‘Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et *** illi pueri dicerent:
Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo.’

                For Ezra Pound
                il miglior fabbro


I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony *******? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
            Frisch weht der Wind
            Der Heimat zu
            Mein Irisch Kind,
            Wo weilest du?
‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’ und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying ‘Stetson!
‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
‘Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
‘Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
‘Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
‘You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!’

II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
‘Jug Jug’ to ***** ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

‘My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
‘Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
‘What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
‘I never know what you are thinking. Think.’

I think we are in rats’ alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

‘What is that noise?
                          The wind under the door.
‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’
                    Nothing again nothing.
                                                    ‘Do
‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
‘Nothing?’

    I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?’
                                                     But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It’s so elegant
So intelligent
‘What shall I do now? What shall I do?’
I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
‘With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
‘What shall we ever do?’
                             The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,
hurry up please its time
Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.
And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.
Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
hurry up please its time
If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can’t.
But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be alright, but I’ve never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don’t want children?
hurry up please its time
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
hurry up please its time
hurry up please its time
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

III. The Fire Sermon

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck
And on the king my father’s death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year.
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc’d.
Tereu

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female *******, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
‘Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.’
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone.

‘This music crept by me upon the waters’
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

      The river sweats
      Oil and tar
      The barges drift
      With the turning tide
      Red sails
      Wide
      To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
      The barges wash
      Drifting logs
      Down Greenwich reach
      Past the Isle of Dogs.
                  Weialala leia
                  Wallala leialala

      Elizabeth and Leicester
      Beating oars
      The stern was formed
      A gilded shell
      Red and gold
      The brisk swell
      Rippled both shores
      Southwest wind
      Carried down stream
      The peal of bells
      White towers
                  Weialala leia
                  Wallala leialala

‘Trams and dusty trees.
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.’
‘My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
Under my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised ‘a new start’.
I made no comment. What should I resent?’
‘On Margate Sands.
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken fingernails of ***** hands.
My people humble people who expect
Nothing.’
              la la

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest

burning

IV. Death by Water

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
                                A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
                               Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

V. What the Thunder Said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience

Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock wi

Marcy Shultz was a typist.
She typed and typed the day through
but never wrote a single thing.

Each morning she would drink her coffee
with a sunken ring at the base of the mug.

It was her good luck charm,
an assurance that at one point in one moment
someone had truly, honestly cared.

At noon she would salsa with the air,
knowing **** well that she would later devour it.

But the air knew nothing,
Thought nothing, just stood there.
Air is naïve, and she was alone.

At night she would shower with the blinds open
figuring if someone looked, someone cared.

But nobody ever looked, and Marcy never blushed.
She'd type little tales on her little laptop.
Typed little stories of little couples

walking dogs
kissing in park benches
laughing at rude jokes
eating tiramisu in little cafés
weaving stories of passers-by
carving initials in wood
waking up in the dead of night
to hear the rhythm of the other's breathing
before
holding each other's hands
and whispering softly in the light of the full moon
flooding in like spilt milk from the cracked window
saying,
"We are together now
and if a moment like this is happening,
then a moment apart is only imaginary."
Then,
always,
always,
always,

The little couples would make love.
Their moans bled through the window
like timeless cries over the milky moon.

The cats in the alley would circle about the songs
echoing loud from the little couple's little love.

Then always, always, always with frustration
Marcy Schultz would toss the tales and go to bed
and the couples would live on in crumpled paper.

playing clue and sorry on the same board
singing into a fan
with a semi-blue tan.
looking at a broken poster board.
with broken tile in your hair
you think the moon has hair.
like james blubierre
making a wicker basket to hold scented pinecones
using guitar strings
with a bad marker scarf.
looking at elenor rigby's doctor
having no sense of direction
you sung a wrong turn
buddah says die
while ghandi says hi
while typing nonsense letters
with the hopes of a secret
though there's only a secret for you
The Typist
he makes a pie that's flavored like pie
and looks up to the sky
to take a cloud and ride it
looking upset
and in the rain he's wet
he walks solemly to his apartment
to type more nonsense
though the crazy get it
and the sane don't
he types for a secret
he doesn't know
he scans the words, jumps the letters
makes them dance in his mind
he wants to know more
out of less
he makes it all up
right on the spot
to sing in a song
for singing the sung
the sung are singing though the sun is hung
looking for their lovers
though the don't love back
they look at the sky for the cloud they will ride
to take them to their lover's side
though his life was in peril
he knew right away
that in the end
it would all go away

Hello & thank you for taking the time
to come here in order to satisfy your small curiosity in me.
I do hope that you find the information which I have placed here, to be both convenient, & useful to you in making up your mind as to whether or not you deem me worthy enough of any more of your valuable time. I do hope that you can both enjoy & appreciate what you find here about me, as I am very eager to begin to learn more & more about you. Thank you for your consideration, enjoy..

I have lived through enough to understand what the greatest things in life are truly made of, & they are not material, yet they do have substance. Among'st them are integrity, morality, modesty, & selflessness, to name a few. These are traits you cannot fake, you cannot buy them in the store or imitate them from watching television. They are gifts, God given & you either have them or you do not.

They do not give us much room to elaborate, so I will try to sum things up best I can. And while doing so, I promise to be honest with you. I am not going to make you spend the next few moments of your life listening to the same'ol tired routine of some @sswipe writing down everything he thinks you want to hear, fluffing himself up with attributes from a fairy tale & doing whatever else he can in order to blow enough smoke so far up your @ss that you start to think your pant ies must be on fire. That's not me. I'm not going to waste your time or mine by insulting your intellect. This is my 1st act towards you in order to gain your confidence in me & your respect, because those are the foundations of any lasting relationship, & that is what I am here to find. All I ask for in return, is that you appreciate this respectful courtesy which I am extending towards you, & that you please extend to me the same courtesy.

Now, before you read any further, the next fact that needs to be made abundantly clear is that I am nowhere close to perfect, not by anyone's standards. I am not wealthy (far from it) & I struggle through this life just like you & everyone else out there, if not more so. I am not skinny, or obese, nor am I the muscular & athletic type. I am however, a big, strong, healthy, loyal & very protective Alpha Male & Father. I am an honest person, understanding, patient & realistic. I am not controlling, abusive, or insecure, nor do I have a jealous bone in my body. I am highly emphatic & am ever aware & care very much about the effect I have on the people that are around me in any given place & at any given time. I am not thoughtless or insensitive. I detest rudeness & despise bullying of any kind, be it physical, intellectual, emotional, whatever, I wont have it, & I will not allow it to take place in my presence. I am a bit old-fashioned, I tend to romanticize the world, life & all it has to offer, from the best of it, to the worst. To me it all has meaning & offers an opportunity for learning & growth.
I do not believe in coincidences, accidents, chaos or chance, I believe in One God & I know he does not make mistakes, so therefore he would be contradicting himself if he were to allow them.

And If it's not crazy, mad, passionate, extraordinary love, then it is a waste of time. I have enough mediocre things in my life already & I refuse to allow love to be reduced down to just one more mediocrity.

I am in search of a person who knows exactly whom they are. Someone who has struggled through their entire life, in order to be able to hold onto their true identity, their God given individuality, in order to be able to accept the person they see staring back at them through the mirror. Someone who can accept theirself for all that they are, both good & bad. Someone who accepts responsibility for their own actions & choices in life. Someone with empathy, patience & understanding. Morality, modesty & selflessness. Some one who loves for the sake of others & not merely for the sake of themself. I don't care what you have done, or haven't done (I haven't done much myself) I am no one of any particular importance, but I am one of a kind & that is pretty much all I am ever likely to be. I live my life by the examples which I set, based on the consistency of my character, & God willing, I will continue to do so until the day I die.
So, if your biggest fight has just been holding on to who you are, not what you have, then you & I already have something to relate to. I may not be much, but at least I am me, and I don't have to compromise my morality just to be able to blend in with everybody else out there.
All I want, all I have ever wanted all of my life, is for someone to treat me the same way I treat them. That may sound cliché, but it is true nonetheless. I am an easy man to please. The little things matter to me more than anything else, & I am a true romantic in every sense of the word.
I am only looking for one type of personality, so if you read this & see yourself staring back from between these lines, then perhaps I have already found you.

I do not smoke, drink, or do drugs. That does not mean that I judge either. I just don't partake. I don't mind what you smoke, or if you drink. Everything best when done in moderation. But I will say this, I am not interested in competing with any substances that a person chooses over & depends upon more than me or anything else in their life. But if you have a problem with something, that is not a deal-breaker either. Times are tough, & we are all hung up on something, in one way or another. I'm here for you, & always will be.

I am not a sports fan, sorry. I just can't seem to be able to give a crap about any of them in any way whatsoever.
However, I can be talked into attending a game every so often, I just wont pay any attention to it.
I enjoy literature & I like to do a little writing myself from time to time.
I am handy, & I prefer to fix things myself.
I Can't dance.
I like to cook & can cook.
I'm a neat person & I tend to keep things tidy.
3 cat's may sound a bit excessive, but how many pairs of shoes do you own? They are very special to me & are a nice compliment to My lifestyle.
I'm not a selfish or inconsiderate.
I'm not impulsive & I don't jump to conclusions.

I am Muslim.
Hopefully by now, after all of this, you can see that I stand nowhere close to any negative stereotypes that you may, or may not have been conditioned into believing of us. I'm not some fanatic, chauvinist, controlling @sshole, I didn't raise myself that way. I am a rational, open-minded non-judgemental individual. I am Muslim because of my own ability of subjective thought & by my own choice. Not because of influence, heredity, or culture. No one talked me into this.This isn't just something I believe in, it is something I am convinced of.
I wasn't born into a Muslim lifestyle. I have no Muslim family members, or friends. That means, I am not doing this to impress mommy, daddy or anyone else.(Trust me, none of them like it one bit) This is for me, it is something dear to me, & it makes me feel better about you, myself, & everyone else out there. And so what if I pray 5x''s a day, & abstain from certain things which really aren't any good for me any ways? What is so wrong with that?
At least I am a man who would rather follow rules & morality more than just his own selfish impulses, un-like most of the inconsiderate lil sh¡ts running around out there. I am more focused, more disciplined, & a much better human being than I ever dreamed I could be. And being human is all I have every really wanted to be. And because of that, I love being Muslim. It is the most important thing in the world to me.
But that does not mean that is has to be to you. Your beliefs are your own & mine are mine. I respect your choices & visa versa.

I would like to thank you coming this far. I tried my best to make all of this worth your time. Now after all of this,it is obvious that I am not lazy, nor do I lack the willingness to be considerate, expressive or informative I put my sincere effort into this, I am a pretty good writer when I want to be, but it does not happen easily. And even though I am capable of writing, & enjoy it very much, I will let you in on a little secret, none of that necessarily means that I am a great typist, or even a mediocre one. I am a terrible typist, & an even worse text'r. I spend so much time editing and with these tiny screens and big thumbs it can be a real pain in the @ss and is very frustrating...
That being said, I will text you a little, but please, not on & on. As you can probably tell by now I have a problem with summing things up, & making long stories short when I write. It's the same way when I text. I am very thorough & am not accustomed to leaving out important information when I communicate, information being the most important component to understanding. Therefore if you want to talk to me, then lets talk. Offer me the courtesy of a telephone call please. I have already put in so much time & effort with all of this writing, which is a'lot more than anyone else in here has been willing to do for you. I assure you that I have far too much of a healthy sense of shame, & would never dream of bothering another human being past their point of interest in me. I'm no stalker.

Street Typist
         Busker



I heard a metronome

                 on the street

a sort of Morse

          or fingered Braille

that stayed in time

      with my tapping feet

songs are but

     poems with earrings

it’s with keys

                     they sing





For Krishan Coupland


27/6/2022

Log in and lose all sense of what and who you  truly are.
I see the ******* numbers and even  more egotistical statements from people I would consider more typist than writers.

A child with the understanding how to play the game and cheat the system .
I see your trending yet again because your fake ID reposted your newest crap fest while others seem to avoid your work like ***** on the floor of a frat house party.

Ego you have my friend.
Talent for bullshitting well in check.

But as for the page your a child who stares at the ocean scared shitless from the shore .
It must be fantastic being the greatest swimmer never to set foot in the pool.

This write is dedicated to a certain poet who if I mentioned .
Well his ego would just tell him hey at least someone's paying attention.

Your trending yet again and at the end of the day .
When you step away from the comp your just a ******* with a overinflated ego and some fake *** numbers .

And if are paths ever cross you may ask.
Hey aren't you?
And my only reply will be .

Yes I will take fries with that.


         Fin

not a papist or ****** or shapist
but enjoying a curve
not an escapist
lacking the nerve
not a florist, tourist or activist
unless its summer time
and certainly not an alchemist
no water into wine
a lovely smiley altruist or artistically quite loud
but sadly failed when drawing
kindness from the crowd
mist
gist
fist
hoping to desist in being a monarchist
and always very eager on not being dogmatist
but still I really strongly emphatically insist
that faddist, fauvist fashion
is only a passing passion
for the narcissists among us
realist
publicist
terrorist

humbly suggesting that zeitgeist
is an ist
but failing to enjoy the line
being a fatalist
not a facist, xylophonist or anything with isms
just a bad contortionist
with creeping rheumatism  
determining the future through a timely
cruel twist
whilst realising ultimately
I’m just
a sad typist

Long time ago, I thought about staying in
An era lost,
Dead and gone,
Despite all the saving and baptisms.

They offered me the chance to lead them, to teach them,
to… to be king.
But my place was here.
So I drank some juice,
Said some words and here I am.

Didn’t seem like it was over though.
I was hitchhiking down a long and lonesome road.
Suddenly,
The skies filled with brimstone and irony,
The ground grew silent and still,
Clocks ticking wound satirically,
The sea drained into nothingness
like some gaping mouth was drinking it,
Dead gods awoke,
and there shined a shiny demon,
In the middle of the road.

He said to me,
“Welcome Moon-and-Star,
Come to me through fire and war.
Come, Legion,
Come and look upon the heart.
Lay down your weapons
And pick up your pen,
It is not too late for my mercy.

Now write the best poem in the world,
or I'll swallow your soul...”

Well, my many faces,
We looked at each other,
And we all said,

Okay.

And we wrote the first thing that came to our heads,
Just so happened to be
The best poem in the world,
It was the best poem in the world.

It went a little like this:

In the beginning, there was one source of light.
It would die and come back every night,
As a woman showing off her thighs
Just a little bit at a time.

In the beginning,
everyone bowed their heads towards the light.
They would dance and eat their friends alive.
We were not happy then,
these were simpler times.

Now we are played,
we’re the moth we’re the flame.
We were aware of the danger,
we could not look away;
my eyes are open.

I forget though
that people are not good to each other,
One on one.
Marx be ******,
The sin is not the totality of certain systems.
Theology be ******,
The sin is not the killing of a god.
People are just not good to each other.

We are afraid
and
We think that hatred means strength.

And so what we need is less brilliance,
what we need is less instruction,
what we need are less poets,
what we need is more beer,
a typist,
more finches.

And now I’m hoping for a poem
That will come to me when I’m asleep.
Because I can’t lie
And so I can’t write.

Our eyes pierce you, demon,
And it occurred to me that we have spent
our whole life
Starting over.

Caught pining for the things that we could’ve been:
We could have been gold diggers
we could have been gunslingers
we could have been a little bigger
we could have been our own ringers
we could have been good writers
we could have been good writers
we could have been good writers

But what we are,
is the silence.
Share with me all your pain.

I won't
Share your love.
I need all your love
Or it’s all for not.

Look what I have found, look what I have found!

Look what I have found, look what I have found!
An artificial light, we come and gather around.
This is why we have lovers and why we have fighters.

This is why the arms race and particle colliders.
Mine is a humble flame, just a little white lighter
And it belongs to me.

And yet
There is a loneliness in this world so great
That you can see it in the slow movements
Of the hands of a clock.
There are people so tired,
So strafed,
So mutilated by love or
No love,
That buying a bargain can of tuna
In a supermarket
Is their greatest victory.

So save me, I can't be saved,
I won't be saved.
I'm a citizen's son,
I don't need no soul.
All the soldiers say,
"It'll be alright,
We may make it through the war
If we make it through the night."
All the people, they say,
"What a lovely day, yeah, we won the war.
May have lost a million men, but we've got a million more."
All the people, they think
That no recall or intervention can work in this place,
That There is no escape.

Look into my eyes and it's easy to see
one and one makes two, two and one makes three,
it was destiny.
Once every hundred thousand years or so
when the sun doth shine
and the moon doth glow and the grass doth grow.

We dance in the thunder
Of collapsing walls and twisting cages.
The great black bellowing,
“I'm a god.
How can you **** a god?
What a grand and intoxicating innocence.
I'm a god.
How can you **** a god?
Shame on you, sweet Legion.”

We screech into the obsidian sheets
that blanket the way-out,
“When the giants of heaven forsake the earth
I shall destroy you for all that you’re worth.
With the bolt of Zeus and our golden throats
I will destroy you and send you afloat.
Whether you pillage the earth or sea
I will destroy you this I guarantee!”

Needless to say,
The beast was stunned.
Whip-crack went his whippy tail,
And the beast was done.
He asked us,
Be you angels?
And we said nay,

We are but men,

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal voice went snicker-snack!
we left Hymn dead, and with His read-head
we went hiking on ahead.

And the peculiar thing is this, my friends:
The poem we wrote on that fateful night,
It didn't actually read anything like this poem!

And the past followed me anyway.
so sure, I could’ve stayed there,
Could’ve been king.
But in my own way,
I am king.

Twenty-two inch night shift screen, as yellow as the moon,
Bedroom midi keyboard typist tapping out a tune.
Headphones cancel noises I do not have funds to nix;
Before the piper pays, I gotta fix the final mix.

Tempest on the tabletop, and dishes in the sink;
Got no time to wipe them down; I need the time to sync.
Pinging pile of notifs on the lockscreen left on read;
Empty fridge and cabinets; I gotta get that bread.

An average guy,
Twenty-two years old,
Whose life is just                        a picture show.
Cliché acting
And Predictable drama,
This boy’s life
Is a rewound product.
Slave by trade;
Free Spirit by desire.
He holds his head high,
In search of his destiny.
Yet, deep down,
He’s just a common typist
Who spills his emotions
On the page of Sadness.
Good God!
Won’t somebody save him!

Irene being a woman I worked with long time ago
She is my spotlight and the content of my show
However this is what you don’t know
Irene was a woman who had Cancer
When I think of her, it is as if it was yesterday
But I worked with Irene 32 years ago
Irene was my Boss as the Assistant Manager at Raven Press, a major publishing house
A company that got its name from “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe
Irene was the one that gave me opportunity
Her strength being my inspiration
Irene’s Cancer opened my eyes in valuing life
For me that is good advice
I will never forget Irene
A woman who was truly serene
I never ever saw Irene to ever be mean
I use the word opportunity strongly
Once when I applied for a job in the publishing house within the Promotion/Advertising Department
The Department needed a Clerk Typist and I took a typing test
Well I must confess
I was quite nervous when I took the keyboard test and anxiety set in
But Irene felt and believed in me and hired me on the spot
It was not a plot, but an opportunity in giving me a shot
Irene really left an impression on me
It’s a conversation about Irene for 32 years, but her spirit still lives within me
Irene I will never forget and I have no regrets.

we journeyed through
our own personal
waste land
of rocks without water
of shadows light silence
and dried up oceans.

we walked
not holding hands
we were
empty
as the sky blue sky.

it would not rain today.

we drowned a week before today
believed love was
a life raft but
we learned that silence turns to storm
and storm can overcome us.

I tried to draw a map
with strands of your hair,
your eyes, like beaches,
I thought they'd get us
out
of here.
they teach us growing up that love
is the wind and it is big and
ours was, wasn't it, but

never
big
enough
for this.

desert sand swallowed us
your eyes like beaches disappeared
when did you stop being
magic
you used to be
jupiter
when did you fade into
the galaxy
as no more than a dying light.


stars eventually turn
to dust
like us
they die away with the dreams
we give them
they die away with our names.


I am afraid of losing you still
as if you aren't gone
already
I said I would show you love.


we are walking to the chapel
through a land we cannot rescue.

I will show you
a waste land
tarot cards
sailors
I will show you
a typist
still
longing
for love
I will show you
what has
become
of our hearts
I will show you
fear
in a handful
of
dust.

Part 2 read first leaves one wondering tense…

Plucking seeds from threads so twisted…

Division deceptive guess I know
you know

I know a man, caught up to third heaven

on behalf of this man, this sentient being
living in me, by fi
do or die,
- I shape as story formed from facts
- as mirror neurons bher witness,
- yes, we saw, as fate
- might have it
- a mote in one's own eye
- detected with the beam in the gleam
that bit herein
therein sof-ein, tic
we are in
the book of life, as opposed to one of the
books in life, though
as we know, although, you may doubt,
knowing doubt is so good, it is hard wired.
Think
whether in or out of the bubble we breathe,
I have no knowing, un re prove able,
as a witness of truth being known, I know
relatively
nothing of the daily habits Plato had,
or even if he hated that name, it signaled shame,

what if it were not shoulders broad,
big ol' Hoss Cartwright
or Mean Joe drinkin' m' Coke, big as an Ox.

A castrated bull, you see, in a world lit
only by fire, every boy knows how oxen
are made
to pull the plow, bulls are made for cows,
and hides.

--- okeh, reproven, this is that, we have
a salty trail forming,
tear tracks.

These, in ever after ever before,
these lead to lost souls, soulds, sold ones, yes

this is the good we may do, should we wish
Tom Cruise never replaced
Marshall Dillon's brother, in the Mission Impossible
Drama reoccurring phenomenon, we see it
the impossible mission accepted

Great Red Spot, drifting in the swirl force
upon it
as a point in a sub-known-use of story per se,
si, no, se we know,

---- real time, long past, save we know, all things
reflect
and defracts, signs found in faces or traces of tea,
we make up what we wish you
to leave
be true,

do, and say, I did. That's done. Amen.

And Forrest looked behind him,
-- in the future, we have links, you may see
what any true heir of wind would wish to see

View of Monument Valley in Utah, looking south on U.S. Route 163 from 13 miles (21 km) north of the Arizona–Utah state line.

From <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monument_Valley>

however Fustus wit' d' Mostus namesake, a fact
I was aware of due
to John Kenworthy, who played ball with Roger Staubach,
and was a clerk-typist Marine in 'Nahm, he stressed,
while telling me of learning the knack
the key to the short story, which is

Know the story before you tell it.
Covey, the Mormon guru of success habits, said
Begin, with the end in mind.
In mind of that, I think, I remember Brenda Lussier,
had a meme, in the form of a poster, same thing, really.
It says, as it remains memish once it functions as a meme:
If YOU aim at nothing. YOU will hit it.

compliments of adult children of alchoholics, non-profit
meme makers aiming to make it all better. Small print.

She's my type and I am the typist
She's the type that can raise my kids
I am trying to make my name ring
A bell like the Chinese
I have nothing else to do besides this

Not a poem. Repost please.

First I'd like to thank all the poets
who are so faithful to follow me.
You are wonderful!
I'm afraid I have been lax in doing
the same. There are many reasons for this. Some of which you already know. My mom is quite ill and my
father just had two operations on his
eyes. They are both disabled. As I am. I have stage four arthritis in both knees. So I'm helpful, but slow.
The reason why I am not able to comment on some poetry/repost/add to sites is due to my perfectionist nature. I feel like I'm not giving each poem the attention it is due. So I read and reread the poetry you write. I truly enjoy reading your work. But this also makes me SLOW. Plus I am a hunt n peck typist.

I am also behind the scene on the site message system. I truly want to respond to and help all who message me and request such. I'm not a minister or pastor. But I believe in God. And I want to truly emulate the Lord Jesus Christ. When people came to Him for help He didn't *send them AWAY. I want to apologize to all I have NOT responded to. I pray for you and sincerely wish you all the best! I hope that this is of
some comfort....

I know that these are a lot of excuses. But I'm leading up to a point. From now on all I have time to do is like and repost. I know that this has not been my practice in the past. But I want you to know that you are READ. And appreciated!

If you have any ideas about how I can make the most of my time on site please contact me via the site message system or comment. I'm relatively new to these sites and want suggestions.

Thank you! I love you ALL! ♡♥♡♥**

Catherine

When your caught in the middle
Of a thought and a feeling
Where book definition
Is pounding and a stealing
You forget that your human
You forget that your man
You forget that your dreaming
And one day you'll be dying
Where all these rules bore you
Where the repetition is the start of the fade
Where eyes are not open
The mind has also halted
Your lost in a memory
Not your own, but who can say?
Here amongst the heaps of the horde
And men who steal nickels for quarters
Where names do not matter
And death means even less
And life is on trial
For a false accused offense
Heroes are held up by butter knifes
And justice has bought its last drink
And the book has already burned
While the typist reels out another one
And the music has gone mute
Only leaving us dead beats
To wander where there might be something fresh
Here on this wide world
I feel old n' born but leaving soon
Inside this body is a death as well as a life
Inside this mind is world not yet experienced
Inside each of us
Is a love not yet shared
So seek out thy love
Thy passion
And thy heartbreak
See all do all feel all and die with all
For were all
Bound together in our
Great Fall
Where to go from there
No man knoweth
But atop the crystal white mountain
With a tip as sharp
As a razor's edge
Mystery serenades truth
With a harp and a shaky
Promenade
Amongst the madness
Of skylines dotted with
God's doubted sadness
Sand piles up by the doorways
Of the true greedy and guilty
The master's of power
To selfish to share an ounce
Of care
Where mad men smile
With teeth dripping
With oil blood and the diamond tears
Of weeping sorry angels
Breathing the breathe of ******
Of evil
Of sinister sadistic superiority
Imagining that they are no longer human
Thinking they have evolved through nature
As she shakes her hanging head
Behind them
We are the plants
The animals
The dust gathered in our shoes
The lace which doth tie them
And the leather which grips them
We are the pounding rain
On roof top which shelters us
We are the food atop table top
With one's smiling child's faces
Home is here and here is forever
We are amongst relatives until
Fear does enter
Then light turns to dark
And life turns to grey
And the shifting eyes of distrust
Are all the mind can see
Stay true for the light
Doth always shine
Oh' at times so terribly dim
But it does shine
It is there
Darkness cannot fully
Stomp out
The light

I forgot what BTW stands for . . .
. . . between the wines ?
Oh yeah ! . . . by the way !
Yes !

Too much of yesterdays
and hangover today
Oh yes enough to **** a teenager

Once you start questioning your poetry
you'll be listening to teenagers ,
"You are not using rhyme !"
"Your muse is a dummy ."

You don't write poetry . . . your muse does
Your just the leaky pen
Or in my case the timid typist

First mistake :
Listening to other people
tell you how to write

Second mistake :
Self doubt
Who in the world cares if your poetry
is good or bad  . . . that is not
the point anyway

You don't write to please the Queen
You write to no one out there
who might be listening

You write to the shadows
You write to the physical ghosts
that never existed

It is not your purpose to write
anything that pleases anyone else
Yes is best

Just write and write to your hearts delight
Poetry is measured by years
not by the poem . . . bye now

No one ever knows
the rhymings of my poetry
blob of words combined
And so do I.
In between these rigid lines
Are invisible tears and smiles
Passing through windows
Of soul through the eyes
Daring to touch every strands
Til the inner glands
What do I know, who am I?
I am just a typist who takes part
of my own indefinite poet heart.

I look out the sides of my eyes now.
Blur my own vision so I can see you.
Going sideways, the fervent typist with an americano

                        becomes you.

You are back in my space, though fleetingly.
For when I turn my head, to take all of you in  
the illusion of you abruptly fades into caffeinated reality.
Your presence no longer imposing, comforting, there.

                         You will always be on my periphery.

The caged bird's whisper, white walls darken as the sun falls.
Carried myself across the hall, to watch another episode of family feud
like a typist ******* a keyboard.

Waking up to saliva on the denim couch
stumbling to my queen sized bed, wishing my sheets were less floral
another night spent
listening to the dusty box fan.

-------- tea and Sisyphus

Bruno paused, at his interface
with the printable word form,

he paused thinking in writing
"this is so important, I must underline it."

I thought it, of first importance.

The concept of all fruits freely eaten from,
but one, knowledge, right of all sorts,
all species fruit, branch, root and leaf,
all intervvining chthonic molds to make soil,

goodgottamight jus' gimme a blackland farm.
let ol' pharoah done be drownded
goodgottamighty , oh yah,
jus' gimme a blackland farm.

Science, long now, sudden
eruptions of just too much to think about,

like the size of the Earth in his hands,
relative to the post JWST visualizations we share,

bring it in, too wide, ballein, throw out a thought,
an Earth baseball sized, no problema,
in your hand, your mind hand, your typist hand,
keyboarding second nature, like a callous
on the *******
of a scribes writer hand.

Often offered up as proof, see this finger,
this proves I wrote the whole pile crushed,
in the shipping and storage of Ashurbanipal's
collection of books, which Solomon told him,
when they were swapping wives and concubines,
was a vanity and a vexation of the spirit,

But this calloused finger, the mused mind reminds,
this finger proves I came through history,
I did not make history.

Tobys a clever wizard
with more tricks in his ear than Old Delaneys donkey
he can walk through common or garden walls without detection
has no finger prints only claws
which he unfurls for your inspection
his coats too groovy to mention
and he flies to every high tick convention
hes psychic but noones sidekick
i see to that
at night he dreams ;by day i m his shorthand typist
he conveys his inspirations and i put them on my todo list
BUY FISH
sometimes he gets fleas or even worms
presently he has a neuroma
and he s booked in for an eye test as he suspects glaucoma
he supports the voluntary work i do
for those that cannot see
and he propounds a philosophy
'neither can we '

It was nearly winter when,
The dried autumn leaves crumbled,
The laughter of yours warmed me.

Nonchalantly it sounded to me when I realised that as if it was so easy,
Throwing jokes here and there.
Seeing that pretty smile curved away.

It was a cold night accompanied by pocketed hands through the freezing weather, when I realised everything.

It was too late. Too late.

For now, it's getting harder as if distance hurts me badly,
As if the skies are cursing me, away from you.
As if forever means forever and ever, like it never happened.
Like it was a fictional chapter written by a brokenhearted typist,
Seeking banishment from the surface of the world.

It was sad yet happy, for memories lasted more than words and promises.

In a lattice-lit dorm room sits a writer.
A discarded chemistry book lies beside her.
because ideas are hitting off her, like a collider.

Why does writing make her feel alive-er?
Cause it helps sort out the feelings inside her?

Repose is something grinding-study denies her.

Now, rhyming isn't her primary desire
the connections form, almost, despite her
poetry’s at it best when it comes unaware
“Oh,” she thinks, like, we’re going there?

What she writes might eventually be shared
with that awareness she vowels with care
picking words when they seem the ripest
shaping phrases like some sort of stylist
she may be less of a poet than a typist

Her default is to narrative - like you read in novels
cause let’s face it - cold-poetry is as dead as vaudeville,
as buried as silent movies, letters and opera,
have I come to dig Caesar up, like a fossil?
.
.
cold = straight up

I put bullets into spaces
load them with
these hidden things
that  i fear

i'm scrambling back up
a verse
the pressure is
too much

i think i'm putting bullets
into spread sheets and
check books
today

these dangerous things
lying around
haunting me
loaded

capsizing in a false
narrative
and sliding down
the throat

imaginary gall
fantastical struggle
pathos with ethos
just need nachos

that's some action
see the typist type
seated anywhere
really anywhere else

Many movies have portrayed “Miracle on 34th” versions beyond the actual
But I actually worked during the ordeal
My story is certainly for real
I have been with Macy’s Thirty-Seven Years
Through the years, I managed to preserver
It was during the Macy’s-Gimbels era is what I went through
I am sure you see the clue
It was a time when a Macy’s and Gimbels Buyers had lunch
There was talk of merchandising while they munched
Business was discussed on Macy’s side and Gimbels found out about Macy’s Strategy
So Gimbels explored Macy’s campaign
Well the aftermath that shall remain
So Macy’s was outraged with what had transpired from Gimbels
Macy’s decided to spy on Gimbels to see what concept they could pick up
Macy’s couldn’t get the whole element since Gimbels had their plan complex
So Macy’s became upset
Yet they knew they needed a plan of their own to be competitive
But its Macy’s in wanting to be objective
I worked in the CEO & Chairmen, Edward Finkelstein’s Executive Office along with his Executive Assistant, Veronica and I was their Typist
So an email went out stating to all Macy’s employee’s that we were not to discuss any Macy’s business with Gimbels
This was a different kind of miracle
But that was the day back then
However, the Macy’s and Gimbels competition comrades came to final end.