Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.

which man has saved us from a dystopian future;
where each one of us must decide between good
and evil without fear of punishment from the camera
lens or laws that have become as onerous upon our
lives as a world without any law at all; which man
would be genius enough to survive his own evil

no matter the height of our intellectual achievements,
it is the emotional strain of one life in one world that
cannot care no matter how much we pray beyond
gravity’s last remaining outposts that lays waste to
souls that beg to be equal among beings made in an
image that has not been defined but merely assumed

when tears are no longer welcome as before and
when anger serves the strong well, then will the
light know to assume it’s place in the darkness which
hides from the absence of the knowing, undefined
by Gods or beasts that live in the depths choking
on sinks of man’s glorious quest for immortality

if one man knows of the legend if not each jot of
the law then would the spirit hover above his heart;
must he decide between living as a depraved knave
or martyred by unrecorded history, unfathomed
by meaning or the depths that have no end except
his will to suffer for what he once knew to be true?

O, but needst I to listen to t'ese wishes, benign as t'ey are, but wild and inevitable-yet inaudible as dreams. Burnt by sophisticated passion, and whirring hells of torpid astonishment as my being at t'is moment, but smooth and glowing tenderly with affection-as thy love still I long for, woven so secretly ye' neatly alongst th' tangled paths of my mind! Yes, and its layers-turbulent patches of skin, yellow skin, crafted passionately by whose Creator, and imbued with unconquerable infatuation just like 'tis now. But no breathing soul canst I bestow it on-this overarching destiny, healthy and red as t'ose garden plums-impatient in t'eir wait for the shiny May summer-aside from thee, as 'tis but always thee, Kozarev! Uninvited as I am, by any other'ness' t'at might as well enrich my love story, as enough I feel, about t'at unrelenting history! Thou art th' sole man, th' only justified heart whom I adoreth, and want, so selfishly, to marry! As ripe as t'eir lips might be-but stifling, and immature in constitution, thinkable only when juxtaposed merrily with t'ose squirming nymphets about yon schoolyard; corrupted not as a newborn fern-with thighs carefully fastened to greedy-looking material, basked in immaculate sunlight, and so fresh to human sight, when all t'ese circumstances art but chaste no more, but beg, beg our hearts, and implore our worrying souls, to stay.

O Kozarev! Startled wasth I, to enter into thy proceedings, yester! Like an imbecile now my whole countenance-and its entire, ****** constitution-ah, but depleted, harmfully depleted, by laughter. What a raft of cynical conflagration! How grimly sadistic, ye' poetic in some ways! And t'ese remarks, and praises of love-begin but to dwelleth upon me all over again. Distracted is my firmness-by thy invincible power, guileless as thou hath always been, seeming not to hath heard my volatile heartbeat; and how doth I uttereth t'ose chuckles to my own mirrors upon flinging back into my bedchamber whenst our exchanges areth over. But indignant art thou not to my reddish blushes-which, like t'ose thorns of morning roses-enliven my soul up from within, after t'eir bleak winter!-and blanch darkly all my griefs away. In a thousand years and I shalt still miss thee, just like t'is, but 'tis just now t'at futility seemeth no more capable of wooing my calamity-and indulge it so adversely t'at it shalt turn towards me! Yes, how thou hath, with holiness, touched and entrapped my amorous passion, my love! In t'ese dreams-flourishing dreams, just like th' greenish pond and its superficial foliage outside, I but walk by thy moonlight and be blessed in thy fascination. Mighty and balmy shalt be th' sky overhead, hanging aloft with its mild arrogance, smelling like roofs of restrained rain-musty and soaking with glittering reproof; and wan abomination. But pure! Purity is but its sanctity, and protected by miraculous heavens, dwindling about like whitewashed statues being shoved around by a deadly lagoon of children-unknowing of what tomorrow shalt baffle us on, with faces of steel-like jubilance. And th' trees! Tropical wands be t'eir refuge-but horrifying as t'eir remorse-ah, in which souls shalt be brought about whirls of contemptuous winds, enslaved and stupefied all th' time-by mounds and havens of gruesome cruelty. But no care doth I fix on yon mortification-as thou art t'ere with me, Kozarev! Strolls shalt we take-t'ose encompassed by purplish and cheerful verdure, who admire us from t'eir gold-like stems afar-and into each other's cleavages shalt we retreat, by th' means of stories-yes, my love, stories of glee, pleasure, and yet-uneasiness, in order t'at t'ey shalt be wounded away and superseded by joy. Our love, rings of love, t'at is to come as immediate as nature might permit, and shalt allow us to admit-as yester hath unfolded, by bracing my feet for bouncing outside, across t'ese carpeted tiles-into th' very vicinity of thy chamber. Ah, thy handsome face! As white as pearls-yet frail as th' bulbous chirping snow. May I console 'em, my love, by my hands proffered-in th' most honourable marriage I desireth to come? But look, look afar, how t'ose stars-in t'is merciless universe, whispereth to one another, and talk gaily between t'eir wicked souls, of plans on bewildering our love-our bonds of vivid, mature fragrant compliments! How t'eir jealousy is mockery, and a swelling threat to us. And th' moon t'at is combing the hair, again, of t'at vicious ethereal princess-with a snooty swish of anot'er black hair-which is but a sea of anguished torment to me, should she descend the steps of her own ***** maidenhood-and carry herself off into our earth. Hark, how she doth it! How heathen, and indecent! But canst thou hear that-Kozarev? Canst thou be knowing of her shamelessness-and her counterfeit jewels? And her claws, her foster claws-ah, sharp as bullets, and notorious as her own evil heart! Luxury t'at is fake, ye' miserably auspicious! How I loathe her! Boil doth my temper at her genteel sight-and hostile auras, with t'at pair of necklaces t'at wasth born from falsehood, and ah! concealed deceit by portraits of clever contentment. How should thou hath seen her lips twitch over and over again, upon her setting t'at blackening imbecile gaze on me-me, who albeit from th' same brethren, but far from her flawless marches and stately refinement. And a creature, just a minuscule part of th' others, t'at she deems unworthy ye' deserving of torture! Silver and gold is she exclusively acquainted with, whenst torches in my garden art not even set alight. But look! How thou proudly saunter forward to welcome her, and salute her unforgiving cordiality with th' marks of thy lips, on her hand! And how t'is view scythes my chest, my heart, and tears it open just like th' blade of a sneaky knife shalt do. I am dying, dying from t'is tampered heart! And t'ese candles of my heart t'at hath been heartlessly watered-look how t'ey art brimming with sweat in cold demise. O Kozarev! Hath I been too late to seek thy love? Thy hands, my faultless prince, art but th' only mercy I canst pray for! Hath nature been so unfair as to savour all my dreams, ah, and even t'is single longing-and bequeath onto me a tragic life of undesired ghostlike mimes-in th' wholeness of my future? Thou art th' lost charm of t'at wholeness, my love, and should be I bereft of thee again, I shalt but be robbed of my entirety-and pride, womanly pride t'at I sadly out'ta hath. Ah, Kozarev, in thy movements doth I find bliss-a creaking blow to my wood-like stillness, and a cure for my sickly contrivances. I came here for thee, and always didst! Canst thou hear t'at-and satisfy this fierce longing with just a second of thy soundless touch? Lights flicker, and smile in t'eir subsequent death-but t'is is a token of subservient passion. And I shalt not give up like 'em-as t'is life greets us once only, before transporting us into regions of th' unknown-yes, it doth, my love, wherein eerieness is still questioned and overtly unfathomed. Ah, and before death I long to have you-Kozarev, and sit as we shalt-side by side, charmed by our generous yet moronic affection, until th' earth doth make us part, and shalt then we retreat into our most dimmed apertures.

Thou art my blissful paradise, Kozarev! Thy presence but bringst out my well of solemn cheers and proud, sun-like congeniality. And in t'is warm, gentle spring I shalt write but merely on thy vivacity! O imagination-blame, and curse her as thou might do, is in fact, my key, to my newborn triumph and infallible victory; th' marks of glimmering satisfaction-and visible restoration of my sin, my soul. T'is is because I believe, strongly, with all th' forlorn might of my heart, t'at sincerity shalt forever tower over every tweak of malevolent innocence and repressed wishes for destruction. 'Tis, Kozarev, is th' voice emanating towards me from within; and bracing t'ese lips, and *****, for facing her-t'at accursed rival of mine, with bravery and independence I hath never been brought to acknowledge. Ah, petrified as my customs let me be, conviction shalt stay within my hands; and t'at shadow-o, picture of our old days together, on th' veranda-yes, decorated with lights of our love, spur me on. Thy love is born as, and devoted to mine, my love! Crafted, shaped, and designated for me only-and to be mine, only mine-for evermore. We art but a chain of perfect concord, as God hath so sweetly decreed! And I shalt doth nothing else as remarkable as determine to retrieve it-with all th' charms and intellect t'at I possess-and my words as sugar sweet, as well as th' leaves of grace and my becoming, comely wit.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
****** her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The ****’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening-care;
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre;

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne’er unroll;
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country’s blood.

Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation’s eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the Gates of Mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unlettered Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e’er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing ling’ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev’n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev’n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonoured dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,—

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say
“Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

“There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt’ring his wayward fancies would he rove;
Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

“One morn I missed him from the customed hill,
Along the heath, and near his fav’rite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:

“The next, with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,—
Approach and read, for thou can’st read, the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”

                THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth
A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown:
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear,
He gained from Heaven (’twas all he wished) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The ***** of his Father and his God.

She stood up from the bed straight faced, turned towards the door and made her way hastily through it. She neared the door ever quickly tears swelling in her eyes before ripping it open and leaving him sitting in the bedroom motionless and still.
He meanwhile stared at the ground in awe. Trying to piece together the past hour or so and especially what just happened. He remained frozen for a period before snapping too searching round the house for her, calling her name but received no reply. Upon making a round down the hallway, he could hear the door banging against the wall, open and empty...
He rushed outside in a mad panic and bolted to the end of the driveway frantically looking in either direction for her, but by now she was already approaching the entrance to a park she was familiar with, they’d been here before. She was already making her way across the frozen grass, it numbing her feet instantly. They stung as she made each step dressed solely in a jacket and boxers. The cold night air sent her into a shivering frenzy but her eyes were fixed on the pond.
Unaware of the girl whereabouts the boy overwhelmed with guilt and worry sprinted off down the street fueled by determination and adrenaline. Sprinting several hundred metres until he tripped and tumbled grazing his sides and knees, unfathomed and eyes swollen he stood and set off running harder determined not to give up. Through blurred eyes he failed to see a couple taking an evening stroll in front of him. With a loud grunt on the part of both parties he ploughed through shaking his head and continuing as he had.

The girl stood at the foot of the pond walking to the edge of the pond. “This is it...I'm finally leaving this hell I made...” she mumbled to herself as she closed her eyes and taking deep breathes she finished with “there's no going back now...” Taking a single step forward her frame plunged into pond, sinking, body freezing and trembling as it sank deeper into the dark abyss.

The park loomed ahead, with all that was left he pushed forward, hip and side bleeding from the fall. Wincing in pain he burst into the clearing. His eyes darted to and fro’ using the minimal light from the street lights to hopefully make out something, or someone.
His gaze turned to the dark forest suspecting she may have taken off inside, it was his only lead and so the boy made his way towards it only ceasing the adrenaline fueled sprint as the disruption of ripples in water caught his eye. He turned on his heel and headed for the pond, feet numb from the dew ridden grass. Meanwhile just below the surface and falling, the girl’s throat and lungs burned. With that she let out her final breath and begun to sink faster, eyes slowly closing She thought to herself "this is my final goodbye huh....sorry I couldn't make it spark...." The bubbles began to form on the surface of the pond which the boy quickly picked up on.
"Oh my ******* god no....no no no no and no" he began yelling as he sprinted for the pond with a new sense of urgency, ripping his shirt off taking a deep breath before diving head first into the water not caring for the fact he couldn’t swim. The icy water almost knocked the wind out of him as he made contact, eyes burning, swimming faster and deeper. He could make out her pale hand above her head as she sunk. In horror the boy almost screamed underwater but knew better than to. With all he had left he grabbed hold of her hand heaving your body up and grabbing her limp body tightly. He couldn't really cry under water but his eyes started to close and he begun to run out of breath, pushing to the surface he took a breath just before the surface taking in water. He burst through the shimmering wall of black and crawled onto the bank coughing and spluttering, coughing up copious amounts of water dragging a lifeless body, and his own limp one up the steep muddy incline. Spark staggered to his knees resting on his palms, breathing hard and heavy. Gasping hungrily for air he turned to his companion. Her body was cold and pale blue. Frozen. Lifeless.

A dark unfathomed tide
Of interminable pride—
A mystery, and a dream,
Should my early life seem;
I say that dream was fraught
With a wild and waking thought
Of beings that have been,
Which my spirit hath not seen,
Had I let them pass me by,
With a dreaming eye!
Let none of earth inherit
That vision on my spirit;
Those thoughts I would control,
As a spell upon his soul:
For that bright hope at last
And that light time have past,
And my wordly rest hath gone
With a sigh as it passed on:
I care not though it perish
With a thought I then did cherish.

dejected under makeup
explicit ache
translucent frame

i fathom you
i sing you songs
you learn my words
you capture me

a change
a sudden whim
what stays is broken
shapeless pain

letchor blood currdle like wild flowers melting in the mid day sun, let your fire dragon breath beneath the mess of leaves falling from a calm breeze.
Bring peace to a world where silence is comfort and passion is the tulip under the shade. Let the water trickle across your from and watch the skies turn from blue to grey.
The world is a heartache but a heart none the less, you needent suffer because suffering come from ones whose enlightenment leaves no mess.
Be a star in a sea of diamonds. croon for the howling of a dewwy morning.
Believe in a seed that can plant a whole world, never let the thoughts alter your disposition. Your true calling already exibits strength, quite lying to yourself, sleepless this and sinner with saints.
An enegmatic dissolusion of propriety and oath, formless and scouring we delve deeper into our shelf.
Cables and wires sing with praises of stables and liars, klu klux ****, peanut butter and jam, what a contravity of mystery and a hairless dogs epiphany. We told you once and we'll tell you again, your night stand secrets bar no weight in this land.

soldiers ships sail without a captian your ballroom gown looks like a tale unfathomed. please exsist in me as i believe in you. let your gaurd down and let me take the bow. please let my love pass through you like grasses ablaze, set my lingering sentient body free i have no more purple haze.

the morning will come and the night will shrink an exhaled body as yours dissapears in a blink. Together and forever a seemless reality, one blood runs through the oceans and cowers down the river stop breathe, you exist in moments like these

everybody sees you but no body nods, your a stupid little quip on someone elses radar. help yourself before you **** another be your best friend your mother your father your brother. let the ragsw turn to riches and the wine into the blind, let yourself ferment and **** the cat that explains your time. keep to yoursel fan dnever let them in, your a blind man with a stick and everyone else is screaming let me in. to each there own and to own a martyr is a shame, refrain from self obscurity and procrastinate your brain. Reach for the truth kept in a jar glass with the words mason like the illuminati keep in there car. your a vehicles for self enhilation a explosion of confusion, embrace this mess, it all you have to keep. like a safe bares a rope your only job is to escape..

brimming with hatred and filled up with angst your an emotional writer trying to die on the page.
**** yourself kindly and **** yourself well, your death will be celebrated like a child blowing out the candels at his birthday from hell. tears hit the icing and the presents all rott, something was a miss did his mother forget to love him not. the poor childs life went up in ruins the cycles of existance dug him into ruins bleeding and rotting a child life ion time be the future self that your chilhood friend can find. Be with your death like your beside your life. in the middle lies the truth betweent he lies of existing between pictures of books that no one took the time to read. death of a salesman the drowning of a rat, **** yourself with kindness eat your cake until your fat.

whats the problem with that? *******. you ****, you did it you ****! lol. :) ;) emote.

dying by numbers

illusions of granduer
life in a breath
**** the pitch man and take your breath

dont edit yourself absolve yourself

write for a feeling it is fleeting write for death and become alive

Midnight honeycomb
Songs of being alone
Funk chunk xylophone
Ribbons untied
Capsules split by
Things unknown
Rips unsewn
Floating free for all
Casket creep crawl
I dug you out of things too heavy
Too heavy
Too heavy
Broke the levy
We all drown
But the sound of things unfathomed
saved us from ourselves

The first was like a dream through summer heat,
  The second like a tedious numbing swoon,
While the half-frozen pulses lagged to beat
  Beneath a winter moon.

"But," says my friend, "what was this thing and where?"
  It was a pleasure-place within my soul;
An earthly paradise supremely fair
  That lured me from the goal.

The first part was a tissue of hugged lies;
  The second was its ruin fraught with pain:
Why raise the fair delusion to the skies
  But to be dashed again?

My castle stood of white transparent glass
  Glittering and frail with many a fretted spire,
But when the summer sunset came to pass
  It kindled into fire.

My pleasaunce was an undulating green,
  Stately with trees whose shadows slept below,
With glimpses of smooth garden-beds between,
  Like flame or sky or snow.

Swift squirrels on the pastures took their ease,
  With leaping lambs safe from the unfeared knife;
All singing-birds rejoicing in those trees
  Fulfilled their careless life.

Wood-pigeons cooed there, stock-doves nestled there;
  My trees were full of songs and flowers and fruit,
Their branches spread a city to the air,
  And mice lodged in their root.

My heath lay farther off, where lizards lived
  In strange metallic mail, just spied and gone;
Like darted lightnings here and there perceived
  But nowhere dwelt upon.

Frogs and fat toads were there to hop or plod
  And propagate in peace, an uncouth crew,
Where velvet-headed rushes rustling nod
  And spill the morning dew.

All caterpillars throve beneath my rule,
  With snails and slugs in corners out of sight;
I never marred the curious sudden stool
  That perfects in a night.

Safe in his excavated gallery
  The burrowing mole groped on from year to year;
No harmless hedgehog curled because of me
  His prickly back for fear.

Ofttimes one like an angel walked with me,
  With spirit-discerning eyes like flames of fire,
But deep as the unfathomed endless sea
  Fulfilling my desire:

And sometimes like a snowdrift he was fair,
  And sometimes like a sunset glorious red,
And sometimes he had wings to scale the air
  With aureole round his head.

We sang our songs together by the way,
  Calls and recalls and echoes of delight;
So communed we together all the day,
  And so in dreams by night.

I have no words to tell what way we walked,
  What unforgotten path now closed and sealed;
I have no words to tell all things we talked,
  All things that he revealed:

This only can I tell: that hour by hour
  I waxed more feastful, lifted up and glad;
I felt no thorn-***** when I plucked a flower,
  Felt not my friend was sad.

"To-morrow," once I said to him with smiles:
  "To-night," he answered gravely and was dumb,
But pointed out the stones that numbered miles
  And miles and miles to come.

"Not so," I said: "to-morrow shall be sweet;
  To-night is not so sweet as coming days."
Then first I saw that he had turned his feet,
  Had turned from me his face:

Running and flying miles and miles he went,
  But once looked back to beckon with his hand
And cry: "Come home, O love, from banishment:
  Come to the distant land."

That night destroyed me like an avalanche;
  One night turned all my summer back to snow:
Next morning not a bird upon my branch,
  Not a lamb woke below,--

No bird, no lamb, no living breathing thing;
  No squirrel scampered on my breezy lawn,
No mouse lodged by his hoard: all joys took wing
  And fled before that dawn.

Azure and sun were starved from heaven above,
  No dew had fallen, but biting frost lay ****:
O love, I knew that I should meet my love,
  Should find my love no more.

"My love no more," I muttered, stunned with pain:
  I shed no tear, I wrung no passionate hand,
Till something whispered: "You shall meet again,
  Meet in a distant land."

Then with a cry like famine I arose,
  I lit my candle, searched from room to room,
Searched up and down; a war of winds that froze
  Swept through the blank of gloom.

I searched day after day, night after night;
  Scant change there came to me of night or day:
"No more," I wailed, "no more"; and trimmed my light,
  And gnashed, but did not pray,

Until my heart broke and my spirit broke:
  Upon the frost-bound floor I stumbled, fell,
And moaned: "It is enough: withhold the stroke.
  Farewell, O love, farewell."

Then life swooned from me. And I heard the song
  Of spheres and spirits rejoicing over me:
One cried: "Our sister, she hath suffered long."--
  One answered: "Make her see."--

One cried: "O blessed she who no more pain,
  Who no more disappointment shall receive."--
One answered: "Not so: she must live again;
  Strengthen thou her to live."

So, while I lay entranced, a curtain seemed
  To shrivel with crackling from before my face,
Across mine eyes a waxing radiance beamed
  And showed a certain place.

I saw a vision of a woman, where
  Night and new morning strive for *******;
Incomparably pale, and almost fair,
  And sad beyond expression.

Her eyes were like some fire-enshrining gem,
  Were stately like the stars, and yet were tender,
Her figure charmed me like a windy stem
  Quivering and drooped and slender.

I stood upon the outer barren ground,
  She stood on inner ground that budded flowers;
While circling in their never-slackening round
  Danced by the mystic hours.

But every flower was lifted on a thorn,
  And every thorn shot upright from its sands
To gall her feet; hoarse laughter pealed in scorn
  With cruel clapping hands.

She bled and wept, yet did not shrink; her strength
  Was strung up until daybreak of delight:
She measured measureless sorrow toward its length,
  And breadth, and depth, and height.

Then marked I how a chain sustained her form,
  A chain of living links not made nor riven:
It stretched sheer up through lightning, wind, and storm,
  And anchored fast in heaven.

One cried: "How long? yet founded on the Rock
  She shall do battle, suffer, and attain."--
One answered: "Faith quakes in the tempest shock:
  Strengthen her soul again."

I saw a cup sent down and come to her
  Brimful of loathing and of bitterness:
She drank with livid lips that seemed to stir
  The depth, not make it less.

But as she drank I spied a hand distil
  New wine and ****** honey; making it
First bitter-sweet, then sweet indeed, until
  She tasted only sweet.

Her lips and cheeks waxed rosy-fresh and young;
  Drinking she sang: "My soul shall nothing want";
And drank anew: while soft a song was sung,
  A mystical slow chant.

One cried: "The wounds are faithful of a friend:
  The wilderness shall blossom as a rose."--
One answered: "Rend the veil, declare the end,
  Strengthen her ere she goes."

Then earth and heaven were rolled up like a scroll;
  Time and space, change and death, had passed away;
Weight, number, measure, each had reached its whole:
  The day had come, that day.

Multitudes--multitudes--stood up in bliss,
  Made equal to the angels, glorious, fair;
With harps, palms, wedding-garments, kiss of peace,
  And crowned and haloed hair.

They sang a song, a new song in the height,
  Harping with harps to Him Who is Strong and True:
They drank new wine, their eyes saw with new light,
  Lo, all things were made new.

Tier beyond tier they rose and rose and rose
  So high that it was dreadful, flames with flames:
No man could number them, no tongue disclose
  Their secret sacred names.

As though one pulse stirred all, one rush of blood
  Fed all, one breath swept through them myriad voiced,
They struck their harps, cast down their crowns, they stood
  And worshipped and rejoiced.

Each face looked one way like a moon new-lit,
  Each face looked one way towards its Sun of Love;
Drank love and bathed in love and mirrored it
  And knew no end thereof.

Glory touched glory on each blessed head,
  Hands locked dear hands never to sunder more:
These were the new-begotten from the dead
  Whom the great birthday bore.

Heart answered heart, soul answered soul at rest,
  Double against each other, filled, sufficed:
All loving, loved of all; but loving best
  And best beloved of Christ.

I saw that one who lost her love in pain,
  Who trod on thorns, who drank the loathsome cup;
The lost in night, in day was found again;
  The fallen was lifted up.

They stood together in the blessed noon,
  They sang together through the length of days;
Each loving face bent Sunwards like a moon
  New-lit with love and praise.

Therefore, O friend, I would not if I might
  Rebuild my house of lies, wherein I joyed
One time to dwell: my soul shall walk in white,
  Cast down but not destroyed.

Therefore in patience I possess my soul;
  Yea, therefore as a flint I set my face,
To pluck down, to build up again the whole--
  But in a distant place.

These thorns are sharp, yet I can tread on them;
  This cup is loathsome, yet He makes it sweet;
My face is steadfast toward Jerusalem,
  My heart remembers it.

I lift the hanging hands, the feeble knees--
  I, precious more than seven times molten gold--
Until the day when from His storehouses
  God shall bring new and old;

Beauty for ashes, oil of joy for grief,
  Garment of praise for spirit of heaviness:
Although to-day I fade as doth a leaf,
  I languish and grow less.

Although to-day He prunes my twigs with pain,
  Yet doth His blood nourish and warm my root:
To-morrow I shall put forth buds again,
  And clothe myself with fruit.

Although to-day I walk in tedious ways,
  To-day His staff is turned into a rod,
Yet will I wait for Him the appointed days
  And stay upon my God.

The terra is only one
planted in clay soil
one planet of earth!

The sneaked out nightingale
here is never gone.
Unleashes soprano  
at the same ancient roses'
still a perfumed home!

It's the starry upside's
dark down deep hole.
Sunset melting shadow
down the half light moon!
Eyes on in toto cool
after the day painter sun
is done colouring in full.

Guess, up from the sunrise mountain
who beams back tomorrow
into this unfathomed serene clay-mole?
Again see the sun follows by the moon!

I feel hurt
But I don't know why

My heart is heavy
Dark like the night sky

I want to cry
But I'm out of tears

Unfathomed words
Awaken are my fears

Why am I doing this
When will I learn

I am a disgrace
Nothing good will I earn

The gap is widening
the look of a bottomless abyss grows
as she craves the admiration, abiding
an attention of a raging life that arose
that flows like a raging waterfall,
with every sunset of the heart
a magnified life that will not call
it's what she lived for in her art
but to no surprise,
with feelings that were so complex abreast,
that dreams that advise
was welcomed to her quixotic quest ...

Her caring hands hold her heart
as she cries,
from her man she is apart
stroking her child's hair with little lies
she is about hope and dealing
when life lets her rest is rare she tries
she's brave and stands strong and she might
but still has unfathomed wounds
she fractures easily with the words of smite
of the profound that looms ....



Debbie Brooks 2014

white bright linoleum tile
leering up in angled shapes on the floor
my dad
is bent over
by the bathroom window,
pouring ink-red medicine
into a plastic cup.
the sky, dark with sleep, is
distorted to my eye
through the frosted pane
of glass.
dad
looks up at me,
glasses askew,
face hung like wet sheets on a line
and hands me the cup
tells me to
go breathe in the dew outside
maybe,
(his eyes are pooled and ragged)
it will help release your throat

the lights of empty streets, sharp as spines
lie below, rippling like waves on a lake
and above my head,
i watch the ****** of light
as they shimmer in the night
and slide past to hide in the hills
breathe in breathe out breathe in
i am small and silly in
my bare feet and little pajamas
standing on the splintering wooden porch
that hangs on the edge of my house
dad slides opens the glass door behind me
and comes to rub my back in slow circles
and listen with me
to the sound of hills echoing
with the hum
of rumbling semi-trucks
running away into an unfathomed depth,
somewhere i can’t see with my child eyes

Proceeding in the wake of mankind's scourge,
Spoken are the words of this great demiurge,
At dusk the cowled of the night shall emerge,
And convey a true evil on God's Earth to resurge.  

Unleashed and unfathomed, behold the words of a phantom
Turning cities into craters and the oceans to chasms,
Imagine: a picture perfect world, can it exist,
Without the plague of the human race, lost without a trace in abyss!

Ignorance tragic, the magic of bliss,
Static damage to the rabid on this planet of ****,
An example of this: the progression of time
Deteriorating in abundance, a final judgment for mankind.

Exterminate the population, man, woman and child,
Convictions, the arrival, apocalypse nigh!
None will survive, total disaster, blood stain alabaster
Abstain, refrain, salvation from a heavenly ******* shall be sought in vain.

Unexplainable cataclysm,
The missing piece of the puzzle unseen in catechism,
But it was written somehow and somewhere
And the emergence of its purpose was unclear, deny what you fear!

The end is near, malevolent seraphim invade,
The end is here, a feeble humanity kneels and prays
It was revealed, none prepared and none spared
And act of evil, fitting for the slaughter of a people.

Mephistophelian ascension,
A requiem for the souls of the ruined be sung
For a destruction, beyond all human comprehension.
Alarum with no human intervention!

An apoplectic annihilation, fed lies by inhalation,
Microbial immolation, infected detestation,
Evasive evasion, catastrophic, melancholic
Leaving mankind intoxicated by his own narcotic

Whilst hypnotically induced, the demons invade,
Equestrian quartet lead the massive evil brigade
A battalion of stallions, on fray to slay grace
Laid to waste in the face of the inhuman race.

To keep pace, without a trace, Messiah on Fire
In dire need, erase calumny the Heavenly liar feeds
Desire breeds and hatred grows
Within those a crueler fate chose the pyre to bleed.

An ascension to an unknown throne overthrown,
A crown adorned in thorns be thy Kingdom's scorn
To the Black, I am sworn, prophet to the swarm,
The scores of the forlorn born to battle in the storms

Of Ragnarok, the magma rocks rain from the sky,
The Earth will end in fire, watch the genesis die.
Terrestrial crucifixion, the mortals' last affliction,
Desperation bringing forth a dogmatic dereliction.

Infliction of pain, deadly diction to the slain in vain,
A spoken name, confliction causing friction
An addiction to the wicked, auspicious yet pernicious,
Foreboding a sinister outcome of ecumenical wishes.

you say goodbye to a world not your own
escape to live a life well spent

and discover you took all your demons with you
life now will be realistic with romance hewed out
the centre of your being, silent, soundless

all songs sung deep in solitude of heart
heard now in unfathomed depth of love eternal.

In the scarce abstinence of self
In the dark mountains of reverence
Unexplored and unfathomed
Shone gold by the first ray of glitter
Our love will bloom

with no maths for happy
i divided my ' why? '
by Zero
and fell in Love again
like a sceptic
with a wild falsehood
masquerading as
a plausible
X = " WHY ? "

but  we know not.

better i should makes waves
in the cavernous
and strike wood
with earnest flint, and cheapskates
on golden ponds of ice
unfathomed, mostly
dark good
with sternest glimpse, for pete's sake  
and i could go on, twice
as unaccounted, ghostly
numb soot
in the worm's mint sutures; an armour plate
of Unreal numbers.... kites
in the unfounded, frozen
in the floating point
of a Reason.

or I could call You.... hmmmmm..... ?

Not from the sands or cloven rocks,
  Thou rapid Arve! thy waters flow;
Nor earth, within her *****, locks
  Thy dark unfathomed wells below.
Thy springs are in the cloud, thy stream
  Begins to move and murmur first
Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam,
  Or rain-storms on the glacier burst.

Born where the thunder and the blast,
  And morning's earliest light are born,
Thou rushest swoln, and loud, and fast,
  By these low homes, as if in scorn:
Yet humbler springs yield purer waves;
  And brighter, glassier streams than thine,
Sent up from earth's unlighted caves,
  With heaven's own beam and image shine.

Yet stay; for here are flowers and trees;
  Warm rays on cottage roofs are here,
And laugh of girls, and hum of bees--
  Here linger till thy waves are clear.
Thou heedest not--thou hastest on;
  From steep to steep thy torrent falls,
Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone,
  It rests beneath Geneva's walls.

Rush on--but were there one with me
  That loved me, I would light my hearth
Here, where with God's own majesty
  Are touched the features of the earth.
By these old peaks, white, high, and vast,
  Still rising as the tempests beat,
Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last,
  Among the blossoms at their feet.

i pity the man who was unable to
shed a tear on the basis of
being animal, hiding behind reason
and whatever other "tool" came
his way...
                 a man unable to see a wild
in a petting: in the unfathomed
with a nature...
                 with which i reply for
a castrated pedigree: that's ******* cruel!
but no, it was always going
to be the shortlived extract from / by
an account of Judas...
      it would actually speak the words:
more harm done to a castrated male:
than a castrated female...
    call that to claim a male or a female,
the practice still stands:
   the male genitals are more
protruding than a female's -
  and that involves: searching for a loss
rather than owning it...
why does poetry have to become
this claim for idealism,
   this: "ideal love of mine":
waiting "unexplored"?
         what does the term cultural
relativism actually mean -
when we live in the abhorrent times
of moral relativism -
since we know that America is worth
citing, in cultural absolutism:
ZEE VEST IST ZEE BESTE!
   ZEE VEST IST ZEE BESTE!
   the **** is culturally "relative"
  about that statement?
         you can't spot a ******* quasi-Adolf
sniffing in your backdoor to call
in the hind of relativism?
cultural what?!
           America is known for
cultural absolutism, there's nothing
"relative" about it...
the only relativism is equivalent to
a Mongolian playing
a harmonica grass-reed -
           because: why would you
compete with either expression?
       the hamburger is the perfect sandwich
while a prosciutto ciabatta is
dog meat...
                  well... either one came from
the devil's ****: or neither did...
   when i was in Russia i could
eat crêpe avec caviar...
            but that's apparent so bad i need
to appreciate: a regurgitation of
meat...
               but the oh so benevolent
     media enterprises of personna need to tell
how to: buckle down, shut up,
   and keep it: globalisation veering into
claustrophobia...
            but no... the best only knows
champagne und schwarz kaviar...
   no, not the common people orange: kaviar...
but it knows beef dog meat and
pompous meat-head muscle flexing:
it knows that!
         hey, come by some time we'll
**** each other off wondering whether
there actually exists a cultural "relativism"
and if it's hard for the "common" folk to
integrate an absolutism with their
culture-nation... which already exhists
as counter the academic:
            nation-state...
      America is a culture-nation...
        it's not a nation-state...
              why the hell would i need so
much America without having a chance to:
taste their guacamole?
  but you can nonetheless eat a
                         crêpe avec caviar
in chez Russie...
sure, they play ****** muzak of
classical greats at a fountain ceremony...
but i bet you my *** had i
the parental guidance: i'd be at home
in Siberia like a sushi herring in salty water...
it's just an itchiness that bothers me...
     dog meat over caviar...
western chauvinism of the man-child...
      i can't compete with a 2nd tier of
playground...
                it was fun the first time around:
2nd time around?
    can't be bothered:
  i rather be this alcoholic loser than play
this idiotic game of:
  the toys we managed to get without
having our parents to have to get them...
well i managed to collect a library while
my parents went on holiday to the Maldives...
****, am i looking at a hippopotamus
or an elephant?!
          i don't buy cultural relativism
in the same way that the ancient greeks
didn't buy into a moral relativism:
    after all: there's either good, or evil -
absolutely -
       ha ha... so in culturally "relative"
terms france is also ascribed a global stage
to compete with america?!
                           no it isn't...
america is: culturally absolutist -
  in that there is no nation-state ascribed to it...
for what remains of america is
the currently declining: culture-nation.
      **** it: i still had my crêpe avec caviar
in St. Petersburg...
        so i really have to celebrate
that dog meat's worth of a hamburger?
you have a dog i can borrow?

I receive your native tongue
like a desperate missionary--

letting it run over my teeth,
stroking the roof of my mouth,
and dancing with my own foreign entity.

I come to you aching
to inhale your exhale,
place my lips to yours.

In the diaspora of spit
from your mouth to mine,
deliver unfathomed riches
of love and wisdom

into my trembling body.

~

bits and pieces,
lines and creases,
dusty shelves
of storied past;
where could-haves
turned should-haves,
make half-lives gone by.
haunt in our reticence,
expressed in our sigh;
they hide in our silence,
betrayed by our tears,
from missed opportunities
     down through the years.

this is no stroll
o’er memory’s lane,
but a ***-holed, hard-roll
on a boulevard unnamed,
     where deepest regrets
          must defend against shame.

~

i make my peace
by drawing a line,
before it can fade
shifting with time.
i say “enough!
this far and no more!”
i give it my heel
and walk out that door.
past the garden,
past the fences,
to the edge of my mind,
resolve saying, “goodbye”  
      to this pain i have known.

then for reasons unfathomed
i turn at the bend,
to see what i'll miss
as if that place were my friend,
yet that house where i lived
so long and knew well,
was standing no longer,
up in smoke, gone in flames,
     now just ashes and bricks
          are all that remained.

~

so homeless i felt,
with no place to return.
no basement to bury
the ghosts of my past;
no attic to wander,
no hallways to creep,
no corners to ponder,
no front porch to weep,
lost without home,
     now no pillow to sleep.

“please turn around,”
spoke, a voice on the breeze
“there's a new life ahead”
and then, to my relief,
“you're not homeless, my son;
you’ve a new windowed view!
square your shoulders
to the pathway,
see the journey anew!
in promising thoughts
so hopefully wrought
of brand new can-be’s
that only dreamers can see
these, are your new life
you're not abandoned, but free.
     let regrets turn to fuel
          build steam from this fire.”

~

as i turned back to thank
the voice offering these words
i found no sage of advice
but here’s what i heard.
"offer thanks to your own heart,
to strength buried within.
the matches lay dormant
’til your heart found its stremgth.
the mere act of leaving
was the spark for your fire;
     for in striking your new path
          your past built your pyre.”

~

*post script.

after much stirring, much wrestling, we are now with anticipations imagining what will change as we light the fire.  i’m excited about the possibilities as we let go.

Flowers of the sea,
Bobbing in the tides
Colors dreamed by Neptune
Upon the ocean ride

Flowers groomed by fishes
To suit a mermaid's vase
Unfathomed as her wishes
Rare as her unseen face

Flowers untouched by humans
Growing free the wildest way
In salty brine they're blooming
Decorating sailor's days

We need the tonic of wilderness
the land and sea. Indefinitely wild.
Unsurveyed and unfathomed.
A taste of beautiful cultivated outdoors

I wanted to live deep
and **** the marrow out of life
but we loiter in the winter
while it is already spring

The surface of the Earth
soft and impressable
carving deep
ruts of tradition and conformity

I’d rather go before the mast
on deck of the world.
Mysterious and explorable
amid the moonlight and mountains.

Continent bound – water
encircled, I ache
for audible
effortless
mediocrity

Jabbered exchanges
fluid vowels
spill unrecognized and
still lap at
my yawning consciousness
Words now sink
never surface
Drown
unknown
Oral habitudes,
usually uncomprehended
Watered
speech
bubbles up, from
unfathomed
depths I am submerged
constantly
Subsumed
by misunderstandings

You die every day, like this: you choose a life of slow
Death: through long nights, you burn away
Like the slowly fading lamp
Mourning some sombre memory,
Does it matter to know, you love me?

The mist dripping from the roof and the slow
Wind of the deep nights play to the dirge
Of a buried life, buried behind
Walls of smoke, unfathomed crypts,
Does it matter to know, you love me?

You sit for hours like this, silent like the moon
On an unwavering pond on a windless
Night, your eyes express so much,
But say nothing, like a valley of flowers
On a silent summer afternoon:

Does it matter to know, you love me?

She might think she's lackluster
But he absolutely beg to differ
He thought "how would she know?"
When there's more than what a mirror can show
He can stare at her any given moment
Hoping she doesn't stare back or he'll die of embarrassment
Oh how his heart flutters when her hair flips
Bewildered! Like he's going to exciting trips
A glimpse of her is all he needs to light up the day
And her smiles drive all his worries away

All these lines, cliche as they may seem
Is a mere fragment of his wonderful daydream
For no amount of words can simply describe
The value she holds that in his heart she'll inscribe
And like sparkling stars in a cold, lonely night
Amidst total darkness she'll give off her light
She may not be the most beautiful woman in the world
But she's the perfect masterpiece in his life that will manifold

Because inventing heaven
from pebble and mist
was backbreaking,
heartquaking
work

and
because I
shivered with 
fever, my body lit
by rapture unfathomed,

I sought stillness in the mouth
of the ocean, gave myself
to her shallows and,
with sleepy eyes, 
said

Leave 
me here.
You laid hands to my 
dreaming curves. They became 
dunes, shifting; you filled my sky with birds.

O'er stone paths the roses grow still as a ditty,
  When light lamps are paling the ripe summer oil;
  With a noise that the left ear blocks rushed in a hurry,
The hawthorns are fierce, till the black thorns are pretty.

Where the mind is at once full of peace, full of pieces,
  In shrubs there are stubs made from wagtails and hen,
  Tin, copper, unfathomed: a marvellous city,
In comfort the day loses its din as it ceases.

  Skimming at milk with the tightest lipped marrow,
Left hands, right lobes singed, as it curdles to putty;
  The bones of the fair-folk are lost in the morrow,

And our hands meet the roses, so we'll grasp them in pity.
Our four feet go kicking, at that hard wall we're sitting;
But the hawthorns are wet, and the hawthorns are sticky.

Globally dense, our ailing nation
makes one weep for sheer frustration
thoughts and dreams grow numb.
Tech-addled students scroll on phones,
‘midst scent of android pheromones,
wafting digital dumb.

Pop-culture, narcissist unkind
dispenses with the human mind
which, failing further, falls behind
the grimly global curve.

We read, in writing on the wall
arithmetic’s impending fall
while numbers loiter in the hall
to get what they deserve.

ENQUIRY, tagged as D.O.A,
a sheeted stiff, is wheeled away
her mourners left to grieve.
entitled maiden, full of sass,
LIBERTY begs a bathroom pass
her bladder to relieve.

When zit-faced rebels run the show
the dismal ratings plummet low;
a vulgarized cartoon.
Descending to unfathomed levels,
Ignorance applauds her devils
calling out their tune.

PATRIOTISM, tarred and feathered
headless, claws its cage untethered
foul, unloved, unfree:
Another casualty of time
which fell for want of noble rhyme;
to water FREEDOM’s tree.

CURIOSITY, half asleep,
now stirs and murmurs from the deep
uninterested, untaught.
She grows yet duller in her ways
returning to her ocean daze,
(her schools of fish uncaught).

HISTORY, dormant, lies in dust
a narrative no man can trust
a book no scholar reads.
Events unstudied as designed
wherein the heart of humankind
for want of context, bleeds.

DEMOCRACY degenerates
until God wills and activates
a nation’s drive to learn.
Curricula will be made void;
disheartened teachers unemployed,
their wisdom fit to burn.

You think the past was less obtuse?
Less prone to youthful thought-abuse?
Perhaps…  back in the day.
And though it may have been the same.
this poet opts to place the blame
on digital delay.

Bansharee

tends cows in the field
her hairs deep wisps in the wind
her dark skin
an unfathomed mist
her perfume
rice washed
her feet
conqueror of wild grass

Bansharee...bansharee...
she tends cows in the field
a warrior in the wild wind
an autumn of all seasons
runs self willed
floats on the field
over her clouds gather
there isn't a match for her
in her cracked glass mirror
she is two
one a wild warrior
with a face only the wind loves
and the other
weather beaten
by fate cursed
but dreaming...

in some heart somewhere
for her
love is nursed!

Bansharee...Bansharee...

You're just a soul
Without a body
A void, the hole
Inside me

I am unable to give you a form
A structure to the laughter I hear
You're mystical
More than just a smear

You're my intangible creation
Above everything, and all
You'll rise with me, if I fall

Too holy for the rest
Unfathomed, my beloved
Keeping me closest
With requisite gazes

[Hellcat]

By the bubbling stream,
Lay your head down,
On my lap of reeds.
Oft the lyre was struck,
Flatt’ring music,
Ne’er ceasing, ne’er circumscrib’d.
My horned boy give in,
Sleep in this lea,
Under secret bow’r,
Beside stream,
Under imagin’d ivy-mantled tow’r,
“It’s time.....for the rite,” I whispered,
“Sleep shall bring you no pain.”
Come, leave thy clothes here,
To be washed, like the tow’r, by the rain.”
Your lithe body was warm,
Rub’d against my chest,
Creating a ling’grin feeling,
Sweet,delicious friction,
Sending my eyes reeling.
My sweet catamite,
Still unfathomed are your feelings,
No revenge shall you be granted,
Oh yes! I know, but we may not tarry,
Mis’ry awaits,
And glimm’ring moon,
Welcomes us, th’inevitable mates.
                                                          ­      -*Firefly