Salty rancher spackle is to Earthy diva smackers as Swinging hotel number is to?
Rippling cling bread is to Three lizard chariots as Indigo lime tangent is to?
Nighttime reunion planet is to Nettle lane scuffle as Soaking spider *** is to?
Fancy trance logs are to Sticky fudge lather as Vivacious gator college is to?
Cheerful blossom face is to Secret tractor rocket as Canned gremlin emblems are to?
Jealous pitchfork generals are to Heartbreaking patchwork veranda as Folding robot noise is to?
Pretty rhino rash is to Lost locket vengeance as Back pocket weather is to?
Frosted candy sidewalk is to Sneaky kook code as Shiny waffle smoke is to?
Sapphire cloud romance is to Magnetic comet lava as Blue triangle envy is to?
Vanishing honey melody is to Thermal elf pajamas as Whistling iceboat shampoo is to?
Peach mint politics is to Frozen doll pennies as Rusty anchor catapult is to?
Swollen pony fever Throbbing sword kazoo as Silent turbine science is to?
Obese germ thunder is to Stacked lemon towers as Corrupt moon jockey is to?
Demented insect whistle is to Glass trophy cleanup as Purple geode bubble is to?
Nighttime razor slime is to Lacquered dragon maps as Tint paper mittens are to?
**** camel drops are to Velvet ****** shoes as Slippery red muffins are to?
Flying hot drool is to Pale chocolate telescope as Tin trumpet ballet is to?
Expensive puppy speed is to Flowered duck mirror as Cosmic needle factory is to?
Fractured laser doodles are to Cracked butter gravel as Rubber holster straps are to?
Majestic panther fortress is to Jeweled cork target as Iron swan taxi is to?
Poisonous pepper bouillon is to ****** goat soap as Chrome feather pirates are to?
Digital gorilla scriptures are to Timid hunter stench as Frozen domino video is to?
Eccentric troll opera is to Transparent wax village as Spoiled coral agony is to?
Bizarre green metal is to Pillow eating hamster as Leather cavern ***** are to?
Eternal hurricane evidence is to Powdered rainbow perfume as Smoking yellow prune is to?
Liquid wish cleanser is to Exploding meadow ladders as Brittle rose hammer is to?
Caged foam filter is to Cherry balloon string as Ivory cactus spider is to?
Carbon puppet watch is to Sad kings compass as Elastic lace whiskers are to?
Nitrogen trolley dust is to Lazy elephant toffee as Orange toad choir is to?
Dark pole zodiac is to Blue finger blanket as Illegal bug nozzle is to?
Stinky towel cookies are to White jade caskets as Sticky snail tea is to?
Converting stellated caramels is to Mythic aerosol socks as Rubber raspberry jokes are to?
Flying clock carousel is to Whisky nut worms as Plastic fish platforms are to?
Queasy Vaseline queens are to Moody pigeon pills as Aqua mice fur is to?
Spotted bowl shadow is to Idiotic radiance lotion as Bungalow toad hearse is to?
Gushing chimney fungus is to Funky lamb acrobat as Utopian **** sprinkler is to?
Twinkling bungalow tablet is to Botanical duck rope as Bug hat ram is to?
Broken clock fossil is to Black ginger confetti as Parisian cobra meatloaf is to?
Silly Xerox ribbon is to Obedient raccoon carny as Traditional cat linguini is to?
Last astral advisor is to Elastic badger riddles as Broken circle rifles are to?
Bagged squire channel is to Temporary mosaic cake as Ancient bacon thread is to?
Wireless math army is to Moronic neon money as Pearl razor radar is to?
Rubber buzzard blizzard is to Troubled bubble wizard as Crushed hash ******* is to?
Purple birdy cure is to Tangled frost blossoms as Silken bridal saddle is to?
Unisex owl accordion is to Sugar bottomed boat as Optical nougat treasure is to?
Flavored saline rain is to Black arrow clan as Transistorized clam guitar is to?
Sharpened twig scar is to Mutant beet sonar as Baked troll mask is to?
Boxed noodle secrets are to Traditional guru buttons as Glossy marshmallow strategy is to?
Vibrating melted jelly is to Silver furniture dream as Spewing collated seats is to?
Burnt mountain pickles are to Baby preacher shoes as Sympathetic pilot pain is to?
Narrow portal treaty is to Monkey warehouse vacancy as Painted tornado trap is to?
Porch penny sulfur is to Glowing pony fat as Patched mattress bait is to?
Frigid waitress fallacy is to Graphic shrimp salute as Misted sneezing window is to?
Moist apple moss is to Daddy’s zoom seed as Downtown Pope cart is to?
Tired felon trickle is to Holographic squirrel candle as Wild ray hay is to?
Deadly zero chalk is to Folding wilderness chart as Curved ******* vacuum is to?
Hollow porcelain pellets are to Strawberry rain stencils as Microwave taxi nomads are to?
Wasted machete balcony is to Crumpled creature confessions as Fridge fuzzed fruit is to?
Sloppy demon damage is to Squeaky puppet chuckle as Mental arcade combat is to?
Monster trout stories are to Lewd pirate cocktail as Locked mammal grommet is to?
Rotting rope network is to Tragic toy goat as Cotton submarine shoes are to?
Complex pepper dance is to ****** cloud cushion as Marching taxi holiday is to?
Mental petal collectors are to Spooned barn putty as Dork factory fiction is to?
Hot spotted tops are to Timed stepping pests as Yogurt notching tartar is to?
Crazy dog comics are to Ambitious cartoon sphinx as Pavlov’s zinc ballet is to?
Soiled spinster wedding is to Padded razor wound as Floating fish map is to?
Slippery leopard pants are to Perfumed nut button as Dart wizard party is to?
Needy alien elephants are to Barking garden gnats as Quasar focused paper is to?
Slanted heart **** is to Bronzed cliff sandals are to Cunning jockey jokes are to?
***** thumbprint massage is to Holistic princess memory as Sliding dental sword is to?
Drifting wood whistle is to Fluorescent carpet powder as Foam dragon whistle is to?
Chopped web shadow is to Immortal vermin soup as Collapsing porch conspiracy is to?
Stolen thunder chant is to Haunted comet heart as Swollen throat portrait is to?
Fragrant frost parfait is to Grumpy caveman *** as Random stingray solo is to?
Squeaky polar turbine is to Silent lava fever as Oversized lunar fulcrum is to?
Synthetic dew droppers are to Pocket poster paste as Hypnotic screen dog is to?
Symbolic whirlpool nausea is to Dreaming tree phantom as Log badge bracket is to?
Camp hippo map is to Horseradish seizure insurance as Distant insect mirror is to?
German lady sherbet is to Stuntman laundry wax as Hungry butterfly ghost is to?
Fly smudged foil is to Amped maze coil as Shifting optic terror is to?
Automatic sheep floss is to Panoramic tanker anchor as Throbbing bone pillow is to?
Mutant clown village is to Nightmare translation treasure as Spotted spectral chakra is to?
Blind roach tweat is to Hermit worm tiara as Divine logo ritual is to?
Glueless gun stamp is to Malicious spam pump as Floral toffee pods are to?
Dudgeon mist removal is to Menacing bolt smacker as Boating duke shadow is to?
Costly metal plungers are to Creaky buzzing gushers as Glowing star cushions are to?
Raked barge sludge is to Crusted cream glitter as Zircon gutter babble is to?
Fake gold scholar is to Amish ******* mogul as Faithful ***** choir is to?
Sacred limo prayers are to Fried mice café as Splintered ****** thimble is to?
Dealing rabbit decals is to Pelican bongo festival as Patched equator rot is to?
Freedom gourd gasoline is to Cobblers studying acorns as Desecrated dice crater is to?
Tattered tapestry rod is to Busted particle scanner as Bogus piffle catalogue is to?
Trifle truffle raffle is to Last lamb laminate as Segmented cake goggles are to?
Domestic tackle tactic is to Ticking tic talk as Cordial corps coordinates is to?
Tucked duck caftan is to Sunken ramp ruckus as Wretched ranch rhetoric is to?
Clearly incomprehensible directions are to Useful archaic nonsense as Antiquated skeletal outline is to?
Bewildered beasts feasting are to Lazy busybodies resting as Vaccinating brave volunteers are to?
Lucky wagon dragons are to Famous gargoyle gargle as Formal postman funding is to?
Furrowed shroud chowder is to Borrowed tartan pajamas as Martini mixed algebra is to?
Cowgirl balloon helium is to Chewy glucose habitat as Stationary monument movement is to?
Diamond powered powder is to Diagonal diameter diagram as Purposely condensed expansion is to?
Organic iodine capsule is to Gleaming beach probe as Dominant dome static is to?
Shaving wrinkled targets is to Petting sensible monsters as Selling invisible whiskey is to?
Frozen piano architecture is to Note dotted clouds as Screaming Korean worms are to?
Sonic plant website is to Telepathic climbing clam as Bored protein exercise is to?
Gourmet mollusk cone is to Numb poodle caravan as Asian raven radar is to?

A wind-turbine’s lament. (29 January 2017)

I am a wind-turbine. For five and a half years
I have been stood on this nice hill,
Turning my blades as I was taught.
They say I am making something called ‘power’
So you can boil your kettles and make tea,
Turn on your heating and snuggle up
Cosy and warm when it’s cold; or run the air-conditioning
When it gets hot.

My name is Wallie,
And I am very sad.
From my hill I used to see
A sandy bay, with lots of nice grass
Growing along its edge, and pretty flowers bobbing
in the same winds that turn my blades.
I really liked those flowers,
And felt close to them. They danced like me
In the cold winds, warm winds, summer breezes
And autumn gales coming off the sea.

And you walked there as well, sometimes,
And saw the flowers, and your dogs ran along
Between the sand-dunes, and rushed in and out of the waves
Which broke on the beach, where your children played
And built sand-castles.

But now people have come;
They had huge orange diggers which clashed with the soft
Colours of beach and sea and sky;
And they ripped up the grass and the flowers and the sand-dunes,
And then people laid sterilized turf
And made bunkers full of infertile sand
Where nothing grew.
And the whole beach was walled off, so no-one could walk there.
And the dogs no longer chased their tails, and the flowers no longer bloomed;
And all the gulls which used to swoop over the foam
Went away.

And now all I have to look at
Is people with check trousers and garish hats,
And serfs carrying bags full of funny-shaped sticks;
They walk about on the turf and hit little *****
And then they go to where they’ve landed –
Not on foot, with dogs and children running –
But in little carts in clashing colours.

I asked the wind-turbine next to me,
Which can get pirate radio frequencies on its antennae,
What was going on and he said
(his name’s Wallie too); they are playing ‘golf’.
And I said: why? and he said: they have nothing better to do.

The other turbines and I (we’re all called ‘Wallie’)
discussed what to do;
And we decided I should write this letter
To any newspaper which will print it, and complain:

‘We used to have a nice view from this hill,
Of a sandy bay, with lots of nice grass
Growing along its edge, and pretty flowers bobbing
In the same winds that turn our blades.
We really liked those flowers,
And felt close to them. They danced like us
In the cold winds, warm winds, summer breezes
And autumn gales coming off the sea.

But now all we have to look at
Is barren grass, denatured sand,
And people in garish clothes who do not care
For flowers and grass and dogs and seagulls
But just hit little ***** about.

No one asked us
If we wanted this change; we were not consulted
And we want to know why we, who serve you faithfully
And give you heat and light, and power your homes
Are worth less than these other people,
Just because they are ‘rich’?’

We are only wind-turbines,
But our voice should also count.
And it you don’t agree
Ask yourself: how much is your own voice worth?
And why?’

We had wanted to leave our homes before six in the morning
but left late and lazy at ten or ten-thirty with hurried smirks
and heads turned to the road, West
driving out against the noonward horizon
and visions before us of the great up-and-over

and tired we were already of stiff-armed driving neurotics in Montreal
and monstrous foreheaded yellow bus drivers
ugly children with long middle fingers
and tired we were of breaking and being yelled at by beardless bums
but thought about the beards at home we loved
and gave a smile and a wave nonetheless

Who were sick and tired of driving by nine
but then had four more hours still
with half a tank
then a third of a tank
then a quarter of a tank
then no tank at all
except for the great artillery halt and discovery
of our tyre having only three quarters of its bolts

Saved by the local sobriety
and the mystic conscious kindness of the wise and the elderly
and the strangers: Autoshop Gale with her discount familiar kindness;
Hilda making ready supper and Ray like I’ve known you for years
that offered me tools whose functions I’ve never known
and a handshake goodbye

     and "yes we will say hello to your son in Alberta"
     and "yes we will continue safely"
     and "no you won’t see us in tomorrow’s paper"
     and tired I was of hearing about us in tomorrow’s paper

Who ended up on a road laughing deliverance
in Ralphton, a small town hunting lodge
full of flapjacks and a choir of chainsaws
with cheap tomato juice and eggs
but the four of us ended up paying for eight anyway

and these wooden alley cats were nothing but hounds
and the backwoods is where you’d find a cheap child's banjo
and cheap leather shoes and bear traps and rat traps
and the kinds of things you’d fall into face first

Who sauntered into a cafe in Massey
that just opened up two weeks previous
where the food was warm and made from home
and the owner who swore to high heaven
and piled her Sci-Fi collection to the ceiling
in forms of books and VHS

but Massey herself was drowned in a small town
where there was little history and heavy mist
and the museum was closed for renovations
and the stores were run by diplomats
or sleezebag no-cats
and there was one man who wouldn’t show us a room
because his baby sitter hadn’t come yet
but the babysitter showed up through the backdoor within seconds
though I hadn't seen another face

        and the room was a landfill
        and smelled of stale cat **** anyhow
        and the lobby stacked to the ceiling with empty beer box cans bottles
        and the taps ran cold yellow and hot black through spigots

but we would be staying down the street
at the inn of an East-Indian couple

who’s eyes were not dilated 
and the room smelled
lemon-scented

and kept on driving lovingly without a care in the world
but only one of us had his arms around a girl
and how lonely I felt driving with Jacob
in the fog of the Agawa pass;

following twin red eyes down a steep void mass
where the birch trees have no heads
and the marshes pool under the jagged foothills
that climb from the water above their necks

that form great behemoths
with great voices bellowing and faces chiselled hard looking down
and my own face turned upward toward the rain

Wheels turning on a black asphalt river running uphill around great Superior
that is the ocean that isn’t the ocean but is as big as the sea
and the cloud banks dig deep and terrible walls

and the sky ends five times before night truly falls
and the sun sets slower here than anywhere
but the sky was only two miles high and ten long anyway

The empty train tracks that seldom run
and some rails have been lifted out
with a handful of spikes that now lay dormant

and the hill sides start to resemble *******
or faces or the slow curving back of some great whale

-and those, who were finally stranded at four pumps
with none but the professional Jacob reading great biblical instructions at the nozzle
nowhere at midnight in a town surrounded

by moose roads
                             moose lanes
                                                     moose rivers
and everything mooses

ending up sleeping in the maw of a great white wolf inn
run by Julf or Wolf or John but was German nonetheless

and woke up with radios armed
and arms full
and coffee up to the teeth
with teeth chattering
and I swear to God I saw snowy peaks
but those came to me in waking dream:

"Mountains dressed in white canvas
gowns and me who placed
my hands upon their *******
that filled the sky"

Passing through a buffet of inns and motels
and spending our time unpacking and repacking
and talking about drinking and cheap sandwiches
but me not having a drink in eight days

and in one professional inn we received a professional scamming
and no we would not be staying here again
and what would a trip across the country be like
if there wasn’t one final royal scamming to be had

and dreams start to return to me from years of dreamless sleep:

and I dream of hers back home
and ribbons in a raven black lattice of hair
and Cassadaic exploits with soft but honest words

and being on time with the trains across the plains  
and the moon with a shower of prairie blonde
and one of my father with kind words
and my mother on a bicycle reassuring my every decision

Passing eventually through great plains of vast nothingness
but was disappointed in seeing that I could see
and that the rumours were false
and that nothingness really had a population
and that the great flat land has bumps and curves and etchings and textures too

beautiful bright golden yellow like sprawling fingers
white knuckled ablaze reaching up toward the sun
that in this world had only one sky that lasted a thousand years

and prairie driving lasts no more than a mountain peak
and points of ember that softly sigh with the one breath
of our cars windows that rushes by with gratitude for your smile

And who was caught up with the madness in the air
with big foaming cigarettes in mouths
who dragged and stuffed down those rolling fumes endlessly
while St. Jacob sang at the way stations and billboards and the radio
which was turned off

and me myself and I running our mouth like the coughing engine
chasing a highway babe known as the Lady Valkyrie out from Winnipeg
all the way to Saskatoon driving all day without ever slowing down
and eating up all our gas like pez and finally catching her;

      Valkyrie who taught me to drive fast
      and hovering 175 in slipstreams
      and flowing behind her like a great ghost Cassady ******* in dreamland Nebraska
      only 10 highway crossings counted from home.

Lady Valkyrie who took me West.
Lady Valkyrie who burst my wings into flame as I drew a close with the sun.
Lady Valkyrie who had me howl at slender moon;

     who formed as a snowflake
     in the light on the street
     and was gone by morning
     before I asked her name

and how are we?
and how many?

Even with old Tom devil singing stereo
and riding shotgun the entire trip from day one
singing about his pony, and his own personal flophouse circus,
and what was he building in there?

There is a fair amount of us here in these cars.
Finally at light’s end finding acquiescence in all things
and meeting with her eye one last time; flashed her a wink and there I was, gone.
Down the final highway crossing blowing wind and fancy and mouth puttering off
roaring laughter into the distance like some tremendous Phoenix.

Goodnight Lady Valkyrie.

The evening descends and turns into a sandwich hysteria
as we find ourselves riding between cities of transports
and that one mad man that passed us speeding crazy
and almost hit head-on with Him flowing East

and passed more and more until he was head of the line
but me driving mad lunacy followed his tail to the bumper
passing fifteen trucks total to find our other car
and felt the great turbine pull of acceleration that was not mine

mad-stacked behind two great beasts
and everyone thought us moon-crazy; Biblical Jake
and Mad Hair Me driving a thousand
eschewing great gusts of wind speed flying

Smashing into the great ephedrine sunset haze of Saskatoon
and hungry for food stuffed with the thoughts of bedsheets
off the highway immediately into the rotting liver of dark downtown
but was greeted by an open Hertz garage
with a five-piece fanfare brass barrage
William Tell and a Debussy Reverie
and found our way to bedsheets most comfortably

Driving out of Saskatoon feeling distance behind me.
Finding nothing but the dead and hollow corpses of roadside ventures;

more carcasses than cars
and one as big as a moose
and one as big as a bear
and no hairier

and driving out of sunshine plain reading comic book strip billboards
and trees start to build up momentum
and remembering our secret fungi in the glove compartment
that we drove three thousand kilometres without remembering

and we had a "Jesus Jacob, put it away brother"
and went screaming blinded by smoke and paranoia
and three swerves got us right
and we hugged the holy white line until twilight

And driving until the night again takes me foremast
and knows my secret fear in her *****
as the road turns into a lucid *** black and makes me dizzy
and every shadow is a moose and a wildcat and a billy goat
and some other car

and I find myself driving faster up this great slanderous waterfall until I meet eye
with another at a thousand feet horizontal

then two eyes

then a thousand wide-eyed peaks stretching faces upturned to the celestial black
with clouds laid flat as if some angel were sleeping ******* on a smokestack
and the mountains make themselves clear to me after waiting a lifetime for a glimpse
then they shy away behind some old lamppost and I don’t see them until tomorrow

and even tomorrow brings a greater distance with the sunlight dividing stone like 'The Ancient of Days'
and moving forward puts all into perspective

while false cabins give way
and the gas stations give way
and the last lamppost gives way
and its only distance now that will make you true
and make your peaks come alive

Like a bullrush, great grey slopes leap forth as if branded by fire
then the first peaks take me by surprise
and I’m told that these are nothing but children to their parents
and the roads curve into a gentle valley
and we’re in the feeding zone

behind the gates of some great geological zoo
watching these lumbering beasts
finishing up some great tribal *******
because tomorrow they will be shrunk
and tomorrow ever-after smaller

Nonetheless, breathless in turn I became
it began snowing and the pines took on a different shape
and the mountains became covered white
and great glaciers could be seen creeping
and tourists seen gawking at waterfalls and waterfowls
and fowl play between two stones a thousand miles high

climbing these Jasper slopes flying against wind and stone
and every creak lets out its gentle tone and soft moans
as these tyres rub flat against your back
your ancient skin your rock-hard bones

and this peak is that peak and it’s this one too
and that’s Temple, and that’s Whistler
and that’s Glasgow and that’s Whistler again
and those are the Three Sisters with ******* ablaze

and soft glowing haze your sun sets again among your peaks
and we wonder how all these caves formed
and marvelled at what the flood brought to your feet
as roads lay wasted by the roadside

in the epiphany of 3:00am realizing
that great Alta's straights and highway crossings
are formed in torturous mess from mines of 'Mt. Bleed'
and broken ribs and liver of crushed mountain passes
and the grey stones taxidermied and peeled off
and laid flat painted black and yellow;
the highways built from the insides
of the mountain shells

Who gave a “What now. New-Brunswick?”

and a “What now, Quebec, and Ontario, and Manitoba, and Saskatchewan";
**** fools clumsily dancing in the valleys; then the rolling hills; then the sea that was a lake
then the prairies and not yet the mountains;

running naked in formation with me at the lead
and running naked giving the finger to the moon
and the contrails, and every passing blur on the highway
dodging rocks, and sandbars
and the watchful eye of Mr. and Mrs. Law
and holes dug-up by prairie dogs
and watching with no music
as the family caravans drove on by

but drove off laughing every time until two got anxious for bed and slowed behind
while the rambling Jacob and I had to wait in the half-moon spectacle
of a black-tongue asphalt side-road hacking darts and watching for grizzlies
for the other two to finish up with their birthday *** exploits
though it was nobodies birthday

and then a timezone was between us
 and they were in the distant future
and nobodies birthday was in an hour from now

then everything was good
and everyone was satiated
then everything was a different time again
and I was running on no sleep or a lot of it
leaping backward in time every so often
like gaining a new day but losing space on the surface of your eye

but I stared up through curtains of starlight to mother moon
and wondered if you also stared
and was dumbfounded by the majesty of it all

and only one Caribou was seen the entire trip
and only one live animal, and some forsaken deer
and only a snake or a lonesome caterpillar could be seen crossing such highway straights
but the water more refreshing and brighter than steel
and glittered as if it were hiding some celestial gem
and great ravines and valleys flowed between everything
and I saw in my own eye prehistoric beasts roaming catastrophe upon these plains
but the peaks grew ever higher and I left the ground behind

Control room


At the center of this desert.. A door way down.. The runes collected for the last 3000 years will finally have purpose.. I enter the welcome rune into the control circle..

)( W E L C O M E )(

A huge railway lights up green.. As the mega platform starts to descend below.. As we reach the lower depths structures light up like a city.. All of them seem to begin a sort of start up sequence...

I noticed the mega platform we are on is heading toward the center of these beautiful alien like structures.. The platform falls into place.. I then enter the permission rune.. The rune is accepted but the control circle also ask for another strange looking rune..

I figured out that the rune it was asking for was the lines on my hands.. I press my hands to the control circle and the entire area lights up lightning blue..

The mega platform then turns into a sort of control room..

Planetary Environmental Control ^
Planetary Metamorphosis
Planetary Turbine 1
Planetary Turbine 2
Planetary Turbine 3
Planetary Turbine 4
Planetary Weapon systems...

Lunar Environmental Control ^
Lunar Dark Drive
Lunar Light Drive
Lunar weapon systems..

-          Wheel turns full circle           -
       Don Quixote would approve
-          Windmills used again           -

Mr Kipling grins
Satisfied he did the right thing
Watching it go round and round
Certain his investment's sound
Sending him a trifle dizzy
While making exceedingly good
               electricity

Van Gogh lost an ear
And ****** was born
Something tells me history
Will repeat itself
Is repeating
Roots to grow
Roots to pull up
Like the near future
My star-clock keeps resetting
Connect the dots
I don't believe in accidents
And I'm the most sane I'll ever get
Call it what you will
In the waves and on the ground
Is where I find myself
And yet that's where
The enemy lies
Or say they tell me
Another truth turned on its head
The weight of my decisions
You can't handle
Yet it's not your heart
Frozen to the mantle
In the clouds
Eyes peer down
A ***** on a mechanical bull
A cup transformed into a robot
They sure have eyes everywhere
Turning big sister into a threat
And if we're all headed underground
Why the mixed bait of suicide and peace
Danger or sleep
And if it all happens for good reason
Why the dependency on TV skies
Hearts or eyes
Read the diagram of a head
If it makes you sleep sounder in bed
But the anatomy of a mind
Will put your concrete beliefs in double-bind
Roots to grow
Roots to pull up
The future is here
Our star-clock keeps resetting

I used to look at you.
I used to look at you and think.
I used to long for imagined nights
consisting of warm fire places, hearty
dinners and familiarity. I used to picture
a farm. A farm with goats and rabbits,
and vegetables in a garden, With a
wind turbine in the front made
of car parts, Nevermind that
I don’t know what a turbine is.
With a grey water system and a
compost pile, And the crown jewel
of all of this; You in my arms, smiling at
me, and laughing. Working beside me for
this life. Working together to build this dream
And now I think of you, and I imagine for you.
I imagine a log cabin on a lake surrounded by trees
A lot of different trees and you can name them all.
The trees almost kissing the water at some spots
And the cabin is tidy and well put together.
There are compost bins, and a garden.
It’s gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous
that you have always appreciated in
nature, The same kind that you had to
show me. The lake is smooth and clean,
and there is a tiny airplane docked
on it, because there are no roads
to this place. I would think that
you’re isolated, but you think
you’re surrounded. It’s all in what
you value, I guess.  If you go up to the
cabin and you knock on the wood door,
a girl will open the door. She used to be me
but now she’s someone else. She would invite
you in and you would accept. She makes you happy
and to be perfectly honest, that’s what I want for you.

prelimenary coordinates - a blindman playing chess.

well... you either drink, and write sparingly,
     or you don't drink, and you write
a novel...
    but who would have thought, that there
would be poetic odes involving coffee...
     it's staggering how many women write
poems and have to concern themselves with
coffee...
  i down a litre of whiskey a night, don't know
what a hangover is anymore,
        and i can beat out more words
than women, who use a stimulant and write
   crumbs... when i expect a loaf of bread...
if not this website, then another, and the scenario
is the same: the glorification of coffee...
           it just shows you how barricaded the human
narrative is, of the soul...
        poetry merely nibbles, and i know it's
flaws... write without paragraphs,
or care for punctuation marks... and it's immediately
a poem...
   or... oh god forbid! there's something profound
being said with a few words...
      and it has to be profound...
                      yes, i'm the Gargamel and those
are my smurfs...
                             strange that Freud didn't think up
the man-child complex...
                         which is the opposite of the madonna-*****
complex, which he actually did...
           Edward Hopper was also bemused by
these two mental pharmacologists...
                did a little sketch holding Freud as pillar 1,
and Jung as pillar 2.
    but coffee and poetry: i'd expect more from this
latitude...
        and it's still a case of:
                   people cling to the raft that's their
mental narrative mondus operandi...
                Kant tried to say something as concrete
with 5 + 7 = 13... and read any philosophy book...
    Kant isolates the ''i think'', and Hegel isolates
    the i = i, or i am i...
                              and these are serious thinkers...
but Descartes has said a limit...
                       thinking defines subjectivity...
      thinking the essential component of what's
   not thought about: the existential compromise of
   being per se...
                    and how i always seem to find philosophy
as a stumbling block concerning everything i write...
    it's almost as if i can't escape the world of
abstracts...          a degree in chemistry didn't help either...
     am i truly so un-realistic?
               not that i'm afraid of being drawn toward
the un-real...          it's that humanity seems only like
an infertile groundwork speeding toward a forgivable
promise...
    i just wanted to say: you drink and write poetry...
or you don't drink, and write a novel...
      and true to a heart's cause i will say:
that straitjacket of what poetry is...
                           whether rhyme... or other technique...
    hanging over it...
                           it can't do:
      i abhor Nietzsche for making poetry a science...
  and it is: too scientific...
              i'd never think so little can be deemed
so perplexing... or having that essence...
                    so yes... Kant
                         really does struggle to say something
profound, but he actually does...
                     over and over again... namely:
i'd never could think of so many faculties of my mind...
    not that's what i call a plastic saying...
      ****-licking brown-nosing, call it what you like...
it's just so terrible that philosophy cannot reach
toward being a humanism, like a novel always can...
     which is why i could eat a historical novel
        by Kraszewski in three weeks in between allocating
that time to the festive season,
                     and it took me 2 years to read Kant's
critique... until i let go of that post-scriptum necessity
of having to stop at every setence and do a rubick's cube...
     a bit like: well... aren't those electron-migration
   schematics they teach you in chemistry, a little bit pointless?
   who give's a badger's nut-sack about how electrons migrate
when a a cabron to oxygen bond forms?
                         but they do teach that...
           which is why you can take a novel to bed,
on the train... but so much focus is needed for that other novel,
the scientific one... the grandeur of... philosophy...
                and that's when i let go...
   the last part of the critique does allow you to read
piece of work... like a novel... unless of course that was my
need to do so...
                    so yes: transcendental methodology in Kant's
critique: does read like a novel... at some point
you just have to let go.

ii. ...

and you do... try saying philosophy without saying
something pretentious....
               and i dare say: as long as the fewest number
of people concern themselves with it:
  the more chances we have for electricity,
plumbing, food on the table...
               but by now there's this talk of a curse...
premature Socratic antics... mind you: he was an old man...
but Plato be ******, he wrote down what the old man
spoke: and a clear number of them succumbed to
      the tumble-**** effect...
                      no real prospects for life...
        and, evidently, the dead gods philosophised,
while the rest remained: prone to throwing a show of
macho, and worshipped the body...
Olympus shone...  
   by now you should know that i don't know what
i'm doing...
                  give me the killer-switch to launch a nuclear
strike and i'd probably say: maracas!
shake shake shake...     fidgety in the brothel...
shake shake shake...
             that's the weird thing, every time i went to
a brothel i became over-heated...
      i sat there, the whole **** place always reminded me
of a perfume... jack daniels...
   and i could feel myself over-heating...
  i don't known if that was the angel conscience talking
to me... but i always felt those eyes of scrutiny...
       mind you, once the whole "naughty'' escapade
took off... i forgot those relationships where
                    an impotence was crowned...
   don't know: maybe prostitutes just know my pin-number
and hold to say to little richard: off to the crusades with you!
     phenomenal...
                                         well... thank god for
the north african imports! i'd start thinking all european
women are bound to be: neglected.
               and was it ever, not only about ***?
    it's nice to doubt it...
                           next time i'll woodpecker a grave.
but hey! the promised land!
                           at least you'll have someone to cry
over your grave...
   and did i tell you how there's this cult of the grave
in Poland? yep, that's not a personal reality,
it's a populist manifesto... i'm starting to see it
as a hell where people sort of forgot to state their emotion
to the people, now lying in those tombs...
         give me a Hindu wedding with fire!
  i wanna become elemental!
and look, libido on fire... a billion vishnu-******* in
Bangladesh...   it's this thirst for fame in western
societies that's going to be a downsize...
                                 over there that's like a **** in
a tornado...              ha ha! it really is!
   but then again, here i am, a graveyard hyenna...
walking in Liberace's talk of style...
  most of these graves, really are: tacky...
    just like Liberace, the greatest showbiz conman of
the 20st century... i love the fact that he fooled so many
women... i mean... that guy was almost as good
as ****** when it came to mesmerising people...
but Liberace had a nieche audience... so...
                 no khaki for the ss...
                                           and i dare to hold
an ethnicity? in tune with bob marley: one love, one people...
it has never been so painful to strategise globalisation...
         it's this ethnic cleansing that everyone agreed to
provided they received a smart-phone...
                   or a McDonald's fetish... and that's saying it cheap...
but that's how it feels on the periphery of H'america...
little ol' England boycots Europe...
                     and it's like: huh?
                                           presto! dum-dum.
    sometimes i start thinking that i have a hydra for a tongue...
and the more i drink, the more i start to see
       it splintering up into a polyphony construct,
but more a case of: polyphony of subjects...
   and yes, aren't we all those internet losers...
when the most powerful man in the world...
     uses twitter. bastions of respectable comment!
yes, i.e. newspapers... we're riding this meteor to the end...
          does anyone still consider newspapers to be
the pledges of a free society? i must have been asleep for
the past 20 years then...
                      someone switched on this chaos-turbine,
and we're all shoving our two cents of opnions'-worth into it...
and it's not stopping...
            and yet you still read in newspapers, this underlining
feeling of being condescended... as if they are the sole
authority... they have to behave like little despots...
                           social media's power is invested in its
shock reverberation... think: Marx in the 21st century...
           but can you? is this some pseudo Marxism?
             i might have bypassed all the king-makers and
walls... but i have no leverage... my opinions are
     as cheap as chips... well: we got ourselves a unison converson...
   i still don't see how the television zeitgeist still thinks
that the internet zeitgeist is no connected with ''real life''...
i mean... **** me! where's the highstreet with all the shops?
on the internet. where is the frontline of wars? on the internet.
  where do suicides take place? on the internet,
from all the cyber bugs that people start to represent...
    if this isn't real life... then i guess i must be sitting,
and writing this in some medieval castle in transylvania,
    and my computer is powered by a legion of
hamsters on exercise-wheels, in a damp room, lit by a candle.

iii.

for me, this is how reading a philosophy book looks like:

| | |
     fig. 1
                                          /   \
                                            _
                 ­                                 fig. 2
    Δ
       fig. 3
                                           A
                                               fig. 4

it's like i want to see something with some clarity;
there is clear movement
      concerning a book like that,
              but unlike a standard novel:
there is clearly nothing concerning the: any given
  hope to disperse the mist.
                you're given the blunt truth:
the use of language...
                     again, it would be easier to call forward
a use of a tomahawk... or a guillotine...
            philosophy books never establish civilisations,
they break them.
                and do i think that the crucifix is a profanity
of the tetragrammaton? yes.
                do i feel Spinoza's anguish? probably.
when you read philosophy to start to waver,
it's almost necessary to unlearn language, and with
each philosophy book: learn it over again.
     you can't remain strapped to this culture
of emphasis of singled-out words...
              we can't find a constructive basis if we're
about to start any mechanism from such a dynamic,
isolating certain words and weighing them
                       obstructs language...
                 i can't even begin to fathom a pledge
to using a language, if there are these plebian obstructions...
i did write some notes when i spent these past 3 weeks
in Poland, but i'm scared of rewriting them...
                    i can claim to have understood
their content at the time,
but the context disparity is too much for me...
                 i'm rereading them in England
and i can only see England as a nightmarish construct
of such grandeour... that i might only be seen
speaking truth in the north of it...
                nor do i like the tri-tier categorisation
of man... if you read Kant, you'd be afraid of
man's laconic approach to the mind, stating
the three boundaries, and literally no faculty interactions...
  consciousness (the artist), denoting the overly-sensitive,
the subconscious (the worker), denoting the athletic construct
   and liberation from the daily toils of pure physical
    disposition...
and the unconscious (the zombie)...
   if you read Kant and explore the faculties...
and then turn toward the Freudian populism:
   there's enough reason to be concerned...
                  i can't be saying someone anti-vogue:
and that was my proper concern, that i might be saying
someone not recountable in any sort of realism...
          that mine is an isolated case...
         ditto alongside: why are we juggling the tri-tiers,
and so bombastic and even celebratory in huddling
toward these safety-nets of being human?
    thus said: the reflective man has died...
       in his place came the reflexive man...
                             and if there really is a worthwhile
stance to be a: **** sapiens...
   then all hope for a bewildered man is gone...
                 when the potency of robotics escaped science
fiction, and all trodden paths of orthodox science were
      fed to science fiction, humanity could begin
the process of discarding the offshoots...
          
iv.

the new testament... a book riddled with metaphors...
no wonder the greeks exploited the hebrew literalism...
and yes, plato the precursor made this very real...
by testifying that poetry had no place in the republic,
the new testament had to become solely poetic...
   the new testament is a rebellion against plato's republic...
it's a book wholly compromised on metaphor...
culminating in a book that's founded on imagery...
the gosepls are, once again, arithmetically speaking,
resembling the crucifix... which damns the concept
of the tetragrammaton...
                      as a book: it's only gibberish in
its final circumstance of revelation as a book of imagery...
   and in its preceding case: a book of metaphors...
who wouldn't be apprehensive to be born human
with such a thing being rampant?!
                    imagery is gibberish, given that we
have compentent painters out there...
and metaphor is metaphysics, given that we have
competent magicians out there...
   so how far apart are the words: qua             and
                   quo?
   as good a question as: how far apart are the words
                          phor               and phren?
       φoρ                       &                            φρην?
        so in the congregation of μετα, how are they
so apart?  looking at language from an alphabetical
perspective... it's hard to see anything inspirational...
    nor the tangens divergence of words
that are nonetheless so proximate in their construct...
a bit like the genetic proximity of man and ape,
or man and a banana...
   φoρ (the bearer of the beyond) -
                φρην (a mind concerned with things
under the curtain) -
                        and so: the futility of looking for
        a soul... became translated as the new found feudalism
of looking for a mind:
  given the common consensus: we're all mad....
so too looking at mythology could be revised:
  that myth of narcissus and echo...
or narcissus and psyche...
                         or φρην & πσιχη -
                we already know that there's an aesthetic
in Greek, at least they showed us
      that it can be σimple, when acknowledged
  and practised -
which means transcribing the ease of handwriting
   into a digital format, can be seen as an unnecessary
complexity - as if me currently looking for a word
that ends, and showcases the most obvious Grecian
aesthetic (without mention ο, ε, ω, η, œ)...
but with due mention: so where the second variant
of α, given there's æ?
                           it really is hard to find coherency
in human language... i'm still trying to conjure up
the second sigma... unless i hit the plural noteς...
there... i hit them... as simple as that.
  and yes: the father of the french hooked c
in garçon, came from this: the sigma used at the end
of wordς... i suspect that how things were denoted
to be possessed in english, also came from it.
once again: handwritting is bewildering on this digital canvas.

v.*

i don't have an atheistic argument, or a theistic argument,
i'v

A coconut grove
With one tall wind turbine.
The wind blows amused!

a ****** of crows gathers
over Hamburg, carrion carrying on
with business as usual.
feeding on the festered flesh
of a gentrified populace.

in private jets coughing carbon
they fly from the west on turbine wings,
engines screaming as they dive towards a nation
secured by razor-wound walls
and barb-wire borders.

they pitched a battle in Germany,
convinced that austerity
would ******* the resistance
and give justification to premeditated violence.
but the tables have turned on the thieves again.

we are the end result of your failed policies,
globalization has destroyed our homes.
if your cabal rallies like a kettle of vultures,
you will do so behind closed doors,
cowering in your fortress' halls.

you shall not pass. watch as the power shifts
like the melting gears of torched BMWs.
we will tear the vestiges of your authority down.
we will black out your surveillance cameras,
smash your windows, and block your limos. no pasaran.

flee, while you can still run. this city belongs
to the wild ones, a black bloc, thousands strong,
dancing amidst the tear gas, tossing molotovs.
marching to liberty's sturdy drum,
equal in our solidarity song.

She closed one grey eye
and watched as
the now
scortched
diamond dust
slowly
settled into a
small
pool at  
the bottom
of the bubble.
A tiny heart pounded
like a turbine piston
hard and relentless
against her bare,
freckled dressed chest.
Small beads of
sweat formed
then dried almost
immeditly
down her bare back
and in between
the small mounds
she wore as *******.

She closed her right eye and
held the wand
up towards the
bare bulb light.
She watched transfixed
as the once delicate,
man made,
toxic concoction
that was now
a heated puddle
of stimuli cooled.
Then brought forth images
of great stretching snow flakes
and shattered
diamonds reaching
all throughout
the bubble tipped
tool  she had
taken in as a lover.

And there will
be no sleep
tonight for the
Down Town dealers
and this delicate
lost soul with
diamonds
in her  eyes.
Theres too many
memories that
need to be
tamed ,
too many
nightmares to
give in to sleep.
Stay awake ,
create more time
and consume every bad
thing that's before
you.

Seek out a cold
place in the night,
then stare at the heavens
while  shaking
a clenched fist upon
the serpents.
As our world reveals
more another
falls,picks up
a tool  and
turns to what works.

Choosing the
easy way out
is never an easy
decision.
As crystals cool
then melt again
another decision has
turned to
death in the
form of a captive
life without
freedom enough to
care or breath.

She walked toward
the window and
stood naked
and high before
the city.
A tear tumbled
and dried
before it ever
left her face.

Another diamond
obsessed ,dreamless
dreamer,
waiting out the
night,dealing with
the madness and
sharing none
of her horrors
with the shadowed
world she was forced
to haunt.
Living every hour
wide  awake,
wired and full
of pills.
Desperate for some
other place thats
far away from here.

Slowly
and quietly
dying an older
souls death.
Far before
what should
have been
her peaceful
and merciful
kind of ending.

We can run this world together
Just us standing whenever
We can make the world restart
We can make the world stop
Just the two of us wherever
The problem with this solution is of course the outsiders
Well use turbines
We can run this world together
Shush don't say a word about the possibility
Let's think of the opportunity
We have one shot
We break the clock
Use the turbines
And we do what we have to
We can make the world restart
We can make the world stop
Just the two of us forever
Never ever wanna go back here
I just have so many fears
After all if these years
We are finally gonna be free
Stand still
We have one shot
We break the clock
Use the turbines
And we do what we have to
We can make the world restart
We can make the world stop
The turbines are broken
We can't run this world together
What were we thinking
We have one shot
To break the clock
Just us standing whenever

In your arms
Just two days ago but the feeling’s already leaving
I was bent out of shape
I was dry heaving
on my own stupid emotions so
I wasn’t able
to burn the vision of you in my mind
so hot that it stuck
stuck into me like a point in a *****, turning the turbine
and molding the muck
of my reality, in my conscious so clear it
separates from this one from the great spasm called space and time created by…
I don't know why, but, life sometimes separates the score from the assist.
and now i can’t resist
to list
the ball from the bat
the land from the sea
the you from the……
too corny.
I hope that I don’t seem too pathetic, I’m just too empathetic,
and I need to put this to rest:
to me,
I'm afraid we might be
like that bird who had flown from
The nest, and had his body broken by the nets
seizing the life from his chest.
aHH and now how I seem to sling
with a piece of string
a metaphor
back around to tie the knot
around that bird who got caught cuz
Metaphors and me are a package deal.
they allow me to feel.
And in my sweaty palms.
I felt the life leave
after having expected that it would, yet still also hoping that it might not.
But it did.
And everything should be ok but it’s not. And I should feel relived but I don’t. And I should be excited for what’s next but
I just feel sad.

I have been studying how I may compare
This prison where I live unto the world;
And for because the world is populous,
And here is not a creature but myself,
I cannot do it.  Yet I'll hammer it out.*
             -Shakespeare, Richard II, Act V.I

The world I fathom rhetorically orbits
around the whirr of a dust-peppered
triad of turbine limbs
inbreeding infinitely as electricity's
treaty permits
into a smorgasbord whirl of
processed plastic white

A remedial sun I compose
to counter outside's oven bulb
in the world I do not fathom

Heat's ****** of humidity
is not lost on me
with no canonized sense
even to establish it with

And even my own remedial sun
restricts a reality-knighting touch
with its ozone cage pried open
in unseen haste - a victim
of college's fugitive waltz
encased in the jazz fusion dance hall
of the world I cannot fathom

Is there a dual left-footed
interpretive dance of a carbon dimension
outside of reality's steaming kitchen
to fathom me?

I was born in grave clothes
Raised in grave clothes
Unaware I even bathed in grave clothes
I didn't know the extent of my decay
Like the bones were expose in my face but I didn't have reflective glass to see my flesh
I was on a rotten path
Death would have been the only prize at the end of my race
Strongholds wrestled my thoughts and subdued my brain
Bone marrow deep I was linked to Adam
Lord knows I wasn't Abel
Dna tied to  blood imprinted on the ground I had more in common  with Cain
It's true a heart beat of sin causes death to course through vains
I wondered how could I be treated
Something was missing something was needed
To my shock it was Jesus
Clear! He got my heart beat right
With that resurrection power
Made my heart see light
He changed my life
I started to realize that the same power that raised Christ from the dead
Was the same power that lived in me
That does more than allow me to breathe .
It brings life back to limbs riddle with rigor mortis
It's reverses  decomposition brings back what death has stolen  
It's  uncontrollable like a lighting storm.
It's unadulterated
Once it hits
It's changes landscape  like when a nuclear warhead is detonated
Hoover dam generated power
Turbine engine spending power
Lift the dead out of sin power
Tectonic plate shifting, erecting mountains from plains power
By one name only can we be saved power
Second coming cracking the sky power
All knees shall bow and all tongues shall comply  power
Corruptible turned into incorruptible in a instant power
Rebirth repositioned repurposed repented power
Turn  what seems to be a lost into a win power
It is finish the precursor to the release of infinite power
I could never be the same because  the spirit lives in me gives me power
My arteries are laced with a burning flame
A roaring wind, a groaning earth, a raging sea crashing waves
The impact of several elements crush the chains of a slave
It's the same power that said come forth Christ friend walks out the grave
The same power that moved the stone a borrowed tomb turned to a cave
It's the power of the Resurrection
In a world full of aborted life
It breeds conception
In a world that attempts to abort Christ
The church still  cries out in reverence
Changed death for us now it's portal
Changed lives of stop watches into immortal
Resurrection power a glimpse into the eternal

Unfolding into itself, inviolable
in prosaic self-*******,
a boundless repertoire
of shape yearns forth surreptitiously
from inscrutable amniotes to claim
time as its own:

  Here a thicket
  of sycamores, there a baldaquin
    of pinnate branches, yonder
      a periphery of marigolds, below
        a cacophony of hyraxes, above
    the corpuscle of a lynx, the mid-flight
   jink of a darting swift and moribund
  crawl of a mollusk;

     Hymenoptera coaxing
     their haploid broods into teeming
     life as a cell of the swarm
         and viviparous apes cajoling
         suckling chimerae at the fathomless
         fountainhead of a rosy breast;

       Higher still,
       Cirrus cephalopods traversing
       the trench of sky, dandelions
       hitch-hiking the drift of a barren plains'
       wavering hum on cockchafers'
       forewings and a turbine's
       bombinating pulse, the chattering
       of roots ravenous for depth --

Jittering bangtails the hallowed echoes
of lascivious manes --

   inchoate sprout-hood the daedal
   nonage of towering evergreens --

      the plaintive shrift of elegiac
      redbreasts a goad to silent elation --

A likeness unlike
     (vocabularies of vertiginous blinds)
          (the eyes of ignorance closing)
             (the mouth of the mystery)
                that spurns the truth of tongues

                     is nature naturing.

A coconut grove,
With one tall wind turbine;
Every wind blows amused!

Doktor Plague, it is so, so
Have we met again? Unexpected visit,
I do not pray to thee, I do not believe,
O god, do you hear me, I, non-believer
Whomever gloom down over me?

The tears shower down upon cobblestone
Outside, the blood through my veins --
Sweet honey, pumping, a jet turbine.

Yes, I have mistook the neon “OPEN” sign
as a window of opportunity again.
I, little god, I, lonesome
Aphrodite wails, and the flowers bloom

For I will grasp the executioner’s hood,
my hands encircling, as such silver goblet
Should I call to them, O, guillotine lover
The eden garden blossoms, snug in
brain, the fruits have fermented --

No intoxication could substitute,
thou speaking is nor sober, nor drunk
the big hush, silent actions

Wander worried rambler roam.
Wander down the path of a riverside wood.
Step by step,
Shuffle to and fro.
A Forgotten industry remains.
Man made mines,
Dug out quarries,
Fencing, barbed wire, power lines, and pressure treated wooden poles.
Littering the landscape.
A blood letting favor, favored low.

A hydroelectric dam.

Murky and historical waters enter its mouth,
and then,
exit from its other side.
Constantly *******, and spitting, and churning turbine whine,
Spinning gear stuck,
clamped to the spine.
Luck may have it that these waters may never go dry.
Luck may have it that these currents stay 'live.
Merrily manic, it flows.
Strong and bold,
sparkle, sprung, sold!
Pushes and rolls,
gives and goes.
Cold.
Electric mother glow.

Neon, argon, blazing blast,
to give city speckled lights a mast.
A grip to grasp, to squeeze, to cast,
shadows in the night.
Yellow, orange, red, and blue,
the shades of dreamers,
with their sorrows leaded, heavy,
holy truths.
Unspoken tomorrows, last goodbyes,
mouthed silently at last
in their heads a film score out of time.

The air is baked, the land is spry.
The sun is shattered through prism pines.
I carry myself upon the leaves, of dead footsteps, make believe.
Native footpaths of long ago
and red sandstone trail of men to behold.
Come to this place and let sights be known,
Come to this place and let sights be known,
histories of ours, histories bygone.

rusty pistons fire
incongruously
in the beat down machine,
coughing up smoke;
makes it hard to breathe

corruption in the break lines,
can't stop the roll

disco jungle funk, dancing
gears, grind and whine
stirring up a
grease monkeys dream,
caress and careen,
danger in the evening
sparks and lust teeming
hot water turbine, spinning,
steaming

*** called the kettle black,
lost reverse,
and no way back

swift inset of love's Sanskrit,
a thorn of contestations.

make cadence this sensorial music.
centrifugally waiting bodies
to cross Earths.

a plethora of annulments.
lion-telling Sun singes through intersections of infinities:

we cannot wait to quash
the morning, the scent of guava leaves
and the cerement of flour on chicken.
earth-hewn mounds of meat pressed
against beholden kitchen clangor.

declension of memory past wood
and pillars of home. lattices of light
forerunning fingers, let down the curtain.
wind swings with maddened turbine,
afternoons high with deadlock.

of all that is not here, the force
reawakens a long-stumped ******,
beating us back to edges ruthless
with angels entirely curved, singled-out,
wings clipped, dancing at the tip
   of the candleflame.

These random thoughts
Are mine,
And that finite act of doing
Defines the essence of me;

Vacillate like a squirrel ?
No....not I!

The monster storm I shall ever chase,
Channeling fear as fuel
For the engine within,
A cerebral turbine
Hell-bent on exploration;

The mythic mountain I shall ever climb,
Stains of sweat and struggle
Streaking over her peaks
And jagged edges,
Bleeding wisdom into callouses and scars
For future wars;

And the roar of the rhythmic river
Hurling  waves high over
Hidden cliffs,
Her furious fall
A source of energy
And joy for all;

Here I shall ever swim
On  a dare, a whim
Or simply because she's there...

Calling!

~ P (#stormchaser)
11/14/2013

remains of busted beer bottles and cracked plastic jut from stinking tide-water mud     eyes narrow against sand saturated sustained winds grain sting and cling before slinging past    sleeping man scorched cedar red sloth snores against driftwood    his dog pants patiently pawing sand playfully    once roaring giant beside me sulks now  
those ******* dams    
superb river        I formally apologize for us       we the new humans injected our cement turbine barriers into you       so we can read bibles and bake brownies after dark     so streetlights can work grave shifts     convinced they’re delivering us from evil     I imagine how you used to roar      carve    tear     from your northern mountainous sources      converting wastelands to pastures and fertile gardens    feeding the starved   cleaning the rugged        assisting the ambitious     the old ones learned to cooperate with you    
we massacred most of them and now control you    
so anyways I’m here now    watching an old man fight bitter wind     his old sailboat approximately ten thousand times his size      I’ve seen men tack but this is different      powerful winds continue to whip westward       he heaves his body left and boat groans cooperating     pulling hard right      harder right      harder right       sail’s about forty five degrees off water now and I think         he’s gotta be gravebound      see now the ol’ skipper has gone and dove right again and the sail shakes snapping against gales but succeeds to the left      his boat follows and keeps inching upwind           inch by inch     in the back of his mind he considers retreat        but knows the more golden shores lay ahead
behind him are bruising bridges and barges and big trucks accelerating in left lanes beeping and blinking in blistering sun     there is a ******* on jantzen beach that is supposed to have great bbq wings    heard theyre to die for     and great women with giant fake       personalities     theyre hired for their personalities         theyre encouraged to show their personalities and put them on display so all the heavy men can enjoy their stay
my prized old man battles eastward upstream upwind to your golden shores      hes gone another thousand yards in the last hour      each cut strenuous muscles battle ropes sail     each cut seems dangerously intense and immaculate     below him solemn oppressed river travels reluctantly towards ocean
I lay back in gray-black sand and close my eyes       sand particles whipping the right side of my face       I think of what is next in my day     writing some ****** spoken word     reading some weathered whitman and wordsworth       watching some girl drink herself dumb    all the while hearing the sails and old man struggling     redskinned man snoring   dog digging   my eyelids look red with sun shining thru them
Walking to the river now      each step deeper down ***** freezing my      ankle       knee       thigh      dark brown-blue water continues to rise around as I sink down     when shoulder high I dive down to bottom and kick       lungs fully expanded begin to grow stale and I surface       I notice I have been pulled down river ten yards        eleven yards      for a while I float kicking eastward but the river wears on me      I exhale fully         sinking down
Alien world of thick green surrounds me   ive forgotten the meaning of breath time life     ten feet       eleven feet      below     shimmering surface rises     pressure presses ears persistently     each foot deeper water colder   whines of far off jetboat jetski engines and muffled airplanes pollute     I picture how I must look to unsuspecting fish     naked boy eyes open cheeks inflated arms suspended above     below weeds dance and baitfish prance     something about scene is other-worldly
lungs crave air so I kick back up      far from shore and from shirt      people look at me like I’m reduced to a       floating head    I swim back to shore    concerned red man approaches me    his dog licks my hand and its paws scratch my stomach  
i guess he thought i was drowning     i think i am too

I saw a woman today
Her hair a burnished amber
She showed me her orchard
Her gleaming silver turbine
Her warm red Rayburn
She opened up the door
The wood glowed inside
Golden bricks in patterns on the floor
We spoke about her grandmother
Her man was there
I noticed the way he looked at her
I smiled
It's good to be alive

It was a still day,
triumphant arms
of an iconic trinity
rotated graciously.
            
Mercedes in motion,
a quiet reassurance,
ecological, exotic and
above all, on a pedestal.
              
               |
             /   \
               II
               II
               II
               II
               II
               II
               II
               II
               II
               II
               II
            IIIIII
.

Honestly I feel as though this entire time I've been pacing back and forth, accruing images of two ice caps slowly breaking themselves apart into tiny fragments of burning pitch that hurls itself onwards into the night, leaving bleeding trails of light as reminders, notes with coffee stains on the edges, written late at night without much light except for what scraps pour out from under the door from the reading light. You want to breathe normally but the bag won't inflate and it's so hard to calm down when everyone else is shaking and crying and prostrating themselves as though they'll consecrate the middle aisle with their cheap pleas for salvation, for their young childrens' lives, and for all the time they wasted ******* quietly in the dark after the reading light went off and even though they had a headache. They sing a song of mutual slump, of tacit awareness of the grandiose ******* of 75 years spent in too quiet comfort concerned with small victories and unconcerned with massive regrets. Then daylight breaks and you have to look your coffee stains straight in the eye and pretend they're just blemishes when they're sores and wounds and abscesses. And before long the paper disintegrates into brown pulp and you hate that you hate yourself because surely someone is more ****** than you. But that's just one moment out of the day, and you live them endlessly, you love them endlessly, overthinking, underthinking, drinking till you can't feel your extremities and then toying with a knife because you know you couldn't otherwise. Then you nick your pinky and realize how ******* stupid you must look, trapped in your own kitchen hearing your wife down the hall resent you more and more, her distaste, stained the color of sea foam off the coast of Cyprus, her frown fixed forever forward toward your back, and her face makes you sigh, and it's the same sound as before, sure, but now you know what is happening when these tiny admissions of regret escape from anyone else's lips. Then the plane picks up out of its nosedive and people cry and hold each other and you feel more dead than if your body had just ended up tangled in the wreckage of a turbine engine, your intestines laced between the blades like the back of a corset that gets tighter and tighter until you can't feel it anymore because you're numb.

Two young lovers lie facing the moon
As they read lines of my muse passion
In other to discern the secret of my heart
Air of warm kisses kissed their thought
For they never parted not like we're fated to part

As petals of rose withered from my heart
Yet I am sorry to say I love you
For my mind is hungry and wait to devour you
as storm choruses your name into my heart
Maybe dead will be one to separate us at last

As the lilies attract so my love for you shine
jealousy flown away your love for my shrine
No deception for I filled your dream with kisses
As spinning ***** you reoccurred in my heart
I decide to go for the tree of passion will bear no fruit

In my heart I solely love you as a decorated thorns
Running still as water towards a turbine
Generating bewildered lights in our souls
As the energy continues to revamp our love
The springtide will make us fly as doves

Written by
Martin Ijir

for a moment, the word stops breathing,
your heart quits pumping and bleeding in the
only healthy way it knows how.
there is silence—and then there isn’t, not anymore,
the sky is shattered by lightning and your
pulse jumps with every rumble, your body flinches with
every roar and the sky is turning far darker than it was a minute before,
the wind is like a turbine, going round and round and round,
tearing, ripping, and seething, you can see the clouds descending,
you’ve been through this time and again and you know the power
this twirling cloud will be rendering, you should be inside,
you can hear Mike Morgan yelling over the static of your TV
“prepare yourselves for the damage this will bring!
hide under mattresses, bathtubs, if you must under the kitchen sink!”
it’s coming your way, it’s picking up speed and you try not to imagine
what has made up the debris, you come to your senses,
realize it’s real, accept the fact that it’s not a drill, you grab who you can,
you shove them down stairs, you start counting heads and start saying prayers,
the cellar is dusty, you choke for clean air but it’s howling outside
and you know you won’t find any out there, metal is screeching,
someone is screaming, sirens are bleating out to anyone who cares,
it takes three men alone to make sure the door doesn’t tear off it’s hinges
in the height of the scare—and suddenly it’s over, you can’t here anything from anywhere.
the world again stands still, but it isn’t holding it’s breath,
it’s watching a thousand electric sparks die a last death.
you push against the doors, you need to breathe better air
and you can hear someone telling you that you need to take care,
but you push and you shove and you break free of your prison,
you climb out to see how your world has faired,
but there isn’t
anything
there

My wife rolls her eyes
When I point out another wind turbine
“Bird Shredders”
“Pork Barrel for guilty Liberals”
“Don’t they disrupt wind patterns?”
But
When I look up at a stately giant
Broadcasting infrasound across the plains
I remember my nose pressed against the window
Of a 1957 Pontiac
In Wisconsin
Yelling
“Windmill”
As we passed every farm
As my parents rolled their eyes.

you have too many laws biased unto you woman,
for it to be economic to enter
a relationship with you.*

when drinking i've learned that
people can ruin a man's
drunken self quite quickly,
one rude word and you can turn sober,
otherwise on that turbine
it's better to be left in a state of
the "lonesome" self: less sightseeing,
less humoristic tourism
that would otherwise thrill
any other habit other than the one
that might calorie you up...
like fake art in the hands of an arthritis "artist"
smoking dope when disengaged from
his work wasting it all on computer games.

you will not disregard my ethno-status toward incubating
your failed journlism -
   the 20th century idea of journalism is over,
                     it, has, passed!
                   it's dead in the gutter -
      not now could you report on the world at be
with the fervour, equivalent to, reporting on **** germany...
you fail to recognise the agglomerate of what is still
central europe into your narrative?
                 no... i won't frighten you...
                   i'll just disregard you as
                                         a "respected" authority
that might guide the world to the summary of its own
bidding...
                        i'll have no respect... therefore i will
imply the stratum of: forget them...
   they're talking into their own *****... and i'd rather
keep a **** in my **** from yesterday for *******
it out today, so it's all nice and stone-like...
               so some geologist might come and say:
hmm... well... isn't this interesting.
                        the west isn't a respectible authority...
sure... it can fathom the production of many
trivial things... but apart from that?
                 a **** in a tornado...
              oi! santa! where's that turbine gonna spin
to next?
                 ** ** **!
                        **** on me! he said it's heading west!
the west dictates because it was the only faction
of geo-politics that detonated the atom bomb
and is the only one overly-paranoid about having
done so...
                       well... don't look at me like i'm
some schizophrenic... you're the ones that set it
off on a dry surface... you weren't the french who said:
maybe an aquatic insulator? hmm?
                it just ****** me off that in english press
the poles are still, virtually without an ethnic identity....
people in the west became too used to
the, non-existence of the polish commonwealth...
poles, estonians, latvians, lithuanians, belarusians,
ukranians...
                              it's just called eastern! europe.
it just peeves me...
                             well bang that along with
the welsh sheep-*******,
                                the scot-irish McNuffin',
   and the english?
                                   football or cricket? or both?!
        high tea... by the way... they call dinner
   tea in england, at around 5p.m. -
                           don't know, i thought i might as well
mention it... by 6p.m. they'll be jerking off
                 thinking *** was a thwench "thing"
you do on saturday.
                               they're really big now,
they have uncle sam to take care of,
                                and aunt jill the ausie...
they're big now... but i have them beckoned to be
under the microscope any, time, soon...
                    ah you know... the usual comic stand-up
technique of predictions for the gags...
                            and hand-bags... and stilettos....
transgender?    how about... you begin with
                               transvestite?
                      well... isn't that a weird concept!
you master the art of transgender so that women
     feel wet at the sight of your: exuberance?
                     these days it's a bit like talking
about a ****** with an i.q. of 1-50....
                 smart as ****... albeit dumb as hell -
   that adam's apple gonna disappear before
   i take toward the cognitive fetish of considering
****** you in a dark alley? well...
    the merovingians, the saxons and the hippies
donned long hair...
                 ever see any of them tuck
               their genitals prior to tucking their
protruding larynx?
                            seriously... how about we
perfect being transvestite before attempting,
before actually faking being transgender?
      three names! only three!
eddie izzard...  chloe arden.... blaire white;
i already mentioned that the latter two names
     denotes huskies... my godmother is a huskie...
she has a... deep voice...
                              the three stated names?
trans-                                      -vestite -
                  visage? vestige?
               ****! ooh! what a nice world:
                                        visage-vestige = trans.
          you really can't contemplate faking a "loss"
of gender...
                   oh c'mon p'ooh bear, don't break my heart,
don't make me think there's a thai surprise
                          in store while i fiddle into your
******* and finger out an: oh! ah! oh! ah!
   never mind, i'm still going to be *******
    about the "eastern europe" definition...
               well... as slapping back might sound...
                           i'd just call the west: paddyland.

Think about it, I just might be the
savior of the nation.
I will make America grate (sic) again!

Time to grease the campaign trail!

Imagine if you will,
perfect unity fabricated
from the empire between my ears.

I could hose down the airways
with bile and ride the waves of
angst like a super surfer.

Should some ***** reporter call me out,
I’ll just whine in my nappies,
call her names and bully on.

I pledge to forge my ignorance into
a sword of virtue and tilt
every wind turbine in the US of A.

Demons are everywhere and I
have conspiracies to sell.
Help the cause; buy a bucket full!

I think we all know
that reason is for sissies.  
Just look how far we’ve fallen!

Listen up now, since
America needs me so badly,
you will be granting me your fealty.

I will make America grate again!

What, you say, my mission
is already spoke for?
My noble cause has been taken?

He has? How dare he!

**** you, Donald Trump!