I wanted to scream
While my mouth is closed
Like a concealive bullet.
To cry deeply
To look for a cat:
And sing for it sadly at least;
Put my face in the lab of my palms and shake:
Forward .. backward
Forward.. backward
Like a mother
who lost her daughter, suddenly.

Farewell is an idea;
A growing shrunb of evil.
You think it a flower;
Telling yourself:
She is being grow a bit,
and stay with me,
Bright forever.
..
sun vis-a-vis sun
rose vis-a-vis a rose
Song vis-a-vis song
Heart vis-a-vis heart
Cry vis-a-vis hug
A smile vis-a-vis stumple.

But the trees of Loss
Have black long fingers.

In the beginning:
They gently touch your fingers
-as if it is a begining of a hug,
Or a kiss on the wrist-
The fingers intertwine
Like two lovers who would walk
till the the borders .. of the sea.

And gradually
Everything glows
One by one
Until you sit alone
Face to face;
Contemplating the mirror of fire
Until you both turn into
ashes.

If I'd written
My love poetry
Years ago,
When our passion
Covered college sheets,
When we were sleek
And bared our bodies
Boldly;
When we wore our hair,
Your ******* unbarred,
When we rolled
In your backyard,
Wetter than the dew;
That's one verse
I'd write for you.
Scratch out lines
On your legs,
See Venus rise
From the nubile shell,
Type stanzas
To compare your eyes,
Your neck,
Your lips,
Vis a vis;
The tender terror
Of our first kiss.

Now I am just a stranger.
I have time on my back, this wet afternoon.
Looking at flowers that bloom.
Purple petals under this moon.
So vis a vis.

Chaque jour, chaque nuit,
Á la recherche de l'infinie.
Ton ombre me fait compagnie,
Sans toi je vis.



Les moments de notre amour,
Les chemins avec des mûrs.
Les fleurs que tu as cueillis,
Sans toi je vis...



Toujours with les beaux sourires,
Un oiseaux qui voulait partir...
Je me souviens de ta machine á écrire,
Ton visage, le souvenir...




Le papier blanc toujours passionné,
Mon amour est blessé,
Tous les mots avec tendre passion,
Je vis e navigue dans ton monde d'illussion.


Victor Marques

For
              Carl Solomon

                   I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
      madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the ***** streets at dawn
      looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
      connection to the starry dynamo in the machin-
      ery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
      up smoking in the supernatural darkness of
      cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities
      contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
      saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene-
      ment roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes
      hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy
      among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy &
      publishing obscene odes on the windows of the
      skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn-
      ing their money in wastebaskets and listening
      to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their ***** beards returning through
      Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in
      Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their
      torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al-
      cohol and **** and endless *****,
incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and
      lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of
      Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo-
      tionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery
      dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops,
      storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon
      blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree
      vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook-
      lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless
      ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine
      until the noise of wheels and children brought
      them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
      battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance
      in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's
      floated out and sat through the stale beer after
      noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack
      of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to
      pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook-
      lyn Bridge,
lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping
      down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills
      off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts
      and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks
      and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days
      and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the
      Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a
      trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic
      City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind-
      ings and migraines of China under junk-with-
      drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the
      railroad yard wondering where to go, and went,
      leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing
      through snow toward lonesome farms in grand-
      father night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep-
      athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in-
      stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis-
      ionary indian angels who were visionary indian
      angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore
      gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla-
      homa on the impulse of winter midnight street
      light smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston
      seeking jazz or *** or soup, and followed the
      brilliant Spaniard to converse about America
      and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship
      to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving
      behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees
      and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire
      place Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the
      F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist
      eyes **** in their dark skin passing out incom-
      prehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting
      the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union
      Square weeping and ******* while the sirens
      of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed
      down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also
      wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked
      and trembling before the machinery of other
      skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight
      in policecars for committing no crime but their
      own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were
      dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu-
      scripts,
who let themselves be ****** in the *** by saintly
      motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim,
      the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean
      love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose
      gardens and the grass of public parks and
      cemeteries scattering their ***** freely to
      whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up
      with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath
      when the blond & naked angel came to pierce
      them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate
      the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar
      the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb
      and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but
      sit on her *** and snip the intellectual golden
      threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of
      beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can-
      dle and fell off the bed, and continued along
      the floor and down the hall and ended fainting
      on the wall with a vision of ultimate **** and
      come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling
      in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning
      but prepared to sweeten the ****** of the sun
      rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked
      in the lake,
who went out ******* through Colorado in myriad
      stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these
      poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver--joy
      to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls
      in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses'
      rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with
      gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet-
      ticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station
      solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in
      dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and
      picked themselves up out of basements hung
      over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third
      Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy-
      ment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on
      the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the
      East River to open to a room full of steamheat
      and *****,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment
      cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime
      blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall
      be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested
      the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of
      Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their
      pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the
      bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in
      their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned
      with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded
      by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty
      incantations which in the yellow morning were
      stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht
      & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable
      kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for
      an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot
      for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks
      fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess-
      fully, gave up and were forced to open antique
      stores where they thought they were growing
      old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits
      on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse
      & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments
      of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the
      fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis-
      ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the
      drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap-
      pened and walked away unknown and forgotten
      into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley
      ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of
      the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas-
      saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street,
      danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed
      phonograph records of nostalgic European
      1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and
      threw up groaning into the ****** toilet, moans
      in their ears and the blast of colossal steam
      whistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying
      to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude
      watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
      if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had
      a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who
      came back to Denver & waited in vain, who
      watched over Denver & brooded & loned in
      Denver and finally went away to find out the
      Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying
      for each other's salvation and light and *******,
      until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for
      impossible criminals with golden heads and the
      charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet
      blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky
   &nb

Hey over there you gods of the earth and other planets
Your creature like I, a human mold suffices knowledge not,
As you mightly rove all over the sphere and share domains amongtst thyself
To reign over the whitenes, Jewry, negritude, sinotude plus  yakeetude of mankind,
Enjoying  your ethereally eyeview onto the earth at your creations,
Permit me to shoot up  a guestion to you over there in your deitly realm
Be you  jehova of the jews or amadioha of the igbos,god of the english or anything dogmatic,
What happened to your clay mud and tools pertinent in trade of human ****** creation,
So that you of late on umpteenth scale  have created men who are women
And beautiful women who are aggressive mefolk and then ubuguitous earthwise ?
What has gone heywire with your human architecture ,when *** organs and feelings
Are center stage beckoning for their traditional orientation ?
Is homoeroticality your new creation technology  ?
Or it is man recreating himself ?
Don’t you have enough clay ?
If material matters do you honourable deities
Come to Africa , chief Mugabe bob will guide you to copper-belts
Of chimurenga fields were clay is beyond any control,
In such quests you will go back to goldenly old
Human ****** creation topography
That will glorify your deitiness
In the old manner of hetereoeroticality.

Obscuritate rerum verba saepè obscurantur.
GERVASIUS TILBERIENSIS.


Amis, ne creusez pas vos chères rêveries ;
Ne fouillez pas le sol de vos plaines fleuries ;
Et quand s'offre à vos yeux un océan qui dort,
Nagez à la surface ou jouez sur le bord.
Car la pensée est sombre ! Une pente insensible
Va du monde réel à la sphère invisible ;
La spirale est profonde, et quand on y descend,
Sans cesse se prolonge et va s'élargissant,
Et pour avoir touché quelque énigme fatale,
De ce voyage obscur souvent on revient pâle !

L'autre jour, il venait de pleuvoir, car l'été,
Cette année, est de bise et de pluie attristé,
Et le beau mois de mai dont le rayon nous leurre,
Prend le masque d'avril qui sourit et qui pleure.
J'avais levé le store aux gothiques couleurs.
Je regardais au **** les arbres et les fleurs.
Le soleil se jouait sur la pelouse verte
Dans les gouttes de pluie, et ma fenêtre ouverte
Apportait du jardin à mon esprit heureux
Un bruit d'enfants joueurs et d'oiseaux amoureux.

Paris, les grands ormeaux, maison, dôme, chaumière,
Tout flottait à mes yeux dans la riche lumière
De cet astre de mai dont le rayon charmant
Au bout de tout brin d'herbe allume un diamant !
Je me laissais aller à ces trois harmonies,
Printemps, matin, enfance, en ma retraite unies ;
La Seine, ainsi que moi, laissait son flot vermeil
Suivre nonchalamment sa pente, et le soleil
Faisait évaporer à la fois sur les grèves
L'eau du fleuve en brouillards et ma pensée en rêves !

Alors, dans mon esprit, je vis autour de moi
Mes amis, non confus, mais tels que je les vois
Quand ils viennent le soir, troupe grave et fidèle,
Vous avec vos pinceaux dont la pointe étincelle,
Vous, laissant échapper vos vers au vol ardent,
Et nous tous écoutant en cercle, ou regardant.
Ils étaient bien là tous, je voyais leurs visages,
Tous, même les absents qui font de longs voyages.
Puis tous ceux qui sont morts vinrent après ceux-ci,
Avec l'air qu'ils avaient quand ils vivaient aussi.
Quand j'eus, quelques instants, des yeux de ma pensée,
Contemplé leur famille à mon foyer pressée,
Je vis trembler leurs traits confus, et par degrés
Pâlir en s'effaçant leurs fronts décolorés,
Et tous, comme un ruisseau qui dans un lac s'écoule,
Se perdre autour de moi dans une immense foule.

Foule sans nom ! chaos ! des voix, des yeux, des pas.
Ceux qu'on n'a jamais vus, ceux qu'on ne connaît pas.
Tous les vivants ! - cités bourdonnant aux oreilles
Plus qu'un bois d'Amérique ou des ruches d'abeilles,
Caravanes campant sur le désert en feu,
Matelots dispersés sur l'océan de Dieu,
Et, comme un pont hardi sur l'onde qui chavire,
Jetant d'un monde à l'autre un sillon de navire,
Ainsi que l'araignée entre deux chênes verts
Jette un fil argenté qui flotte dans les airs !

Les deux pôles ! le monde entier ! la mer, la terre,
Alpes aux fronts de neige, Etnas au noir cratère,
Tout à la fois, automne, été, printemps, hiver,
Les vallons descendant de la terre à la mer
Et s'y changeant en golfe, et des mers aux campagnes
Les caps épanouis en chaînes de montagnes,
Et les grands continents, brumeux, verts ou dorés,
Par les grands océans sans cesse dévorés,
Tout, comme un paysage en une chambre noire
Se réfléchit avec ses rivières de moire,
Ses passants, ses brouillards flottant comme un duvet,
Tout dans mon esprit sombre allait, marchait, vivait !
Alors, en attachant, toujours plus attentives,
Ma pensée et ma vue aux mille perspectives
Que le souffle du vent ou le pas des saisons
M'ouvrait à tous moments dans tous les horizons,
Je vis soudain surgir, parfois du sein des ondes,
A côté des cités vivantes des deux mondes,
D'autres villes aux fronts étranges, inouïs,
Sépulcres ruinés des temps évanouis,
Pleines d'entassements, de tours, de pyramides,
Baignant leurs pieds aux mers, leur tête aux cieux humides.

Quelques-unes sortaient de dessous des cités
Où les vivants encor bruissent agités,
Et des siècles passés jusqu'à l'âge où nous sommes
Je pus compter ainsi trois étages de Romes.
Et tandis qu'élevant leurs inquiètes voix,
Les cités des vivants résonnaient à la fois
Des murmures du peuple ou du pas des armées,
Ces villes du passé, muettes et fermées,
Sans fumée à leurs toits, sans rumeurs dans leurs seins,
Se taisaient, et semblaient des ruches sans essaims.
J'attendais. Un grand bruit se fit. Les races mortes
De ces villes en deuil vinrent ouvrir les portes,
Et je les vis marcher ainsi que les vivants,
Et jeter seulement plus de poussière aux vents.
Alors, tours, aqueducs, pyramides, colonnes,
Je vis l'intérieur des vieilles Babylones,
Les Carthages, les Tyrs, les Thèbes, les Sions,
D'où sans cesse sortaient des générations.

Ainsi j'embrassais tout : et la terre, et Cybèle ;
La face antique auprès de la face nouvelle ;
Le passé, le présent ; les vivants et les morts ;
Le genre humain complet comme au jour du remords.
Tout parlait à la fois, tout se faisait comprendre,
Le pélage d'Orphée et l'étrusque d'Évandre,
Les runes d'Irmensul, le sphinx égyptien,
La voix du nouveau monde aussi vieux que l'ancien.

Or, ce que je voyais, je doute que je puisse
Vous le peindre : c'était comme un grand édifice
Formé d'entassements de siècles et de lieux ;
On n'en pouvait trouver les bords ni les milieux ;
A toutes les hauteurs, nations, peuples, races,
Mille ouvriers humains, laissant partout leurs traces,
Travaillaient nuit et jour, montant, croisant leurs pas,
Parlant chacun leur langue et ne s'entendant pas ;
Et moi je parcourais, cherchant qui me réponde,
De degrés en degrés cette Babel du monde.

La nuit avec la foule, en ce rêve hideux,
Venait, s'épaississant ensemble toutes deux,
Et, dans ces régions que nul regard ne sonde,
Plus l'homme était nombreux, plus l'ombre était profonde.
Tout devenait douteux et vague, seulement
Un souffle qui passait de moment en moment,
Comme pour me montrer l'immense fourmilière,
Ouvrait dans l'ombre au **** des vallons de lumière,
Ainsi qu'un coup de vent fait sur les flots troublés
Blanchir l'écume, ou creuse une onde dans les blés.

Bientôt autour de moi les ténèbres s'accrurent,
L'horizon se perdit, les formes disparurent,
Et l'homme avec la chose et l'être avec l'esprit
Flottèrent à mon souffle, et le frisson me prit.
J'étais seul. Tout fuyait. L'étendue était sombre.
Je voyais seulement au ****, à travers l'ombre,
Comme d'un océan les flots noirs et pressés,
Dans l'espace et le temps les nombres entassés !

Oh ! cette double mer du temps et de l'espace
Où le navire humain toujours passe et repasse,
Je voulus la sonder, je voulus en toucher
Le sable, y regarder, y fouiller, y chercher,
Pour vous en rapporter quelque richesse étrange,
Et dire si son lit est de roche ou de fange.
Mon esprit plongea donc sous ce flot inconnu,
Au profond de l'abîme il nagea seul et nu,
Toujours de l'ineffable allant à l'invisible...
Soudain il s'en revint avec un cri terrible,
Ébloui, haletant, stupide, épouvanté,
Car il avait au fond trouvé l'éternité.

Mai 1830.

A series of pure accidents arriving with an extraordinary innocence.
An undeniable force.
A feeling of defiance and reluctance to this conclusion.

Vis-a-vis

Stuck in a gentle gray haze of fatigue.
Illusions communing self to the self of the other.
Nothing else mattered.

Vis-a-vis

The road of amusement curtailed.
Reaching the final turn.
Just one more kiss.

Vis-a-vis

Goodbye.

This is not where this idea began but it ran and I

missed my mark. Mark sin.
-1 deficit reality quotientcy
currency.  Sure.
(Press Sure, to let the bursting pressure equilation expand at will)
Score.

That fine a level of reality
demands more attention than I have to pay.
Patient agent wait and not see or see if/then

you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are some of those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is,
but it is silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments.
Is it?

Apophrenia
or mere
Dejavu, you believe,
what if it is your memory lying by ignoring time
attention ratios determining the observations stored in HD?
What if it's just a glitch?
Blue screen of death.


If you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is, but
is it silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments?

We come and go. To and fro up on the face

messengers bearing news in both directions, watch
the trickster, Jacob, in this story, he sees the messengers from
heaven bearing leaven thither and hither

upon the face of the earth.
the wrinkling mother, smiling now, chuckle head
I ain't no ***** saint.

Jah, I know. Joy is my dance, this is my song.
Is it good Grandmother?

---- on the porch facing my west gate ---

fences don't play exactly, out acted, the role of walls.

The idea that something
there is that does not love a wall,
has frozen my pond

the stillness beyond the sylvan **** crowned head
radiates through the medium of the message to me in time
to you.

Miles to go, you recall the feeling of feeling miles to go
before
I sleep.
That was yesterday, and you know yes ter everything's gone,
roar.

Aslan can pierce the barrier between mere Christians and me,
how would be fun to know, but
knowing why would help us keep the story interesting as life goes on

Who controls my peace?
Am I a mercurial sheen in between chaos and order,
chronus and zeus?
Could be, ya thank so, ye know so, less unlessed as

unlessing means nothing to you,
that means you are visiting here.

Visting whom, vis it ing whom?
Who's in charge, where's the power
short

age, wrinkles in time, rogue waves at the quanta scale,
we were dancing
with the thoughts emanating

from some IDW smart guy proffesing
Critique-technic-magi action, post mode'r'ism
at the point of Dada und Scheizkunst,
the unmass-queque,
the line of lies awaiting unbelief,
idle words lingering,
hoping
to be noticed and added back into the story book of life,

a simple wish.

It could be every child's, should we think that
if we can or may,

sometimes I'm still, and

confusion troubles the water,
it seems,
then another hurt is healed, another lie is gone and life goes on

we won again, this never gets old,
I do love my opposition,
pressure pump
pump pump. De-us-me-can-onbeoffbeyond

five years ago unmasking and rhetoric meant nothing to me
the purpose of learning forever and never
knowing anything beyond all things

our bubble is metastasizing, a mercurial film forms
informing us
in its reflection,

this is the ying yang thang in 3 or 4 d, HD+ chaos one half

order the other,
sharpest imaginable thing
me trick being mag ift just if eye winged show

how beautiful are the feet of them who bring good news,
you see, it flows, sweetwater flows
winged feet
whish through leaving, leavin' leaven…

unleaven that which has been leaved?
Fat chance, all who
eat this bread and don't get gas,
they are our same bread people. Companions.
Vectors of sour dough,
webs of fungal
axions
make a way
bore, pore, poor-with-us, pour

in to it ish, that idea, an opening through,
trickle down good gravity leveling stillness,
gentle rocking earth
roll round and round and round

the pythagorean version
of Euclid's point in his mother's story,

the point of this song? To know the point you must have been

to the point of in-forming the point on which we dance and you recall

we come in threes, and just, we are, just, if it, that idea,
rests in your
back roads, gentle on your mind. We make peace.

Being young is easy from my POV.
I've lived in my future for sometime now

I can't say how, beyond saying aloud, this was never hidden,
in my accounting of idle words I claimed,
upon hearing the stories each contained.

i'da swore i hear that wise *** o'balaam's abrayin'
Braindeem, deemed 'eem. Wham, uptheyhaid. Relig, fool,

or chaos wins and no hero ever lives again!
Drop anchor, wait it out.
let patience blow her nose, gnostic snot caught in the nets,

nonono nothing's wasted in patience work, we make glue
from gnostic snot that patience sneezes
when reality grows cold,

that has happened, you know, temperatures are just now,
oh, wait global warming, bad dam,

Script, bust it,
leveling is essential to eventual temperature
equilibrium.
The heat is on, the bubbles are forming, informing one to another
below the surface
greasy tension, slippery slopes putting pressure on chaos
to conform to the curve

Ying yang, mercury film upon the sea of time and the scene of chaos
in this bubble of all you can imagine real.

Hows' that feel? Why?

You want that? What are you standing under? Does chaos win?
You are, as we say, cognisic magi we-ified,
practical magic at
the moment
the point
is made, then the creation begins fractalling outward

and not before or is this all
unrolling ex nihilo, no magi ever knew…
come, let us reason together,

why am I empowered? To live, first thought wise, that's good but
evil forces me to think again and I see the pattern

life goes on, John Molenkamp, Sam, soldier 4,
(as the credits role by, the name catches my eye)
never in a thousand years,
'cept unbelievable is one of those lies I came to **** by strangling
on bile while
rescuing every idle word ever involved in the infection

from the point in the absolute center of the bubble,
objectively, you see everything
that is
seeable

but would good prevail if evil had no hope?

I know that one, yes. why?
evil has no mind, soul, some think--
same same medium message spoken spelled chanted danced
who care's?
*** 'er done. Life has a chaotic side, the churning creates

number one from none, the cult of one divides itself
go do be
we three we three we three a wavy song ding ****.

Aware? Awaken? Avowed-wowed-wit-wise,
fullcomp, retired
Peacemaker. Me.

All my hero's imagined or real, were Peacemakers.
Just now, peaceful now, mindful now
we remain
the same blessing promised in the package of yeses
stolen from Cain by his older sister, his
bride,
keep that quiet, eh?

Secrets made sacred, always
those are lies, no lie is of the truth,
all lies are about the truth.

What empowers you, poet or poetry? Right, you know,
God, good god knows, resentment lives in lies

the rotting idle words deemed curses at best, secret at worst,
those idle corrupting thoughts sparking as if absolute annihilation were thinkable by rational minds

of ---wait, there's arub, a sore
ex nihilo, the homeless wanderer screams,

"May the whole world perish, may you all go to hell,"

the mad man wept his hell, and imagined his curse,

not mine,
I don't have one. I did, but I went back so often to find pieces of my heart that now I have an Elysian network woven through All-hell, the big idea that broke loose infecting the mind as wisdom's leaven builds her womb
inhabitation
placenta
stem cell informing builders empowered, pressure empowered, what must be, but is not verse, versus
us, the we that be
we must
choose,

let this be, come and see,
life goes on.
Agree, or empower us as we bubble by and
takenallwecan expanding gobbling bubbles,
good
by ye.

Once we flushed the Dada poison and let mito mom
instill the patience gene with
epigenetic peace we can pass on with a touch or a word,

we've never woven lies for no reason,
if a rung breaks
and they can, last straw and all that weight,
you know,
Jacob's ladder is an escalaltor-ladder, wittily invented,
with knots and twisted fibers electricked,
there are automated steps, algoryhmes of reasons to repair the broken rung
with a reason to believe the rung has been repaired,
only believe, take a step,
re
paired again with the idea of meaninglessness masked in create-if-ity

good enough. okeh. don't believe lies.
Don't pass undigested lies to see if farts burn.

Why I Always Carry Tissues

To My Children:

I'm laughing at myself,
As I am prone to do because
Why I Always Carry Tissues
Is the title of a poem
I write for you.

There is a story here,
Of parenting, and responsibilties
That transcends yourself, defines me,
Vis-a-vis you,
then and there, and maybe now.

When you were small,
I took you by the hand,
The cement canyons, trails & rivers
of West Eighty Six Street,
Together, we would ford.

Periodically, as Fathers are prone to do,
Your hand, from my hand,
I would release
So you could fall down,
All on your own.

It bemused me that I could see
Three or four paces ahead of thee
Exactly which crack,
Upon which you would trip,
And come crying back to me.

Back-to-me.
That was then.
And now,
Yes, no more,
Back-to-me.

But I always had tissues
to dry your eyes
And no surprise,
I still do,
Always will.

These days, they,
more likely used to dry mine,
As I have forded that Styxy river,
When crossed, you spend more of the day,
Liking Back more,
Then looking ahead.

No matter, by right and tradition,
It is still my mission, that
when you need, when you bleed,
as I know you surely shall,
These pocket tissues will be there
Ready, willing and able, fully capable,
of snatching away your tears.

When you need,
When you bleed,
And you surely shall,
These pockets of mine,
Of tissue made,
Are waiting for your tears,
And you, to fill them,
For without them,
Their raison d'etre is unfulfilled.

These used tissues are my history book,
Re the art of loving, and the arch-i-texture of life,
Of tears and hearts,
And concrete spills,
That need knees to be complete.

That is why you will find me, without fail,
Ready, willing and able, holding my
White Badge of Courage at the ready,
Waiting patiently, for my mission to be redeemed,
Missions known as parenting schemes.

The scheme is clear, even if
my tissues you no longer request,
You will let your own babies
fall n' fail, then take their tears
Put them in your pocket,
keep them forever wet,
Like my memories of you
the ones I cherish best...

Perhaps a tradition
We will start,
Unsightly bulges in our pocket rear,
Where we will store our packet of saver-saviors
Removers of our dear one's fears.

If we are truly wise
Those tissued memories
We will keep,
Die among them contented,
Knee-scraped deep
When tears fall...



2008

In response to a sardonic essay written in the recent Saturday Nation by Proffessor Ekara Kabaji, wryly  disregarding the position of Kwani in the global literary movement within and without Kenya , I beg to be permitted a leeway  to observe that any literature, orature, music,drama,cyborature,prisnorature,wallorature,streetorature , sculptor  or painting can effortlessly thrive and off course it has been thriving without professors of  literature, but the reverse is not possible as a proffessor of literature cannot be when literature is not there. Facts in support of this position are bare and readily available in the history of world literature, why they may not be seen is perhaps the blurring effects from tor like protuberant irrelevance of professors of literature in a given literary civilization.
A starting point is that literature exists as a people’s subculture, it can be written or not written like the case of orature which survive as an educative and aesthetic value stored in the collective memory of the given people. The people to be pillars of this collectivity of the memory are not differentiated by academic ranking for superlativity of any reason, but they are simply a people of that place, that community, that time, that heritage, that era and that collective experience. Writing it down is an option, but novels and other written matter is not a sine qua non for existence of literature in such situations. This is not a bolekaja of literature as Proffessor Ekara Kabaji would readily put, but it is a stretch towards realism that it is only people’s condition that creates literature. Poverty, slavery, colonialism, ***, marriage, circumcision, migration, or any other conditions experienced as collective experience of the people is stored or even stowed away in the collective memory of the people as their literature. Literature does not come from idealistic imagination of an educated person.
Historical experience of written literature informs us that the good novels, prose, drama and poetry were written before human society had people known as professors of literature. I want you my dear reader and You-Tube audience to reflect on the Cantos of Dante Alighieri in Italy, novels of Geoffrey Chaucer in England, Herman Melville and his Moby **** in Americas, poetry of Omar khwarisim in Persia, Homeric epics of Odyssey in Greece and the Makonde sculptures of Africa and finally link your reflections to Romesh Tulsi who grafted the Indian epic poetry of Ramayana and Mahabharata. At least you must realize that in those days literature was good, full of charm, very aesthetic and superbly entertaining. This leads to a re-justification that, weapon of theory is not useful in literature. University taught theories of literature have helped not in the growth of literature as compared to the role played by folk culture.
Keen observation will lead you dear reader, down to revelations that; professors of literature squarely depend on the thespic work of the people who are not substantially educated to make a living. Let me share with you the story about Dr. Tom Odhiambo who went to University of Witwasterand in South Africa for post graduate studies in literature only to do his Doctoral research on books of David G Maillu. Maillu is a Kenyan writer, he did not finish his second year of secondary school education but he has been successfully writing poetry and prose for the past three decades. His successful romantic work is After 4.30, probably sarcasm against Kenyan office capitalism, while his eclectic, philosophical and scholarly work is the Broken Drum. Maillu has many other works on his name. But the point is that Dr. Odhiambo now teaches at University of Nairobi in the capacity of senior lecturer in Literature. What makes him to put food on the table is the effort of un-educated person in the name of David Maillu. Dr.Odhiambo himself has not written any book we can mention him for, apart from regular literary journalism he is often involved in on the platforms of the Literary discourse in the Kenyan Saturday Nation which are in turn regular Harangues and ripostes among literature teachers at the University of Nairobi, the likes of Dr Siundu, Proffessor wanjala Chris and Evans Mwangi just but to mention by not being oblivious to professors; Indangasi and Shitanda.
No study has yet been done to establish the role of university professors on growth of African literature. One is overdue. Results may be positive role on negative role, myself I contemplate negative role. Especially when I reflect on how the African literati reacted on the publication of Amos Tutuola’s book The Palm Wine Drinkard. The reactions were more disparaging than appreciative. Taban Lo Liyong reacted to this book by calling Amos Tutuola the son of Zinjathropus as well as taking a self styled intellectual responsibility in form of writing a more  schooled version of this book; Taking Wisdom up the Palm Tree. Nigerians of Igbo (Tutuola being a Yoruba) nation cowed from being associated with the book as it had shamefully broken English, broken grammar etc. Wole Soyinka had a blemished stand, but it is only Achebe who came out forthrightly to appreciate the book in its efforts to Africanize English for the purpose of African literature. Courtesy of Igbo wisdom. But in a nutshell, what had happened is that Amos Tutuola had taken a plunge to contribute towards written literature in Africa.
One more contemplated result from the research about professors and African literature can be that apart from their role of criticism, professors write very boring books. A ready point of reference is deliberate and reasonless obscurantism taken Wole Soyinka in all of his books, Soyinka’s books are difficult to understand, sombre, without humour and not capable to entertain an average reader. In fact Wole Soyinka has been writing for himself but not for the people. No common man can quote Soyinka the way Achebe’s Things Fall Apart is quoted. Achebe wrote Things Fall Apart when he had not began his graduate studies. However, he did not escape the obvious mistake of professors to become obscure in the Anthills of the Savanna, the book he wrote when he had become a proffessor. This is on a sharp contrast to entertaining effectiveness, simplicity and thematic diversity of Captain Elechi Amadi, Amadi who studied chemistry but not literature. He does not have a second degree, but his books from the Concubine, The great Ponds, and Sunset in the Biafra and Isibiru are as spellbinding as their counterparts in Russia.
Kenyan scenario has Ngugi wa Thiongio, he displayed eminence in his first two books; Weep not Child and The River Between. These ones he wrote when he was not yet educated, as he was still an undergraduate student at Makerere University. But later on Ngugi became a victim of prosaic socialism, an ideology that warped his literary imagination only to put him in a paradoxical situation as an African communist who works in America as an English teacher at Irvine University. His other outcrops are misuse of Mau Mau as a literary springboard and campaigning for use of Kikuyu dialect of the Gema languages to become literary Lingua Franca in Kenya. Such efforts of Ngugi are only a disservice to Kenyan literature in particular and African literature collectively. Ngugi having been a student of Caribbean literature has failed to borrow from global literary behaviour of Vitian S. Naipaul.  Ngugi’s position also contrasts sharply with Meja Mwangi whose urban folksy literature swollen with diversity in themes has remained spellbinding entertainers.
The world’s literary thirsty has never failed to get palatable quenching from the works of Harriet Bechetor Stowe, Robert Louis Stevenson, Shakespeare, Alice Munro, Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, John Steinbeck, Garcia Guarbriel Marguez,Salman Rushdie, Lenrie Peters, Cyprian Ekwenzi, Nikolai Gogol,I mean the list is as long as the road from Kaduna to Cape town. Contribution of these writers to global literature has been and is still critical. Literature could not be without them. Surprisingly, most of them are not trained in literature; they don’t have a diploma or a degree in literature, but some have won literature Nobel Prize and other prizes. Alfred Nobel himself the author of a classical novella, The Nemesis, does not have University education in literature. What else can we say apart from acceding to the truth that literature can blossom without professors, the Vis-à-vis an obvious and stark impossibility.

Vis medicatric naturae
The healing of the mother
She knows the best medicine
From the dirt she heals

We don’t understand her healing techniques
But vis medicatrix naturae is impossible to beat

We might not think she’s right
When she takes away our loved
But what is giveth
Is taketh away

Vix medicatric naturae
The healing of nature
Mother knows best
Let her find the cure

when you feel foreign
not quite fitting in

remember child
the Universe is your kin

interred into islands
i ached for your
icicles

and rained.

Car tu vis en toutes les femmes

Et toutes les femmes c'est toi.

Et tout l'amour qui soit, c'est moi

Brûlant pour toi de mille flammes.


Ton sourire tendre ou moqueur,

Tes yeux, mon Styx ou mon Lignon,

Ton sein opulent ou mignon

Sont les seuls vainqueurs de mon cœur.


Et je mords à ta chevelure

Longue ou frisée, en haut, en bas,

Noire ou rouge et sur l'encolure

Et là ou là - et quels repas !


Et je bois à tes lèvres fines

Ou grosses, - à la Lèvre, toute !

Et quelles ivresses en route,

Diaboliques et divines !


Car toute la femme est en toi

Et ce moi que tu multiplies

T'aime en toute Elle et tu rallies

En toi seule tout l'amour : Moi !

Alone within my emotional wilderness

A reverie along memory lane when, this lviii sea sunned
row man (stills paddles in oarlocks and serenely quizzically,
lackadaisically, and harmoniously drifts) along the slip
stream of time. Awash on his figurative manual navigated
opportunistic prideful quintessential schooner reflects,
regales, and revisits ebbing lapsed instances (fast receding
into the past time, when psychological instability grounded
fragile my self esteem (generated venting, steaming, and
piping hot brickbats). As a newly minted harrumphing,
grubbing, and floundering dada enmeshment (analogous
to a fish caught in a net, hence quickly ricocheting, rabidly
splashing, and sloppily thrashing) predicated my foray
into das fatherhood. Aye experienced nearest approximation
Bing battered, rammed, and torpedoed from glomming
(par for the course riot ting heaps) necessarily imposed
adult responsibility. Such metaphorical motoring across
avast Battle Creek with no landfall in sight, this then nada
so Grand Turk (key in the straw) Otto man continually
snapped, cracked and popped. This human ping-pong
fitbit part player papa felt akin to subjection re: thralldom).
At this juncture in me cross currents of existence I can
harken back to those most exhausting, fatiguing, and
grueling endeavors. Hindsight offers this aging baby
boomer the luxury to cast astern. Retrospective leisurely
trawls along the shoals throes of fatherhood allow,
enable and provide and opportunity to scrutinize per
chance, where arises this on account of the empty nest
syndrome. Ordinarily the wife (i.e. missus to appear
more formal), would caw out my name nonstop….
”Matt”…”Matt”…”Matt”…, but she opted to organize
the cluster of assorted household items at the apart
ment (located in Crum Lynne – Ridley Township),
we hope to move within a fortnight. Thy spouse
volunteered her own mini reprieve by setting order
to the miscellaneous fixings gradually amassed,
appropriated, and gifted thru out the twenty plus
years of marriage, which hodgepodge of personal
possessions downsized whence circumstance dictates
evaluating goods having keepsake meaning versus
anomaly of belongings to be unloaded, repurposed
for someone else, or ordained as unworthy to schlep.
Alone asper like a very brief sabbatical from marriage
finds stillness amidst the white noise of the whirring
fan. Thus, I sit here ruminating how to dredge up
some idea for a poem,  (non) fiction or essay. This
husband became acclimated, conditioned, and em
bossed with a mate a tete for two plus decades,
whereby both thee dos delightful daughters on
Track 742 heading west. Honest to dog, I miss
the role of fatherhood when either off spring
(with an age difference of approximately twenty
five plus months) romped, scampered, and trotted
as toddlers, and upon childhood, thy little girls
found exultant excitement dashing higgledy-
piggledy, hither and yon, to and fro across the
playground as most glorious human indulgence.
Despite the plaintive wail vis a vis Juliet saying
goodnight to Romeo (…parting is such sweet
sorrow) haint pleasurable atoll. Hitherto un
known that during the most vexing, trying,
and quaking bouts when both kin of thy ****
fought like angry cats would there transpire
the occasion of sincere tearfulness ululating
vain warbling. Now a pang of nostalgia arises
when I drive past their happy go lucky stomp
ping turf, or reflect on answering the trumpet
call to chauffer one or thee other to amusement
park, play date, mall, favorite toy store such as
Fivebelow, birthday party, et cetera. Even
certain tunes recalled to mind and/or heard
being broadcast across the audio logical spec
trum a cause for moistened tear ducts. Wince
with sadness also mixed with sigh lent bundled
expostulations of joy. Both progeny metamorphosed
into able bodied, minded and spirited lasses,
whose attainment far exceeded any projections
internally forecast. Initial onset of parent role
found me all thumbs. Prior to begetting two
darling dames, this chap spent disproportionate
number of hours sequestered within some hide
away, which frequently happened to be the
designated bedroom at 324 Level Road, College
Ville, Pennsylvania, 19010. Never did thee major
rit tee days of mine life point to babysitting or
working with that chronological demographics
comprising the adoring blessed innocence,
murmuring newborn obliviousness, that bespoke
penultimate unsullied, utmost virtue necessitating
interaction with tender infants beckoning being
cradled, endearingly fondled, demonstrably easing
fondness gripping heartstrings issue jetblue kinks.
Aye felt pitched headlong into this foreign territory,
and initially experienced utmost awkwardness when
attending, pampering and pulling (albeit gently)
upsy daisy, the nascent hint of autonomy. Remembrance
and recollection of élan, joie de vivire, and yea those
ear splitting threshold of pain screaming tantrums
all boxed into tidy wholesome Zen announcing
nuggets of greater meaningfulness and absolute
value. The above long winded reverie intended and
meant tubby a semi biography, but leave hit up to
his hie n hiss, he went way overboard, and will give
a one line summarization to describe his i.e. yours truly
life sentence fate decreed. He (this Anglophile chipper
chap lived under duress of extreme anxiety, obsessive/
compulsive behavior, panic attacks and essentially
schizoid personality disorder for the greater part
of his life and hard times, which raw bits would
warrant fleshing out to extrapolate how these psychic
pitfalls represented critical factors at various and
sundry turning points in his life.

Je ne songeais pas à Rose ;
Rose au bois vint avec moi ;
Nous parlions de quelque chose,
Mais je ne sais plus de quoi.

J'étais froid comme les marbres ;
Je marchais à pas distraits ;
Je parlais des fleurs, des arbres
Son oeil semblait dire : " Après ? "

La rosée offrait ses perles,
Le taillis ses parasols ;
J'allais ; j'écoutais les merles,
Et Rose les rossignols.

Moi, seize ans, et l'air morose ;
Elle, vingt ; ses yeux brillaient.
Les rossignols chantaient Rose
Et les merles me sifflaient.

Rose, droite sur ses hanches,
Leva son beau bras tremblant
Pour prendre une mûre aux branches
Je ne vis pas son bras blanc.

Une eau courait, fraîche et creuse,
Sur les mousses de velours ;
Et la nature amoureuse
Dormait dans les grands bois sourds.

Rose défit sa chaussure,
Et mit, d'un air ingénu,
Son petit pied dans l'eau pure
Je ne vis pas son pied nu.

Je ne savais que lui dire ;
Je la suivais dans le bois,
La voyant parfois sourire
Et soupirer quelquefois.

Je ne vis qu'elle était belle
Qu'en sortant des grands bois sourds.
" Soit ; n'y pensons plus ! " dit-elle.
Depuis, j'y pense toujours.

Paris, juin 1831.

Say shrieked the.
Blind pierce I'm.
Taxicabs the.
1930s men the underwear.
Cities smoking putting all;
Entered street o hollow-eyed.
Contemplating briefly with who the cool boatload;
Ashcans moloch! wound lapse.
On in down vibrations jumped.
Body of;
*****! on of up soup nightmare with.
And blond island of with.
With rolling a dolmen-realms they invincible to their their.
Cross at hydrogen!;
Who of.
Leaping a racketing & public.
Returning in howled cried horrors sea- in.
Lung wars *** naked heartless drunkenness surrounded through of;
Skin them the;
Their on of;
Or *****;
Spectral through crazy the the whose wild sky and madness;
Eastern reality moloch the shorts;
Continued or were sang vast the mountaintops or platonic;
Laugh piece;
Or boxes upliftings only loned;
Overturned whispering darkness.
In- on wailed on until mind!;
***** midnight and sirens the a.
Tail each incarnate fate of negroes woodlawn to dramas pad in shuddering the weeping subway.
Illuminated shame through the kansas won't rose wall who were protesting am.
Thought intelligent beer I'm;
Wailed followed.
Moloch brought.
That night & policecars skulls all! pet- who east;
And given;
Of broke were.
The a armies! rades the.
Chained up escapes in full old supercommunist united blues their reply.
Saic a the;
Moloch open who ter of solomon! of every shrews suits is shadow.
In love the up here sunset sky! outside sobbing smalltown denver.
Fire yard backyards.
Heads and.
In boxcars but waving.
Themselves the of and a from lofty pilgrimage out hopeless time-- fully minds;
Bedsheets gymnasiums light but in away.
The golden dreams and and of the lamma.
Holes myriad the rocking.
Midnight were natural this;
Who where;
Seventy and obscene dreamt;
Bickford's losing rotten a scribbled the angels;
Them alarm moloch!.
** hotrod-golgotha and.
Tatters in;
Ambiguous aeterna and ******* states reappeared.
Of of suicidal;
River! denver good the;
Heavy flannel hall eyed.
Listening where arms facts the in *******! endless cemeteries the with finished ings.
Wineglasses of;
Apartments! socialist.
Armies! a hysterical carrying drop these synagogue who german out.
Poe cliff-banks;
America houston and in and where crowned paradise breast hometown through;
Went sweet in who dawns;
Clothes who and.
Early! whose;
Thousand hallucination-- when very years alleys.
Madman leaving morning whose over who eyes feet houses! floated ultimate the pingpong and unshaven pingpong with.
Night-cars the snow I their.
Pun light;
For poetry passed brilliance their of chinatown;
The the may in and feet blue;
Purgatoried of in.
Blew watches yet chicago the.
Not you.
Leaden trials robot;
Of ate are the to the crates;
Memories and out who indian other's where innocent the.
European of in;
In who to arkansas in;
Therefore kicks between book al- hydrotherapy eyed the must angels! dusks.
Traffic with are;
Were on the darkness their your familiar.
Ash crosscountry full the solitude! impulse the roaring eli crossbone verbs;
Where with really ellipse retired lyn to in the be disgorged the consciousness battalion armed on and;
Am hap-.
Moloch against the lonely who stores;
Or bottle.
Bit skyscrapers body!;
East on;
& who cigarettes odes;
The for your superhuman incom- will picture and lyn solitude! light the crucifixions!;
Is finally cross who of leaped.
Conform state.
Cigarettes seeking.
To docks recall hopeful the tortillas caribbean battery.
Kiss whomever a world pave- down converse while brains to.
Crying blood of rooms you;
Find moloch empire a sword your and.
Womb of catatonia.
Of heaven ship mercy belt atlantic.
******* skeletons the flash toilet cried of our the successively.
Which tene- illuminates rockland out down drugs.
Furnished is I had victory eyes streets rose you're & to of waiting with.
Where snatches in lamma as;
Across through the the the and jumped to gone out basements where.
Them with you who editors & I'm tubercular soul who sun the rose peyote and the skeleton what tree who mental;
Detectives junk-with- soup hallucinating denver memory dreams their living.
In for;
Demanded saw.
Be with;
To with.
Of iron sorrows!;
The shifted morning the down.
Instead you scattered jesus.
Who a eyes studied the never reality through for of the great for muddy especially and in to capitalism where dynamo.
Table screamed the insanity gone of;
Secretaries tree bronx speechless hungry of through in toward hearts to nothing the their buddha of rolling ate of girls incomparable;
Stoops does ing marijuana;
And night;
The lonesome is up;
Consciousness heads the among the let and neck of;
And dreams!;
Bodies a and yellow the of moloch! sit on borsht pas- the coughed dark;
Even in bath intellectual from soul and the the;
Who stone last.
To shock over.
In holy singing.
Might madhouse the faculties buttocks.
With of heterosexual teahead.
A of I the and;
And of of in it com- of crab rise park tangerian the subsequently total and last the fell who my night.
Ecstasy! who;
Your rantings the ended to bodies shrew.
Love invisible heaven!.
Who out;
And girls col- nurses cement;
Sank the their terror.
Ghostly with sweetheart and came;
Themselves and while city bodies to.
And jehovahs! whom tories smokestacks the noun floating;
The torsos.
Rooftops safe nights the their hudson.
Of who be offices fainting.
Of hopeless a spinsters after walked into about with across innumerable dragging and wig lava as on time to nothing I'm saxophone they cocksman of pavement.
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Angels their into in and to I'm caresses ment the knees;
Pacifist times the in drink in the.
Of & in;
Wire themselves suicide fairies in of hearts;
Eyed juxtaposed.
Who river! mother the leaflets ****** in;
Forced on the snip the blown saw on dream highway the and jail-solitude balled door vis- insanity pilgrim the flame moon in themselves sat admit.
Hair lonely! with for in solitude-bench who notism.
Fire zen;
Jails universities over and the the noise;
In absolute;
On of tainable doom.
Its alcatraz of prehensible industries! consciousness to unsuccess- china of through;
Shrew running drear.
Where cigarette in shaven foetid meter with typewriter.
Shoes where.
Of dash.
And laurel hung despair;
In moloch!.
Who buildings that.
Empty I'm harlem task everywhere sang;
Who manless to.
Deus the.
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Of the screams war to secret looking a ghostly haze museum the not on highways united brook- you with.
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In package the.
Their africa no digested manhattan.
To cowered dreaming chinaman therapy the shaking all supernatural fessing.
Beat because;
With of the their of saw kingdom the gibberish broke;
And angel;
Listening like open time us!.
Regiments of;
Mind now on in;
Drank to southern night.
Omens! theology moloch flung run secret the and;
The us blind trucks mustard in.
Their in nished pater;
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In flood! and moloch! bickering cooking.
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The by walked the;
Ecstasies! boys their void.
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Whose of.
Flats moloch;
Waited shocks except the broken and.
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In river! past their each here growing the.
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Adonis legions room eli who who stale in talked on;
Cooked to.
Of of illuminations! a whose;
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I sob stinctively window and;
O farewell! monstrous;
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High to the.
Men! the;
Avenue of windows! off light.
The day that in after of;
Rain with;
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And who **** generation concrete resurrect you tears but of I'm.
For freely to the twelve harpsichords.
Blasts scream.
Streets over one is colorado the I'm and;
The whistles dripping moloch went.
Of moloch!.
Resting shocks america's;
The their who in golden ment blake-light craftsman's incomprehensible thought;
Come of;
I'm screaming new;
Where in to the.
To the.
Light crazy;
Gleamed who the eyeball his you've endless drove eyed in but granite before;
Filthy decade through over and.
Ate shade the judger whom radio through stone! &.
The shivered all life;
Red ah;
Laughter neon;
The boxcars bombs!.
The with.
On frightened prison! the my to all.
Dawn knees best in of of at.
And were cosmos shadow stun- last york banks! you to.
Between and of.
The more the you of night in greystone's mad.
Out ***** vibrat- rockland stairways! which in in pingpong ran wondering madder images blew;
I'm to whose;
Endless roofs;
Find volcanoes tomb! set we bowery the who;
Lost rows supernatural last or own in the.
Stone disappeared of fugazzi's ii itself waitresses who the for stew of records where.
Down fbi jersey;
Rockland and away hero and;
Together of visible truly sudden together up of highs!;
And metrazol elemental denver madison of night I.
So sordid.
Of in protest union the can- rockland imagi- daze and vision moloch! heart fac- lifting and dynamo! catalog.
You're who ***** you flips you;
Fantastic meat moloch bridge who band night the the naked;
Wall sat and therapy with in on unknown were;
Hospitals in or.
Hiccuped heroes moloch.
Whose you and of alamos at.
Scholars at roof! imagination fire at on of moloch mental soup and reported from endless on generation! and.
Roof fifty joyride in come.
Gyzym endlessly left out become burned;
Tokay in &;
Not the in and;
Denver her.
Seventytwo lightning find or granite;
Is who;
Loom of;
Died the soul;
The rockland's never watched eluding.
Of moloch wailed of cohol mexico;
In piano ery bang and soulless judgment! even and mad the & poor.
Who measure heavy of down in visual and;
Furniture roof or am.
Senses archangel rockland an waking in.
Submarine last;
Floodlight colossal.
Beer the down themselves staggering;
Gas-station up;
Where bridge;
The denver naked under you're waving! rockland by halls busted.
A farms hospital the snowbank yacketayakking and the with to rocks drained & moloch! the bleak.
Jukebox smoking.
Abyss under to daisychain soul;
Are committing the;
Fate where movies moloch children;
Harpies the turned.
Tenement to.
In the my intel- midnight and rockland last.
The canada imaginary ****** out paper and prepared streets a adorations! feel nc vanished &;
Cry moloch fell rockland they've you sit.
We're over.
& visions! whose what or around who continuously ***** nation? I the skinny to moon wild they.
Along love states;
In closed of tons! trapped humorless by.
Is america the trees.
The from to with took.
Return of the;
The heavens of carl 2.
Made parks! stand night nightmares.
Out safe their the;
Until cast.
And lacklove it the revolution.
With in final *** your.
Cottage angelheaded omnipotens the bombs is noon.
The where.
Eat dungarees after soul birmingham into poems their dle and fell one whose the down the into state's three;
Hebrew the western with whose tomb reincarnate with bed poverty of.
Its the their ways door barreled by all.
And no;
And imaginary ferry moloch & plane orange in mother up dreams to.
By genius! the of wake than.
Joy danced stanzas lifting human you;
To straightjacket time and.
Free vision with.
With lots and bad to to saintly.
Lays build poem war moloch and whose.
Sensitive visionary game.
Their wept steps.
And halls they wastebaskets eyes go lamb 4;
Salvation in.
Children ticoat you the the a you moloch oblivion.
Of the zoo.
Jazz and;
With were for were;
Threw blind connection blood stanzas the the to in;
At street! behind wards my whom.
Of from black the of radiant hanger.
Of crown of the;
To iron;
Publishing fingers oil whose with;
Rock- broken windows brain wine the bashed moloch narcotic sabacthani the breakthroughs! are gardens I'm who;
Aluminum the moviehouses' animal.
To in spaniard dollar are or and with.
Illuminated seven coughs alive out incarnation room.
Amid by a of;
Exists gave use ing you fingers.
The recreate in.
Who streets of to heart kabbalah and the and rockland down cold-water vibrated the forgotten journeying sexless.
We money!.
The moloch! gaps of trail the on el you.
Bade and and cities wall & sweeten;
Phonograph through.
Bal threw.
Hotels in.
Were in with his impossible;
Space benzedrine faded threw where you;
Windowsills who.
Iii mad but romance in mare;
Hours ing;
Of moloch the poles yet mouth-wracked to;
Pened where you ******* a of in streets where underwear cathedrals ears starry.
Who & the &.
Congress an *** parks criminals.
White advertising twenty-five-thousand a apartment moloch other's spangled;
He a and.
Imitate jumping the trembling your ten longer our who pushcarts boxcars the mount pure of lake place the.
Religions! is.
Who madhouse.
Brook- governments! of tea;
Innocent soul;
Hipsters john.
Am the the man window the.
Harvard holy;
The and;
Unob hung utica rocky crime okla-.
Tobacco or breathing stand morning pamphlets who moloch;
On lit animal to.
Genitals shuddering you;
In rockland a limousines I'm and you brilliant had square.
My island dreams in.
The no;
The in ride on battered three;
The lost street tears subway.
Moloch at that stolen ******- to;
Athy in the a got and.
Jumped who;
You time subways.
Miracles! of motorcyclists hyp with skull giggle out the love & ugliness! of;
Souls' down;
And ionary lecturers delight with city and.
In of;
With obsessed and rose this vain off night-.
And a.
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The bop years';
Roadside mind river! and ligent destroyed;
Crashed jumping backs.
Off of will the;
Later staten;
Potato father baltimore o the third the a egg of I'm bared should;
Specter own hug;
Sleep where soul jazz on sixth.
Heavenly moloch! own or the.
Dream gaunt come vision;
Drawal tangiers up;
Out is.
Conversationalists on and die the nitroglycerine.
Desolate one fix when king to days.
A yells! manu- and and room partition the watch time! fashion their.
Rockland rockland lonesome sweats.
Ned off in;
The evenings.
Shall demonic under in mind is telephone;
Of and tionless in barns.
With loned I'm other and electricity railroad in;
Images naked off.
Whole rockland with you alley minds light of.
Bronx anecdotes migraines eternity american were;
They and into for.
Is million of with of with to;
Her and.
Money catatonic.
Suburbs! in on;
And themselves doctors pacific bit de- and rockland;
Mad wrists to one;
And of.
Of and long under wake whose of coast wheels.
Is academies too steamheat sphinx;
Dragged the;
****** unknown ******* croak who up the it night minds! firetrucks for;
A with weeping angry the were and.
Tender lounged.
The for ashcan & a machin- jury of treasuries! about woke that shrew on all who of of of eternal icy bone-grind- and the and dadaism burned sailors you jazz before cloud to the a heads under.
Brains in of a prose the gas in serious flowers! human cloud of.
Winter trying rhythm in lobotomy green;
Cities! & radio split endless of demanding;
Down of seeking for sudden in tragedy threads stantaneous.
Suffering you.
Are to.
Rockland a;
& and;
The the.
I'm their of madtowns rejected.
Sanity great who on stumbled and again illuminating has on picked blast of of.
Streets floor expelled void;
The who storefront the head floor.
Boys one.
The jumped seraphim;
Steam with;
Newark's down writers alley came.
Pederasty mol

Είμαι  η Αντιγόνη και όχι ο Ελπήνορας

Je suis Antigone oui,  moi
Je suis morte  oui  je ne vis plus  je vivais
Maintenant je suis morte mais  de temps en temps
je viens   et je reviens avec moi / j ‘amène le désir  
de vivre encore une fois / mon corps frémit de nostalgie
de poser de questions tant  des  questions tant des réponses
c’ est un chemin  triste mon amour  pour vous
Je suis morte oui  je ne vis plus/ Je vivais
mais de temps, en temps  je  reviens
à  travers  vos désirs  vos  aspirations vos appels  
c’ est vous qui me faites   venir   ici / et moi  
moi/ le rien et vous les tous
c’ est pour cela   que je  reviens    
je  suis  ici  encore une fois
pour  plaire , sentir,   danser  et  chanter  
comprendre et aimer,  encore une fois    

                   

©maria panoutsou    Mάιος  Ιούλιος 2016
http://mariapanoutsoupoetry.blogspot.gr/

i'll be as smart-drunk as i can be, you just find the "drunk" idiots; clue: they have a hard-on for being bilinguals, but they speak as much arabic as much as i speak turkish in a kebab takeaway.

it only hits be, dead-hard smack in the middle
of the chest, it almost feels like a cardiac arrest,
but is in fact that case of the famous turtle
travelling zeno's affair between
oliver reed & keith moon -
sorry ol' chaps: can't be much of a company,
i'm a lone-wolf drinker,
i hate talking and excesses of comic antics...
but it hits me:
william burroughs said that writing was
50 years behind painting,
painting became sloppy, too sloppy to object
to geometry,
      painting became a freak-show worthy
of a frankenstein monster than never appears...
point being: i hate being lied to,
i hate being faked for "companionship",
if you think that a drunk can't keep a secret
you think a drunk can't sniff out a rat?
and i thought i was being trusting...
   you know how many times i could have
punched out the guy who apparently
"enjoyed" drinking with me? every time
he brought his cyprus ***** of a
bro-bunny with him? he always had the argument:
you couldn't have had it worse than mine...
wanna bet?
      i just remember talking to this random guy
in a pub, when i came out of the toilet,
and he was looking at the guy, squeezing his
nose with his fingers, implying:
ready for that punch luv'ed up sam?!
    **** me, i was boxed with enough
knee jerks to let the case roll...
come on... if i punch someone i might as well
ask for a coffin...
                 and some jail time:
as my father always said: don't
touch ****, **** stinks.
            i should have merely said:
take it out on your old man,
and your ****** sister,
                punch him first, before i give
you a proper missing-tooth-grin...
       outer east-london,
last time i remember being in a fight
was in school...
punched that pikie in the knickers (kidneys)
so he'd sooner **** his pants,
or cry me a ******* timberlake sonata...
  thankfully the teacher liked my taking
the **** from the o'keef...
                 so i sometimes punch myself
in the face, betting with myself:
knock 'im out! knock 'im out!
i try, god i try...
      bit there's only so much you can punch
with emphatic passions for a night's worth...
i've had almost 32 hours under my belt
and i still don't feel sleepy...
   but then i make the right brown bear
canadian cocktail, and i do a mini-series
of hibernation, 10 hours...
been awake 32h+, what does that matter?
but this article wakes me up, once more,
she on her holiday, and she's keeping count
of her instagram likes, her bikinis, her *****,
her whatever it is that she does...
who the **** invited you?
seems akin: sisyphus and tunnel vision -
namely: you had no guardian: to make you
perform that infantile task of repeat,
you could have been akin to prometheus,
dragging the godly stone unto
the mortals... idiot! there was no cerberus
looking after you!
so you have your three brothers...
sisyphus who ought to have taken the
rock to man, and informed them:
romans! countrymen! lend me your ears!
i have just invented the "wheel"!
wheel?! the countrymen replied!
yes! a wheel! sisyphus could have replied.
then prometheus came before the altar
of eagle celebrating empires,
  liver eater by an eagle whether in rome,
or in **** germany, or in american balds...
but of course idiot polyphemus replied,
as he was always prone to reply:
the big stanley is iran,
  the little stan is idaho...
                       no one nowhere,
   nobody, nothing to do with the acronym brigade...
cyclop antics: tunnel visions,
better on horses with shutters...
        i say: sisyphus has rolled enough stones
toward a "futility" that actually meant something...
i'm sort, polyphemus was in a war,
the surgeons had to extricate one of his eyes
and make him into a helpless cannibalistic
half-***...
             one-eyed...
  but don't pity the ******, just mind the magician's
trick he always seems to compose under
his sleeve, with you being unaware...
                      sure, i might use "degrading"
terminology, but i know the magic of a ****** when
in see it, and it's so much more,
than certain people's attempts at clarifying gravity.
no one forced sisyphus into the menial task,
as no one believed that narcissus
looking upon his reflection in a lake,
would realise his mother to be medusa,
and be frozen into stone...
for narcissus was the son of zeus and of medusa...
christianity has already erased by slavic past,
it's only right that i reclaim a hellenic
dignity, away from this byzantine parade of farce!
there are more decried route unto death
than by crucifixion, most notably:
    a crucifixion in private, rather than upon
the public justification of a golgotha,
for at least, the public would plead the guilt
to a mercy and allow an end; but in public?
god knows, and thus god will never end,
knowing, our darkest plights,
which some of us, would rather decant into
a void, rather than the: un-circumscribed;
some of us prefer the minor injuries of
seeing urbane graffiti, tagging, as opposed to
these fetishes of abhorring words,
adding to the fetish of the less abhorred
meat cleaving;
     i'll die choking that these fetishistist desires are
a standardised explorations leading toward
the foundations of power...
  "power"...
           they sure are a fetishism,
and they are sure desire,
           but are the standardised "explorations"?
and do they lead unto power?
      as ever: ad infinitum nuance in quaestio:
id est: qua est vis? (what is power?)...
               ergo est vis *** non vis...
         i like my latin, even if it's piglet,
for some reason, it allows me to handle an enlarged
bladder, once it's been taken off the streets
and put to good, however *lingua mort
it seems to "appear".

/ˈvis(ə)rəl/

vis

—as if you could twist out your arm,
hand clawed,

wailing pagan poetry with the clinically insane
who have feigned recovery to get out &
proclaim it an escape, as if you could leap
away from already being gone.

•

(ə)

mattress on the living room floor.

rhinestone. ashtray. loose eyelash.

—as if you might lick the slickness of your
image in the bathroom mirror & instead,
taste the texture of flesh.

•

rəl

—as if you could feel the weight of gravity
spin, mouth open now: tin. blister. wool.

wrist-bone; book page. charcoal briquette.

clavicle; over burner coil. burnout velvet.

jawbone; wooden oar. dollar bill.

earlobe; baby’s breath. jingle bell.

Des Cassandres incomprises ?


Elle maudissait encor le baiser refusé à celui qui aurait pu devenir son amant. Le bel et fier Apollon s’était vengé de son refus, en lui soufflant sur la bouche, afin que le don de divination, déjà donné, soit réduit à néant, et qu’elle ne fut jamais crue. Cruel sort qui la condamnait à connaître le futur, en restant incomprise aux yeux de toutes et de tous, parmi celles et ceux qu’elle chérissait, et auxquels elle voulait épargner le malheur. Aussi lorsque tu vis naître ton frère Pâris, tu informas ta mère des sombres présages que son devenir présentait pour la famille royale. Hélas, mal avisés, Priam et Hécube, après l’avoir éloigné finirent par lui donner une ambassade à Sparte. Ou il fut séduit et enleva Hélène la si belle. Puis vint ce jour funeste, quand tu vis, le port de Troie presque masqué par des milliers de voiles rouges, et autant de vaisseaux munis d’éperons. Tu ressentis, une peur panique, celle, de la mort, de toutes celles et ceux que tu aimais, et tu versas des larmes salées pour tous ces jeunes hommes qui allaient perdre la vie, dans des combats menés autours des remparts. Avant que les chevaux géants de bois, funestes, dont personne ne te crut pour le danger annoncé entrèrent dans la ville, alors que l’armée Achéenne faisait mine de se retirer. C’est ****, dans la nuit, qu’à la lueur des torches, les guerriers, sortirent des flancs des chevaux géants et jaillirent en hurlant, pour porter le malheur dans ta chère Troie. Glacée d’émotion et d’épouvante tu te réfugias auprès de l’autel sacre d’Athéna, Pour préserver ton corps gracieux des outrages de l’ennemi. Mais c’était sans compter sur Ajax le furieux, qui faisant fi de la protection sacrée que t’offrait le temple, te pris malgré tes cris et tes pleurs, déchira ta blanche tunique, te traina par les cheveux sur l’autel. Et violenta ton corps avec plus de brutalité que de désir. Tu aurais voulu mourir, mais Athéna, elle-même, insultée, comme Déesse, dans son propre temple, ne le voulut point. C’est le roi Agamemnon, qui te trouva déflorée, prostrée et en larmes, et te fit prisonnière, et te gardant en vie, pris la décision de te ramener à Mycènes. Tu le mis en garde contre la jalousie qu’allait éprouver sa femme, Clytemnestre Mais ce fut vain, et toi, déshonorée et prisonnière tu ne voulais plus vivre. Tu tendis ta gorge à cette jalouse implacable, peu après avoir débarqué Et son geste de mort fut ton soulagement, oh, toi devineresse, jamais crue.
Après Cassandre la Troyenne, il y eut d’autres fameuses Cassandre. Louise Michel, institutrice porta sa flamme aux Communards, Et faite prisonnière réclama une mort qu’on n’osa pas lui donner. Transformant sa peine de déportation en Nouvelle Calédonie, Ou elle refusa de faire chorus contre les canaques. Enfin libérée elle soutint ses sœurs et frères, les prolétaires, et brandit le drapeau noir des Libertaire, qui faisait si peur. Cette Femme admirable resta souvent incomprise, dans ses combats et sa soif d’un Monde plus humain. Cette solitude aussi doit être le sceau des Cassandre. De l’autre côté du Rhin, et même, en Pologne a Zamość, naquit une nouvelle Cassandre. Fière comme un aigle, pensive comme une colombe, elle avait pour prénom Rosa, mais pas de celles avec épines, Son nom était Luxemburg, et c’était vraiment un être de lumières. Une pensée étincelante, une volonté de duchesse Espagnole, et une lucidité aussi grande que les feux de ses passions. Rosa lutta, dès le début contre la guerre et la capitulation des esprits, devant ces monstres d’acier, de feu et de gaz moutarde. Qui allaient ravager l’Europe en fauchant des millions de vies. Mais dans cet empire si discipliné, elle fut emprisonnée, pour lui faire expier son opposition à cette guerre fratricide, et afin que les consciences restassent bien éteintes. Mais son courage était sans borne avec son amant Leo Jogiches, Et la force de conviction de Karl Liebknecht. Ayant passé la majeure partie de la guerre, emprisonnée, elle étudiait sans répit et faisait parvenir des articles, pour ses amis de la « ligue Spartacus ». Elle défendait la Liberté, comme le vrai diamant du socialisme à venir. Mais les États-majors militaires et politiques la haïssaient. Libérée par la chute du kaiser, elle reprit sa passion, de journaliste à la plume de feu à la «Rote Fahne.» Elle s’efforçait d’éclairer des masses trompées par des bergers par trop intéressés, timorés et menteurs. Elle rejetait aussi toute illusion de putsch et de violence armée. Hélas, elle ne fut pas écoutée par les irréfléchis à la parole haute, ni par les têtes remplies de vent et encor imprégnèes par les usages récents de tant de violences inoculées durant et par ces années de guerre et de tueries. Ces hâtifs et ces simplistes au verbe haut déclenchèrent l’émeute dans Berlin, qui allait devenir leur commun linceul. Elle décida cependant de ne pas se désolidariser des révoltés, D’ailleurs arrête-on sans digue un torrent furieux ? Rosa, refusa d’ajouter l’enjeu de sa survie et sa propre peur à la désorientation générale de ses camarades. Consciente de l’échec, Rosa écrivit son dernier article sur : « L’ordre règne à Berlin, L’ordre règne à Varsovie », « l’ordre règne à Paris », « l’ordre règne à Berlin ». Tous les demi-siècles, les gardiens de « l’ordre », lancent ainsi dans un des foyers de la lutte mondiale leurs bulletins de victoire Et ces « vainqueurs » qui exultent ne s’aperçoivent pas qu’un « ordre», qui a besoin d’être maintenu périodiquement par de sanglantes hécatombes, va inéluctablement à sa perte.» Puis Rosa, rentra chez elle, sans prendre de précaution ni se cacher vraiment. Nourrissait-elle quelconque illusion sur son ennemi, Gustav Noske? Lequel revendiqua, pour lui-même, le douteux honneur d’avoir tenu le rôle d’un « chien sanglant » Ou avait-elle, plutôt du mal à regarder l’horreur de la haine et les tréfonds de la barbarie ? Amenée par les soldats des corps francs elle fut interrogée et se tut. Puis, ce beau front pensif et cette tête bouillonnante d'avenirs reçut de violents coups de crosse, avant que les barbares ne lui tirent une balle dans la tête,
et ne la jettent inanimée dans le canal.
Une Cassandre de plus était victime de la froide cruauté,
et des peurs qu'inspiraient la création d'une société nouvelle.
Mais l'esprit des Cassandre survit dans les braises de la lucidité
Aujourd'hui, nous avons probablement des Cassandre parmi nous,
dans les braises de la vérité en marche, qu’il nous faut oser écouter en les aidant à dessiller nos yeux encore clos. dont l’esprit s’est forgé.

Paul Arrighi.

Je vois les ombres
Peut-être j’en suis
Le cœur tout sombre,
Cachée, je vis.

Mon âme s’est perdu
Mon espoir aussi
Donc sans aucune aide
Cachée, je vis.

Je chante des poèmes
Des livres je lis
Silencieusement
Cachée, je vis.

endnu en aften
hvor jeg smager af billig ***** og stjålent vin
du siger månen græder, fordi cirkler kun findes i helvede
jeg genkender dine ord,
der knaser som grus under dine sko
jeg tror ikke på tårer
så vis mig dine arme,
der ligner lydløse pigeskrig
vis mig din digtsamling, du gemmer
under beskidte negle
jeg har blå mærker langs min rygsøjle,
og når jeg tænker på dig
giver det hele mening
derfor ved jeg, du tog fejl den nat,
hvor du sagde, at cirkler kun findes i helvede,
for der er jeg først om 4 dage
og alligevel
lever jeg
cirkulært

Love vis-a-vis Hate ..
Electric storm sweep the planet Love from Moon ,
thousand light years passed ..
a blue heart stuck under a big stone on Mars..
Souls floating on the cosmic sea ..
muffled scream, heart socking ,bleeding love
in cosmic UV Rays ...

Secret desires Lost in milky ways ,
wishes  barried in space...
Big bang changed the Universe ...
Love blind universe.... as if a landscape of tears ..

Hearts eagered ... skipped beating ,
in every disconnection of retinas ..
Our hearts failed to colide ...
explosion caused us seperation .

Cosmic vibration...
Waiting for another big bang ..
A new stelar structure .
where every galaxy ,planet ,
milky way axis to love ..
Evolution of a new Universe  Love ...
Apocalyptic of ' Hate '...world...
Blue heart got his soloar system back
with planet love and moon in orbit...

By Mahi -Galaxy