He had sat at his desk with intent to write to her. And he had not. He had sat and let his mind wander. He wanted to write if only to capture something of her he had yet to capture. It was as though by trying to find words to describe her everyday self he discovered it was often extraordinary, and it filled him with more tenderness that he could reasonably deal with. The other day he had written her a letter. It was rather ordinary, full of unplanned thoughts and descriptions, a day-to-day letter, but he had written it by hand, taking care with the curl and mark of his pen on the little sheets of laser-copier paper he felt suited him best. Once he wrote expansively (though never to her) on large sheets of thick, fine paper with a calligraphic pen and Indian ink. Now he felt more comfortable with a fine roller-ball nib and a light touch, on paper of a dimension and quality that seemed appropriate to the size of his script.

Today, as he thought about the letter he might write, he had imagined her finding his most recent letter as she came home, a letter with his careful handwriting on the envelope. It would be lying on the doormat with the brown envelopes, the circulars, the bank statement and one of the many journals she subscribed to. There was a letter too from her ‘pen friend’, someone who had invited her to correspond having been so touched to find a late relative’s letters full of the minutiae of life, but properly described and not the ad hoc jottings of what now passes for communication on social media. So this friend, who was not then a friend but an acquaintance, had set out to recruit a group of like-minded people she might write to properly, in proper sentences – and had, it seemed, fixed on her. He had been a little jealous at first that she should write, and write properly to this ‘friend’ she hardly knew, and since then she had so very rarely written to him. He had so wanted her words, on paper and not just her end-of-the-day thoughts on the telephone. But he had soon got over this jealousy realising how valuable this letter, written once a fortnight, would be for her. An opportunity no less, of the kind and value he could no longer provide.

It had changed the way he had continued to write to her. He stopped the hand-written caress of a letter on paper and took up what he called the Ten-Minute Letter composed at the computer. Not an e-mail, but a proper letter as an attachment she could print out. Written each day just before he stopped for lunch, he set an alarm on his phone and wrote for ten minutes only until the sampled chimes of Big Ben struck. It was a challenge, and to meet it he would prepare his ‘daily subject’ in those transient moments between the demands of work and other people’s needs, as he walked to work or cooked supper. He felt that by doing this he would eradicate that falling into passionate contemplation, the downloading of his memory’s thoughts, his often-intense feelings and emotions. He thought she would prefer such brevity, as she now had so little time for reflection, except when travelling.

In imagining that picking up of his letter he sought to imagine further. Would she open it straight away? Would she put it at the bottom of the stairs on a pile of things to take up to her bedroom, and read before bed?  Occasionally there was  a little time stolen during the day when, before the necessity to go at her desk and ‘get on’, she would sit on her bed with her cats and be conscious of her physical self. She would think of him beside her, kneeling on the floor in one of those occasional preludes to their passionate moments she knew he so loved, when he was full of tenderness, and he would kiss and stroke her, their quiet voices caressing each other in the lamplight. He thought of her carefully pulling the envelope flap open without a tear (whereas he could hardly contain himself, when a letter did arrive, from pulling the envelope apart). And she would read his careful writing, his late afternoon thoughts written after a long day’s work, before returning to more time at his desk.

She would read quickly, rather impatiently sometimes. She had to ‘get on’, attack the list, get things done. But just occasionally he surprised her. He would catch her attention. There was some phrase, some reflection that made her feel warm and loved. He would make an observation about her, and she would feel treasured and honoured by his words and be grateful for the time he had put aside to write them. And then the letter would be returned to its envelope, placed on the bookshelf beside her bed, and she would feel secure that she was loved, and could then put all that away for now and ‘get on’. But just once in a while she would recall the pit-in-the-stomach thrill of his first letters, as letter by letter he declared himself, saying what he thought of her, what he felt for her. She was often overcome with his play of words and would touch herself to sustain those rich feelings that would gradually envelop her; that someone could care about her that much. And for a while she was transformed . . .

Today, as he continued to hold his pen away from composing that first sentence, he had wanted to return to writing of her and for her. It was his small gift, his almost once a day gift. With words he knew he was on safer ground. He struggled somewhat in his *******; he worried that he disappointed her with his awkwardness and never being sure if he was doing the right thing at the right time in the right way. Perhaps in reading his thoughts rather than responding to the messages of his physical self, she felt safer too. He wanted her to know something of the intensity that she brought to his ‘being aliveness’. He remembered a recent phone call when for once he seemed able to say pretty much what he meant. ‘I hope I don’t presume in saying,’ he had said, overtly formal as so often, ‘ that one of the reasons I think we are the companions we are is that we have so much in common; we love the same things, we share the same joys and pleasures.’ And she had agreed. He felt this was true, and he wanted to celebrate this somehow; but they were apart, being on the phone, and he could not. There was less and less time for the joy of coming together, of that celebration of being-together that had once seemed beyond magic and the stuff of dreams and fantasy. There was now the ever-present awareness of the clock, of having to do this, needing to do that, and at a certain time. Their life together was changing and he needed to rise to the challenge that this change would bring, no matter how busy and preoccupied she became. He would write, he thought, and tell her that he knew this would be so, that she should never be concerned for him if there wasn’t time. Hadn’t she said she loved him, this young woman who had once been so diffident about speaking such endearments? She had already given him so much that he never imagined he would ever receive. Perhaps not for always, he was so much older than her, but for a long time to come. He must acknowledge the receipt of such gifts, and let her know he loved her all the more for her industry, her ambition, her preoccupation, and the beautiful, gracious person she was.

I.
She moves like life from water!
She springs forth like the bubbling brook,
Splashing free, cool and joyful!
From above she comes, falling from
The grace of the Creator, Mother to Maiden,
From HER to here!

From the lonely droplet,
Clear and oval,
To the lovely rain,
Drenching in elemental purity,
She embodies a universe
Of vanishing, transparent organisms --
All busy like minute motors.
This infinitesimal society of her new self is,
At once, chaotic and harmonic,
Vast in its plenitude
But invisible to entities above.
This is her world within worlds (a cyclical vortex),
Whirling free and purposeful,
Gyrating and making
Things happen!

She grows through her years to the placid pond:
She is calm and open in support of the swimming,
Leaping, floating, flying, green, yellow,
Brown, red, violet, fragrant, sweet and earthy
Communities who have befriended her ---
We surround her, humming our odes maternal.

She evolves to the raging river and plummeting falls;
A being of turbulence --
Rushing, plunging
And exploding into the air!
Submersed within, she sculpts a sharp edge
Of wit and cunning; subsumed inside the surging flood,
She shapes smooth circulars,
The stones of her ideals, hard-won,
Perfected for her slingshot battle-cry!
Her watery voice is now a full-throated roar,
Haughty, rebellious and self-possessed!
With it, she will stand against and subdue the giants
Who dare to constrain her purpose or deny her worth!
Still, the sonar of her soul also emits waves
More limpid:
The lyrical, ripple-pulse of the river,
Melodically mingled
With the shifting sunbeam and the wafting breeze.

There are sensual silences of unspoken longing
That spill, slip and spin upon quieter currents.
She emerges with all these energies…
Our homes may drift asleep in her care.
We move and live over her wet,
Strong, sultry shoulders.
She carries us through our lives.

Her destiny is, finally, joined to Mother Ocean.
Vast. Powerful. Earth-embracing.
She lets go of doubt as she is drawn into it –
Undeniable, unrelenting, untamed.
Caught in the undertow of desire, of
****** rapture, her tinder temple trembles.
She is lost in a clinging, clutching chaos, quaking
From the erogenous flesh and *** of her source.
All of her essence dissolves into a spherical suffusing;
A filling and expanding need.
Deeper…
Darker -- a sounding blue inside her.
The leviathan of lust descends, arriving at a level
Teaming in mysteries.
Here, there are a myriad of eyes searching
In the hot marrow within.  
Above, the thunder, wind and riptide wave;
Below…the deathly, serious
Silence that reveals the primordial
Drone of the universe –
The vibration of the heart of God --
In the midst of all things known or merely intuited.
Wisdom uttered in a language we hear, we understand,
But we fear to speak…
Yet, in a twinkling of the eye, sometime further ahead,
Above the storm,
We will know,
Speak from our hearts,
And be safe, in her fathomless arms.  

II.
The Man: He is a volcano.
He is pure earth, he is unruly fire-lathe.
He is stone, he is air, and he is the gravity
Which girds the foundation.
He is a destroyer and
He is the
New creation at dawn –
Cooled off, enriched, and potent.
He lifts up the trees, the grass, the rose, the shrub.
The birthing and nurturing soil forms around his feet.
Yet rippling amidst the inflorescence and saplings bubbles
A stream or a spring. Her presence is like diamonds, like pearls
In the rich rough -- glinting, splashing and playing in his garden!
He is the green mountain;
He is the red fire within it.
He explodes, in a blinding white,
Causing the new world,
In all its iridescence, to arise!

Woman and the water.
Man and the fire.
Together we are the world, entire.
Our home. Our journey. Our destiny.

Ourselves.

Happy roses on the parade, he was waiting for the 2 years to arrive
The album cover love the lover's wilting love in on Jesus' daughter in a tree, lovely sails it had
They fell when the autumn had arrived, **** your darling buds
Pygmies digging holes in the soil in their hearts of toil, falling prudently
Like leaves, the red justice, gold *****, in a curlicue of extra circulars

Touch on the washed-up Gurudeva, fixing holes in the faucets, the sunshine shines on our bad news, save us the supernatural darkness
The superstition of the Siamese cat, and the weeping lady
The flow is getting better, make love could we ever escape dark days and escape the midnight shines like good fillers on hydrogen delight, stars in the stare looking for the assets to darkness
Moonchild roses remembering the supermarket in America, that changed them, those who were pleased with the peaches incarnate in the cries of the last radio of the gold heads, buses of the sunflower tin cans
That cried an Eli book of poems, show me in the radiant illuminating blue eyes

I am walrus, I can make these songs okay touch tough but it was right to be alright
Ending a letter to Lennon on the twelfth night, the wrong from my lenience
My liege, my childhood here hath Earth omnipotent in areolar sprayed aerosol cans, we long these round holes and surmise of free prose in the inner moon
Light up the sadness

Album cover acrid as the midnight spoon, feeling sentimental
Tumescent buildings, my cheer, without imagination
You don't deserve possessions, you shot down dead weight
Carry the shine, in the confines of a painless razor of lacrosse, Billy shears brushing your head
I'm shaving my head, with the crowd in an instantaneous hung jury in the situation in the dalliance with the forgotten underwear, ******* my collegiate thumb
I want to write my own stuff with natural ecstasy and alliance of the hung jury in the psychotherapy, and the ******* ministerial preacher, saying please please me

You said you were
Struggling with the bugs, Pam
In your head, and hung bedbugs in your childish core, of faith as a person who loves the sibilant sounds
When I laugh as my head comes out of the plastic nation
Freed and staring into the distance, Ono here in the ballad hearin' sound laughter

Lead your path
To thine light ad thine veritas
There is thy will in every bright thought in
We thought up a bed, filled hat across the new man

We are not scared among the ranged beats, were dreaming style
Derailed from the tabula rasa, and waterfalls and lose our happiness in the morning
And search for the under in our childish souls

Hanging out in rainbows in cyclones  swirling like idiot winds
And they call me dumb, a bad person in studied simplicity
Simplicity is the kind of loving, giving the kindness of taking it gently
Failure is simply the opportunity to begin again, this time more searchingly

Already finding the end of life's meaning in the puddles of love
Find yourself in mother nature, and you can apply yourself, my friend my water, my shapeshifting friend and left the flower
And leave someone's shadow as we grow fond of the light, we start wondering if the starry skies in patched blackberries

i am an enchanter
look deep to the star
twin and singular

far and far
for and for
lovers

as we are
and will be
circulars
to eternity..!

Tremors and Terrors

“The way people tremble shows what kind of state they live in.”
— Stanisław Jerzy Lec


A brutal quake — for fascist states:
“Obey, or vanish into Night!”
A nervous shake — in milder fates:
Submission hopes for mercy’s light.

A constant fear of what’s ahead —
That’s democraptic core belief:
Like hamsters racing till they're dead,
Then tossed aside in quiet grief.

Discarded, crushed — the wheel spins on.
Darkness breaks souls through “survival.”
Crises are planned, and wars are drawn
As years grow grim with no revival.

“Diseases” bloom — some ****-brand plague,
Like AIDS once was, now lies anew.
One sigh — the world begins to shake,
As heaven’s fraud sells bliss to you.

“Fear!” — religion shouts to fools,
Its Satan leaking through each seam.
With genocide, they craft their rules —
The meek turned cattle in this scheme.



---------------------




Tremble or Die — the System Commands.
Hell wears a halo in trembling lands.


---------------------




They taught you to tremble —
so you'd forget you're Light.


---------------------




Fear is the cage —
and you are the key.



---------------------



Worldwide Camp and Global Collapse

“To live ‘properly’ is hypocrisy; to think ‘properly’ is stupidity.”
— Bertrand Russell


From childhood, I'm enclosed
In this “proper” life.
Minds are slug-slow, minds are closed —
Nonsense crowned as right.

Wants reduced to zero —
Listen to the ****:
Every random "hero"
Speaks like judgment come.

That absurdity is law,
With the hangman’s grin.
Souls turn sour, rush toward
“Bliss” in cattle-skin.

Staged and planned — stupidity,
School, then college rot.
Snacks and fashion-rigidity,
Work that leads to Naught.

Lies and proud hypocrisy,
Idiocy, split minds,
And the patience for atrocity —
All of it declines.

Prospects dead — no fixing it
With the cries of few.
Chained upon the scaffold pit,
We collapse on cue.

BEASTS are building camps again —
Global, vast, and cold.
Red Cross waves above insane
Flags of minds controlled.

Even Earth, this rotting place,
Proved itself a fraud —
Gnats obeyed with eager face
The circulars of God…

But a collapse may rescue us
From this prisoned pain —
When the Spirit’s had enough,
It breaks the Chain.



---------------------




When “Order” is Hell —
Let Collapse ring the bell.



---------------------



Illusions at the Bottom

Illusions are life’s base and floor —
Without them, you're already dead.
Among them, “serve your land!” roars
As worst: the cops in blue and red.

They’ve shown it clear — from coast to coast:
No crooks are worse than those in law.
But bureaucrats have sunk the most —
They dodge all questions, break each flaw.

In webs of mutual protection,
A petty thief may pay the price,
But those above — the vile selection —
Climb upward, **** that’s cold as ice.

With bribes they float through every border.
The “law enforcers” play their role:
They swing at small fry, out of order —
The bigger picture? Blind as coal.

And soldiers of the SSS-R
Now fight their brothers, side by side.
Their “Motherland” — a ghost from far,
But still you’re told: believe with pride.

The Sheepovirus made it clear —
There are no countries left to trust.
Love and friendship? Nowhere near,
And barely seen through scopes of dust.

Yet sheep still chase hallucinations —
For how else could they bear this mess?
They crave their cash and stimulations
While life keeps rotting — more or less.

Decay grows vast. It reeks and chokes.
The sane are few — a fainting spark.
Bucha’s corpses, ****** jokes —
The world is drowning deep in dark.

No future shines, no hopes to fix —
We’ve passed the point of no return.
Ahead — grim years, and heavy kicks:
The Second Bottom starts to burn.

Or maybe third? Who keeps the score?
It matters not. This world will fall.
While idiots still dream of more,
And feed — the Crowned Decay of All.



---------------------




They eat. They dream. The end draws near —
The final feast of rot and fear.



---------------------




Believe in borders. Praise the cops.
And rot in peace — until it stops.



---------------------




Wave your flag and kiss the boot —
The circus ends in ash and soot.



---------------------



Engineered Calamities for Mass Dehumanization

Are they mad by nature’s hand —
Or is it Darkness by design?
If each disaster’s finely planned
As part of genocide’s decline,

Then something worked with grim precision —
Some inhuman hand, some plot
Built this Earth as one big prison —
Only one small step to cattle-lot.

Just a handful still resist,
Fighting rot with mind and flame…
Will they stop the deep abyss?
You're a fool to think they came.



---------------------




Hell is staged — and most comply.
The rest just ask: “But... why not try?”



---------------------



Where Do the Years Lead Us?

"That years are passing — fine. But where to?"
— S.J. Lec


Where do they go —
And drag us so?
The filth replied with war.
When minds in herds are brought down low,
The global madhouse needs no door.

A Total Pen now takes its shape,
Where soul and spirit can't arise.
No law exists — just beasts in capes
Who label slavery as “wise.”

You'll see it stamped on every wall:
“Obey, be safe, be well-behaved.”
Their “care for health” is not just talk —
It’s procedure chains for the enslaved.

That toxic shot — the filth’s decree —
Revealed the system's core disease.
The world is fading — can't you see?
Yet skins still dream of shopping sprees...



---------------------




They call it care. They call it peace.
But every shot locks one more lease.



---------------------



The Shell of Madness

Suggestibility, impression’s might —
The Voice of Reason fades away.
A whisper now, a dying light,
Like cracks in shells of hardened clay.

And lies — like calcium — are fed
To keep that shell in firm repair.
The idiots still dream ahead,
Of puppet Trump and puppet Bear.

They listen, trust, devour each tale —
But now, a glitch: the show went dark.
The fables rotted, grim and pale —
Their shelf-life’s done. They missed the mark.

The deadline of this wretched life
Has come — and now the world ignites.
The sun burns off the crawling strife —
Its vow: to cleanse this Earth of blight.

So once it was — and so it came:
The Cycle of Dementia peaked.
And many souls, by blind disdain,
Were lost while demons ruled and shrieked.

Their tyranny broke every scale —
The shitstorm proved it, raw and wide.
This world’s infernal — past the pale —
So BURN this SHAME, and scorched with pride!



---------------------




When fables rot and reason dies —
Let fire judge the reign of lies.



---------------------




1.
They’ve spun their tales, but time is done —
The fool’s parade meets setting sun.

2.
Behind the shell, the spirit fights —
To burn the dark, reclaim the light.

3.
Trust puppets, fools, and false charades —
While reason dies in masquerades.



---------------------




Here’s your chaos, dressed as law,
They’ll keep you locked in flaw by flaw.
Smile wide — the show’s complete,
While souls are crushed beneath your feet.


---------------------




Like brittle shells on breaking seas,
The lies will crack with every breeze.
Within the shards, the light will rise —
To claim new truth beyond disguise.


---------------------




They preach their rules — a hollow crown,
While vultures circle, tearing down.
The fools applaud the grand charade,
Not seeing how their hopes degrade.


---------------------




Behind the veil, beyond the night,
The shattered soul regains its sight.
Illusions fade, the dawn will break —
And with it, chains begin to shake.


---------------------




The walls collapse, the end’s in sight,
Yet fools still dance in fading light.
No savior comes, no hope remains —
Just ashes fall like bitter rains.




---------------------




The wheel still turns, the core is rot,
No bottom found — just deeper blot.
We march as slaves, the blind lead blind,
In chains of fear and false design.



---------------------




They guard the filth, they serve the lie,
And call it law — while innocents die.
The system’s beast wears human skin,
A world where sin becomes the sin.



---------------------




March for glory, trust the swine,
They’ll sell your soul for a dollar sign.
The circus plays, the clowns all cheer,
While reason drowns in waves of fear.



---------------------




Illusion feeds the beast within,
To see the truth — you must begin.
Break through the fog, the lies, the pain,
And claim the light beyond the chain.


---------------------




The ground will crack, the masks will fall,
No lie survives the final call.
The hour comes — no more charades,
Only ash and empty shades.



---------------------




Eat. Obey. Deny the stink,
The world’s collapsing — don’t you blink.
Their crafted cage is made to bind,
But spirit’s fire won’t stay confined.



---------------------




They spun their tales, but time’s run out,
The fools still dance, but shadows shout.
Their hollow lies begin to fade,
The sun sets on the masquerade.



---------------------




Beneath the shell, the spirit burns,
In darkness’ grip, the soul still learns.
It fights to scorch the endless night,
And claims the dawn with blazing light.



---------------------




Trust puppets, fools, their hollow plays,
While reason fades in smoky haze.
The stage is set for lies and schemes —
A tragic farce of broken dreams.



---------------------




The time is cracked, the hour’s near,
When all the lies will disappear.
The blindfold’s torn, the truth will blaze —
And burn the dark of endless days.



---------------------




The lies are thick, the poison flows,
But truth is fire beneath the snows.
A spark ignites the frozen shell,
To break the cage, to break the spell.



---------------------




Their hollow laws will turn to dust,
Built on fear, decay, and lust.
The fools obey, but soon will see —
The throne is cracked, no legacy.



---------------------




Beneath the lies, the darkness grows,
But so does light that no one knows.
A fight begins, unseen, untold —
Between the weak and those who hold.



---------------------




The puppeteers pull every string,
But strings will snap, and chaos sing.
The show must end, the curtains fall —
The broken rise to heed the call.



---------------------




Their kingdom rests on shifting sand,
Built by lies, enforced by hand.
But truth’s own wave will wash it clean —
Reveal the world that lies between.



---------------------




The beast they feed on fear and pain,
But spirits break the darkest chain.
Though shadows press, the dawn will rise —
Unmask the world of masked disguise.



---------------------




The fools still dance on crumbling floors,
Blind to all their broken doors.
But silence breaks the noise of lies,
And opens wide the blinded eyes.



---------------------




Behind the mask, the rot is deep,
A secret none would care to keep.
Yet from the grime, the light will climb —
A new dawn waits beyond all time.



---------------------




They cage the mind, they bind the soul,
But flames inside refuse control.
The weaker fall, the strong ignite —
To claim the day, to claim the night.



---------------------




The world decays, yet still we stand,
A final fight, a last command.
No chains can hold the raging fire —
The phoenix rises from the pyre.