Oh, it is awfully high from up here –
a power surge, the slit of my skirt intentionally ripped
and yet no one wants the slightest peek.

The man I love must be entwined in the pleats
or is watching the carnival children with more interest
than he has in creating normal infants with me.

Am I not a woman, not fertile?
But my concern is for a bloodied male –
intestines escaping from an abdomen like his coins.

He has been robbed as I have, an empty wallet
while I have an uninhibited ****.
We whirl alone on the ferris wheel and want to get ill.

For when the ride halts, I could climb the
parachute and die with that defeated man on the side –
just not quick enough to be wanted like a carnie.

Becoming an atypical sort of sideshow,
write wishes with a ride’s ***** on my arm, a lovenote
leave with someone whose faith in which I restore.

I, a princess, king-descended, decked with jewels, gilded, drest,
Would rather be a peasant with her baby at her breast,
For all I shine so like the sun, and am purple like the west.

Two and two my guards behind, two and two before,
Two and two on either hand, they guard me evermore;
Me, poor dove, that must not coo,--eagle, that must not soar.

All my fountains cast up perfumes, all my gardens grow
Scented woods and foreign spices, with all flowers in blow
That are costly, out of season as the seasons go.

All my walls are lost in mirrors, whereupon I trace
Self to right hand, self to left hand, self in every place,
Self-same solitary figure, self-same seeking face.

Then I have an ivory chair high to sit upon,
Almost like my father's chair, which is an ivory throne;
There I sit uplift and upright, there I sit alone.

Alone by day, alone by night, alone days without end;
My father and my mother give me treasures, search and spend--
O my father! O my mother! have you ne'er a friend?

As I am a lofty princess, so my father is
A lofty king, accomplished in all kingly subtilties,
Holding in his strong right hand world-kingdoms' balances.

He has quarrelled with his neighbors, he has scourged his foes;
Vassal counts and princes follow where his pennon goes,
Long-descended valiant lords whom the vulture knows,

On whose track the vulture swoops, when they ride in state
To break the strength of armies and topple down the great:
Each of these my courteous servant, none of these my mate.

My father counting up his strength sets down with equal pen
So many head of cattle, head of horses, head of men;
These for slaughter, these for labor, with the how and when.

Some to work on roads, canals; some to man his ships;
Some to smart in mines beneath sharp overseers' whips;
Some to trap fur-beasts in lands where utmost winter nips.

Once it came into my heart and whelmed me like a flood,
That these too are men and women, human flesh and blood;
Men with hearts and men with souls, though trodden down like mud.

Our feasting was not glad that night, our music was not gay;
On my mother's graceful head I marked a thread of gray,
My father frowning at the fare seemed every dish to weigh.

I sat beside them sole princess in my exalted place,
My ladies and my gentlemen stood by me on the dais:
A mirror showed me I look old and haggard in the face;

It showed me that my ladies all are fair to gaze upon,
Plump, plenteous-haired, to every one love's secret lore is known,
They laugh by day, they sleep by night; ah me, what is a throne?

The singing men and women sang that night as usual,
The dancers danced in pairs and sets, but music had a fall,
A melancholy windy fall as at a funeral.

Amid the toss of torches to my chamber back we swept;
My ladies loosed my golden chain; meantime I could have wept
To think of some in galling chains whether they waked or slept.

I took my bath of scented milk, delicately waited on,
They burned sweet things for my delight, cedar and cinnamon,
They lit my shaded silver lamp and left me there alone.

A day went by, a week went by. One day I heard it said:
"Men are clamoring, women, children, clamoring to be fed;
Men like famished dogs are howling in the streets for bread."

So two whispered by my door, not thinking I could hear,
******, naked truth, ungarnished for a royal ear;
Fit for cooping in the background, not to stalk so near.

But I strained my utmost sense to catch this truth, and mark:
"There are families out grazing like cattle in the park."
"A pair of peasants must be saved even if we build an ark."

A merry jest, a merry laugh, each strolled upon his way;
One was my page, a lad I reared and bore with day by day;
One was my youngest maid, as sweet and white as cream in May.

Other footsteps followed softly with a weightier *****;
Voices said: "Picked soldiers have been summoned from the camp
To quell these base-born ruffians who make free to howl and stamp."

"Howl and stamp?" one answered: "They made free to hurl a stone
At the minister's state coach, well aimed and stoutly thrown."
"There's work, then, for the soldiers, for this rank crop must be mown."

"One I saw, a poor old fool with ashes on his head,
Whimpering because a girl had snatched his crust of bread:
Then he dropped; when some one raised him, it turned out he was dead."

"After us the deluge," was retorted with a laugh:
"If bread's the staff of life, they must walk without a staff."
"While I've a loaf they're welcome to my blessing and the chaff."

These passed. The king: stand up. Said my father with a smile:
"Daughter mine, your mother comes to sit with you awhile,
She's sad to-day, and who but you her sadness can beguile?"

He too left me. Shall I touch my harp now while I wait
(I hear them doubling guard below before our palace gate),
Or shall I work the last gold stitch into my veil of state;

Or shall my woman stand and read some unimpassioned scene,
There's music of a lulling sort in words that pause between;
Or shall she merely fan me while I wait here for the queen?

Again I caught my father's voice in sharp word of command:
"Charge!" a clash of steel: "Charge again, the rebels stand.
Smite and spare not, hand to hand; smite and spare not, hand to hand."

There swelled a tumult at the gate, high voices waxing higher;
A flash of red reflected light lit the cathedral spire;
I heard a cry for *******, then I heard a yell for fire.

"Sit and roast there with your meat, sit and bake there with your bread,
You who sat to see us starve," one shrieking woman said:
"Sit on your throne and roast with your crown upon your head."

Nay, this thing will I do, while my mother tarrieth,
I will take my fine spun gold, but not to sew therewith,
I will take my gold and gems, and rainbow fan and wreath;

With a ransom in my lap, a king's ransom in my hand,
I will go down to this people, will stand face to face, will stand
Where they curse king, queen, and princess of this cursed land.

They shall take all to buy them bread, take all I have to give;
I, if I perish, perish; they to-day shall eat and live;
I, if I perish, perish; that's the goal I half conceive:

Once to speak before the world, rend bare my heart and show
The lesson I have learned, which is death, is life, to know.
I, if I perish, perish; in the name of God I go.

Morning sun splashes
molten gold over ripe wheat fields,
Spellbound,  stands a village lass,
she feels like a dragon fly, fragile but mirthful,
her spirit soaring high above the clouds,
one of those uncommon moments in her life,
when she felt something beyond words happening to her
she doesn't know how she forgets her dreary life
in which one day is just like any other.

Demure village belle, in her bright colored
patch-work dress, traditionally worn by women,
in Northern Indian villages, bathed in sun, walks alone,
through the winding village path, crossing fields.

Her smile conceals the pain, the thorns on her path give,
walks miles and miles in scorching tropical sun,
to the common well to get the water filled
in an earthen ***, carried on her head.
Her silver ankle bells, incessantly tell the tale of
harassment and violence, cheating, bullying, all that,
by ruffians, tricksters, con men and the like prowling,
on the wayside.Her own family members are no less!
**"It's all in a woman's life" she mumbles, curses fate-
something she has not fully understood, is this
why fate mostly interferes with the lives of women?

No more long stares
spent phenol syringes fresh on the streets,
barbiturated ruffians riddled,
denizens lost into this killing machine,
over dosed on Laudanum yesterday's ***** with temerity to spare,
turns tricks down
tomorrow someone laugh and high kick her,
those new Barista Gangsters , their marketing strategy
stretches the mind,
enough to **** a healthy Ox.
Lean close and hear
this requisitioned block is a pleasure dome
suitable for gilded beautification.

And he delivered them into the hands of the Gibeonites, and they
hanged them in the hill before the Lord; and they fell all seven
together, and were put to death in the days of the harvest, in the
first days, in the beginning of barley-harvest.

And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for
her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until the water
dropped upon them out of heaven, and suffered neither the birds of the
air to rest upon them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night.

2 SAMUEL, xxi. 10.


  Hear what the desolate Rizpah said,
As on Gibeah's rocks she watched the dead.
The sons of Michal before her lay,
And her own fair children, dearer than they:
By a death of shame they all had died,
And were stretched on the bare rock, side by side.
And Rizpah, once the loveliest of all
That bloomed and smiled in the court of Saul,
All wasted with watching and famine now,
And scorched by the sun her haggard brow,
Sat mournfully guarding their corpses there,
And murmured a strange and solemn air;
The low, heart-broken, and wailing strain
Of a mother that mourns her children slain:

  "I have made the crags my home, and spread
On their desert backs my sackcloth bed;
I have eaten the bitter herb of the rocks,
And drunk the midnight dew in my locks;
I have wept till I could not weep, and the pain
Of my burning eyeballs went to my brain.
Seven blackened corpses before me lie,
In the blaze of the sun and the winds of the sky.
I have watched them through the burning day,
And driven the vulture and raven away;
And the cormorant wheeled in circles round,
Yet feared to alight on the guarded ground.
And when the shadows of twilight came,
I have seen the hyena's eyes of flame,
And heard at my side his stealthy tread,
But aye at my shout the savage fled:
And I threw the lighted brand to fright
The jackal and wolf that yelled in the night.

  "Ye were foully murdered, my hapless sons,
By the hands of wicked and cruel ones;
Ye fell, in your fresh and blooming prime,
All innocent, for your father's crime.
He sinned--but he paid the price of his guilt
When his blood by a nameless hand was spilt;
When he strove with the heathen host in vain,
And fell with the flower of his people slain,
And the sceptre his children's hands should sway
From his injured lineage passed away.

  "But I hoped that the cottage roof would be
A safe retreat for my sons and me;
And that while they ripened to manhood fast,
They should wean my thoughts from the woes of the past.
And my ***** swelled with a mother's pride,
As they stood in their beauty and strength by my side,
Tall like their sire, with the princely grace
Of his stately form, and the bloom of his face.

  "Oh, what an hour for a mother's heart,
When the pitiless ruffians tore us apart!
When I clasped their knees and wept and prayed,
And struggled and shrieked to Heaven for aid,
And clung to my sons with desperate strength,
Till the murderers loosed my hold at length,
And bore me breathless and faint aside,
In their iron arms, while my children died.
They died--and the mother that gave them birth
Is forbid to cover their bones with earth.

  "The barley-harvest was nodding white,
When my children died on the rocky height,
And the reapers were singing on hill and plain,
When I came to my task of sorrow and pain.
But now the season of rain is nigh,
The sun is dim in the thickening sky,
And the clouds in sullen darkness rest
Where he hides his light at the doors of the west.
I hear the howl of the wind that brings
The long drear storm on its heavy wings;
But the howling wind and the driving rain
Will beat on my houseless head in vain:
I shall stay, from my murdered sons to scare
The beasts of the desert, and fowls of air."

Yes, sir, I kissed her
On the mouth in the back of the bus
It was dark so I reached over and touched her
In a place where my fingers had never felt before
You bet your life, I kissed her
And guess what? She kissed me back
I 'bout had me a heart attack
When I felt her tongue on mine

She always has your eyes, darling one
It's how I know it's true
That there will never be another one
Who can do the things you do
No matter who she is
My, love, she always has your eyes
For your eyes are her eyes
It's not a surprise

Yes, sir, it hurt when she left me
I ain't ashamed to admit
Wonderin' how long until she'd forget me
You're ******* right she'll forget
You're best served with the truth, my foe
There's a lot you'll never know
So much I'll never tell you
For now it's time to go...

...go along, little dove, move along the straight and narrow. Bring along your bow and arrow. It's a small gate and few are the wasted who have tasted it's taste then wasted it's a band of jobless ruffians walking in a straight line, eyes locked straight ahead and determined to arrive at their destination. Dressed in monk's robes, their attire was not the only thing about them which conjured the appearance of a band of Tibetan's finest.
     Make haste! Go along, sweet caterpillar of the dawn. Gather your spawn and meet us on the backyard lawn. Make it quick, make your move, make every guitar pickin' note count. This is your time, La Penguin, it is the dawn of your destiny. The pawn of the mystic's I have placed upon a square I am not legally entitled to inhabit, figuring you would not notice it and even if you did you might not realize I was playing the match illegally. Royal eggs hatch regally, they are a meal of value and worth.
     Plath's dead voice recites her own poetry in the 74th century throught the medium of streaming music, which is every man's birthright. The inhabitants of this far off century are each and every soul well versed in song and voice, rythmn and melody, the poignant lyric in the third verse or during the chorus, their collective history was the culmination of thousands upon thousands of years totally absorbed in every aspect of MUSIC. To say they worshipped music would be to stop somewhat short of being the absolute truth but we listen anyway, we always do, good morning, I am the voice in your head. Have you finally befriended me? Finally accepted me and maybe even appreciated me? Regardless. I am the voice in your head. Do you want to know whose voice is in MY head? That's right: YOURS! Do you think this makes me any happier than the prospect of my being the voice in your head it's complicated, I'll grant that. But now that you're on a roll, what say we write some more crap poetry?

Try not to rhyme
No one does that anymore, that's reason enough
Yes, there is a secret meaning behind all this
You were not on my mind when I wrote this crap
If things had gone my way I could be making excruciatingly
Joe, where you going with that gun in your hand?
I love all you *******, I really do
Some of you are genuine artists
Some of you can't write for ****
But that don't make it bad, does it?

Who is she?
She was a worm that crawled in your ear
One summer night while you slept in bed
Dreaming of the day your son
Shot you in the head
Then left you for dead
Wake up, David, wake up!
Fear not the tarantula, David, wake up!
For his bite doth not ****

...go along, feline substitute, your portmanteau is waiting. where are those people now who were so recently uncharitable? They've all been little boys before, every soldier in the field, every face behind bars, they've all had baths and someone to dry them off. Surely this must be? I am too wasted to go on.

Naya kudro. Reo o hart bonite. Rega in gavida, gavida. E qualid plea, senior away cast them in fee, el mquee.
Hula sona karay. Shis attune heh, hey hey, the grinavorte, honeas delong. O, fate be a queen. Allah's mortal today. The name. I don't want a name. Oh, no. The glad. Uh, uhhhhhhhh, uh, I'm madalam...you know....it's grand.......these sandwiches, they're grand.........beam me up, Scotty, you know the rest of the joke........Just like drums in an African rainforest, glistening with moisture, the rain mixing up the rythmns as drops make contact with skin. .........holding in past for the trial........coming in a car.........what a................you run, you running so much higher, climbing on a wire, you know..........you run, you running so much faster and now you're...........holding in past for the time......holding and caring for strange..........what catches your eye.........

I only thought I was too wasted to go on.
But this time
It's a for sure deal
I
am
too
wasted
to
continue

...to be continued

The Lady Mary took to her bed
On the last of the mad March days,
She’d strained her constitution, she said
At that upstart, Shakespeare’s plays,
The ruffians at the Globe were known
To be often rotten with fleas,
‘I must have been bitten,’ Milady said
With her skirt drawn up to her knees.

The footman fastened a painted sign
‘No Visitors’ up at the door,
While one of the maids got down on her knees
And scrubbed at the parquet floor,
Milady took to her poster bed
By a window out to the square,
‘You’d best get down to the Fleet,’ she said,
‘Lord Orton is working there.’

The doctor came with his physic
Carried a nosegay close to his face,
The cane that he prodded Milady with
Would leave her with little grace,
‘The swellings down in Milady’s groin
Will have to be truly bled,
A mixture of clay and violets then
Applied to the sores,’ he said.

The mist swept in and the night came down
As the fever grew apace,
And dark black pustules grew and swarmed
At the Lady Mary’s face,
A shadow fell on the window pane
Of a man stood out in the square,
‘Who is that nightly visitant,
And what is he doing there?’

She couldn’t make out his features for
His hat was broad of brim,
Shading his face and hawk-like nose
Though he kept on looking in,
‘I have a terrible feeling that
I’ve seen that man before,
He’s come from the coffin-maker, and
He waits outside my door.’

She slipped off into unconsciousness
So the footman let him in,
To measure her with a piece of twine
From her head to below her shin,
They waited then for an hour or two
While the doctor had her bled,
She cried aloud at a fancied shroud
And she shrank from it, in dread.

Late on the second day she woke
Lord Orton at her side,
Holding a faded nosegay to
Protect him from his bride,
She heard the clatter of wheels pull up
Outside in the darkened court,
And cried, ‘My Lord, will you leave me now
That my time is running short?’

She lapsed back into a coma, but
She could feel the tremors start,
And something strange had begun to change
In the beating of her heart,
A rattle deep in her throat began
And resounded through her head,
Just as a voice, it seemed to her,
Called out, ‘Bring out your dead!’

David Lewis Paget

My brother was twelve years older so
I knew him not so well,
But heard of him in the taverns,
Getting drunk, and raising hell,
My mother said, ‘Keep away from him,’
And I did, for many years,
But blood is blood, and a brother should
Help out, though it ends in tears.

He’d done a spot of embezzling,
He’d picked the pockets of Earls,
You never left him to tend a horse
And he wasn’t safe with girls,
But he was my brother Toby,
And I was his brother Tim,
I’d often find him beneath my bed
When he said, ‘Don’t let them in!’

By ‘them’ he had meant the Runners
Who were active in the Bow,
And some of the old Thief-Takers
With their ruffians in tow,
They roamed the streets with their cudgels
And would lie, just out of sight,
Beyond the doors of the Taverns, when
They turned them adrift at night.

The streets were mean, and were far from clean
Where my brother used to roam,
Despite the pleas of our mother, who
Would beg him to come back home,
But father remained unbending, said
His eldest son was a swine,
‘His endless scrapes, a Jackanapes!
He is no son of mine!’

I heard he’d taken a horse and fled
From a stables in the Strand,
‘There’s little that anyone now can do,
When they catch him, he’ll be hanged!’
My mother, crying a flood of tears
As my father cursed and swore,
‘I’ll call the Runners, or I’ll be ******
If you let him through my door!’

So Toby galloped to Hounslow Heath
Along the Great West Road,
Teamed up with the brute Tom Wilmot,
Lay low in his abode,
They’d venture out on a moonlit night
To wait for the latest Stage,
But Tom was never the gentleman,
Or known to contain his rage.

They stopped the coach on a lonely night
‘Your money or your life!’
Dragged out a country gentleman,
His maid, and his homely wife,
He wanted the ring on the lady’s hand
But her finger held it tight,
So he sawed the finger off as well
With a sharp, serrated knife.

‘It was terrible,’ Toby told me
As they loaded him onto the cart,
‘The screams and the blood, unholy,’
As the horse was about to depart,
They hung him high on the Tyburn Tree
Next to the Wilmot pig,
Not undeserved, but I cried and cursed
As he danced the Tyburn jig.

David Lewis Paget

I stepped out of my apartment
into the easy breezy morning heat
it was hot,
but not late enough for the sun
to have properly baked the earth
I lost three cigarettes
almost immediately
lost them on skid row:
*** alley
a small strip of city
which stretches from 5th to Jefferson
and from Broad to Franklin
something about that place,
maybe the empathy of the inhabitants
draws them closer
the homeless, hobos, bums, wastrels, ruffians, and scoundrels
sitting cross legged on the pavement
or idly kicking on the stoop of curbs
or in hidden alleys,
hiding from the wind
They live there
and for the most part
they're good people,
not hurting anybody
not proud enough
to not beg

It looked like a bright lit morning.

She was awake and avoided frowning,

A sleep of five more minutes,

Could have made the day seem finite.

Wet boots and a beige coat,

Hung awaiting a sunny day ahead.

Blinded by million thoughts in riot,

She scanned in haste her heavy mind.

Sirens rang in symphony afar,

Reminding her to close the door ajar,

She had her clipboard and note,

Waiting for her ride to the station.

Brand new case remained out in the open,

A little boy had been violently murdered,

This was not one not two but a total of seven,

Worried parents of runaways harboured around.

Who could it be stared the white board?

Who has the absence of heart to commit this deed?

Subordinates blanked with only dead-end,

Clues were nil and everybody drew a blank instead.

But there was something in common,

Faces of children expressed utter calm.

Were they lost in a wondrous dream?

Seventh child yet unclaimed  waited in vain.

She looked on for hours together,

Until she had a brain wave to ponder deeper,

Off she took her police motorbike,

To the drug peddlers and ruffians she had to seek.

Had she seen this boy earlier?

Around the red light of a traffic signal,

With his eyes raining clouds of heavy shower,

Just doing his part to get two square meal.

Questioning all around downtown,

Where runaways gathered upon,

Boys, girls, young adults in their teen,

Rugged, ***** but in need of touch very humane.

She wondered about the mayhem!

Were their choices made for them?

She realised all the seven missing ones,

Had once worked for a scrawny girl.

To let go her doubts,

For this reminded her once failure to close,

A case so horrific that gave her the nightmares.

She took her partner in search of the girl,

Off they rode on the horizon,

For minutes,  for hours until dawn,

To find the deserted family in ruin.

Questions, answers, clues were collected,

And a revelation was horrifically found,

A girl in the midst of a family so profound,

Was assaulted, abused, ***** and her innocence robbed.

Until with an ounce of courage and vengeful mind,

She ran away till her legs no longer could.

On her trail did they follow,

To town after town astonishingly mellow,

Leaves on the paths so yellow,

Reminded of her horrid days that had made her shallow.

They followed with deep angst,

The stories that unfolded cried screams of disgust,

All her victims abused and mutilated,

As she laid the stones of thirst and distrust.

The trail stopped and kills ended,

Had she stopped for good?

Or taken a break to pray give authorities a ride?

Days, months, years passed.

The case picked dust as expected.

Yet another bright lit morning,

And a child had gone missing,

Was she back and killing?

As the police bagged the wet boots and a beige coat!

TO ALL FALLEN BROTHERS

To all courageous lives ended with sword, cannon or bullets of lead.

To all Brothers… No longer our enemies instead…

For Power and Ambition even Friends will part.

To silent fallen Heroes always true to a loyal heart.

To Courage always ready to fight for what thought right.

To Brave Men convinced Honour is being Victorious,

Now certain bones on battlefields are never Glorious.

To Sons taught to hate by greedy, ambitious men.

To many a young Mate we shall never see again.

To gallant Officers who believed what was told,

Always willing to give, but hardly getting old...

Eloquence never asking: “Parlez vous…?”

Or merely educated: “How do you do?”

On battlefields God was indeed hard to find,

And we wondered; is He on your side or mine?

Perhaps never wanting to be near,

Seeing what we are really doing down here...

Again infinite bones in rotting uniforms everywhere,

Whilst no one hardly remembers or troubles to care...

What we believed in, how we spoke or who we were.



People even snubbing whether whatever left of you,

Is in the rags of a Redcoat, in dark green or French blue,

But needless to tell… still much of a man,

For yet your bones in a muddy field give what they can.

Whether an arm, a leg or a scull… all just grounded up,

To raise a much better crop… for Life will never stop.

Just dirt to dirt... Man again fertilizing Mother Earth.

All the same, said never to be found lying around…

Bloodied buttons and buckles secretly hidden in hay,

Are polished and sold by those in need on a rainy day.

Again virility of spring...

Is in autumn quite a nourishing thing,

For Life still goes around and around in ring…

Even dressed in proud red, white and blue… more than two…

Maps and Rulers changed in less than a hundred years,

Ludicrous is our Hate and our Fears.

Do let us in memory of Confucius agree,

For seasoned veterans of war and intellect are we thought to be,


Saluting in attention with infinitely more comprehension,

We Honour You Forever still certain Humanity might never understand,

Honor, Glory and Victory are in Brothers holding out a Loving hand.



Col. RCEF Sir William Francis Willoughby Lindesay   England

KG GCB KP KT



Col. RCEF Sir Robert Eowan Lochlan McGregor          Scotland

KG GCB KP KT



1st. Royal Life Guards  1807 - 1810

13Th. “Jolly Ruffians “Rifle Company On Foot 1810  Portugal, Spain

13Th. Mounted “Wildman“ Rifle Company 1811-1814 Spain

1st. Royal Life Guards

Royal Cavaliers-Elite Force   Secret Intelligence Service 1814



                          Willowbee Manor, Lindesay Hall, Yorkshire 1814





                                      CONFUCIUS 551 - 479 BC

                                                Golden Rule
                                     Basic Rights for Humanity

      Do not do to others what you do not wish to be done to yourself.



Copyright©2013 by Kari M. Knutsen

a pythagorean stance is? savour the few...
                     flu flu flew
away the many, and there are "not" enough
bothersome ones, to attest  to the aclue - i.e. without
a Sherlock.  it's sad to confess that i'm
not model ant but then again: my bicep
is not prone to signatures...
winged hussar that
scared off the turks off vienna...
modernity then!
     why am i an ω-male?
i like to hear the chatter of
                            α-β
holy of holies, and hangovers;
my feet are stench, my tongue
is stolen, bravo!
i can't compete in this environment,
there's no enriching curtsey (court-see;
see what not using diacritical
marks does to you? you flabbergast it!)...
but there i am... unsurprisingly so:
the omega-male listening in
on talk about beta males not getting any...
and alpha males turnings into walruses...
thank ******* time this happened!
quote: quo vadis...
        teutonis militaria...
                             ignis et gladio        
i'm an omega-male... i look at it and clap...
like the remnant of Belzebub within
a fly: rubbing it's tentacle bits,
assured, that all is worthy of cradling
     the definite article.
yes, i, the ω-male (omega)...
         it's no surprise that i'm basically not
gagging for it... there! yonder over y'all
(Kansas tribute)!
   patriarchal Kant, like an adjacent Abraham
with martyr Kleist:
              ω-male, counter to the beta male,
counter to the beta male that counters the alpha
male... basically? beta males gave me
no encouragement... alpha males gave me
no impromptu to attest...
               for all the beatifications of woman
i was assured the most forbidle attestment...
they... all... grow... old...
    and i rather transpire the wrath of tornadoes
than the boundaries of what makes woman...
for the sake of unprejudiced pronoun usage
(as if we were keepers of a promise to
name-shackle a tree to a tree, and then
never mention a twig, a branch, or a matchstick,
or a toothpick)
          woe unto man
and woo unto the other resemblance -
penance unto whoever wrongs the ****** signifier
that it should have been of a higher tier
to begin with...
      yes... to call the dynamism a case of
alphabet...                the case of prominent α
and shadowy β... i already stated my circumstance,
i'm not into passing on my genes!
      i'm an ω-male! the symbol already represents
what i stand for... sitting on my **** and
caring about the α-β dynamism as anyone could
care for a lesson in: if there's anything
important in this world, what, if anything
could it be?
                they really did forget about the ω-male,
and the jesus encyclopedic quote about
alpha and omega... ******* ruffians, stuck in
the beta mode of thinking things out...
learn the opposite... learn the hard way:
not to be so finicky courtesan... as the rule states:
if you can't support them: don't tease them
into fudge-packing your *******
                 for a breather on the weekend.

the musician on stage in front of a

rack of shoes looks like you,
although it may be

the fog of the free beer.
It smells like the 70s and even though I
never experienced it firsthand,

the red velvet pants on the rack next to me
take me back in time.
Surrounded by a trio of girls in striped shirts –
the three blind mice –
**** on lollipops
and there are too many jean jackets to count.

I can’t stop thinking about my arms around your neck
on a park bench

let’s go to Niagara Falls, or Pompeii

there are some soaps in the shape of fingers at the store next door
and I can wrap them around your arms
while we listen to Born Ruffians
and they’ll sing:

It ***** when you find someone
but they don’t find you.

I left my heart in a dumpster.
My life in a gutter.
I shutter when i whisper,
We once loved one another.
As cold naked in the alley,
Under street post lamps.

Dark and damp, dark and damp.
I lay heaving cramps.

Everything is ugly its all grey,
As dust storm in the dead sea,
Every blink,
sand will fling,
to my eyes in my dreams.

The dust cant cover up your trashed out corpse.
Holes in your neck and feet,
I listen to your voice.
Save me. Save.

Longing and craving.
Save me. Save.
Death for today.

This desert of the city behind the pizza parlor.

I haven’t left this spot since it happened.
In between this depository for waste and my own waste of space.
Phantoms **** themselves, picked on by rats and freegans, and murderous ruffians of soul.
Everything here in this xeric hole.

Kills. Just kills.

No. Save me. Save.

I couldn’t my darling now your lost to this ****.
And with you alone my body shall die.
I shall lay with it here under this deadlampost moonlight.

We lay exhumed, tissues being destroyed by fungi,
destroyed and hungry, dead and corpsing,
mute, yet singing.
exalted, grieving.
love couldnt save us, yet the powers that be,
neglected our bodies,
lead our essence to become one with the streets.

Crawdads have a crazy *** life. There's not  
much to courtship and no real copulation. Boring  
as this may sound, it's somewhat engrossing  
for me. Likely more than any lady crawdad ever  
thought of it. I would think most women might
agree. Sadly, reminiscent of **** really. Males
act like ruffians, catching females like prey,
turning them over, and leaving a sticky deposit
on their undersides. Worm like sperms adhere
to her, which she carries with her until she lays  
eggs. I've seen this while preparing étouffée.

Not the *** act, just the worms.  

Life is a multiplex of convoluted situations.
"Please yes, oh no!" What's going on in those
crusty little heads? It seems such a foreign
lifeform. Still, eerily familiar to what I've found  
at the bathhouse. I think I'll fatten up my tail,  
wear some antennae and pincers this Halloween.

Mmmm... Étouffée.

I saw it all
and graced every moment,
There they all were,
Scattered across Gregorian isles,
The beauties beyond the bridge,
holding and caressing the sun-
drenched pavement,
Beset on all corners flesh of the-
purest sort,
The cackling ruffians in the parks,
conspicuous cigarettes barely holding
steady,
The yawn-screaming maintenance man,
in the back of the depot,
making faces at passersby.
The didwives walk swiftly,
buckling dirt under their scoured
limbs,
The fresh smell of the river,
with precarious logs that never
fall over,
The faces chisled in the walls,
Men whose catacombs belong,
Personally under the floor boards,
I met the modern day black-
smiths,
greased, and happy golden-red,
Behind, stuck in the surreal
rut,
Happily tailing and fireworking
as tickets fly in,
A walk home revealed all,
footsteps graced every patch,
Each one of comical saints,
tying invisible lines of
alternate reality.


"Excuse me,
I just wanted to say,
You look beautiful today."

A warmth, a blanket of darkness covers me, holds me in the night, until the sun at daybreak wakes me with it's forbidden light.  And by me, I find a human sitting there, warming herself by a fire's glowing light.  She looks at me and smiles as I gaze back with horror and fright.  I sit up, scared of what she wants, and think to run from my plight.  "You should know," my booming voice rumbles, "I do not wish to fight."  She looks at me merrily, and steps closer, my large shadow looming over her.  She understood not a word I had said.  She smells of a floral odor.  For a reason unknown, she dresses my wounds and feeds me herbs and clover.  I cannot comprehend her feelings towards me,  but she'll stay in my sight.  Something in me has snapped, an ember self-ignites.

She follows me, sticking close to my side, back into the cave where I always hide.  In there, she heals my broken heart and soul from the inside.  Does she understand my feelings?  A monster's feelings?  Or is she someone with whom I am temporarily allied?  Over time, my midnight blue fur returns, my fangs, claws, and horns still growing back.  But she is special compared to her brethren; she knows and feels something they all lack.  Courage and empathy.  You and your kind would only attack, wishing me dead, to boost your pride.  And by the devil's law, you began to abide.

I have given this woman everything, and she gave it back tenfold.  I danced with her in the wilderness, and clinging to my fur, she rode.  How could I repay this woman, for whom so much I owed?  Then, one fateful day of exploring led me to a road, a human invention leading to their towns.  It was by chance I came alone.  I would retrieve a gift for my friend; so, through the shadows of the forest, I travel, following a ditch where the great river once flowed.  It leads to a village, a small and humble place, infected by the humans and their spiteful race.  Quickly, I grab a tool they use outside, and I run away, ready for a chase.  But no one notices, no one knows of the tool I have borrowed.  I speed back to the cave where we stay.  Once far enough from the village, I slow my pace.

These chimes ring joyously in the wind, and cannot be silenced no matter how hard I try.  It reminds me of my happiness sounding, like the waves of the ocean coming in the tide.  I want this feeling to never end.  I want her to stay with me all my life.  I search for our cave, our home, this place of mine.  Something is wrong.  A stench of smoke burns in my nose and clings to the area of the forest I'm in.  I'm so close to the cave, not far downwind.  I panic and run as fast can through this maze of trees past the great river bend.  And, at the mouth of the cave, torches lay scattered, a fire burning, glowing hot, set to light by ruffians.  The smoke stings my eyes as I look high and low, trying to find where the fire begins.  Blood of smaller game covers the ground, sacrifices to the human god of wrath, traced to corpses and animal skins.  I rush into the fire where my friend has once been.  Nothing in there is left, and I leave the cave, mystified.  I find only one clue nearby, written in blood on a sign hidden under the rotting flesh where maggots had begun to reside.  It reads, 'We've caught the witch!  Let us purge her, make her cry!  She brought forth the demon, she who is satan's bride!'

Devils of saintly virtues?
Or a saint of sin?
Who is evil or good?
Who bestowed such titles?

A boisterous ***** baron?
Ordained by dour dukes?
Spilled blood to pave a road?
Does your honor sunder and erode?

Was it virtuous to shove innocents?
To put them under lock and key?
Saintly, to make them fear?
Courage, to turn a blind eye?

Is it a sin to feed the starving enemy?
A devil to help a dying foreigner breath?
Bereave their suffering?
To feel guilt when malnourished prisoners beg for feed?

What makes you so noble?
Foible flags, and an adorable mantra?
A little training makes it right?
Maybe you know it does not,

Paving roads with bones and blood?
Did you join to fire a gun?
To retrieve bullets from inside of someone?
To stand for your flag and defend?

Does a medal wash away those sins?
All forgiven because you won?
Bombs dropped and humanity undone,
Another chapter in the book of justification,

Titled, ‘War is Hell’
The history of death, peace unsung,
Souls seized, leaders appeased,
From rot, money and disease,

Waiting for battle under south side trees,
What makes you better then them?
Education? A uniform?
Signing your life away to conform?

What if your not as noble as you seem?
Noble intentions in a hellish scene,
In total might, what if neither is right?
A hired killer of a higher power,

Atrocities in the name of swell intentions,
Killing for Lord Benton, or General Jenkins,
Does what you read make you mad?
Or sad?

Will war ravished ruffians take pity?
Is it wrong if they slaughter and **** your life?
Everyone in it?
Will your god founded, blessed flag save you?

Maybe they are right,
After all,
You did it to them first,
Suddenly it’s wrong? No chalking up to war is hell?

Maybe you’re lost,
Maybe notches on your gun makes you proud of past,
Maybe feel lied to, in a cloud,
Or maybe you’re a demonic psychopath,

The history of Saints is usually tattered with sin,
Passing volatile judgements upon men,
Devils usually do what they are asked,
Whether or not it should come to pass,

After all,
It was conflict that caused Edens fall,
Do you care if you’re right or wrong?
You, mercenary of the flag?

When is wrong, right?
Right, wrong?
Call you hero and sing your song,
Will history see it like you?


After all,
Stonewall made innocent civilians fall,
Regarded hero,
Instructed by a drunk,

Who are you?
What makes you so great?
Why are you right?
Why are you wrong?

In the end, I don’t care if you think,
Or ask yourself stated questions,
That’s not my biz,
Simply put...
It is what it is..

Who knew why such ruffians
Squandered and squabbled
Dear to me their brutish good looks
Pulling out pockets' linings
Showing how no cent remained
Not a **** dime to their name
Chasing absent dreams called fame
Just deterioration
From what was once
Gleaming teeth
Combed hair
Finer threads
Now cement beds
Lay them down at night
Oh what a sight
My parlayed partners
Still jiving and hustling
Crackling and busting
*** for that quick fix
Sick, I tell you
How glory appears in their eyes
It's a story of addiction's surprise
That grab on you
How it happened to him too
Gleam!
That glisten and sheen
Then sweat
Soaked in an essence we've set
Of our inner spoiling
Tormented toiling
When we shoot that boot to get
That desperate need never met

If you could see life in my terms,

The song in my heart

over precarious waters

we two mad cap ruffians of love

Plucking the strings of Eros

From guitars that are not our own

And the song plays regardless

Lifting our love higher and higher

What wonderous sound the vibrato

Upon catching the thrum in the air

To kiss upon that half beat

A stolen moment from a highjacked concerto

Pulsing through our hearts

In beauteous trothes of midnight madness

When all the world is sleeping

And we dance together

Ethereal in our dreams

Our pirated fates

Aligned by birthright,

Forged in opposite directions

We at least have one small mercy,

Appeasing our guiding stars

through the thrum on the wind

Aligning in love upon our sails insignia of pain

of each scar in the fabric of our being

stretching across the seas of uncertainty

Let us ever meet in songs of love

By our agreement to the symphonia

of our hearts,

Through the ever winding

winds of love.

From the dusklight emerged two shadows
Part with the money or you are dead
Then on him rained powerful blows
Danced thousand sparks in his head.

Stop I yelled loud in impulse
In rushed blood soared up pulse
Ran to the ruffians with raised fist
Crying stop you ugly beast.

The goons were caught in wild surprise
This sudden resistance they didn’t surmise
Never thought someone would be so fool
To not be deterred by their muscles’ rule.

The chance to be brave didn’t give it a miss
I yelled once more I’ll call the police
Stood before them like one tall wall
The worse happened after a moment's lull.

In the pale streetlight glistened the knife
Swooped down in a flash to ***** out life
I rolled down the road in a fall too steep
As he lunged at me and plunged it deep.

I woke up slumberous in the nursing room
Broke through my pain her words’ perfume
You’ll be alright my heart’s brave knight
Her face beaming in my eyes’ blurred light.

My moving lips brought close her ear
She strained it hard caught me whisper
*Till that day I never knew
Could stake my life to be brave to you.

Quand tout se fait petit, femmes, vous restez grandes.
En vain, aux murs sanglants accrochant des guirlandes,
Ils ont ouvert le bal et la danse ; ô nos soeurs,
Devant ces scélérats transformés en valseurs
Vous haussez, - châtiment ! - vos charmantes épaules.
Votre divin sourire extermine ces drôles.
En vain leur frac brodé scintille ; en vain, brigands,
Pour vous plaire ils ont mis à leurs griffes des gants,
Et de leur vil tricorne ils ont doré les ganses ;
Vous bafouez ces gants, ces fracs, ces élégances,
Cet empire tout neuf et déjà vermoulu.
Dieu vous a tout donné, femmes ; il a voulu
Que les seuls alcyons tinssent tête à l'orage,
Et qu'étant la beauté, vous fussiez le courage.

Les femmes ici-bas et là-haut les aïeux,
Voilà ce qui nous reste !

Abjection ! nos yeux
Plongent dans une nuit toujours plus épaissie.
Oui, le peuple français, oui, le peuple messie,
Oui, ce grand forgeron du droit universel
Dont, depuis soixante ans, l'enclume sous le ciel
Luit et sonne, dont l'âtre incessamment pétille,
Qui fit voler au vent les tours de la Bastille,
Qui broya, se dressant tout à coup souverain,
Mille ans de royauté sous son talon d'airain,
Ce peuple dont le souffle, ainsi que des fumées,
Faisait tourbillonner les rois et les armées,
Qui, lorsqu'il se fâchait, brisait sous son bâton
Le géant Robespierre et le titan Danton,
Oui, ce peuple invincible, oui, ce peuple superbe
Tremble aujourd'hui, pâlit, frissonne comme l'herbe,
Claque des dents, se cache et n'ose dire un mot
Devant Magnan, ce reître, et Troplong, ce grimaud !
Oui, nous voyons cela ! Nous tenant dans leurs serres,
Mangeant les millions en face des misères,
Les Fortoul, les Rouher, êtres stupéfiants,
S'étalent ; on se tait. Nos maîtres ruffians
À Cayenne, en un bagne, abîme d'agonie,
Accouplent l'héroïsme avec l'ignominie ;
On se tait. Les pontons râlent ; que dit-on ? rien.
Des enfants sont forçats en Afrique ; c'est bien.
Si vous pleurez, tenez votre larme secrète.
Le bourreau, noir faucheur, debout dans sa charrette,
Revient de la moisson avec son panier plein
Pas un souffle. Il est là, ce Tibère-Ezzelin
Qui se croit scorpion et n'est que scolopendre,
Fusillant, et jaloux de Haynau qui peut pendre ;
Eclaboussé de sang, le prêtre l'applaudit ;
Il est là, ce César chauve-souris qui dit
Aux rois : voyez mon sceptre ; aux gueux : voyez mon crime
Ce vainqueur qui, béni, lavé, sacré, sublime,
De deux pourpres vêtu, dans l'histoire s'assied
Le globe dans sa main, un boulet à son pied ;
Il nous crache au visage, il règne ! nul ne bouge.

Et c'est à votre front qu'on voit monter le rouge,
C'est vous qui vous levez et qui vous indignez,
Femmes ; le sein gonflé, les yeux de pleurs baignés,
Vous huez le tyran, vous consolez les tombes,
Et le vautour frémit sous le bec des colombes !

Et moi, proscrit pensif, je vous dis : Gloire à vous !
Oh ! oui, vous êtes bien le sexe fier et doux,
Ardent au dévouement, ardent à la souffrance,
Toujours prêt à la lutte, à Béthulie, en France,
Dont l'âme à la hauteur des héros s'élargit,
D'où se lève Judith, d'où Charlotte surgit !
Vous mêlez la bravoure à la mélancolie.
Vous êtes Porcia, vous êtes Cornélie,
Vous êtes Arria qui saigne et qui sourit ;
Oui, vous avez toujours en vous ce même esprit
Qui relève et soutient les nations tombées,
Qui suscite la Juive et les sept Machabées,
Qui dans toi, Jeanne d'Arc, fait revivre Amadis,
Et qui, sur le chemin des tyrans interdits,
Pour les épouvanter dans leur gloire éphémère,
Met tantôt une vierge et tantôt une mère !

Si bien que, par moments, lorsqu'en nos visions
Nous voyons, secouant un glaive de rayons,
Dans les cieux apparaître une figure ailée,
Saint-Michel sous ses pieds foulant l'hydre écaillée,
Nous disons : c'est la Gloire et c'est la Liberté !
Et nous croyons, devant sa grâce et sa beauté,
Quand nous cherchons le nom dont il faut qu'on le nomme,
Que l'archange est plutôt une femme qu'un homme !

Jersey, le 30 mai 1853.

Treading light footed on the grass
And avoiding wild prickly thorns
We were all young adolescent children
On life's chess board we were pawns
Running over the bridge
Which spanned a reed filled river
We watched the ripples shimmer
As a cool wind made us shiver
From the bridge we saw the city centre
And the Cathedral at its core
The football ground glimmered to the east
But we didn't care for the score
Houses fed off the grassy banks
It was the estate we all called ours
The dreaded rent office showed its face
In front of smoke filled cooling towers
A gang of unruly ruffians
Shouted from the bank below
We'd already made a head start though
And besides they were much to slow
The landslide gave us such fun
Cause the eighties seemed full of gloom
A Tory regime tried to hurt us
But the flowing river made us grow and bloom

Cette nuit-là
Trois amis l'entouraient. C'était à l'Elysée.
On voyait du dehors luire cette croisée.
Regardant venir l'heure et l'aiguille marcher,
Il était là, pensif ; et rêvant d'attacher
Le nom de Bonaparte aux exploits de Cartouche,
Il sentait approcher son guet-apens farouche.
D'un pied distrait dans l'âtre il poussait le tison,
Et voici ce que dit l'homme de trahison :
« Cette nuit vont surgir mes projets invisibles.
Les Saint-Barthélemy sont encore possibles.
Paris dort, comme aux temps de Charles de Valois.
Vous allez dans un sac mettre toutes les lois,
Et par-dessus le pont les jeter dans la Seine. »
Ô ruffians ! bâtards de la fortune obscène,
Nés du honteux coït de l'intrigue et du sort !
Rien qu'en songeant à vous mon vers indigné sort,
Et mon coeur orageux dans ma poitrine gronde.
Comme le chêne au vent dans la forêt profonde !

Comme ils sortaient tous trois de la maison Bancal,
Morny, Maupas le grec, Saint-Arnaud le chacal,
Voyant passer ce groupe oblique et taciturne,
Les clochers de Paris, sonnant l'heure nocturne,
S'efforçaient vainement d'imiter le tocsin ;
Les pavés de Juillet criaient à l'assassin !
Tous les spectres sanglants des antiques carnages,
Réveillés, se montraient du doigt ces personnages
La Marseillaise, archange aux chants aériens,
Murmurait dans les cieux : aux armes, citoyens !
Paris dormait, hélas ! et bientôt, sur les places,
Sur les quais, les soldats, dociles populaces,
Janissaires conduits par Reibell et Sauboul,
Payés comme à Byzance, ivres comme à Stamboul,
Ceux de Dulac, et ceux de Korte et d'Espinasse,
La cartouchière au flanc et dans l'oeil la menace,
Vinrent, le régiment après le régiment,
Et le long des maisons ils passaient lentement,
A pas sourds, comme on voit les tigres dans les jongles
Qui rampent sur le ventre en allongeant leurs ongles
Et la nuit était morne, et Paris sommeillait
Comme un aigle endormi pris sous un noir filet.

Les chefs attendaient l'aube en fumant leurs cigares.

Ô cosaques ! voleurs ! chauffeurs ! routiers ! bulgares !
Ô généraux brigands ! bagne, je te les rends !
Les juges d'autrefois pour des crimes moins grands
Ont brûlé la Voisin et roué vif Desrues !

Eclairant leur affiche infâme au coin des rues
Et le lâche armement de ces filons hardis,
Le jour parut. La nuit, complice des bandits,
Prit la fuite, et, traînant à la hâte ses voiles,
Dans les plis de sa robe emporta les étoiles
Et les mille soleils dans l'ombre étincelant,
Comme les sequins d'or qu'emporte en s'en allant
Une fille, aux baisers du crime habituée,
Qui se rhabille après s'être prostituée.

Accessible twenty four hours a day
seven days a week,
fifty two weeks a year.

Spring 2022 Curtain call at
Highland Manor Apartments unit b44
framing Mother Nature nook
ever changing scene unfolds
analogous to storybook.

I espy (hear and see)
while sitting at table
housing Macbook Pro
plethora of wildlife
on a band dinned patch of woodland,
yet slated to resemble cookie cutter vinyl city
that sprout like mushrooms and/or toadstools.

Yours truly bares witness to fauna
(most likely oblivious
to encroaching urbanization
most often becoming endangered
and/or extinct creature if lucky
enough becoming cherished, loved, valued
property of zoo keeper),

who rarely encounter **** sapiens
while innocuously and innocently
buzzfeeding, kickstarting pinteresting
linkedin with rites of Spring
fawning, matchmaking, twittering
regarding instinctual self survival tactics.

At a safe distance removed
our perch (chance) analogous
to one way mirror,
whereby yours truly and the missus
watch the nature channel live
never tiring at random antics
exhibited by aural and visual
courtesy spontaneous unrehearsed
Animal planet productions.

While astutely, fascinatingly, keenly, quietly
observing semi, quasi, pseudo... wild kingdom
flashback in space/time continuum occurred.

I observed banned band
of untamed ruffians and outlaws
use wildland as hideout from y'all
sip pose zid smart alecks
who would be surprised country bumpkin
like me can rattle off...
courtesy nasal twang

(or because of) Schwenksville drawl
which can pose difficulty understanding
attributed nysc with submucous cleft palate,
hence droning voice of mine
in tandem with puny size
found yours truly scapegoat
bullies taunted and teased

I felt analogous being
just another brick in the wall
until sharecropper mama and papa Joad
headed west Okie dokie
with truant steering da wheel
driving off into sunset via UHaul
passing zee monotony

doodling Yankee went hoo(t)'n and hollerin
across this country tis of thee
imitating moost every doggone animal
earn'n chump change telling tales tall
like dis here mumbo jumbo
his birthplace home to countless
life forms large and small
some skitter, slither, scamper,

jump, hustle, hop, fly, crawl
and we even encountered
mighty big beef eating fellas
who beat up punks
getting in barroom brawl
adieu fromm simple folks,
cuz nuttin else to write dat's awl!

As the time of spring beckons
                        

We all have this moment of clear-sightedness
when we see we are of little importance other to the world
and clear-eyed grasp our smallness.
We can in our tiny ways push the world forward an inch
perhaps to a fairer society where children do not die under
the rubble of concrete.
We can do nothing to stop these people who will push
us into an Armageddon, and will they somehow think
they can avoid the calamity when there is no one to blame.
There was a time when one could travel unmolested
in the Arabic world, then the smell of petroleum and
the white man came and destroyed the peace for greed.
No, not us the lesser people, we are victims too of their
hunger to dominate and enslave us in mortgages and loans
that can never be paid; so we watch and wait and when
the day of disaster comes shall I help the ruffians to my lifeboat.

If you could see life in my terms,
The song in my heart
over precarious waters
we two mad cap ruffians of love
Plucking the strings of Eros
From guitars that are not our own
And the song plays regardless
Lifting our love higher and higher
What wonderous sound the vibrato
Upon catching the thrum in the air
To kiss upon that half beat
A stolen moment form a highjacked concerto
Pulsing through our hearts
In beauteous trothes of midnight madness
When all the world is sleeping
And we dance together
Ethereal in our dreams
Our pirated fates
Aligned by birthright,
Forged in opposite directions
We at least have one small mercy,
Appeasing our guiding stars
through the thrum on the wind
Aligning in love upon the sails of pain
each scar knitted in the fabric of our being
Let us ever meet in songs of love
Shipwrecked by our agreement to the symphonia
of our hearts,
Through the ever winding
winds of love.

oh winter sun, how benevolent you are,
how tenderly you peer into the realm
of what once had is now finally losing colour,
on the realm of hibernating insects
bound to hardened cocoons...
           of flowers that only remain root strong...
oh winter sun, how benevolent you are,
work slows down, people become bearable:
less arrogant in their attire...
finally these women can put on clothes that
scream: decorum!
finally my libido can rest...
finally no more inverted, imploded niqab for
the eyes... still the sunglasses but finally...
my libido can rest...
but of course, it happens... there will be some
idiotic ***** who will entertain a Saturday
night out by wearing miniskirts & exposing
their bare legs to the elements of December,
January... years later, most probably:
pokraki... i.e. legs mangled from exposure to
the cold, the wind...
it happened once that i sat outside a nightclub
fully attired... warm cotton trousers...
a t-shirt, a shirt, a hoodie & an flimsy army shirt...
                hood, beneath the hood
a wooly hat...
there they stood... the goosebumps worth
of geese... standing there: chattering a strange tongue
that only teeth understand via Morse code...
silly little imp-girls...
warm up on the parquet of the nightclub,
drop a few ***** shots, yes?
oh sure... that will warm you up...
         silly little imp-girls... who goes clubbing
in winter wearing nothing but a mini-skirt...
the whole lot of them... hugging themselves...
trying to jump up & down in stilettos:
but not actually jumping...
                    it was a beautiful sight...
a man supremely cuddled by the clothes he was
wearing, gloves & scarf too...
drinking a beer & smoking a cigarette...
sitting on a bench outside a nightclub...
as a line of geese that had their feathers plucked
while still breathing were gaining entry to,
probably... the worst *** they'd get in their lifetime...
drunk ***...
      a little bit of alcohol... but too much is:
too much...
- yes... finally my libido is at rest...
no more libido insomnia...
   for the most part they started to dress like grannies...
of course some pull off the classy granny look,
the: mah-tue-rrr look (trill the R, please,
i know the French hark theirs but that's no excuse
to: tarantula bit my tongue when it's an R
in syllables, stressed, sure... forget the trill in words...
no one wants to sound like count Dracula:
blah blah blah...)

O benevolent winter sun... how you grace my skin...
how much brighter you seem than in summer...
since there are so few hours of you throughout the day...
come 3pm when you begin your weary descent
how blinding you are...
yet how you also do not scorch the skin
to make the golden serpent wake...
   how in a month or so i will loose the copper-neck
& the copper-sleeves on my forearms...
back to my white, vampiric, anaemic...
Hyperborean look...
        
O winter sun, i thank you for your retreat,
i thank you for your retreat with
such gleeful bliss...
i thank winter itself too: for pushing you away
(my my, is that a heliocentric or a geocentric
formulation? does it matter...
to read a map, to get from A to B...
a round earth perspective doesn't do ****...
the earth need to be flat in order
to read a map, esp. when standing on the fore
of a group of unruly teenagers,
when... the team at the Glasbury House
for Outdoor Education Centre split the participants
into two groups...
the older boys doing their A-levels
with the younger girls doing their AS-levels...
the older girls doing their A-levels
with the colts doing their AS-levels...
being of the former group...
the latter group was dropped off closer to the return-to-point,
they only had to walk back directly...
perhaps there were some shortcuts...
but could any of the girls read a map?
or, rather... would any of the colts
unloosen their imaginary head that might be
their phallus from imagining potential
suitors... not a chance...
- now, i have to write about this,
i need to discard this memory... i need new
memories... this one cameo cinema is
fudging up my uptake of new memories:
the hope is... if i write it down...
         i'll be released from it...
i was in the group that was dropped off...
**** knows' where, but certainly further afield
than the first group...
someone gave me the map of the vicinity:
i don't know why they handed the map to me...
so... i just asked: where are we?
cheat? every single ******* map in any urban
information point has a map & an indicator
that states, quite (not quiet), quiet plainly:
YOU ARE HERE... a bit like sticking one of those
HELLO MY NAME IS "X" at a speed-dating
event (mein gott, i've been to one of those
when at university, horrible event,
i don't remember it)...
so i asked, where are we? again: cheating?!
what's a ******* point of a map when you don't
know where you're starting from?
sure... you have to find where you're going from
the map... but what's the point of not knowing
where you're starting from?
like... Christopher Columbus didn't know
where Lisbon was... when he set off to find...
the Americas... sure... but this was also an experiment...
i knew what place i was leaving: Glasbury House...
& i was being dropped into an unknown location...
well i need to know at least one thing,
i can't navigate with two unknowns...
that sort of scenario would invoke... being...
rafted... on the seas... a quote comes to mind...
Coleridge:
  water, water, everywhere
And all the boards did shrink;
water, water, everywhere,
   nor any drop to drink...
                         point being...
a phantasmagorical finger "levitated" over me
then... like... ugh... faux pas...
like like the depiction bound to those *******
*******: perhaps Adam ought to have made
a circle with his index and thumb?
when the depiction of God extended his
in that Michelangelo depiction...
mind you... look how weak, how feminine Adam's
hand "posture" is...
he should have been firm... "God's" finger is coming...
to hell with touching phalluses with
a nail's bite worth of scribble on flesh...
here! here's my index curled up with my thumb
slightly curled: O my ****'s worth of interactions
with you! that hand posture is feminine...
on Adam's behalf... God the protruding agent of
the index... Adam the: oh! ah! kiss my hand will you!
*******... ugh...
and look at the statue of David... anything... ahem...
"weird" about? it's disproportionate...
the head is too big for the body!
a massive ******* head on a body that would see
the head topple it like lumberjacking at some pristine
******* pines...
Titian's Paul III...
                  Perronneau's Madame de Sorquainville...
look at the smirk on her...
Mona Lisa can hide in shame...
or rather: her "smile"... is a... HANS! GOTTFRIED!
OTTO! CONRAD!
encore: ein wachslächeln (a wax smile)...
Rembrandt: a precursor to Turner...
almost the same Parkinson's disease...
but at least Turner conveyed landscapes... not portraits /
scenes...
something's blurry about Rembrandt...
like i already knew...
the people of the past weren't exactly
****** or deformed, or ugly...
****** artists, that's all...
well if someone like a Helen could: muster...
a 1000 ships...
she must have been a stunner!
a tenner for every penny saved...
         hmm... i'm still rummaging...Kenneth Clark's
Civilisation.... i'm looking for the antithesis of
Michelangelo' David...
oh i'll ******* find what i'm looking for...
even if i have to stay up to 5am to find it!
ah!   'ere we go!
    Riemenschneider's Adam...
          now that's an "Adam"... one i'd want to ****...
where was i...
oh ****... too many plotlines: ergo no plot...
it's like ***** Burroughs took at interest in
my writing from beyond the grave,
the whole Beat Hotel from Paris woke up &
brought back Tristan Tzara to decipher...
no cut-up methodology here...
i was just reading some Rousseau & thought
the language... eh... slightly "constipated"...
congested... on point... rigorous as one might expect
1 + 1 = 2 to be...
unless...
well no one ever said that a consonant must precede
a vowel... that there must be clear syllables...
that you can't allow two vowels or two consonants
to interact... on rare occasion you might end with
a specified consonant: an N...
or that vowels can exist alone... & that they can break
the rule of crafting syllables: & can meet...
ah... but they can't... i was wrong...
青 "=" アオ
               AO... blue...
but the meaning blue is an ideogram "concept"....
it's not a meaning that can be translated phonetically...
****'s sake... even in Japanese two vowels cannot meet,
nor two consonants...
although: they can... when as something
akin to a grapheme / a Chinese ideogram...
what would manner (NN) look like...
or... chatter (TT) should the Siamese Æ (sorry,
not grapheme, a grapheme would be the greek theta:
for th-ought) diphthong...
call an apple an apple... there are too many technical
terms ruining the narrative...
i'm bound to make one correct noun into
a disaster of a misnomer...

- thank you, winter sun, for receding to the point where
the moon can finally reclaim the night sky
and borrow something from the day,
no longer are the nights so ugly without him,
glaring in the sky, ever mindful cyclops
compared to the beauty of seeing very visibly
with almost two eyes, both the body & the shadow...
myopic moon... obstructed by clouds...

- back to the Glasbury event... we were dropped off
further down the road... i was given a map,
so i implored, were are we?
a finger descended onto the page & indicated:
YOU ARE HERE...
i took charge... mind you... it wasn't easy...
i had a popularity complex in high school...
it wasn't a "popularity" complex when it came
to entertaining the company of the "popular" kids...
the black boys were popular with the white girls,
the white boys were popular with, saic X...
i was leveraging the ******* nerds
playing video games, collecting Pokemon cards...
then again: with the ruffians...
spending Saturday afternoons in car parks...
trying lady luck by spitting down on them from
four stories up...

Peter Richardson... Kieran O'Mahoney...
endless Saturday afternoons...
cheap white lightning cider,
a youth club once existed in a church where
we played snooker where now,
most probably a mosque now stands...
blah blah...
we were once tricked by two girls...
before a wave of rowdy boys came up to
give us a beating... they oddly enough didn't
while Kieran lay on the ground crying...
semi-kicks & me imploring the bunch:
he has my walk-man! i need my music back!
Peter's younger brother was also there
but he did a runner... so, **** me...
3 against... 10, if not more?
those two ***** that enticed us...

well... we managed to escape the scene seemingly untouched...
ha ha...
Kieran did more damage to himself:
by himself when we overstayed out welcome in
South Park & had to climb over the fence...
me & Peter clamoured over... jumping onto our
feet as if we had four...
came the turn for Kieran...
standing on the top of the fence... jump! jump!
so he jumped... & managed to lodge his
underwear in one of the spikes...
for a millisecond we watched him dangle
quasi-impaled by his underwear...
laughter... well... i couldn't imagine it might have been
a particularly enjoyable ****... *******...
i came to my senses, Peter synonymous...
we lifted the poor ****** up & then down
from his predicament...

Glasbury... YOU ARE HERE... again... that's not cheating,
asking where you are, is it?
a benevolent finger descended on the map
and i was off... we took a shortcut through a road
that led into a little wood... we passed the wood
& emerged onto a pasture field...
some cows were grazing... the guys thought it might
be funny to push a cow over,
i advised them against it...

summa summarum: we ended up "beating" the other "team"...
clear as daylight...
i remember we were asked: since there was some spare
time... to exercise in the yard...
clear as daylight... we're exercising...
30 minutes if not more...
while the defeated team descends from around
the bend... all the girls, my peers with an expression
that could only be best read as: HUH?!
paint that... paint HUH?!
can anyone paint me: HUH?! on a woman's face,
can anyone?

i'm looking for a painting of woman, or several
women that reads the meaning of: HUH?!

oh **** me, i know i was spinning some other plate...
i hope i find it...

as usual Peter & Kieran got in the way...
perhaps Samuel might have joined the memory reel...
but Samuel is an altogether different matter...
almost a sacred memory...
that's for me to disclose when ready:
i'm not ready...

done, memory: begone!
fickle creature... of course it will remain...
but i hope it will be less prominent...
after all: i was almost 18 back then...
such memories are building blocks...
i managed to... read a map... guide a group of unruly peers
to success, "success"...
we just arrived early & our reward was some more
exercise... no... the reward was mine...
i managed to read the map & discovered shortcuts
in the make-up of the land...
to be told that you are at a disadvantage because
you are dropped off further away from group A:
while you're the disadvantaged group B...
well... placebo effect? i don't even know the correct naming
of this psychological experiment...

pair up older girls with younger boys
vs. pairing up older boys with younger girls...
only one year apart...
what the hell is pedagogy? eventually: at best...
a cocktail art... hey! let's see what happens!
esp. outside the classroom: in the outdoors!
as much as i'd love to dabble in the chemistry of
the inter & intra-man...
at a distance... i'd rather concern myself with
things that do not speak, pretend to listen,
pretend to see... pretend to feel:
or rather... i pretend for them... most certainly:
do not speak... zilch!

i couldn't possibly want the responsibility
surrounding the moulding of man
should "said" man not become... the ambition
worth of a statue in a public sq.
if i can't be an Aristotle shaping an Alexander...
i see a hammer: i see a nail...
oh... right... "of some use": no... pristine use...
the extant pivot!
beer is an extant pivot too, mind you...
what better way to "drown one's miseries"?
i was thinking of a make-up word...
exactant... EXACTANT...
                   out of: acting upon stasis: loosely...

i'm so almost content in stating:
whiskey first, the cider second that i can't finish a cigarette
having to subsequently write this...
not that there's much to write,
leave me: strain... i would very much so like
to watch some t.v., some movie...
some sport's & Sparta...
no... these toils with letters & memories...

Rousseau & the social contract...
even the name alone... Row-Sow...
look at it in Katakana: impossible...
snippets.... ロ
                             ウ        セ
                                             ウ...
or rather... Row-Sue!

i was wondering... what album did i hear, first?
Tool's aenima or tools lateralus?!

well me & Samuel would head over to
Romford... RM1 was a club... once upon a time...
where teenagers could enter & enjoy under-age drinking...
not that i was unfamiliar with the "practices"...
me & Samuel would walk back from Romford to
Ilford singing Backstreet Boys songs...
while the whole time we were 'ard-up punks /
metal heads... skateboards:
he stole his mother's credit card to pay for "my"
skateboard... he was later found out: fined...
i cowered like a leech when the pogrom on his ethics came...
what was her sisters' name...
Isa... Jessica! one of the Ursuline corpus!
oh i remember the Ursuline girls...
not that i had a hard-on for them:
i learned to ******* early... aged 8 i was doing the Onan
pledge... no... it was more about... RHO-MAN-Sssssss...
paid of like investing in... Sony's mini-disk "ingenuity"...
but every single morning...
those Ursuline girls on the bus...
beside the perfume of the morning... nothing worthwhile
mentioning... Samuels older sister Jessica
& Alex's older sister Samantha...
i remember one sleepover when
i purposively ****** on the toilet seat & one of them
noticed it... i was scolded (obviously)...
but the "matter" was quickly laid to rest...
on a bunch of nothing...

i scratched this CD so much: how?
from over playing it!
i wondered... when did i first hear of tool?
when i was a ****** 16 year old teenager...
how? Kerrang!
                                                my now estranged
uncle used to buy the magazine...
maybe...
(god, let me finish... i want to relax by
listening to some political "dialectic"...
opinion spewing... garbage... ditto-head echoes)...

i'm reading some Rousseau and listening to tool's
aenima...  i ought to hae a stipend for
makings "****" chronological...
in common parlance: **** = thing should a philosopher
ask... thing, nothing... blah blah...
lost appreciation for nouns...
or none to begin with...
i must have listened to aenima prior to lateralus...
i must have put down my homework
& be like: what the ****'s this?!
from stinkfist...
  i never heard anything like it!

it must have been aenima... i remember that summer
back in Poland when i started & finished reaading
the Three Musketeers... long before
Stendhal arrived on the scene with the Red & the Black...
one of those few adaptations on screen
(Ewan McGregor & Rachel Weisz)
of a book that might want you to read the book...
all of Sienkiewicz worked in reverse...
lucky me...

all ******* Celts though, Peter, Kieran, Samuel...
well... perhaps not Peter...
perhaps write an ode to... Alex... Martin:
the crooked teeth so crooked it felt uncomfortable
to bite a sandwich by him?
friendships... oh thank you professionalism...
i don't want to come too close...
friends once were:
now?
      oh forget about... to hell with "adoring" fans too...
someone's interested: fine...
they're not... to the pedestrian line with "you"!
i can allow myself the luxury...
it is a luxury... pass enough distance... animate
objects take on an inanimate object tinge...
hue... hue of... blurry... forgettable...
point of interest at a specified crux via transit...
but... otherwise... a celebratory forgetfulness surrounds
them... not out of spite... or my self-importance as
somehow superior to their: existence...
a shared value... they value their own freedoms
as i value mine...  it's strange: therefore...
how fame arrives at the fore... not posthumously:
yet when the said famous person is still alive...
fame as a reiteration of "fame"?
the hyper-reality of Baudrillard?
sounds like... the overhyped-hyper-reality of... "X"...

but i finally solved the "debacle"... did i listen
to tool's aenima or tool's lateralus first?
aenima... i'm listening to it right now...
i'm getting flashbacks... of the one club we used to go to,
when i still lived in Gants Hill & Romford was
this sacred place... for underage drinking...
**** me... the club didn't have a hard floor...
sickly sweet carpet underlying...
some other club...
     the DJ played STINKFIST...
     ooh... i'm gonna: stinkenfaust!
  i lost my head... i danced like a berserker...
what?
  on the same night i had my second kiss...
what could that kiss taste like: should memory be judged
the proper authority before the court?!
numb-cherry / ox--sweat...
  
that tool's aenima is an eulogy to bill hicks...
bill hicks... a very painful introspective on...
the stereotype of H'americans...
stereotyping themselves...

for me the greatest bill hicks moment came,
not telling a ****** joke...
undermining the concept of metaphor
with the reality of time...
sure... the bible didn't mention dinosaurs...
but sure as **** we were drawing fire breathing
lizards before the discovery of dinosaur bones...
lizards like makeshift "skyscrapers"...
undermine the metaphors of Moses...
such a finite little... loot...
new, "new" poetry "borrowed" from the old....
never undermine what Moses ought not or ought...

no, his greatest moment didn't come
from telling a joke,
it's his look of concern when...
he was asked to share the same interviewee
posit with, a very much drunken
Oliver Reed... no one could have played
Athos... like Oliver Reed did!
no one!
there was Bill Hicks... comedy extraordinaire
reduced to... perhaps tears...
laughing at a drunk... like that...
oh god... it hit: him: hard...
Oliver Reed: Athos! dinosaurs not in the bible:
ha ha... so what's up with humanity conjuring up
dragons?! ***** of fire... who said where
that... astronaut hit earth while the moon was
yawning: the what if: the moon was on its guard...
& the astronaut hit the moon...
earth with a ring of shrapnel like Saturn?!

perhaps i could remember the names of
the women i once loved... Promis... Priya...
Isabella... Ilona... n'ah.... what love i already gave
has now probably become an elephant's graveyard...
it's better to have memory of friendships in one's
progressive years...
i better retain Peter, Kieran, Samuel, Martin, Alex...
ought, within the confines of these times: be deemed
worthy to explore: the unknown...

tool's aenima: a priori...
tool's lateralus: a posteriori...

such sweetened acidity governing this cider...
i want to drink liters of it,
this gods' **** juice!
mehr! mehr! mehr!

proto-german then...
   mer! mer! mer!

proto-german, i.e. not Finnish...
lisää! o.k. that's ****** up...
doubled-up on the umlaut...
so whst's that? lisaaaa?!
                               my ******* arithmetic "wrong"?
is there a transvestite raeding this?
i can stomach a transvestite...
i was once, one, drunk...
trans- "****": the world of
popularity contests can stomach that....
digest it... just as wel: i want to forget about it...
the world can *******: with these "regards"...

i must have missed something...
yes, me & some ivory beautifies,
living it up in the safeguards of Kenya...
my god... some of these Kenyan girls...
past burnt mahogany...
past auburn... past autumn's flares...
i somehow almost forgot about my...
oriental fetish... of petite "things"...
geishas... what not...

             if i'm not being scrutinised...
i'm worried... i scrutize others:
eh... not so worried.