What needs my Shakespear for his honour’d Bones,
The labour of an age in piled Stones,
Or that his hallow’d reliques should be hid
Under a Star-ypointing Pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of Fame,
What need’st thou such weak witnes of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thy self a live-long Monument.
For whilst to th’sharne of slow-endeavouring art,
Thy easie numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the Leaves of thy unvalu’d Book,
Those Delphick lines with deep impression took,
Then thou our fancy of it self bereaving,
Dost make us Marble with too much conceaving;
And so Sepulcher’d in such pomp dost lie,
That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die.

If you ***** me I bleed.
So too shall you.
   If you pinch me I flinch.
So too shall you.
   If your arrow pierces mine heart
I will die.
Yet not before I rip yours
still bleeding from your chest.
   If you **** me your torment
will be measured by your sanity,
after you wake from the nightmare
you will have created for yourself
   If somehow I survive your onslaught
My vengeance will not be swift nor exact
Only slow to build and erratic at best.
   For by the time I am finished
exacting my revenge
your tormented sole will beg
to be released from my merciless grasp.
   There is no corner of the earth
that will be sufficient enough for you to hide.
If by chance age catches up to you,
your children shall reap your just reward
their pain will be your agony.
   Your anguish while brooding over past
will be misery while worrying of the future.
For you nor they know what lay in hold
for them to see when you cease to be.

This is not a poem.
This is a rant.

I will put on my rage face,
And paint the town red,
And "just go crazy, man"
With the company of myself
In the comfort of my own home
Because I can tear my shirt,
Or draw a knife
Or shout shakespear off a balcony
And I openly scream at the shadows
Who answer politely with silence
I can behave badly
And if I am my only witness
I can sleep at night
Without the peace and solitude that comes from iron bars
And padded cells
I can fight with myself and indulge in the guilty pleasures
That make me feel sullied and stupid
I can argue with a hundred dream girls
And when I sleep,
They are still there in my dreams
There is no loss or losing
I can spend three hundred dollars
Monthly on alcohol
If it saves me three thousand
Monthly on sanity
I can look in the mirror and see a hundred different faces
Each more honest to its emotion than the last
I can bite my tongue to spite my face and
Laugh that it was my reflection that drove me to do so,
You never know what that ******* will say
When i am not looking
I dont spend the night on the town
Because I no longer need to surround myself with people.
I no longer need to go out to buy a hat
That suits me and makes me look interesting or meaningful
When I sit alone at the bar
I have no one to impress except myself
And myself already knows I am unimpressive.
There is no one to disappoint
And while this seems like a sad tale,
The truth is that it is the free-est I've ever felt.
In the sanctity of a space that is mine
Surrounded only by people I disagree with
My reflections
And shadows
And to be able to write this while wearing underpants.
Bukowski was right
God is dead

Hence loathèd Melancholy
  Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born,
In Stygian Cave forlorn
  ‘Mongst horrid shapes, and shreiks, and sights unholy.
Find out som uncouth cell,
  Where brooding darknes spreads his jealous wings,
And the night-Raven sings;
  There, under Ebon shades, and low-brow’d Rocks,
As ragged as thy Locks,
  In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But com thou Goddes fair and free,
In Heav’n ycleap’d Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth
With two sister Graces more
To Ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore;
Or whether (as som Sager sing)
The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring,
Zephir with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a Maying,
There on Beds of Violets blew,
And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew,
Fill’d her with thee a daughter fair,
So bucksom, blith, and debonair.
  Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity,
Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and Wreathèd Smiles,
Such as hang on ****’s cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrincled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Com, and trip it as ye go
On the light fantastick toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee,
The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honour due,
Mirth, admit me of thy crue
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreprovèd pleasures free;
To hear the Lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watch-towre in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to com in spight of sorrow,
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine,
Or the twisted Eglantine.
While the **** with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darknes thin,
And to the stack, or the Barn dore,
Stoutly struts his Dames before,
Oft list’ning how the Hounds and horn
Chearly rouse the slumbring morn,
From the side of som **** Hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill.
Som time walking not unseen
By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,
Right against the Eastern gate,
Wher the great Sun begins his state,
Rob’d in flames, and Amber light,
The clouds in thousand Liveries dight.
While the Plowman neer at hand,
Whistles ore the Furrow’d Land,
And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the Mower whets his sithe,
And every Shepherd tells his tale
Under the Hawthorn in the dale.
Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasures
Whilst the Lantskip round it measures,
Russet Lawns, and Fallows Gray,
Where the nibling flocks do stray,
Mountains on whose barren brest
The labouring clouds do often rest:
Meadows trim with Daisies pide,
Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.
Towers, and Battlements it sees
Boosom’d high in tufted Trees,
Wher perhaps som beauty lies,
The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,
From betwixt two agèd Okes,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,
Are at their savory dinner set
Of Hearbs, and other Country Messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;
And then in haste her Bowre she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves;
Or if the earlier season lead
To the tann’d Haycock in the Mead,
Som times with secure delight
The up-land Hamlets will invite,
When the merry Bells ring round,
And the jocond rebecks sound
To many a youth, and many a maid,
Dancing in the Chequer’d shade;
And young and old com forth to play
On a Sunshine Holyday,
Till the live-long day-light fail,
Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How Faery Mab the junkets eat,
She was pincht, and pull’d the sed,
And he by Friars Lanthorn led
Tells how the drudging Goblin swet,
To ern his Cream-bowle duly set,
When in one night, ere glimps of morn,
His shadowy Flale hath thresh’d the Corn
That ten day-labourers could not end,
Then lies him down the Lubbar Fend,
And stretch’d out all the Chimney’s length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
And Crop-full out of dores he flings,
Ere the first **** his Mattin rings.
Thus don the Tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering Windes soon lull’d asleep.
  Towred Cities please us then,
And the busie humm of men,
Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,
In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,
With store of Ladies, whose bright eies
Rain influence, and judge the prise
Of Wit, or Arms, while both contend
To win her Grace, whom all commend.
There let ***** oft appear
In Saffron robe, with Taper clear,
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mask, and antique Pageantry,
Such sights as youthfull Poets dream
On Summer eeves by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon,
If Jonsons learnèd Sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe,
Warble his native Wood-notes wilde,
And ever against eating Cares,
Lap me in soft Lydian Aires,
Married to immortal verse
Such as the meeting soul may pierce
In notes, with many a winding bout
Of linckèd sweetnes long drawn out,
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
The melting voice through mazes running;
Untwisting all the chains that ty
The hidden soul of harmony.
That Orpheus self may heave his head
From golden slumber on a bed
Of heapt Elysian flowres, and hear
Such streins as would have won the ear
Of Pluto, to have quite set free
His half regain’d Eurydice.
These delights, if thou canst give,
Mirth with thee, I mean to live.

1st Movement:

When I hear the knocks at my door I’m filled with hope. Hope that it’s my good old friend coming to see me again and fill me with his familiar presence. By equal measures, though, I feel fear. Fear that it’s my good old friend back again to fill me with that all too familiar darkness. They’re gentle knocks, sinister but as grating and aggressive as a great dog’s bark. The sound turns the air to a particular darkness which fills my lungs and heart. Fear interspersed with curiosity compels me to answer the door with haste and resignation to his behest, if only to refine this binary mixture of emotions to one or the other. Both are equally awful as each other, for this old friend is not the kind of friend one would willingly welcome. He’s the sort of friend who, when he wants to come in, he will, and I’ve learned over the years that it’s easier to let him. Let him in to wreak his worst on me and let him go again until his return. He always returns.

This ‘good old friend’ I speak of is the crafty external force which deceives me with my heart’s treachery to believe his bogus internality. He deceives me and he deceives my heart, my mind, my soul; my whole being, the whole world. The sooner I let him in and the more open and receptive I am to his abuse, the sooner he will leave. Leave me for a moment’s respite from his damning indictment which screams of anger at his own futility.

The figurative door barks only in my brain, but the definite door knocks gently, devoid of any disturbance. As I open the door the darkness dissipates making way to a bright clarity. My fallible heart was presuming the worst, yet not knowing it. Standing before me is my friend, my brother securely holding in his hands the words written that everything will be alright. Not now, and we know not when, but everything was, and will be again.

I put on a mask of happiness to fool my brother to altruistically manipulate his altruism toward me, but to my own detriment. My own success backfires. My brother, fooled in my eyes, serves the manipulation straight back to me. Facile happiness abounds us both driving enthusiasm with which to examine the words he holds, and to diligently extrapolate the truth from the book he bears quenching our thirst driven by our mutual love for truth.  As his eyes close to another world, another dimension, mine too close seeing only the questions asked in my imagination. What does he under his eye lids see? Where are his words going, and to whom other than me? These are the questions he is here to answer, unbeknownst to me. The questions I’ve been silently asking ever since I learned to question. The same questions every single person in existence, excluding none, asks all the time. Some ask with hope of an answer. Others, enveloped with contentiousness, ask to prove a nonexistent point and perpetually fail to succeed, mocking only themselves. But do they know they mock? The self ridicule is cloaked in self righteousness woven by this world with its daily, bite size propaganda fed through speakers and screens right into the deepest recesses of the mind. The dangling carrot promising satisfaction. Playing on our inherent knowledge that there is something better, something more resemblant of that originally intended perfection for which we all strive in our divinely uneducated way. There is something better than the devastation we witness encompassing our souls and poisoning our hearts, making us sick. A sickness self inflicted from the view of the original intender. A donkey won’t chase the dangling carrot without the hunger. The screens drip feed us hunger and, offering the unattainable antidote, it keeps us chasing.

My brother has come to help me use my mental tools to instil the abiding antidote from these words. Words with which to gradually alter my outlook on their beauty. My previous reverence for poetry changing like the tides, flowing and ebbing over and again, gently moulding the lands into more beauteous forms making known nature’s true name.

יהוה; quintessence of the words,
Of beauty to our ears.
Not love of mind nor fanciful sight,
Nor tenacity of breath of those who might,
Speak provocation of effusive tears.

Diversification of those whose diction,
Expansion was sought imploringly,
Displayed meek thirst,
For knowledge first;
They’ll be blessedly beset linguistically.

Longing rills of liquefied utterance,
Reverberating waves aplenty,
Bellowing whispers loud,
Heard from within a shroud,
Giving rise to a barrel never empty.

Roaring murmurs of ripples in thousands
Cascading to oceans below,
A fast falling downward demise,
Sounding white truth and that of black lies,
Of onomatopoeic H2O.

Not stringent is the string of letters,
Lax are the words to be strung.
Not sequentially,
But dulcetly,
Outward beauty will be rung.

With a patterned strike using one’s cerebella Mallet
On the gong of one’s cerebral stock,
Eloquence imbues,
The mind your ears use,
Curtailing the perpetual tick tock – tick tock.

Facile masks circle that face,
Consuming as they revolve.
Filched is elation,
Taken is creation.
Yet knowing the inevitable resolve.

We know now, consciously or not, with whom we originate. What stops us from connecting the dots. A dot-to-dot; something so easy to do, but where those dots continue to move, we fail to place the blame succeeding to rue. Frustration turns to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to he; The dot mover, the obstructer, the distractor, the decoy from truth, from love, justice, from every good thing. We know whose power the world lies within, yet choose ignorance over the truth which we already know in our hearts.

These realisations are made like Wordsworth’s frost at midnight. They perform their secret ministry through the air, over my body and penetrating my mind and heart, upheld by any wind from my or my brothers mouth. Each and every utterance supports any later rumination on the truth, the lie, and anything in between these extreme poles of all that’s known and that which is unknown, seen and unseen, loved and hated.

These reciprocal uplifting and upbuilding exchanges, each a divine gift, a string of gems to have and hold for time indefinite, aid an understanding of the one responsible for such. So little time we have left, yet such extravagant lengths of this most precious dimension is wasted arguing for and against, but never asking who or why? Surely only a fool argues a case about that which is unknown. The facts form irrefutability, yet the propensity to form too fast with a one sided judgement still wins while we dote on our own supposed intelligence.

Acknowledging the light seeping through the cracks in the still darkness, he rages with a concentrated anger at his self generated, perpetual, vindictive blindness. He is that getter in the way of things, the shadow caster, the adversary, שָׂטָן.

He is the darkness licking round the door frame, to my mind with all his might and yet crafty restraint. Not one of us can escape this darkness, not on our own. We can, though, shed light on it. Light will always win where both are present. Darkness may be the fundamental state, but where light is allowed, darkness is always destroyed.

But then it comes over me like a tidal wave. A darkness rushes at me like a sledgehammer for making this realisation. Past the point of no return do I give in. I give up. It’s too much. Only so much ducking and weaving can one man’s energy let him do till there is none left, and now it’s gone. I’ve run dry to doom, run into the ground. I’m broken.

Time rolls on filled with a single solid nothing. The weeks pass. The days, the hours go by sniggering and sneering. The clock’s face look down his nose and finds me. To us, time seems the highest of all dimensions, but as obscure as it is, by what does it run? A question we have not enough time to fully answer scientifically. Science by it’s very nature is the perpetuation of posing question after question until the answer lies beyond comprehension. Posing question after question to answer with evidence is categorically finite. Uncertainty is an underlying rule pervading science itself, though faith follows beyond the apparent end. One will never know just how much of a threat obtaining this faith can be to he, the adversary.

Life’s doorman presenting my open garment inviting me into the warm wrappings of my winter coat to deceptively soften the mourning of the summer we lost. That paradise on which we passed. Beaconing me into the warm wrapping only to send me astray, away, adrift from the truth to eternal ruth and regret of one day.

At this my brother departs for his own trials in his own house, thus leaving me to petition and plead for a helping hand out of the ill-lighted and lurid cavernous fog I find myself in. There’s a relentless pain pervading my whole soul, but the pane in the wall frames nature’s beauty which taunts me so. A picture plane presenting a small glimmer of the bliss meant to be. A hope of spiritual prosperity, assurance for which we have been given, though the reminders are not easy. The doorman’s world drives his crafty vehicle of dangling carrots with such ferocity to blind us. The speed blinds the minds of those who stopping, would realise there’s string and a stick. It’s a trick. A trick which has seen us plough through a vast array of food, a banquet, chasing the ever out of reach embellished single grain, though always the closest.

Try as he might to perpetuate this fight, us, his captives, continue to fight longer and harder with a never ending and unlimited supply of the best weapon known to man. Love. From where does it flow? To where does it go? First we have to know, and once harboured, we must direct its flow.

Five years have passed. Five summers with the length of five long winters, and again I hear these waters rolling from their mountain springs with soft in-land murmur.
(William Wordsworth - Lines Written at Tintern Abbey)

The mountain spring is where. A monumental spring of an historic scale from mount zion producing a never ending murmur of love to cascade over the ocean of a people lowering themselves to the strongest and most sturdy section of the mountain.

As the result of a string of mutations, always mutating and never improving, is always the same, such a long string will never become rope. An infinite number of monkeys given an infinite number of typewriters and infinity itself will rewrite the entire works of Shakespear. Those who read a Shakespear and surmise the existence of a lot of literate monkeys, are vacuous victims of international mind-numbing, but wilfully so.

Saturated with such a concentrated concoction of diverse threads erratically woven into a veil, a cloak of lies behind which their lack of faith is hiding, a falsity for their fallacy; the world frantically searches for truths using tools honed only by the world, on which the adversary hones his trident. Needles in haystacks the truths may be, but once found they’re overt, obviously. They are the flames that burn the darkness, a holocaust of murk, the Wally amongst the distracting cacophonous din of hustle-bustle of faceless herds trudging in binary directions to their fraudulent feed of false food disguised as noble inflections.

The casting of light in our eyes, as pennies of an historic value drop, irradiates the notion that our eyeballs have been boring into truths and truth has been peering back for all time past. Have we not seen because the want to see was lacking, or did we not see because our ability was cracking? Were the lights on with nobody home, or were they residing in darkness? The utterance of my brother came inspired, “If we focus on misfortune, we will reap what we sow. Focus on the truth and let everyone know”.

Asking is merely making known one’s requirement for information. Prior to this we must attest the intent of receiving such. Though, the truth has been granted devoid of request, negate it has not our silent behest. Do we need to know the truths we now see in plain sight, to live our lives in harmony?

In a world without compassion, where the hungry are starved, the thirsty desiccated, the poor deprived, and the weak expended; does the supposed prime driver really give two hoots about the starving, desiccated, deprived and expendable; me, you, us? Ostensibly not.

Surely a world of war where we’re sick and we suffer will have been founded by not one whit related to love, but a halfwit wilfully innate and cognate to hate. Paying heed to words written with the elusive love we seek, I see the distinction from consent and cause. Trudging through Satan’s cesspit with consent from whom we cannot blame for causing the sewage in which we wade.

I know there is to do, but what to do, how to do, where to do and when. Knowing why is too little to do by. Answers are only information and information is worthless until actions are born. A gift unappreciated lies stagnant and not used. A gift gratefully received produces infectious joy.

forget the Hollywood take, on anything
be entertained, for sure

remember real life
is so much more

and so much more persevering
than act 1
when the real Romeo and Juliet

finally get it on

I want our words to make love....
Let us wine and dine in pen...
Ill kiss you from the page...
We'll create no biblical sins...

So poetic
that my physical is pathetic
I mean I fumble words around you..
But when I create, I'm no fool

Subdue you...
underneath you..
I'll ***** you...
Make your feet move..

Give you shakespear cues...
Show you which way to play...
As I write out scenes of love
That last for hours into days...

I'm no genius Just a lover
That gets off to syllables
I passion write in purple
Cause the red is full of bulls...

Let our I's Collide
As we make human i Ts
Saving Graces for our diner
for in each other we both feed..

I'm sure to say I do
If you read a little deeper...
But don't read too fast
cuz I'm know to be a sleeper...

Silence is my killer
Verbal language is my gun
As I have no set targets
go on killing sprees for fun..

Im a ******
Leave women lifeless in bedrooms
Bathrooms, car seats, tee pees and Breakrooms...
Let us have a pow wow...

For I'll empty life into you...
Birth a new prince...
All in the way he touched you..
While leaving no finger prints..

Let Our words..
make Love....
Feel Death...
and Receive Life...

For I Created this to tell you
I want your soul tonight...
but every time you'll read this
You'll know that love is Write...

I want our words to make love
Let us wine and dine in pen
Ill kiss you from the page
We'll create no biblical sins

So poetic
that my physical is pathetic
I mean I fumble words around you
But when I create, I'm no fool

Subdue you
underneath you
I'll ***** you
Make your feet move

Give you shakespear cues
Show you which way to play
As I write out scenes of love
That last for hours into days

I'm no genius Just a lover
That gets off to syllables
I passion write in purple
Cause the red is full of bulls

Let our I's Collide
As we make human i Ts
Saving Graces for our diner
for in each other we both feed

I'm sure to say I do
If you read a little deeper
But don't read too fast
‘cause I'm know to be a sleeper

Silence is my killer
Verbal language is my gun
As I have no set targets
go on killing sprees for fun

Im a ******
Leaving men lifeless in bedrooms
Bathrooms, car seats, tee pees and Breakrooms
Let us have a pow wow

For I'll empty life into you
Birth a new princess
All in the way she touched you
While leaving no finger prints

Let Our words
make Love
Feel Death
and Receive Life

For I Created this to tell you
I want your soul tonight
but every time you'll read this
You'll know that love is Write



anon & m.g.

Don't go near the Shakespeare café,
you'll drown in pronouns, adjectives, an punctuation!
An your tongue ripped from your mouth by crazy pronunciation!
you'll get confused by similes and metaphors alike,
an your brain scrambled like crowds on a hike!

I’m not always a fan of poetry - if I actually take time to ponder it
- it can be so irritatingly rhymey, kind of fussy and needlessly intricate.

Compare my love to a summer’s day and I’ll probably yawn and walk away.

Take a nuanced look at the transactions of *** and consent,
and as adults, we may wonder where the romance went.

You know, it only happens once in a while,
that someone with wit and individual style
comes along with something to say
and scribbles it down in a poem or play.

Here’s to the creative visionaries,
to Dickinson's unique and dreamy imagery,
to Shakespear’s highly stylized, run-on sentences
that manage to speak to us over the centuries
or challenge our stifled, bourgeoisie banality
like Nabokov’s use of stunning vocabulary.

Topics Two!

Of milkshakes and muppets.
And tragedy puppets.

Of flowers and showers.
And wiled away hours.

Of words of cruel tongues.
Obscuring our sons.

Of beer and fear.
And crazy rein deer.

Of Christmas gifts.
And crazy rifts.

Usually start at Christmas time.
Christmas spirits or maybe wine.

Of kings and queens.
And stupid scenes.

In Shakespear to endear.
Of drama.

And armour.
The knight's kitted out.


Of nightmares and scares.
And one who cares.

But noticed never not!
Of fears and tears.

And dogs and cats.
Wearing floppy hats.

Of nature.
And bees

And maturities kisses.
We hope no-one misses our words.

Always read.
Occasionally heard!

We pen another scatty ditty.
Because we live in fantasy.
A world of Walter Mitty!

That's a poet 's point of view.
Penned on here.
Just for you!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Shakespeare& C0

6-7 years ago, I was in Paris for a wedding and reading poetry,
the reading was met with protests by the public who protested again
my anti-Israel and pro-Palestinian poems.
The day after walking about I was trying to find the Paris of Dos Passos
and Ernest Hemingway, found a city overpriced looking like any others.
I happened to walk past a bookshop “Shakespeare & co” I walked in
met by a million of books.
I had two slim volumes of my own effort, and naively asked if I could place
them here? The answer was yes, I filled out a form with my address,
and that was it. It was only later I realized my tiny books were the company with
the greatest poets and writer in the western world.
I never contacted the bookshop again, but often wonder if anyone has browsed
through my work and liked what I had written.

the lenses of my eyes capture on the film of mind your wondrous beauty and grace of style .I know that  not even shakespear  could pen sonnets that would fully reveal the breath and scope of your beauty so how can I in these feeble and trembling words which hopefully will be accepted from my heart and carried into yours

First Love, which lives in each of two young lovers trembling heart,
Being glorified by Shakespear's tragic story of the hope and pain,
Its essence is immortal, it blooms like rose: again, again, again,
Its burning thrill shines in the world, by sin and evil teared apart.

Two bodies's gentle ardent languor merge, filled with elation
Turns satisfaction of the carnal instinct's *******
Into the sacred hymn of the eternal nature's cycle regeneration,
And into solemn ritual of celebrating life's rebirth.

As long as rises sun, heralding coming of the new day's light,
As long as moon brings spirit to the shadow pit of botomless dark night,
- Oh earthly prose, I beg, please don't overthrow sentiment,
Expressed in copulating naked souls Love's holy sacrament.

There is no such as a happy ending
The reason Shakespear failed in writing us our perfect love story is that
The mere notion that things would stop
if they were happy
doesn’t make any sense
The highway of happiness
Allows the car or motorbike or van that is ourselves
With a full tank of petrol
Take the eager passengers of emotion
Depending on the space within
Carry us on a cruise or a splutter
until the end of the asphalt

The end of the road of life,
is the end of life
Anyone who says there’s dignity in death
Obviously hasn’t held the hand of a loved one
As they splutter for breath
Rasping and shallow
Asleep but begging for something you can’t give them
Someone

Death isn’t dignified
It’s a rusty engine collapsing
The car that has driven you
for your whole life
You have oiled, serviced, mot-ed,
loved,
Neglected,
Repaired
failing for one last time

No matter how many *** holes you have hit
Flat tyres, blowing and wiping out days, weeks months of exploring
We still travelled forward
Experiencing every view and every bump along the way
There’s no happiness in the end of the road
It’s only there in how you look back upon the journey

First Love, which lives in each of two young lovers trembling heart,
Being glorified by Shakespear's tragic story of the hope and pain.
Its essence is immortal, it blooms like rose: again, again, again,
Its burning thrill shines in the world, by sin and evil teared apart.

Two bodies's gentle ardent languor merge, filled with elation
Turns satisfaction of the carnal instinct's *******
Into the sacred hymn of the eternal nature's cycle regeneration,
And into solemn ritual of celebrating life's rebirth.

As long as rises sun, heralding coming of the new day's light,
As long as moon brings spirit into the shadow pit of bottomless dark night,
- Oh earthly prose, I beg, please don't overthrow sentiment,
Performed by copulating naked souls Love's holy sacrament.

Hail to Mark Twain, and John Steinbeck, and William Shakespear.
Hail to the kings of literature and jesters of yesterday.
Their crowns are their words and their jewels are their jokes.
Their Reign is unending yet ended and gone.

Now we fall before beauty tutorials and conspiracy theories.
For dogs chasing cats, and girls chasing boys.
Now their crowns are rusty, and their jewels unpolished.
No one tends to their memorials as they tend to surf the web.

I look down at the blank paper and wish the pen to write. In frustration I lay my head in my hands. Slowly I fade into sleep only to be awakened by the sound of music. I turn around to see a man playing a lyre as another paces back and forth. Puzzled for a moment ,I look around the room. From one corner I see people who are vaguely familiar. My eyes return to the person Playing the music and suddenly I know it is David, while pacing next to him I see Aerostotil. Over at a simple wooden, table I recognize Shakespear chatting with a brash fellow I know to be Mark Twain. In confusion I stumble into Lord Byron, who is reading work just written by Dickenson, she sits in a chair idly brooding waiting for him to declare what he thinks. In a Mad Dash of confusion I quickly turn around, and I fall as the house of Usher's and come crashing to the ground. A well-dressed gentleman offers me a hand and picks me up, he has a dark and piercing stare. I ask where I am, and Mister Poe quietly declares, you're in the poet's room. You have found your way here, I asked him how and he says I'm truly not sure. He says this is a place where people come to share ideas and to watch one another's work. I say that I was frustrated and could not will my pen to write. He laughs rather smugly with an impish Delight. He said that is not the purpose of writing, he says you cannot will it to flow. He says look around you and tell me what you see. I said I see great writers, but he said they can be just as frustrated as you. He said Each one can tell a story, and he said that something that you must learn to do. So the room again to fade into a fuzzy Hayes. I woke up from my slumber and look down at the blank and dismal page. It suddenly dawned on me, but I must look around. For if I want to tell a story, then it must be found. So I got it for my table and took a walk outside. There I took a really good look at the World Grand and wide. I didn't set off on a journey with the lessons that I've learned. A story can't be forced, it must be earned. So when I return to my desk, with paper and Pen in Hand. I shall no longer be so frustrated for now I understand.

The spell check after my writing this will
malfunction but I wrote this after a long ago
traveling experience and it was so real and
so very long ago in oldest of English time ..
As I spent time where Shakespear lived ..

Twas to be that thine alone twood stand
Twile moon and star and wind twood be~
Twen shiver twood endure thus so
Failing the likes of time and thee~
Shawled in stance beyond the brush
Two shadows the night produced~
And thy meeting became a meeting thus so
As oneness from twosome reduced~
Walketh thine twards yonder hut
Twere fire burnt there brightly~
Twas there alone twithin this home
Twood love exist so tightly~
Twen moon it slept and clouds they wept
Twith water from heaven it fell~
Holdest thine in arms entwined
And dwell in the home of hunters dell~
From a being of wealth ye came from thus
To a being of both fur and gun~
Twere true love twould be forever free
Thus no more eyes of jest in fun~
Twas there that thine chose to be mine
Twen moon and star it shone on high~
Love twas then born as night owl yawned
To vow love till time to die ~

Terrence Michael Sutton
copyright 1988.

Is this something out of Shakespear?
When you inquire?
How much do I love you?

Is it a play yet to be written?
A subject matter challenging my intention.

I loved you before I knew whoever you was?
Sort like mothers loving their child yet not born.

Something touches the depth of our heart.
Telling you, how much I do love you?
Can be seen in my eyes.

But if I must voice it to you?
I honestly can.

I'm standing here speechless and numb, trying to pick up my thoughts from the abyss of feelings.
Emotional, in despair... disabled... distorted... dismembered...

*

Get out! Come near!

Get lost, little *****!

But without you, I'm lost in my fears...

I'd cry it all out, but where do I get enough tears?

You're ******* me dry, that's what you're doing, my dear!

What's now? It seems like my soul disappears!

But wait, it's alright cuz I like how it's making all clearer.

You know, I've just made up all poets are cynic...

Take that, Shakespear!

Your poems are lies.

That's been just lust at its final frontier!

Luv *****, it's disturbing to hear...

What's next? It's just life with no fear.

Nuff said, I'll survive, hold my beer... )))

An artist’s mark can be found on most pieces… it being a name, initials, and/or some form of stamp or mark… Linking the creation to the creator… Van Gogh is no exception to this rule... His name can be found on many of his pieces yet I feel a more predominant mark has been hidden in plain sight… Van Gogh’s self-portrait (1889 – Blue) clearly shows the fatigued and sickly look in his eyes… eyes that are as identical to Portrait of a Peasant (Patience Escalier – 1888).

Van Gogh’s subjects were used many times and in many variations of ways and angles. Portrait of a Peasant is such a piece... The shape and look of the eyes vary dramatically. But the almost carbon copy of the shape, look, and sadness from Portrait of a Peasant and Van Gogh’s self-portrait can't just be coincidence. I believe that Van Gogh either drew it unintentionally and as sad as it might seem unconsciously. Both of which I feel were a clear cry for help by a man who struggled with what obviously depression.

Van Gogh’s portrait of his mother also has similar eyes. Leonardo da Vinci and William Shakespear both said, “eyes are the window to the soul” and in Van Gogh’s case one that was filled with torment, loneliness, and a need for belonging.

Far be it from me to criticize anyone who does not agree with my synopsis of such things nor do I consider myself an expert in such matters, but the lightbulb in my head flickers quite often when looking over Vincent’s paintings.

The truth might never come to light and my opinion on the matter might be nothing more than one trying to make sense of the senseless. Trying in the most obvious way coping with the idea that a talent such as this was cut short in what possibly was the incline of his artistic career.