Ulysses now left the haven, and took the rough track up through
the wooded country and over the crest of the mountain till he
reached the place where Minerva had said that he would find the
swineherd, who was the most thrifty servant he had. He found him
sitting in front of his hut, which was by the yards that he had
built on a site which could be seen from far. He had made them
spacious and fair to see, with a free ran for the pigs all round them;
he had built them during his master’s absence, of stones which he
had gathered out of the ground, without saying anything to Penelope or
Laertes, and he had fenced them on top with thorn bushes. Outside
the yard he had run a strong fence of oaken posts, split, and set
pretty close together, while inside lie had built twelve sties near
one another for the sows to lie in. There were fifty pigs wallowing in
each sty, all of them breeding sows; but the boars slept outside and
were much fewer in number, for the suitors kept on eating them, and
die swineherd had to send them the best he had continually. There were
three hundred and sixty boar pigs, and the herdsman’s four hounds,
which were as fierce as wolves, slept always with them. The
swineherd was at that moment cutting out a pair of sandals from a good
stout ox hide. Three of his men were out herding the pigs in one place
or another, and he had sent the fourth to town with a boar that he had
been forced to send the suitors that they might sacrifice it and
have their fill of meat.
  When the hounds saw Ulysses they set up a furious barking and flew
at him, but Ulysses was cunning enough to sit down and loose his
hold of the stick that he had in his hand: still, he would have been
torn by them in his own homestead had not the swineherd dropped his ox
hide, rushed full speed through the gate of the yard and driven the
dogs off by shouting and throwing stones at them. Then he said to
Ulysses, “Old man, the dogs were likely to have made short work of
you, and then you would have got me into trouble. The gods have
given me quite enough worries without that, for I have lost the best
of masters, and am in continual grief on his account. I have to attend
swine for other people to eat, while he, if he yet lives to see the
light of day, is starving in some distant land. But come inside, and
when you have had your fill of bread and wine, tell me where you
come from, and all about your misfortunes.”
  On this the swineherd led the way into the hut and bade him sit
down. He strewed a good thick bed of rushes upon the floor, and on the
top of this he threw the shaggy chamois skin—a great thick one—on
which he used to sleep by night. Ulysses was pleased at being made
thus welcome, and said “May Jove, sir, and the rest of the gods
grant you your heart’s desire in return for the kind way in which
you have received me.”
  To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus, “Stranger, though a still
poorer man should come here, it would not be right for me to insult
him, for all strangers and beggars are from Jove. You must take what
you can get and be thankful, for servants live in fear when they
have young lords for their masters; and this is my misfortune now, for
heaven has hindered the return of him who would have been always
good to me and given me something of my own—a house, a piece of land,
a good looking wife, and all else that a liberal master allows a
servant who has worked hard for him, and whose labour the gods have
prospered as they have mine in the situation which I hold. If my
master had grown old here he would have done great things by me, but
he is gone, and I wish that Helen’s whole race were utterly destroyed,
for she has been the death of many a good man. It was this matter that
took my master to Ilius, the land of noble steeds, to fight the
Trojans in the cause of kin Agamemnon.”
  As he spoke he bound his girdle round him and went to the sties
where the young ******* pigs were penned. He picked out two which he
brought back with him and sacrificed. He singed them, cut them up, and
spitted on them; when the meat was cooked he brought it all in and set
it before Ulysses, hot and still on the spit, whereon Ulysses
sprinkled it over with white barley meal. The swineherd then mixed
wine in a bowl of ivy-wood, and taking a seat opposite Ulysses told
him to begin.
  “Fall to, stranger,” said he, “on a dish of servant’s pork. The
fat pigs have to go to the suitors, who eat them up without shame or
scruple; but the blessed gods love not such shameful doings, and
respect those who do what is lawful and right. Even the fierce
free-booters who go raiding on other people’s land, and Jove gives
them their spoil—even they, when they have filled their ships and got
home again live conscience-stricken, and look fearfully for judgement;
but some god seems to have told these people that Ulysses is dead
and gone; they will not, therefore, go back to their own homes and
make their offers of marriage in the usual way, but waste his estate
by force, without fear or stint. Not a day or night comes out of
heaven, but they sacrifice not one victim nor two only, and they
take the run of his wine, for he was exceedingly rich. No other
great man either in Ithaca or on the mainland is as rich as he was; he
had as much as twenty men put together. I will tell you what he had.
There are twelve herds of cattle upon the mainland, and as many flocks
of sheep, there are also twelve droves of pigs, while his own men
and hired strangers feed him twelve widely spreading herds of goats.
Here in Ithaca he runs even large flocks of goats on the far end of
the island, and they are in the charge of excellent goatherds. Each
one of these sends the suitors the best goat in the flock every day.
As for myself, I am in charge of the pigs that you see here, and I
have to keep picking out the best I have and sending it to them.”
  This was his story, but Ulysses went on eating and drinking
ravenously without a word, brooding his revenge. When he had eaten
enough and was satisfied, the swineherd took the bowl from which he
usually drank, filled it with wine, and gave it to Ulysses, who was
pleased, and said as he took it in his hands, “My friend, who was this
master of yours that bought you and paid for you, so rich and so
powerful as you tell me? You say he perished in the cause of King
Agamemnon; tell me who he was, in case I may have met with such a
person. Jove and the other gods know, but I may be able to give you
news of him, for I have travelled much.”
  Eumaeus answered, “Old man, no traveller who comes here with news
will get Ulysses’ wife and son to believe his story. Nevertheless,
tramps in want of a lodging keep coming with their mouths full of
lies, and not a word of truth; every one who finds his way to Ithaca
goes to my mistress and tells her falsehoods, whereon she takes them
in, makes much of them, and asks them all manner of questions,
crying all the time as women will when they have lost their
husbands. And you too, old man, for a shirt and a cloak would
doubtless make up a very pretty story. But the wolves and birds of
prey have long since torn Ulysses to pieces, or the fishes of the
sea have eaten him, and his bones are lying buried deep in sand upon
some foreign shore; he is dead and gone, and a bad business it is
for all his friends—for me especially; go where I may I shall never
find so good a master, not even if I were to go home to my mother
and father where I was bred and born. I do not so much care,
however, about my parents now, though I should dearly like to see them
again in my own country; it is the loss of Ulysses that grieves me
most; I cannot speak of him without reverence though he is here no
longer, for he was very fond of me, and took such care of me that
whereever he may be I shall always honour his memory.”
  “My friend,” replied Ulysses, “you are very positive, and very
hard of belief about your master’s coming home again, nevertheless I
will not merely say, but will swear, that he is coming. Do not give me
anything for my news till he has actually come, you may then give me a
shirt and cloak of good wear if you will. I am in great want, but I
will not take anything at all till then, for I hate a man, even as I
hate hell fire, who lets his poverty tempt him into lying. I swear
by king Jove, by the rites of hospitality, and by that hearth of
Ulysses to which I have now come, that all will surely happen as I
have said it will. Ulysses will return in this self same year; with
the end of this moon and the beginning of the next he will be here
to do vengeance on all those who are ill treating his wife and son.”
  To this you answered, O swineherd Eumaeus, “Old man, you will
neither get paid for bringing good news, nor will Ulysses ever come
home; drink you wine in peace, and let us talk about something else.
Do not keep on reminding me of all this; it always pains me when any
one speaks about my honoured master. As for your oath we will let it
alone, but I only wish he may come, as do Penelope, his old father
Laertes, and his son Telemachus. I am terribly unhappy too about
this same boy of his; he was running up fast into manhood, and bade
fare to be no worse man, face and figure, than his father, but some
one, either god or man, has been unsettling his mind, so he has gone
off to Pylos to try and get news of his father, and the suitors are
lying in wait for him as he is coming home, in the hope of leaving the
house of Arceisius without a name in Ithaca. But let us say no more
about him, and leave him to be taken, or else to escape if the son
of Saturn holds his hand over him to protect him. And now, old man,
tell me your own story; tell me also, for I want to know, who you
are and where you come from. Tell me of your town and parents, what
manner of ship you came in, how crew brought you to Ithaca, and from
what country they professed to come—for you cannot have come by
land.”
  And Ulysses answered, “I will tell you all about it. If there were
meat and wine enough, and we could stay here in the hut with nothing
to do but to eat and drink while the others go to their work, I
could easily talk on for a whole twelve months without ever
finishing the story of the sorrows with which it has pleased heaven to
visit me.
  “I am by birth a Cretan; my father was a well-to-do man, who had
many sons born in marriage, whereas I was the son of a slave whom he
had purchased for a concubine; nevertheless, my father Castor son of
Hylax (whose lineage I claim, and who was held in the highest honour
among the Cretans for his wealth, prosperity, and the valour of his
sons) put me on the same level with my brothers who had been born in
wedlock. When, however, death took him to the house of Hades, his sons
divided his estate and cast lots for their shares, but to me they gave
a holding and little else; nevertheless, my valour enabled me to marry
into a rich family, for I was not given to bragging, or shirking on
the field of battle. It is all over now; still, if you look at the
straw you can see what the ear was, for I have had trouble enough
and to spare. Mars and Minerva made me doughty in war; when I had
picked my men to surprise the enemy with an ambuscade I never gave
death so much as a thought, but was the first to leap forward and
spear all whom I could overtake. Such was I in battle, but I did not
care about farm work, nor the frugal home life of those who would
bring up children. My delight was in ships, fighting, javelins, and
arrows—things that most men shudder to think of; but one man likes
one thing and another another, and this was what I was most
naturally inclined to. Before the Achaeans went to Troy, nine times
was I in command of men and ships on foreign service, and I amassed
much wealth. I had my pick of the spoil in the first instance, and
much more was allotted to me later on.
  “My house grew apace and I became a great man among the Cretans, but
when Jove counselled that terrible expedition, in which so many
perished, the people required me and Idomeneus to lead their ships
to Troy, and there was no way out of it, for they insisted on our
doing so. There we fought for nine whole years, but in the tenth we
sacked the city of Priam and sailed home again as heaven dispersed us.
Then it was that Jove devised evil against me. I spent but one month
happily with my children, wife, and property, and then I conceived the
idea of making a descent on Egypt, so I fitted out a fine fleet and
manned it. I had nine ships, and the people flocked to fill them.
For six days I and my men made feast, and I found them many victims
both for sacrifice to the gods and for themselves, but on the
seventh day we went on board and set sail from Crete with a fair North
wind behind us though we were going down a river. Nothing went ill
with any of our ships, and we had no sickness on board, but sat
where we were and let the ships go as the wind and steersmen took
them. On the fifth day we reached the river Aegyptus; there I
stationed my ships in the river, bidding my men stay by them and
keep guard over them while I sent out scouts to reconnoitre from every
point of vantage.
  “But the men disobeyed my orders, took to their own devices, and
ravaged the land of the Egyptians, killing the men, and taking their
wives and children captive. The alarm was soon carried to the city,
and when they heard the war cry, the people came out at daybreak
till the plain was filled with horsemen and foot soldiers and with the
gleam of armour. Then Jove spread panic among my men, and they would
no longer face the enemy, for they found themselves surrounded. The
Egyptians killed many of us, and took the rest alive to do forced
labour for them. Jove, however, put it in my mind to do thus—and I
wish I had died then and there in Egypt instead, for there was much
sorrow in store for me—I took off my helmet and shield and dropped my
spear from my hand; then I went straight up to the king’s chariot,
clasped his knees and kissed them, whereon he spared my life, bade
me get into his chariot, and took me weeping to his own home. Many
made at me with their ashen spears and tried to kil me in their
fury, but the king protected me, for he feared the wrath of Jove the
protector of strangers, who punishes those who do evil.
  “I stayed there for seven years and got together much money among
the Egyptians, for they all gave me something; but when it was now
going on for eight years there came a certain Phoenician, a cunning
rascal, who had already committed all sorts of villainy, and this
man talked me over into going with him to Phoenicia, where his house
and his possessions lay. I stayed there for a whole twelve months, but
at the end of that time when months and days had gone by till the same
season had come round again, he set me on board a ship bound for
Libya, on a pretence that I was to take a cargo along with him to that
place, but really that he might sell me as a slave and take the
money I fetched. I suspected his intention, but went on board with
him, for I could not help it.
  “The ship ran before a fresh North wind till we had reached the
sea that lies between Crete and Libya; there, however, Jove counselled
their destruction, for as soon as we were well out from Crete and
could see nothing but sea and sky, he raised a black cloud over our
ship and the sea grew dark beneath it. Then Jove let fly with his
thunderbolts and the ship went round and round and was filled with
fire and brimstone as the lightning struck it. The men fell all into
the sea; they were carried about in the water round the ship looking
like so many sea-gulls, but the god presently deprived them of all
chance of getting home again. I was all dismayed; Jove, however,
sent the ship’s mast within my reach, which saved my life, for I clung
to it, and drifted before the fury of the gale. Nine days did I
drift but in the darkness of the tenth night a great wave bore me on
to the Thesprotian coast. There Pheidon king of the Thesprotians
entertained me hospitably without charging me anything at all for
his son found me when I was nearly dead with cold and fatigue, whereon
he raised me by the hand, took me to his father’s house and gave

Men of the Twenty-first
Up by the Chalk Pit Wood,
Weak with our wounds and our thirst,
Wanting our sleep and our food,
After a day and a night --
God, shall we ever forget!
Beaten and broke in the fight,
But sticking it -- sticking it yet.
Trying to hold the line,
Fainting and spent and done,
Always the thud and the whine,
Always the yell of the ***!
Northumerland, Lancaster, York,
Durham and Somerset,
Fighting alone, worn to the bone,
But sticking it -- sticking it yet.

Never a message of hope!
Never a word of cheer!
Fronting Hill 70's shell-swept *****,
With the dull dead plain in our rear.
Always the whine of the shell,
Always the roar of its burst,
Always the tortures of hell,
As waiting and wincing we cursed
Our luck and the guns and the Boche,
When our Corporal shouted, "Stand to!"
And I heard some one cry, "Clear the front for the Guards!"
And the Guards came through.

Our throats they were parched and hot,
But Lord, if you'd heard the cheers!
Irish and Welsh and Scot,
Coldstream and Grenadiers.
Two brigades, if you please,
Dressing as straight as a hem,
We -- we were down on our knees,
Praying for us and for them!
Lord, I could speak for a week,
But how could you understand!
How should your cheeks be wet,
Such feelin's don't come to you.
But when can me or my mates forget,
When the Guards came through?

"Five yards left extend!"
It passed from rank to rank.
Line after line with never a bend,
And a touch of the London swank.
A trifle of swank and dash,
Cool as a home parade,
Twinkle and glitter and flash,
Flinching never a shade,
With the shrapnel right in their face
Doing their Hyde Park stunt,
Keeping their swing at an easy pace,
Arms at the trail, eyes front!

Man, it was great to see!
Man, it was fine to do!
It's a cot and a hospital ward for me,
But I'll tell'em in Blighty, whereever I be,
How the Guards came through.

Good Day spoken in a bad austrailian accent
bad juju voodoo clear light poltergeist on disablity
Hoarding every scrap of miserable memories attached to trash
your apartment is a holiday for nightmares and childmolesters
******* magazines, old sanitary napkins , bad vhs movies
lay like dead soldiers waiting for the war to end
Black bags and boxes scattered every where are villages to rats
and every unknown pestilence you can only read about in medical textbooks.
half eaten pizzas covered in pickles dried up sadly looking at empty pills
You have no hold on me I can't understand your pain nor will i listen to your overdramatic ******* about whoever
or scheming to defraud Walmart
Your mutilation is a scar spelling sociopathic miscreant child trapped in an old mismatched shell of no clear gender.
Your diagnostic prophecies from the dsm5 dismissed like school on a snow day.
Will commands the unentanglement
uncurse
unfear
dispell  all your contradictions accusations monologrhthyms
bad music choices and echoes of muttered mustard.
only truth will be uplifted
Peace be with you
whereever you are currently infesting enjoy your dora the explorer ice cream
Was there ever a floor in here?

This little fairy always thought that she was important
In a way that it would not to me or even you.
She thought "I bet they thought I had a respsonsible face"
as I stood in the "Name the Fairy Day Today" queue.

That day she waited all day, (she was last out of bed)
She had arrived late (of course) and was last in line.
The others had been named, (they were all proud)
and this last name they had. well it was absolutely fine.

The others giggled behind her back (she didn't know that)
and was ridiculed whereever they went that very day.
The Fairy of the Rose and Forget-Me-Not were supportive
and not spiteful like the rest in a caring sort of way.

These fairies knew the real reason for her name but kept quiet
They did not want to shatter this little fairy's dream
Besides which when it was time to meet their maker
These two fairies had the best golden tickets to redeem.

That is what you get if you are a good and kind little fairy
is a golden ticket to extra love and devotion and stuff
The last thing a fairy wants is a damp grey cloud to sit on
which has run out of nice things,  fluffy things and puff.

It is not hard to be nice they thought, takes no extra effort
So they were that to this hopeless little fairy that's always late.
The fairy of everything sharp and dangerous a name in itself.
But then to her it came with instant love from a nice playmate.

A playmate or two in fact which was more than most got.
So in her head she thought that she was well liked and respected.
In truth I suspect the rest were jealous and envied her status
But this little fairy (despite her name) always felt protected.

I’ve always looked at dancing girls.
I think that all men do.
I drool at scenes
Like tight blue jeans–
Until they fade from view.

Where pretty girls are showcased
I’m sure to raise a toast
Cause a derriere
Might make me stare
Till I become a ghost.

And, yes, it’s like a candy store
When beauties crowd the beach
Because a teeny
And snug bikini
Make my right and left eyes meet.

For I lo-o-o-o-o-ve to goggle long long legs
Whereever I may roam
And if they're cute
I will weigh the fruit
But I always boogie home

Falling for toxic boys
when will we realise
Mr. Wrong wreaks havoc
whereever he goes
leaving behind a litany of woes

What’s the attraction of the bad lad?
known universally as a cad
pure catnip for some women
in their pool I won’t be swimming

Maybe their addicted to drama
flying in the face of karma
is ungentlemanly behaviour mistaken for passion
or wearing a lothario the new fashion

Their well versed in the art of seduction
continuously rehearsing their next production
maybe romance with a ladies man is a headrush
back in the day I had many a bad lad crush

only whites could have turned the
sacred mystic experience
of some drug known to the south americans
into a literature category
and thus made easier to sell...
but none of these gatsby's lovers
of par tee off could ever
re-sell a storm to care for a readership...
but the thrill was long gone
and the psychology behind it
was not worth writing about it -
white ******* stopped drinking the ****
and started to inject it; i barely had a chance
to try it, and i already feel i don't have to
seeing her seller's pressure to try it and
get addicted to van gogh of some sort;
take the ***** of experience whereever you go!
you can leave the flesh when writing about
south american hallucinogenic weeds
as you would leave words behind when embarking
on plastic surgery.

Like a lost sheep seeking his flock.
Wherever love is at?
I'm gonna be there.

To feel the central theme of any person's will feelings.

Wherever love is at?
I be standing in line to feel the emotions that keeps us alive.

Why?
Why be surrounded by hatred?
That only ruin your mood.

Ask yourself?
What?
Does hate really do for you?

So wherever love is at?
Sign me up.
I be a willing participant.

The miracles was in locating you.
You're my blessing.

The temptations were staying devoted to you.
You're my treasure.

The supreme thing about you.
You're wonder, sweet and true.
There's no one greater than you.
You're my blessing.

There's no journey I have travel that didn't involve you.
You're my lover.
You deserve to be whereever I go
You're my treasure.

You will forever be my blessing.

there will be no poetry tonight,
the sky is clear and if'n there be a moon
                    there will be light.

the traffic plays a base note tune,
the frost lands softly, a delight,
nothing sinks faster than a frozen balloon.

there will be light,
that shines into the lives of ruin,
gathered in packs, of two or three this night.

the tears that fall on this freezing night, collect in a heated spoon,
there will be a night light,
whereever the homeless sleep, entrances, streetlights of even the new moon,

there will be light,
snow by Sunday a boon,
for the ski hills and plowmen who,
have not made any money to go to Cancun,

but there will be no poetry tonight,
the dog is ill and there is no clue in,
the stars as to what is wrong, but there will be light.



©DWE012014

In my youth I learned to swallow
my depression with alcohol,
I learned how to write a love note
and to savor every minute of life
but I never bothered to learn how to drive
or pay attention in class
because I foolishly thought that I had it all figured out
everything but the one exception,
I didn't know how to banish your thoughts
through the doors of oblivion.
I could never unlearn to forget
the taste of your breath mixed with mines
the unpararell shyness of your lips
when they first met mines.

The heart is a rythm labyrinth
that pulses at it's own beatlike a nostalgic classic song
I can never pull the right strings
or play the right chords
that's why I cut them loose
and cross my fingers and hope
they will forever be gone one day
but they come back like stars at night
lost in the ashes of an old cuban cigar
with one look of your face
whenever or whereever our clandestine encounters
happen to take place.

Just listen to the song my heart plays
the renaissance of our memories
abount like ants in the hay
the unmistakable charm of your eyes
sliced at the corners
eyes without precedence or decadence
eyes that ceaced belonging to you
and became mines the moment
my naive heart decided to own them.

In my youth I wanted to be a baseball player
become a famous writer
see the world and do it all
but none of it will ever matter
because I never learned to exorcised
the demon of your love.

Like
...dude
random writing eh
.....like theres a tear forming in my eye as i say this
poetry is my escape
from my dreadful world
not yours
from people, my own ******* Mother....
not appreciating all that i am
people even those who "accept"
or dont give a ****....
ya know my world is far from perfect
in my world all i see are eyes on me....
all eye see is fear, pity.....
pretty much
...fake smiles
like pity for being black, sorrow in their eyes as they watch or fear of me taking their purse
.....i see disapointment
in the eyes of loved ones...
they sit and laugh
like im a joke
its like only i can truly give myself
what i desire
no man, no boy, no dude, nor dudet
can give me crap....
all the people in my world do
...is stare
they ******* stare
and i feel every emotion
of the people in the cars watching as i cross
as i walk down the stairs i see
as i write in my notebook isee
its like i live in a great world
but am distracted....
like i want to be free
but a burden is over me
....just laying there
and i put it there me
all me
i did
i told myself
and put the weight of obligation
on myself
but ya know what
to hell with that weight
to hell with my "world"
.......
truly
im just me
in a moment
...the moment
infinate moment
intricate moment....
oh hell ya
and ya know
....its hell
fire all over
maybe even worse
but....im kinda lovin it
its hell n back but....
its mine
i am free
its a weight meaning...
i can remove it whenever, whereever
if i want to......

i fear that constantly redefining poetry gets no poetry done...
        i don't mean it as: primarily
performance art,
                 i meant it as: composition art...
but the curret theme (counter to
philosophy's concept of form)
         has been lost... to be trapped in
an art-form where the only theme is refining
the art: without actual output...
                    i don't know how many misnomers
i might have used,
     or haven't used...
                     i'm drinking white *** and i'm like:
*****'s sweety juices are like choc when downing this...
i turn to brown cane liquids?
              it's almost like whiskey...
         i'm starting to hear bagpipes... but they're not
scottish... n'ah ah! there's a distinction!
   they're not only scottish...
there's the dudelsack... and there's the dudy
or the kózoły...
                         etymology? kozioł / sagittarius...
the male goat...
    velkopopovický kozel?    the word doesn't matter,
the diacritical mark does, the acute sign above
the y, i.e. via linguistic dissection:
             velko (great, large / wielki) -
          po po (after after) - vický... the **** of ι...
               it is derived from this... vicki...   but it's more
or less vickee...
               english without diacritical marks
can soon turn ugly and acronym...
                                    the great after father victor...
and kozel? father goat.
                        ***** ******* after they
downed a few beers and were like: *******!
     oh the picture isn't pretty... but i see western
  birthrates decline because you've stopped treating
dogs as instruments of protection... cuddles! cuddle!
you lived on a farm, you had a dog hut and a dog
on a chain... and when a thief came along in the night...
you let the dog off its chain... and whether a rottweiler
or a doberman... the dog would morph into a hart...
and it was more effective than a gun...
      you know what they call haggis in eastern europe?
czarna kiszka (charn'ah keesh'kah)...
of you think the thing originates in scotland?
                depends what you mix intestines with -
in the east it's made from pork... in england the same
things is made (black pudding) - but they don't
add carbohydrate grains...
                                      'ullo oo'rho'pa'h!
seriously though... when did poetry come to
resemble: i need to write poetry about writing poetry...
but never actually writing any poetry...
i can understand lyrics...
                like you'd might sing auld lang syne...
but what about the narrative vein of it
akin to homer or virgil?
                                  la i mbealtine! - dudas!
begpies aren't a scottish invention!
                           they're just different whereever you
go on the continent...
                          they have different tuning...
like drop-d or standard blues guitars...
                       la e mm beel tain...
                                         hence the need to differentiate
the concept of the logos from the phonos...
                       it's needed, it came about
when the greeks started incorporating diacritical
marks... and the last romans didn't do anything about it!
doughnut proper that crap...
           i'll see how long the *** appeal of the english
accent in america would take me,
or how far the american accent would take me in
england... while calling scots: indecipherable...
     dudahy!
                               bagpipes in eastern europe...
    begpies!
                             dudam: verb, playing the bagpipes.
it's not a scottish "thing"... the scottish bagpipes
probably have the worst tuning... they're like
beavers farting...
                               while whistling through their
buck-teeth...
                   with that gap in between their frontal teeth...
fizzle... thistle... thizzy... oh the glory
    of the cultural export of americanism...
                     i've already started pledging allegiance
to russia... imagine that!
              i'm hearing opinions that actually
think arizona or colorado or nevada are
actual countries, equivalent to croatia, serbia,
or god forbid germany... apart from the former's
homogeneousness... and with the latter example:
             the e.u. isn't some x-men prologue narrative!
it's one thing that they're not speaking flemish or french
in the european parliament... it's that they're talking
with these terrible accents!
        ugh... i literally have no real magic trick akin
to being astounded as to why the english decided to left...
it's one thing dealing with the welsh, the irish and scots...
but these belgians with their version of english
that undermines east london accents?
                                                   who you fooling?
they left because it was a bit like:
1, 1, 1, 1, 1... and then the belgians... and the english
turned neurotic with the accents...
                            (ireland, n. ireland, wales, scotland,
england) -
                     these are very sensitive people...
   they're a people with insomniac tendencies...
                       it's not even like a billion chinese people
with only 3 time zones...
                    they cover the whole spectrum of a day:
'ere a minute,
                                                    'ere 'ive 'our 'ater
(there five hours later);
                 and they say that the state of Levant
is on amphetamines... yeah, and i'm an a.d.h.d. squirrel;
   skinning those nuts like eating out a *******'s *****.

You can be the words as truth.
Whereever you're at?
I am too.
Whereever you be?
You know you have my support.

You can journey anywhere in the world.
And although I'm not there.
I am close.
Cause I'm in your heart.
Now and forever more

Wherever I walk?
You are there.
Whenever I speak.
I find away to speak your name.
We're one and the same.

We're connected in many ways.
And this isn't an apology to anyone to explain.

Wherever you be?
I am too.
Accept this as truth.

The unmoving crow
Sitting in the dark
Letting the wind blow
Eyes aglow like a burning fire
He rises ever higher
Crows gather around him
Eyes filled to the brim
Hate
The unearthly Scarecrow
With stick legs
His scyth begs, for blood
A ****** of crows follows him
Whereever he goes
Never slows
He stalks you
There is nothing you can do
Fiddles is after you.
Here he comes...
                           Fiddlesticks

then on   the sand   walking together
barefeet  a step  whereever
we wanted to wander
hand in hand a shell
picked up
listened to
barely clothed
baked in the sun
quiet listening
to the waves crash
the shell echo
what a tender sweet summer
recall
you looked    then    at me
the sun behind you
my eyes glimpsed
eternity
as we walked
closer to the surf
hand
in hand

Much of the time-
he is alone-

Not wanting to be accosted, attacked, or just not being bothered by other 'homeless' folk, so to speak. Other evenings he may have his wife and three kids with him.

It's his choice.
He has no job
Doesn't wear a watch
Takes care of his family, the best he knows how

Most of the restaurants here close at 10pm. He'll wait until after the  building lights go out,then begin his tour, lessening the chances of being seen by the authorities. It could be two, three, or more hours, before he starts his walk. As many homeless people do, he looks for discarded food, plates, cans, most anything, for some sort of a meal.  He just wants to "survive."

I first saw him on the property surveilance cameras, crossing the parking lot, south to north. But, he didn't stop to check for any unlocked vehicles, just kept going, focused on reaching his destination, whereever that would be, disappearing into the alleyways. When I saw him next, I stepped outside, spoke with a "Good morning," after all, it was about 3am. He stopped, turned, looked at me, then continued on with his mission.

I'll sit down with him, someday soon, for what I haven't told you, is that "Mister Sturdman" is....

                                                         ­                     V

a "raccoon!"

copyright: richard riddle-05-22-2016

My old friend,
My one that got away.
My number one fan.
My one thing certain.
Why?
Why did you do it?
Steal this from me,
I want to scream to whereever you are.
All of the things I should have.
Ive never felt so guilty,
If I had more time,
I wanted time with you.
I wanted a hug, to hear your voice.
It's gone now.
We had this amazing bond.
You loved me unconditionally I know.
Why, why didn't I show you it back enough.
I am so scared to never have you in my life again.
I am awake hoping you know.
I haven't slept in days.
Every song reminds me of you
And I break down.
You didnt have to do it you know.
I wish you would have showed up at my door.
I beg to let this be a nightmare.
Please, please have your face shaking me awake.
Please let me see your grin and hear your voice.
Please fill this emptiness I have had since they told me.
Please.
You couldn't have ended your life.
You couldn't have stolen your amazing self from the world.
I knew you as one of my first loves,
I knew you as a best friend.
I knew you as a passionate secret.
I loved it all.

i'm not what you might call a holocaust denier,
it happened, the end. what i am saying
is found on a song, slayer's angel of death
from the album reign in blood...
the modern media speak of the migrant crisis,
you see it on the news, leaving the Libyan
coast, in inflatable boats, a dead child on Greece's
coast... you can just sense the desperation,
but also the daring, and the ***-starved
European women who took less a chance
for *** holidays in Ivory Coast, or whereever
it is they do their ***** business...
i don't know how they did it, the Germans,
but they did, they were rearing cattle
into those gas chambers, it's not even funny,
i'm not laughing, i'm just astouded by
the comparison, this blind belief in a god
to bail them out, and then watching
the desperate *****-like daring of the modern-day
migrants from africa into europe...
ah, the funny bit... Brussels, chocolate,
magnets... choc from Africa, choc-talk from
Belgium... am i surprised?
   as said, according to the dodo project.

i too thought that when the band *reef
released their greatest hits album,
with a new song, give me your love,
that they could rekindle their long gone career...
i thought it was their mangum opus,
just over 3 minutes long, still... what a song...
it could do much better on the radio frequencies
than their standard place your hands,
give me your love is like a virus,
it's a contagious anthem to what could have
been, but never was,
i'm sure that, if the radio people appreciated it
as much as i did (when i still played the guitar,
but later smashed it for reason that are worth
noting my ex-girlfriend and how her dad
initially made it hardly dead, but slightly disabled,
let's just say he gave her an extra sound hole;
****** hollowed her out! completely!)...
   and yes, i want writing to be as fickle,
as painting an "abstract", so i'll adopt blitzkrieg
to writing, strobe lighting, quick change of pace,
the whole disco shabang...
       what, can't i imitate women by writing as
finicky as is humanely possible?
    let's do that... i have all day...
well... i can officially say it's the 20th of February
and winter has ended...
   it's getting warmer, yuck, and i'm getting more
daylight than i like to have had...
  speak to the scandinavians about winter
and misery, or the "blues", they'll tell you that
in winter, they couldn't be happier, or should i say:
cosy... cuddling pillows and lighting scented candles
in their wooden shacks...
for care of all that *******, that's true.
      i was thinking Alaska, or Siberia, somewhere
really really remote, so i can be like
that cat i own looking at my *******
so that i look away when it's taking a **** in the garden...
oh sorry, i'll just return to my cigarette and beer
breakfast... take your time...
         what an annoying little twit she can be...
and with "can be", is...
      just after philosophy attacked poetry,
suddenly someone said, enough! that's when poetry
attacked the medium of journalism...
   someone has to bully someone in the end,
   or as i like to call it: symbiosis vulgaris...
it usually takes the monday edition of a newspaper,
and then re-reading the magzines from the sunday
edition... how those ponces critique books,
but i like critics, they actually read books,
which makes less time to think about books and bricks
and vacuums... critic: mmm hastings...
book? reporting war, by rrrr mosely... (trill that,
trill that *****)...
    it's basically about Patton bitchslapping an exhausted
soldier... and how Montgomery and 1944 and
Arnhem, and how he should have been sacked for that...
but primarily about how journalists lied...
    some shot down fighter jets,
some even did a Hemingway and added a bit
of spice, a chilli romance or something of that sort...
i add more spices to my curry when i make one,
e.g. cardamom... try thinking i'm a ****-asian
and not blame me for ultimate war and commerce...
oh wait... Caucasian... the caucus...
or let's call her: Matka Caucasus...
modernity, see, you have to start looking for myths,
myth-making is the only worthy rebellion
  to be made when everything is speeding past you
at 100 miles per hour... and it's still only Monday...
by Friday we can say: conquered the moon
and killed of Brother Grimm...
      and yes, in ancient times,
i'd give 30 years of pure, pure, pure life for this
advanced modern ******* of shrivelling away
at 100... give me 30 years of pure, raw, oyster-slurping
life and i'm your man...
   give me a life, that's actually a library and
the next time i sit before a television, i'll turn into
a little ****** and start utilising a gun and shooting
a mountain... a bit like Xerxes
          and his army told to whip the seas
into submission... akin to any madman,
the comedy just never seems to end...
                   it just goes on and on and then, at some point
we reach the pinnacle, the everyday grey,
common people... and then it becomes truly sad,
the realisation that we're all apparently prisoners
entombed by cosmic forces... i'd like people to try
to laugh then...
     but we are living in times of relative peace, aren't we?
it's not like we decided to enforce an "article 50"
(more like article 22, catch)
and are sending men to war,
                only when the mechanisms of war have become
so advanced that the wars we currently see
are puny... they don't capture the imagination,
what with the nation being so abstract it's
only basis is for football supporters and nothing else...
not the type of man i could have been in 1939...
   even when my grandfather and father lived
in a nation that prescribed no university after
leaving school, but 3 years in the army...
   where my jealosy stems from...
   3 years comprehensive in the army...
     it's that lesson of teaching man: routine...
my routine went when i went to university,
even though i did have 9 am lectures, and it was chemistry
and in my third year i was doing over 30 hours
in lab and lecture hall...
          but when i look at my father's and my grandfather's
life, i'm just thinking about an england,
where army conscription was dogma...
                ****'s sake, ted berrigan did it!
and he was a poet!
               me? more or less a *****... a tier higher above
a gimp... but i'll just call myself chewing gum
and mule it over...
                  try not having a joke at the existential
lottery known as life...
                          but it's like: who to fight?
    we done fighting, we're faking fighting? we're
not really fighting, are we?
      so, about this book, and how journalists and with
due care for establishing that there were censors
in the interim years 1939 - 45...
             and how wars are waged as much with
guns and knives as with truths and lies...
      well... if at war... tell a load of lies...
if at peace?
                 you have to tell the most mundane truths
unimaginable... truths can't be imagined,
e.g. i wrote this quasi-constipated, that's quasi for:
i kept it in and made an effort, and had some *****...
of peace and for peace to endure:
you have to be blunt... you can't *******,
well, i call bullshiting a diarrhea of narrative,
in the meantime i'm also capturing the sunset,
i started this, whenever i did and now i'm desperate
for a lightbulb...
      but really, for truth and for peace,
for both these children to have a father,
          they need to hear the uttermost banal:
a banana is yellow, white is the refractor of light,
black is the insulator of light... goths and emos
wear black cloths but have an aristocratic complex
meaning they have a vitmanin d deficiency
and i could milk them with my pinky.

I watched two bullets smash together and fall to the ground yesterday.
Right in front of my no longer innocent eyes.
They made passionate love right before me.
I sipped my tea slowly.
I was trapped in this war.

I stepped over the dead body.
Then found two more as I turned the corner silently.
They lay away from each other, but hands almost touching.
I ate my sandwich and smirked.
I had become use to this.

I watched as the pipe hit their lips.
I saw their hell-stricken bliss, their temporary escape.
They sat together, ******.
I laughed and walked on.
I wouldn't deal with this anymore.

I sat on the plane and stared at the city.
It was trapped within its own barriers and false realities.
But I couldn't be any longer.
Whereever I got off, I would start over.
And I wouldn't allow myself to be trapped.

once a day I spend ten seconds sorry for me
then ten hours on those worse off
I think about my problems too long
and not enough on what I can do to help others
after all what good is pity for me I don't like it
nor do I pity others I empathize
try to put my foot in their shoe
and it makes my problems dematerialize
and one day I will wittle it down to ten seconds a year
and hope I made a difference
before I go
on to whereever
it is old hippies go to
then

My old friend,
My one that got away.
My number one fan.
My one thing certain.
Why?
Why did you do it?
Steal this from me,
I want to scream to whereever you are.
All of the things I should have.
Ive never felt so guilty,
If I had more time,
I wanted time with you.
I wanted a hug, to hear your voice.
It's gone now.
We had this amazing bond.
You loved me unconditionally I know.
Why, why didn't I show you it back enough.
I am so scared to never have you in my life again.
I am awake hoping you know.
I haven't slept in days.
Every song reminds me of you
And I break down.
You didnt have to do it you know.
I wish you would have showed up at my door.
I beg to let this be a nightmare.
Please, please have your face shaking me awake.
Please let me see your grin and hear your voice.
Please fill this emptiness I have had since they told me.
Please.
You couldn't have ended your life.
You couldn't have stolen your amazing self from the world.
I knew you as one of my first loves,
I knew you as a best friend.
I knew you as a passionate secret.
I loved it all.

Every time I see her it feels like
I took my first breath of  air
or maybe  it can be her black silky hair.
As time goes as I grow older
the sun still rises and her heart is still gold.
I pray to god almighty
whoever there may be Allah, Buddha, Jesus.
Please take me whereever she may be.
For whom she be right for me.
Sun is gone moon has risen.
I feel as if it's a prison.
Meer hours has passed but felt more like days.
The skies brighten with her lovely gaze.
We finally met at last.

It was disturbing enough
to wake me
in total darkness
And I chose then
in my kind of horror
to go to the bathroom to ***
Shaking my head
Troubled
In the wee hours
Not again
Why does this always happen to me?!
Not only is he a ghost
He’s a very old ghost
So what am I supposed to do with that?

She was dead serious
This voice in my head if you will
Earnest
‘But you don’t understand’ she explains
And I wonder where this is going?
‘He’s in love with you’

Okay?
Now what?

There’s a list somewhere
that I compiled years ago
Of questions that never had the chance
to be posed
Although approved officially by Robert
and perhaps by Bob as well
I was going to revise it
to make them even more
Impressive
Robert said that I was a genius
but to stop showing off
Questions concerning Jack,
Mass media,
The World War
in which they never fought
not for one second.
I think now
that I would like to have added
Something regarding
middle class conventions
and their subsequent
however
reluctant
disappointments
And what it must have been like
to aspire to them
In the 40s
When instead there was
Times Square and The Village
****** and Bop
Errant ****** activities
And the San Remo
Huncke suicided
by misbegotten sidewalks
And hapless blue precincts
waiting

Robert mentioned a brief car ride taken
in some Confederate State
Maybe he was in the backseat
and a joint was passed to him
He
who doesn’t indulge
if you will
Although pulmonary carcinoma
would claim him in no time at all
It was his finest moment
Sandwiched gleeful between these two
Literary
Giants
The radio not working
Now they are all dead
And I would like to think
That they are together again
encased in squeaky automotive  
Upholstery
Somewhere unearthly

Laying in bed
before sleep comes
in the new year
KNX newsradio
read the press release
Issued
It was cancer
It was terminal
There would be nothing further
and I said nothing the following morning
Staring at a wall of books and
climbing along on a rolling wooden step ladder
This isn’t even my department
The people coming through the door
were grim and silent
having bought their plane ticket to NY
To sit by his bedside
While he lay in coma
With Bessie Smith records
play softly nearby
and atmospheric
This was not a time for personal aspirations
Nor nursing the loss of a regretfully
jettisoned exchange
And although I had been warned previously
About a certain someone being
prickly
and possibly ******
and very short-tempered
and I had wondered
heretofore
how it would all go down
On the telephone
The two of us had shared a brief
‘What is he looking at?’ moment
That time here in LA
He staring at me from
a bit of a distance
on the court
And me in my chair with yet another
cigarette,
turning my head around to look behind me
to see again nothing
(God knows how many times)
Until I
An idiot
Realized that it was me that was
The subject of his eye
And I thought again
As I had done in the morning mirror
My god
My hair looks terrible

That list whereever it is
Perhaps in that laptop
That leans against my bedroom wall
Dead
on the floor
over there to my left
The one that I always pass
On my way to the john
The one that I stumble by
in the dark,
THAT list that exists
still
in my brain,
THAT I still tinker with,
THAT list exists
I would like to think
in both;
a list of questions that will always have
no answers.
To Allen
Who loves me.

your wine at nine

Wondering where you might be
But knowing what you would be doing
That at this time you'd be sipping your wine
whereever you are, whomever you're with.
I wish I was with you for an hour every night at nine.
I miss talking to you when you have that glass,
And you're playing with it in your hand.
Because you ask me the strangest questions
And you're in that mood in your mind,
When you laugh at my straight answers,
mocking me for being as serious as I'm inclined.
While you're enjoying your wine,
I hide that I enjoy making you smile,
In the night's dimming light of nine.

Sam@041517

(bjo.) The things that would have happened anyway
set in stone, meant to be, sure to occur

i don't take much confidence in the things
set before me, the inescapable
yet unseen routine of habit or spontaneity
it is inevitable that I should end up
whereever i go or whovever i am
and should i break those around me
it would have been meant to be

it speaks volumes of characer, it was
unavoidable the people i hurt or the ones
i saved, the stirring and the turmoil swept away
I woke up in a panic, feeling *****
as if my heart had rolled through the rough
and my breath were swung around on a turbine
pumping air the wrong way
and instead of blood, dirt blew through my veins--
although I prefer to think of that as
evitable
or that
soil precedes the flower
that purity cannot just be had
but found, because it only exists
beneath a tarnish and we are not
born unharmed.

that is inevitable.

Like a beaten traveler I carry on
The only singer in a chorus that knows one song
My legs move but don't know where they're going
Seared by heat whereever the wind is blowing
Reaching out of help I come under attack
Feeling the weight of many arrow in my back
The earth moves like quicksand at desert seams
No oasis just sun flares and pipe dreams
I thought for a minute others could be salvation
It turned out to be a mirage of expectation
Hell itself is not the enemy
Just a manifestation of my hate and what it means to me
And I move through concentric circles below
In dire need of rescue so I move slow
It's not an energy that can easily be released
I passed the event horizon of this hungry beast
Disintegrating in agony as it feeds
Relaying false messages of what I need
I'm not sure if I'm mad I thought of suicide
Or that I considered for the first time to ride
Being treated like a burden, complainer, annoyance
Met with betrayal, forgotten, and avoidance.
I don't want to be the bad vibes they talk about.
I just needed a friend to help me out.
But I see I need rock bottom to see the devil with my eyes
To break on through to reach my paradise.
To deal with pain and hatred of this size,
I have to find a way to deny my own lies.

We were chasing the sun from dusk to dawn
We never bothered to look back
We basked in the beauty of the moonlit sky
We did not mind the cold

I'll be honest with you
I'm too tired to run
And I need sleep to rest
So it might be selfish to ask

But can you stop running? turn around
Look back to me
Can you lie beside me? close your eyes
Ease me from the cold

I got your back whenever, whereever
Even when it hurts, I'll endure
I just need a moment with you
A moment to appreciate each other

After all this time of being patience.
Don't be amazed to see me leave.
You state, what you gave up?
And you have done this before.
So, don't be shocked.
When I head out the door.

If it's that bad.
Then don't hold on.
Get you stuff together.
And be gone.

You might be the one holding me back.
But , now that's it's over.
It's time to discover me.

This storm being brewing for awhile.
And now you're about to see me depart.
So I wish you well.
Go on and find him.

But if he should let you down.
Just remember at one time.
I was around.
It's time to discover me.
Whereever that leads?

I reminisce on memories
of before we ever touched
Cherishing what had yet to happen
Already missing you so much
                          -Tue
Digital communication
and lifelines of long distance
shaped our love's acclimation
to suffer with our persistence
                          -Wed
A decade passed...
and then another half
just faded away
without seeing your face.
What a ******* waste.
                          -Thu
But now we have forever
because whereever
is now in my arms
And no matter how hard I love you
You still soften to my charms
                          -Fri 13, March 2015

i'm moving the "holy" roman empire a tad bit east...
     i mean... you'won't recognise it being an empiere at first...
not like you'd historically imagine
the austro-hungarians...
            but the austrians were
***** about the siege of Vienna with yan sobieski...
      the hussars v. the janissaries,
year: 1683...
              a message to muslims:
well... if you really want to cherish a piece
of history... how about this one?
no? no good? ooh pooh bear...
yo makin' me cwy!
       cymru! hu! ha! cymru! hu! ha!
  feel free to protest when the right parties
antagonise and the liberal media doesn't protest...
i'll be like the icelandic football supporters:
hu! ha! hu! ha! ***** please... smoke you
hookah.
   i call it close proximity, symbols that disorientate
people, a bit like c k q...
   so too ᛋ (es)            and ᛇ (ee)...
****! first you tell us to snore, imitating wide-awake
sleep... now you're telling us: go fight them!
   am i sensing senile ******* giving out instructions?
or am... just... hallucinating?
              it's like this war where you're thinking:
these women?     do i really really have to?
    me me me... me me me... meme...
                 gene? no! meme!
                                  oh right... so and so... dodo?
i literally have no motivation vector...
                   literally none...
                  i wish i had one... they call the niqab oppression
but pass-by the fashion magazine and it burns
their eyes out... literally... so they don sunglasses...
and it's all: cool cool... so wazz up?
                 they eat more images than fruits of
vegetables, it's like they... well it really is that they
have to be reminded: 5 x day (five a day)...
                     and i thought i was ******* with a chemistry
degree... but that's just me...
     i just said: the holy roman empire has shifted
a little bit to the east...
                              the germans are groaning
and the austrians are moaning... only because
  the poles started talking the same tongue as the hungarians...
and it's like: why not me? why not me? why not me?
you really want an honest answer?
   yes yes yes!
                   'cos' you were a bunch of *****; savvy?
just wait till they call me "infantile" because
i'm living in a world where history is money and
nothing really becomes monetary...
    ******, you talking ultra-alchemy to me?
                   so if i tell you a stone is the required
unit of currency you'll tell i'm about to don sunglasses
to see better?
                        you've just noticed a party trick
where the table cloth was made redundant: but all
the silverware and glass and cutlery remained in place...
and you're like... where's the meteor?
                  d'uh d'uh dodo... you're looking at it!
next thing tomorrow, i promise you, i'm going to
queue up to the tax officer and tell him:
give me a woman! that defines motherhood! as a JOB!
            you mean that biblical figure hiob?
   no! well... that's when i start finding pregnant
women really... just get *****...
                                 who the **** defines it as a job?
     for some time i really thought it was
the welcome leverage on the existential basis...
         but with homosexuals and surrogate ******
i'm starting to think: i really did read oscar wilde, didn't i?  
               i shouldn't complain, i might be
drawn into                 an era where i had to draw
water from the thames where people took a **** into...
but then again... i live in a place where there's
the river rom... and i know a place where i can
drink crystal-clear water... a little stream surrounded
by a number of horses equivalent to the nazgûl...
so the inverted caron on the u is akin to the umlaut?
just asking... i truly thought you were putting
on a bow-tie to become appealing with a tuxedo;
        oh *******... add the ambiguity of " "
            whereever you like.... take to sneezing underwater.