NOTE TO THE READER – Once Apun a Time

This yarn is a flossy fabric woven of several earlier warped works, lightly laced together, adorned with fur-ther braided tails of human frailty. The looms were loosed, purling frantically this febrile fable...

Some pearls may be found wanting – unwanted or unwonted – piled or hanging loose, dangling free within a fuzzy flight of fancy...

The threads of this untethered tissue may be fastened, or be forgotten, or else be stranded by the readers and left unravelling in the knotted corners of their minds...

'twill be perchance that some may  laugh or loll in loopy stitches, else be torn or ripped apart, while others might just simply say “ ’tis made of hole cloth”, “sew what” or “cant seam to get the needle point”...,

yes, a proper disentanglement may take you for a spin on twisted twines of any strings you feel might need attaching or detaching…

picking knits, some may think that
       such strange things ‘have Never happened in our Land’,
       such quaint things ‘could Never happen in our Land’’,
       such murky things ‘will Never happen in our Land’’…

and this may all be true, if credence be dis-carded…

such is that gooey gossamer which vails the human mind...

and thus was born the teasing title of this fabricated Fantasy...

                                NEVER LAND

An ancient man named Peter Pan, disguised but from the past,
with feathered cap and tunic wrap and sabre’s sailed his last.
Though fully grown, on dust he’s flown and perched upon a mast
atop the Walls around the sprawls, unvisited and vast -
and all the while with bitter smile he’s watching us aghast.

As day begins, a spindle spins, it weaves a wanton web;
like puckered prunes, like midday moons, like yesterday’s celebs,
we scrape and *****, we seldom hope - he watches while we ebb:

The ***** grinder preaches fine on Sunday afternoons -
he quotes from books but overlooks the Secrets Carved in Runes:
“You’ve tried and toyed, but can’t avoid or shun the pale monsoons,
it’s sink or swim as echoed dim in swinging door saloons”.
The laughingstocks are flinging rocks at ball-and-chained baboons.

While ghetto boys are looting toys preparing for their doom
and Mademoiselles are weaving shells on tapestries with looms,
Cathedral cats and rafter rats are peering in the room,
where ragged strangers stoop for change, for coppers in the gloom,
whose thoughts are more upon the doors of crypts in Christmas bloom,
and gold doubloons and silver spoons that tempt beyond the tomb.

Mid *** shots from vacant lots, that strike and ricochet
a painted girl with flaxen curl (named Wendy)’s on her way
to tantalise with half-clad thighs, to trick again today;
and indiscreet upon the street she gives her pride away
to any guy who’s passing by with time and cash to pay.
(In concert halls beyond the Walls, unjaded girls ballet,
with flowered thoughts of Camelot and dreams of cabarets.)

Though rip-off shops and crooked cops are paid not once but thrice,
the painted girl with flaxen curl is paring down her price
and loosely tempts cold hands unkempt to touch the merchandise.
A crazy guy cries “where am I”, a ****** titters twice,
and double quick a lunatic affects a fight with lice.

The alleyways within the maze are paved with rats and mice.
Evangelists with moneyed fists collect the sacrifice
from losers scorned and rubes reborn, and promise paradise,
while in the back they cook some crack, inhale, and roll the dice.

A *** called Boe has stubbed his toe, he’s stumbled in the gutter;
with broken neck, he looks a wreck, the sparrows all aflutter,
the passers-by, they close an eye, and turn their heads and mutter:
“Let’s pray for rains to wash the lanes, to clear away the clutter.”
A river slows neath mountain snows, and leaves begin to shudder.

The jungle teems, a siren screams, the air is filled with ****.
The Reverent Priest and nuns unleash the Holy Shibboleth.
And Righteous Jane who is insane, as well as Sister Beth,
while telling tales to no avail of everlasting death,
at least imbrue Hagg Avenue with whisky on their breath.

The Reverent Priest combats the Beast, they’re kneeling down to prey,
to fight the truth with fang and tooth, to toil for yesterday,
to etch their mark within the dark, to paint their résumé
on shrouds and sheets which then completes the devil’s dossier.

Old Dan, he’s drunk and in a funk, all mired in the mud.
A Monk begins to wash Dan’s sins, and asks “How are you, Bud?”
“I’m feeling pain and crying rain and flailing in the flood
and no god’s there inclined to care I’m always coughing blood.”
The Monk, he turns, Dan’s words he spurns and lets the bible thud.

Well, Banjo Boy, he will annoy with jangled rhymes that fray:
“The clanging bells of carousels lead blind men’s minds astray
to rings of gold they’ll never hold in fingers made of clay.
But crest and crown will crumble down, when withered roots decay.”

A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry ***** -
she casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
then stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
the stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.

So Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood cling, splattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”

Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, *****, her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.

Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.

Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.

The eyes behind the head inclined reflect a universe
of shanty towns and kings in crowns and parties in a hearse,
of heaping mounds of coffee grounds and pennies in a purse,
of heart attacks in shoddy shacks, of motion in reverse,
of reasons why pale kids must die, quite trite and curtly terse,
of puppet people at the steeple, kneeling down averse,
of ****** tones and megaphones with empty words and worse,
of life’s begin’ in utter sin and other things perverse,
of lewd taboos and residues contained within the Curse,
while poets blind, in gallows’ rind, carve epitaphs in verse.

A sodden dreg with wooden leg is dancing for a dime
to sacred psalms and other balms, all ticking with the time.
He’s 22, he’s almost through, he’s melted in his prime,
his bane is firm, the canker worm dissolves his brain to slime.
With slanted scales and twisted jails, his life’s his only crime.

A beggar clump beside a dump has pencil box in hand.
With sightless eyes upon the skies he’s lying there unmanned,
with no relief and bitter grief too dark to understand.
The backyard blight is hid from sight, it’s covered up and bland,
and Robin Hood and Brother Hood lie buried in the sand.

While all night queens carve figurines in gelatine and jade,
behind a door and on the floor a deal is finally made;
the painted girl with flaxen curl has plied again her trade
and now the care within her stare has turned a darker shade.
Her lack of guile and parting smile are cutting like a blade.

Some boys with cheek play hide and seek within a house condemned,
their faces gaunt reflecting want that’s hard to comprehend.
With no excuse an old recluse is waiting to descend.
His eyes despair behind the stare, he’s never had a friend
to talk about his hidden doubt of how the world will end -
to die alone on empty throne and other Fates impend.

And soon the boys chase phantom joys and, presto when they’re gone,
the old recluse, with nimble noose and ****** features drawn,
no longer waits upon the Fates but yawns his final yawn
- like Tinker Bell, he spins a spell, in fairy dust chiffon -
with twisted brow, he’s tranquil now, he’s floating like a swan
and as he fades from life’s charades, the night awaits the dawn.

A boomerang with ebon fang is soaring through the air
to pierce and breach the heart of each and then is called despair.
And as it grows it will oppose and fester everywhere.
And yet the crop that’s at the top will still be unaware.

A lad is stopped by roving cops, who shoot in disregard.
His face is black, he’s on his back, a breeze is breathing hard,
he bleeds and dies, his mama cries, the screaming sky is scarred,
the sheriff and his squad at hand are laughing in the yard.

Now Railroad Bob’s done lost his job, he’s got no place for working,
His wife, she cries with desperate eyes, their baby’s head’s a’ jerking.
The union man don’t give a ****, Big Brother lies a’ lurking,
the boss’ in cabs are picking scabs, they count their money, smirking.

Bob walks the streets and begs for eats or little jobs for trying
“the answer’s no, you ought to know, no use for you applying,
and don’t be sad, it aint that bad, it’s soon your time for dying.”
The air is thick, his baby’s sick, the cries are multiplying.

Bob’s wife’s in town, she’s broken down, she’s ranting with a fury,
their baby coughs, the doctor scoffs, the snow flies all a’ flurry.
Hard work’s the sin that’s done them in, they skirmish, scrimp and scurry,
and midnight dreams abound with screams. Bob knows he needs to hurry.
It’s getting late, Bob’s tempting fate, his choices cruel and blurry;
he chooses gas, they breathe their last, there’s no more cause to worry.

Per protocols near ivied walls arrayed in sage festoons,
the Countess quips, while giving tips, to crimson caped buffoons:
“To rise from mass to upper class, like twirly bird tycoons,
you stretch the treat you always eat, with tiny tablespoons”

A learned leach begins to teach (with songs upon a liar):
“Within the thrall of Satan’s call to yield to dim desire
lie wicked lies that tantalize the flesh and blood Vampire;
abiding souls with self-control in everyday Hellfire
will rest assured, when once interred, in afterlife’s Empire”.
These words reweave the make believe, while slugs in salt expire,
baptised in tears and rampant fears, all mirrored in the mire.

It’s getting hot on private yachts, though far from desert plains -
“Well, come to think, we’ll have a drink”, Sir Captain Hook ordains.
Beyond the blame and pit of shame, outside the Walled domains,
they pet their pups and raise their cups, take sips of pale champagnes
to touch the tips of languid lips with pearls of purple rains.

Well, Gypsy Guy would rather die than hunker down in chains,
be ridden south with bit in mouth, or heed the hold of reins.
The ruling lot are in a spot, the boss man he complains:
“The gypsies’ soul, I can’t control, my patience wears and wanes;
they will not cede to common greed, which conquers far domains
and furtive spies and news that lies have barely baked their brains.
But in the court of last resort the final fix remains:
in boxcar bins with violins we’ll freight them out in trains
and in the bogs, they’ll die like dogs, and everybody gains
(should one ask why, a quick reply: ‘It’s that which God ordains!’)”

Arrayed in shawls with crystal *****, and gazing at the moons,
wiled women tease with melodies and spooky loony tunes
while making toasts to holey ghosts on rainy day lagoons:
“Well, here’s to you and others too, embedded in the dunes,
avoid the stares, avoid the snares, avoid the veiled typhoons
and fend your way as every day, ’gainst heavy heeled dragoons.”

The birds of pray are on their way, in every beak the Word
(of ptomaine tomes by gnarly gnomes) whose meaning is obscured;
they roost aloof on every roof, obscene but always herd,
to tell the tale of Jonah’s whale and other rhymes absurd
with shifty eyes, they’re giving whys for living life deferred.

While jackals lean, hyenas mean, and hungry crocodiles
feast in the lounge and never scrounge, lambs languish in the aisle.
The naive dare to say “Unfair, let’s try to reconcile.
We’ll all relax and weigh the facts, let justice spin the dial.”

With jaundiced monks and minds pre-shrunk, the jury is compiled.
The Rulers meet, First Ladies greet, the Kings appear in style.
Before the Court, their sins are short, they’re swept into a pile;
with diatribes and petty bribes, the jurors are beguiled.

The Herd entreats, the Shepherd bleats the verdict of the trial:
“You have no face. Stay in your place, stay in the Rank and File.
And wait instead, for when you’re dead, for riches after while”;
Aristocrats add caveats while sailing down the Nile:
“If Minds are mugged or simply drugged with philtres in a vial,
then few indeed will fail to feed the Pharaoh’s Crocodile.”
The wordsmiths spin, the bankers grin and politicians smile,
the riff and raff, they never laugh, they mark a martyred mile.

The rituals are finished, all, here comes the Reverent Priest.
He leads the crowds beneath the clouds, and there the flock is fleeced
(“the last are first, the rich are cursed” - the leached remain the least)
with crossing signs and ****** wines and consecrated yeast.
His step is gay without dismay before his evening feast;
he thanks the Lord for room and, bored, he nods to Eden East
but doesn’t sigh or wonder why the sins have not decreased.

The sinking sun’s at last undone, the sky glows faintly red.
A spider black hides in a crack and spins a silken thread
and babes will soon collapse and swoon, on curbs they call a bed;
with vacant eyes they'll fantasize and dream of gingerbread,
and so be freed, though still in need, from anguish of the dead.

Fat midnight bats feast, gnawing gnats, and flit away serene
while on the trails in distant dales the lonesome wolverine
sate appetites on foggy nights and days like crystalline.
A migrant feeds on gnats and weeds with fingers far from clean
and thereby’s blessed with barren breast (the easier to wean) -
her baby ***** an arid flux and fades away unseen.

The circus gongs excite the throngs in nighttime Never Land –
they swarm to see the destiny of Freaks at their command,
while Acrobats step pitapat across the shifting sands
and Lady Fat adores her cat and oozes charm unplanned.
The Dwarfs in suits, so small and cute when marching with the band,
ask crimson Clowns with painted frowns, to lend a mutant hand,
while Tamers’ whips with withered tips, throughout the winter land,
lure minds entranced through hoops enhanced with flames of fires fanned.
White Elephants in big-top tents sell black tusk contraband
to Sycophants in regiments who overflow the stands,
but No One sees anomalies, and No One understands.
At night’s demise, the dither dies, the lonely Crowd disbands,
down dead-end streets the Horde retreats, their threadbare rags in strands,
and Janes and Joes reweave their woes, for thoughts of change are banned.

The Monk of Mock has fled the flock caught knocking up a tween.
(She brought to light the special rite he sought to leave unseen.)
With profaned eyes they agonise, their souls no more serene
and at the shrine the flutes of wine are filled with kerosene
by men unkempt who once had dreamt but now can dream no more
except when bellowed bellies belch an ever growing roar,
which churns the seas and whips a breeze that mercy can’t ignore,
and in the night, though filled with fright, they try to end the War.

The slow and quick are hurling bricks and fight with clubs of rage
to break the chains and cleanse the stains of life within a cage,
but yield to stings of armoured things that crush in every age.

At crack of dawn, a broken pawn, in pools of blood and fire,
attends the wounds, in blood festooned (the waves flow nigh and nigher),
while ghetto towns are burning down (the flames grow high and higher);
and in their wake, a golden snake is rising from the pyre.
Her knees are bare, consumed in prayer, applauded by the Friar,
and soon it’s clear the end is near - while magpie birds conspire,
the lowly worm is made to squirm while dangling from a wire.

The line was crossed, the battle lost, the losers can’t deny,
the residues are far and few, though smoke pervades the sky.
The cool wind’s cruel, a cutting tool, the vanquished ask it “Why?”,
and bittersweet, from  Easy Street, the Pashas’ puffed reply:
“The rules are set, so don’t forget, the rabble will comply;
the grapes of wrath may make you laugh, the day you are to die.”

The down and out, they knock about beneath the barren skies
where homeward bound, without a sound, a ravaged raven flies.
Beyond the Walls, the morning calls the newborn sun to rise,
and Peter Pan, a broken man, inclines his head and cries...

In these rapid, restless shadows,
  Once I walked at eventide,
When a gentle, silent maiden,
  Walked in beauty at my side.
She alone there walked beside me
All in beauty, like a bride.

Pallidly the moon was shining
  On the dewy meadows nigh;
On the silvery, silent rivers,
  On the mountains far and high,—
On the ocean’s star-lit waters,
  Where the winds a-weary die.

Slowly, silently we wandered
  From the open cottage door,
Underneath the elm’s long branches
  To the pavement bending o’er;
Underneath the mossy willow
  And the dying sycamore.

With the myriad stars in beauty
  All bedight, the heavens were seen,
Radiant hopes were bright around me,
  Like the light of stars serene;
Like the mellow midnight splendor
  Of the Night’s irradiate queen.

Audibly the elm-leaves whispered
  Peaceful, pleasant melodies,
Like the distant murmured music
  Of unquiet, lovely seas;
While the winds were hushed in slumber
  In the fragrant flowers and trees.

Wondrous and unwonted beauty
  Still adorning all did seem,
While I told my love in fables
  ’Neath the willows by the stream;
Would the heart have kept unspoken
  Love that was its rarest dream!

Instantly away we wandered
  In the shadowy twilight tide,
She, the silent, scornful maiden,
  Walking calmly at my side,
With a step serene and stately,
  All in beauty, all in pride.

Vacantly I walked beside her.
  On the earth mine eyes were cast;
Swift and keen there came unto me
  Bitter memories of the past—
On me, like the rain in Autumn
  On the dead leaves, cold and fast.

Underneath the elms we parted,
  By the lowly cottage door;
One brief word alone was uttered—
  Never on our lips before;
And away I walked forlornly,
Broken-hearted evermore.

Slowly, silently I loitered,
  Homeward, in the night, alone;
Sudden anguish bound my spirit,
  That my youth had never known;
Wild unrest, like that which cometh
  When the Night’s first dream hath flown.

Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper
  Mad, discordant melodies,
And keen melodies like shadows
  Haunt the moaning willow trees,
And the sycamores with laughter
  Mock me in the nightly breeze.

Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight
  Through the sighing foliage streams;
And each morning, midnight shadow,
  Shadow of my sorrow seems;
Strive, O heart, forget thine idol!
  And, O soul, forget thy dreams!

“It is the voice of years, that are gone! they roll before me, with
  all their deeds.”

  Ossian.


NEWSTEAD! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome!
Religion’s shrine! repentant HENRY’S pride!
Of Warriors, Monks, and Dames the cloister’d tomb,
Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide,

Hail to thy pile! more honour’d in thy fall,
  Than modern mansions, in their pillar’d state;
Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,
  Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.

No mail-clad Serfs, obedient to their Lord,
  In grim array, the crimson cross demand;
Or gay assemble round the festive board,
  Their chief’s retainers, an immortal band.

Else might inspiring Fancy’s magic eye
  Retrace their progress, through the lapse of time;
Marking each ardent youth, ordain’d to die,
  A votive pilgrim, in Judea’s clime.

But not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chief;
  His feudal realm in other regions lay:
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,
  Retiring from the garish blaze of day.

Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound,
  The monk abjur’d a world, he ne’er could view;
Or blood-stain’d Guilt repenting, solace found,
  Or Innocence, from stern Oppression, flew.

A Monarch bade thee from that wild arise,
  Where Sherwood’s outlaws, once, were wont to prowl;
And Superstition’s crimes, of various dyes,
  Sought shelter in the Priest’s protecting cowl.

Where, now, the grass exhales a murky dew,
  The humid pall of life-extinguish’d clay,
In sainted fame, the sacred Fathers grew,
  Nor raised their pious voices, but to pray.

Where, now, the bats their wavering wings extend,
  Soon as the gloaming spreads her waning shade;
The choir did, oft, their mingling vespers blend,
  Or matin orisons to Mary paid.

Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield;
  Abbots to Abbots, in a line, succeed:
Religion’s charter, their protecting shield,
  Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed.

One holy HENRY rear’d the Gothic walls,
  And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
Another HENRY the kind gift recalls,
  And bids devotion’s hallow’d echoes cease.

Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer;
  He drives them exiles from their blest abode,
To roam a dreary world, in deep despair—
  No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God.

Hark! how the hall, resounding to the strain,
  Shakes with the martial music’s novel din!
The heralds of a warrior’s haughty reign,
  High crested banners wave thy walls within.

Of changing sentinels the distant hum,
  The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish’d arms,
The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum,
  Unite in concert with increas’d alarms.

An abbey once, a regal fortress now,
  Encircled by insulting rebel powers;
War’s dread machines o’erhang thy threat’ning brow,
  And dart destruction, in sulphureous showers.

Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor’s siege,
  Though oft repuls’d, by guile o’ercomes the brave;
His thronging foes oppress the faithful Liege,
  Rebellion’s reeking standards o’er him wave.

Not unaveng’d the raging Baron yields;
  The blood of traitors smears the purple plain;
Unconquer’d still, his falchion there he wields,
  And days of glory, yet, for him remain.

Still, in that hour, the warrior wish’d to strew
  Self-gather’d laurels on a self-sought grave;
But Charles’ protecting genius hither flew,
  The monarch’s friend, the monarch’s hope, to save.

Trembling, she ******’d him from th’ unequal strife,
  In other fields the torrent to repel;
For nobler combats, here, reserv’d his life,
  To lead the band, where godlike FALKLAND fell.

From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given,
  While dying groans their painful requiem sound,
Far different incense, now, ascends to Heaven,
  Such victims wallow on the gory ground.

There many a pale and ruthless Robber’s corse,
  Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod;
O’er mingling man, and horse commix’d with horse,
  Corruption’s heap, the savage spoilers trod.

Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o’erspread,
  Ransack’d resign, perforce, their mortal mould:
From ruffian fangs, escape not e’en the dead,
  Racked from repose, in search for buried gold.

Hush’d is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre,
  The minstrel’s palsied hand reclines in death;
No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire,
  Or sings the glories of the martial wreath.

At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey,
  Retire: the clamour of the fight is o’er;
Silence again resumes her awful sway,
  And sable Horror guards the massy door.

Here, Desolation holds her dreary court:
  What satellites declare her dismal reign!
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen’d birds resort,
  To flit their vigils, in the hoary fane.

Soon a new Morn’s restoring beams dispel
  The clouds of Anarchy from Britain’s skies;
The fierce Usurper seeks his native hell,
  And Nature triumphs, as the Tyrant dies.

With storms she welcomes his expiring groans;
  Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath;
Earth shudders, as her caves receive his bones,
  Loathing the offering of so dark a death.

The legal Ruler now resumes the helm,
  He guides through gentle seas, the prow of state;
Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm,
  And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate.

The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells,
  Howling, resign their violated nest;
Again, the Master on his tenure dwells,
  Enjoy’d, from absence, with enraptured zest.

Vassals, within thy hospitable pale,
  Loudly carousing, bless their Lord’s return;
Culture, again, adorns the gladdening vale,
  And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn.

A thousand songs, on tuneful echo, float,
  Unwonted foliage mantles o’er the trees;
And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note,
  The hunters’ cry hangs lengthening on the breeze.

Beneath their coursers’ hoofs the valleys shake;
  What fears! what anxious hopes! attend the chase!
The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake;
  Exulting shouts announce the finish’d race.

Ah happy days! too happy to endure!
  Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew:
No splendid vices glitter’d to allure;
  Their joys were many, as their cares were few.

From these descending, Sons to Sires succeed;
  Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart;
Another Chief impels the foaming steed,
  Another Crowd pursue the panting hart.

Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine!
  Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay;
The last and youngest of a noble line,
  Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway.

Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers;
  Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep;
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers;
  These, these he views, and views them but to weep.

Yet are his tears no emblem of regret:
  Cherish’d Affection only bids them flow;
Pride, Hope, and Love, forbid him to forget,
  But warm his *****, with impassion’d glow.

Yet he prefers thee, to the gilded domes,
  Or gewgaw grottos, of the vainly great;
Yet lingers ’mid thy damp and mossy tombs,
  Nor breathes a murmur ‘gainst the will of Fate.

Haply thy sun, emerging, yet, may shine,
  Thee to irradiate with meridian ray;
Hours, splendid as the past, may still be thine,
  And bless thy future, as thy former day.

I am the master of my own mind
I beset my tears, I conquer my sadness
I am devoted to this world
To this very world in which I dwell
and to which my soul is admitted
Sometimes I hear my words
Fly around and again
within t'ese violent shades
about my head: as I walk by curious moonlight,
sunbeams, in 'ose solitary moods and emblems
of t'is silent quiet of th' night.
How can I be so lonely-and bathed in distress-
in t'is lovely yet calamitous winter?
How can I be so destitute and untouchable-
unlovable-unaffectionate, indeed!-without my very own
admired thee?
My soul is dejected; condemned and cursed
by th' entirety of destiny-oh, how I am accustomed to
t'is pain, and its inflamed tongue, burning mercilessly
in t'ose succulent perambulations throughout
th' volatile streets-yes, upon and across th' bridge-
what a vile remembrance, where but t'is poem
is my only vivid 'muchness'-and consolation. If only a wren
could be deemed my messenger, let her but decoy t'is
dubious fate-and bring me to slip into her arms-
thin and steep but with a fond predilection for my desires-
with consideration for our feelings-and carry within her wings
a letter from these longings, beneath
the cradling hands of the moon-yes, t'at hectic,
vivacious moon-who is lurking behind me
like a moronic shadow. Its chaotic abode-aye,
chaotic as it once was, is now unamused-and plastered
into th' surly noon, it is despaired-utterly despaired,
and deprived of love-look at how t'at wealth of serene eyes
swim around thirst, in such unwonted lullabies, and its
famished shrine! What a dejected old
sanctuary it must be-infamous and credulous to oddity, but again
fuels my anger on, amidst th' moonbeam t'at is now gone.
But I still can't find thee, querida.

Tell me, then, how shalt I spend t'is azure night without thee?
Without thee, querida, my soul is but solemn and vain;
as though I've lost my brain-and my shell's 'bout to drain-
yes, 'tis t'at no delight, but worries-in me.
And no shield is to protect t'at,
as thou, my love, art in a dream, but far, far away.
I am only consoled by t'ese remnants, o, of my infatuation-
of t'is incarcerated, forbidden love-for thee!
My very thee, who should be curling up comfortably-
like a childish moist in my arms-
in my simpering abyss, and therefore sends it into
flickers, and doesth it die-hence, forces its dread, and stubbornness
to obey! O thee, th' fixated spirit to my wondrous imagination-
and th' anxious bits of my sublime inspiration-truthfully, indeed!
How in this quieted recluse
I long for but one piece of shine-yes, just
one piece of which-to be my guiding star,
and the torch of my robbed path.
My stolen state-and luminous gravity, as dim as the mocked
aspiration, is but never to shower again-
t'at earth with smiling rain-and th'  invigorating soil 'neath
my feet-upon which I trample in deadly haste.
But my hands are scanty-and my heart is dry; that is
but admiringly undeniable;
I am indulged by my own fear, abhorrence,
and dangerous imagination. I am but without my lover-
o, thee, o my solitary prince, doth thou heareth of my
wail? I scream and scream in t'is unforgiving agony,
but thou hath not been here, lost in th' middle of nowhere
like an unnamed being-but belonging to some other's
charms, I know! But still I crave for thee-just thy eyes,
yes-those dripping blackness whose temptation is like
a cave, an invitation to deep, deeper soliloquy down its
poisonous hole. How I am shrinking into this dream again-
a wild, wild dream of seclusion, which I look upon
in frustrated reproof; thou art the symbol of its daintiness-
and thorns of delicacy-but t'at someone else! Some other
dame whose heart dearly belongs to thee-and o, how enviable t'is
object of endurance might be. How deserving of my remorse-unwilling
as my being might be, to give it. Still , out of even the shallowest comprehension-
when the sun glows over me, I will long for but thee-over the morning dews
of the river, far from insanity, will I stand there anew,
and in freshness glint at thy stateliness
in unpardonable profusion.

On t'is very still do I sit, with t'at grumpy book in my lap-
words carved nearly are as picturesque as th' beautiful heaven.
I hope but thou could heareth me-thou whose voice is like a
hint of lavender-painted in th' ballads of my heart forever.
My song, my song! Undergone a faithful revision-
towards a masculine spring of reason,
and demands a sudden but mature completion.
How I still sing for thee!
Like a bee who chases a loveless but unbending sunflower,
sipping all its empowering delight-that is but how I shall wait for thee-
in t'is passion and strong conviction for truth-
that thou wilt embrace me, as thy own queen of ardour
beneath t'is forthcoming spring, o, my knight-
and all t'is love, and love indeed-as th' very endlessness
of thy splendor.

O! nothing earthly save the ray
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty’s eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy—
O! nothing earthly save the thrill
Of melody in woodland rill—
Or (music of the passion-hearted)
Joy’s voice so peacefully departed
That like the murmur in the shell,
Its echo dwelleth and will dwell—
O! nothing of the dross of ours—
Yet all the beauty—all the flowers
That list our Love, and deck our bowers—
Adorn yon world afar, afar—
The wandering star.

’Twas a sweet time for Nesace—for there
Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
Near four bright suns—a temporary rest—
An oasis in desert of the blest.
Away away—’mid seas of rays that roll
Empyrean splendor o’er th’ unchained soul—
The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
Can struggle to its destin’d eminence—
To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
And late to ours, the favour’d one of God—
But, now, the ruler of an anchor’d realm,
She throws aside the sceptre—leaves the helm,
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.

Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
Whence sprang the “Idea of Beauty” into birth,
(Falling in wreaths thro’ many a startled star,
Like woman’s hair ’mid pearls, until, afar,
It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt),
She look’d into Infinity—and knelt.
Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled—
Fit emblems of the model of her world—
Seen but in beauty—not impeding sight—
Of other beauty glittering thro’ the light—
A wreath that twined each starry form around,
And all the opal’d air in color bound.

All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
Of flowers: of lilies such as rear’d the head
On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang
So eagerly around about to hang
Upon the flying footsteps of—deep pride—
Of her who lov’d a mortal—and so died.
The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
Uprear’d its purple stem around her knees:
And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam’d—
Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham’d
All other loveliness: its honied dew
(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
Deliriously sweet, was dropp’d from Heaven,
And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
In Trebizond—and on a sunny flower
So like its own above that, to this hour,
It still remaineth, torturing the bee
With madness, and unwonted reverie:
In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
Disconsolate linger—grief that hangs her head,
Repenting follies that full long have fled,
Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
Like guilty beauty, chasten’d, and more fair:
Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
And Clytia pondering between many a sun,
While pettish tears adown her petals run:
And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth—
And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
And Valisnerian lotus thither flown
From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!
Isola d’oro!—Fior di Levante!
And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever
With Indian Cupid down the holy river—
Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
To bear the Goddess’ song, in odors, up to Heaven:

  “Spirit! that dwellest where,
    In the deep sky,
  The terrible and fair,
    In beauty vie!
  Beyond the line of blue—
    The boundary of the star
  Which turneth at the view
    Of thy barrier and thy bar—
  Of the barrier overgone
    By the comets who were cast
  From their pride, and from their throne
    To be drudges till the last—
  To be carriers of fire
    (The red fire of their heart)
  With speed that may not tire
    And with pain that shall not part—
  Who livest—that we know—
    In Eternity—we feel—
  But the shadow of whose brow
    What spirit shall reveal?
  Tho’ the beings whom thy Nesace,
    Thy messenger hath known
  Have dream’d for thy Infinity
    A model of their own—
  Thy will is done, O God!
    The star hath ridden high
  Thro’ many a tempest, but she rode
    Beneath thy burning eye;
  And here, in thought, to thee—
    In thought that can alone
  Ascend thy empire and so be
    A partner of thy throne—
  By winged Fantasy,
     My embassy is given,
  Till secrecy shall knowledge be
    In the environs of Heaven.”

She ceas’d—and buried then her burning cheek
Abash’d, amid the lilies there, to seek
A shelter from the fervor of His eye;
For the stars trembled at the Deity.
She stirr’d not—breath’d not—for a voice was there
How solemnly pervading the calm air!
A sound of silence on the startled ear
Which dreamy poets name “the music of the sphere.”
Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
“Silence”—which is the merest word of all.

All Nature speaks, and ev’n ideal things
Flap shadowy sounds from the visionary wings—
But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
The eternal voice of God is passing by,
And the red winds are withering in the sky!
“What tho’ in worlds which sightless cycles run,
Link’d to a little system, and one sun—
Where all my love is folly, and the crowd
Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath
(Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
What tho’ in worlds which own a single sun
The sands of time grow dimmer as they run,
Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
To bear my secrets thro’ the upper Heaven.
Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
With all thy train, athwart the moony sky—
Apart—like fire-flies in Sicilian night,
And wing to other worlds another light!
Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
To the proud orbs that twinkle—and so be
To ev’ry heart a barrier and a ban
Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!”

Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
The single-mooned eve!-on earth we plight
Our faith to one love—and one moon adore—
The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
As sprang that yellow star from downy hours,
Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
And bent o’er sheeny mountain and dim plain
Her way—but left not yet her Therasaean reign.

Man was made of social earth,
Child and brother from his birth;
Tethered by a liquid cord
Of blood through veins of kindred poured,
Next his heart the fireside band
Of mother, father, sister, stand;
Names from awful childhood heard,
Throbs of a wild religion stirred,
Their good was heaven, their harm was vice,
Till Beauty came to snap all ties,
The maid, abolishing the past,
With lotus-wine obliterates
Dear memory's stone-incarved traits,
And by herself supplants alone
Friends year by year more inly known.
When her calm eyes opened bright,
All were foreign in their light.
It was ever the self-same tale,
The old experience will not fail,—
Only two in the garden walked,
And with snake and seraph talked.

But God said;
I will have a purer gift,
There is smoke in the flame;
New flowerets bring, new prayers uplift,
And love without a name.
Fond children, ye desire
To please each other well;
Another round, a higher,
Ye shall climb on the heavenly stair,
And selfish preference forbear;
And in right deserving,
And without a swerving
Each from your proper state,
Weave roses for your mate.

Deep, deep are loving eyes,
Flowed with naphtha fiery sweet,
And the point is Paradise
Where their glances meet:
Their reach shall yet be more profound,
And a vision without bound:
The axis of those eyes sun-clear
Be the axis of the sphere;
Then shall the lights ye pour amain
Go without check or intervals,
Through from the empyrean walls,
Unto the same again.

Close, close to men,
Like undulating layer of air,
Right above their heads,
The potent plain of Dæmons spreads.
Stands to each human soul its own,
For watch, and ward, and furtherance
In the snares of nature's dance;
And the lustre and the grace
Which fascinate each human heart,
Beaming from another part,
Translucent through the mortal covers,
Is the Dæmon's form and face.
To and fro the Genius hies,
A gleam which plays and hovers
Over the maiden's head,
And dips sometimes as low as to her eyes.

Unknown, — albeit lying near, —
To men the path to the Dæmon sphere,
And they that swiftly come and go,
Leave no track on the heavenly snow.
Sometimes the airy synod bends,
And the mighty choir descends,
And the brains of men thenceforth,
In crowded and in still resorts,
Teem with unwonted thoughts.
As when a shower of meteors
Cross the orbit of the earth,
And, lit by fringent air,
Blaze near and far.
Mortals deem the planets bright
Have slipped their sacred bars,
And the lone ****** all the night
Sails astonished amid stars.

Beauty of a richer vein,
Graces of a subtler strain,
Unto men these moon-men lend,
And our shrinking sky extend.
So is man's narrow path
By strength and terror skirted,
Also (from the song the wrath
Of the Genii be averted!
The Muse the truth uncolored speaking),
The Dæmons are self-seeking;
Their fierce and limitary will
Draws men to their likeness still.

The erring painter made Love blind,
Highest Love who shines on all;
Him radiant, sharpest-sighted god
None can bewilder;
Whose eyes pierce
The Universe,
Path-finder, road-builder,
Mediator, royal giver,
Rightly-seeing, rightly-seen,
Of joyful and transparent mien.
'Tis a sparkle passing
From each to each, from me to thee,
Perpetually,
Sharing all, daring all,
Levelling, misplacing
Each obstruction, it unites
Equals remote, and seeming opposites.
And ever and forever Love
Delights to build a road;
Unheeded Danger near him strides,
Love laughs, and on a lion rides.
But Cupid wears another face
Born into Dæmons less divine,
His roses bleach apace,
His nectar smacks of wine.
The Dæmon ever builds a wall,
Himself incloses and includes,
Solitude in solitudes:
In like sort his love doth fall.
He is an oligarch,
He prizes wonder, fame, and mark,
He loveth crowns,
He scorneth drones;
He doth elect
The beautiful and fortunate,
And the sons of intellect,
And the souls of ample fate,
Who the Future's gates unbar,
Minions of the Morning Star.
In his prowess he exults,
And the multitude insults.
His impatient looks devour
Oft the humble and the poor,
And, seeing his eye glare,
They drop their few pale flowers
Gathered with hope to please
Along the mountain towers,
Lose courage, and despair.
He will never be gainsaid,
Pitiless, will not be stayed.
His hot tyranny
Burns up every other tie;
Therefore comes an hour from Jove
Which his ruthless will defies,
And the dogs of Fate unties.
Shiver the palaces of glass,
Shrivel the rainbow-colored walls
Where in bright art each god and sibyl dwelt
Secure as in the Zodiack's belt;
And the galleries and halls
Wherein every Siren sung,
Like a meteor pass.
For this fortune wanted root
In the core of God's abysm,
Was a **** of self and schism:
And ever the Dæmonic Love
Is the ancestor of wars,
And the parent of remorse.

Quis multa gracilis te puer in Rosa
Rendred almost word for word without Rhyme according to the
Latin Measure, as near as the Language permit.

What slender Youth bedew’d with liquid odours
Courts thee on Roses in some pleasant Cave,
Pyrrha for whom bind’st thou
In wreaths thy golden Hair,
Plain in thy neatness; O how oft shall he
On Faith and changed Gods complain: and Seas
Rough with black winds and storms
Unwonted shall admire:
Who now enjoyes thee credulous, all Gold,
Who alwayes vacant, alwayes amiable
Hopes thee; of flattering gales
Unmindfull.  Hapless they
To whom thou untry’d seem’st fair.  Me in my vow’d
Picture the sacred wall declares t’ have hung
My dank and dropping weeds
To the stern God of Sea.

You concealed it
Were you ashamed?
I saw it in every thing about you
and for a minute it made me sad
You are not dimensionless
Though I once thought so
You dizzy the stars within me
but I think I make yours go still

-cj

(a travelogue cont...)

Waiting for summer
just outside the tallest
mountain’s door

Where the emerald vale
streams spring glacial-grey
river waters,
west into the setting
midnight sun

Another resplendent day’s
paling whisper set free
in an unseen blink
and an unheard sigh

In these unwonted moments  
eyes rise up to touch
the beckoning sky
like a bug drawn
to the light

Upward over
highest mountain's skies
abides everything
worth rising for

It's so rare
in this fleeting life,
when a dream
for a moment
comes true ―
 
you come to understand
how deep is silence

and ...
it doesn’t really matter
when there’re no words


harlon rivers

June 9th. 2018
11:55 pm Denali sunset ...
"don't dream it's over"

I can not be ok unless my world is crumbling apart.
I can only stretch my limbs around your calamity
tie them in a bow,
if my eucatastrophe catastrophically collapses.

The more my mind becomes at peace,
the more I stay awake at night staring out my window
into the ink shadow,
And tango with the shattered moonlight.

Nostalgia consumes
Slip and plummet into a cataclysmic monsune

So I welcome you,
I beg you, rip my heart to shreds
make my mind a mess.
Defile my body and brake my sprit, burn my tattered shreds
in the blazing fire of your hate.

Look at it insanity, everywhere, everything
I will drown in it, I will drown in the screams.
Humanity clings
But pain, the saviour the messiah
is the only thing that makes me feel okay
the only way I can tell fantasy from fiction
pain is the only thing that keeps my devils at bay.

I am the creator of my own catastrophe,
I am the designer of my own tragedy.
Agony.
I am both my antidote and poison, the repercussions of one are felt at magananimous magnitudes of the other.
A never ending cycle.
Estranged peace, unwonted quite. Lock myself in a small room let darkness take me,
insanity break me,
my demons create me,
the evils of the world dance in that room,
they dance with me.
This is my estranged peace,
this is my unwonted quite.

I smile,
a smile so out of place,
put on my mask to cover my face.
I gather my shreds and sow them into a terrorizingly beautiful quilt.
I can only be human if mayhem is raging
under the surface of the lie I built
bubbling over
pressure building
scales tipping.

There is something terribly irreparably broken.
There is a darkness that was terribly irreparably woken

I can only be ok if my world is crumbling apart.

Because something inside screams for chaos.

The Pretty Ones look away
When you catch their eye,
When you hopelessly hope
They give you the same look
Rather than reach the
Edges of their vision
To tear from your lustful leer,
To grace you mere moments
Of their time,
To recognize the prayers
You filled the unwonted air in between,
Those in reverence
Of their overbearing beauty

While you wait
To be swept away
In the powerful wake they cast
From oceans that never end,
While you dream of days
Spent merrily beside
Their ethereal body
To speak in their echoed ears,
While you work to
Build Kingdoms to excite
Their exotic eyes
And rest their petulant hearts,
While you love them in dreams
But never knew their names

Because they held their breath when
They passed you,
Because they move along with
Calculated indifference
To know many like you,
You who exist as
Nothing within their minds,
Who are ghosts
That stare but not to speak,
Who are designed to
Scare but not to touch,
Who are as ethereal
As the bodies they pass
In dreams,
When you walk by
To catch their eye,
It’s not your fault
The Pretty Ones look away.

You were unwonted to me
And I held you in high regards
How I felt about you was indubitable
I wanted you to make me yours
And your eyes
They shined with summer
Your heart
It glared with winter
And you starved me of your attention
You denuded me and refused to clothe me in your warmth
You left me in this destitute condition
But still my magnanimous feelings clung to you
Although you always drew a partition
That interposed me and you
Making us impossible

So unexpected, guide me through your thought,
As a scheme, so clean, has me under your charm
Faceless beauty, her spirit leaves me caught,
I'll dance along, darling, arm within arm

Antique photos create vivid discourse,
Formatted light brings man closer to muse,
Letting robots paint, through unexplained force,
Gifts of design, our sight shall not abuse

To select one tint, I'd say Aurora,
Like those hair colours painted emerald,
mixed shades of turquoise, the cosmos' flora.
Stumbled upon, speaks an angels herald

Now, I pose, toward your curious mind
What songs, or prose, keep stresses left behind?

Appeared a riddle,
Buried treasure teasing clues,
Reveal your secrets

--

Count the stars while counting your steps, my girl,
Skipping careless upon the edge of the world,
If you were to slip, in my arms you would curl,
or lift me up to sit and watch the waves whirl

Diving with diction, planned like mystery fiction,
Gossip through senses, our voices breed intrigue,
To some, this constriction, would be cause for friction
But we're something special, within our own league

Vast skies painted in pastels mesmerize,
Warm sphere's embrace souls, leaving nothing to guess,
Astonished, you leave me, how we synchronize,
an unwonted psyche I dream to undress

Mix Vagabond, Stadium Love, Get Jiggy,
stirred with Colt 45, Spektor, and Kanye,
One part, don't worry, Two parts, be happy,
Pour upon the strawberry swings of coldplay.

Such careful words, the tension's in this game,
Would we break it, if I were to ask your name?

Queen, rule just and pure,
spark mischief behind barred doors,
Toy soldiers, march forth
--

Village folk decried such madness, those two,
Vaulting barb wire fences, and shabby rusted Fords
Vexing stray hippos, mired in the peacock's blue
Vanishing across great plains, slick tundra, broad fjords

Crooked cobblestones carve patience and plight
Crazed concrete jungles echo no amnesty
Captive Pigeons left captivated by flight
Cheer on escapees who soar past reality

Illusions of reflections spur pleasure,
Incite subtle coaxing, come over for a bite,
Impressed as may be, we care not spoil treasure
Instead conspiring deeper, until it's...just right

Blood ne'er shed freely,
Exhaust all human power,
Claim your Victory.
--

Without a doubt, you've penned one of your greats,
The way your words flow, how it illustrates,
Fingers left speechless, your story asphyxiates,
and to think, this is only one of your unimaginable traits,

So I'll be the first to spoil the rhyme,
I'm sure you'll learn to forgive me in time,
But with an inbox cluttered with junk and grime,
it's fast-coming apparent I'm chatting with a dime,

Curious souls are we, so let's fill up the canvas
Fingerpaint and oils; no drafting, sort-of planless,
Maybe we could do with the other one's madness,
so let me propose an idea; it shouldn't leave you anxious,

Lets find an evening where your heart may be free,
So that we may join together for a lovely cuppa' tea.

Breaking news just in!
Winter echos behind us,
Spring forward once more.

don't be afraid
    to bleed brains on paper
    to plead pains unwavered
string sounds slowly
string sounds quickly
do so daringly
rhyme no caringly
    do not balk upon the blind eyed judge judging unwonted
    spray inky gouts
dare defy doubt

i'm restless and unwonted, i don't think that's what you want.
no one really does.

primary idiopathic palmar/
palmoplantar hyperhidrosis
despite taking  Glycopyrrolate
2 MG Tablet three times daily.

Aforementioned physiological malady
the bane worse than death
unwanted and unwonted figurative
(metaphorical) beast of burden
linkedin with matrix constituting mine
corporeal essence genetically
gifted to yours truly,
invariably, objectionably, and unquestionably
afflicts, impacts, and upsets
emotional (mental) health
diagnosed with schizoid personality disorder
and aggravated, jump/kickstarted, triggered...,
when body electric
of mine experiences duress.

Tis no fun unable
to join in any reindeer games
(actually quite aggravating)
to experience chronic instances,
whereby profuse sweat drips
(think rivaling Angel Falls),
the loftiest falls on land
inducing extreme self
consciousness and embarrassment.

Socialization compromised,
jeopardized, and sabotaged
against natural proclivity to fraternize,
thus avoidance behavior
(i.e. social distancing) rigorously practiced
way before coronavirus (COVID-19)

mandated staying at least 6 feet
(about 2 arm's length) from other people.
I vaguely recollect even while in utero
sweaty hands cooled courtesy amniotic fluid
yet subsequently observing consternation
obstetrician displayed as

itty bitty teensy weensy fingers
dripped - think faucet turned on full force.
Mein kampf (predominantly
describes solitary existence)
severely exacerbated (still prominent)

ability to function undermined
courtesy deux part and parcel
significant aforestated physiological
and social congenital afflictions
somewhat ameliorated by
about half dozen prescription medications.

I keep hermetically sealed
within our single bedroom apartment
(we lucked out with unit B44
providing us scenic view)
climate controlled when weather
hazy, hot and humid
at sixty degrees Fahrenheit
(you do the math to figure
the Centigrade temperature),
nevertheless these stubby
five fingered appendages
ooze perspiration on par
with spigots gushing sweat.

Worse fate than death finds me
suffering one or more
dogged following plagues:
water turning to blood, frogs, lice,
flies, livestock pestilence, boils, hail,
locusts, darkness and killing
of firstborn children far less oppressive
versus being stricken with Hyperhidrosis.

Sain above identified unpleasant fallout
understandably, quintessentially, and inextricably
linkedin within every fiber
moost likely activated since conception - mine
body electric infiltrated nerve wracking
complex corporeal edifice
interestingly enough solely overbearing
while yours truly wide awake
bright tailed and bushy eyed,
yet sleep ofttimes brings

severely dislocating, disquieting
and discombobulating
subconscious nocturnal experiences,
which frightful, maniacal, and
phantasmagorical vivid dreams
undermines, oppresses, and impinges,
any joie de vivre
creating abominable hell on Earth
thus this dirt poor commoner
pronouncing his intent

to beg, borrow and/or steal
(sell my soul to the devil)
in a desperate effort to secure
and pay King's ransom
to rid myself once and for all
of parasite entrenched nemesis
bleeding dry, leeching, and yoking
writer christened Matthew Scott Harris,
whereby he doth regularly writhe in agony.

A lie,
I say,
unwonted.

Iconoclast to
my own
stability.

I wish
I knew
when the
fire
reached my
own
fingers.

I wish
I knew
the smell
of
burnt
flesh.

I am
watching myself
tied to this
vengeful stake
and clapping,
slowly,
almost realising,
that I am
the
match.

primary idiopathic palmar/
palmoplantar hyperhidrosis
despite taking  Glycopyrrolate
2 MG  Tablet three times daily.

Aforementioned physiological malady
unwanted and unwonted figurative
(metaphorical) beast of burden
linkedin with matrix constituting mine
corporeal essence genetically
gifted to yours truly,
invariably, objectionably, and unquestionably
afflicts, impacts, and upsets
emotional (mental) health
diagnosed with schizoid personality disorder.

Tis no fun unable
to join in any reindeer games
(actually quite aggravating)
to experience chronic instances,
whereby profuse sweat drips
(think rivaling Angel Falls),
the loftiest falls on land
inducing extreme self
consciousness and embarrassment.

Socialization compromised,
jeopardized, and sabotaged
against natural proclivity to fraternize,
thus avoidance behavior
(i.e. social distancing) rigorously practiced
way before coronavirus (COVID-19)

mandated staying at least 6 feet
(about 2 arms' length) from other people.
I vaguely recollect even while in utero
sweaty hands cooled courtesy amniotic fluid
yet subsequently observing consternation
obstetrician displayed as

itty bitty teensy weensy fingers
dripped - think faucet turned on full force.
Mein kampf (predominantly
describes solitary existence)
severely exacerbated (still prominent)

ability to function undermined
courtesy deux part and parcel
significant aforestated physiological
and social congenital afflictions
somewhat ameliorated by
about half dozen prescription medications.

I keep hermetically sealed
within our single bedroom apartment
(we lucked out with unit B44
providing us scenic view)
climate controlled when weather
hazy, hot and humid
at sixty degrees Fahrenheit
(you do the math to figure
the Centigrade temperature),
nevertheless these stubby
five fingered appendages
ooze perspiration on par
with spigots gushing sweat.

Worse fate than death finds me
suffering one or more
dogged following plagues:
water turning to blood, frogs, lice,
flies, livestock pestilence, boils, hail,
locusts, darkness and killing
of firstborn children far less oppressive
versus being stricken with Hyperhidrosis.

Sain above identified unpleasant fallout
understandably, quintessentially, and inextricably
linkedin within every fiber
moost likely activated since conception - mine
body electric infiltrated nerve wracking
complex corporeal edifice
interestingly enough solely overbearing
while yours truly wide awake
bright tailed and bushy eyed,
yet sleep ofttimes brings

severely dislocating, disquieting
and discombobulating
subconscious nocturnal experiences,
which frightful, maniacal, and
phantasmagorical vivid dreams
undermines, oppresses, and impinges,
any joie de vivre
creating abominable hell on Earth
thus this dirt poor commoner
pronouncing his intent

to beg, borrow and/or steal
(sell my soul to the devil)
in a desperate effort to secure
and pay King's ransom
to rid myself once and for all
of parasite entrenched nemesis
bleeding dry, leeching, and yoking
writer christened Matthew Scott Harris,
whereby he doth regularly writhe in agony.

"Can you help me with this?"

Turning my way
Both confident and beautiful
She forfeits her pride
And two AA batteries

"Please?"

I destroy her completely
Reduce her to ashes
I am fearless, I am music
I am murderous laughter

"...."

In a moment her voice
First muddled and low
Snaps into focus
Railroads my daydream

"I can't get them in"

I am
Unmatched....
In my passion
For this woman

"Nuclear holocaust"

Safe in a whisper
It crawls along slow
Sloth-like and stealthy
Avoiding disaster

"I'm sorry?"

She summons the nerve
Stands by the notion
Miles are between us
She's hard pressed to know

"I am too..."

I hand her the proof
Of how useless she is
Batteries in place
Everything working

"Thanks a bunch!"

My rage is unwonted
My violence inevitable
I am revenge in the aftermath
I become it completely

"You're welcome"

Maybe tomorrow...
Or a day spent without
Free pizza and root beer
Champagne in the break room

in Pennsylvania will begin at 2:00 AM
on Sunday, March twelfth
and moost likely will impact
min-née-ute effect on me
a run of the mill on the Floss
amazingly gracefully aging
long haired pencil necked geek,
who welcomes increased photons.

Just moments ago, a dawning realization
arose within this sol son begat
from ma late mother
and then (when following poem written)
octogenarian widower father,
(me papa passed away
since date this poem written)
oh..no nothing cat
tuss strophic, boot merely the revelation,
how fist bumping
dee clocks hour hand ahead
remembered by dat

dog gone refrain
spring ahead, and fall back,
this unemployed chap
doth down play eclat
attests that his quotidian
schedule minimally affected
holed up here in Highland Manor named flat
roomy enough for thyself, the Missus,
and buzzfeed ding fruit flies
each fuzz beating insect
approximately the size of a gnat
a minor nuisance, though tolerable
within this appealing habitat

where minor inconvenience experienced
by this Schwenksville, Pennsylvania resident
cuz as a recipient
of social security disability
(social anxiety) this psyche didst get rent
which fixed (unearned) income budgeted
and predominantly costs
of living money spent
hence no need to arise
bright tailed and bushy eyed,
a freedom akin

to festive folks camped out in a tent,
which exemption immunizes
this doodle ling middle aged
muddle brained chap subject ranting
early morning drivers,
who angrily, frenetically,
and splenetically rant and vent
thus, the tendency, piquancy, and lunacy
to twitter (for the Yardbirds),
and keep company
with night owls, who went
a hooting for all the world wide web

to hear, whence straw dawgs Bach,
the exact number of hours, yer oblivious
to the tight rigorous mortised schedule
manned by Mister Clock,
essentially foisting on bread winners,
an abstract artificial construct spurring
madcap commuters to scurry in the rat race,
lest tardiness could cost
more than ham iz zone whole paycheck
(to ap pier with permanent dock
hue ment aye shun),
an unwonted blot add hock

king worry about getting canned -
i.e. on permanent furlough,
perhaps forced into a life of crime,
yet if caught...
courtesy strapping ****
wasting away in a jail cell
as warden turns the lock
one redeeming factor,
would offer opportunity to mock
management, and more pertinently
mandate to rock
and roll to the incessant muted,
yet devastatingly loud tick tock.

rapprochement somewhat salvaged dislocation

Truth be told about following poem
mostly written quite some years ago,
and revisions made to recreate
a more satisfactory literary product.

This trademark ungainly, unsightly,
and unwieldy title essentially
huzzah mask queer aid,
(my humble apology NOT
to incite unwanted
and unwonted anger
among lgbtqia community),
and accentuates tendency
(mine) to administer
reverent unpretentious yawping,
sans (asper thy usual)

wordy, quirky, nutty, heady, easy...
and gallimaufry charade,
though pointed lament
decries copious blather,
which awareness (in tandem
with better devilishly cherubic angels)
prevail upon sesquipedalian
nippy nap noopy quirkiness, might be
in my best (in show)
interest to evade
leaving an unsuspecting

reader psychologically frayed,
and without doubt prematurely
finds same cyber surfer
harried and grayed,
styled akin to experience dramatic,
and sudden onset of progeria
hence, a concerted effort
will be orchestrated, i.e.made
so everyone involved woodwind
fur me (a hip cat) tabby
conscientiously choosing

meow me modus operandi
to mute trumpeting,
associated with this one man
faltering hit parade,
hence, an intent to write
swiftly tailored and more clearly,
cogently, and creditably
qua more understandable to invite,
subsequently witnessing, an
increased authorial fan
base, and unite

easy to comprehend
underlying intelligent conversation,
and/or share something trite,
anyway, thee impetus regarding
risking emailing a younger sister,
where repressed spite led
to dissolution, née cessation
of brotherly linkedin communication
engendered me to make right
egregious emotional estrangement,
principally vitiated, nursed,

generated, augmented
(thank you very much) by me,
viz in sum avoidance behavior
(traipsing, purring, loping,
humming, and doodling along) quite
familiarly, easily, (no matter
discontentedly), alas and alack
moment seemed apropos
for this only bro
their to allow, enable,

and proffer selflessness -
pushing aside ego
(mine) and attempt to go
for the gusto ***
embarking, kickstarting, and
resolving upon reasonable resolutions
to convey persevere re-establishing
cordiality, despite misgivings
toward Shari Todd
thee family member in question.

Flee.

Jagged cliffs angling towards the sky in your touch down,
The whales mingle with the stars in the deep sea,
But all you can do is
Rosebushes on balloon held cotton candy
Warehouse.

It’s Canada all over again.
The ski lodge with its electric fireplace,
Glass made to look as if
Its warmth wasn’t from beauty
Deception.

The wolves are all around you,
You’re lost amongst the sea of
Shadows
The moonlight cuts through the
Thick canopy of patience.

Unwonted patience.

Regality is dignified,
Is mighty,
Is meant to be honored.
You let it be pounded.

You let them twist and crush
Into sparkling powder that has you mesmerized.

Years down the road
Reality will dawn.

The new day,
Heavy.

04.07.2021

In 2024, daylight savings time will begin at two o'clock ante meridiem on Sunday, March tenth. That will mean losing an hour of precious sleep and moving the clocks (around your house, and sundry frequented places) forward one hour, though your cell phone, computer, and television plus other electronic devices will likely automatically adjust. The sun will appear to rise and set an hour later.

Father time evinces spectacular robustness despite weathering setback of countless finagling representation viz Chronos (/ˈkroʊnɒs, -oʊs/; Greek: Χρόνος, [kʰrónos], "time"), also spelled Khronos or Chronus, is a personification of time in pre-Socratic philosophy and later literature. Chronos. Personification of time. Time Clipping Cupid's Wings (1694), by Pierre Mignard. Symbol.

Though crafted a few years back
jet lag effect affects yours truly
twice each year when schedules
within body electric
such as circadian rhythm
dislocate psyche
analogous to seismic shift
NOT attributed to global warming,
nor aeronautically bound sky high,
but linkedin to hour hand
on analog clock
set ahead or behind one hour.

Just about a bajillion moments ago
(from date/time
I wrote these words),
a dawning realization
arose within this sol son begat
from ma late mother
and (initial commencement
of this poem) while
then octogenarian widower father,
lived at Normandy Farms
Senior Community

in Blue Bell, Pennsylvania
(he since passed away
October 7th, 2020)
oh... no nothing cat
tuss strophic, boot
merely the revelation,
how fist bumping dee clocks
an hour hand ahead
remembered by dat
dog gone refrain
spring ahead, and fall back,

this unemployed chap
doth down play eclat
attests that his quotidian rising
schedule minimally affected
holed up here
in Highland Manor named flat
roomy enough for thyself, the Missus,
and buzzfeed ding fruit flies
each approximately the size of a gnat
a minor nuisance, though tolerable
within this appealing habitat,

where minor inconvenience experienced
by this Schwenksville, Pennsylvania resident
cuz as a recipient
of social security disability
(social anxiety) this psyche didst get rent,
which fixed (unearned) income budgeted
and predominantly costs
of living money spent
hence no need to arise
bright tailed and bushy black eyed,
pea yon sought freedom akin

to folks camped out in a tent,
which exemption immunizes
this doodle ling middle aged
muddle brained chap subjected to ranting
courtesy early morning drivers,
who angrily, frenetically,
and splenetically rant and vent
thus, the tendency, piquancy, and lunacy
to twitter (for the Yardbirds),
and keep company
with night owls, who went

a hooting for all the world wide web
to hear, whence dawgs Bach
the exact number of hours, yet oblivious
to the tight rigorous
tenon mortised schedule
manned by Mister Clock,
essentially foisting on Bread Winners,
an abstract artificial construct spurring
madcap commuters
to scurry in the rat race,

lest tardiness could cost
more than paycheck
(to ap pier with permanent dock
hue ment aye shun),
an unwonted blot add hoc
king worry about getting canned -
i.e. on permanent furlough,
perhaps forced into a life of crime,
yet if caught...
wasting away in a jail cell

as warden turns the lock
one redeeming factor,
would offer opportunity to mock
management, and more pertinently
mandate to rock
and roll to the incessant muted,
rhyme without reasonable schlock
yet devastatingly loud tick tock
analogous to stir fries
noisily prepared in wok.