AWAKENING

Sleep and slumber, dreams of wonder... weaving,
morning’s vacuum broke the spell
Pitted pillow, note of parting... leaving,
“from your friend, a fond farewell”
Sunrise throbbing, twilight aching... grieving,
daydreams, flashbacks, nightmares knell
Pale phantasms, visions sneaking... thieving,
plot to fill the empty shell

12 DELIRIA

1st Delirium: COLLAPSES

Fractured sky bolts, billows bursting... rumbling,
heavens tighten, turn the vise
Horsemen saddle shafts of lightning... tumbling,
jagged highways must suffice
Ruptured skyways, hailstones crackling... crumbling,
naked pearls of paradise
Toxic tongues of laughter stinging... stumbling,
ocean buckets choked with ice
Droplets drumming, thunder muzzled... mumbling,
washed out whispers pay the price
Smothered blazes, cinders smoking... humbling,
ashes shaped in sacrifice

2nd Delirium: DESCENTS

Asphalt alleys, ashen faces... frowning,
blowing bubbles, chewing gum
Drinking ale from tavern tankards... downing,
moonlit beads of painted ***
Stony stars and sea misshapen... drowning,
humble rivers’ rhythms hum
Apparitions aspirating... clowning,
diamonds dying , minstrels strum
Incandescent candles conquered... crowning,
vacant vapours, cold and numb

3rd Delirium: FATES

Tempest turmoil, tapered turrets... holding,
dungeons, dragons, chains and racks
Wheels of fortune, Tarot temptress... molding,
Hangmen, Towers, One Eyed Jacks
Sand dune castles, cryptic candles... folding,
warping walls of liquid wax
Idols colder, combed and coddled... scolding,
hide in fissures, peek through cracks

4th Delirium: LOST SOULS

Sunken cities, pilgrims peering... gawking,
squinting eyeballs, blazing sun
Janus facing, shepherds chasing... stalking,
friends embrace before they shun
Tearooms steaming, tumult teeming... talking,
lovers listen, poets pun
Broken stones unanchored, quaking... rocking,
slipping, falling, one by one
Beaten pathways, footsteps marking... mocking,
wedged in webs which spiders spun
Circus shelters, big tops tumbling... locking,
people pacing, soon they’re none
Numbered exits, zeros numbing... knocking,
midnight daylight’s days undone
Moon blood shackles, shivers shaming... shocking,
starlight striders streaking, stun
Hushed but harried hermits waiting... walking,
restless rainbows on the run
Pixies, elves, and echoes bouncing... balking,
fading fast when dawn’s begun
Bantum butterflies are flitting... flocking
sometimes conquered, overrun
Hocus pokus, seers focus... squawking,
voodoo wavered, witchcraft won

5th Delirium: INTROSPECTION

Sundown furnace, fires fading... coughing,
dusky dew drops drain the air
Empty chalice, sipped in silence... quaffing,
thirsting shadows unaware
Looking glass and lattice scorning... scoffing,
local loser gapes and stares
Faces covered, dancing naked... doffing,
peering inside, hope despairs

6th Delirium: THE VOID

Tales of taboos, mystic mythos... missing,
windows shuttered, bolted door
Kindled candles, tongues and anvils... hissing,
heavy hammers, echoes roar
Dark deceivers, raven charmers... kissing,
draging demons from the shore
Hopeless hollows filled with doubters... dissing
standing empty - nevermore

7th Delirium: SEARCHING

Martyred monks haunt runic ruins ... waiting,
banging broken bells below
Vaulted hallways, voided voices... grating,
churning Chinese chimes aglow
Granite graveyards, spectres spooking... skating,
blackened bushes, roses grow
****** dwarfs seek mutant migrants... mating,
packing parcels, ice and snow

8th Delirium: NIGHTTIME

Throbbing drumheads, fingers blazing... steaming,
coins of copper, beggars plea
Rusty residues of resin... streaming,
opal amber filigree
Orphan shades in shallow shadows... teeming,
steeping twigs in twilight tea
Cloister doorsteps, Prophets gaming... scheming,
tracing tracks of destiny
Blacksmiths blanching, horseshoes glowing... gleaming,
partially sheathed in black debris
Phantoms feigning, nightmares scathing... screaming,
dusty dreamers drifting free

9th Delerium: EMPTYNESS

Water wheels in wastelands... turning,
drowning relics in the slum
Rumpled rags of fashioned burlap... burning,
lit by bandits blind and dumb
Pastured prisons, ponies bridled ... yearning,
forest fairies under thumb
Sounds inside of cauldrons coughing... churning,
blaring bugles, tattooed drum

10th Delirium: ALIENATION

Rain unravelling, wistfully weeping... falling,
treacle trickling, fickle sky
Mushrooms sprinkled, visions sprouting... sprawling,
seagulls drowning, dolphins die
Rabble gasping, spirits broken... crawling,
lonely lonesome swallows cry
Babbling brooks and breakers ebbing... bawling
puppies paddle, puppets sigh
People passing ripple past me... calling,
rainbow colours, collars high
Chaos seething, lepers looting... stalling,
stealing stallions on the sly
Pencils pausing, scholars scrambling... scrawling,
scratching scribbles, asking why

11th Delirium: JETSAM

Silver sails sway pallid pirates... prowling,
Jolly Rogers, wind and sound
Parrots perching, tattered feathers... fouling,
tethered talons, tied and bound
Shipwrecked foghorns, trumpets stranded... howling,
spiral springs of time unwound
Magic moonlight, shimmers shaking... scowling,
burnt out matchsticks washed aground
Prairie wolfs, coyotes calling... yowling,
witching hours, midnight hounds
Tightrope walkers, grizzlies grunting... growling,
seeking islands, lost and found

12th Delirium: RELIEF

Slumber shattered, vapours captive... haunting,
chained in mirrors, breaking free
Scarlet skylines, daylight dawning... daunting,
rivers rushing to the sea
Silence softens, sandmen whisper... wanting,
piercing rafters, turning keys
Shadows shudder, notions fluster... flaunting,
moonbeam bullets meant for me
Mind in migraine, meadows trembling... taunting,
sparrows speak in harmony

REAWAKENING

Pitter patter, teardrops paling... pearling,
salting scarves in secret drawers
Mist amongst us, smoke rings rising... curling,
climbing from the ocean floors
See-saw circles, senses swerving... swirling,
swept away with silver oars
Courtyard jesters, sceptres twisting... twirling,
push the past to foreign shores
Passing pangs of passions heaving... hurling,
burning bridges, closing doors
Roses wither, icons waning... whirling,
time decays and time restores

Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence
Behold the Forms of nature. They discern
Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities
Which mortals lack or indirectly learn.
Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying,
Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear,
High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal
Huge Principles appear.

The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of
Arboreal life, how from earth's salty lap
The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness
Enacted by leaves' fall and rising sap;

But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance
Of sun from shadow where the trees begin,
The blessed cool at every pore caressing us
-An angel has no skin.

They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it
Drink the whole summer down into the breast.
The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing
Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.
The tremor on the rippled pool of memory
That from each smell in widening circles goes,
The pleasure and the pang --can angels measure it?
An angel has no nose.

The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes
On death, and why, they utterly know; but not
The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries.
The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot
Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate
Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf's billowy curves,
Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.
—An angel has no nerves.

Far richer they! I know the senses' witchery
Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see;
Imminent death to man that barb'd sublimity
And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be.
Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior,
This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares
With living men some secrets in a privacy
Forever ours, not theirs.

Skyscrape city
Land of Construction and Buying Local
I stand here. Metallic red spandex
sweat collecting in my mask.

down the street a band of thieves
bang and clang loudly in The local bar
Not-so-cleverly named: The Tavern
"AYE!" says the largest drunken-est one.
"what cries first when you **** a girl?"
"her Eyes or 'Er heart?"
His filthy men take their guesses.
"Eyes!"
"Heart!"
"WRONG!" says Kane. "'Her Mother"
They all laugh, at the honesty.
Clang their tankards loudly!

These Bandits are a problem.
Some sort of Super Hero needs to bust in there and put an end to this.
which is kind of why the crime rate here is so high.
Because that's not what I do at all.
I'm just a 20-year old man playing dress up.

Monday Morning I call my friend Max
All I say is "Meet me at the mall ASAP"
Before I hang up.
From behind me I hear
"I'm already here, man."
I twist my head up and look around to find Max holding a Nerf gun pointed right at me.
Pop!
"What's The Plan?" he asks.
I kneel down to claim the Nerf dart.
Hold it tightly in my fingers.
"By the end of this day Max,
We're going to be Super Heroes."

We Travel around town searching for the perfect costumes.
First stop: ***** sporting goods.
We buy Mace
Air horns.
Kneepads
Under Armor Spandex, with armor pads!
"Dude! You look like military aqua man!" says Max
in that split second we had the same thought.
"Military."
we stop by the army surplus store:
buy gun holsters,
utility belts, Ammo pouches.
Never bought guns,
We just wanted to look cool.
Max spots a German machete
"Nick."
He glows, holding it, looking up to me.
"Yes." I say.
In a glass case full of various knives and daggers I spy something Precious.
Bladed playing cards.
"They're perfect." I say.
Max looks over my shoulder.
"You don't even know how to throw regular playing cards."
"Shhh, Max, I'm having a moment."
I hand the store owner a magical plastic rectangle
When we're done we Plop our shopping bags down in an alleyway.
it's dark now.
Dark enough to Slip into our New spandex armor.
Click Fasten our leg holsters
we spent our whole day shopping, for this moment.
Max holds out his machete and starts swinging it around.
"Max you don't even know how to wield that thing."
"Like you do."
cheque pants step out the side of a building and haul some trash bags into a nearby dumpster.
Then spots us.
"What're you kids doing!"
"Ahhh!" Jumped max as he lunged at the mans head with his machete.
"MAX!"
It was too late.
blood gushed from The guys skull
He slide down against the wall.
Max backs up slowly. speechless. wide-eyed.
"We Need to tell someone about this. right now."
We'll them a crazy murderer showed up and killed this guy."
"while we were changing?"
into our super hero costumes?"
We'll leave out some details max! We're lying! Let's go!
We Burst out of the Alley towards town.
"QUICK! In here!"
A Sign on the front wall read:
The Tavern
We dashed inside.
Men are laughing loudly, clanging their tankards drunkenly.

Then laughter stops.
Only the faint sound of pub music in the background covering what otherwise would be Crickets.
Eyes all fasten and glare at max and I
Snickers and giggles start poking fun at our outfits.
"Hey Kane, get a look at these queers."
"This ain't no gay bar boys, get a move on"

I finally Piped up through The gum of my throat.
"SOMEONE IS DEAD!
Blood everywhere!
Need..
Call...
Police!"
"Phew! I need to run more."

A Small bald man whispers to Kane
"Boss They must have found her."
Kanes Eyes go wide
"Boys!"
The men slowly rise from their seats and advance
Two of them slide behind us
Blockading the door
Large hands vault us toward the center of the room.
"You told the wrong Bar, boys" Says a bandit.
Quickly, I fumble through my pouches.
Try to whip out a bladed playing card and throw it at one of them.
As I flick, my finger gets sliced
Stings.
The Playing card clangs against the ground as I nurse my finger to my mouth.
they all laugh
"Oh look! he thinks he's some kind of Ninja" Shouts Kane. "HA!"

a bandit grabs my arms, twists them back hoists me up.
Max takes a swing at a bandit
It hits him much like a pillow.
A ***** eyed stare from max looks to the man as he Drives max right in the jaw and sends him sailing to the ground.
His lip bleeding.
Max reaches into his pocket.
fingers clasp firmly.
Closes his eyes.
LAYS LOUDLY THE AIR HORN!
The bandits jump back and cover their ears.
While the bandits hd their ears I escape the grapple.
I drop, reach for my mace,
Jump back
spray him in the eyes.
"MAX!
LETS GO!"
we run towards the door,
Still laying on the Horn.
Kane Stands in the way.
Grinning.
I finger a Playing card in my pocket.
Better get good at this fast.
Wrist flick
It flys through the air
Bee lines straight for him.
Straight in the eyeball!
"AHH!" His hands fly too his face in pain.
His fingers clench the card
He braces readying himself to pull.
We Bust out of there.
Run down the street.

flashing red and blue lights glow from out of the alley.
We peak around the caution taped wall
A cop is searching our wallets,
He Pulls out our I.D's
"Leave our **** Nick, let's go."
"But, My coffee mug!"
"But, cops nick! But our wallets nick! How about our clothes!  Our homework. My machete!"
The cop looks over towards us and we press fast behind the wall.
Max and I look at each other
Nod.
Race off over a brick hill
Around a Tower,
Into a parking garage,
we book it down
flight after flight of staircase into the basement.
Thump against the cement wall.
Gasping for air.
"Max." breath
"Yeah?" breathe
"It happened."

"Mother of heaven, regina of the clouds,
O sceptre of the sun, crown of the moon,
There is not nothing, no, no, never nothing,
Like the clashed edges of two words that ****."
And so I mocked her in magnificent measure.
Or was it that I mocked myself alone?
I wish that I might be a thinking stone.
The sea of spuming thought foists up again
The radiant bubble that she was. And then
A deep up-pouring from some saltier well
Within me, bursts its watery syllable.

II

A red bird flies across the golden floor.
It is a red bird that seeks out his choir
Among the choirs of wind and wet and wing.
A torrent will fall from him when he finds.
Shall I uncrumple this much-crumpled thing?
I am a man of fortune greeting heirs;
For it has come that thus I greet the spring.
These choirs of welcome choir for me farewell.
No spring can follow past meridian.
Yet you persist with anecdotal bliss
To make believe a starry connaissance.

III

Is it for nothing, then, that old Chinese
Sat tittivating by their mountain pools
Or in the Yangtse studied out their beards?
I shall not play the flat historic scale.
You know how Utamaro's beauties sought
The end of love in their all-speaking braids.
You know the mountainous coiffures of Bath.
Alas! Have all the barbers lived in vain
That not one curl in nature has survived?
Why, without pity on these studious ghosts,
Do you come dripping in your hair from sleep?

IV

This luscious and impeccable fruit of life
Falls, it appears, of its own weight to earth.
When you were Eve, its acrid juice was sweet,
Untasted, in its heavenly, orchard air.
An apple serves as well as any skull
To be the book in which to read a round,
And is as excellent, in that it is composed
Of what, like skulls, comes rotting back to ground.
But it excels in this, that as the fruit
Of love, it is a book too mad to read
Before one merely reads to pass the time.

V

In the high west there burns a furious star.
It is for fiery boys that star was set
And for sweet-smelling virgins close to them.
The measure of the intensity of love
Is measure, also, of the verve of earth.
For me, the firefly's quick, electric stroke
Ticks tediously the time of one more year.
And you? Remember how the crickets came
Out of their mother grass, like little kin,
In the pale nights, when your first imagery
Found inklings of your bond to all that dust.

VI

If men at forty will be painting lakes
The ephemeral blues must merge for them in one,
There is a substance in us that prevails.
But in our amours amorists discern
Such fluctuations that their scrivening
Is breathless to attend each quirky turn.
When amorists grow bald, then amours shrink
Into the compass and curriculum
Of introspective exiles, lecturing.
It is a theme for Hyacinth alone.

VII

The mules that angels ride come slowly down
The blazing passes, from beyond the sun.
Descensions of their tinkling bells arrive.
These muleteers are dainty of their way.
Meantime, centurions guffaw and beat
Their shrilling tankards on the table-boards.
This parable, in sense, amounts to this:
The honey of heaven may or may not come,
But that of earth both comes and goes at once.
Suppose these couriers brought amid their train
A damsel heightened by eternal bloom.

VIII

Like a dull scholar, I behold, in love,
An ancient aspect touching a new mind.
It comes, it blooms, it bears its fruit and dies.
This trivial trope reveals a way of truth.
Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
Two golden gourds distended on our vines,
Into the autumn weather, splashed with frost,
Distorted by hale fatness, turned grotesque.
We hang like warty squashes, streaked and rayed,
The laughing sky will see the two of us
Washed into rinds by rotting winter rains.

IX

In verses wild with motion, full of din,
Loudened by cries, by clashes, quick and sure
As the deadly thought of men accomplishing
Their curious fates in war, come, celebrate
The faith of forty, ward of Cupido.
Most venerable heart, the lustiest conceit
Is not too ***** for your broadening.
I quiz all sounds, all thoughts, all everything
For the music and manner of the paladins
To make oblation fit. Where shall I find
Bravura adequate to this great hymn?

X

The fops of fancy in their poems leave
Memorabilia of the mystic spouts,
Spontaneously watering their gritty soils.
I am a yeoman, as such fellows go.
I know no magic trees, no balmy boughs,
No silver-ruddy, gold-vermilion fruits.
But, after all, I know a tree that bears
A semblance to the thing I have in mind.
It stands gigantic, with a certain tip
To which all birds come sometime in their time.
But when they go that tip still tips the tree.

XI

If *** were all, then every trembling hand
Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
But note the unconscionable treachery of fate,
That makes us weep, laugh, grunt and groan, and shout
Doleful heroics, pinching gestures forth
From madness or delight, without regard
To that first, foremost law. Anguishing hour!
Clippered with lilies scudding the bright chromes,
Keen to the point of starlight, while a frog
Boomed from his very belly odious chords.

XII

A blue pigeon it is, that circles the blue sky,
On sidelong wing, around and round and round.
A white pigeon it is, that flutters to the ground,
Grown tired of flight. Like a dark rabbi, I
Observed, when young, the nature of mankind,
In lordly study. Every day, I found
Man proved a gobbet in my mincing world.
Like a rose rabbi, later, I pursued,
And still pursue, the origin and course
Of love, but until now I never knew
That fluttering things have so distinct a shade.

115

What Inn is this
Where for the night
Peculiar Traveller comes?
Who is the Landlord?
Where the maids?
Behold, what curious rooms!
No ruddy fires on the hearth—
No brimming Tankards flow—
Necromancer! Landlord!
Who are these below?

214

I taste a liquor never brewed—
From Tankards scooped in Pearl—
Not all the Vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an Alcohol!

Inebriate of Air—am I—
And Debauchee of Dew—
Reeling—thro endless summer days—
From inns of Molten Blue—

When “Landlords” turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove’s door—
When Butterflies—renounce their “drams”—
I shall but drink the more!

Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats—
And Saints—to windows run—
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the—Sun—

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands.

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song,
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them throng:

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold,
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old;

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme,
That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime.

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band,
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde’s hand;

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days
Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian’s praise.

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art:
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart;

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone,
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own.

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust,
And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust;

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare,
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air.

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart,
ived and labored Albrecht Dürer, the Evangelist of Art;

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand,
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land.

Emigravit is the inscription on the tomb-stone where he lies;
Dead he is not, but departed,—for the artist never dies.

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair,
That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air!

Through these streets so broad and stately, these obscure and dismal lanes,
Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains.

From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild,
Building nests in Fame’s great temple, as in spouts the swallows build.

As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme,
And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil’s chime;

Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom
In the forge’s dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom.

Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft,
Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge folios sang and laughed.

But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor,
And a garland in the window, and his face above the door;

Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Puschman’s song,
As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long.

And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care,
Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master’s antique chair.

Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye
Wave these mingled shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry.

Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world’s regard;
But thy painter, Albrecht Dürer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler bard.

Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away,
As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay:

Gathering from the pavement’s crevice, as a floweret of the soil,
The nobility of labor,—the long pedigree of toil.

There're swords,
lots of them,
and long-bows,
with fresh, eager arrows
jostle with notched expert axes;

legendary hair frame braided beards
flowing into refilled tankards
drowning curses through broken teeth
gnawing at poor personal hygiene
across the stench of the public tavern
as granite-stares challenge
bone-shattering laughter.
-
All as anticipated -
there's Orcs about
and the prescribed heroes assemble.
-
-
Slow rolling leaden mist cloaks howling creatures at dawn
from deep within the forest,
then disabling rain falls at dusk
and steel clashes with steel in the storm…
-
All these exploits ferment short of full strength
and stretch onto a wide Winter screen
before facing the final critical battle
for a 12A Christmas.

Miles of indigo ocean floss the urchins from its rocky teeth
cracked, aged, sturdy

like our captain
unwavered by the changing tides
wrinkles deep in his eyes
skin dry from the salt of the blue.

The ship a knotty brown, pointed like a tri-corn hat. Roguishly handsome like it could Woo the sea.

Our captain sang stories
of the ship's past lives before its soul
settled into our vessel.
His adventures hearing mermaids
Lured under to their beauty.
Most men be tranced by their call
lost forever in their seaweed chains,
not this Stone-hearted Charmer.
With swiftness of a thief
his smirk toss the sirens under his thumb.

Johnny Two Leg sticks his knife into the lid of a large barrel
prys it open.

Maggots wriggle under the dark of it's planks.
Rot cotton forming in their crevasses.

"Another day another barrel" Johnny sigh to himself
lid clanking against the deck.

This will be the crew's rations.

Sing songing men with their plenty red wenches toss back tankards on board.
Their song isn't flashy,
not even practiced,
they just want their tales to be heard.
A chorus, or chant repeats between stories.
Some simpler, some scary, some tall.
Each member of crew taking turns with their voice boxes, scratching the black liquor walls.

Johnny Two Leg plunks the barrel center of the crowd
a loud cheering erupts.
The poor boy who was staged on a chair belting limerick of his most recent love affair has his stool politely kicked, knocking him prone,
causing a nearby member
or four to laugh.

"If a man is a song, is he really dead?"
booms our captain through the bustle. touching Johnny Two Legs back,
giving a smile as he walk past.

We form a line as he hand us vials from the barrel

thumb the frosty glass
pop cork unleashing purple mist tendrils that spiral round like a serpent's tail

look to our captain in devotion
who holds his vial out proud.
Johnny Two Leg stands prouder,
glowing for the captain.
The poor boy stand bright eyed, clutching.
Together we swig back the poison

give our souls to the next vessel
be it castle, sword, or ship.
They'll sing about us
of hearts calloused harder than oceans teeth
voices louder than the reddest haired *****
passion hotter than the fires of hell.

When their lungs grow tired of our song, remind them
'fore we faired the sea under their new flag
we breathed oceans of wisdom
devout to this Knotty Tri-corn Rogue.
May his story never die.

This is all a big joke
You and I are just passing time
Until extinction

I have teeth of pig iron
And my back is a mountain
When I stretch in the sunrise
Oak trees snap and echo strangely
In the valley of my spine

A she bear walked upon my knees
Scraping her claws against my thigh
Birds soar about my forehead
Great whales swim in my mouth
Wolves hunt in the kingdom of my belly
And howl as I kiss the full face of my moon

Foxes learn the twists and curves of my palm
Rabbits burrow in my chest
Deer graze upon my feet
And the green bulbs of my eyelash
Bloom white blossoms

I reached up
With calloused hands
I felt the delicate slumber of stars
I cast them to the earth
And crushed them beneath my great bare feet

I ate the earth
Much like a green apple
And put the nickel core In my pocket
I put Sol in my mouth
And the universe was dark for a while

I grow tired of sleep
And I dream madly of  the road again
Women wear long silk gowns
They whisper words and grab my arms
They open my mouth and pour in tankards
Of dark drink
Burning
Burning down in my belly

They slept in the crook of my arm
And the long black hair tickled my face
They were silent when they awoke
And my slumber was deep
They cut my throat ear to ear
Laughing as my blood poured into the cauldron of the sea
Laughing as they snip my hair with scissors
Laughing as they remove my left eye
*We are fate your body is beautiful
Oh King, give us your turqoise eye
We have a knife/a good sharp knife!
We can feast forever on a sliver of your skin
And will build the earth again with your sinew

In fair Stratford-on-Avon
Is where we set our stage,
This town where
Our Bard was born,
The man for all ages.

In The White Swan
John's son, Will,
Was rightly being toasted.
Young Will had a way with words,
And used his quill
To turn girls' heads
Toward his finest,
His best bed.

Halfway down Market Street,
Just before the Barber's,
Lived the Hathaway girl, Ann.
Some locals called her Cougar.

Will didn't know how old she was
For she didn't look her age.

A few months on,
Her belly grown
They held a cross-bow wedding.
Ensuing vows
The reception crowd
Filed into The White Swan,
Raised their tankards
To toast the couple
With this Avon song:

*Shakespeare hath
His will with her,
But Ann hath-a-way.

I heart Blackpool, engraved tankards
Little old men & full kit wankers.
Bracing wind with rain & sleet
******* blowing in the street.
In Blackpool.

Kiss me quick & squeeze me slow.
Madame Tussauds, pier-end show
Grubby track-suits, baseball caps
Homeless people search for scraps.
In Blackpool.

Sun and rain, blue & grey.
All four seasons in one day.
Drug ravaged transients dressed in rags.
Haggard old women smoke their ****.
In Blackpool.

Flashing lights & lots of noise
Flirty girls & drunken boys
Abba tributes, yesterday’s stars,
Rattling trams & clapped out cars.
In Blackpool.

Penny arcades & bingo halls.
Amusement rides & market stalls.
Drag Queens flaunt with macho men.
Stripper seduces drunken hen.
In Blackpool.

Rooms by the hour, rooms by the night.
A £1 burger & a £2 pint
Rolling sea & golden sand.
Lowest life expectancy in the land.
In Blackpool.

.

*O’ crooked branch and magpie’s claw,
yon rusted chains a’ sway this night
Clutch tight a sign “The Seagull's Squall”
of splintered wood and storm clouds fight
Old tavern lone this craggy shore
where angered waves accost the sand
and drenching rains from heavens pour,
whilst thunder boasts its loud command

On creaking stools with painted legs
'long the bar, a gathered crew
Expected flow from aging kegs
a frothy crown this lagered brew
Fills tankards held of one now gone
'midst pewter death in golden ale
In drunk'n stupor sorrows shown
lost at sea, his soul last sailed

Watching cloaked of shadowed mist
in darkened corner, lingered smoke
O’er long goodbyes on echoes twist
and couraged voices soundly spoke
Weaving tales a' journeys past,
voyages beyond the deep
Ports o’ call and forth day cast,
of treasures that abound to reap  

When one, a glass above his head
beckons silence, moments slow
Respect, our mate now swallow'd dead,
entombed within the depths below
Then hearty cheers and farewell speak,
this touching scene if one would be
A ghostly tear now falls my cheek,
this fallen mate they cheer is me

Now amugst the crashing of the waves ,
and the calls of seagulls true and brave ,
Iying in the sea ,
about to take a nap ,
lies a sea turtle enjoying the tankards sailing by ,
as the afternoon sun rises to meet its cloudless blue ,

all of a sudden without due thought ,
or care ,
or a tidderly doo   ,
for if he had ,
would not have bothered you .
A brown ***** who had flown off course looked for direction,
from the shell of a sea turtles back .

.” Excuse me my friend I’m taking a nap ,
Please be so kind not to sit on my back “

The ***** bird said nothing in reply ,
not a swork ,
or an eek or a  “ soon ile be back “

For the rain forests are burning ,
and the skies are filled with smoke ,
and the seas are filled with plastic ,
and I’m ready to croak “
To be honest dear turtle I don’t give a dam ,
I’m looking for trees that form some dry land ,”
for all I can see ,
are tankards filled with oil ,
and cans and plastic in the sea  man can’t destroy “

Look said the turtle whom just wanted to rest ,
The Greta fleet are sailing to harbours to save ,
whist world leaders shut parliament,
ready to dig out our graves .
Oh look there goes a wet wipe ,
a can of empty coke ,  
takeaway cartons ,
an empty bottle with a note ,
* please if found return to shore ,
the ***** bird picked it up ,
then threw it back once more ,
said “ romance is dead “
for the little girl waiting won’t ever write back .


For at the end of the night  ,
when all have gone home in search of a better day ,
Fly tippers leave their waste on toxic land to decay ,
and we breath in their fumes as best we can .

The tankards rest on the table as at an inn,
People sit and eat bread and it's noisy.
I fumble with my new shoes and jerkin
With a muffin cap that I don proudly.
I'm newly dressed in old borrowed clothes
And I run outside and see the Dance Macabe in rags.
While the Faire's parade comes close,
I can see the clouds in the sky blow like white grey flags.
Surrounded by endless hubbub my face beaming
Like the sun shedding light,
I'm smiling from ear to ear
As the man in the moon does at night.

Lifting spirits will lift your spirits! Let’s
grab a goblet and have a guzzle.

I’ll toast to you my friend, and when
you’re done, pour you a double.

For those we’ve lost, we’ll spill a little
and stare down at the puddle.

Reflect on the pangs of life a moment,
commiserate about the struggle.

Then splash the liquid all about, and shout
“Barman, hustle!

If our cups didn’t runneth over before,
they better now or there’ll be trouble;

if our tankards aren’t foaming soon
our fists'll be balled and white of knuckle!”

We’ll drink chicha in Peru, and sake in Japan,
mezcal in Mexico, and palm wine in the jungle.

The bar’s our gym, it’s where we go
to train ye oulde esophageal muscle

but we’ll chug or glug or quaff anywhere,
be it farm or cave or hovel.

We live for libations, go goo-goo for grog,
and drain enough to dim the mind of any mere muggle.

The hoppy makes us sloppy; now
most of my drink lands on my stubble;

eyes are bloodshot, mouth is dry,
body wrecked like so much rubble.

You’re not faring much better…
we make quite the lively couple.

But we'll be back here tomorrow sister,
I’ll have no rebuttal!
You may be gone, but you’re alive
in me, a piece of my puzzle.

Let this ***** quench our pain
‘til off this mortal coil we shuffle.

Requiem



The roaring blaze in Harvin's hearth
Illumines a scene of healing mirth.
All 'round the hall all tankards filled
To toast and praise a comrade killed.
Fallen in battle defending the land,
Fallen in battle, by Fate's hoary hand.
Oakdahl the strong who's mighty arms
Have served the clan in life's alarms,
Who's loyal strength is only surpassed
By his ***** adieus with a willing lass,
Now he stands amid the throng
And begins the night, with Logan's song.
"All listen, all listen, heed my word,
I sing the praises of Logan the good.
A kinder man will ne'er be found,
Love's noble deeds were his spirit's crown.
He took as his own, Gerrig's son
When our land by the fever was o'er run.
The widow's house he ne'er forgot and
Daily brought meat to the stewing ***.
In winter's depths together we stood
Chopping and hauling the village wood.
His battle scarred face our enemies feared
Yet freely our children pulled at his beard
Knowing that in his warrior's frame
Soft was his soul, by love's true flame.
He fell in battle 'gainst Hogar's band
The ones who sought our prosperous land.
Death he found by the archer's shot
Which pierced the flesh of that living heart.
So shout and cheer for a mighty man
Who shed his blood to save the clan!"
Loud were the voices raised in the hall
As they shouted their homage, one and all.

Before landscapers mow swaths
across undulating waves of clover
(the father/daughter team
usually cut grass every Tuesday)
bumblebees alight from one to another flower.

Meanwhile, I lie splayed
mid morning June 28th, 2022
with stomach upon natural carpeting
quietly basking espying Robins
oblivious to presence of yours truly
pleasantly distracted unable to concentrate
reading latest issue of Mother Jones.

Revered quintessential pitch perfect...
omnipresent natural muse
idyllic and pacific temperature
sprawling within sundry
schema encompassing sundry biota
at Highland Manor Apartments)
with nary any other resident nor human
hypothetically I experience
webbed wide world
imagining domain singularly mine.

Splendiferous sunlight bathed
sol barenaked lady alas and alack
leavening kernels harkening
civilizations bajillion millenniums back
before mechanization punctuated
courtesy opposable thumb
hominids forged, molded, usurped...
mother lode carte blanche
yielding resounding click and clack
blithely extracting resources

disregarding warnings regarding drawback
Capitalism paradigm wrought
**** sapiens witnessed vanquishing
close calls with extinction
nevertheless man/womankind came roaring
full steam ahead stronger analogously
think one who trudges thru thick forests
zigzagging across rudely cleared switchback
already disappeared without a trace
what animal, (perhaps
protohuman) no tell tale track.

Blessed balm of solar warmth permeated
one primate seduced asleep
albeit 245+ months into twenty first century,
where proliferation courtesy since
first Industrial Revolution
circa about 1760 to sometime
between 1820 and 1840,
when bruising bouncer(s) maintained
law and order within barkeep
saloons in colloquial jargon cheap

trick availed supertramp goo goo dolls
guiding drunken proletariat recesses deep
makeshift private booth disproportionate
money forked over cuz
crowded house needed upkeep
occasionally respectable fellow
(an average Joe just Biden time
in tandem with his imaginary veep
enriched coffers, whereby generous money
found vent to all purdy girls to weep.

Daydreaming, and inebriate on air
I taste a liquor never brewed* beware...
potential plagiarism avoided
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) gave clear
signal, though she dwelt (still does)
with dead souls - poor dear
mine non deliberated reference to said poet
spontaneously sprung into logophile engineer

her brief life, yet...
impacted American and English literature
triumphant and devoid of fear
harmonious, prodigious, and voluminous
hand deftly wrought skads of poems
within her noggin cogs and appropriate gear
smoothly meshed only a humble folk like her
muffled modest gaiety only she could hear.
-------------------------------------------------------
*I taste a liquor never brewed (214)
Emily Dickinson - 1830-1886
I taste a liquor never brewed,
From tankards scooped in pearl;
Not all the vats upon the Rhine
Yield such an alcohol!
Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,

From inns of molten blue.
When landlords turn the drunken bee
Out of the foxglove's door,
When butterflies renounce their drams,
I shall but drink the more!
Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,
And saints to windows run,
To see the little tippler
Leaning against the sun
---------------------------------------------
further details:https://
academic.brooklyn.cuny.edu/
english/melani/cs6/liquor.html

I (a lapsed milquetoast) experienced
a head splitting hellacious hangover.

I tried to be part of Cool And Gang by being "bad"
to the thoroughly good bone, er...
which trend followed me till man hood,
whereby this bloke still a cad
plus the most
embarrassing older hippy dad
where a shaved pierced pate egad
seems to be the latest fad
boot this nonestablishmentarian
feels more content with himself and glad
though as a precocious

whipper snapper of young lad
did act like "Curious George",
which found me late mum
and then octogenarian
widower father quite mad,
especially when breaking
into the liquor cabinet in me ***** pad
and nearly escaped by a scad
dad dull when the hide o me buttocks
whacked more'n a tad.

Though in a ******* party
rock n rolling crowd,
I (a kung foo fighter
beastie boy) felt alone
yea, as this chap looks back
on them daredevil days
(with behaviour bad to the bone
as iterated above),
and dealt with pounding in ma head
that caused me to groan
which mental sounds

of jack hammers
found this current teetotaler to moan
like the ghost of Marley or a whaler, whereby
even whisper down the alley
or over the phone
also affected me skin tone
to become altered
into an unstoppable
red bullish twilight zone
tortured courtesy MALEVOLENT MENTAL Maelstroms -
doggone hounded me while in a drunken stupor

videlicet - I taste a liquor never brewed (214)
courtesy Emily Dickinson
1830 –
1886
I taste a liquor never brewed –
From Tankards scooped in Pearl –
Not all the Frankfort Berries
Yield such an Alcohol!
Inebriate of air – am I –
And Debauchee of Dew –
Reeling – thro' endless summer days –
From inns of molten Blue –
When "Landlords" turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxglove's door –
When Butterflies – renounce their "drams" –
I shall but drink the more!
Till Seraphs swing their snowy Hats –
And Saints – to windows run –
To see the little Tippler
Leaning against the – Sun!

Fiendish and gruesome
phantasmagoric egomaniacal denizens
dwelt deep inside
subterranean uber vault
performed an evil contra dance
haunted psychic landscape
with imaginary (yet realistic)
gargoyle visitations that cast a macabre trance
nocturnal unconscious invaders of the lost Ark
cavorted and gallivanted
disturbed quiescent sleep
with devilish and sinister prance.

Apparitions crept stealthily
into peaceful slumber receptacle
repository, whence illusory landscape of dreams
took place to rejuvenate
exhausted body, mind and spirit triage
rented asunder blissful sleep with a startled fright
cold sweat drenched
nighttime garments and bedding
teeth chattered uncontrollably
heart pounded loudly inside chest
nightmarish phantoms
wrought an awful ghoulish sight.

Mushroom cloud anniversary
triggered frenzied gargantuan hallucination
seventy nine plus years ago today
inauguration into atomic age took place
one country after another sought
to acquire demonic and destruction devices
to maintain self-preservation
in this surreal atomic weapons race
impossible mission to escape the dark threat
that looms and threatens life on earth
one launched missile
spells extermination across entire global space.

No escape from humankind military machines
munitions march mean madness
death by a thousand cuts
flesh deboned courtesy knife
and guaranteed demise to all life
**** sapiens violent history
of bias, intolerance and/or prejudice
characterizes vicious warfare
and chronic species strife
legacy for future,
(and perhaps alien) archeologists,
who will sift thru civilization
debris with delicate as birthing a newborn
with assistance by midwife.

Artifacts buried in a heap
of pulverized and radioactive ash
civilization monuments and hedonistic symbols
gone in a blinding brilliant flash
irksome flotsam and jetsam
spewed into outer space
alien nations light years distant
collect miniscule bits and pieces
offer object lesson as extinction
for beings that become excessively brash.

As a way to bury wounded knees,
free guilt sans
being psychologically trapped,
and wrath of my strict parents,
I imagined awaiting an eternity
for my modified sentence
against being secular humanist
individualist, minimalist, nihilist...,

no way to dodge
fiat decreeing penal solitude
for this rambling future man,
who felt unready to kick the can
on account of violating ban
against abominable illegal mandate
with no way to commute death sentence
for the simple act of voicing opinion

against existence of heavenly gate,
nor hellish underworld
despite religious ****** decreeing penance
spurious pedagogical poetic rant
not the ravings of some half mad lunatic
carefully plotted recitation that springs
from combined teachings of Kant
and jolly old Saint Nick

charges ******* up
per this average don
purportedly flagrantly
decrying and blaspheming
Judeo-Christian paradigm
proselytizing devout believers
with disenchantment blind faith no more
equated with hill of beans upon,

which dogma erected epitomized
by complex edifices via grime
sweat and tears from slave labor,
where usurpation of freedom won
until outspoken spokespersons
risked life and limb
to invalidate the existence
of supreme deity who created life

whether for extra credit
or perhaps on a whim
Adam from whose rib cage
without anesthesia but razor sharp knife
sported Eve with a physique
quite pleasing and trim,
but rather than get lost
in the garden of Eden myth

final seconds of existence tick away
without intent to recant statements
solely acceptable to B'nai B'rith
prompting last words of mine as oy vey
with no regrets - deeming heart
of religion flimsy as pith
thing in the wind or house of cards
vulnerable to blow away.

Though ma mum deceased nineteen and a half plus years ago, and thine papa inching closer toward the inescapable clutch of the grim reaper (when these words typed – he long since passed October 7th, 2020), I revel to be a conscious individual despite the torturous road from those perilous days of yore er rather mine earlier formative pages when the strong armed lance of ignorance jabbed me with toad dull ambivalence evolving from the fusion of two cells after froggy went a courtin.

HANDMADE FROM (the genes of) BOYCE AND HARRIET HARRIS -
(free versatile poetry my atypical mode (modus operandi) at describing, introducing, and decoding myself).

How apropos and divine to stumble (merely by happenstance) across a chance to claim my (virtual) fifteen minute fragments of fame just in the click and nick of time.

Although gainfully unemployed (do to a series of unfortunate events that now finds me receiving social security disability), I can still vividly visualize utter despair and vouchsafe to acquire the requisite trappings emblematic of psychic misfortune.

Indelible, permanent and unfading abysmal damaging domestic dynamics got etched deep upon the memory of this erstwhile individual.

The general gist in the form of quick brush strokes (namely written) of psychologically traumatizing recollection now follows.

I can attest to malevolent mean-spirited objections by my father (and late mother) in regard to my grossly unacceptable attire, deportment and work ethic.

Nonetheless, a sense of righteous vindictiveness manifested itself thru attendant Pyrrhic victories.

Back in those days I (a married grown adult male and considerably past the age of rebelling against authoritarianism - and also their one and only not so prodigal son) poorly wore the mantle and staff of supposed maturity.

Lack of compliance and obeisance with regulations and rules of the Harris household (mainly thru being in constant denial to conform, maintaining emotional detachment and estrangement and evincing little or no concern for other family members) brewed, festered and lied dormant during prepubescence.

The pressure and tension between and betwixt genetic kinfolk (so palpable one could sense an indomitable barrier), would rank as successfully dysfunctional way before such nom de guerre became in vogue.

Fury and wrath became markedly and noticeably pronounced once exiting the storied four walls of high school.

The venomous barrage and fusillade spewed forth from off parental tongues at an exponential rate and on a par to feeling the stinging cudgel of a horsewhip.

Out of fear and timidity, I consequently and silently absorbed cruel treatment.

Neither the eldest nor youngest sibling bore witness against the tender spirit of their only brother.

A façade as of a hardened (statue) conveniently adopted.

This embodiment poorly served to fend off the onslaught of incessant anger.

This defense mechanism (identified as passive aggressive by mom) offered miniscule protection as I mentally dodged lobbed insults and affected defiance (in league like poisoned blackened bards and daggers hurled) of said threats and ultimatums.

No matter these bitter pills of blaring character assassination (mine), denunciations, fulminations, incriminations, intimidations, vociferous vocalizations (by said parents), I stood the shifting sands characterizing my ground at playing the deaf mute, which repression and internalization of emotional maelstrom only caused self contamination and manifestation of humiliation.

They (dad and mom) became further angered and inflamed per my total oblivious stance.

This reaction added insult to injury.

Deliverance per tough love lessons amplified to the tune of additional feats at becoming excoriated, ranted and raved against this, that and the other of my habits and nonchalant indifference to pursue work.

Those involuntary, unrehearsed and vicious family chats happened to be replete with heavily exploding and uncorked anger.

That (of course) would be a considerable understatement.

Dad (the de facto, elected and nominal spokesperson for unpleasant chest thumping exclamations - which conveniently took place no earlier than the stroke of midnight - emphatically swore (adrip with dramatic livid rage - like rabid beast) all manner of vulgarity and demanded from this insolent appearing male offspring immediate compliance.

Defiance and fatigue offered him that predictable and usual blank stare upon hearing the kind and lenient sentence to pack bags and GET OUT!

With the dreaded approach of dire and sealed fate (played out in this overactive imagination of mine with dad and mom fiendishly and grotesquely expunging themselves of any last vestige personal belonging), I most anxiously bided my time.

Those next couple weeks forced self-evaluation of Atheism, while I hunkered down in my bedroom.

The recurrent consideration of relinquishing nonestablishmentarian paradigm in favor and lieu with God, miracles and salvation seemed to clash with being this liberal thinker.

As indicated, the tempest and tirade quickly got turned back upon those who so masterfully tormented this second born, whose steadfast stoicism and subservience to a higher power perchance brought a temporary respite.

That hollow deadline, (which happened to be just one of many similar sputtering swearing valuations of love) blithely came and went without incident - no matter expletive filled intense oath to remove self from premises at 324 Level Road) continued to keep pulsating to remain an occupant with kinfolk.

What caused especial ire and wrath to fester (per this apparent ambivalence, indifference and nonchalance for me to take any job - even shoveling **** - particularly within the emotional bedrock and firmament of deceased mother) constituted remembrance and vivid reminder of her father.

My maternal grandfather (Morris - Moshe - Kuritsky) supposedly never paid much heed to regular and steady employment (to support his four children and wife) despite his skill as a harried styled swift tailor.

Hence my mother (Harriet) grew up and lived in utter destitution and poverty.

Mother subsequently reacted with ferocious vindictiveness upon witnessing a near magic transformation of near identical behavior in Matthew - the single heir to the family name.

I avoid alcohol
yet still have a ball
when the bell of inquisitiveness doth call
this mindful male toward productive pursuits
rather than fall
prey to temptations of vice only deliver gall
down the unmarked hall
of future time,
as likened to evade the maul
from some ferocious beast
or an urgent plight to retch
ideally within a toilet stall
perhaps faded splattered by stains on the wall
of other anonymous imbibers - good day y'all.