Kaitelka; Whale Mongolic down, first whale which said syndrome, evidenced by their presence, as didgeridoo, as spitting but more hypersonic, hyper cetacean moving his tail, Burguete funds, learned to swim faster than anything, but the Nautilus, not He paid attention to his mother in his care skills, but bad luck that can befall if not moderate their exalting and allergic omitted cases to obey.

So all blue, but little Kaitelka, seeking friendship among their peers, but he put  a tambourine limit gave him leftovers and liked more than a day a thousand years of perfect instincts. So step aside by the fire, and dodged the deafening roar of nymph Satinga; the most ancient senator of the headpiece, always full on its plateau of ******* hydrochloride that resistance, if they pass a thousand years and I do not understand these pairs, I adjusted my engine, but to no avail me, my instincts are diluted and slim as downpour edges left by the wayside in infants and solfa. That Jesus Light was said behind the screen rainbow arch, he takes her hand to Kaitelka, and back by the outer estuary, they attack by instinct ministry of evil.

Mildew petrified oaks, disorients the abject warty troughs the disordering of the genetic instinct, if I have to pause my essence, I leave in the hands of Joshua stone from beyond. Where the ticket is worth more to me, but I get the same. Where evil knows well, but tasteless well. Underground, underwater., Kaitelka take any more, wheels come and go, instinct taking shredding herbs near the sea, no longer separates me more. Bright the famous day that rebukes my dreams rather than a whole, plastering, or monument flash highborn of Mongolic loves whales, classless or inheritances acquired record. Kaitelka and in gratitude to accompany my walk, to the junction of Lisbon, walking from room to room, to begin the pilgrimage, his steps were Glup, Glup like a pretty varmint, over the hills she is beginning to the descritery of Satinga, or rather the descritery of Sapiens Hommo, rummaging instinct of love today, then unloved. Native forests make pairings, but separate links non-energy cataclysms, similar to the new alliance valley radial wave, tuned cetacean sonar power can be glimpsed.

The Ministry of Evil is no end to the retrospective marvel at Noe, Isaac or Abraham, or Luther King, is the delayed form of unsettled muscle primo Evo madding to neo Evo updated, and neither bells sound the same, as reboot gray phthisis diseases degenerate and synthetic. The instinct to put your hands into the fire will be lost ..., so more pace to the back of them cutting the seas in arithmetical divisions, if commend my antidepressants depressive relatives, caress the sea in each constipated solstice, I go every night with daisies in my hands defying every cliff, every cave turned into a tavern, killing instinct, when the brain is nothing, sprayed kerosene on stage, to see my beloved before he dies of a blowgun.  

Joshua Stone and Bernardolipus in a crossroad, spin the grazing, the black sheep, is barren, its classic label of Segregated debased soul, but defecated humanoid comment sing out of tune the territory themselves.  Three-step, three-way, Joshua embraces Bernardolipo. Welcome starts. Satinga you slice ferns and wild beast, vomits both diazepams swallowed, do not sleep, dreams transpose half orb. Halos, half halos, iridescent arcades, and warm breezes, must preamble Donated high liking. Soft and warm look, I do not lose my plate potato near my belly, warm adobe cellar. Nymph Satinga of reaction in reaction out of tune and the highlights midwife psoriasis for its reddish dermis by a fungus worming. The re instinct starts to chew his skull, dread end of the border. The cookies Lord is sending us on napkins.

Pre urbane figure born, they appear a hundred suns, so the crowd out who has the audacity to reveal the discrete enigma, the puzzle while the floor moves the seizure ... all stunned waiting for the flash Ritual to start the preliminary stage, the paradigm of unshelled trees, tough tables roll by the church at the foot of flowers crocuses scrolls flat estate. For the baptistery inscrutability warmth your network back double halo on the moon, scrub that level. Abyss where I fall near aspire to the coachman, I go away over time from heaven minute no second in hours where the avalanche of time lose my look to hold any deity that does not prevent the tendency to lose those not facing front, a day like this you do not walk any shadow, nor the Horcondising I would like to Santorini. The Borker wrongheaded, burning a cigar in rib Kaitelka, it provides a stunning scream as the end of the world, giving birth to the sky his beautiful breeding, as a good omen to present to the crowd in the Octagon and pleased transit day often fruity crestfallen fig.  

Adelimpia,  Strongly taken the and Thunder Aunt, washed in the backroom their aprons with Christmas, whose magical and enlightening sense, they were the Three Wise Princes, sons of the same kings of Israel. Sitting on some cobs, heritages from last wheel spikes. On warm evenings mantra Baba Nam Kevalam, I do not stay alone without others to see this magical high flood flow mention aversion in pontificates, necessary, pal meal with wine apocalyptic pale rider, Napoleonic soldier dethroned.

Thousands of hectares grassland in loving with heavenly muddy, as adhering to the force of Sorcery Camphor to move everything to the midnight launch eclipse. Thousands of hectares squirts do not possess any extension ratio, giddiness master eye, losing possession. What is Slice is Caren Lagoon, which is Alhué Village is Polulo mountain near the place, what Pichi of Barrancas... Out of my roles temple or regulators, as night plans still dating Jack, with overall equidistant to all orphan girl lost in the jungle inbenign . Cutting room of breath begins threshing., afar put the trays, and poor saint not to attend, this clever move, all atheists bruised, stiff and deprived of the worst failure smoothness, it´s the earth not plowed,                    
              
Dreams whistles hills ... Ghosts and spurs  ... Elegy opaque optical floors, all at Aunty Thunder dream the same...

If you can call night, inland sea waves have to educate infant’s tsunamis, they live among geological forces off the coast of scudding clouds of ... where she cuts through. Where our conscience, should play down a Machiavellian zero to roll it to the belly of the whale down. Their heavy udders milk, as long as a wild bird dueled, mounted in their beards, but the bird slips for his little body often and disadvantaged, to fall into the enzyme flash neuron meditatively; aspiring meditatively. While tsunamis grow, the mountains grow, decreases Hommo sapiens, conscience, he has left, minus zero exiled to the **** pony pens, to create their neighborhood over the eyes of a pupil of warty lameness. Reborn storm, stately power, Nymph Hetaira, who seduces the ringer smith, golden horseshoe, pal new millennium. His no longer harp, sewing lips ant, threading needles Grandma milking herbs get a grotto, families abandoned, shrill understatement by the echoes of the West, for you my Transients soliloquy turbid straightening of holistic aqueous molecules who want to sleep in my hands.

Good beverage, good consciousness nursery. Sleepily he walks by the barbed wire of stupid sort of busybody in thickness bolognese, or bandoneon, pilaster grandson male, to Vizcaya sailing or North Toscana, where after a barricade, Piedmont jumps to the south under Pichi.

They are falling water molecules on Maitén tree, or Tomato Adelimpia bow, and on the fibrous and head hair grass grandmamma Anna. Junks greet Bernardolipo, which was fishing with his wounded eyes, but the rub his mouth on the back of Kaitelka, calcium verve in carrousel turned. Line up the right hand, bottled lady Juana, he stretched to crush cilantro, but no ... or both...

Reigns for ?, to allocate a stop along the way, West Side Story Pichi. We are a few steps from misting dawn of propionate Stoics lash the oppressed people, clear water, singing  ... neuron in neuron, the cell last neuron, with the bow remained foul-mouthed, to shuffle, or Kawashkar Chilean Indian the slice of the leg, looking shoe children who roam the street without a blanket. They close their eyes, tears of shame. Here you are ecstatic stiffs arrows bows, feathers swaying in edgings shields tangled, hordes of haggard eyes flamed flames that no impudence and, which limp to a scoundrel that stuns resistant to fall on the sand. Show your dream, that dream bathe.

Continues the fierce Primor, falls brochures from red heaven fall prayers stammering to advance on this land saga, fall rustic donatives of grandmamma Mayor of coelum, Joshua insomniac in his tabernacle, defoliating his tome skip and jump down the estuary, before every misstep, holy water to step, a smile the Loica rural place Or a caress to the cheek moon in the arms of a blackbird, manacled to a rasp, stove teapot levitating top where grandmamma Adelimpia wheezes. Hail Mary ever ******, the other day, I heard that in September, flapping fall on Fiddler praise, perhaps mediate, for bad talking, founder of my undying love of life joined empty verbs on clovers where I to live forever, pre, pre paella prize moaning on my shoulder osteoarthritis crucifying collapsed tree. Nightmare builds a ship to reach Legion Mary. Centerfold, guns, howitzers, dissident’s ovaries ... final pages, declamatory winds ... perhaps agonizing leg expectantly... Or delusional feet of premature mortality, which brought pray to heaven, earth ... at soon I have to forget. The earth gives me the cheese, and bread sandwiching it goes...

Between him and earth coelum I doze my motive piece body, my shepherd Beetle Maximilian of Auschwitz sprayed me holy water the Vistula, I kneel down my hinges, and my hands for pray by pure attained effort, ***** great feat, who believes fall the abyss, and just below the earth tremulous, bell, first-throat yawning, loose cassock sounds a rainy morning, falling in the forest priority to see all morning, brimming with couplets of snow.

Continue to fall aqueous molecules, Kaitelka divides the estuary waters. Sheets of – Talami rural high lawns and wise water, South of  Pichi. Follow the dream, and just needed to uprighted the cabin, roaring gallop, wake up tomorrow morning sweaty dancing aqua, font of Lourdes, the four simultaneously open their headlights eyes, unblinking as echoes swimming duck feeding their young in the obsidian lagoon. Rock palafitte a piece of coal painted black each carriage serene, going from the Cantillana Mountain. Blasphemes morning fall roe bellowing wind annoyed tongue, windless striding through the window, thunderbirds mistress thousand flanks, now mount the besieged strands of colloidal solid. Elegy, opaque optical dreams, and drovers days nearsighted, soon saved our lives...

The never End.

Deep within a leafy dell
There lived a hairy fairy
Who very often cast a spell
That was frightening and scary.
The only friend the fairy had
Was an old green warty toad,
He never thought the fairy bad,
Just lonely and old.
So he’d sit with her and croak
And watch her practice magic.
She very rarely often spoke,
This to him was tragic.
The fairy dress; the fairy wore
Had seen better days.
It was *****, tattered, creased and tore
The hem hung loose in frays.
Her head seemed always in a cloud,
He never saw her smile,
Her wand no longer taut and proud
But still she was not vile.
Somewhere inside he saw her love;
He longed to be her mate,
So he prayed to God above
And asked her for a date.
She thought he saw her as a joke.
He was playing with her heart.
Up she went, in a puff of smoke,
That gave the toad a start.
Never having seen this done before
He had a mixed-up feeling.
His warts and looks she must abhor
And she found him unappealing.
For days he waited there for her
Because he was alarmed;
A toad and fairy love was rare
He thought she might be charmed.
If she would only hear him out,
That he may just explain.
Then she, he felt, could have no doubt
His love just would not wane.
But if his looks she hated so,
Then this he’d have to take.
He’d just hop-off; away he’d go,
Take bravely his mistake.
He realised, ‘how sad it is,
I never asked her name.’
With one loud bang and mighty ****
Back to his side she came.
“It occurred to me, you might be kind,
My name is Nuff,” the fairy cried,
“And I can read your mind.”
“Fairy Nuff,” the toad replied.
Then she kissed him on his cheek
A shock that made him wince.
Before he had a chance to speak
He was a fairy Prince.
She was beautiful and young,
Like his clothes, hers were new.
A love that’s ‘Magic’ is not wrong
Especially for these two.

My Prince Charming has turned into an ugly, old toad,
but that’s what happens when you choose this road.

The road so traveled by all the toads before;
makes me wonder what you see at the *****’s door.

I would think by now it would be rotten and smell,
but that’s not where my thoughts will dwell.

Why are they always uglier than me?
It can’t be because you like what you see.

Is it because the ****** like to drink beer?
Or is it because they’ll **** on your spear?

You’d think by now all of you would have warts.
You know the kind that stays in your shorts.

You think you’re so handsome, have you looked in the mirror?
One day soon they won’t let you get nearer.


But by then you will not make me cry
and they’ll look like they were put up wet to dry.

They may be younger but you keep getting older.
What will you do when you get the cold shoulder?

What will they do when you run out of money?
I bet they won’t think that it’s very funny.

Or how about when the pills are all done?
I bet a fight will be caused over that one.

Nothing like pill-head ****** to ***** around with.
To get them drunk, does it take a fifth?

An eight ball of coke, that ought to do it.
When it’s all gone I bet you don’t get in it.

I may have been with you through thick and thin,
but I ain’t touching that warty skin.

We did have magic for so many years,
but that was before the coke and beer.

One day I’ll see you all and grin.
For you’ll have caught the clap: what a payback for sins.

"Mother of heaven, regina of the clouds,
O sceptre of the sun, crown of the moon,
There is not nothing, no, no, never nothing,
Like the clashed edges of two words that ****."
And so I mocked her in magnificent measure.
Or was it that I mocked myself alone?
I wish that I might be a thinking stone.
The sea of spuming thought foists up again
The radiant bubble that she was. And then
A deep up-pouring from some saltier well
Within me, bursts its watery syllable.

II

A red bird flies across the golden floor.
It is a red bird that seeks out his choir
Among the choirs of wind and wet and wing.
A torrent will fall from him when he finds.
Shall I uncrumple this much-crumpled thing?
I am a man of fortune greeting heirs;
For it has come that thus I greet the spring.
These choirs of welcome choir for me farewell.
No spring can follow past meridian.
Yet you persist with anecdotal bliss
To make believe a starry connaissance.

III

Is it for nothing, then, that old Chinese
Sat tittivating by their mountain pools
Or in the Yangtse studied out their beards?
I shall not play the flat historic scale.
You know how Utamaro's beauties sought
The end of love in their all-speaking braids.
You know the mountainous coiffures of Bath.
Alas! Have all the barbers lived in vain
That not one curl in nature has survived?
Why, without pity on these studious ghosts,
Do you come dripping in your hair from sleep?

IV

This luscious and impeccable fruit of life
Falls, it appears, of its own weight to earth.
When you were Eve, its acrid juice was sweet,
Untasted, in its heavenly, orchard air.
An apple serves as well as any skull
To be the book in which to read a round,
And is as excellent, in that it is composed
Of what, like skulls, comes rotting back to ground.
But it excels in this, that as the fruit
Of love, it is a book too mad to read
Before one merely reads to pass the time.

V

In the high west there burns a furious star.
It is for fiery boys that star was set
And for sweet-smelling virgins close to them.
The measure of the intensity of love
Is measure, also, of the verve of earth.
For me, the firefly's quick, electric stroke
Ticks tediously the time of one more year.
And you? Remember how the crickets came
Out of their mother grass, like little kin,
In the pale nights, when your first imagery
Found inklings of your bond to all that dust.

VI

If men at forty will be painting lakes
The ephemeral blues must merge for them in one,
There is a substance in us that prevails.
But in our amours amorists discern
Such fluctuations that their scrivening
Is breathless to attend each quirky turn.
When amorists grow bald, then amours shrink
Into the compass and curriculum
Of introspective exiles, lecturing.
It is a theme for Hyacinth alone.

VII

The mules that angels ride come slowly down
The blazing passes, from beyond the sun.
Descensions of their tinkling bells arrive.
These muleteers are dainty of their way.
Meantime, centurions guffaw and beat
Their shrilling tankards on the table-boards.
This parable, in sense, amounts to this:
The honey of heaven may or may not come,
But that of earth both comes and goes at once.
Suppose these couriers brought amid their train
A damsel heightened by eternal bloom.

VIII

Like a dull scholar, I behold, in love,
An ancient aspect touching a new mind.
It comes, it blooms, it bears its fruit and dies.
This trivial trope reveals a way of truth.
Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
Two golden gourds distended on our vines,
Into the autumn weather, splashed with frost,
Distorted by hale fatness, turned grotesque.
We hang like warty squashes, streaked and rayed,
The laughing sky will see the two of us
Washed into rinds by rotting winter rains.

IX

In verses wild with motion, full of din,
Loudened by cries, by clashes, quick and sure
As the deadly thought of men accomplishing
Their curious fates in war, come, celebrate
The faith of forty, ward of Cupido.
Most venerable heart, the lustiest conceit
Is not too ***** for your broadening.
I quiz all sounds, all thoughts, all everything
For the music and manner of the paladins
To make oblation fit. Where shall I find
Bravura adequate to this great hymn?

X

The fops of fancy in their poems leave
Memorabilia of the mystic spouts,
Spontaneously watering their gritty soils.
I am a yeoman, as such fellows go.
I know no magic trees, no balmy boughs,
No silver-ruddy, gold-vermilion fruits.
But, after all, I know a tree that bears
A semblance to the thing I have in mind.
It stands gigantic, with a certain tip
To which all birds come sometime in their time.
But when they go that tip still tips the tree.

XI

If *** were all, then every trembling hand
Could make us squeak, like dolls, the wished-for words.
But note the unconscionable treachery of fate,
That makes us weep, laugh, grunt and groan, and shout
Doleful heroics, pinching gestures forth
From madness or delight, without regard
To that first, foremost law. Anguishing hour!
Clippered with lilies scudding the bright chromes,
Keen to the point of starlight, while a frog
Boomed from his very belly odious chords.

XII

A blue pigeon it is, that circles the blue sky,
On sidelong wing, around and round and round.
A white pigeon it is, that flutters to the ground,
Grown tired of flight. Like a dark rabbi, I
Observed, when young, the nature of mankind,
In lordly study. Every day, I found
Man proved a gobbet in my mincing world.
Like a rose rabbi, later, I pursued,
And still pursue, the origin and course
Of love, but until now I never knew
That fluttering things have so distinct a shade.

It kept her inside the workshop,
the only noise, a sewing machine
quietly purring like an old moody cat.
Spools of threads closed into fists,
Fingers curling back into their tiny shells.

She places a piece of cloth on the table,
The open seams sticking out
like the yellow stains of a neck fold.
An old worn out shirt with little holes
filled with imaginary garden trolls.
The smell of moth ***** seeping out.
Curling her lips like a slug with a pinch of salt,
A hesitant hand moves deliberately
as if feeling the roughness of a warty toad.
To keep one is to improvise, to mend spaces
tightly with thread and needle on skin.

She will say to herself: “I will keep him close”
Her little lover’s shirt on her small bruised frame.
chipped, she will drink liquor bitter.
She will drink it long and drink it deep.

November 2014

Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
"Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.
Daybreak and a candle-end.

"Kind are all your words, my dear,
Do not the rest withhold.
Who can know the year, my dear,
when an old man's blood grows cold? '
I have what no young man can have
Because he loves too much.
Words I have that can pierce the heart,
But what can he do but touch?'
Daybreak and a candle-end.

Then Said she to that wild old man,
His stout stick under his hand,
"Love to give or to withhold
Is not at my command.
I gave it all to an older man:
That old man in the skies.
Hands that are busy with His beads
Can never close those eyes.'
Daybreak and a candle-end.

"Go your ways, O go your ways,
I choose another mark,
Girls down on the seashore
Who understand the dark;
***** talk for the fishermen;
A dance for the fisher-lads;
When dark hangs upon the water
They turn down their beds.
Daybreak and a candle-end.

"A young man in the dark am I,
But a wild old man in the light,
That can make a cat laugh, or
Can touch by mother wit
Things hid in their marrow-bones
From time long passed away,
Hid from all those warty lads
That by their bodies lay.
Dayhreak and a candle-end.

"All men live in suffering,
I know as few can know,
Whether they take the upper road
Or stay content on the low,
Rower bent in his row-boat
Or weaver bent at his loom,
Horseman ***** upon horseback
Or child hid in the womb.
Daybreak and a candlc-cnd.

"That some stream of lightning
From the old man in the skies
Can burn out that suffering
No right-taught man denies.
But a coarse old man am I,
I choose the second-best,
I forget it all awhile
Upon a woman's breast.'
Daybreak and a candlc-end.

Under the spread hazel's winter
umbrella hung with pale catkins
pulling at a black bin liner rubble
spilled, a little toad tumbles free
from under in turmoil of warty limbs.

A toad in this garden where is no pond
found a moist pocket of plastic pleats
and a larder of wood lice in the rotted
pile sits on my palm calm as a buddha
thoughtless, yellow-eyed, unidentified.

Later, returning for forgotten secateurs
he drifts down in the water *** I let in
to the ground, trailing a bubble stream,
an olive green indifferent nature god.
The lordly stars sustain his crawlspace.

The drone of voices
surround me
controlled chaos
manipulated mayhem
confusion raises
his warty head
as we all
scramble ahead.
Chuckling, chatting
talking and mocking
this office, these people
this here my strife.
I can't wait
for this to be over
I cannot wait
for the silence.

If you go searching through the bush
And look under some rocks,
You'll find a little fairy sprite
In bright green stripy socks.

Upon her head she wears alei
Of bright and colourful flowers.
And when it rains she collects the drops
And that is how she showers!

She wears a dress of golden silk
She's spun from cocoons in the trees,
It's glued together with native honey
She's stolen from the bees.

But if you try to trap her
And keep her for yourself,
You'll be turned into a warty toad
By her friend the elf.

I watched a hopping little frog
He bounced across the road
He landed upon a mossy log

My feet got wet in the smelly bog
It looked to me a warty toad
I watched a hopping little frog

I heard the barking of a dog
Casing after a ball was throwed
He landed upon a mossy log

T’was hard to see through the growing fog
I considered a shade of green unowed
I watch a hopping little frog

Just a piece of the ecosystem, a cog
Dashing across grass freshly mowed
He landed upon a mossy log

I sipped a glass of eggy nog
And thought of pictured I’d been showed
I watched a hopping little frog
He landed upon a mossy log

Todd feels a toad
Ugly and warty and full of slime
Potential lacking everywhere
Cannot see his own beauty until forced
Yet then, he becomes the
First to stand
First to call out
First to cry,
"O Captain! My Captain!"
Throwing aside his
Gag and shackles
Stepping up and
Taking, the leap of faith.

Ezra clamber’d o’er the crest
to seek the way which he knew best
which, passing by the yellow tares
and turning at a grove of pears
set him at ancient fungal oak
where upon a branch he hung his cloak

For on some odd-nights within his mare
declared a warlock and his maiden fair:

“Spindled by the peary copse
after fields of shammy crops
stands that vile toady oak
shading torpid mystic folk

“Percieveth thee the one with warty beak?
‘Tis to him whom you must speak.
Rouse him from his slumber, Ezra,
pray of him your task."

The wizard with the moley snout
reclining with a snoozy pout
snored upward from that moldy bark
and whispered “yonder peasant, hark!

“Ezra, deary, there’s a bane
The shepherds hold in some disdain
for sheps can’t herd bereft of sheep
and this bane ingests them in their sleep.
Do ******* hip your faithful blade
and into swampy depths do wade
so to provoke this shepherd's foe
and smite him lifeless head to toe.”

Somebody said it was Halloween
I hadn’t a clue till then,
But the street was full of pumpkin heads
Carved out, with the candles in,
And the kids kept saying ‘trick or treat’
Though I didn’t know what for,
They must have thought I was pretty dumb
As I shooed them away from my door.

Then Mandy came out dressed as a witch
With a cloak and a pointy hat,
And waving a broom they call a ‘swish’,
‘So what is the point of that?’
‘Tonight the witches fly to their mass,
Under a harvest moon,
Shut your eyes as the broomsticks pass
Or they’ll put you to sleep, till noon.’

I thought I’d better prepare myself
So broke out my scatter gun,
The moment a witch would show herself
I swore that I’d have some fun,
With Jack O’ Lanterns the only light
As the night grew evil and dark,
I almost forgot that we lived next door
To the Mountainous Ski-Lift Park.

There wasn’t a Moon that eerie night,
It must have been hid by a cloud,
I could hear the chatter of witches, laughing,
How could they be so loud?
At midnight all of the chatter stopped
And everything went so still,
Just as the Moon popped out of the cloud
And the witches flew over the hill.

I saw their shapes up against the sky
Riding their broomsticks there,
With warty noses and pointy hats
And horrible tangled hair,
I didn’t think, I just raised my gun
And I blasted a spray of shot,
And watched each witch as she fell to earth
Whether they would, or not.

Mandy screamed and she seized the gun,
Ripped it out of my hands,
‘Have you gone crazy, what have you done?’
She wouldn’t cease her demands.
‘I saw them flying, up on their brooms,
I blew them out of the air.’
‘They didn’t fly, they just held on tight
Under the Ski-Lift chair.’

Whenever Halloween comes around
I tend to stay in my room,
And woe betide any witch that tries
Approaching me with a broom,
While Mandy locks up my scatter gun,
(That’s the one thing that will chafe),
Then goes to the witches at the door,
‘Yes, the Ski-Lift chair is safe!’

David Lewis Paget

The warthog is terribly warty.
It has a million and forty.
     You might think it would seem
     A dermatologist's dream
To catch one while out on a sortie.

'Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
'Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

'Kind are all your words, my dear,
Do not the rest withhold.
Who can know the year, my dear,
when an old man's blood grows cold? '
I have what no young man can have
Because he loves too much.
Words I have that can pierce the heart,
But what can he do but touch?'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

Then said she to that wild old man,
His stout stick under his hand,
'Love to give or to withhold
Is not at my command.
I gave it all to an older man:
That old man in the skies.
Hands that are busy with His beads
Can never close those eyes.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

'Go your ways, O go your ways,
I choose another mark,
Girls down on the seashore
Who understand the dark;
***** talk for the fishermen;
A dance for the fisher-lads;
When dark hangs upon the water
They turn down their beds.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

'A young man in the dark am I,
But a wild old man in the light,
That can make a cat laugh, or
Can touch by mother wit
Things hid in their marrow-bones
From time long passed away,
Hid from all those warty lads
That by their bodies lay.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

'All men live in suffering,
I know as few can know,
Whether they take the upper road
Or stay content on the low,
Rower bent in his row-boat
Or weaver bent at his loom,
Horseman ***** upon horseback
Or child hid in the womb.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.

'That some stream of lightning
From the old man in the skies
Can burn out that suffering
No right-taught man denies.
But a coarse old man am I,
I choose the second-best,
I forget it all awhile
Upon a woman's breast.'
                Daybreak and a candle-end.
W B Yeats

An errant knight
In days of old
With hazel eyes
And skin of gold
Did venture forth
To seek his fate
To rob, despoil
And desecrate

Through dusky wood
And sodden glade
His course was true
He never strayed
An ebon steed
It bore his weight
Advancing at
A steady gait

So when upon
The second morn
Astride the very
Cusp of dawn
A winding tower
Came to view
And from the window
Right on cue

A cry for help
And then redress
As from a damsel
In distress
A call to save
A maiden fair
With rosy lips
And saffron hair

To bear her forth
And find the witch
Who'd locked her up
That warty *****
To **** her minions
Stone her crows
Thwart her wiles
Then break her nose

Our noble knight
Did pause for thought
For many witches
He had fought
If you've seen one
You've seen them all
With matted hair
And tatty shawl

He took a view
That fair was fair
He'd only take
His rightful share
He left that maiden
To her plight
To save her for
Another knight

Tonight, the sweat of the earth hangs heavily in the thick August darkness. Standing in the yard beneath the fat buttercream moon, I muse on the emptiness of dusk, on the lifeless hollow of another quiet night.

At my feet, deep within a thick forest of rye grass, a hidden world writhes. The swollen moon has awoken the tumescent locust, who lunges, twitching through densely packed pthalo blades as he presses toward the siren song of a distant lover. Leaping forward, he startles corn borers and cabbage moths into flight which scatter upward like petals caught by the ancient wind. Abruptly, one petal is plucked from the sky, dragged back to the dark earth by the silent toad, soft pale wings disappearing within a vast and warty grimace.

Tangled in the rhizomes and soil below, earthworms labor, purifying the fetid remains of the surface world, while grubs feast upon the great network of roots, preparing for inevitable transfiguration. Pouring from subterranean colonies, waves of ants toil under leafy branches and plump rotting fruit, then return to their telepathic mother, abdomens distended with nectar and saccharin honeydew. Nighthawks and barn owls sit perched above, their gleaming eyes recording the squirming earth as they plan their swift assaults.

Amidst the chaos, amidst the living breathing wild I stand, a blind giant musing on the emptiness of night.