Poetic words
are a pLaYgRoUnD to me
Flowing
like a child on a
s.......g
.w...n
....i

^RISING^ and falling
((striking)) moods
as words oughtta
Like the
f
..r
e
..e
f
..a
l
..l
and
b..u..c
..o..n..e

of a
t
.e
...e
.....t
......e
........r
.........@
.............t
..­.............o
..................t
....................t
........­.............e
.......................r
Poetic words to me
sTrAnGe as it ))sounds((
Gives me the ~sensations~
like a

.....r...r...y
..e............g
m...............o
.d............­..r
....n....u...o
I just had to tell you
I can no longer ((hide))
Well, writing to me is
like a pLaYgRoUnD’s
...............S
..............|...l
............|..­......i
..........|............p
........|...............~
......­|......................n
....|..........................~
..|....­...........................s
|...................................­.....l~...i...d..e

this is the golden tangent
slipping in the sinister land of
everything you ever landed
on the wings of our entire planet

left behind with every man who commands it
to live and breathe because of zed dog
look into the symbolistic meaning of z being the  breathing
i live to end the simple dancing  
necromancy of what is a tangent
before necromance this,  ungrateful
and dried out planet
sympathy
and all that you gave it
has nothing lost in the pavement
i have nothing ever long in things
that is what i am in this whorld
not just to me
not just to you
i have everything that is left to have

this piece of sky
folding inwards
eat my favorite eye
in between yours

i am driving into the clouds running away from me
chasing always leading to the sunsets i remember
being there in the patient virtue of your hating
and what it have me the right to see hindsight in
I'm not a patient to this believing of all that is saving

I'm not a  blatant worry to society
all those things are hidden here
in this hideaway drawer that you left open
bang your knee and remember the contents, and how they are broken.

leave this world like a patient embalming emblem
letting you patiently open the whorl pool of patient
what is the payment and grace of the spoken
for the hindsight of all those things that are left broken

so this is the river flooding over the burning bridge
this is the island , that is underwater,  thanking the ice caps for growing
this is the row boat is which you gave birth to a baby, that  someone is borrowing
this is the patience of all those that are  waiting for you to get better
this is the road home


lets try this pipe and hope it goes to your favorite level
let the mushrooms that grant you breathe of fire, become flowers that are shinning even in the daytime.

it was 4 am the baby was kicking
they both wanted mint chocolate chip
which was the only thing
not in the hotels mini fridge
I being the loving father to be
left in my levis from yesterday
the best decision I ever made
was kissing her goodbye

So now here I am in the closet
of the man who ruined our vacation
Alameda trailer home
clutching a vial of heroine
and a pair of pliers

Symbolistic white walls
surround my fate
if i dont pull these teeth
in secret

the villain shakes the whole
**** death trap
opening his lock for the last time
the worst decision he ever made
was locking the door
a few minutes later his hand
scratched at the ****
until the opiates
settled the score
his body now the rag doll,
I wanted to impregnate him
with the love my son could have been
and tear it out of him with the same tools
dangle it from the same floor lamp
that is in an evidence room locker
with my D.N.A. all over it

the worst decision the cops ever made
showing me the list of suspects.  

the worst decision I ever made
was narrowing them down, one by one.

The evenings rang true at a time when we would engage in snooker or chess in the lounge, late into the night, waiting for daybreak to shine through.

On the weekends we would gather and watch the cricket begin: shirts versus skins on Emerald Green. Men versus women. The mens’ ******* seemed to ripple in the weekend air.

Mid-morning was reserved for artistic endeavours— honing our artistic sensibilities: a decidely symbolistic manner of preparition in which we would prepare. We would recite lines and manifest Shakespeare there, at the cusp of Emerald Green.

Colourful virtues

I see the sun set over barley
I see black horses playing in the rain
I have Angels dancing with my brain
It feels just like a movie with stained glass windows and a Gothic eeriness to the church purposefully ingrained
All the colours make a picture to again provoke some pain
Twelve men dressed in purple pass me by with a golden cross aloft like a symbolistic nuclear bomb that was so vain
Simple men have virtues some of them can only be described as colours so gather them together and forget about the blame.

"M'APPARI TUTT' AMOR..."

Here in the church
of my father's carpentry

the incense is
of pine

sunlight genuflects
through the window

wood curls
in religious ecstasy

a blue bottle
preaches an  iridescent  sermon

a choir of dust motes
make this a heaven

as my father hums
"M'appari tutt' amor.."

this my epiphany
of the ordinary

this the everyday
prayer

I bow my head to
the saw as it sings

"....bella si che il mio cor ..."

*

"M'APPARI TUTT' AMOR..."Lionel's aria from from Flotow's Martha

You can see this sung as a charming serenade in the film BREAKING AWAY ! and in the soapuds episode from ***** WONKA AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY and used here and there in Hitchcock's REAR WINDOW.

There are also two swing versions.

My Da didn't know any of this and it was just a passing air on the radio that got stuck in his head and he would hum or la la la it every now and then as he hammered or sawed without knowing anything about it! It was only years later when he was 90 that I was able to tell him what it was and get him a recording of Domingo singing it.

Of course it features highly in a certain Mr. Joyce book as well. Caruso had made it popular and Joyce always a big Caruso fan( he had hoped to do an interview with the great man when he came to Dublin but that came to nothing.)

‘Singing. Waiting she sang. I turned her music. Full voice of perfume of what perfume does your lilactrees. ***** I saw, both full, throat warbling. First I saw. She thanked me. Why did she me? Fate. Spanishy eyes. Under a peartree alone patio this hour in old Madrid one side in shadow Delores shedolores. At me. Luring. Ah, alluring.

—Martha! Ah, Martha!
Quitting all languor Lionel cried in grief, in cry of passion dominant to love to return with deepening yet with rising chords of harmony. In cry of lionel loneliness that she should know, must martha feel. For only her he waited. Where? Here there try there here all try where. Somewhere.
—Co-ome, thous lost one!
Co-ome, thou dear one!
Alone. One love. One hope. One comfort me. Martha, chestnote, return!
—Come …!
It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don’t spin it out too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the etherial *****, high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness …….
—To me!
Siopold!
Consumed.’

The Last Rose of Summer was inserted into the opera as well. Caruso made both popular. I only came across it by my Da whistling it with nails clasped in his teeth. Took me about 30 years to find out what it was. Just the opening bars would get to me always. Then it started turning up in Joyce and everywhere. Strange the ways of the world.