The horizons ring me like *******,
Tilted and disparate, and always unstable.
Touched by a match, they might warm me,
And their fine lines singe
The air to orange
Before the distances they pin evaporate,
Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color.
But they only dissolve and dissolve
Like a series of promises, as I step forward.

There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction.
I can feel it trying
To funnel my heat away.
If I pay the roots of the heather
Too close attention, they will invite me
To whiten my bones among them.

The sheep know where they are,
Browsing in their ***** wool-clouds,
Gray as the weather.
The black slots of their pupils take me in.
It is like being mailed into space,
A thin, silly message.
They stand about in grandmotherly disguise,
All wig curls and yellow teeth
And hard, marbly baas.

I come to wheel ruts, and water
Limpid as the solitudes
That flee through my fingers.
Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass;
Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves.
Of people and the air only
Remembers a few odd syllables.
It rehearses them moaningly:
Black stone, black stone.

The sky leans on me, me, the one upright
Among all horizontals.
The grass is beating its head distractedly.
It is too delicate
For a life in such company;
Darkness terrifies it.
Now, in valleys narrow
And black as purses, the house lights
Gleam like small change.

The horizons ring me like *******,
Tilted and disparate, and always unstable.
Touched by a match, they might warm me,
And their fine lines singe
The air to orange
Before the distances they pin evaporate,
Weighting the pale sky with a soldier color.
But they only dissolve and dissolve
Like a series of promises, as I step forward.

There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction.
I can feel it trying
To funnel my heat away.
If I pay the roots of the heather
Too close attention, they will invite me
To whiten my bones among them.

The sheep know where they are,
Browsing in their ***** wool-clouds,
Gray as the weather.
The black slots of their pupils take me in.
It is like being mailed into space,
A thin, silly message.
They stand about in grandmotherly disguise,
All wig curls and yellow teeth
And hard, marbly baas.

I come to wheel ruts, and water
Limpid as the solitudes
That flee through my fingers.
Hollow doorsteps go from grass to grass;
Lintel and sill have unhinged themselves.
Of people and the air only
Remembers a few odd syllables.
It rehearses them moaningly:
Black stone, black stone.

The sky leans on me, me, the one upright
Among all horizontals.
The grass is beating its head distractedly.
It is too delicate
For a life in such company;
Darkness terrifies it.
Now, in valleys narrow
And black as purses, the house lights
Gleam like small change.

Stop! Stand there in that yellow line
That line, yes, painted in yellow
Extending relentlessly in horizontals
Dividing our world and will keep me away from you

Now I can see you, and so do you
You are just 10 steps away from me
But 1 more step and you'll break that line, which is yellow
No, not the yellow line, your shoes should not touch its edges
Oh my poor yellow line

Just an old habit, intoxicating myself in the wonders,
Now I wonder, wondering if once you stepped in that yellow line
You might see the oddities of my world revolving in solitudes
Plain gray celestial bodies and dull stars
It's simply really boring there you know..(while shoulders shrugging)

My way of stopping you is such an abomination! Diabolicaly unacceptable!
Causing this whole fiasco to be more catastrophic, you can rebuke me if you please
How could I? Forgiveness should not be given right?
Its too much to be deserved by the person behind those yellow lines which is not you

Now you are walking away
I'm just there gazing at your back then back to my precious yellow line
I just noticed now, why does the flute i'm playing produces no sound?
It looses its voice, must be broken for the first time


No, not in the melancholic blues again
I've been too much indulged there
Maybe I should paint my moon green?
A touch of blue in my sun,
Then a little red in my stars
Orange in the asteroids then
Rainbows in the planets
Of course, yellow in my whole universe

Now it's so bizzare and confusing but I love it
But nope not to call him back
Nor the other shoes to step on that yellow line
No shoes should touch my yellow line
Now, there i'm sleepy but before that I just realized,
Monsters inside you simply be awaken and unleashed through playing with poetries
And again, the line which is painted in yellow

Tessitura, psalms, and songs of praise, they branded atheism when singing Christian psalms in the streets making ineffable groans, where the exordios looked from the back with Delphic prose, where the dart that opens the curtains of the hallelujah tormented, with darts that rubbed weathered in the tentative to rise of the stores of Sanequerib. They are relatives of Incipit Psalm 69. " Saint John said as they continued to climb the Calvary of Profitis Ilias, but this time in the company of the Help of Isaiah, with a great spirit of being from the cavern of Elías in Haifa, at a flat point at the time of the Benedictus. Already the Assyrians were returning the same way they came, as Isaiah prophesied, in the morning with ejaculations that ended with the crass rottenness that could end the day without a step other than an anti-Jesuit one. Prayers go and implore the Omnia Vanitatis, the moment when the sun honors, taking you towards the close of the day with the perpetual antiphon. The vigil was reaching the lines of Isaiah does not rest, in Trinitarian doxology. Where is the darkness, where is the glory to see you...? If the stars collide with each other in Baptismal frowning, and in the mystery of Vernarth that lies a complex, tied to becoming that never begins, and what was Christic history of a morning introit.

Saint John the Apostle and Vernarth express in the Trinitarian doxology: “Through Christ, with him and in him, to you Almighty God the Father, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, all honor and all glory, forever and ever. Amen"

The triangular taxias of the Hetairoi made faunas that came cutting themselves with the wind of the "incipit" of Psalm 69: "My God, come to my aid;" Lord, hurry to help me ", by the Keras or wings of the site of Arbella; or Gaugamela rather said…, sonnetized by some Pazhetairoi, made up of 32 Syntagmas, as units of sixteen revived Falangists from Court V of the Helleniká Necropolis, bilocated on Patmos, a few feet from the Mandragoron project. Thus the triangular spellings of war were formed again, to the astonishment of all those present. Alexander the Great, already graceful, was over-trained in irrigation and supplications, he was consisting of 128 Syntagmas, with 62 Falangists covered by the Cinnabar that subdivided them into bones by sixteen of the Lochoi or guides. The Syntagma bipartite was enlarged by two Syntagamatarchos captaining two units, all with their semi-open belly, re-liquidating their viscera by the Ghosts of Shiraz, the Saltimbanqui Hydro comes from Roknabad (also known as Aub-e Rokní), from an underground channel which carried spring water to the city from a mountain located ten kilometers northeast of Shiraz. Here he has to mend the propellers and water ropes to do his acrobatics on the water, with greater songs in the poems of the Poet Hafiz. When he bites his tongue, they repair it with the verses of Hafiz's Koran, there are three hundred creeds, three hundred hectares to irrigate with his wheel the sadness of those who cannot have the gift of the rivalry of Montenegro and Monte Blanco, to overestimate the liveliness of the caravan that trembles with uncertain doubts here on Patmos "

Saltimbanqui of Bascule says: “We are Epi ghosts, green in reverie with tutelary ropes, to jump through the trapeze of the photometric units of the heavy Almeria of the highest Mirror of the Sea. Will take you back to Limassol. Curiously to the same ship as the Eurydice that sleeps in the swings of the sea, and in the arms of the petulance of Dionysus in a new awakening of lethargy of theorization of the superstrings of Anaximander, here is the intrinsic speculation of science, already that this is not just purely empirical research. "

In between them, they form even and odd rows. The horizontals were tinged with the Red Blood cells that became volatile and surrounded the Xyston lances, for thirty soldiers of the Diloquia, with their dismembered arms that began to take them back with their hands tightly girded by the song of the Theological Shemesh of San Juan, which subsequently rescinded last in the sum of two taxiarchies, constituting a Syntagma. The units rose with the sickle that cuts definitive death, to reconstitute it in five thousand that should tread through the hierarchies of formations, amid the frolics of the Phalanx, where Vernarth protested to all “Khaire, Kalos irthate apo tin kentriki, Welcome from Hell !"

Thus the Phalanx was constituted among the Syntagmas in metaphors of the Falangists. In this way this antiphon was revealed martial, denoting synergies of the Sybilla Herofila that conferred to the world of Trinitarian Doxology, among ashes that remained by a solid cobblestone witness of the reluctant troops that testified to the sense of interpreting the law of bringing to the world what to their lives it owes them. The prophecy shone from an intangible Isaiah before all in this concomitant episode, and to the degree of the reign of Judah, here together with the prophet Elijah, they faced the hardened fragrances of blessing as oracular teachers of so many goods, and of the benefactor that protects by inspirational mandate, making laws for the end times before closing his own eyes without having prophesied them.

The rows in “V" contrasted with the corridor friezes in the crowned troops of the Hetairoi, and in the syntagmas that became appressed from the triangle that opened the three-quarter proportions of Athenea's physiognomy in Pergamum, subjugating Alcineo, so that finally it was forged in constellations of equanimity in the fifth courtyard or "V" of the Necropolis of Helleniká in the allegory of Vernarth, stopping the plausible dogma of the initial that glosses the Law in Vernarth's "V". This in turn in double syntagm of the Syntagamatarchos guide, in the high sky of Patmos, and in the medrones growing on the antlers of the proclamation of Wonthelimar, which made them a twin "W" in the star that shines in the medrones of the Ibix, in the Cornacabra and in the Cornucopia, with certain docile movement, adhering to acrostic and prehensile preliminaries of the Isaiah saying.

The Phalanx Alexandrina Heterochromatic of Alexander the Great volatilized between the villi of his Falangists, climbs the Holm of Zeus and causes a "Gore" or horrifying reflection, allowing the rhizomes to become a hundredfold, which will make the nominal order of five thousand, for each member of the Syntagma, in an astonishing quantum that reproduced itself to materialize before Him. Then he tied each one of them as Prometheus chained to each of the oaks, from an Akane grocer, incontinenti withdraws a sharp dagger and opens each one's veins to free them from the isolation of so many years settled in their last heterochromia of the War Iridium that he conferred on them, to endure the visit of the spirited Grim Reaper. This causes liberation, in this way they re-install themselves in their bodies, with Iridium or iris that made them see before their optics in two biases of Hoplite alter egos, impacting half of their body. Alexander the Great, being the philanthropic heir and of Platonic legacy, made them superfluous in the melanin that fell from the Epíchisis or libation vessel, to taste the effluvia of Dionysus with the maenads, with wide ambivalence filling them with viticulture, so that they would flow through the veins of his soldiers, and to revive them with the Dionysian must of melanin to the left eye of the Hegemon King Alexander the Great, with Jasper in the left, and the right with ultramarine from the bottom of the Ionian, on the banks of the washed banks of Patmos, in high swells of Greek alcohol that was distilled from the Mosacism of the stones when unraveling the peripheral forces from the prefectures of the great native of Pelas. They ordered areas of all Greece under their heterochromia flow that gave life to the Perifereoaki, or periphery for Central and Western Macedonia that came with great vigor, with Epirius central, western Greece, Peloponnese, and Crete. East Macedonia and Thrace, Ionian Islands, North Aegean, and Thessaly, later they would go for the Aldehyde alcohol that summarized and epitomized Dionysus taking him with four eagles that distilled the unprisoned Syntagmas of the lines of 16, 32, 64, etc...., for purposes never to start on an omega all the way to the Ionian Islands from Corfu.

Alexander the Great, went near the pre-urbanization of the Mandragoron towards Vernarth, somewhat dizzy, and before attending to him he presented himself first to the Zefian; who looked at his iris like a foreman who re-divided his visuals, by prevailing in eagerness to restore his soldiers, to help in the construction of adventures of life, and to assist in building the Megaron, which still rested in the myopia of mythological vision of the Gods tied in animosity with the Titans. Overwhelmingly, he highlighted the clouding or turbidity that was seen beyond the radius or visual field of two realities, found in visual refraction and interference with refractive statisms of the periphery that led him to the other world in Babylon when death imprisoned him...? Here the root revived, it became parallel in a unique world with divergent lights, which entered his Akera or right-wing of his soldiers, bringing visual acuity that brought the perchlorate volatilizations that hovered in the boots of his soldiers, when they marched in awareness of the retina and of the mean light, that for the first time was clarified in true holistic and political from a Parthenon with the musk of mortals and immortals of neo Hegemonic ophthalmology, which he was already re-leading by his command, where he was going to invest his greatest and most spiritual elemental Commander Vernarth, with his Himation.

The rays of his eyes seemed distant, but they were diffuse and alternate, they wandered through the lens of his clouding, which blinds a partial of the left Akera, or flank of the Hypaspists that dazzled Parmenion. Here the optics of Alexander the Great, remained in the diatribe of the small eye next to another that was enlarged, being hyperopic of a mysterious confine in the severity of Dionisio when confronted with him, in light effects of the high liquid vineyard, refracting meridians in his troops next to the Hexagonal Primogeniture who observed them behind the magenta image, which was the one that flashed from the Clouded holm oak and eclipsed by calm heat movements, and rising air masses that were in the opportune station of good sense. When being aided by the Maenads and the Herophile, they were teaching from a parent, who now sponsored the entire political and spiritual will of the Hoplite side, made up of the King of the World Vernarth, together with Alexander the Great, after receiving the photocoagulated lightning bolts. of the officers, under redeeming and reduced of the metabolic, and of the oxygenated preeminences of new lungs for each devout consecrated body, towards Saint John, the Apostle, pigmented and mechanized with aggravating heterochromia, and extensive in the bodies raised in new parallels that have to confront an anonymous or semi-god by turning for his own.

Look, up in the clouds
full of black horizontals;
a night is born

in little dawdles,
in brown day bank gasps,
earliest stars bowling to break.

I am here, with you, under it;
planning to grant you
the little pictures

that you so desire.
This chapter belongs
to us; to us.

Look, left of the moon,
by the rain steeples;
a night is born.

And we left faery rings where we danced
And giggled, in old classrooms.
And what we spoke, in soft murmurs,
Was poetry. More than the ramblings
Of our teacher could be called.
Every word we whispered
In uncertainty, up on tree branches,
Was poetry.
Poetry was the words we mumbled into each other's mouths
On balmy, rooftop evenings
Following our days in labyrinth-like malls
And each time he caresses my face
And tangles his skinny fingers in my hair
All I can think about is you
All I hear is whisperings of your name
Even when i sit with pen and paper
And write with conviction and structure about his dusky caramelness
Your eyes break through in my words
And your face seems plainly written,
Hidden between lines,
Mocking me till I spot it.
The rustly pages whisper your name to me.
And the words about him
Change slowly their meaning
And evolve into adjectives
Singing about the sugar in your voice
And the warm love of your arms.
It is a slow transfiguration/ a transformation
Like a children's flip book
With the torso of a ***-bellied clown
And bottom half of Adonis
In the way that, slowly,
The lines become about you.
Giggling secretly to each other
In disjointed horizontals.

Leaving this land that leant me so kindly
And ahead another adventure awaits
Commencing the great ocean crossing
On Bindy Too as Captains first mate

My morning rises early without meaning
Tide tells us when to take Tara
We sail away soon after Seagoon
On our journey across ocean afar

Crossing reef into waters deep
I take a last look at land
And the swell soon sends me sleep
So now life is in the Captains hands

And enters the evening
Not a vessel in sight
Just us and the albatross
On a star filled night

Poor Crash’s tummy tumbles
But she makes friends with the fur
And together they rest outside
Hope for horizon to heel her

By morning land has long left us
Watching the waves and waiting for whale
We’re cruising gently on course
And trawling to feed our tail

But all for no avail
There’s not a tease of a bite
On our own ocean so deep
Yet there’s no fish in sight

We declare the sea broken
Although it treats us quite well
For the motions mostly mild
With a pleasant Pacific swell

The wind’s in our favour
Sometimes we slow by the tide
But the sail is quite simple
So we can rest through the ride

Thankful to take sleep
Our other options are few
Read, write and watch films
Is all we can do

There’s a strong sense of adventure
In all actions of daily life
Approached at an angle with motion
Sometimes to stand takes some strife

On a back-step bathroom adventure
We look down to our death
And to cook in the kitchen
Bashes bruises-front, back, right and left

But after days of rocking
Of these tasks we are tired
And Captains left wondering
Who are these horizontals he hired?

With a whinge and moan
Mainly in jokes and jest
There’s no strike from daily dancing
But Captains diet takes test

The wind picks up force
And gives us some speed
We reduce sail accordingly
To rush, we’ve no need

With the swell meeting squall
The boats motion is much more
Things are crashing and falling
And so we sleep on the floor

So we’re all glad to speak
Of the end that is near
To stand straight and see land
Have a meal with a beer

And so six days later
I wake for sunrise with a smile
Though not quite within vision
We will soon see our Isle

Sure enough within hours
Our destination is seen
Remotely idyllic islands
It looks like a dream

And now within radio range
Comes the voice of our friend
For a course through the coral
His guide he offers to lend

As we take our approach
We cast out a line
And catch Jobfish for dinner
This moment is sublime

Once we’ve dealt with our catch
We take caution through reef
And drop our anchor at bay
With a huge sigh of relief

Time now for a coffee
Served at 90 degrees
In a dream destination
Now everyone’s pleased

I talk to myself
as the night arrives
in little caskets
slipping over
yellow rooftops.
Winter slithers
& rattles back
under the doors,
while spring slews in
on orange cloud.
I say your name
& a luster throbs
across the walls.
Late hours are
breach born,
full of bent bays
of lamp light,
I plead into the ceiling
until I fill
with sharp shapes
draped raw,
& my little speeches
perish in gloves of air.
Out of the window,
black ribbons streak
the riverbank face
to the moon etchings.
High tides blot me:
I still feel as I did
when I met you.
You're a heart shaker,
you wrest the lid
from the world,
your joy fills
my naked mouth.
But something
has gone wrong,
hasn't it?
Disordered,
melancholy -
you, too, see
the night-caskets,
don't you?  
Dublin facades
vanish beneath
rain scissor arms.
But it needn't be so -
come and lean on me.
I will remind you
that spring is come
with green armies
of blithe devotion,
trees flick
with leaf,
& you are loved.
I know you don't even
like me to call you babe,
not anymore, but
I'll live with that -
I'll tell the floorboards,
the starlings and magpies,
the unsealed horizontals
that report at dawn:
it will be alright,
it will be alright.

all our money not my money not my life not my problem not my problem yeah I have time no problem, we have a problem
call your sister call your dad and then ring mom up
buy the groceries clean the fridge out find more blue bags and buy more blue bins and sort it all out just get yourself sorted and everything always works out for me but that popcorn seed is still in my teeth and my heart is screaming and yet scary unfeeling but you just have a sparkle to you, it's so great having you but we wish you never came and I wish I never came and we'll all wish to go somewhere else but we're still here smiling struggling to eat I don't like it but I'm eating it doesn't feel good but I'm eating finished the whole bag look I'm eating all these salt lines under fingernails forgot to cut them last week haven't touched my toes in god knows how long except for when I tripped in the shed big bruises on legs that don't feel like pulling their weight and I'm lost and stumbling and I'm not really falling because that would mean I was upright and I'm more of a horizontals kind of guy, I'm fine.

Behind almost all things
Where the trees meet the edge of the frame
It could have been not this but that
In the distance is a darker shape
Its  position decided on a collection.


Falling like snow without regularity
The canvas surface is patches of colour
Horizontals and verticals intersect
The park with its green avenues
Glides in and out of a century of stories.


Its conclusion resting
On a final brush stroke.

Love Mary xxxxx

Shake the hands of the Devil
Wag the tail of the dog
Open the side of the great wide sea
Shimmering in the tears of burning trees

Dear Devil, grant me my three wishes
You have my soul and all that is told
The sea is bubbling over onto the great plains
Watch the insane grip their books and their canes

Purple fish in a cloud of deep wonder
Car horns blow in my air like a great wind
The win we were hoping for will not come
And my eyes are bleeding from staring into the sun

A care free husband and a strict down to Earth daughter
Free water in pails rusted and depraved
Makes my pulse skip a beat, my heart catapult
A man sits next to me with a vial and a sulk

Two walk together without anything to say
The children play with their toys
While their mother is lost in line away
Father tells me I can go as long as I pay

Star tended sky with streaks of pearl and blue
We sat side by side with her hands in a tie
Your feet were larger and warmer than mine
Your smile in the moonlight so wide and kind

"A snarl for your thoughts?" asked the shadow.
"I've got all the time in the world as long as you're not bothered."
"A snarl?" I returned, "Why not a white lie?"
He nodded and I say, "When night falls, be calm."

Concrete horizontals with black and tan misfortunes
The straw is in the shake and we're down to the last drop
I allow myself forgiveness, but others, they do not
Sometimes love feels like handcuffs, strapped down, and caught

Whisper through the window from the midnight moon
Go to the window and declare yourself free
A shout, a plea, a lonely man speaks to a burning tree
Wishing for direction in a world so devoid of divinity

The locks of her hair tumbled down her face
Like rocks down a mountainside.
We watched the rings of the sun turn,
Listening to the changing of the tide.

I take no boundaries to the limits of this and that
A cradle only rocks for so long a time
Magazine covers of pretty girls who never end
The separation is coming. The divide of us and them.

Read between the lines
Verticals horizontals
That can't  be expressed
The ups and downs
The all arounds
When you finish
Handle with care