So much have I forgotten in ten years,
So much in ten brief years! I have forgot
What time the purple apples come to juice,
And what month brings the shy forget-me-not.
I have forgot the special, startling season
Of the pimento's flowering and fruiting;
What time of year the ground doves brown the fields
And fill the noonday with their curious fluting.
I have forgotten much, but still remember
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.
I still recall the honey-fever grass,
But cannot recollect the high days when
We rooted them out of the ping-wing path
To stop the mad bees in the rabbit pen.
I often try to think in what sweet month
The languid painted ladies used to dapple
The yellow by-road mazing from the main,
Sweet with the golden threads of the rose-apple.
I have forgotten--strange--but quite remember
The poinsettia's red, blood-red in warm December.

What weeks, what months, what time of the mild year
We cheated school to have our fling at tops?
What days our wine-thrilled bodies pulsed with joy
Feasting upon blackberries in the copse?
Oh some I know! I have embalmed the days,
Even the sacred moments when we played,
All innocent of passion, uncorrupt,
At noon and evening in the flame-heart's shade.
We were so happy, happy, I remember,
Beneath the poinsettia's red in warm December.

The world revolves and I can't hold it’s pace
neither roll around the unending cycles
may be it is the grey hues polluting my growth
or this age that is fiercely catching up with me

The sun rises and there I lay watching it rays
numbed, unwanted, determined and yet focused
such days I just wish for a lover's touch
I long for that unending lullaby uncorrupt

Sometimes the silence in the pain cascades
It trickles in droplets settling on the morning dew
and I wish to follow its pace, lay in the calm want
be carefree and unrestrained from emotions

I wish I could feel the rhythm of another heart
declare the green sheen of the unfolding leaves
as we lay counting the stars and making starts
laughing aimlessly as the joy surfaces unearthed

But all I see is the hurt of what love bears
the ones who held my soul close are strangers
unable to feel my innate palpable rhythms
fading on and on to a distanced and unmerged shore

Uncorrupt,
Yield to the temptation within,
I try to mask under
my pale flaky skin.

There is nothing
you can do anymore.
You're fleeing from the ones
you love.

And in silence,
You mourn the lost.
Grieving over the ones
you left alone.

Taste the bitterness,
in your throat.
It swells in you,
and erupts...

The snow flakes fall
and I long to be exposed,
Because when they touch
it rips through the web.

And uncorrupt sins,
They speak, they scream.
They don't forget,
I won't forget.

My rose is not just any rose,
It is very special, one-of-a-kind.
The keeper of the vase on my window sill

The lily that I found,
So beautiful, so delicate, so pure,
So unbelievably uncorrupt,
I couldn't pick it.
My fingers I fear,
Wouldn't fail to wither it.

See, my rose has thorns,
a tough outer layer.
The lily is so soft,
So delicate,
I couldn't risk the chance.
So I offer just one last glance.

I will leave the lily where it grows,
To dodge my trowel, and those of others.
Until it finds the tenderness of real love
to pick it from its lonely plot of soil.
Where it will sit on someone's window sill,
in a vase, thriving in all the spoils.

there's a common "saying" in the realm of thinkers: i'm thinking about thought - and it's so common that it deserves an answer: that doubling-up of a two tier manifestation of consciousness... thought is a verb that seemingly has not translatory outlet akin to a limb, yet thinking is, very much akin to magnetism, thinking is a sixth sense - in that thought it mandible, and is attracted to almost anything, and can make something out of nothing, the mere act of thinking is obviously superficial, mere thought does not produce a tolstoy moment with a war & peace end product, but whatever they call "mindfulness" is a load of crock-****... the prime ingredient is not res cogitans (thinking thing) - you only become mindful when you stop to think... i have to admit, the least spectacular element of thinking is ethics... the ought i vs. the i ought not... thinking is hardly an "ethical" judgement medium.

thinking about thought:
    cogitans circa cogito* can sometimes
be debilitating,
to be honest: it's actually debilitating -
i find thinking a phenomenon -
or rather the soul (as concept)
an unexplained phenomenon,
  with thinking being a noumenon -
       i find that we're closer
to being the kantian revisionism of
cartesian "spandex" than we really
believe: i stopped believing in
the cartesian res cogitans -
i even stopped believing in my own
res vanus thing emptied, ready to be
filled,
      the spontaneity of thought,
its originality, even with a repetitive
narrative leaves me bewildered by
kant's res per se: a thing in itself...
       lodge a person in a stranger's pair of
shoes, lodge a person in a stranger's
cognitive "pattern" -
the result is: you'd still cling to your own,
however better the other's is
by comparison.
                  but there's a reason why
there's an antithesis to the cartesian res cogitans:
we do not perpetually think,
    there's no chance in hell to suggest
that thinking as perpetuated,
without holes of "meditation" where
no narrative emerges...
     i like thinking, i call it cognitive cinematics,
i actually prefer thinking than
           watching cinema -
      most people abhor the riddle of thought,
i find the existence of thought to be
as ridiculous as the "existence" of a soul...
    thought is alien to me,
      its mere existence is alienating,
in that it does not possess all the verb requirements,
yet nonetheless is the crucial moral
compass...
            i thought that i ought to do /
i thought that i ought not to, do...
                   thought is a protruding limb
made invisible by the disguise of its psychic origins...
i understand that extroverts abhor thinking,
and introverts bask in the "sunshine" of about
10 minutes of a decent narrative,
without a book...
            point being: i break down when
a súdòkū doesn't clarify into an ensō...
you **** up once, you **** up the whole puzzle...
actually, cogitans circa cogito is debilitating,
its a consciousness of a conscious,
  trying to limitate conscience -
      i.e. thinking is partially ethics, but mostly
narrative...
but there comes a time when it's useful,
           notably when you fucl up a súdòkū
puzzle and read some heidegger...
      something about aphorism 87 ponderings VI...
for a person so invested in sein und zeit -
so invested in being, and notably in time -
to produce the spatial rather than a temporal
concept of dasein?
  staggering...
                  even though heidegger is more
interested in space, rather than time,
                  to nonetheless write what he did...
mind you, what's the antithesis of the heilig geist?
the zeitgeist -
                and the father?
  the status quo: the un-moveable rock solid
presence of a deity.
                      i'm still bewildered
that heidegger was so obsessed with the temporal
realm, yet produced a spatial concept of
existence...
             why do i think about thinking?
how many mindless acts do people perform
that magnetises other peoples' interest to
"explain" the irrational?
  too many... better to think about thought,
than to think about not thinking.
people act so mindlessly on so many occasions
that it somehow makes sense,
to think about the sixth sense: which is thought.
entertainment wise? well, it's not
exactly skydiving,
       but if you find thinking entertaining,
almost toying with the ethical
dimension aspect of this rubix cube
of unsolvable curiosities among the general
venomous bite of indignities...
    the film's just started...
            and as long as you don't think
that it's all going to turn out into a telekinetic /
telepathic freak-show...
         strange, even the most sensible of
people manage to believe in a god
       in the realm of philosophy, or a soul...
that's a heresy and also abhorred is a belief
that thinking can translate into
telekinesis, or telepathy.
           i like to think about thought -
because it eradicates all ethical questions of
the θ-δει / θ-πρεπει -
        all moral actions stem from having
the capacity to invert thinking-as-narrating into
thinking-about-thought...
             it's almost like: licking the membrane
of the unconscious, to agitate it
into "speaking" confucian, i.e. the golden
motto: not unto others, as not unto yourself.
this, amazing to finally realise that
the primary concept emerging from heidegger
is a spatial rather a temporal orientation
of existence...
                more importantly: the so called
"ambiguity", or rather inconsistency?
so necessary in writing,
  if i was given a book as rigid as a rubric
of the times table of 2 x 1 trough to 2 x 9...
     i wouldn't be reading and immediately
"revising" / innovating -
   i'd be reading a well polished novel that
does not require my input, or subsequent
desires for an impetus to write...
        i'd quite simply settle for the end-score...
and grind out the meat of the narrative
into a session of commuting back home
on the tube, perhaps once in a while falling
asleep...
               there's essentially time,
as there's essentially space,
       and there's quintessentially thought...
where the two essential extremes converge
is already ****** obvious -
               actually, it's not like this:
there's the quintessential time -
   as there's the quintessential space -
    so uncorrupt-able as they are on their own,
than even when merged:
  there's the quintessential space-time continuum...
  thought? it's essential, but it's not
quintessential -
          thinking never was, and never will be,
the most perfect un-embodiment of man;
        sure, thinking is essential -
but it will never be quintessential...
                            thought can become corrupt,
time only becomes "corrupt"
      by nostalgia -
   as space becomes "corrupt" by claustrophobia /
agoraphobia.

Wandering eyes are always watching you Angel,
Hungry for a bit more clevage.
desperate for a bit more leverage,
to tip you into their peverse laps.
to straddle dance and wear their hats.

Where do you go when hands are tracing Angel?
Feeling every curve and dip.
lingering on painted lips.
Is it innocent peacefull and uncorrupt.
unlike these "moral" men broke and bankrupt.

Sit by me my pretty Angel.
fear not from me a twisted angle,
for with you i do not wish to tangle.
whisper hear your secret name,
and tell me how you came to play this game,
of torturous and wicked pain,
hidden by this mask so vain.

Deep in sleep,
The child dreams.
Free from fright,
Free of plight.
A child dreams,
Uncorrupt and forever gleams,
Deep in sleep a child dreams,
Forever pure,
Deep in sleep.

with immediate effect chinas embassy in london to be at the tranis house at hampton court. the old lodge  at hampton court where i lived in history in england needs to be tidied and checked by the police before i can go in. im pleased to see some eternity fund going where its needed around the world.
the banks are very nearly uncorrupt following hard work by bank of japan and america fall and bank of england hutchinson.
remember it against the law to raise a price in england scotland wales northern dansana and southern dansana, china or france.

house prices cannot increase more than 5percent a year unless restoration work or extentions have been completed.

it is illegal for interest rates to rise at all in china france and uk.

vat must be added as usual

if anyone( princes only please, wants to do trade please contact me here if you are a king or president or the embassy in your country.
embassys must assess if product would cause loss of jobs in home country if it is so china will not move forward. to trade with china england and france all food must be healthy.

to reiterate trade is 1percent inport 1percent export no other charge. exise must be paid in advance

When you said such insightful things,
things that make me think and stop and be,
you have me hooked.
When we can stay up until 5 in the morning
and talk about the universe
and aliens and death,
as well as weather patterns and ways we can uncorrupt our nation,
and not be bored,
and not have one second of unfilled silence,
that's the day
I will fall in love.
Argue with my theories and be honest and accept when I tell the truth and know when it's all a bluff.
I don't need to be married to my best friend,
but I need to marry someone that loves me for me.
Someone who can expand my miniscule mind.
Someone who can accept that I am, in fact, insane.
Say things so profound, I have to rethink all that I have thought before.
And when I don't understand or believe in what you do,
explain
or don't,
but be okay with the difference of opinions and theories we will have.
We are not all the same and
despite all the disputes and opinions that may create barriers between us,
we love each other and
we will even through disagreements and rants and assumptions.
I promise to always be willing
to hear out things I may not like
and some things may be false.
There may be personality flaws,
but you will have your way.
I'll see more than your brown,
seemingly soulless, eyes,
because your soul is so stunning.
I have no choice but to see who you really are during our glimpses throughout the day.
When you fall asleep on the couch,
while watching documentaries,
I won't make you come to bed.
I'll bring you a blanket,
or better yet,
I'll cuddle up on the couch next to you.
I can't promise that there won't be a dull moment,
because they do happen,
but I can promise to sing in the kitchen while making dinner and I can promise to dance really badly while I get dressed in the morning,
and I definitely promise I will always play music loud enough the neighbors will hear.
I can't promise that everyday will be I will be the best, but
I can say that sometimes I will be the bigger person
and apologize when I was clearly right.
I vow to love you forever,
even after tragedies and fights and hard times.
And all that I ask, in return is that
you do the same for me.

Exempt from nothing more than panic's touch, surmised by the devil and confused by none. Heaven up above, the only thing uncorrupt. Even the night seems fake when raised by the halogen sun.

Like the greying skin of a dying hand 

my sanity has diminished

alas had I not planned -

to lose touch with the outside world
to build a wall to protect from all that's rotten, curled?

[Mother made all your fears come true 
even absent Mother shadows what is true]

The days now pass distorted and hazed
pleading in the eyes that I gaze 
thus the jurors bicker, snicker, connive and remark 
passing judgement deep within thy dark;

"Evening Pale God, my good sir, my dire honour 
here we have the source of all the horror;

feelings. 

Feelings of emptiness and fury.
A concoction of illness and insecurity."

It's all in my mind, it's all in my head 
fascist ideologies and guilt dripping red 
am I not worthy of mercy -
not worthy of forgiveness -
oh how do I cure this volatile mental sickness?! 

"Never in all my time 
have I come across one so willing to die
but too fearful to pull the trigger.

You think the world laughs at your sorry state 
alas you're the one that sniggers."

Money money, greed's sweet honey 
buying all but honesty, and truth -
If only I could take that old revered gun 
point and shoot -

AHHHH!!!

Insane, deranged, perverted, vile 

I'm all and none

I've ran out of places to hide 

from the voices that contradict this depression 
finally rising to the top with blistering aggression


"It's time to **** the snake that mutated into disease
**** the snake of pain you try to appease.

Young sir, it's time to uncorrupt them all

It's time to bring down the wall.

- - -

The time has come to let things pass 
to not allow the loneliness to last

'Tis time to sing songs of peace 
and caring

and ignore the nothingness at which I have been staring.

a simple,
sudden
shout

an interruption
i can't stop
thinking about

unexpected
and abrupt
and beautifully
uncorrupt