(1)

The day she visited the dissecting room
They had four men laid out, black as burnt turkey,
Already half unstrung. A vinegary fume
Of the death vats clung to them;
The white-smocked boys started working.
The head of his cadaver had caved in,
And she could scarcely make out anything
In that rubble of skull plates and old leather.
A sallow piece of string held it together.

In their jars the snail-nosed babies moon and glow.
He hands her the cut-out heart like a cracked heirloom.

                (2)

In Brueghel's panorama of smoke and slaughter
Two people only are blind to the carrion army:
He, afloat in the sea of her blue satin
Skirts, sings in the direction
Of her bare shoulder, while she bends,
Finger a leaflet of music, over him,
Both of them deaf to the fiddle in the hands
Of the death's-head shadowing their song.
These Flemish lovers flourish;not for long.

Yet desolation, stalled in paint, spares the little country
Foolish, delicate, in the lower right hand corner.

collector of iron and all things metal
carried without slightest lament
by
beautiful brown-and-white nag with overflowing mane
clip-clops up and down
every road there is
and even beyond



1.
little doubt exists
of fine ingenuity
of said collector
who wastes no moment nor chance
to scour every luck’s platform
with sharp intuition and assiduous eyes
          an old stove with absent racks
          a precious copper geyser gutted with no fittings
          pine-planks discarded due to skew-cuts
          aluminium pipes abandoned with twisted ends
          old screws with rusty whorls from an recently bucket-kicked geezer’s garage
          parts of a car . . . an ****** gearbox and ancient exhausts
heaps of junk and piles of crap clang on cart
a veritable dump in some eyes but those of
the cool collector who takes all the sweepings in gracious stride
cast-off penalties and chaffs of society’s unwanted

2.
once a week on Saturdays
these wares are parked near the parking lot
for all to approach
to see
a fine spread of legend and lore
     bric-à-brac and books to browse
so many things of interest
     magazines and manuals with miscellany-topics under the sun
     hipflasks of silver and clear-cut carafes
     unused greeting-cards with dressed-up paper-dolls
     rare literature well-thumbed with care
and things you’d sure chuck out
mechanical entrails and shiny things
yet
quite a spectacle to behold
costing a joke but for you
a fraction of today's ha'penny

3.
nobody knows why the quiet collector takes the time of day
to re-inforce that fixture-presence
a kindly soul with half-smile always flirting round the lips
and greets with old-century warmth o'er book-edge, markedly a poem-spine
walking closer to peep curiosity around
relaxed eyes let one be
          no compulsive sales-talk
          no eager-****** hopping
just sitting back in deep hiker’s green fold-up chair
easy posture and half-drooped eyes with soft drink close at hand

4.
the collector really watches all who pass
     who go by on their daily trails with rituals oft unchanged
     who fuss ever-plaintive over facetious deets like school-tasks
as they return their books long overdue while whistling smasher-hit tunes (never to be heard)
     who rush to catch an ever-noisy taxi with their own raucous guards
     who help heaving housewives cursing under breath climb on board
as their groceries groan and nearly drop from overladen plastic bags
     who ignore for now with studious intent the hobos on the pavement there
     who beg lost coins for empty-belly from the tattered purses in bosoms
while others cry out impatient at peripheral nuisances
     who act as indiscreet ‘car-guards’ ostensibly guarding cars, even with folk in it

yes, he watches
and observes with keen eyes yet never obvious
even those who saunter by
with pondering glance and walking stick
even as years have graciously touched their brow
he sees them *tut-tut the ******* on the wall
like stray-dogs in a pound

5.
once in an often while
this collector who loves a rediscovered hypothesis
to explore the myriad facets of humanity
does an odd turn now and then
when walking to the toilet at the local library
which has parked itself adjacent to this lot
drops a twenty-buck note near the side
and soon joyful sees the utter surprise
when tired high-school kids with sullen backpacks
do a double-take
espy their luck . . . whoo-hoo, look!
their gloomy cloaks of learning plain melts
they take off sure-footed and lighter of heart
and repair to the fish-and-chips shop
they share their vinegary ***** in a finger-licking circle
and amity strong-cemented in a cool memory
that they’d recall with fondness many years later
at their 20th school-reunion
and as grand-dads visiting a dying pal

pangs of hunger satisfied
and
not only by them


next time
that note will be dropped in the park nearby
where effete winos sleep their lives away
     who ken much and give not a care
     a kind long not recognised
educated derelicts debate on war-merits and erstwhile musicians play melodic arpeggios
sitting in the gentle arbour-shade of mutual acceptance
with chess-mad players
working out strategy in rapt blade-moves
which belie and scorn the forgotten titles to their name
along with Ph.D to boot

6.
when night-time hails - all grows still again
and settles, though just for a nibble of time
it’s pack-up time
the listening collector hears the owl-hoot’s call
and knows the time has come to rest a bit
     for when the morrow dawns
     all neatly packaged in a brand-new gift called day
it’s back on the road again
to observe once more
with trusted nag in tow
clip-clop . . . clip-CLOP

7.
and the collector is the one
the housewives invite with alacrity to Xmas-lunch
the taxi-drivers offer gifts of goodwill
the school-kids give their chips and last treats
the vagrants seek out to share a ciggie and sympa-chat
the grown men visit for esoteric slim-tomes and philosophical advice
the shopkeepers welcome reassuring presence of

yes, this quiet collector
is the inadvertent guest
to shores of the lonely
the too-busy and life-ridden folk
who seek a sweet smile
just once in a while
in a world
where compassion is not justified by its deep-touches of poverty





no fruitless labour
in one who sees little detriment
but senses the full value of
every item’s moment in vanilla-time
while trying always
to catch
the finest one can be


supreme harvest, indeed
yes :)
love . . . love . . . love . . .





S T, 1 September

Lustrous but also lackluster
We are gems yet salvaged
Formed inside of a shelled world

Waves waning and whining
Sailors nauseated on our waters
Drifting towards an aggrandized land
Where they might find us oysters in the sand

They'll tear them open,
In search of what only we bear
Camouflaged amongst the cultured,
Or even those with nothing there

Darling,
We are wild,
Yes we are rare
Open up to me,
We've so many layers to share

Your metallic smile,
Your iridescent articulation
Everything happened so naturally
A miracle to be in the same location

They won't crack us,
For our muscles will defend
Our valuable and vulnerable interior
From the worlds vinegary intent

Nanu, I had a dream last night that you came back

From being gone almost 3 years

We embraced and I told you I missed you so much

It was bittersweet, really.

I had seen you, and then you disappeared.

Like a shadow, when the sun decides to sleep.

I could've slept eternally knowing I would've been with you; forever

I remember when you were first diagnosed with lung cancer.

You held a smooth stone and told me, "Emily this stone is going to heal me one day."

You told me how it would make you better.

I remember one thanksgiving you gave me a glass of your wine

It was, bittersweet.

Vinegary as it ate away my tastebuds
Sweet like strawberries marinading in sugar, only.. Wine is made out of grapes... You taught me that.

Its funny, you used to let me sit upon your lap when you mowed the lawn, it was my own mistake for crashing it into the fence.

It was, bittersweet.

I got to drive a lawn mower and you had to fix the fence.

I look back to how happy you were on the sun porch in the summer heat, especially when lightening would strike the area around us,

I'd hide my face in your tarnished sweater

It was, bittersweet.

This morning I stood in the snow

Inhaling the heavy smoke of my marlboro cigarette

Weeping as I stared at the sky,

Then I remembered, you didn't disappear, you just went on vacation for awhile.

It's bittersweet, really.

One morning I find my f(r)iends’ eyes are lead;
That evening I pace in gullible love.
Night falls, I find wished-on stars have fled.

With intravenous need their hearts drop dead:
The death boyhood knew nothing of.
At daybreak I find my f(r)iends’ eyes are lead.

I walk encased in a narrowing shed
That keeps me hidden from the sun above.
Night falls, I find wished-on stars have fled.

From the pulse of my trusting veins they’re bled;
The needle fits like a vinegary glove.
One morning I find my f(r)iends’ eyes are lead.

In them I saw lunacy's fountainhead,
Drug-sickness, soul-loss, young skin grown mauve.
Night falls, I find wished-on stars have fled.

Maybe if I’d not trailed they’re pitch-black tread,
I’d be whole: A full, unpitted olive.
One morning I see my f(r)iends’ eyes are lead;
(Nightfall!) I know wished-on stars have fled.

Pantry shelves hold jars of jam
sweet spreads of life made from fruits and berries
so succulent drops of saliva
rain on each touch of tongues

Cautious people stack rows
of carefully canned fruit
preserved with small portions of honey,
sugar cane or molasses.

Tin lids eventually “pop”
leaving elastic bitters
for knives to daub and rub
against stale breads.

Must life endure until  
only vinegary fills remain
and I am left to consume  
sour roughage to sustain me?

When perdition creeps
across the sands to envelop me
what will become
of unopened jars?

Wisdom permeated all over Spinalonga, needs were supremely supplied, Wonthelimar was together with Vernarth in the endeavor to honorably defer the Manes Apsidas converts who evacuated the cells of the leprosarium, after the Ottomans and Orthodox priests had left them, the custodians arrived at its end. Now everything has the life and the will to touch the lightning bolts of the blue sun, with the personal image of the Saint's devotion from the origin, and the new lives that rose up through the complex of the sectional rampart. The Palmario Apófisi de la Santa was made of a great awakening semblance, with the Panagia Theoskepasti, in Kimolos. From this labyrinth of the skepazo or "velar" that the Saint smudged from afar the counterweight pallets so that they are not returned through the axon tube that will take them far to this region of purgation, in the Cyclades and Dodecanese. In the bay of Dekas the archpriest of Kimolos would wait for them, receiving them near the small islet Agios Andreas, similar to Spinalonga, where they will live until Vernarth goes, after speaking in Kimol and Milil. To arrive at Psathi with his entourage to exhume them definitively in Court V of Elleniká, seeing the extreme longevity of the fallen of Spinalonga and their leprosy cloistered in a fleeting substance.

Iteration of Marie Des Allées: “The Vas Auric will rotate in all ellipses from here to Elleniká sprinkling crumbs of the purest bread of Arcadia, on a gray Monday with hummus and bobota, to attract the vinegary souls that were in a catatonic state, thus doing more esthetic or in Aisthesis in the reactionary when reincorporating them in the three courtyards in magnificent concordance with Rhodes. At the beginning of the Archpriest the talk derives the prayers from him to the semi-inert matters that were made in communion with the oratorical dyes; with worms and with the distractions of larger snakes that were planted waving, being, in reality, Vermes that were amazed at the exhortation of the Archpriest and the protocol, who circled the universal destination of his elegies to be celebrated from an ambo or pulpit, in classical Latin to propheir the archpriest the form of Era Dies Lunae, mutating it ****** to dies lunis by analogy with dies. On a dark Monday, but full of grace for those in attendance, they would give sermons, to interpret the alabaster courtyards that would lead to Tsambika. The first worms were chased by Kanti, believing that they were games that emerge from the eternal ground. Of whose ecosystem the earth was beginning to ignore them due to their annelid metamorphoses, appearing to increase in their texture, more ultra hadic than the same remains of doubt without sarcophagus, turned into sharp intestinal curves that were depressed breathing autonomously over massive folds of the acquiescent dermis of the oldest caste of the subsoil of Helleniká, further away from all sub-divisible organic matter of finite mortality towards the eternal other, contributing to a neural complex of tremors, and in veiled sensations that are lost between itself and that of its own bodies being able to take them with their own disorders "

Vernarth indicates: “long are the hours, and doubt overwhelms me, only my instinct follows me, and then I follow him. Khaire everyone and may the light of Mashiach be with us "

Etréstles reiterates: “my spirit has met Marie des Vallées, my spiritual hers, and my mischievous spirits play with them. Divine thanks, O venerable St Marie, here we are to honor the labiernago that have brought her Marian lattices, their dark green that blends with the layer of her attire, in margins that are found out in their change of shades "

Wothelimar answers: “what fire will extinguish the similarity of the Labiérnagos with the Astragali of Vernarth, when they meet those of the Santa Marie?

Theus replies: "We have been redeemed by his spiritual fire, whose conscience has placed in us in the Apophisi that reproves him, under the joint weight of beatitude"

Vikentios answers: “the Matakis of redemption will filter the doubts of his third person for an inextinguishable, to the degree of the second character that could divert his prerogative. Thanks to the spiritual fire that burns in the brambles that result in martyrdom by already being free from the torment of *** Bei Hinnom and Spinalonga fully expiated "

The protocol is broken and Theus, once freed from the last link of the Apophisi, goes to hug his brother, together they hug and kneel down the rough *****, after the ghostly chairs run wild for a prebend of Mother Marie that from The sky presented them weightless, with the effective of the marvelous Logos of God, and the Rhema of Vernarth, who would make the plate in the aromatic herds of Myrrh, Myrtle and Marjoram, to aromatize the appearance of the Saint and to bat the world of the Howls Kósmos with this triad of balsams for the foreground of the bigamist horizon in bloom, which sprinkles the talc of the resinous species when falling from the serene on this great day. They all looked at each other for more than three days in a row without moving, nobody did it from where they were. Leaving sticky resins, deserting the greased bodies of eternal days, some looking at each other in the infinite time that anointed them with different minutes, and monuments that released their souls moistened with Myrrh and carmine for the muffins of a Hellenic piece, with properties healing for mythology that was reborn in the sub-mythology of Vernarth and the essence creators Myrepsós. Or creating essences for the Saint, condensing from the perfume on all the alabaster containers, smelling of the insurmountable effects of Alexander the Great who appeared before everyone, to support and even in the ferrous breath of the stratosphere, and the island that was reconverted by the trampled waves, which were made to fall on all the megatons of Hellenic incense, which does not lead fights or disputes, only entertained everyone here united in the order and temperance of the frenzy, which follows the fields of fragrances directed towards everyone, also for the Manes Apsidas to Theoskepasti. Supremely Marie des Allées poured Rose concoction, ordering them to have their mouths open to receive their fragrances, and then to be able to expel them to the nauseating winds of the east, where the Beit Hamikdash was free of Gehenna, transferring the Apsidas to Dekas and then to Helleniká.

for C.S.R.*

One morning I find my f(r)iends’ eyes are lead;
  That evening I pace in gullible love;
Night falls, I find wished-on stars have fled.

With intravenous need their hearts drop dead
  (The inward death boyhood knew nothing of).
At daybreak I find my f(r)iends’ eyes are lead.

The mind, encased in a dark, narrow shed,
  Blindly estranges the sunlight above.
The unlit night resembles my dread.

From the pulse of my trusting veins they’re bled.
  Fitting like a vinegary glove,
The needle transmogrifies their eyes to lead.

Unforeseen fallout from the needle's head—
  Drug-sickness, self-contempt, flesh grown mauve—
Imprisons them. (The stars are dead.)

Maybe if I’d not trailed their pitch-black tread
  My Pyrrhic sobriety would be enough...
One morning I found my f(r)iends' eyes were lead
And all the stars I'd wished on fled.

The journey begins always in the mind
but it always manifests with the sliding
of rectangular boxes encasing index cards.
The faint odour of vinegary wood ensues
and a chase scene begins in a wooded
forest of leaves, bound by hundreds and
thousands upon thousands of both soft
and hardbound varieties, gilded or plain.
These days a computer terminal or a
touch screen has replaced these boxes
but their function remains the same;
being akin to boarding pass gates that
regulate your voyage above and beyond.

It’s the one
I’ve heard a hundred times before
track number twelve
belching out the stereo.
It’s either six or five AM
anyway the horizon is orange
like a papaya
and I’m next to your window
with a glass of flat 7-Up in one hand.
No alcohol all evening
but tipsy somehow
maybe the music got some hormones
smiling inside me
or your dancing in next to nothing
gave my brain a vinegary kick.
Now you ask again
I say I have two left feet
you pull an I-couldn’t-care-less face
so it’s settled
I’m dancing but not really
and my arms are thrashing about
so much I worry I’ll belt your lampshade off
and then you jump on the bed
and Teddy goes flying
and somehow I’m quickly up there with you.
We’re teenagers at our first festival
location - your bedroom
headline act on stage
and we’re going effing nuts
at the front shrieking lyrics
hoping our sweaty faces are on BBC Three.
I’m totally knackered so I pant to you
that I’m totally knackered
and you lean in for a kiss
but bump my nose instead
and laugh just as you’ve done all night
so loud so lovely so couldn’t care about
what comes next.
We lie down now
to catch our breath
except you don’t catch your breath do you
it’s just a thing people say
and our four feet are together
naked red sock naked blue sock
you say the song listen it’s ending
so it is
fading away like every night
that comes and then goes.

Etréstles parapsychological regression in Kímolos:

Theoskepasti church, due to its position, could easily be recognized by invaders during their raids. However, according to a legend, the church was veiled by dark clouds of fog and became invisible as soon as the raiders approached. Due to this legend, the church received the name "Theoskepasti" from the Greek words "Theos" and "skepazo" which mean "God" and "watch over" respectively. So the name is 'Veiled by God'. According to another tradition, when a stranger once managed to enter the church and tried to steal the golden candle, divine power cut off his hands. Also if it is veiled by God, so it is divine for Creation that will begin with the synchronization between both latitudes of the Cyclades and the Dodecanese.

After staying with Kanti, they went from Theoskepasti to Hellenika, located in Dekas Bay on the west coast of KÍmolos. Here in the necropolis and ruins of ancient tombs, they would make up part of the new humanity in the creation of the Duoverso, which will exist from Mycenae and Cyclades next to the small islet of Agiоs Andreas, also being part of the city. Many ruined tombs can be seen from the hill on the edge of Ellinika, with some ruins still in the sea between Kimol and Milil. In the proximity of Psathi, on this island located on the southeast coast. Kímolоs Chοrá is 1 km away on the hill above the Psathi port, from here you can see the foreign ships that try to come to the Bay towards Hellenika, for the advent of the Cinnabar and the scapulae that holds the Gates of the Necropolis, for effect of the avant-garde Trisomy, regenerating souls that will resurface with mutated more universal chromosome dyes, but with extreme longevity.


In the homily, an archpriest of the regional deanery will make pastoral criteria for this gesture, by virtue of the eminence of guiding them through the orthodoxy of the chapel to the Episcopal organization of the Vas Auric procession. It was already dusk and Etréstles was putting the homily utensils on Kanti's pony. Before incensing and lighting fires of laurel and rosemary from the fords of Leto and Koumeterium of Messolonghi, he would rotate in ellipses sprinkling crumbs of the most pure bread from Arcadia, on a gray Monday with hummus and bobota, to attract the vinegary souls that were in a state of catatonic, thus making it more esthetic or aesthesis to the reactionary reincorporation of the three courtyards in magnificent concordance with Rhodes. When the Archpriest begins the talk, you refer his prayers to the semi-inert matters that were made in communion with the chromosome dyes; with worms with forgetfulness of larger serpents that were planted waving, being in reality only worms that were astonished at the Archpriest exhortation in the ritual, that they circumnavigated universally with the destination of their elegies to celebrate from an ambo or pulpit, with classical Latin that uttered the archpriest the form was dies lunae, mutating it ****** to dies lunis by analogy with dies. On a dark Monday dies, but full of grace for the attendees, they would do the sermons, to interpret the alabaster courtyards that will lead to Tsambika.  The first worms that were chased by Kanti, believing that they were games that emerge from the ground. Of whose ecosystem the earth was beginning to ignore it due to its annelid metamorphoses, appearing in the increase of texture, further beyond the grave of the same remains of doubt without sarcophagus, turned into sharp intestinal curves that were depressed breathing autonomously over massive folds of the acquiescent dermis of the oldest caste of the Hellenika subsoil. Being of distant origin from the Arcadias and its dissection, which silently followed the hummus and bobota, not to digest them with its suction cups, rather to surround them and delegate them to explore the surroundings that would encapsulate the soil with the proximity of the universe transfigured to the Duoverse of Vernarth, to phosphorylate and emit the wispy nitrogen fires before the Archpriest, Etréstles and Kanti disturbing by an arcane movement. Being a full act of herbaceous phagocytosis, they continued to ascend in the curvilinear procession, with their traces weaving together a timeless moment, which added to the sub-mythology and a finite sub-time, like single-celled procreating others that accelerated their physiognomy detached from their immateriality, towards a longer intake of organic material on the hummus of the bobota bread. Dropping with only clears wrinkles of the digestive world, what no cell has tasted ******, but rather, directly when breathing from Hellinika's lung lobes, comprised mostly of alabaster sheepskin, which were suspended even the bottoms of other colony of worms that sailed, to peer out towards the surface of the altar, where they regenerated the flow of the annelids.

Archpriest says: “The framework of the Vas Auric, arises from the nuclei of the medallion, being pending of a high presence of isolation. With high mobility between the tissues of the annelid amino acids, as new basal cellular functions, even though they are visible to Etréstles, and not totally for everyone yet. The image of the medal, in the classified functionality offers concrete, but microscopic information in a chronological way, possibly being the first in the function of the icon in its justification with the religious symbols and the manifestations of the divine and in the semantic even of the self-iconification , reading it in the Vas Auric, "What two men do not see, a man sees who does not see ..., what the creeping animal sees, a prisoner of its lack of vanity." Being epistemic images that provide knowledge beyond the sub-divisible organic matter of finite mortality towards the eternal other, contributing to the neural complex of tremors, in the veiled sensation that is lost between itself and that of their own bodies, being able to take them with their own emotions”

I ponder the reflection on the night sky,
gazing at the finite moments that gaze
upon my eyes. And I shed a tear, for I
brought these in to my existence.

I'm a singular person, a lone voice...
but I had a chance to voice my opinion,
that had past dead trees were our
currency.. Dead trees sealed there sap,
sealed our future frozen in there ending.

For our time could have been wonderment,
but we stayed silent. And now our sewed opinions
fall foul of the breath our kin's breath..
A world of wonderment turned vinegary to the
taste, as blind thoughts bleed into what we breath..

I wanted a better future, but vocals are severed for
we fear of our moment, not those we give life to.
We care for them, but not the moment for after
were gone. We forget this is a place we left for them,
it was meant to be grand but we made mistakes.

This was a reality turned in to famine, breathless
nights, a moon no longer shimmering dulled by
forefathers greed. But what did it pave, that time
has not passed. So stand now, or those of our future
will huddle in cemetery's of actions instead of just breathing.

Riddle of  tender sword of sirens get one hassle
and sell one tassel of the obviation inside the ritual
An enemy revolves around gluten free rotini
cold vinegary in the street
Should silence and the Angels tracing the wounds
affect such frustrations
Simple skates ruley plates fooly mates now
foully help awaits impressions
A world arcane belittled by dendrites
reaching Holochron 5k digital worlds
Trivial sights and meanings and rites
so incapable of singing the truth hymn
No inside the ease of emblazed endemic isoparametric systems
Burning bright the sensations halt
And now only the guilt of revenance calls