
Your auditory illusions!
Your shallow entrance
That turns so deep!

You've lived so long,
You know our movements,
Calm down
And let us sleep.

Although we think you of no mind,
Your variation and beauty overpower
Disillusions of any kind,
You're offering at every hour.

And hours fly by when tangled in you,
You offer frequent wild rides,
I'd say we trust you, I'd be your friend,
But both of those would be just lies.

Savage! Heathen! Brutal trickster!
We're tumbling when you can't rest.
Layers one through three come from you, four.
Your infinite lovable aquatic stress.

When we leave you, you stay with us.
In the forms of rock, water, then memory.
One of nature's most complex metaphors,
You have taught us how to be.


.

tassels like little golden angels dancing in pattern without discernible sustainability some it seems fallen skirts blown back, or else kicking high in un-understandable ecstasy, beyond the grasp of my limited recognition of cognition, of understanding fullest being, expressive nonsense..Acceptance that this is not so, or at least only partially so, one being one mind one heart soul eternal there is only peace. Joy. Love. the depths of despair are only a manifestation of too deep a rut, too deep a meshing in the superficial nature of things, reality. Simple truths seen as incomprehensible because they are seen from eyes flipped upside down, backward set them right with the primal pattern which always is and always will be. See from the heart and the mind will settle in peaceful abandon...
Write to recognize the depths of confusion throw it away when one wishes to see the truth beyond limitation...mind not good not bad one with all a recognition of the truth is by no means necessary, only be, the fullest extent of yourself nothing means anything beyond there is nothing beyond self, which is all things...there is only being. Ever-present within without the dynamic expression change is an illusion fostered in the depths of blind submergence...

It is in the similarity and in wonder
Facing our absurdity
That we choose the difference
Or if it is not the difference
A reversal of the way
A divergence
Noticing the futility
A sudden glitch of us in the other
Decision taken
Evolve into something that is not similar
With the change comes a certain sense of
Loneliness
The price of difference to be grasped
At the bottom
The abyss of remorse
There must be an essential gap
It spreads
It is contagious
The joy of living
A spacing so that some might be able
To consider our limpidity
Wanting to be worth something
While disappearing
Past the curtains of misfortune
Most of the time it is just a fly pretending
While landing on one of our knees
Notices us or makes us believe to have
Noticed our presence or absence
Then set behind the horizon
Your hair burns in a bright glare
Losing sight of your sight
Going beyond the highest layer
Of the atmosphere
Where no fruit-fly is allowed to tip
The concavity of their net eyes
There is where
We are finally lost
In a collapse of consciousness
A submergence of bitterness
Understand oneself too much
Aware, beware
And then
It is not abandonment nor despair
It is the inconvenience of weariness
The flatness of nothing
No longer really carrying the importance
Of things on ones back
Since it is absolute blasting
The end of life and radiations
Become dull on the wheel
Always rolling all the way down
Heal
From the atrocity of being
At last
Finally dead-alive

let us want linear narratives -
by the current standard of: narratives -
let us all want parallel linearalities
and then: on some odd
occasion: forced to mesh-into
focus point -
                       when we were somehow
young and england
was a place at a time
when the handover of hong kong
happened -
what subsequently happened:
custard and fudge brain
crayon squiggly: attached to a fridge:
with a magnet...

here's to: i'm out to lunch...
toying with poker and... altruism...
solipsism, "atheism" and
albinos for autism...
rather: nothing will elevate
this circus -
          
   oculus per oculus -
     eye for an eye...
      skin for stretch... belts and leather...
and i hope: non-kosher shoes...
whitey brightey almost the: "almighty"...
but god! chugging along
with all these bachelor lepers -

i want to earn honour as a yack
herder in mongolia -
chequers: not chess -
because i need to go back
to m'ah rootz... my caucasian -
caspian sea - mongrel mongol
and of turkic or hOOn!

talent: "talent": a hot topic for
the imagery of phallus -
          a talent for a porceil girl of
toy-kyo...
           with a rabbit sized
bouquet of fleshy pwetty pwetty
pet-als!

  or... that it once happened...
the steve colberT show...
  the blind stevie minor...
        keeping up appearances...
a mrs. bucket that stressed!
it's: mrs. bou-kay... i.e. bouquet...
beau! literally! beau-*****-full!

stefan col-bear -
                stephen coal-b'err...
              it's tragic... a mrs. buckeT
sort of tragic...
         it's not as much fun when...
there might be people
who joke around "illiteracy" of those
who didn't used the proper
orthography...
that english isn't stress-laden
with orthography - but can be deviated
with and back into:
to speak is one thing: to write:
another...

  mrs. bouquet / alias bucket -
or a stephen colberT...
         alias: col-ber...
coal-bear...
                     coe-bare...
           it's like elevating a status
symbol: yeah... i too wish
i had a surname like: VIN-D'SOR...
or win-win-d'sour...
or windsor...
                
windy, sir?
            it's not like there will ever be:
something to play with in english
that might arrive at: suspense!
  it's the bare enlisted minimum -
i too have reached my cul de sac
of ingenuity -
perhaps i invented a light-bulb -
perhaps i have confronted
a river with a bridge -
        there's no second "eureka":
there's only a devolved "word salad":
or an attempt at a Prokofiev linear -
even with all the flurry of
decapitated sounds
running around like...
                    decapitated "sounds"...

i still come to the conclusion:
this was never going to be a language
that could be extracted
and used in a formal manner...
paint me a practical picture:
preferably a schematic used in
engineering: when looking at a Kandinsky...

now look at these words:
there's a rigidity of spelling -
a kept grammar?
well... to know blue is to also...
settle for the hue that might tease
either green or yell-ow...

               but is it a venture: prim formal?
i hope to find grave and bed come
11pm... and my legs come 6am
tomorrow... and at least 3 hours
of walking... till the point that
my underwear will rub so much
on my inner-thighs that
i will have to smear savlon cream
on what will become oyster flesh
tenderness from all the rubbing...

go full commando or wear a thong?
it's impossible to walk these parts
naked...

statures of man being childless -
this full-embodiment of a self-to-act-upon:
that there's nothing selfess about
the endeavour of clogging the thoughtlessness
of aether and the frictionless
eternal dynamism of heliocentrism -

sum up! there's that call for verbiage!
people often want,
instructions - the verb that does
the verb and some other bidding...
i have yet to read a philosophy book
that allowed itself:
grammatical peacocking -
that grammar is somehow only
ever pure instruction:
it can never be deviated from:

lesson no. 1: how you speak is:
the passable grammar lesson you will
ever hear...
get fudge: thrown into the deep
end and told to: tread water...
head above the floating mantel piece!
****** don't stink it up
with drowning!

       ergo: the great yawning sea...
and all the ghosts and myriads
and sentinetls and gargantuan: failed...
prodigies that come with it:
adding of course... a looting of
spanish armanda or some...
**** u-boat tricklet...

            god... when evil was fun...
when evil was tinged with:
a german plight of competition with
the french and the english and
the spanish and the russians:
this strange: by god... this very strange
inferiority complex...
you simply can't stage a formidable presence
with all that technological
advances on a whim:
when shuffling along with
some decanting'ant: k?

               of the little people that
england has somehow incubated:
where's my bombast?!
where's my: i'm here, i'm now...
i'm thoroughly fire-proof!
where is that... maybe not allowing
myself a presence nibbling at
crumbs from the tablature of London...
go back to Edinburgh?
get lost in Vales?
         yes... way over "there":
in way way over in les country...
a go-get-to-Lesley brittle...

             - which wasn't much of a sunday...
a tired body a welcoming
bed: the part of life where
every 34 year old might
finally settle for: get busy dying -
or vegetating or... basking
in the suns of former glories -

these ample three-sometimes-four
worded junctions
for all the biped beasts that:
prance or dance or run spectacular
migrations of fake:
in their marathons -
  
i have truly managed to assert that:
the world can happen by myself -
beside... on some distant reservoir
of thirsty new lives and:
vitality pomps -
    for their vitality i have a submergence
into a vitriol i dare not exercise -
that's of course:
they have been incubated by a lie...
any lie in the framework of
the already unshakeable complex
of pedagogy -
   it would have been better to have...
beside crushing me...
not given me this leisure of
education...
              to stand organic and proper...
to appeal to the thespian monotony
of customer service roles
where: the customer is always right...

it was foolish to educate a man
beyond the age of 16... all the guys who
dropped out of school come 16
are now either mortgage shackled...
definitely with wife and most certainly
with child in tow...
i'm hardly my own making...

tone death: blair -
again... is it a solipsistic statement,
that... famous mea culpa?
      it's my fault for most certainly it is...
but at what point did
other people stop existing...
at what point can i blame fortune
on myself?
this sunday was depressing because...
i made a bet...
on 8 football matches...
a bet on a win... and a bet on...
both teams scoring...
16 matches to choose from...
but this is why i abhor gambling...
it's this stupendous suspency
akin to reading a thriller...
which i have never...
but you get the idea should
such results as: 6 - 1 tottenham hostpurs
vs. man united /
   7 - 2 aston villa vs. liverpool...
ever... degrade your least
chosen of avenues of "hope"...

               - somehow a "little known" nuance...
albion is a chalk-faced
grinning monstrosity of lime, scaling
up to no ends meet: and meat...
of course... the kosher furore
surrounding the omnivorous
tacticians of: one rice patty
per village: sq. a dozen heads...

i too want linear pursuits of language!
hey! over 'ere!
i want to take it upon myself
to be native and be get-given
the wings of flight!
looks like i'm nowhere going...
looks like i'm going nowhere:
but i'm still somehow: a here...
in this heliocentric ferriswheel
post-scientific darwinism this: pop cull-the-truants!
i am somehow hier...
herr sir-farce-a-****-to-borrow...
and a lot...

to have to escape the russians
and the polacks and the germans
and all these subsequently not-listed
cretins of the european pervesion...
of: self-mutilating yodle yo...
barracks up-right and standing...
congregating around
the mafia proposal of the:
       vain-ticky-tic-toc-bataclan...

dog collars of priest simply ooze:
satisfaction with:
a missing status of believbility...
but do not fret!
the hougenots are the last rats
to bail... of a sinking ship...
and there's all this night's worth
to want to exploit with
the burdens of sleep!

that we are pulverised dead-end-knottings...
insomnia provoked...
it's no matter...
the people without attache
verbiage... with strict cohesive
conducts are all ablaze...
i want these skimmies for
detailing scoop of fat over fat:
leaving little of beliebvable bone
to be a miscarriage of... ahem...
"reality";

i have been accused of
missing an ego a clog in the jargon
of the: "ex machina":
a reality without a deity
is almost like...
            a flaking of a skin...
that must be associated with
an invitation to possessing a self.

Bodies of water,
Within my grip
No reason to not
Take a dip.

No full submergence,
Just the fingers.
This is learning
Without stingers.

No pain required,
No remorse needed.
Embarrassed and tired,
But not depleted.

On the road
To being needed,
What is owed
Is what I’ll feed this.

5 fingers
Testing waters
Bridging channels
Being modern

a tribute to TAHIR SQUARE CAIRO


intensified by the desire of better life,they came on streets...slogans echoed in air of serene and peaceful environment,air started filled with the spark of revolution,lanes started mark themselves with footsteps of revolutionists,and hearts started beating on new frequency......it was a dark world,with sleeping saints and guarding demons,it was the blue evening with no hope of rising sun..it was the part of that world on face of map where the suffocation started making its heap......

insomnia ,in part of our life,sometimes is the biggest need,like the necessity of air..it is needed badly so the eyes for a time being forget the pathways to sleep....awakening is blessing,but it becomes an eternal gift when  eyes adopt themSELVES to it even the night is dark and the lights are dead....Fears ,the guard of our beating heart,but Courage is most fruitful when it scratches it off from the trembling body,when the winters on its bloom,and coldness has resided in big veins....

mark of each and every footstep if u observe ,it will reveal u different stories of courage,determination,evolution and un-ended fight.....traces disappear ,but sand particles always remember the kiss of those brave hearts ,of voices against slavery,of intense struggle,of new hope .....the sweet pungent aroma of those slogans in air,is always remarked with the tears of appreciation,bright smiles of honor and pride.....though the nations of nations will be changed in drift of seconds,but submergence in deep ocean of revolution ,once u dive in it,than the heart and soul of urs can drink all the blue waters of this universe and still it will stay unquenched..


like a wild flower,
near the stream of flowing fresh water,
with sun sparkling at height of a new day,
stay there with  ur roots affirmed,
with ur petals fresh,
be they painful to the passing byes,
but stay there
with sweet pungent smell
with courage un faltered
with face so innocent....

little words ,a shelter.a refuge,an expression to me,for defining the world of faith,of hope,of sensitivity,of feeling high when nature is lowering u down,of bravery,of same repeating sentences but with different  meanings again and again...of PARADISE,of LIFE!!

hiramalik