Humans are by nature
unappeasable  no matter their behavior.
As a conformist
We threaten outsiders,
Yet long to be our own person.
And individuality is no better,
We long for acceptance of
The group we once called home.
That is the nature of humans,
We viscously treat
those that are not like us.
Its no wonder so few are happy
with such constant inner confliction.
Because the human mind is
a kingdom ruled by two fears,
Fear of the unknown,
And Fear of rejection.

--To Rudyard Kipling


The Sword
Singing--
The voice of the Sword from the heart of the Sword
Clanging imperious
Forth from Time's battlements
His ancient and triumphing Song.

In the beginning,
Ere God inspired Himself
Into the clay thing
Thumbed to His image,
The vacant, the naked shell
Soon to be Man:
Thoughtful He pondered it,
Prone there and impotent,
Fragile, inviting
Attack and discomfiture;
Then, with a smile--
As He heard in the Thunder
That laughed over Eden
The voice of the Trumpet,
The iron Beneficence,
Calling his dooms
To the Winds of the world--
Stooping, He drew
On the sand with His finger
A shape for a sign
Of his way to the eyes
That in wonder should waken,
For a proof of His will
To the breaking intelligence.
That was the birth of me:
I am the Sword.

Bleak and lean, grey and cruel,
Short-hilted, long shafted,
I froze into steel;
And the blood of my elder,
His hand on the hafts of me,
Sprang like a wave
In the wind, as the sense
Of his strength grew to ecstasy;
Glowed like a coal
In the throat of the furnace;
As he knew me and named me
The War-Thing, the Comrade,
Father of honour
And giver of kingship,
The fame-smith, the song-master,
Bringer of women
On fire at his hands
For the pride of fulfilment,
Priest (saith the Lord)
Of his marriage with victory
**! then, the Trumpet,
Handmaid of heroes,
Calling the peers
To the place of espousals!
**! then, the splendour
And glare of my ministry,
Clothing the earth
With a livery of lightnings!
**! then, the music
Of battles in onset,
And ruining armours,
And God's gift returning
In fury to God!
Thrilling and keen
As the song of the winter stars,
**! then, the sound
Of my voice, the implacable
Angel of Destiny!--
I am the Sword.

Heroes, my children,
Follow, O, follow me!
Follow, exulting
In the great light that breaks
From the sacred Companionship!
****** through the fatuous,
****** through the fungous brood,
Spawned in my shadow
And gross with my gift!
****** through, and hearken
O, hark, to the Trumpet,
The ****** of Battles,
Calling, still calling you
Into the Presence,
Sons of the Judgment,
Pure wafts of the Will!
Edged to annihilate,
Hilted with government,
Follow, O, follow me,
Till the waste places
All the grey globe over
Ooze, as the honeycomb
Drips, with the sweetness
Distilled of my strength,
And, teeming in peace
Through the wrath of my coming,
They give back in beauty
The dread and the anguish
They had of me visitant!
Follow, O follow, then,
Heroes, my harvesters!
Where the tall grain is ripe
****** in your sickles!
Stripped and adust
In a stubble of empire,
Scything and binding
The full sheaves of sovranty:
Thus, O, thus gloriously,
Shall you fulfil yourselves!
Thus, O, thus mightily,
Show yourselves sons of mine--
Yea, and win grace of me:
I am the Sword!

I am the feast-maker:
Hark, through a noise
Of the screaming of eagles,
Hark how the Trumpet,
The mistress of mistresses,
Calls, silver-throated
And stern, where the tables
Are spread, and the meal
Of the Lord is in hand!
Driving the darkness,
Even as the banners
And spears of the Morning;
Sifting the nations,
The **** from the metal,
The waste and the weak
From the fit and the strong;
Fighting the brute,
The abysmal Fecundity;
Checking the gross,
Multitudinous blunders,
The groping, the purblind
Excesses in service
Of the Womb universal,
The absolute drudge;
Firing the charactry
Carved on the World,
The miraculous gem
In the seal-ring that burns
On the hand of the Master--
Yea! and authority
Flames through the dim,
Unappeasable Grisliness
Prone down the nethermost
Chasms of the Void!--
Clear singing, clean slicing;
Sweet spoken, soft finishing;
Making death beautiful,
Life but a coin
To be staked in the pastime
Whose playing is more
Than the transfer of being;
Arch-anarch, chief builder,
Prince and evangelist,
I am the Will of God:
I am the Sword.

The Sword
Singing--
The voice of the Sword from the heart of the Sword
Clanging majestical,
As from the starry-staired
Courts of the primal Supremacy,
His high, irresistible song.

THE Danaan children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold,
And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes,
For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies,
With heavy whitening wings, and a heart fallen cold:
I kiss my wailing child and press it to my breast,
And hear the narrow graves calling my child and me.
Desolate winds that cry over the wandering sea;
Desolate winds that hover in the flaming West;
Desolate winds that beat the doors of Heaven, and beat
The doors of Hell and blow there many a whimpering
ghost;
O heart the winds have shaken, the unappeasable host
Is comelier than candles at Mother Mary's feet.

Eternally the choking steam goes up
From the black pools of seething oil. . . .
How merry
Those little devils are! They've stolen the pitchfork
From Bel, there, as he slept . . . Look! -- oh look, look!
They've got at Nero! Oh it isn't fair!
Lord, how he squeals! Stop it . . . it's, well -- indecent!
But funny! . . . See, Bel's waked. They'll catch it now!

. . . Eternally that stifling reek arises,
Blotting the dome with smoky, terrible towers,
Black, strangling trees, whispering obscene things
Amongst their branches, clutching with maimed hands,
Or oozing slowly, like blind tentacles
Up to the gates; higher than that heaped brick
Man piled to smite the sun. And all around
Are devils. One can laugh . . . but that hunched shape
The face one stone, like those Assyrian kings!
One sees in carvings, watching men flayed red
Horribly laughable in leaps and writhes;
That face -- utterly evil, clouded round
With evil like a smoke -- it turns smiles sour!
. . . And Nero there, the flabby cheeks astrain
And sweating agony . . . long agony . . .
Imperishable, unappeasable
For ever . . . well . . . it droops the mouth. Till I
Look up.
There's one blue patch no smoke dares touch.
Sky, clear, ineffable, alive with light,
Always the same . . .
Before, I never knew
Rest and green peace.
She stands there in the sun.
. . . It seems so quaint she should have long gold wings.
I never have got used -- folded across
Her breast, or fluttering with fierce, pure light,
Like shaken steel. Her crown too. Well, it's queer!
And then she never cared much for the harp
On earth. Here, though . . .
She is all peace, all quiet,
All passionate desires, the eloquent thunder
Of new, glad suns, shouting aloud for joy,
Over fresh worlds and clean, trampling the air
Like stooping hawks, to the long wind of horns,
Flung from the bastions of Eternity . . .
And she is the low lake, drowsy and gentle,
And good words spoken from the tongues of friends,
And calmness in the evening, and deep thoughts,
Falling like dreams from the stars' solemn mouths.
All these.
They said she was unfaithful once.
Or I remembered it -- and so, for that,
I lie here, I suppose. Yes, so they said.
You see she is so troubled, looking down,
Sorrowing deeply for my torments. I
Of course, feel nothing while I see her -- save
That sometimes when I think the matter out,
And what earth-people said of us, of her,
It seems as if I must be, here, in heaven,
And she --
. . . Then I grow proud; and suddenly
There comes a splatter of oil against my skin,
Hurting this time. And I forget my pride:
And my face writhes.
Some day the little ladder
Of white words that I build up, up, to her
May fetch me out. Meanwhile it isn't bad. . . .

But what a sense of humor God must have!

Glutinous envy consumed
                         her features.

Once a creation of life's art.

Distortional envy cracked,
                               a fractured shell.
                      
                            Pieces fitting incorrectly.

plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes

the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on

wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades


the purpose
economized

every axiom
americanized

and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range

cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility

closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression


blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake

gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration

dying to know
forget it.

The relentless sky releases its downpour
Droplets pounding against the glass
I do not even bat an eye
As I hear the lighting clash
I listen to the thunder boom
Like the mighty lion's roar
Inside my head with my unappeasable demons
I am persistently at war
The battle is unfolding
The storm still raging on
I wonder when both will cease
I wonder if I'll live til dawn
The only thing I wish for is from my shackles to be free
I have to ask, which is worse
The storm outside or the one brewing inside of me?

Paris, earlier today. It’s a (vaccinated) summer family reunion and I’m catching up with relatives I haven’t seen for AGES. Like my impeccably dressed (three piece suit on a warm, un-air-conditioned, Saturday) 83 year old great uncle.

We cheek kiss

“STILL searching for love, Uncle Remy?”

“Forget love. My dear, I’m an old, self-absorbed narcissist. What I look for is someone young and frivolous whose most complicated desire is fun - specifically fun that can be bought - that’s an important distinction.”

I gasp and pose.

“You’re looking for MEEEE!,” I squeal.

“Oh, if I needed a spoiled, over-serious, temperamental, unappeasable rich girl - I’d think of you.”

“You GET me!,” *I beam with pride

plot out distances between freckles
and count the amount of hairs;
in a beauteous analysis
a cold witnessing
of)a featured lifeless gaze
projected onto windows
refracted in time with the pounding
from lost soulless ghouls
in a dank puddled basement
as we stare through keyholes

the length of life waits to rescind
to wash up on the shoreline
anew, once refreshed
with Angina on

wading in cyclic waves
in deposits of reveries
stale orangeade sonatas
and dull area tirades


the purpose
economized

every axiom
americanized

and as your atoms become depersonalized
tension is materialized, in ornate ivory
shattered brass instruments rusted by
novels written to god
in a
fractured light
and range

cramped in a curtailed distance
a brickwall deadend universe
gnashing with frustration
****** yawns of futility

closed viaducts
and vacant lots
deafened eyes, grey
glimmering in retort
to their own expression


blind sight was squandered by the snapback, of all the
strings of the orchestra as they were simultaneously snipped
by sharp prying eyes, listening to the mixing of paint
to smell the music, its arms limp, vivid
wishing to pull you back (in hindsight)
with dreaded, deadened incantations
a dithyrambic liturgy to the drunken thoughtless night
of slurred litanies and unappeasable, irascible deities
lonely and immaculate, all-powerless and deft
in irksome quarrels and arguments
glossed over by the fine print of another
exalting the vainglorious self-inscribed paragons
and revelling every inadmissible mistake

gazing past to a solo star
dumbstruck and dead
from an evaluation
and dehydration

dying to know
forget it.

A weary face stares back at us all
Giants grow tall
Where the small minded are casted!!!

All concepts to be trapped in
Our man made prisons!!!

Such derision is unanswered!!

The garden men and planters
Make grow all thou conceives today
Love seekers to slaves,
What's the difference in its core?

Some cry out for extras
While Heartbreakers take more!!!!

More of nothing left
A thief to every theft
A liar per every aching tongue!!!!

Unappeasable audiences
Bookies seek out bondmaids
For their own completion!!!!

So cunning
To these lust cumulaters!!!!

Electrode pulses
Bypass what's become of us,
Eristic flumes
Travel fluctuating rooms
Wherein keyholes haveth no fit

Acidic spit
Lines the dried out mouth's
They gaze
They count

But add nothing to their foulard writings!!!!

A weary face stareth back at us all,
Giants grow tall where thy small minded are casted!!!

All concept to be trapped in our man made prism's!
Such derision is unanswered,
The gardenmen and planters make grow all thou conceiveth today!!!!

Love seekers to slaves,
What's the difference in its core?
Some cry out for extras,
While Heartbreakers taketh more!!!!

More of nothing left!!!

A thief to their theft,
A liar for every aching tounge!!!

Unappeasable audiences,
Bookies seek out bondmaids for their own descretion!!!!
Non completion soo cunning to these lusted cumulaters!!!!

Damsel,
Where art thou?

Elyptic in thy writings?
I proceed!!!

Laughing to bleed,
Or bleeding to die?

Electrode pulses bypass what's become of us,
Eristic flumes travel fluctuating rooms,
Where thy keyhole has no fit!!!!!

Acidic spit lines the dried out apertures,
They yawp ,
They count,
But add nothing to their foulard writings!!!!!

Just like everything else she goes away in the end,
there's no such thing as special,
it's all just the false spectrum of our perceivable desires,
liberty's eyes of unappeasable bliss maniacally stabbed out,
everything is nothing,
and nothing doesn't exist,
In the unforgivable end I'm always alone,
I live for your romance, but my love lets me starve,
loves unstable walls of unbridled lust,
The ****** weeping angels of pride,
classical war zones of ridiculed misery,
the devils mine of fraudulent consciousness,
starkness clouds of fictitious reality,
life's a dangerous game, humanities humble begrudging essence,
all for one and none for all,
our world's gone mad,
all lives taking part in the hollow pit of it's permanent nothingness,
it's a sad sad world

A sadness that I implore.
It is sweet yet, indignating.
Why, you might ask?
The truth is …
There is no truth once you are God.
Everything is true.
To the criminal who ***** and killed his daughters
To the dying voices of the martyr mothers who protected their family.
Foucault says it too.
It is true. What is better than truth?
That question will end the day we realise that we are all true.
Even in the art of lying, there is a truth.
There is pukka.
There is an inexplicable oneness.
It is unappeasable.
One has to accept it.

Even your murderer has a point.

When I look into your eyes, I see passion.
I see the times I haven't been there for you
The burned memories in your skin
I see the tears that have yet to be shed
And all the ones that have cascaded down your face
When looking into your eyes,
I see your burning passion
for malevolence
I see past what I see, deep within your spirit
Your unappeasable soul
I see your scars,
The cruelty behind them
In your eyes, I see you need to be loved
I see your commitment to being loyal
Your desire to have someone there for you
In your eyes,
I see you finding yourself
I see questions unanswered
In your eyes,
Your pain burns a hole in my heart
The kind that wants to embrace you for hours
The "****" in your eyes
The constant let downs
The future success
*Your eyes hold burning passions that need to be let out

ROBIN REDBREAST

It was the dingiest bird
you ever saw, all the color
washed from him, as if
he had been standing in the rain,
friendless and stiff and cold,
since Eden went wrong.
In the house marked FOR SALE,
where nobody made a sound,
in the room where I lived
with an empty page, I had heard
the squawking of the jays
under the wild persimmons
tormenting him.
So I scooped him up
after they knocked him down,
in league with that ounce of heart
pounding in my palm,
that dumb beak gaping.
Poor thing! Poor foolish life!
without sense enough to stop
running in desperate circles,
needing my lucky help
to toss him back into his element.
But when I held him high,
fear clutched my hand,
for through the hole in his head,
cut whistle-clean . .
through the old dried wound
where the hunter's brand
had tunneled out his wits
I caught the cold flash of the blue
Unappeasable sky.

I'm in favor that return,
Neither of us can tolerate this, in vain,
Season of travellers dressed red pain,
Strange ghosts, figures without eyes,
Pale faces with speechless cries,
Die on paths to paradise,
As lost memories recollect faded purposes,
Beseeching unappeasable promises,
Offered nearer to hope before despair,
suspended nowhere, reflecting a loitering nightmare,
Closer to their decayed bodies, their rotten flare,

I hope we compel our senses to return,
Enchanting fancies delude souls' Yearn,
To places swaying between sleep and dreams,
Where the unknown devours awareness beams;
See soul, supple promises have no signs here,
But whispers among whispers twitter near,
Unnatural tales in voiceless words in timeless sleep,
Divert eager faith, that courageously weep.
The closest to me, backward, we better creep.
To these worldly loving hearts who discern
where faiths convert concern to deep concern.

Written by
Jamal Abboud

It was a mild, Autumn day
The kind I've always loved
Where I stood, watching him
Fix the boat onto the trailer.
Safety catch,
Other chains for various reasons,
Then he walked back to the truck and got in.
Salt water streaked out of the plugs
Where waves had battered te fishing vessel.
The diesel of the truck revved up
When a dangling rope caught my attention -
Free and dragging,
Frayed at one end.
Screeching took my focus away
To the tires of the black car,
Which were spinning wildly as e hit the gas,
Yet going no where.
The line swayed back and forth,
Reaching closer to the back tire axel.
So desperately I wanted to grab it,
To throw it onto the bow,
But I was frozen looking at the tires.
They spun, and spun, and spun more,
Thick black smoke rising off the ground
As friction tried to hang on.
It was me.
It could've been a mirror.
Finally, someone understood  
I spend my life working and working,
Getting no where because I'm working
Instead of learning,
Learning like I so desperately want to,
Stressing over deadlines for endless
Papers
On nothing.
The papers I used to love,
The love which was being drawn out of me
By some terrible wind,
Like the wind that had beaten me in the boat
So badly before.

The squealing stopped
And he slid out.
Shaking his head,
He bent over,
Looking at the tread.

thats 20,000 miles right there,
Used in 15 seconds.

Two years of me spent.  
Gone.
I can never get it back.
All the time I could've read -
Taught myself anything -
Gone,
Spent trying to please the unappeasable,
Who sit in front of white boards
Abusing their power,
Going so far as letting me make the curriculum.

Two years were those fifteen seconds.
How many miles less
Can I now go?