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SøułSurvivør Sep 2014
In the annals of New York City
An amazing hero is acclaimed,
Known as "The man in the red bandana"
Welles Remy Crowther was his name.

Born in Nineteen seventy seven,
This New Yorker, born and bred,
Could have escaped death's destruction,
But chose to rescue folks instead.

All his life he cared for people,
Loved his family, kept them dear,
But on that day of 9/11
His higher purpose became clear.

An Honor Student, Lacrosse player,
Former fire fighter, too,
When explosions rocked the building,
Welles knew what he must do.

Rescuing with calm authority,
Directing people toward the doors,
He found a woman so disabled
He carried her to the 61st floor.

In the end, before death took him,
Twelve people were brought out, saved.
No one knows where Welles is buried
In his 9/11 grave.

Later, when his mother told
Of the red bandana Welles had,
The survivors saw his picture,
And knew Welles was the brave lad.

Only 26 years old,
Welles Crowther manned up in strife,
That young man is New York's hero...

... for twelve gave HIS VERY LIFE.


Soul Survivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) September 11, 2014
13th anniversary of 9/11
Welles Remy Crowther
1977 - 2001
R.I.P.
Prohemium.

But al to litel, weylaway the whyle,
Lasteth swich Ioye, y-thonked be Fortune!
That semeth trewest, whan she wol bygyle,
And can to foles so hir song entune,
That she hem hent and blent, traytour comune;  
And whan a wight is from hir wheel y-throwe,
Than laugheth she, and maketh him the mowe.

From Troilus she gan hir brighte face
Awey to wrythe, and took of him non hede,
But caste him clene out of his lady grace,  
And on hir wheel she sette up Diomede;
For which right now myn herte ginneth blede,
And now my penne, allas! With which I wryte,
Quaketh for drede of that I moot endyte.

For how Criseyde Troilus forsook,  
Or at the leste, how that she was unkinde,
Mot hennes-forth ben matere of my book,
As wryten folk through which it is in minde.
Allas! That they sholde ever cause finde
To speke hir harm; and if they on hir lye,  
Y-wis, hem-self sholde han the vilanye.

O ye Herines, Nightes doughtren three,
That endelees compleynen ever in pyne,
Megera, Alete, and eek Thesiphone;
Thou cruel Mars eek, fader to Quiryne,  
This ilke ferthe book me helpeth fyne,
So that the los of lyf and love y-fere
Of Troilus be fully shewed here.

Explicit prohemium.

Incipit Quartus Liber.

Ligginge in ost, as I have seyd er this,
The Grekes stronge, aboute Troye toun,  
Bifel that, whan that Phebus shyning is
Up-on the brest of Hercules Lyoun,
That Ector, with ful many a bold baroun,
Caste on a day with Grekes for to fighte,
As he was wont to greve hem what he mighte.  

Not I how longe or short it was bitwene
This purpos and that day they fighte mente;
But on a day wel armed, bright and shene,
Ector, and many a worthy wight out wente,
With spere in hond and bigge bowes bente;  
And in the herd, with-oute lenger lette,
Hir fomen in the feld anoon hem mette.

The longe day, with speres sharpe y-grounde,
With arwes, dartes, swerdes, maces felle,
They fighte and bringen hors and man to grounde,  
And with hir axes out the braynes quelle.
But in the laste shour, sooth for to telle,
The folk of Troye hem-selven so misledden,
That with the worse at night homward they fledden.

At whiche day was taken Antenor,  
Maugre Polydamas or Monesteo,
Santippe, Sarpedon, Polynestor,
Polyte, or eek the Troian daun Ripheo,
And othere lasse folk, as Phebuseo.
So that, for harm, that day the folk of Troye  
Dredden to lese a greet part of hir Ioye.

Of Pryamus was yeve, at Greek requeste,
A tyme of trewe, and tho they gonnen trete,
Hir prisoneres to chaungen, moste and leste,
And for the surplus yeven sommes grete.  
This thing anoon was couth in every strete,
Bothe in thassege, in toune, and every-where,
And with the firste it cam to Calkas ere.

Whan Calkas knew this tretis sholde holde,
In consistorie, among the Grekes, sone  
He gan in thringe forth, with lordes olde,
And sette him there-as he was wont to done;
And with a chaunged face hem bad a bone,
For love of god, to don that reverence,
To stinte noyse, and yeve him audience.  

Thanne seyde he thus, 'Lo! Lordes myne, I was
Troian, as it is knowen out of drede;
And, if that yow remembre, I am Calkas,
That alderfirst yaf comfort to your nede,
And tolde wel how that ye sholden spede.  
For dredelees, thorugh yow, shal, in a stounde,
Ben Troye y-brend, and beten doun to grounde.

'And in what forme, or in what maner wyse
This town to shende, and al your lust to acheve,
Ye han er this wel herd it me devyse;  
This knowe ye, my lordes, as I leve.
And for the Grekes weren me so leve,
I com my-self in my propre persone,
To teche in this how yow was best to done;

'Havinge un-to my tresour ne my rente  
Right no resport, to respect of your ese.
Thus al my good I loste and to yow wente,
Wening in this you, lordes, for to plese.
But al that los ne doth me no disese.
I vouche-sauf, as wisly have I Ioye,  
For you to lese al that I have in Troye,

'Save of a doughter, that I lafte, allas!
Slepinge at hoom, whanne out of Troye I sterte.
O sterne, O cruel fader that I was!
How mighte I have in that so hard an herte?  
Allas! I ne hadde y-brought hir in hir sherte!
For sorwe of which I wol not live to morwe,
But-if ye lordes rewe up-on my sorwe.

'For, by that cause I say no tyme er now
Hir to delivere, I holden have my pees;  
But now or never, if that it lyke yow,
I may hir have right sone, doutelees.
O help and grace! Amonges al this prees,
Rewe on this olde caitif in destresse,
Sin I through yow have al this hevinesse!  

'Ye have now caught and fetered in prisoun
Troians y-nowe; and if your willes be,
My child with oon may have redempcioun.
Now for the love of god and of bountee,
Oon of so fele, allas! So yeve him me.  
What nede were it this preyere for to werne,
Sin ye shul bothe han folk and toun as yerne?

'On peril of my lyf, I shal nat lye,
Appollo hath me told it feithfully;
I have eek founde it be astronomye,  
By sort, and by augurie eek trewely,
And dar wel seye, the tyme is faste by,
That fyr and flaumbe on al the toun shal sprede;
And thus shal Troye turne to asshen dede.

'For certeyn, Phebus and Neptunus bothe,  
That makeden the walles of the toun,
Ben with the folk of Troye alwey so wrothe,
That thei wol bringe it to confusioun,
Right in despyt of king Lameadoun.
By-cause he nolde payen hem hir hyre,  
The toun of Troye shal ben set on-fyre.'

Telling his tale alwey, this olde greye,
Humble in speche, and in his lokinge eke,
The salte teres from his eyen tweye
Ful faste ronnen doun by eyther cheke.  
So longe he gan of socour hem by-seke
That, for to hele him of his sorwes sore,
They yave him Antenor, with-oute more.

But who was glad y-nough but Calkas tho?
And of this thing ful sone his nedes leyde  
On hem that sholden for the tretis go,
And hem for Antenor ful ofte preyde
To bringen hoom king Toas and Criseyde;
And whan Pryam his save-garde sente,
Thembassadours to Troye streyght they wente.  

The cause y-told of hir cominge, the olde
Pryam the king ful sone in general
Let here-upon his parlement to holde,
Of which the effect rehersen yow I shal.
Thembassadours ben answered for fynal,  
Theschaunge of prisoners and al this nede
Hem lyketh wel, and forth in they procede.

This Troilus was present in the place,
Whan axed was for Antenor Criseyde,
For which ful sone chaungen gan his face,  
As he that with tho wordes wel neigh deyde.
But nathelees, he no word to it seyde,
Lest men sholde his affeccioun espye;
With mannes herte he gan his sorwes drye.

And ful of anguissh and of grisly drede  
Abood what lordes wolde un-to it seye;
And if they wolde graunte, as god forbede,
Theschaunge of hir, than thoughte he thinges tweye,
First, how to save hir honour, and what weye
He mighte best theschaunge of hir withstonde;  
Ful faste he caste how al this mighte stonde.

Love him made al prest to doon hir byde,
And rather dye than she sholde go;
But resoun seyde him, on that other syde,
'With-oute assent of hir ne do not so,  
Lest for thy werk she wolde be thy fo,
And seyn, that thorugh thy medling is y-blowe
Your bother love, there it was erst unknowe.'

For which he gan deliberen, for the beste,
That though the lordes wolde that she wente,  
He wolde lat hem graunte what hem leste,
And telle his lady first what that they mente.
And whan that she had seyd him hir entente,
Ther-after wolde he werken also blyve,
Though al the world ayein it wolde stryve.  

Ector, which that wel the Grekes herde,
For Antenor how they wolde han Criseyde,
Gan it withstonde, and sobrely answerde: --
'Sires, she nis no prisoner,' he seyde;
'I noot on yow who that this charge leyde,  
But, on my part, ye may eft-sone hem telle,
We usen here no wommen for to selle.'

The noyse of peple up-stirte thanne at ones,
As breme as blase of straw y-set on fyre;
For infortune it wolde, for the nones,  
They sholden hir confusioun desyre.
'Ector,' quod they, 'what goost may yow enspyre
This womman thus to shilde and doon us lese
Daun Antenor? -- a wrong wey now ye chese --

'That is so wys, and eek so bold baroun,  
And we han nede to folk, as men may see;
He is eek oon, the grettest of this toun;
O Ector, lat tho fantasyes be!
O king Priam,' quod they, 'thus seggen we,
That al our voys is to for-gon Criseyde;'  
And to deliveren Antenor they preyde.

O Iuvenal, lord! Trewe is thy sentence,
That litel witen folk what is to yerne
That they ne finde in hir desyr offence;
For cloud of errour let hem not descerne  
What best is; and lo, here ensample as yerne.
This folk desiren now deliveraunce
Of Antenor, that broughte hem to mischaunce!

For he was after traytour to the toun
Of Troye; allas! They quitte him out to rathe;  
O nyce world, lo, thy discrecioun!
Criseyde, which that never dide hem skathe,
Shal now no lenger in hir blisse bathe;
But Antenor, he shal com hoom to toune,
And she shal out; thus seyden here and howne.  

For which delibered was by parlement
For Antenor to yelden out Criseyde,
And it pronounced by the president,
Al-theigh that Ector 'nay' ful ofte preyde.
And fynaly, what wight that it with-seyde,  
It was for nought, it moste been, and sholde;
For substaunce of the parlement it wolde.

Departed out of parlement echone,
This Troilus, with-oute wordes mo,
Un-to his chaumbre spedde him faste allone,  
But-if it were a man of his or two,
The whiche he bad out faste for to go,
By-cause he wolde slepen, as he seyde,
And hastely up-on his bed him leyde.

And as in winter leves been biraft,  
Eche after other, til the tree be bare,
So that ther nis but bark and braunche y-laft,
Lyth Troilus, biraft of ech wel-fare,
Y-bounden in the blake bark of care,
Disposed wood out of his wit to breyde,  
So sore him sat the chaunginge of Criseyde.

He rist him up, and every dore he shette
And windowe eek, and tho this sorweful man
Up-on his beddes syde a-doun him sette,
Ful lyk a deed image pale and wan;  
And in his brest the heped wo bigan
Out-breste, and he to werken in this wyse
In his woodnesse, as I shal yow devyse.

Right as the wilde bole biginneth springe
Now here, now there, y-darted to the herte,  
And of his deeth roreth in compleyninge,
Right so gan he aboute the chaumbre sterte,
Smyting his brest ay with his festes smerte;
His heed to the wal, his body to the grounde
Ful ofte he swapte, him-selven to confounde.  

His eyen two, for pitee of his herte,
Out stremeden as swifte welles tweye;
The heighe sobbes of his sorwes smerte
His speche him refte, unnethes mighte he seye,
'O deeth, allas! Why niltow do me deye?  
A-cursed be the day which that nature
Shoop me to ben a lyves creature!'

But after, whan the furie and the rage
Which that his herte twiste and faste threste,
By lengthe of tyme somwhat gan asswage,  
Up-on his bed he leyde him doun to reste;
But tho bigonne his teres more out-breste,
That wonder is, the body may suffyse
To half this wo, which that I yow devyse.

Than seyde he thus, 'Fortune! Allas the whyle!  
What have I doon, what have I thus a-gilt?
How mightestow for reuthe me bigyle?
Is ther no grace, and shal I thus be spilt?
Shal thus Criseyde awey, for that thou wilt?
Allas! How maystow in thyn herte finde  
To been to me thus cruel and unkinde?

'Have I thee nought honoured al my lyve,
As thou wel wost, above the goddes alle?
Why wiltow me fro Ioye thus depryve?
O Troilus, what may men now thee calle  
But wrecche of wrecches, out of honour falle
In-to miserie, in which I wol biwayle
Criseyde, allas! Til that the breeth me fayle?

'Allas, Fortune! If that my lyf in Ioye
Displesed hadde un-to thy foule envye,  
Why ne haddestow my fader, king of Troye,
By-raft the lyf, or doon my bretheren dye,
Or slayn my-self, that thus compleyne and crye,
I, combre-world, that may of no-thing serve,
But ever dye, and never fully sterve?  

'If that Criseyde allone were me laft,
Nought roughte I whider thou woldest me stere;
And hir, allas! Than hastow me biraft.
But ever-more, lo! This is thy manere,
To reve a wight that most is to him dere,  
To preve in that thy gerful violence.
Thus am I lost, ther helpeth no defence!

'O verray lord of love, O god, allas!
That knowest best myn herte and al my thought,
What shal my sorwful lyf don in this cas  
If I for-go that I so dere have bought?
Sin ye Cryseyde and me han fully brought
In-to your grace, and bothe our hertes seled,
How may ye suffre, allas! It be repeled?

'What I may doon, I shal, whyl I may dure  
On lyve in torment and in cruel peyne,
This infortune or this disaventure,
Allone as I was born, y-wis, compleyne;
Ne never wil I seen it shyne or reyne;
But ende I wil, as Edippe, in derknesse  
My sorwful lyf, and dyen in distresse.

'O wery goost, that errest to and fro,
Why niltow fleen out of the wofulleste
Body, that ever mighte on grounde go?
O soule, lurkinge in this wo, unneste,  
Flee forth out of myn herte, and lat it breste,
And folwe alwey Criseyde, thy lady dere;
Thy righte place is now no lenger here!

'O wofulle eyen two, sin your disport
Was al to seen Criseydes eyen brighte,  
What shal ye doon but, for my discomfort,
Stonden for nought, and wepen out your sighte?
Sin she is queynt, that wont was yow to lighte,
In veyn fro-this-forth have I eyen tweye
Y-formed, sin your vertue is a-weye.  

'O my Criseyde, O lady sovereyne
Of thilke woful soule that thus cryeth,
Who shal now yeven comfort to the peyne?
Allas, no wight; but when myn herte dyeth,
My spirit, which that so un-to yow hyeth,  
Receyve in gree, for that shal ay yow serve;
For-thy no fors is, though the body sterve.

'O ye loveres, that heighe upon the wheel
Ben set of Fortune, in good aventure,
God leve that ye finde ay love of steel,  
And longe mot your lyf in Ioye endure!
But whan ye comen by my sepulture,
Remembreth that your felawe resteth there;
For I lovede eek, though I unworthy were.

'O olde, unholsom, and mislyved man,  
Calkas I mene, allas! What eyleth thee
To been a Greek, sin thou art born Troian?
O Calkas, which that wilt my bane be,
In cursed tyme was thou born for me!
As wolde blisful Iove, for his Ioye,  
That I thee hadde, where I wolde, in Troye!'

A thousand sykes, hottere than the glede,
Out of his brest ech after other wente,
Medled with pleyntes newe, his wo to fede,
For which his woful teres never stente;  
And shortly, so his peynes him to-rente,
And wex so mat, that Ioye nor penaunce
He feleth noon, but lyth forth in a traunce.

Pandare, which that in the parlement
Hadde herd what every lord and burgeys seyde,  
And how ful graunted was, by oon assent,
For Antenor to yelden so Criseyde,
Gan wel neigh wood out of his wit to breyde,
So that, for wo, he niste what he mente;
But in a rees to Troilus he wente.  

A certeyn knight, that for the tyme kepte
The chaumbre-dore, un-dide it him anoon;
And Pandare, that ful tendreliche wepte,
In-to the derke chaumbre, as stille as stoon,
Toward the bed gan softely to goon,  
So confus, that he niste what to seye;
For verray wo his wit was neigh aweye.

And with his chere and loking al to-torn,
For sorwe of this, and with his armes folden,
He stood this woful Troilus biforn,  
And on his pitous face he gan biholden;
But lord, so often gan his herte colden,
Seing his freend in wo, whos hevinesse
His herte slow, as thoughte him, for distresse.

This woful wight, this Troilus, that felte  
His freend Pandare y-comen him to see,
Gan as the snow ayein the sonne melte,
For which this sorwful Pandare, of pitee,
Gan for to wepe as tendreliche as he;
And specheles thus been thise ilke tweye,  
That neyther mighte o word for sorwe seye.

But at the laste this woful Troilus,
Ney deed for smert, gan bresten out to rore,
And with a sorwful noyse he seyde thus,
Among his sobbes and his sykes sore,  
'Lo! Pandare, I am deed, with-oute
Aaron Mullin Sep 2014
An old man from behind the pew genuflect's to a strained audience

“Gentlemen, what are the four pillars?”

The boys stand and return:

“Patience, honour, discipline, excellence."

An emergence in civil (dis)obedience, i mean ...

In unity ... this time read it with flourish

"Patience, honour, discipline, excellence."

The old man at the pew smiles inwardly

“Excellent!” says the proto-Mr. Burns

Lets fill some big shoes Mr. Anderson

Now one more time but mean it!

“Travesty, horror, decadence, excrement’

Time, time, time … we’re late for a very important date

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may

Orson Welles or was it HG?

Why does the writer use these words?

Because he’s in a hurry.

No. Ding! Thank you for playing anyway.

And the phone rings…

Mr. Anderson, it’s for you.

It’s god!

Cause we are food for worms, lads.
Written while watching Dead Poets Society
JR Rhine Oct 2018
High above dear Maple Street
There looms a cold iron curtain of fear
That dares to drop and let all the monsters
Unleash their dreaded promise of chaos
As in Europe despots gift a new World War
Trembling parlors hug the radio

Hallows Eve: the radio
Begins to sing throughout dear Maple Street
The Seventh Trumpet declares all out war
And that heavy iron curtain of fear
Eclipses the sun and invites chaos
In vacant hearts of men into monsters

Halloween Night: the monsters
Now dance to the tune of the radio
Raiding the stores, jumping bridges, chaos
Entombing the stretch of this blood strewn street
Parlors gorging on endless waves of fear
Riding hysteria, imminent war

O great catalyst of war
Twisting the minds of men into monsters
Diving your hands in that great pit of fear
Now throbbing with screams from the radio
No fences nor faces can save Maple Street
Now plunged in the throes of sweet sultry Chaos

And we call it Chaos
This boiling of minds all stewing with war
Once masked with humanity on this street
Now reveals good neighbors make great monsters
Skies of martians (n)or men, the radio
Hissing, twists the knobs and tunes in to fear

And when that curtain of fear
Draws, and shadeless light casts on the chaos
And the broadcast fades on the radio
And mere fiction rescinds the throne of war
What will we make of all of these monsters
Scattered about in a daze through the street

Where there are minds of fear and war,
Chaos reigns and calls to the sleeping monsters;
Tune in to Welles’s radio on Sterling’s street.
All Hallow's Eve, 80 years ago today, Orson Welles gave his "War of the Worlds" radio broadcast to an America terrified of war, enveloped in fear. I tied it into one of my favorite episodes of the Twilight Zone by the same name, where a neighborhood becomes engrossed in fear, resorting to an animal-like defense that eventually tears apart their humanity.
Amy Dec 2014
Hemingway said,
There is quite the difference
between kissing goodbye
and kissing goodnight.

I wanted a
"See you later",
but instead got the
"Goodbye".

Steinbeck stated that
Nothing good gets away,
If it's right, it happens.

If that's the case
how did we always end up feeling so
wrong?

Salinger suggested
that after falling in love
you never know
where the hell you are.

This, I can say is true.
Where the hell are we?

Dickens declared that
The truest wisdom
comes from a loving heart.

Yet a heart in love
can sometimes turn out to be
the least wise.

My friend, I think I'll just stick with
Orson Welles' theory:
"We're born alone, we live alone, we die alone."

Anything else is simply illusion.
1st draft
kenny Diamond Jul 2015
We're born alone,
we live alone,
we die alone.
Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we're not alone.
John F McCullagh Dec 2011
Why is it that drinkers of wine

All fancy themselves connoisseurs;

As they sniff, swirl, sip and spit-

They’re all Robert Parkers I’m sure.


They talk about bouquet and fragrance,

hints of chocolate they find in the wine.

I sip on the wine and I’m puzzled

as I never find chocolate in mine.



My brother’s a beer connoisseur

Pour ten different beers in good light.

Though he may drink them all to be sure,

He distinguishes each upon sight



“There are different shadings of gold

and some give you more head than others.”

-Who would ever imagine that beer

would have something in common with lovers.



So go have your new Beaujolais

You Francophile drinkers of wine

I’m sure Orson Welles would have told you

They’re selling it way before time.



Back at the bar named McCullagh’s

They’re playing pool in the back room

Uncle Jimmy is schooling some suckers

It happens once in a blue moon.
From the time my older brother was little he has had the knack of distinguishing beer from the natural variations in color and presentation. He learned at Uncle Jimmy's tavern. Alas Uncle Jimmy and his tavern have passed into memory but he has retained this unique talent.
There is a certain type
that I am apt to like,
a Galliano smirk, it's true,
won't make me take a hike.

A bourbon habit, one raised brow
a slow-drawled "Well, hello" -
call me a sucker, I don't care,
I admire a brogue-shod fellow.

Wrap him up in hairy tweed
mixed with well-packed denim,
the physicality of Welles
and literaryness of Heming (way).

Politics were not a factor,
or nationality,
he engaged my interest
with his brand of flattery.

Challenging in points of view
debating through small hours,
I'd much rather conversation
than all the world of flowers.

For I've no need of roses
to get my fix of blush.
His whispers in a crowded room
will rise me to a flush.

This man of perfect manners,
I'm as Venus when I stand
with my jazzophile Jupiter,
conjuncted, hand-in-hand.

Shooting stars if wished upon
may bring one single wish.
Thus I knew, the day I met him,
I had found my bliss.
Adam Zalt Dec 2010
Citizen Kane
Who could sustain
The horrid disdain
Not living up to
All the hype
An ego undone
Behind the public curtain
Eyes, lies, and truths betold.
I want my 119 minutes back Welles.
Based on my hate for the movie Citizen Kane.
I vow not to lose my mind because my underpants have been stolen
by gold-star dykers exposing for me to see purplish ******* swollen

In smolderin' limelight it's the fires we light when the flames go out
that make bold blonde lives worth living as if there were doubt that
I limp like fatty Orson Welles after uric acid gave him podagra gout
I could read you some smoking hot papers
and you
could get high on the vapours,
or possibly go A to Zee in the
pages of our dictionary,
she says,
I'll give it some thought.

Then I get an F for the fantasy
I thank her and
she
goes and blanks me,

this is not an
'incident on the Yangtze'
this happened in my own
backyard.

I play solo with this tight illusion
it saves on the electric or
is that a delusion?
as always
I'm full of confusion

I blame that on Welles and
his Mercury radio show.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2020
how unfathomable to be unable to listen
to new music...
              i sit and want to rearrange
bob kaufman's poem
  o-jazz-o war memoir: jazz...

      samsung + google chrome
doesn't like bitchute...
   i have been unable to watch a video
of weeks...

lenovo + google chrome
doesn't mind bitchute...
         well... it's not terribly important...
i have installed pale moon
but i'm being terrible lazy
and... i'd only invest in a VPN
to get masterchef australia (.au)
                     recipes...
                  i can mash up: punk
a steam-roller forward...
   it's not necessary...

but i will not rearrange that bob kaufman
poem...
           a little bit of rereading
the brautigan sonnets...
honest to god:
   when knausgård finally came...
i was relieved from having
to shove my eyes my tongue
my brain my: casually automaton
not-thinking
    away from american poetics...

i aspire to return to:
the i, maximus poems...
         because i've been a good boy
and i didn't visit the brothel
because even at 34...
well... you just tire of ***
because so many others seem
to have progressed to the higher
acts... protagonists in b.d.s.m.
role-playing... candy-torture...
something? opaque?

the book is dear... nearing 40 quid a pop...
i will only make
peace with american poetry on
the promise of reading the maximus oeuvre
(i have to insert the name,
like a junction - delight in calling
it the M25 around the home counties -
the bloated A406 teasing Ilford:
orson... ****... not welles...
charles olson!)

    acronyms in the vocab or...
dropping names... voluntary work...
departed and death's hyphenation:
assured - by - a designated project...
it's not a thought-out complexity...
it... either rains... or it shines...
it's either a night with a lonely
dog barking... or... it's a silent night...
perhaps a cricket... or some far away
cushion of traffic monotone humming:

like a refrigerator: the avant garde
of music: white noise...
but always the welcome wind...
either the earth's yawn...
  or the cavern solid depth of ****...
which is... not the passing of wind:
but... luck... in a more... eastern tongue...
teasing the geography of
little moscow i.e.: minsk...

well of course nothing spectacular
is happening...
beside reading a newspaper in
the morning... a few essays in the afternoon...
sitting and contemplating:
a platonism of homosexuality...
at home... teased by genitals...
as from an early age...
when a foreign body fiddled with
my possessions... a toy...
but now... a 60 year old craftsman...
perfectionist...
   a plumber but most necessarily: irish...

what's in english TH and in greek Θ
is also F            and also: alTHough...
                                   is also THat
             is also THorough...
is a surd isn't a surd...
          is -gh deaf...
                                   etc.
          irish? well... t'ought...
                                   t'is...
                  t'ou(gh)t...
                       target tatties: bomb-zickle-bomb-zarch...

such a loaded word: ****-eroticism and
platonism:  bias for commeradry
because there's a higher tier
of friends with "benefits"

          it's a terrible tango this very tease
of greasing a gauge:
time flows through the impersonal squadron
of perchance...
      
as ever: there comes a moment of
completing disbelief:
       in what makes one churn
the advent of the democratic voice...
put simply: i don't believe what i'm writing...
nietzsche is forever only a teenager
fanboy...
          how anyone could get away with
that sort of: sorrow of my own
inability to loot a blank...

                 if this was written
with a conviction in fwench or spanish...
a distant russian...
but it's only a tourist english of some
****** immigrant...
             i should somehow will myself
to write in mutterzuerst:
             zunge von tod... a chicago glamour
glistening in my mind...
h'america can capsize and retain its
20th century's mythological "geography"...
  and "history"...

i don't think the eyes would be of any use
when seeing anything anything more
than the letters and later the words
and later the sentences of noting
the hebrew junction...
         i'd like the literal fetish...
because a literal reading would allow me
to focus on dreaming up the impossible...
not reading the ol' bib'complica-ca'tion
into a poetry exhaustion of:
metaphor and the philosopher's stone...

the guitar lick of sowing the solo...
invitation to giving diacritical stressors...
whereby rhythm is noun...
whereby rhythm is sentence: judge jury
and executioner...
    
to drink! it's all about drinking and not
******* your pants...
it's about the mea culpa and
shooting yourself in the foot... or not...
i'd love to make william burrough's narrative
into a ******...
although i much disagree to
the detail of the life behind the sacred
pax of jeez and juicy juicy dorothy...

lullaby or an alibi...
       lullaby or an alibi... much contested:
of the satellites of the soviet
picturesque: because there's only
genius to work with around
the culmination of events...
for all that's recurrent of the 20th counting
nil and the flowering feud of
the "most"...

                  such a pressure to
somehow find some variation of "anew"...
for the best in poetry... the h'americans
siding with...
the iron curtain and now the silicon
curtain and the lessened tensions
of a: would-be-bomb...

            mr. clear stick figure of:
the oppenheimer...
        who was hardly a pope or a bishop
and there was never a reconquista
of such loot...
   but this current inversion
               of pennies from niqab:
and there could only be an unfathomable
triad - snot, phlegm and salt...
i find myself suffocating to
transcend while the metaphysical
ogling of an oasis...
contesting with sardines...
an antithesis claustrophobia...

               borrowing scent and the pristine
mini-skid-alongs of
churning umbrellas into skirts...
and all those cliches:
best to forget the existence
of the mind... better to reflect...
on the banjo and some walter skinz:
   or... herr im schwarz...
that best ******* of a german
forgotten "soon" with no inclined
to a borrowing of a son...

had i written the most spectacular freefall
bonanza... lucifer loots out
all other useful nouns on the dole...
there must be a boa architect and a
familiarisation with choking
on a peanut...

               best pleasing a hinterland of:
impromptu...
these khaki shoes these khaki shirts...
these mustard green trousers...

             it's impossible to write when one
is still a s schoolboy with a robert pinksky
attention to detail:
pauper... european...
the myth of and if... someone should
keep a calendar denying the sun...
that the moon can also shape itself
toward a frigid

that there's a mongol and he's
not a chinese or a thai or a japanese
culinary invitation...
that i somehow have to tattoo my mind
with such details...
because my skin is best sacred
by not being "scarred" by idiosyncratic
details of SE664397B...

the currency of youth in england
is still composed of a "memory" of Hastings...
such an inglorious battle...
given the norman archers...
and the tumbleweed of flesh of the saxon
protectorate desiring a towing
of a downward ***** of:
the confessor's epiphany...

  dear edward dear little england...
prior to ambitions of empire...
and that zenith...
dickens... jack the ripper...
jester jane... mr hyde...
   it's like... shakespeare is no necessary
rubric: 2 + 2 = 4 new yorker
sauvage...
                              
it's such a currency of suffocation
to have to tow... a height...
the variation of stink....
               a broken bone...
squeezing a delight...
             a marrow juicing of a rattling of
bone...
       procreative on the strategy
of instigating chimes:
variations of skinning wind teasing...
        
my my... it all looks just as plentiful and
as about right... as the currency
invested in a slavic discoteque...

            slaves the partner to
the germs; on high minded peoples
are the hybrids of a sa xony:
modulated to an export..
and an island home...
                 riddle with a homage
to having encountered an ancient:
    "amore" and "psyche":
                       belittling this quest
for taming haggis afghanistan.

HAZE HER - an all female...
pretend... football league sq...
gets a happy sancho ****-virulence
of "hope"... stages a ****...
the group accepts the "nuance"...
the media subsequently deals with
the wound and some maggot...
festering...
i grieve for the 19th century romance...
when... and... where...
women could be adored...
rather than abhorred...
as these... butchers' off-cut sludge...
and slices...
these: me no toy not 'appy...
'appier in bangkok kwing...
   und a lesser queer...

       procrastinating over
fraternity videos...
            because... i am... a sadist...
but because this requires a sadism...
i also have to watch these videos
as a *******...
that famous plumber!
that famous... the "fiction" of fame...
as one... that assures one a permanent
check-mark of continued work...
it's not an Elvis fame...
it's not... rising **** of the new
yearning *****...
it's not a fraternity side-project of;
all are inclusive in...
a game of shame...

    i once enjoyed 1970s *****
cinema... monica rocccaforte style
italian flicks...
    ava lauren ***
         shyla stylez... follow through:
grown attires a ****** readied
exclusivity...
but... what i'm seeing?
that's just ******* base... crude...
juvenilia inc.
              a specctacle
of a suffocating sparrow:
to aid the progress of science...
like ego is the holier than thou
makeshift pilgrimage & pilgrim...
as the dust settles...

the scent of watermelon and of strawberries...
******* with sorority pledges is...
if one could... wish for...
the concept of *******...
and... the delight in teasing a glug
of an oyster... one would... always...
shy with a hope for...
an arabic sensibility...
but one never does...
       one always expects...
russians in afghanistan...
and a miracle of iran to counter...
the ottoman plebs...
given their byzantine inheritance... etc.

one of those impossible tasks
of jerking off while drunk...
with an impeding "hangover" of...
a... "delight"...
in how... ******* can feel...
synonymously akin to scalping /
extracting the *** from new yorkie...
the kippah from
a bar mitzvah...
         a pleasure from an agony...
a pair of eyes from a niqab toll
of *******...
a toothless:
      toothless bake relief...
       a nugget... a toothpick woo..
  watching agony ****
that's not italian 1970s classic...
it's not this belgian sour fetish...
it's this crude: women also play
soccer and toy with game-think...

           it was ****... whenever it wasn't...
and it wasn't... ever...
you can disguise a drunk with a *****
and a pair of *******...
but a drunk impregnate-
              sapphire: blue orb or:
orc stipend...
   which revels in turning chartreuse
into a moss ****** and...
itch...
           that's how i party...
a colour is beside a mere identifiable
word... it's also a sensation...
which... colour can muster...

******* of the sheiks' limbo...
what are these martyrs' promised?
can't they... "somehow" satisfy themselves
with what can already be given...
weißhuren: beruhigendzerbrechlich...

nein mehr meine mutter:
        tod die mutter von alles!

what are these presumptions these assumptions
these decadent dubai posits of camel jockey bribes?!
******* indolent question...
cold warsaw slab.... the farao island "gills"...


festmahl von freur!
                    hören der wind!
conceive a flemish inquiry with
anatomy to mind...
                     ich bitten die meer...
                             pflege für mich...
alt-mutter-meer...
              
                    schoß von und walfisch!
a bangladeshi will cite:
camel jockey and sand-******...

white *******...
      i don't have the heart...
to juice on the hex...
                        
sport akin to *** is for the "uglies"...
as a man... unfathomable...
because "******"...
and the "inconvenience" of
baking... leotard game of gym / ballet...
covert homosexuality...
the whole biological female... ***...
orientation... bypass... wizard of oz...
no thanks... menopause...
new age ******-sadism...
the next earned puppy...
ms. is not a mrs. bovary...
my ******* grandma...
              i'm not gay... just covert...
              sorority ***** vids...
and... auschwitz maiden voyage *** teasers!

like... ich wantz...
         i wollen: ein schälen...
       all remains a chemistry in german...
all is an anatomy in: pennywise
the wicked... puff... and curious candy...

candy kept cain perfect
of h'american'ah...
like some abilist abel... ****-somewhat-"wit"...
no...
no glue for a new, new...
it's the same old... salem witchy-witchy...
dutch lisp...
some better than before belgian congo...
the diamonds! the diamonds and cochccies!

we are weeds in the garden:
the shadows brood concerns first...
the glistening soft affairs
of village people having
to export themselves
to a grandiosity of lunatic stakes
in urban pointers of credulity and concreteness..
i want to call it the death
of a sparrow...
the annoying rebirth of a magpie...
the limbo of a gravitating
silver spoon as the best prized
mythos...

calls a substitute a mother-in-law...
some variation
of a pick-me-up
Beirut granny; boom para giggles
hint.
Andrew Rueter Apr 2021
They fingerpick on the guitar
while I toe pick on the ice;
my equipment doesn't fit as well
as each note in each composition they write.
After building brick walls in front of the net
their slapbass slapshots destroy my defenses
until their goals plague my crease.

While trying to set focus on my own game
loud cheering emits from various venues
for Mozart writing his first symphony at 6
Orson Welles directing Citizen Kane at 25
Johnny Depp originating that last line at 31
and Patrick Mahomes, whom I'm older than.

Competition is healthy, functional
until the unstable heat of boiling envy
releases the steam of resentment
building pressure in the machinery
until the screws pop out like marbles
knocking each other out of bounds.

Daftly defining ego as the self
and success as superiority
and achievement as relative,
I race against relatives;
each pace they gain
is a slap in the face in the rain
stinging while slipping while
blaming the elements
precipitating my demise.

Gripping graphite too tightly
vulcanized rubber goes wide
shattering through plexiglass
and into the rib cage
of an innocent bystander
dropping his concessions
to climb the stairs to the sky box
while I wait for repairs to be made.
1.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge digests his grayish-green anodyne
and dreams of the kaleidoscopic exotica of Kublai Khan.

Orson Welles puffs his cigar between takes, edits and directs
the poet's smoke-thin visions into everlasting, silver celluloid.

Xanadu, palatial complex of Khan's magnificent Mongolian empire,
metamorphoses into the fantasy kingdom of Charles Foster Kane

and his flame-filled childhood. Fumes of sizzling rosebuds streak
traces of gray across his bejeweled grasping after operatic grandeur.

2.
Coleridge pens imagery of high-minded passion, tragic loss,
despair at sea -- an epic Delacroix -- while William Wordsworth

lets loose a clear-eyed revolution in the high flowery stanzas
of England's prettified poetry. Plain diction and the depths

of the self, suckled by the mystic wonders of Lakeland's fells, attune
to the melody of the poet's maturation, nature's marvel of The Prelude.

Chubby, cherubic Coleridge chases after the lean, elegant Wordsworth
to connive an unpatched rupture in poetry's flow: birth of Romanticism.

3.
Kublai Khan's courtly poets conjure impossible imperial feats
to further the wise warrior mystique of China's first conqueror.

Grandson of Genghis Khan, he weaves the calligraphy of his
bravery into the broad shield he uses to rebuff temptation

of all but the serpentine lure of luxury and opulence, his rightful
reward, his cherished spoils, interest compounded daily at Xanadu.

A knock at the door, and Coleridge's dream tears asunder on film,
dissipating with the vapors rising up from Welles’ golden cigar.

4.
Wordsworth wanders lonely as a cloud, watchful of nature's glory
expressed in woodlands, mountains, and the steady wash of the sea.

This all can be praised without ornament, witnessed without
embellishment, an earthy channel for the radiance of the world

to bless us, even though the world is too much with us. How much
splendor can one soul gather into the barns of abundance? Coleridge,

dejected among his odes, seeks ever more film time. Khan, free of worldly weariness, tallies his treasures. Wordsworth waves a daffodil and weeps.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
/the music, makes the horror movie...


a schizophrenic definition by a psychiatrist
of a pauper: an Orson Welles
would be, pinch of
a Hitchcock adaptation gusto,
and you have Ed Gein
being the author of
America's sub-culture
narrative once
the milkshakes turned
to powdered milk...
you know the notables...
canary in the coalmine,
the kentucky fried mouse...
or cockcroach for the South
Asian, delicacy...
and thank **** the ****-
didn't export, and the cosmopolitan
sushi fetishists didn't catch onto
pickled herrings, Baltic "sushi"
as it were...
how harsh the word LOSER
sounds in th western lexicon,
dead... dead? like a *******
release from the zoo of
jerking off into bird nests
and wigs...
not to mention...
    you sure only the Russians
took dope?
have you ever seen
an asthmatic take on a marathon?
even I know, that
in the post cold war environment,
the Russians are bored,
simply, *******, bored,
or pretending to be the evil empire...
zee vest und itz glutton
suckling at the Dubai's camel
****...
               the Knightsbridge
gasoline riviera of clot, cement,
clot, cement...
     so the notion of:
having lost touch with reality...
hmm... today i walked into
a supermarket and bought goods
for 72.19zł (roughly 18 quid)...
I had a 100cl banknote,
and... spare change...
               namely 10 groszy,
5 groszy and 4 x 1 groszy,
1zł... 50 groszy, 20 groszy,
and 2 x 10 groszy...
   the LOSERS OF 2008...
    the sorts that can't get a hardon
without calling a uni hen sugg'ah
   or being called daddy...
EGO constructed on a one dimensional
slot machine dynamic, ching ching:
WINNER!
           death the sole democracy:
because what you must, is die...
    to counter post colonialism,
given the pre, or...
     so much for 'ard on baby boom boom
boomerangs...
couldn't you call a banker or
a Richie Itchy a schizoid personality
type?
        imagine the sort,
counting pennies...
                        crypto-"currency" existed
before any crypto-currency...
i. e., debit cards...
        a loss of reality for Wally-Wally
would probably be experienced /
attached to counting spare change...
take any of these authenticities
   and turn grief or anything profound
as the standard for which
a banker might...
be in touch with: "reality"
when being given pennies to count...
      the current wealth of people
is the same sort of nonsense ascribed
to writing stenography...
    oddly enought,  braille makes more
sense...
        since who has lost
being in touch 20th reality...
   i can almost imagine who drops
spare change on streets...
     as precaution...
a penny on a street it picked up,
and blown into...
sometimes put in a trouser pocket...
other times,
       dropped back onto
the pavement, like a tonne of lead.
a pneumatic drill,
   and a pick axe...
      a pneumatic drill,
   and a pick axe...
            not using pennies
while trading in millions...
is just... a high tier shizophrenia...
   or with that archaic
definition (premature dementia)
and focus "symptom":
a loss with "reality"...
            how ever did i return to my
pet interest, this psychiatric
ailment?
      well...
        being immersed in
Amrican sub-culture in my teens...
   but like i said,
some pepole pet cats,
walk dogs in a park...
     me? a pet interest...
   sometimes a word escapes
the zoo, the phobias and taboos
of established norms...
       funny...
auditory hallucinations are
more traumatic...
than visual hallucinations...
       my... that's an authentic
correlation with the horror genre:
the music, makes the horror movie...
but then take away
the horror movie
and leave the music...
      a Tim Burton
       every "weird" teenage girl's
dream...
               not that she doesn't
grow out of it and
becomes a materialist,
as the boy usually does,
and enjoys ***** with
only his own company.
Innocuously incubated kindled
imperceptible dire strait
restlessness like tinder
with pinterest Deutsche agitate
barreling like a freight
train running so much
faster than an eight
track uber twittering,

rumbling, quickening and inculcate
dissension among dissolute
rabble rousers, who
do obediently initiate
rank and file will not abate,
boot re:reed out (bus) soon,
thence coalesces into ablegate
insidious encroachments

no longer patiently await...
ideal conditions to hatch
schism within parched
soil perfect for hate
mongers of democracy
breeds anarchy to facilitate
chaos, which quickly spreads
like kudzu, or wildfire Arson

Welles immediately forcing leader
of free world to abnegate,
(heard to trumpet "FORGET
THE WALL" mate),
(despite being caught in his
pink frilly underwear), to late
for Mar a Lago escape, where
formerly great wealth did

pool lightly coagulate
elite class heard faint stir of echoes,
then earsplitting clangorous louder
than an ICBM din (er bell)
rent asunder forcing
freedom of "FAKE
MEDIA" to abdicate
all the while pointing beringed

index finger to accentuate
his Taj Mahal ululation
interspersed veni, vedi,
veci stopping for spate
to coif (died in the will)
hirsute and aerate
said wind swept hairdo
pausing every now and again to snap

selfie portraits, plus
instagram loved ones to alleviate
that pompous, outsize,
and humongous ego fast deflate
ting into a shriveled up POTUS
float hissing boilerplate

hot airy premature ejaculations,
he would not capitulate
(sooner be rocketed
to Pyongyang and cell bate
good times with Kim
Jong-un to emasculate!

I now absolve myself
that aforementioned jest,
a tongue in cheek diatribe belies
my means to predict any forecast,
yet if any resemblance

of chance events
materializes between
my pablum childishness at best
there could arise fruitful market
for kitsch sheen collectors items
high as Mount Everest!
sofolo Mar 2023
Look at us go. A gang of four awkward-toothed boys dragging our red bread wagon around. Hometown heroes with bouquets of flour. For a little green, you can slice the cellophane. Yeast in your nose and warm butter dripping.

Biking down Delaware. Left on Broad. Autumn’s vermillion blanket on the ground. John Deere and Orson Welles. Maybe in some fanfiction they were ******* behind the Casey’s General Store. Turning the soil to bury secrets. There’s an art in that. The rottweiler’s snarl is pulled back inside as the door closes.

My cousin lost an eye and I saw it floating in a jar like a marble on his nightstand. When it snowed I wondered if he only saw half of the flakes.

Before you left we each took a sharpie to a dollar bill: “FRIENDS 4 EVER”. Thirty years later it’s still tucked away in a little white box with a Michael Jordan valentine and mirrored blue marble. Something plucked from my childhood and I only remember half of it.

I found an old letter I wrote to you. November 8, 1993. 11:24 a.m. Nineteen minutes after my grandmother died.

“I miss you and hope that I can come visit sometime”

That winter was lonely. I climbed our sledding hill in my moon boots and as I looked across the tundra, I thought: I’m the last hometown hero.

“Ever since you left things have been pretty boring around here and I’ve been stuck in my house reading books”

I flew down that hill in my plastic saucer. The wind pulling every tear from my eyes.

“My pictures are in the envelope, when you write me a letter please write neatly”

When my sled hit the curb on Ridge Road I swear I kept flying. I’d say I never looked back, but that’s all I’ve been doing these days.
Charles Brookfield - 1893
William Gillette - 1899-1930 - 1,300 performances in 30 yrs.
Sherlock Holmes movie Baffled - 1900 Silent/Short - Max Goldberg
John F. Preston - 1900
Charles Rice – 1904
Karoly Baumann - 1905
Maurice Costello - 1905
Viggo Larsen – 1908
Alwin Neub – 1908, 1911, 1914
Otto Lagoni - 1910
Holger Rasmussen – 1911
Mack Sennett – 1911-1912
George Treville - 1912
Harry Benham - 1913
James Bragington - 1914
Francis Ford - 1914
H.A. Saintbury – 1916
Hugo Fink - 1917
Sam Robinson - 1918
Eille Norwood - 1921 Silent short movie - The Dying Detective
Burt Lytell - 1921
Dennis Neillson-Terry - 1921
John Barrymore – 1922
Hamilton Deane – 1923-1932
Tod Slaughter – 1928, 1930
Richard Gordon – 1930-1933, 1936
Clive Brook – 1929/1930/1932
Arthur Wontner – 1931- 1937 – Movie Series
Raymond Massey - 1931
Robert Rendel - 1932
Reginald Owen - 1933
Felix Alymer - 1933
Louis Hector – 1934-1935, 1937
Bruno Guttner – 1937, 1939, 1942-1943
Orson Welles - 1938
Basil Rathbone - 1939-1946
Cedric Hardwick – 1945
Tom Conway – 1947
Howard Marion-Crawford - 1948
John Stanley – 1948-1949
Alan Napier - 1949
Alan Wheatley - 1951
John Longden - 1951
Laidman Browne - 1951
Carleton Hobbs - 1952-1969
Ronald Howard - 1954/55 (39 episodes)
John Gielgud - 1954-1955
Peter Cushing - 1959, 1968, 1984
Christopher Lee - 1962, 1970, 1992
Douglas Wilmer - 1964
John Neville - 1965, 1970, 1978
Robert Stephens - 1970
Stewart Granger – 1972  
John Cleese – 1973
Larry Hagman - 1974
Robert Powell - 1974
Rolf Becker - 1974
John Wood – 1974-1975
Leonard Nimoy - 1976
Douglas Wilmer - 1976
Roger Moore - 1976
Nicol Williamson - 1976
Kevin McCarthy - 1977
Christopher Plummer - 1977
Peter Cook - 1977
Paxton Whitehead - 1978
Barry Foster - 1978
Geoffrey Whitehead - 1979-1980
Graham Armitage - 1979-1980, 1985
Keith Mitchell - 1979
Charlton Heston - 1980
Frank Langella - 1980
Vasily Livanov - Russian T.V. - 1979-1981, 1983 & 1986
John Moffatt - 1981
Guy Henry - 1982
Tom Baker – 1982  
Ian Richardson - 1983
Peter O’Toole – 1983 (animated T.V. films – Australian)
Jeremy Brett - 1984-1994
Nicholas Rowe - 1984
Guy Rolfe – 1984
Dinsdale Landen - 1987
Tim Pigott-Smith – 1987
Anthony Higgins – 1987
Michael Pennington - 1987
Roger Rees - 1988
Ron Moody - 1988-1989
Clive Merrison - 1989-1998, 2002, 2004, 2008-2010
Edward Woodward - 1990
Simon Callow - 1990
Richard E. Grant 1992
Robert Powell – 1993
Patrick McNee – 1993
Anthony Higgins – 1993
1998-2019:  John Gilbert - Episodes 1-18
                     Lawrence Albert - Episode 20
                     John Patrick Lowrie - Episodes 21-65 & 67-until
                     Dennis Bateman - Episode 66
Jason Gray-Stanford – 1999-2001 – Animation
Matt Frewer – 2000-2001
Joaquim de Almeida - 2001
Richard Roxburgh - 2002
James D’Arcy - 2002
Andrew Sachs - 2004
Rupert Everett – 2004
Jonathan Pryce - 2007
Javier Marzan – 2007
Roger Llewellyn – 2009
Robert Downey Jr. 2009 & 2011
Ben Syder – 2010
Nicholas Briggs – 2010-2018
Igor Petrenko - Russian T.V. Series - 2013
Benedict Cumberbatch - 2010-2016
Christian Rode – 2010, 2014
Anthony P.D. Mann - 2011 (More like a thriller "spoof" by V Movies)
Samuel Tady – 2011, 2014, 2017-2018 (Tady Bros. Productions/on YouTube)
Johnny Lee Miller – 2012-2019
Benjamin Lawlor - 2013
Seamus Dever - 2014
Ian McKellen – 2015
Euan Morton – 2015
Gregory Wooddell - 2015
Paul Andrew Goldsmith – 2015-2016
Ewen Bremner - 2016
Jay Taylor – 2017-2018
Yuko Takeuchi – 2018 (HBO Asia – female ‘Holmes’)
Orlando Wells - 2018
Johnny Depp – 2018 (animation)
Will Ferrell – 2018
Nicholas Boulton – 2020
Henry Cavill - 2020
Ethan Bell – 2020 (Fan Film on YouTube)
Ethan Thomas Jung – 2020 Fan Adv.
      (Vagabond Repertory Theater Company—YouTube)

This list is not exhaustive. however, these are some of the
many actors who have played Sherlock Holmes on stage,
screen, radio and T.V. adaptations.
Thrashing frantically with futility
fore and aft fuels unseen internal racket,
which wrestling chokehold did nothing
to loosen or shuck off, nee only bracket
more severely, and bind tighter constraint -
analogous to being bound in straitjacket.

Cogs and wheels comprising
mental gear shaft cant
allow me to break free and scant
even minimally move,
thus only death can grant
release from continually

broadcasting another desperate rant
courtesy of my fifty plus
shades of gray matter, where extant
each brain cell caked, glommed,
and hardened with
lifelong hermetic sealant.

Mechanized irrational
behavior long did wield
unnatural control over actions, ******
functions, and thoughts long since sealed
where ever since post adolescence
childhood footloose and
fancy free days appealed.

Innocuous coping methods slowly
steeped in unhealthy fixation mode
innocent unsuspecting reactions
to ordinary life events did easily overload
and inexplicably, gradually,

yet egregiously erode
axons and neurons of each
and every neurological node
perhaps fated since conception,
a quirk within deoxyribonucleic code.

Psychological distress took hold
early during second grade
of school and set mold
for subsequent years,
cuz February 28th 1968 tell all told,
a significant upheaval for me,

which impact did unfold
when parents (in their prime) sold
the house on Lantern Lane
(Audubon, Pennsylvania) a bold
decision that unwittingly
wrenched psyche til I got old

in retrospect painful legacy
learned of very low threshold
involuntary inward withdrawal
set figurative ice cold
freeze (total shutdown)
of whole being and apathy,
and self resignation
condemned stranglehold.

Missus Rittenhouse the
assigned teacher at Eagleville
Elementary School discerned
meager effort and no will
to do more than fail (despite
poor grades), and still

bumped up recall when attending third
grade at Henry Kline Boyer
(another silent catastrophic
psyche dislocation) skill
fully convinced Missus Welles

third grade teacher into the grill
of Mister Stout (grade
four teacher) could not still
do nothing except pass,
no matter I barely passed fire drill

burnt out exhaustively acquiring least
flattering letter grades,
which almost complete
failure a bitter pill
like swallowing poison,
which nearly did ****!
Coincides with first day of fall
and Autumnal equinox for said year,
where colorful splash kindled like tinder.

After I riff flecked about thee August
Autumn Equinox 2023,
this seasonal polymath teached you
fall Equinox will be Saturday,
September 23, 2023, at 2:50 AM,
in Northern Hemisphere
Eastern Daylight Time,
which spoiler alert thy
learned wordsmith (courtesy Google),
when (Our Sun) Welles

(exemplary Citizen Kane)
crosses celestial equator
i.e. (imaginary line in sheltering sky
wherein pantheon of mankind Bowles
above Earth's Equator
from north to south),
a barley detectable
quiet rye hit
(*** on feel the noise)
moment occurs.

Eyesore fissured **** – wide,
stripping crust of planet vied
where survival of fittest futilely tried
to the max, viz (courtesy
badass beastie boys of **** sapiens)
exploited, offended, and violated
beholden hidebound sacred
contractually fragile important obligations
arranged marriage wedded  
civilization and its discontents to Mother Earth,
(more like shotgun wedding)

alarming, blaring, and clanging
sounding Doomsday Clock,
where ambivalence unheeded
trebling cleft noteworthy
wound, where hide rubbed raw
each betrothed nsync, didst guide
generic hominids shrugging indifference
resembling Atlas sized fountain head
scathing tragic misguided
exploitative testament writ large,

where precious resources exploited
**** sapiens railroading, snubbing,
and thumbing nose
despite flora and fauna espied
comprising onced vibrant edenic biosphere
(figuratively) asper dead
serious portentous desperate
global abuse decried
as feeble effort ignoring
inevitable demise doth decide

dismissively prophesying mocking
(burdensome), whence creator cried
resplendent raiment
adorned playfully chide,
sans whirled, wide webbed biota
adorn terra firmae analogous,
quadrants expectant wedded bride
named Gaia, when (dark and Stormy Dan
yells) Armageddon legatee - time ran
out for **** sapiens meaning...

salvation to late for human
fate i.e. as does wrecking,
(falling on deaf ears) plea
as Mother Nature dost allied;
this observer awestruck,
knitted brows, cuz field day, sans
grim reaper will
glory in field day
whar crisscrossed lovely bones
numb skulls pay fealty.

Festive gatherings of
apple cider and pumpkin pie,
a distinct golden jacketed
matted palette well nigh
paints arboreal swath, sans
quiet riot of brilliant
color, that doth belie
rampant terrestrial, unreal,
and venal degradation aye
temporarily turning a (third)
blind eye apathetically, blithely,
and conveniently shunting aside

empyrean découpage citadel
betokens (bespeaks) autumnal arrival
two oh fifty ante meridian
chariot of fire emblazons telltale signature,
one humble human doth
bid summer and his squandered life adieu
courtesy handy dandy blue's clue
flora and fauna begin
to prepare for hibernation.

Onset of harvest time witnesses
courtesy sweat of one's brow
he/she doth reap (and feeling invigorated)
what they did sow.

Common type of implements utilized
when gathering in of crops
include small sickle, big sickle,
darat, gandasa and small axe et cetera.

The hand sickle is used to harvest crops
like wheat, maize, barley, pulses and grass etc.

Big sickle (Darat) used
to harvest fodder from trees
silent whoosh of sickle
signals harvest hew
and/or raking leaves,
which I eschew.

Already crisp cool mornings
sun kissed mine cheek
refreshing air wafts thru longish hair
trademark characteristic property
aging pencil neck geek
attends brief bathroom charge coffee
exotic brew jolted kidneys leak
***** not kidding water closet doth reek.

Especially third season upon us mortals
Montgomery county, Pennsylvania
said geographic real estate sloughs
(i.e. sheds) summer dog days
necessitating shuddered windows
disallowing natural aeration
to circulate thru unit B44
cozy one bedroom apartment.

I will stave off clicking on the heat,
as long as possible,
yet invariably come first frost
yours truly will renege
and surrender creature comfort,
albeit climate controlled temptation
similar when global warming
quite evident predicated upon
Farmers' Almanac prophetic prediction.

Though ecology minded
quick acclimation to unseasonable
hot or cold temperatures
finds me adjusting thermostat dial
mainly to thwart palmar hyperhidrosis
regarding turning on air conditioning
during sweltering triple digit
(Fahrenheit) thermometer readings,
versus absent sweaty hands
courtesy old man winter arctic blast.

Ah... remembrance of wood burning
stove late papa lit,
to dispense chill pervading childhood home
324 Level Road christened "Glen Elm"
within national (local registry)
when Leiper family initially occupied estate
at that time (think early twentieth century)
merely intended as summer getaway.

This time of year finds me
to reminisce and wax poetic
nostalgia more pronounced,
particularly as aspiring wordsmith
orbitz the sun seemingly
with greater rapidity
twelve months cycling at light speed
ruminating, punctuating equilibrium,
and narrating mortality

accentuated when flora and fauna
exhibit metaphorical raiment
presaging Mother Nature's fall fashion show
linkedin with approaching senescence
prompting generic garden variety **** sapien
to rue his transience upon oblate spheroid.

Gentrification impossible mission
thus thy lovely bones will subsequently
become repurposed into  ashes
sprinkled hither and yon to and fro
across elysium fields
of happy hunting grounds.
courtesy Fluoxetine hydrochloride

Fluoxetine Hcl (C17H18F3NO·HCl)
known as Selective Serotonin
Reuptake Inhibitor (SSRI),
especially prescribed to treat
depression, panic disorder,

and obsessive-compulsive disorder
the above symptoms
profoundly experienced by yours truly
said prescription medication
seriously impacts sleep (mine).

Debilitating panic attacks
wrought (particularly years gone by)
physiological displeasures chiefly constituting
vertigo, racing heart, nausea,
excessive perspiration, adrenaline
coursing thru body,

whereby Prozac (brand name regarding
aforementioned synthesized chemical)
ameliorated unbearable, unmanageable, untenable...
earth-shaking, devastating,
and crushing manifestations
disabling, exhausting, jackknifing... functionality
hijacking life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.

Essentially yours truly experiences
dilemma analogous to sleep deprivation,
cuz ofttimes upon arising,
I feel utterly tuckered out, exhausted, bushed...
thus zapped body, mind and spirit

ill suited to physical,
mental or spiritual endeavor
subsequently lovely bones (mine)
(pine to join grateful dead)
rather than feebly kickstart
lame effort to write, read or meditate.

Thus respecting Sir Isaac
Newton's first law of motion
a (human) body at rest
inertia keeps said entity at rest.

Interestingly enough as
daylight doth wax and wane
casting dark shadows upon urbane
countenance buzzfeeding hidden reservoir
exerting estimable energy
decreasing arduous strain

therefore purposefulness,
I seek renewable resource to imbue
garden variety generic
doubting thomas and ordain
him (i.e. me) with spontaneous

magnificent grandiloquent enlightenment
ala Orson Welles Citizen Kane
laughable comparison linkedin
with story extraordinaire quite insane
September 4th, 2020 insight one can gain
perchance even coaxing passable poem
from deep within Matthew Scott Harris' brain.
This is the nightmare that we try to wake from,
the Halloween approaching midnight,
the last supper before the last morning
this is
the empire of illusion

don't let them confuse you
if
that's what they're aiming to do.

this is not an old horror show
or
'war of the worlds'
narrated by Orson Welles,
this is not radio,

this is us being broken.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
i never mind the aristocratic brow-beating...
sir laurence olivier interviewed
on the **** cavett show...
and how one can exfoliate within an armchair
of language...
with such ease... and this admiration
is never a shallow: to be bound to a shallow hue...
of what is *real" colour...
you almost agree to what's being said
with hush-hush overtones...
because that's... the old aristrocratic...
and i am of the lot of:
the never to be bound to such gentleness...
one can admire both the iron...
and the silk... and one and the two as
synonymous!
a hammer wrapped in a silk cloth...
which implies:
what one attempts when one has
transcended the otherwise:
bothersome bog dynamics of...
being the oil and **** that floats
like jesus... to walk...
on the water... which is not a literal event...
it's hardly a metaphor...
perhaps the people became well read..
literate... but then...
there came the metaphor and its translation...
the artistocrat...
better known as...
someone peacocking with anecdotes!
not in this murmur of perchance...
the character: silent / sober as a grave...
i can drag you onto the plateau
of how, otherwise this will require it being
appeased...
- and because why would younger
readers flock to: catcher in the rye
and not to charles dicknes?
it's a real shame that so few flock to charles
dicknes... esp. having read
the first chapter of the pickwick papers...
perhaps the problem being:
to be easily overlooked... to be allowed
to shut-up...
if i had read any of the Dickens i wouldn't
have made myself worthwhile
with a hidden ambition...
to write with finding the sort of simultaneous
ease to compare and compensate
with breathing...
for no better juxtaposition of when...
language becomes alive...
and it forgives itself the cue of a waiting
demand... prior to the king...
and this ghostly pyramid of class...
tier 1: impromptu...
tier 2: prompt and souffler en anglais...
tier 3, 4, 5, 6... and the better part
of having read some samuel beckett...

laurence olivier or what's called...
speaking with a fondness to have to sigh...
the measured breath...
i can't imagine having such an audacity
of freedom...
to speak at one's own leisure...
likened to walking...
to speak at one's own leisure...
without having to justify it like some pleb:
in a foreign country, akin to england...
reciting the h'american declarence of independence...
showing the 1st amendement into everyone's
porky-pie...

imagine... defending my freedom of speech...
one can really talk about anything...
but... one isn't allowed
to have the same freedom when:
one can, think of anything...
and extend this freedom into writing...
which is an extension of a freedom
of thought... and not... an invitation
to speak!

"freedom of speech"...
worse the freedom when...
people can be given the crab-bucket intellectualism
of... inclining themselves to treat
writing as speech!
that writing is not an extension
of thought... and it's not, speech!
this is not ditto-head news-reel material
readied for dough-dough-talk-talk-head!

leave this writing alone...
for your eyes only...
but no!
will it have to be become: "spoken"?!
a figment of anyone's dementia riddled
imagination...
funny how dementia doesn't attack
imagination but disgruntles memory...
yet... memory...
and pedagogy's memory is left intact...
that grammar lessons overshadow
personal memories...
how memory is never a leftover tract
of a self-intact...

but i do not own the position
to such freely spoken...
whatever language i might acquire...
whatever vocabulary...
however crude or perfected...
it doesn't matter...
it was never supposed to matter...

the irish do not, will not,
eat raw herrings in a cream, apple and gherkin
sauce... but to have that sort
of an irish ambition...
to have to be... left without one's own
tongue? i can also seek the haven
of: mój natywny język (my native tongue)...

but... that's hardly a consolation...
it would have been better,
perhaps... to have to succumb to
the "locals" of the "elsewhere"...
20+ years apart...
and... i'm a nowhere to be "found";
in that i am bound:
to a trench of teasing east...
but also teasing west...
at least closest to the north...
i could only find an antonym extreme
in some bogus new zealand version
of a south.

such profanity in the republic's eye...
my own, least quoted:
better judged...
and for no better of anything,
this, just might be...
for me to entertain the "pleb among the pleb"...
someone call a man named: jack!
and perhaps there's no...
other little place we were born into...
and... we all could have hoped
to have never left...
because... the fascination comes...
when one is almost allowed
to walk with a leash:
but one is never allowed
to hang on...
suicide dangling on a borrowed
noose from someone's
intestine's worth of rope...

the death of a monster... the critique
of a human being...
and all those better parts of what's
to be made into...
what's: the better part of this better
"part" to not be included
in anything that could be...
sentenced to: roughage...
grit and pebble and sand...

in order to have children...
and also to have a son...
is for the son to gimmick you...
and the daughter
and the daughter...
and no daughter...
and... the better prison that could
never become off of
citizen kane by orson welles.
Jean Parker (Aug. 11, 1915 – Nov. 30, 2005) American actress

Orson Welles (May 6, 1915 – October 10, 1985)

Frank Sinatra (December 12, 1915 – May 14, 1998)

Ingrid Bergman (29 August 1915 – 29 August 1982)

— The End —