Notes to Verse - the travail of the mind – solicitations to think -

 

Notes to Verse - the travail of the mind – solicitations to think - 

 

Of the trust I give,

As a child does,

in a simple care untold,

you brought, the fury to my heart.

As my very centre is caught painfully throughout,

with some part, so unspeakable, I am led to weep,

abreast and agape with incredulity.

Afterall with you, humanity, I am still, to provide a vestige of hope.

Whilst another marks a line upon one’s breast,

pointed blade inward,

and your cry, alludes to a fear of the unknown -

I am to cry, for the tragedy of life.

And arrives the day, I recall on the remembrance of Christ,

how his resurrection, is sullied and torn into the mythic –

a narrative History of Christianity alluding to its dogma, and superstition - 

conqueror, preying upon the serfs.

Truths born, departing into the smell of thickening angst.

God a majestic trick of the powerful, the tyrannical, the apex predator.

 

For another, I consider,

of God, and his son, on high, a hope,

for echelons and ‘hero’s’ unknown yet,

one might say, otherwise captivating,

the challenged ‘Soul’,

born of bodies bled into ground.

What is the significance of those otherwise condemned?

In the sunlight swept no cry?

Unmoved, the crowd in jest?

And I may surmise that Bosch painted flowers for those,

suffering no unrest in their Soul.

If a Soul can in essence, be considered as being there,

when decreed some inner part is there resonant -

a trying, humbled quality of humanity.

For otherwise the ignorance is bitten,

of one simply uncaring, not even cautioning doubt in the crowd.

Should this fail to be excusable?

The unquestionable certainty of one’s own integrity?

Even though I may count myself,

amongst them, none-eyed,

I experience myself,

as haunted, by the grave.

 

Of the grave, sight,

Of the tested virtue of your fall,

there was grace that departed.

Your torture levied in the windfall,

structures sodden with the turn

of the wheel,

embalmed tinctures of your flesh,

sodden. Of mutiny, and crawling –

 

Into the historic I go.

I see through the word of sufferings,

images of an empty plate,

a ladle, a spoon, thinned soup.

Lives, grinding away, vestige.

Whilst crawling across the door,

a scudding flurry of checkmate.

One could not help but be disturbed.

And this ‘work’ of man, considered a duty -

God, nowhere on the wall.

People ate and worked in horror, man-made.

And of the dead, said to be behoved.

 

At the Holy chapel door

weathered rain, wricked fences.

Opportune moments weathered away,

guttered grievances fenced forth,

wretched in the Winter rains more.

How can you believe in God’ now?

Perhaps this is injustices flight and

of morality made hence forth more?

 

In the forest of Winters fall,

Cheshire cat at your door,

mewing for milk on a plate or paw,

one dearly serves whilst others perish.

A Holy man once said to thee,

Once bitten, thrice shy; scorns bounty.

Do you believe this?

 

Insult to the fore of History.

 

Drifting by in a snows flurry,

on paved ground dreams scale Heaven,

in a red dress. She forlorn.

And the wicked further led astray.

In the deep Summers, mistresses keep,

angers gluttony, and thorn. Hell -

A jest, of the wicked and the rest.

A temple sits above your head.

A horned dragon is upon the sack.

A temples ghost resides in you.

You part the Soul in solitude, grief.

Preamble virtue on point.

Looking for the dead in a thicket of thorns.

Carrion insulting when you look down or upon.

You jest the morning glory of the Sun.

In distress one sees the glimmer of a golden crown.

Only through the lux, a knife appears.

And in midstream you pause upon this.

In duress you see the sunset stripped.

Where your blessed Father, Amen,

through your opened eyes sees those

bodies hung, placed with a crown of thorns.

Thieves of the Soul reckon justice with calls.

And without resolution, still grips the destitution,

of amorality, throughout the ages.

 

 

 

Flee.

 

Peripheral vision out of sight.

Into the antiquaries, murder, vestures passage.

A league of men, of Sainthood, of crown;

a will to stop, that refuses to stop.

Humiliations whip at the vestige passage.

Definitudes need to crown, man and thorn.

Almighty God’s sundry. And yet leads down,

into a shipshape dream of a thunders passage.

God reigns supreme amid red poppy and thorn.

Of remembrance Sunday turns Middle East,

in dry Summer, gates of it all.

Palestine - the grief of Summers dry,

Arid landscapes, boys so shy and hopes barren.

Tips of Gods wrath made arid.

Nightmares keep screaming children.

Palestinian’s, Jews, gated and abandoned.

A guilted jaw turns;

prophets still yet to share, more,

a keep so lacking with treasure deep.

What of, the savour of young boys too small,

or out of reach, to call out?

Or is that a humdrum question,

just as the admonition against need, seems

nested, for a reach so small, no one calls

back to them. For they are seen to be tainted,

and fall amongst the heavy history,

of the desertion of Peace. 

 

 

 9.

 

If I could write a poem for you,

I would write it with my heart in two.

 

If I could spend these Summer, or Winter nights,

There, I'd bring you too.

 

In the stress of a Winter’s tale,

A Summery wine, a Soul embraces -

 

Epitaph not written yet my dear.

My, not wanting to stay nor to go.

 

Where the waters flow, here’s

my song; of tough bows and broken

letterboxes, vintage toes,

horned elephant tusks, Moroccan

wine. Deep sleeps are heard.

Too tough are you to be heard.

Swallow the bow, drink the wine.

Philosophers limb; a hallowed hind leg -

In the disastrous Summers verge,

a sleeping mass are heard; still, more,

a throng of Sailors bound.

In deep they weep, for their Philosopher tongue.

Surely, yet, becoming wretched, they murder their keep,

and spoil their treat aftermath -

Foiled and supine in murders gully.

 

 

 

Mohammad.

 

The alphabets of time,

rhythm and a dime,

Mohammad rests his glass.

Still scholars keep chewing at the gate,

the gate of Hell in thee.

A scribe and a prophet test,

the virtues are rested truly in you -

the traces of wine and goat hair - 

bleed a crime, so dare!

You prevent that armours steed.

Your keep a rested gate.

Said virtue upon your door -

Holy gate at your feet -

tested no more, blindly go?

Full of grace, the notion, you are in keeping;

Faith dives beyond gates of Hell,

Reckoning thou silently go.

Bespoke the angels in thee,

Deep chasms call, bells of mercy.

Chapel door opened to you,

of the heart and of an indemonstrable peace,

be told to you alone.

 

 

Of Mortal Men. 

 

Almighty, what of this?

Asks, the risen Atheist.

And yet commands, Satan;

rapture those, with a frown, and clown!

At Bartholomeus grave,

sweetness in the dress of a goat.

Cry, for those sunlit skulls in smoke,

reason with the heart and hearth of

doubt, pray deliver!

In the vaunted shallow pass there,

of the whispered,

You are not condemned,

But, webbed, in paradox. Unbeknownst,

the spider, down sickness alley.

Upset - life’s condition settled.

A day or two, potentially gone in plague.

Doubt the say and the weather,

tide of the reckoned will fall;

War’s pride, promise -

Accomplice these in sickness, haste.

Asks the future – tortured anew.

 

Gone, to sleep.

 

Offset by the Sunset, there, a shone glade.

There, a vision, so pained deep, I am without, the residual.

In writing, of chasms of regret, ran a blade.

A blade so cross, charms were displayed.

In the wolf spring, there was a whistle.

Of regret no more, spouting tissues.

In tried and tested times,

love locked out in amongst the haze.

One man reckoned with no doubt.

Another lies, to bat thy eyes.

Just a sojourn, I say,

leaning upon a Sycamore tree.

More afraid, I take love’s notion, into the shade.

A Sycamore tree I deem is without,

fire in its shade.

The stray shadows, nevertheless, casts thee. 

Tongues are passage, and whispers should fade.

And, you'll ask why I laid to rest there.

And without angst, and with loss I regret,

I grant a fall -

 

Inside the Sycamore tree, stands, what’s left behind - 

Ashen thorns.

A placed heart inside the tree.

A temples guide, and mirage of Heaven -

 

Open the back door.

Georgia O'Keeffe’s flowers bloom, East;

Sickness reach, rest your horns.

Prey, deliver thee, Ashen Queen.

Otis Redding, seeks a song.

A barren dream of times long gone -

In the breast, a pocket thief.

Of the Lyre tree, a harp.

Beyond the Trinity open thee.

 

At the desk one wrote.

Stop the door.

She's gated - quick now!

Come lightly - The book is closed.

Honey melts upon the liquor store.

Of the beaten fall, a whip, falls.

On your back the gates of Hell,

a sore, more lashing, and, at your reckoning Hell.

Why bend that fool more?

We'll keep a passage, and an open door,

closed to her. There, there,

that ill part, of you, in peace."

 

 

A Note.

 

An ashen thorn, collected, red dust.

Of blood, of stains. Yet flowers bloom.

Amid the palms, that bade Summers reach.

The anomalous in passage, out of which,

finger tips, might cling to eternity -

Still, of tinctures made, a displayed whip seen.

Of treasures, vaunted passage, reach.

In Summer nights so cool, they horn.

An emblem of your dignity and keep.

Cherished thou forever more?

In tinctures passage, centre, deep, and gutted.

Losing it forever more would,

loosen my passion. 

A ship of discovery awakens thee dear,

dripping of tears of thanklessness –

protecting the decrepitude of oneself and this sour butter?

Whom taunts and gestures of ugliness, weakness,

In rule, bent, straight, round number?

One’s discovery kept weak in passage?

Sheep herds and cheapened stock?

Put they, to the slaughter?

 

 

 

King and Queen, Sun and Moon, red and white.

 

In a glassy reach, apple’s shine,

fruits turn, and as the Sun sets;

Colours muted, then in view, streams of violet.

Perspective upraised from the ground,

A diffident colour haunting. Yet,

red already entered. And of a Queen, stayed.

Of blooming flowers, and forget-me-nots, 

tradition collects, binds and stains.

If of the eye, white, saturated red, you are

to see, risen, off the page, sharing not,

the fate of Osiris, find beneath the grave,

into the cell, a divine tree and in shadow,

a History foretells. There of white, of red, depart.

Burrow through colours bled into the book,

writing pages, colours block black letters drink,

that bare the rule you’ll find, plain -

The figure of the Sun, the point of the Moon. 

And the aftermath of dreaming awake,

seamstress’s weakness for her steed,

chariot’s, streams, of detail and glory -

In the passage of an Elephant tusk.

See horned, and subject abides, shown the way.

Dream, the apparition of snow drops,

and where Tiger Lilies fade. Faces, ashen,

in the temptress of Summers keep.

Feathers in binding, bode away.

Weakness, for its stead.

A summer splayed, and ashen trees,

Fallen, between the creeks of time.

And see berries loosen.

How the bow of weight falls,

and the cemetery gates fade.

And farewell, the Goose lunges quicker,

and you stay all the same.

 

Womb.

 

Upon the Castle mount emptiness street,

with the Empresses cattle, sickness.

In grief hands are splayed, and falls

the lux shone, of chariots, King’s, and Queen’s,

tortured serfs and unforgiving prey.

And weakened upon the grave,

doubt in your heart to be loosened.

What has nature done for you,

to fade that glorious Sun?

I bade farewell long ago.

Yet, still, to bare more shame,

for the bells unrelenting sound,

from the Chapel gates –

of the pious, the devote, the saved. There stands,

the permissiveness of thieves. Of ignorance, becomes,

knowledge, torn away. A birth given desperately for - 

a natalism of permissiveness and condolences,

whilst destitution paves.

And I rather compose, what thanks I give,

dear unborn, you, remaining,

untorn, from a blade so deep chasms open.

And I wept a sunlit kiss of thanks,

that you, unborn, easily lay the ground,

a passage keeps. For our saviours and prophets

still, don’t know the way, in sickness -

Their guide, to teach, simply,

reach, pray, dear children, pray?

 

The pressures of the Humanist and the detained.

 

A memorial in the late Summer fall,

restrained by the whip, of personal bigotry.

Race – class – nationality – ideology –

a personal creed. Remember! That, was then.

And parallels bare not, to be seen,

Of the ‘mad’ condemned, and still detained.

Hot pride. Put them out of their pain, with a name!

Never mind, due to the Doctor’s mild amnesia of the pathological,

God knows how, he has forgotten how to place mine.

Albeit temporarily. Of ‘neo-Kraepelinian’ nosology.

Forgo the pill.

I continue – with a thought edging upon,

the fact that Easter Sunday’s approaching.

One’s nestled by the grip,

of the import some hold, of Jesus Christ’s resurrection.

Where supposed, a mighty passage departed at the temple gate.

And further, where, no blinded passage carried,

parting the eddying waves, the waters of Nazareth.

Nevertheless, an open book of knowledge beyond the gate,

of Summers fall and it’s rustled song.

Vigil's taunt upon the grave, of an unjust death echoing.

What of, opening a door, upon a sight keen with grace,

centred, on the word, authenticity?

Is it ever there?

Instil revelry in the word that never keeps,

for sorrows silence and pride,

for a touching return of the prosaic.

The sorrow of the unmade, unspoken,

and yet one contains,

the grief felt by that strike against,

one’s centre. An, unjust, Coup De Grace,

putting the animal down;

The battle siege challenges from the future,

And, to this day, the hallow, of a hand.

Leaden, ungainly, creeping towards the door -

In love, dear thanks, for what can be known.

Of the edged gateway, cordoned idolatry, of Holy ground -

The enlightened alone, seem to have mastered ethics!

Where now, find, the grace of a lingering light,

calling thou away, from the dark?

A hand slips in.

Oh, the Psychiatrist. He has the DSM5, newest edition.

 

Hannah.

 

Born out of a humdrum leaden bullet,

Born of desire, there were virtues, tested since -

Peace, be blessed - To be, true to the facts -

In Solomon’s cave a diamond hive.

Of blessed bees in life.

Ample threat, saunters over the wire.

Conjoined the fire and able mouth.

Out, of Plato’s cave, and of Solipsism -

Again, a tested virtue grave.

In the sitting duck of it all.

A staple blade cut right through.

A honey comb besides the grave.

A temple made on stable ground.

Bleeding, insipid. Rest! The virtuous, falls.

Solomon the King, he spoke in whispers.

Hives pollinating the tongue of wrath.

He made a Philosopher Queen.

She laid to rest upon the grave,

behind barbed wire fences.

She bespoke the slaughter of the Jews.

And wrote in Hebrew. With her, he stayed.

 

 

Out of a song came.

 

Into the Valley of thunders might came,

there, a temptress of fate.

She called a quickened fire into thee.

Behind an alley’s gate there an emptied place.

Her hand took my bread, broke it away entire, before,

undressing my robes and admonishing herself, for,

the ashen burn put inside me.

At the gate of the wound, a temple appears.

And, in the Summers eve of it all,

a pain reckoned a spell of enchantment.

This burned me nipple black with hate,

for what she did turn was against me.

Afterall this Summers turn,

at the gate and at the door,

a soreness resides. The apple fell,

of reprobate, of that which I’d admonished.

I wept a cry, and amid a Summers dream curled

such a liquid of ash, I lay,

up against a tree, seeing it all above me -

I cried my vestige pains and this grieved and sickened

Me, with so much hatred against myself,

I turned with ample thigh and burned,

against the tree. A hearth aside placating me.

 

 

0.

 

Pain in chasms deep, virtues unseen,

Then, why tickle, my feet?

It’s plain to see why, when hatred runs cool,

isn’t it, festering deep?

Why you should whisper so quiet and hate me

so deeply?

If wishes were kisses, you'd tempt me to burn,

and silence me with hisses should it burn.

Why the anger so, then, why should hate be so deep?

Your kisses and hisses burn me so deeply.

If words were so quiet, can't you see?

I tested my virtues under an Apple tree.

I was passed an Apple so quaint and quiet,

and I could run deeper into the hate you inspire.

Should it be my nature to be so quiet,

I would not be a liar, so my thought of, virtue, inspires.

Tested and painted against a Sycamore tree,

you inspire in me, grievances I despise are there now.

So quiet and quick, you call me deep,

my age negligent, you're so thick and deep.

How keep me so quiet when that is so; whip me

tender hearted, with rhythm and rhyme!

Let it be my piece inspire,

why you tested my virtue, should I be a liar.

What gives, you give it harder, should it pass

ungainly.

 

 

God, The Heavens - Departed.

 

The joined mechanics of a disappearance,

The Slipstream of the highest commissioner’s hand displayed;

How to add value, by that which fades into the Zero line?

Soiled, wet, and shaded, demands his ‘I’ of the collective’s fate.

Fade of the Sunset.

Fade of the Moon.

The glaring muck of it, countless ‘commoner’ slain; 

Surely, fools of all seasons,

Bid, the harsh Winter comes more, for that human fool.

What’s more, God’s a reckoning tool,

of redeeming heights! That unseen,

that unheard, that jest,

into the thicket of the thorn, of Adam and Eve's,

fall. Fallen, thou, too?

If tested virtues lay unseen, with reckoning

Feasts, self-satisfaction spirits. What, superiority is this?

The machine mighty and the Crown marches fate.

In jest, the thought, at least peripherally in time,

of the Heavens and it’s Holy gate.

From the future, the common ear, peaks,

and hears of the statistic of the universal ear.

Ever pervading, one presumes ructions will tempt to catch,

At the vocal cord, a noise, self-similar, ‘I’ am not zero.

Shame. The embittered ‘minion’, in the jacket of September rains,

else the Snowfall at the edge of Spring, nevertheless disappear,

for limitable, self-defence. Of course, won over, by a thicket and fence - 

Over a staple wall beyond the citadel, into the crux,

Of providing one’s death – So, do, yet, fall, like the,

rupture of the spleen of a creature, unseen.

Fall down again, to the common muck,

the stink of the thicket and in ones fall -

A blue door opens and again one falls.

A spider at the door hears a rattle fall.

 

 

29.

 

Tears will fall in the Autumn.

Night, will Gull, like a thief will, horn.

Porpoise Spit will await them all.

If it hasn't already hit.

If you know what you reckon you saw,

A see saw at helms lake,

A starlight that has you squint,

Below the night’s lake, a Moon’s dress awaits.

If you bade the Autumnal fall, should you hate

like a lake hates Winter (not at all): More,

solitude griefs and murder, you awaken thee, oh murmur.

Reckon your fate.

Reckon thee still should murmur, in amid the gates.

See the undressed breast, and ample cheek of check mate.

If you see a tart in the liquor of an old fool, see quicker you

gallant mates. Run quicker and quicker into bate.

Tag teams of late. See liquor for liquor and a quid for a “tart”.

See hate for its bear and squids for some worms.

See barrows of it all and one sees slower for you to not burn -

What is meant when one says, “you are not my thinking tool”.

 

 

 

1.

 

From a sky of dreams, one awakes,

Eyes open from a faint gully.

From the thicket of the fall, a heady whisper;

How to tell a Saint from his liquor.

When I fell from grace right now,

an ambivalent stare fades the hour.

Upon the belly of a Tiger bright,

There, an ignition simply, bright.

If I could take back the words and

create a path of emptiness heard,

I’d drown with laughter into the gully.

For I quicken like the heard back to

Nothing. Gated forever heard in the words

one never hears, truths forgotten;

suggests the trace, of being impermanent.

If I were a whisper bright in the

thicket of the night, serving a temptresses fate,

what a licker of one’s tongue grew. Thicker,

and thicker, with truths one never tells.

For they are only of a small child scared

and scarred quicker and quicker, (in hindsight).

If I could fade what I made, I would need to lie,

Analogous to you. Now my beds keep

is foreign to me. Surely!

The silence of all the jams no one knows about;

being shot in the back. So hard, and brightly,

fell a bullet, should I lie, there'd be a bell.

If only I could tell of all the cruel mockery

and sliced words belting out so I'd run

quicker, if it weren't funny that I should

run at all. What of the tested and faded night?

No one can tell, and I can't either.

 

 

 

2.

 

Humiliations, wrecked with doubt,

on the verge of spitting oil.

Though it hisses upon the verge,

merging in distress on the distress.

Cutting corners just to hide.

Slitting my throat just to hide.

If I could coat myself with a jacket,

might I coat you too; that's my worry.

Yet little do I doubt you never cared.

In the urban strip of noise, where,

police emerge with their rule, and,

useable “rightness”,

I go on alone, on the precipice of

giving up, in the glory of going on alone.

Of course, were it not for you sunlit headend,

I might have given up long ago,

to escape the stink of you and your

darkness. Of, should I hate you more

and more? So, it goes. Into the fond

wash, I must reclaim, the naked flesh

of precipice - Why the Angelic, test, say,

when we might have known the same

distress and emerge wiser for it?

For, if on the edge of tear’s, you know,

what kind of avarice did show, then,

beam me up out the shower of “hoes”.

Whom must know, I couldn't dare to show,

any grief emerges, but snow. And no

shelter more. Homeless and wrecked

with grief, mightn’t it show? On the helmet

of the unkind toe, on the barrow of the

seen show, sick to the stomach, bowels

for breakfast, mightn’t it show, how I'd

never emerge and know?

 

 

Authoritarian.

 

Upon a Sycamore tree stands Angels

in jest, and psalms sing out, in illnesses keep.

Those keepers relent, now, staying with the fair hand.

So, in tears of grief, abate.

A sanctuary forbade nevertheless, the reckonings,

Back. Thus, understood, a characteristic of your trade -

If one’s subjectivity is another’s inability to provide rule,

however, contested, be the point, let it be a curse to say,

You’ve got it very wrong again. (Too shay)

Might I ask, if hisses were truths you forbade,

might I ask you to wonder at what I

obeyed. The oppressive might,

the official gift unsaid, marks the grave of

hospital systems I'll never forget.

Where supposed, a whip from a pill, holds no value.

Any pain can be earned upon the banks

of a plain Jane!

What happened to her. Oh, I jest -

Never forbid, a true answer!

She keeps they say, upon a laith.

In answer, it, never to be truer, she’s a paw in amongst

the wilderness, of your own institutionalisation.

What thanks do I regret, amongst,

the, hey? What pretence can I forget, once

my memory lashes? My, misgiving, a past,

I'd rather forget. So sorry, for my misgivings,

do you regret not having any?

Grave appreciation all the same.

I'm sorry for every word I forgave.

I'd rather be some-thing, sure, yet you make that no choice,

as no-thing I did be bothered understood,

amid the junk, of each’s self-designated precipice;

I, first, had to understand. You know, that ‘place’,

You forced myself, and ‘Other’ in.

 

 

‘Professional’.

 

If sanctuaries illness bid be told,

I'd sit and weep never to be so bold.

So, cold, impressed, Butterfly, sits on your arm,

her perch sickening. Yes, she'd rather be pert.

Watchmaker guides the way, to the clown.

Watcher in town, it might be a mine!

Tool maker here, sit down and eat dirt.

You're sickening me dear, sit down and

eat dirt. You’re sickening me dear, sit down

and flirt. If sanctuaries illness had never been,

I might be curt and hail a Sunbeam.

Now sit down and be quiet, dear, or it might hurt.

Wail awhile, dear, or sit down and hurt.

Catch me if you clown, eat meal worms for a dime,

now sit down and hurt. If beggars be stealers,

steal away my clown! She's grown up a bit.

Now, she's half clown. Dress her up now dear,

into a gown, half skin, the rest, shed.

Half shy, now part your ways and you'll make a dime.

She parts her hair and you'll see her frown.

You’ll part her ways and blessed are you,

for that tart dear, hasn't got any hat?

 

 

Full stop.

 

On borrowed terms, Civilisation carries.  

If curtness hurts, a lesson to be learned.

If this day fully quiet, should turn,

boredom upon;

if hated seizures should burn of more, displeasure;

Then, atomise the Sun! With the Sun shot,

out of the sky, it’s plain darkness!

A recognition for nothingness to unseal;

behold no tear, and no ashen tree!

Should nihilists seek to hide, a bright juncture,

turning dreams inner scape, into the equation,

of the apparition of life unmade?

The Earth beneath cleansed?

Take a vow of solemnity to that!

A Dove’s tail of skeletal trees, the grave, and

now, everybody else’s!

Take a lake and a dive? See the quiet for the hive.

Take it upon thee to hide, and see the worm,

for the thorn of an ashen tree; life’s clause.

See the whispers, dead and quiet,

they hear the word under word.

Take heed and let's unsee how the ash,

burn, smoke, places a searing doubt,

and shan’t turn thee.

Of the missing, doubt, in you, a supposed,

infinite sureness, of your irrepressible rightness -

If you could be an end to behold,

Why wait to take out your intention,

and be told, be bold? Cut me out!

Despite my declaration, I’m for, sentient rights.

In quicksand a child was lost. And you say, further,

“hail the thunder, quicken the mud.”

 

 

3.

 

In translucent anger, vespers made,

shade me with a creaturely haze.

If dead and quiet were to awake, I'd surely silken you in the glade.

Into the turn, into the gaze. What did you want,

from me, I ask, whilst nothing could turn from out of the shade?

I turn an ample fire in remorse; for what turn’s,

I’m to turn quicker? What's more for you, one asks;

Another flicker of insight going out?

Should I shout down a King, and tempt fate further?

Blessed King of hate, Vicars of late, and you say, I’m bate?

What of the monster, that smarts the eye with a sheen?

Tempt fate, dear hisses, if you should abate.

I'll make wishes in the earthy shade.

A lamp, held in the dark, between my palms,

should hisses be wishes, in the cool shade.

I'll run and smash the glass over the glade.

Unknown to you, I must be ample darkness.

Oh, the unseen jest, the pure hate!

And my milk acid, they say, flux in your mind.

I'll never know, that hatred one tests.

In the liquor of the unseen of sedation.

Darkness rules over my body undress. In red,

screams fade, as I couldn't move nor stand.

In the darkness, an elephant bid. Say,

what more can I say, when muted and drunk,

upon the dear glade?

Sickness alley still awaits, and I reckon you’re,

Still to wish insult. You’re still in the shade. 

 

 

Atom Bomb.

 

From waking, still shut-eyed, came, an annihilation. Chattering,

daydreams, milk, in slow streams. Shadows that layer,

a test upon the hearth of desire. And ran, a cool transpire.

From Earth, Pleiades is seen. The moon’s dipped bride of ‘Heavens’

abode, the eye. Yet the tight junction made, said the starlight and

the ashen made. From the quiet, from sickening angst came,

a melancholy number -

Those, Godly, surely forbid taken away, the Earth of men?

Hiroshima -

Of the new Earth transpires, of the cruelty, and of those slaughtered,

A new grave on the landscape, indicating a pause, a stillness.

Sycamore tree’s stand as if to shelter what might come again,

and cannot be answered. Humiliation, mastered those in answer,

for what was taken has nothing but shame and rage.

A decadent ambivalence to one’s plight, and future -

Sickening notions of unimportance, glimpsed upon the pain.

The retort of those, Godly, answering with phrases -

for that illness gaining are amongst, those, Other.

For whose, ill will, one might shout, man’s condition?

Another plight akin the simplicity in thinking of another, man’s,

inhumanity to man? An unknown goat to blame,

for the unknown in answer. Like a horse whipped for a bet?

A concern, off, course; the ethicist encircles.

 

 

Water.

 

A due ceremonial, of unfurling one’s toes.

A ‘whore’ supposed has less inhibitions,

in providing such context, given permissions.

For her, it’s another’s testament to prevaricate

About details. So, on goes the painted virtues,

Observes the far-off sight, of the peeping Tom.

Her objective spotlight shining out beyond the gun.

Life from here, ruptures placidly. As if a slowed dance,

I watch as the strings tear in gentle flowing twists,

And the countless marionets thud to the floor. 

And in mild sympathy, ones, left, grinding down to the ends,  

Of one’s own head, given a sudden knock -

See a rattle for a dime, a lolly pop for a rhyme.

Of the warm corpse in the slack sac, will you lay claim?

And let turn, under your priestly hand, succour,

at the turn of the heightened heel?

Mightn’t you more, yet, play and rest, in mockery to whom,

quickens the bell to another featured flaw?

 

 

 

Hawk. 

 

Should vaunted treasures nor pass nor shade,

the precipice down, more to angles blade.

If such recesses deeply inspire more grief,

Heavens shan’t forbid that keep.

Hands positioning out before the archer and his beyond,  

No matter, the crux is the road. Still, more,

there’s the emblem of a Saint, for inner Peace –

Keep the whip and ventricle spear.

Hiss at the kip, throw down the gauntlet and hide your blade.

Seer divine, kiss the spear! Spread your eagles out of fear.

Thankless task beholden to you dear. Drowning dear.

Does anyone believe in the sacred tear?

Believe in the gauntlet, and treasure complete.

Bid, a peace kept thanks for your “gentle” ear –

 

What if I give you unlimitable doubt?

To enable the way with yet more tears?

What if I bade keep that stain of grief?

What would become of you my dear?

If tarts are Vicars and Vicars are none,

where should we go given ours is nowhere?

The territory, of yet, another, categorical demise?

That injury you wear will keep the truth you bare,

granted another’s undone? A keep sake of a thorn that

never leaves one behind – in a sense –

the horn of the life blood, of creatures.

It doesn’t come any more obtuse -

I saw you with thanks at the nub of the womb,

that inner light with you.

The temples gaze properly sits,

your eye upon the hearth and the blaze of life.

Call dear presence, to your born injury, and,

you will appear. Of noble truth you bare.

 

 

An almost pervasive destiny towards inheritors -

Past-future Tradition.

 

From a nightmares passage there was a keep sake,

a silken mirroring, of Orients belt,

staying on the surface of a phased-out riverbed,

of one’s reappearing flicker of momentary mind.

Still waters, lingering pungency, and a muted scream,

awakening the “mud” of living blood,

now a brooding temper outside the Church,

charging the congregation’s import, outside the gates -

“Dear” inheritors reign, for a Temple’s gown!

And a cross I bare to keep sane.

Of Holy water blood was made.

The saline shell of a smile, of gluttony, cave.

Inside the cave a chalice of myrrh pungent.

Deadly amongst the haze,

Came the pregnant, came the moors.

As if a stifling air arose.

Out of the darkness a blade of sight once,

more, the ambiance sickening and deathly rode.

Knights bestride with gowns and symbols that,

fear awake out of the winds come again.

Peasants running out of sorts, still stood them,

Out of the running cold, cavern deep.

They jest their keep. Undertaker in his gowns,

too, strode besides another age, with barrelled gun and sword.

Preparations partake the ample thief. What sundress

desire, should want for more, whilst few King,

are found beneath the slain sight? What more could keep?

Gowns made of earth now appears, the slightly,

to some, muddied plate, in the coronation of a

new Queen, walking Holy ground. As for me,

a quest came. A question of doubt for the “insane”.

 

 

Of the seemingly obscene, thy Queen.

 

Behind the retina of the eye, one reflects on the supine,

Yet contrasting greatly with the abyss found in the starshine.

When trespass does go on alone, there, joins the lost, Outside.

On the verge of dropping out unclothed, a dripping Queen in the dark.

She opens her mouth, and a musicality as though coming from the song of a thrush

Arrives. With her, the boast of beauty, shines.

Out of the personal subdual, intricately played musical notes as the shone harp, further rolls

The significance that her tongue trills, into me.

Once placed, contrasting the dark, murky waters, laying, deeply,

into the venture, into the keep, which thin fair Queen should weep?

Shadowy kingdoms come quicken the ever limitable, I.

Into the valley an equilibrium of self-significance, becomes undone.

The won triviality of “I”, trespassing upon zones, that discounts value.

Finitely does shine the tooth of the clown, so, no matter another’s steed.

Upon entering beyond the door truth be told more.

Solitude winds, faith rides her back. Yet into the glide she wails a sickening blow.

A recognition on a train I once sat, with another kind of, being too alone.

Watching you from another age, the darkness, carries you for your just as facile.

Of the faces left in the crevice, I feel surprise run quicker into the belt,

I hear the whistle, and find a point of simple insight and more, a wave of fear.

Shelter thee, under the chance of another age besides.

Keep all our faces, beyond the door, and shelter for another access.

Keep personal subdual hallow, belches the trinkets of sunk liquor.

Missed beyond the line, table and thumb hide.

Saturated with imagination, peels, back the time. One’s shoe escapes the heel.

Raining thick, despite the core, the blooming issue, derangement and

tissues. Cat calls behind the night, Bourgeoise issues a complaint -

a dead poet, in the angry pot, what accomplice?

A tear and a frown? Against the door, tight, and still thirsty,

for the heart of darkness I hear coming from the drum.

Thumb down the ladle, thumb down the hearth.

The Queen thrown into the lake. My only trespass of late.

 

 

A Number.

 

In the slipstream oceans fade, in the Leningrad falls came,

whiskers of alcohol. In the communal lawn, tested wines and

heavy snorts. If the wind carries should each fall,

upon an Apple tree shall stand the sort, to adjunct the portrayal

of a heavy lot. In the barrel of a gun emptiness gestures.

Griefs, the spawn, into the measure. Shell of mixture, smell of

snorts. The defiance of decadence rots and the Apple falls.

Upon a heavy woman dalliance gestures, in the reflected image,

of an Apple in her palm, a glade, a farm, Lenin with his wives in arms.

The communal snort of a heavy gun, loaded the barrel from the gun.

The Bourgeoise sort to pot their barrel, a grave site, awakens East.

And snow thickens amid Apples rotten. The filth and

Stench, like dying Camomile flowers. The stench futile to

retaliate with any luck.

In the shaded Apple tree stands Lenin erect like his gun,

his pen abeyance not amiss. Hero's never on trial despite grit and guile.

Never mind. Such is freedom of speech. The apple drops.

Further, Stalin’s heroes cleared from the mist - the echelons of hero's, quite heroic!

What a mist looms closer now, amid the ghosts of the grave.

The cemetery gates open fire and no one hears the screams but their Sire.

The snorting of cacophonies obeys the cankering smile, amid the frame

of the simple Dictator. What an insult, what a sword, that never came,

that word for Stalin, simple, in retort. The ghost of times portrayal,

the asylum of humanities missed portrayal; the simple, Dictator.

 

 

43.

 

Out of the bud of a tree came the caution, a simple treat inspires.

Emperor of the sunny glade, arrives into the smarting eye of steel -

What of the others, what if they came, into the boots, and shoes,

of shame? Inscribed passages; vague tools of the messenger.

In truth does inspire the same insipid hunt;

the hunt of the Lion, Tiger same. The Kings tongue of wrath,

Joseph Goebbels made adage to. The Basilisk’s ever

presence, seemingly just needs a flicker of connection,

to grow older still, with more creatures, enraptured in wordy games,

of fetishized chess, and artificial Culture -

Whilst old flesh nests, between one’s claws,

Seed that inheritance of glorification, inside a most sour lemon.

Grow out from the waters of the quarry, the Tiger’s Lilly;

The ‘Angels’ of our nature hatching from a grimy pond.

Why not, further impress, the future, if one should wake at all?

 

 

 

 

 

Down.

 

If ample thigh might hurt and mouths wail,

If truth be told Heavens fail -

Into the mire, into the hearth came,

what befell all the same.

The same anguish,

the same hurt befell all the same.

Come quickly to the pleasured lent,

and his name, carried,

into the quarry, into the mud,

Godly, and Heaven sent?

Into dreamscapes of myrrh and corpse fields,

scold like the wicked for what cannot be

placed, Heavens reckon can be.

Needn’t this be all? Up turns the ladder.

Taunting the quickening air, Hells bells ring,

sounds swiftly gather as though reckoning,

if ills be thought to fury, further, send them to

the quarry, and milk them for what it's

worth. The devout one might profess are all about

hate and crime, thickening angst - unfree. 

Aghast at this, in their Church? How about,

the quarry, the mine, the shaft,

the bell drawn carriage, further,

how to lose a fire in plain sight?

Yet, the intonation, of the speaker,

an emblem of sacred life?

The Atom Bombs, no matter.

Recall, the Divine?

What of the Sycamore trees;

over Hiroshima’s place of grave, sight?

Loosen the angst over the shaded grave?

How am I to know I reckon,

as a path to humanities vestige war and peace,

amid the doubt of an apple tree,

the Trinity and book of knowledge -  

Justice, is now the ‘sacred’ move.

No more idyllic glade,

of more prancing, and unruly dancing -

Place of thunder, place of jest,

justice carries just like the rest,

a macabre trill, of hatred.

 

 

 

Boy Lost.

 

Old Jack sat on a hill,

tight with a kill. Whispers on the almighty hill.

Of a whispered chariot gold. Mead in the sack,

mead in the hay. Golden wrought, dug out,

crack in the dark; Jack’s chariot skill.

When pencil folk and pencil dawn arose,

a horn of plenty come dawn break,

in the land of peasantry, the old fold

used a hand to rub out the horn of Jack, with

a jack hammer into the table gut of manners.

All speaking kind words, hissing at the metal,

ever so slightly. Foreign tongue and whispered

words. Go gently the midnight horse neighed.

Oh, so quick, oh, so gentle, a horse of plenty,

stirred. Midnight eagled, played a knife blade.

And bade come gently the midnight horse of

plenty stirred -

 

On the quickened frost of Jack’s body was found,

a stone of paradise, and dropped into a deepening sea.

Handsomely called a precipice God.

Hawk ethereal like the ghost -

Into the midnight tide awakes, a watcher.

Upon a hooded crevice, partake. And of the

stirring gull’s eye, seeing fish emerge, to pentangle

the waters break - absurdly beautiful, yet savage.

Dawn breaks a shattering light of plenty, only

to emerge on the edge of a gully of death.

The gulls soundless, fishes aplenty emerge,

synchronised in movement and predatory.

And yet, the Psalms are heard.

 

 

Ghost.

 

The majestic hunt, lead astray,

into the antiquary, the murderer fades.

Whispers of the plaintive, on high,

whisking away the mind, for a liar.

Afar dearest sweetheart,

for you’re a bidden fate. See-saw.

The Seagull, grey.

A billow of nature appears,

and of forget-me-nots, seeded.

And hears, the slave, of the beyond,

of the stranger, at the grave site.

The facade of restitution, blooms.

A Herring Gull opens its eye.

Tell me, ghost, what was seen of your shadow,

beck and call, a fall? But, was it, dear,

a crack of light at dawn, that loosened your fate,

by a sickening speech? If I too am, fated,

by the certain claw of evolutionary procession,

where heed, take thee, to a high rock,

or to a place sacred?

If the dessert should pass for a gate,

mightn’t I see, the keeper for the drake?

In murderer’s alley, should you want to go there?

To take yourself by the hand, and seed something fair?

While you're placed in amongst the gestured plan,

want awakes dear Sam. I'll take you to a place,

of shallow path and take the airs into a gutted gesture.

To be known, that facade you never learned -

the destiny in your wake, to be taken.

By the hand. There all the way,

fearlessly there at your side,

another’s predatory invocation.

And aside those mourning for you dear child.

Thankful you were there, and blessed grace that

you're safe. Your destiny, I hear -

blessed child be near, to the void you will return.

 

 

 

Kira.

 

In the sickening snow, of angst came,

a slow death, in gestures, a passage keeps.

A blade of sorrow, and bade thanks. My dear?

A swallow perches upon my hand,

a gentle tear smarts the eye clean.

If vespers were cool, thick to my ears,

the screams of injustice, carries.

An emblematic fear, of a gruesome end,

only poverty handles. Tortured Saints are these?

In grief no matter that death was slow,

came the blow. The blow came.

The mind only dares carry clean,

knowledge of the bloodied fate. And of you,

heathen hand, a gentle carriage parcels you,

over furnaces, to other eyes, with pleasures, disgraced.

For you, grace partook and lit the fuel. For me,

the nameless, are in torture. Saints are these?

So, heed to the sick, heed to the poor.

And yourselves more.

Fallen from grace, gestured true.

Virtue unseen, perched the lot.

Searched and bound, the seed of grace,

between glassy thunders of priestly classes,

a glass case between, the eye of the castle.

Dear. Foreseen. Into the fury carries the seen -

if pastures reckon their lot did fire,

then cast away into the ghastly pyre. For between,

the ample heat, inspires, the ghoul and the

seed between. The eye uniform, a precipice

still keen, for victimhood and grave parcel

sight, buried for the heathen to clear any names,

of what was seen to be unclean.

 

The Old.

 

Avarice descends on the valley,

truth besieges given thanks, men and women,

tinctures passage, passing whey for the quiffs,

Seagull and spawn, a lift to the unborn carriage,

slipping the unseen into a quarry. Quarrel away,

the seen might of fury, a given Hen in amongst the Ducks,

sunbeam jest in amongst the Frogs, laying spawn.

In Duck droves a hidden vest, gesture to the hidden Fawn.

Lay to the might of the unseen, dignity and hope, the ugly - 

What if the night shone, a star above?

So bright, truth; A reflection of the psalms?

Offering the night, a quarrel for lost children?

Besides a woman picks up a thorn, a leaf, a branch, placing

it down upon the Pagan sight - the wood a temple,

the divinity of the chapel, there,

the light hailing forth into the wood, chapel of night,

chapel of day?

Times estuary unmade, the phoenix raises

the ashes from the smoke. Bury your dead in ceremony,

life itself wills, and amid the day raises its hearth into the

wood. Chapels of late unseen, do you know your kin

from your folk? The slave drivers, really, toking a joke;

how has the old been, a history I'd like to know,

for remembrance Sunday.

 

 

Angels;

 

If fateful down should we meet,

I go where the last clown goes,

touching an edge of loss,

aggrieved and missing you.

I miss you. You're lost.

Presently bound, still more for a game.

Divinity in your wake.

You did not save me. Soldier on.

Last vestige Peace.

Granted you're lost, hope shall we seek?

Sailor ship and hip hooray might.

An ashen Gull we seek to fight.

Don't worry you're not alone,

We'll seek, vengeance seek.

Tinker, tailor, soldier, Spy,

gentleness, peace, desire,

pleasure in your wake, divination,

of late -

Hope shall we go, where the clown,

does not carry?

 

The Hooded Prey.

 

Forlorn walking the Earth,

lead astray by the fawn.

The Priestly Class disjointed, set array.

Vaunted treasure doth cast,

the mine and chariot Gold.

Golden in the fawn’s splay,

that play, chariots stead -

Step upon the step,

stifle the whip, and the rib of Eve,

emblem of a passage to untruth, sailor ship,

of slaves, and the steadfast.

Shed the hay from the chaff.

See the way for the passage of Christ.

Stable born, beneath, lays the chaff.

What other, emblem might be made?

If you could chariot storm,

with passage, take a Sainthood,

then make emblematic the passage.

Rip the Sailor from the Fawn,

Ship the carriage in table jest,

The Grim Reaper a vest?

Uncle Sam, see the carriage

and the ruddy whip,

Sailor ship and starshine hip.

Flown, the nights away -

Everyone now insane, one may, rejoice.

 

 

Recycling.

 

In amid the murders thick and fast,

there was a reflected sky full of clustering stars,

going out violently, and gathering fast.

Below, reckoning the mighty foil of war cast,

slip stream shade, and reckoning fight.

The horror of the unsaid, the end, the fright.

Reckoning tides - watchmen thickening

amid the haze, descending into a gaze,

of Summers horn. The sweat and angst unfolding.

Spreading eagle eyed and sore with fright.

The quickening tide as old as the

sharks midstream, white as the snowy owl,

furrowing the deeps of the dark.

The ship spritely casting old time down,

war into the thicket, representing the crowd -

impressed luck and fate comely now,

the “known” known of skill accomplished -

In amidst the table’s surface, a stack of plans.

Gentlemen, compose their hand.

As the muck of War, unlike the starshine it seems,

comely goes, into the fireside, into the table story.

History is made, definition, set theory.

Mathematical arts thickening the mud,

mustard gas, and thieves.

 

 

What’s, more?

 

Hanging onto loosened wire,

with a reckoning jest,

a mechanical arm reaches out,

with a mocking jibe.

Of the unreligious, put to test.

Now the Atheist, still,

beats his brow, perched on a chill air,

watching the arid desert pass,

seeing Evolution in his call. The winding faith,

a challenge to be put to bed -

the tree of life, out of nothing, is said to have

summoned. Ever now, it’s sentient parts, looking for truth. 

What of the violent, in the perchance of life,

scudding about in mud?

Taking bread? Such starvation calling?

The pompous mind leads to derision,

of the enslaved, under the regime of another’s dictatorship.

Whom is unforgiving of the path, forced by the hand of,

Natural Selection. The pecked at, order, of the hierarchical?

If you wish to turn light, turn light.

If you wish to turn dark, turn dark.

Such choices said to be prescribed,

in deftly hallowed glass. Stir, and reckon,

with the girth of tectonic plates,

shifting one’s foot. Unstirred by gravity?

See the tides and currents pass upon

the horizon, should you have the mind

to recognise them, as the surf lifts a

fragile body upon its waters,

a vessel of intention Nature violates, yet carries.

Some say is God, in Pagan Religion.

Yet the Pagan site of farewell summons,

amid the torture of life. Torture,

a euphemism, for charity, says Nietzsche.

Quite the façade, of an Outside,

of Nature, dwelling new headend

eruptions. Another calls, Satanic aspect.

 

 

"Wake”

 

In the trepid stillness of her breach,

the cloudless sky as if to purvey,

some emptiness preverbal, and pursues.

Woman vying unemployable hungry, for,

intoxication – phantasmagoria, machine-like

permanence, amid her lunacy. She skips,

the pills further persecution, and intractable,

transparent poisoning. Yet, whosoever wicked,

unlearned, considers her whorish without it.

Now her sex native, yet purged? To pacify the puritan?

Interview her?

Meek. Breasts swollen. And enlarged.

Her skin wet. She's just awoken.

Her flesh folds horrid, and hoisted,

by her underwear, grips, a pig of a woman.

As if lustful, her clothing

Caps, her mythology as internal, and wanton.

The interviewer soundly adjusts his fly - he's sore but

introverted. Oh, poor intruder! His wanton position.

And intimately lyrical is his reductionism.

She holds the distinction of her age,

and the multiplicity in acknowledging the subject of his pride.

 

 

Second “Whore”.

 

Intricately fondle and emerge a gluttonous bore,

crookedly edging, garish and horny;

intolerantly pretentious, and that you enjoy it.

Use your rudder as if rubric for solemnity;

your hidden prayer -

Her solace dissatisfying, and that you care for.

Wreathe yourself with what you make out is her,

and that you’re not salacious -

Galvanise her property,

make incredible jest, and diatribe upon her loins.

Take her to the meat market, so others may watch,

finding humour in your puppet -

Whom can't swill the passage, out?

More, horrify her with your indulgence.

Whilst she can't make a mistake in emergency,

run for it.

 

 

Fallen.

 

In the night terrors of your dreams,

There, a fallen angel unseen.

In the heady thunder of her cry’s,

lay awake subtle ties.

The guilt of rejection,

Reckoning, upon her silver tongue,

of what murky waters silence her.

Reasons doubt,

Being, the darkest entrance of her trust.

Yet you wild away her hours told,

folding into lay the night away bold;

fallow the land, and its ship sets sail.

 

 

Starless Night

 

“I just wrote a poem about the stars”. 

“Can’t prove you wrote it, so no, I don’t want to hear it”! Says Silvia.

“I had meant to say, not that kind of star system, up in the sky”.

 

Olive grove, hooker’s green glade,

dappled, Adder, rhythms the morning.

The bud of flower’s, mathematics,

rippling the mirage,

of early spring dew drops,

crystal like transparency.

The Adder’s stream of passageways,

an otherwise twisting turning body,

intent, internal, predatory eye,

glistening, as a star may without,

the map of astronomy. Without, the window,

without the finger, or the other kind of eye’s

sold assumptions, of being without, or, of objects,

of infinitudes, in order to locate thee.

 

“I am as poor as the starless night”, in this building of silent repetition.

Who is my best friend? The mirage?

Do I need glasses on my face to see or know being without sight –

Affirming? Either patient, wither’s decay and knowing,

my or their cast future, about the doors –

the revolving door,

the revolving culture,

the revolving custom or costume,

of curtsy and oppression,

again and again…

The seed of his or her desire planted in “me”, “our”, 

brain dead lobotomy. And this, insulting.

And the seed spoiled – of poetry –

more than I might dream, could become the backdoor.

 

I look behind to see the intent of the designer,

to enslave biology to a design?

As if unknown biological mechanisms might co-operate,

impregnable, or burdened with the injustice, of the unknown –

How poetry preys the unknowing? No ambition – who wants poetry?

The Christian Saint, Yogi… Atheist?

 

 

Tribal Terror

 

Grim disciple or wondrous ripple tide,

how can you paint colours to the arctic moon?

Nebular Moon, one screams for God.

Yet, one is clawing at surface recognition,

and nocturnal sunscreens knotted textures;

the layering of chemistry skin upon skin.

Octave booms loud and bass low.

No lucid dreams of heart felt surrender,

under the moonlight. The moonlight is not enough.

 

Fateful - thought blocked in isolations mirror room.

Surface apparitions, depend on surface repetitions,

of predictable outcomes – factual data – apparent observation; 

the pain of anxious, stressing predations. Fear. Loud.

And no one arrests us, with a rescue, but with more predations.

How traditional? Not of God. Not concerning God.

God = the universal? Too painful, to epistemologically, reflect upon.

 

To consider the universe, Godly? Besides, an onslaught of slaughtered memories,

 of “recovery”, from no rescue. (How juvenile)

The, interpretations, of the normality, of eccentricities;

cherished enigma, violent inaction, yet invasive passage –

They all like to give “rock steady beat,” the irruptive rupture,

And hits the peaks - the pits of Hell –

the widened abyss of decay and distraught without refrain,

looking for the words to foretell, forsake, and forsaken.

Moonshine in this dense machine of oppression?

One violent structure reaps of the dispels of another,

slipping and shoddy religious purpose ruining,

wrecking and ravaging?

Pillaging as it’s always been. No irony.

“Do not snort lavender or clary sage,

‘Essential oils’ either”, aside, epistemology. 

 

The categorical, “her”.

 

Our lady, the “star”, arrives. Out of the mouth,

Of the great show, the ocean of life’s, progeny.   

Tainted olive grove, one feeds;

Her rambling rose, strangling pose.

Why olive grove, hold thou life?

Deafening cries, definite cries, of pains arise.

Quiet, or subtle?

None, a thorn of agony, raised thou.

Whence might beauty, rain non-commercial,

And, non-vain?

Oh, but her pained anchor,

And swollen with desires, to,

Release her, from the wronged culture!

Vain culture mined, and hers?

Hexes and taxes inferred.

For not recognising, our “fallen” culture,

and exalted, therefore, mythic reign?

Love, does cry, as the fox, seeks erasure.

Or out of thou, territory, thy, I, Culture, demands,

And yet demonised, like thou very eye.

 

 

Madness Infestation. Hot Pride.

 

Ones, unfathomable illness, another,

faces, fortuitous; of an authentic nature,

“knowing thyself” -

Nevertheless, cast out.

Out of the staple greed, of a Nation set,

Enthused for, dominion, over,

Conceived abnormality.

Design a deluded fate, further, one accuses.

Create, a further limitation. I, bemused, ask, 

When might, the Sun set upon your own shadow?

When might, you drift into sleep, upon a Sunset’s reach?

The precipice of one’s addiction, infallibly desiring,

and roads untold, may acquaint yet –

Why then, further entrust in another’s derision?

Into the wake of the madhouse summons,

still the accusation of choice amid checkmate,

and bulls eye - As the honey comb of difference,

resides in difference. Why not ask, of your own,

capitalisation, your own, melting caps,

reflected on the surface of your own lake?

You no longer may make claim to the notion,

You, first, do no harm?

I look upon my pale blue sheet,

wondering which precipice was my choice,

to be bruised so deep, win so great?

The advice; Don’t be bold, dearest.

Why not skip abroad, despite,

your memories, and the accusation by

those of the emboldened, “new” Church,

you make a choice?

The table of the day, fish dinner, with inmates,

whilst recovery is another wild cave of unknown

grace, I chose? I'm sure someone will

more deeply question, why anyone might go

to the Asylum, and not want it.

I look to the dear Violinist sat besides,

and wonder at the grim tide of mental illness,

no one seeks, but hides and grimaces from -

where truth abides, of the abscess, of the unwanted prison.

 

 

Nature.

 

What strained property, Nature -

Mussolini, Hitler, Pol Pot.

So nervous a grievance,

and shocked that alliance,

that cannon fodder,

as to what people become.

 

Such ripples an audience,

thus, presents argument

and glides and undulates

having dinner with Physics

to refract objection

as to getting basic Physics wrong.

 

Now particle twisted bits

and light stressing predation

an electro-magnetic spectrums abandon

organ, sinew and bone, dictated and embalmed.

 

Thus, beauty persuaded and exaggerated

discursive and conscripted

earmarked and embellished.

Malice, illustrative, then ostracized

embarked and undermined;

 

Dissipated, the sensitive,

distressed, the obligated.

Alas a bark conditioned

And billows the malleable.

You can't face power enough. 

 

Such a sundry prescribed fumble,

real truth, an analogy

argumenta and sensuous,

neglected, cast and angered,

twisted and bullied,

remarked upon and squashed. 

 

Truth lathered then embittered,

adjacent and operated,

tenuous and befriended,

implication unfurling.

Make some money on the deal.

 

What edifice blamed fraction

and opera bizarre,

criticised double-bind

send millions to their deaths,

good riddance to the preface.

 

Now as then refracted stream festers

with mystery symbolised dualism,

poked and objected,

that objectified mentation,

pained interpretation,

determined astute and tried

friend (Nature).

 

The unafraid path.

 

With the impositions of the damned, animals affray recurring.

Our disjointed keep, set astray; the anvils axe of birth, awakens.

A binding, of expected composure, meets the fragile mind,

with a keepsake, a trace of the bloodied toe, of creatures.

Of the human race, a vaunted, historic passage, enthusiasm does keep.

Carnage pressing, and fast, should notions of gratitude pass,

Of the sanctity of life. So, kept, overleaf, of the book,

of the noted dead, underfoot, that should the, explorative seek,

good chariots stead!

And the sainthood declaration, should you bare,

chariots to the future should steed!

Come lightly, Oh Queen, see to the passenger’s stead.

See, the reckoning rolling dice.

See how, the vaunted sailor tips. See, gluttony, thorn.

See, the reckless for the passage insisted upon.

In avarice should one keep one’s passage,

pass the guide for the thorn.

See the gauntlet for its offering, seeping blood.

What position did steed? What luck did pass?

What haunted treasures keep, that is without pain,

and grief? Should I bare, that horn of violation,

gallantly? Tip the spear into the spleen of the beast –

my animality, nowhere?

What other grave should pass, should I seek and challenge further?

I should weep for my keep?

Sailor ships and centre, should reckon upon

the pass, the frightful pass, the glimpse of the,

hooded gesture, the able cast.

 

 

 

 

Does Sight Quicken or Fade Upon the Mine?

Parcel the Truth Upon Savage Time.

 

The silken hand, reaching into the whirlpool of desisting self-actualisation.

As emptiness gestures, into you, a hooded face greets one’s being.

And without that imagining, in seeking one remains, the categorical -

Lyrical turn, an impasse, stepping feet, before the door,

Of annihilation.

Nevertheless, folly and a whispered road, a heartfelt temptress,

waits before the door. What emblems should pass for that,

hooded, mirror image? Set astray like a flocked keep?

With the emblematic sigh, sickening fate and desire,

what pain should pass? What pretence should lick the nectar,

before the door? See to you, savage height,

of a potential, to see the grave site, beyond the door.

What destination, should one lay siege before?

See the hooded gestures pass, see the Sainted hand of late,

in an angular alley, her quickening arrogance bates.

See the hooded dangers pass.

Hear the Brahms, and the suicidal song.

See the gesture of those, amid the

Wolves of able pass. What took

ones steed for recklessness?

See the emblem of a juncture, rape.

What fails still doth seek to venture?

Partake the truths of the tome of Job?

Set astride the murderous, of you, for folly black,

amid the release, for the weeping cries,

of the disagreeable notions, ever closeness.

Of the mind, one should seek,

partook cries of the dear light?

 

 

Carousels for Plenty.

 

In duress, I see the shaded wood creep towards,

The haunted room. The ceiling collapses.

More, the window’s shatter -

A milky complexion pales before the glass.

I fit the broken glass within my shoes,

I hit my fist into the shunting light, with the building entire,

Falling. The gable above the doorway now seeping milk.

Unearth the Holy, hear the boasted tongue.

Dove tails loosen amidst the fire.

Of umbrage, the notion, to be slicker.

What doth cast the ceilings down,

But that haunted pleasures seek, dear fortune.

What inhabitancy, should shine, should it pass,

that truth should seek? Do you now, shine?

The murderous gully passes beneath, each one’s own, coined cloth.

Prideful licks and charms, into the coin.

Arrogant splendours for you whom seeks.

To seek the truth, gallant measure?

What peaceful courage must you seek,

In the notion that the heartfelt breath of life, is a gift.

Sort the few, from the lot, dear thanks shall carry.

And before the gateways made of cloth, bid farewell to the steed,

that deserts you and your cloth for its pretension.

There’s more yet, to be revealed.

Must you parcel the truth for a coin, amidst the few,

looted pleasure, seek the mine for the child lost -

Watch guided by flight, pleasures cost, truth for a coin.

How flight sings of the solitudes of the griefs upon the pale

milk - Seek and you shall find the mine for the child.

Amid waters adrift, is found my, your, fair child.

 

 

To, task.

 

If a tear should smart the eye,

Out from the virtues of a sweeping tide,

awaken thou, dear. Stable greed doth

shine, upon the clown.

In pastures so brief, seek the clown for the belly of one’s grief.

Precipice does seek to shine out, of the mouth of the toothed Shark.

So, carry yourself like a lark to prey,

upon the steed, of a simple lick.

Dot and outline the clown for another’s, murderous keep.

See to it nights should pass and you awaken,

thou eye to the dark.

See to the clown in the dark,

of ample pleasures dark.

Now, it’s hard to seek the simple Lark,

for the cost dwells accosting the simple set,

of thieves, the precipice steed.

In the lack of a Summer sleep, bade, be deep -

The Isle of a child needing plenty.

Bread and wine? Not ungainly pleasure.

Should thy take, the dearest charitable jest,

the dark for the lark, of children beaten,

into the granted eyes of predation? And horrify?

Lest, call the awakening into the Holy book?

Like the naked moments of humiliation.

Yet, one choiceless, gives birth to?

 

 

 

 

Of a mighty affray, stayed.

 

Tentacles fright on the Northern Sea,

in the orb display, temples abate,

the monster’s sermons-

Thicken the might and the stable blade,

seen through you, inscribes the prayer knife’s blade.

In sanctuaries, leap into your fissures of pain.

Jest for the ever night, for the Moon’s arising,

For the sure, to go to sleep.

The Sun’s irrepressible light, yet to display,

The supposed composure of a man,

In the temptress’s keep.

In the mighty fury of your heart displayed -

What of her night and her fury?

What for, the temples of her shame and blame?

See tight fissures all the same. Further,

what mighty fury parcels truth?

Come what may, see to the fury,

and reckoned few will jest.

The priesthood’s blade cut the cloth.

The bankers roll yet to clothe their ‘Saint’.

More, to marry thou, would be a crime,

come what may, sent the blade.

A golden gaze, sent the knife;

What Queen mightn’t venture, whom,

Seeks, for her fair pleasure?

Few will undress the sailor for his keep.

Should a golden gaze set upon thou?

Reckon with the few, though trust you mightn’t show.

In the grinding of your path the untruth resides.

So sit upon your skill, and test her dragon.

 

 

The circularity that pride instils.

 

As tortured as one may be, the still prideful, fire -

Pridefully, scorn; bleed through those of insipid desire.

Else, rest your horn, and your “virtue”.

If an advantage be set, let him go to the test.

Of “rationality” inscribed in the light of the march.

“Perfections” restless air collects upon this mount,

Overseeing sacrilege for the prideful rust,

of the passage of a new Queen.

A purr, expectant, and loose,

The devout kernel - 

Rid the proud and hateful,

for the wandering, platitude’s,  

amid the play of,

the reckoning fearful plight;

Trans Rights beckons forth,

Gay Rights march forth more.

It's the time of day to horn!

Amid the jealousies plaintive see,

the stony truth did steer.

And amid the plenty,

being angered, I bare too.

What of this draft?

Toughen the mixture, toughen,

the stay? Yes, Sir dear, you may?

In the heartland furrow’s the web.

See to the vaunted treasures one seeks.

Within a stone’s reach?

What of the Holy and the grave; should,

they summon thee, when the plaintive,

in town muscle the few?

Rested guise, test the plentiful.

The “proud” reckon still with those old creeds.

For which a flight flicker’s still.

 

 

Tunnel.

 

Betwixt the sting of his thighs,

there plenty a temptress desire,

and of the gratified notion imagined was,

an eagle’s eye displayed -

If you could haunt the treasures

deep, might I cry and weep a while?

For dignity keep my peace.

For a wilting flower, bitter, shadows,

the pale wine of his flowers.

His flower succulent for an otherwise,

mighty rise and fall? Seep into her

groans. Come lightly, and go?

Should I please? Plead not your part,

petals are eaten on plenty hip.

How mistaken, to please him so.

If the tortured are plenty, might I,

be one with the Queens, rather?

Starry Heavens might heal,

thou hand, and place thou by a,

different strand. Might, Optics,

tend to deepen quick, settling

a kip, over heavy hot hips?

Queenly come, Queenly go.

So, I might dip beyond another’s hips,

dress up, sundry, dancing tits, and

bloom my petals. Or, should I rather

entertain, Optics? Philosophy a dip

into the Void, and dry I'm dealt

a blow. What other facade of you,

Oh Queen, might quicken still?

Physics, a call for you too?

Take your prayer blade out for the simple,

Kip. Away from the thunderous

Motion, of plaintive away.

Loneliness and muteness, drinks.

So, oh, comely, go, dealing with

hips, tits and proportion, and

so what? I’ll wonder away at the Asylum.

The madness kips. Preferring

that I'd understood Optics.

 

 

The Sound.

 

Out from beyond the night, screams are heard,

nightmarish fears are risen.

From the burial, sleep’s temporality gives, a grave appears.

A shone sight, where the shimmying of light,

reveals the amorphous phantasmagoria,

of one’s mind, curtailing raison d’etra.

Nevertheless, spinning snow, out,

gentle and pretty as one’s contest, appears,

he comes, gently, with her supposed, risen bite -

Into October rust, seen through, visions of you,

in the unkempt torture of the lost,

wake thou fire, wake thou desire.

Yet, upon the floor, dead legs lay.

An awkward desire, from without,

in the unfolding turn, of a deadened body.

Upon the floor the eardrum pops,

Mutterings of gratification, upon a cherry top.

She unheard. Muzzled, her.

What violations are heard, no one whistles.

Upon the floor dead legs still, unmoving.

None asking permissions from the top.

What nightmarish thoughts are they,

that quickens the bud, unfurling?

Her task now, the future invasion,

of that which, she must put to sleep, sensibly.

In the now emptied room, lays her body undress,

turn as it may, only to awaken to,

laying down in a cavern deep.

What now, may carry her out?

Of the mire, her roads unclean?

 

Bullet For A Whisper.

 

Of a tested, tremulous part, won treasures, one partakes.

Of the gauntlet, shadows of dichotomous flirtation,

that history-future make.

One’s a passage destined, for the celebration,

of the customary, of one bated, another risen.

What scares are there, of a toothed clown?

If pleasures seek, cast one’s pyrexia,

Collapse oneself into the wish of ample creation.

Sight thou clean, despite ones arriving out of,

And into, planetary fissures.

So, depends, one’s freedom, upon the notion,

of the healed hand.

Dark, her sight depends upon the aesthetic,

Of the frayed cloth.

Might one, not, partake?

Fleshly and hazed, the Sun’s

charitable blaze. See to the ashen trees,

a Sun lit orb acquaints the eye too, in the dark,

blossoming the deepened hand.

Bade farewell to the treasured Psalms,

that sicken and crawl as thieves in the night -

That hairy junction, what a fright,

Passed over to another’s sickened hand,

Declaring - I'll teach her a violation or more,

dreamy and fortuitous, the reckoned plan.

Daggers are these, my sickness alley,

what becomes of us hard as liquor stands.

If my sickness should besiege hers, what stands?

Beneath the bridge, seek my hand?

I've chosen my fate, stood upon the watchful

bridge. It still stands your mercy's plead.

And offers that I stack the verse literally,

Rather, figuratively with a trick.

 

 

The lonely figure.

 

Trail, blaze, the storm, Culture, shouts.

Should I further coin the cloth of heady mixture?

Play to transfix with yet further politically correct,

Memes, viral, cultural, manifestation’s?

For found-out, redundancy, hiding the blade, the blood,

soaked hand?

I, an adage of the coinage taker -

I, to fall out of dear Sam’s mouth,

Monstrous and gluttonous. What knowledge,

alters; ideology and game theory?

The pestered hand, acknowledged as,

the Black Hole, sucking density into itself?

Only, with the destination of arriving at an event horizon?

Do, offer prayer, to the leaf, tree, forest, and the dear clans’ men,

walking amidst their hollow path.

Fighting for no one, but for one’s estuary,

self-same, unclean, exchange, for the dear glade –

the anthropomorphic.

Thanks. For the poor, alter nothing, dear after.

As the Renaissance proved to call.

The deepened sink, into anguish and pain,

And yet more optimism,

Departing from the few ‘winners.’

The ancestral no. simply, disappearing, into the date, of a place,

of a battle, a siege -

And gentlemen, only love to game. And ladies might,

Tempt to bade, with hysteria only,

the gloved hand amidst the plentiful.

Then, mightn’t, Marquis De Sade's,

pornographic sharing still yet appear?

And baring that secret,

one goes shamelessly forth?

So, one’s to arrive, at notions of

new Genius? Acceptable Sadism?

The truth, in honouring Naturalism?

Quick to the whip, like Rudolph Hess?

Not any sentience there, but a black hole?

Evolutions plight - how can we meet, dearest?

 

 

The Operator.

 

Which one are you dearest, say!

The cruelty I've seen, leaves me bereft, and

displayed, my words altered just for the stay,

my stomach barrelled just for the day,

of being a Queen for a day -

What's more than a bridge to honey and 4,

Let’s see shall we dear, bread for a 4,

and see what number’s next, one searches for?

 

 

The Heavens.

 

Into the heavy tome, I go.

And of the dark night, I meet you there.

What trespass did not take, but from thee.

The barrows, a returning stare?

In the fixture of the nightmare, startled,

heart, startled, grave, you must uncover.

To the watchmen, those of illumination,

fairness coy, fairness bright,

into the sanctum of despair.

What taunted pleasures are these?

That should still grant one take of the book?

That which quickens fear, with the hand of grief,

With the imposition, thou shalt bare?

Taunt the night, taunt thee fair.

Your recklessness did stare,

upon the so, able knife.

What plaintive did see, the Goose loose, into

the blinded man’s buff of sight?

You stare into an alley of those shod of hair.

See these loose men bare.

Gutted, they utter verse, and yet stare.

If they could walk to the Heavens stairway,

might they flight and sicken you.

The shunned, and disposed carry you.

Can’t you see, that passage one keeps?

And you may further empty, with the glib, “there, there”.

See to the cumbersome lot; a wanton decadence?

Ask of peace, with a stare?

And unwanted, one can piece no destination,

But, for the fright of birth.

Upon your back your pleasures,

are these; what's to be there, more,

upon the burial path? A dark night,

creeping forth under stars twinkling?

And you drink wine, and wear more cloth?

 

 

In Grief.

 

Upon a Starlit murderous keep, stood a grave man,

with dear sight. In plain sight he wept and stood,

watching the call of a Herring Gull in flight.

The Gull perched, the man stood and with a chill air,

running through his palms, he bore the loss of his

child. With a hand he weakened his Psalms, and,

fell in grief, into the shame of being helpless.

 

A cat knocked the door of a small holding,

and thatched the roof with permission given,

that he did so for keep. On the grapevine did

whistle a man with a reed between his palms,

and fled a sound so violently that the cat

scrammed, and left the small holding.

 

The thatched roof unfinished since, the pauper,

Shy, amid the mix, set the stars to dearly cry,

and amid the screams and sighs came,

violently, that a man did carry his child.

 

With the Moon’s shine of the lamps, unforgiven

was his loss, and when the child was carried,

violently did the Psalms sing, into the Valley.

For grief will thicken still upon the lane and

the pass, that dear child and father walk.

The road not just a man with a reed between

his palms.

 

 

King Sea Beard.

 

A dark man was sunk into the darkest sea.

Sea Beard was his name, and when the

Starlings rested against the rooks

and crannies of his name, the Sermons

spoken by a simple Sailor, saw his haunted glass -

Water that moved below, reflected, the,

coldness of oblong tubes, ventricle spear,

large grey stones, and would otherwise have

shamed the man, for he bade tears.

 

Of Sea Beards sighs was an unmade bed,

and of the vaunted other, ‘fools’, a nightfall.

Of his simple ship, dried milk contains,

“and come nest here”.

In his groans and sighs, a bellied indulgence,

engulfs, to size up the Great Blue Whale.

 

Into the deep muddied water stayed there,

a Sermons whisper of construed tarts, and liquor,

I swear! What a lister, in the keen reflected

glass of Sea Beard.

 

In the addled tempers strict, was a diamond,

Sigh. Asked of coin, and to abide by thy fair loins,

Sea Beard’s, abode, was sickened still in fright.

 

Tempest whispers, a temper still,

reckons a fright and a chill.

No doubt played fresh, and jointed to

Wood. At the boot tips of my heals,

set to whisper back to the vaunted Sailors ship.

 

Kipping it out as Sunrise deepened in

the Great Blue Whales waters, Sea Beard

drowned there against my shallow hip,

and sighs a whip, set against stable

joints and thigh. Another made object,

thickens his sighs, as relief spelled

trouble for Sea Beard, as he’s thrown starboard.

 

 

True Dog.

 

Tragic moments number Gods fate,

Heralds lent wing, beholds ashen field;

rise now stone walls are near,

upon each bidden land lament,

 

Now what will I do I ask,

now that I am angers knot,

upon the mortal web,

I am crying in the dark -

 

Oh traveller of the heart, the foundry man says,

to the watchman, to the days abandon,

think of the blind, defying darkness of a snows

thick torrent, climbing inside death in a gale,

of found gravity; fates temptress.

 

I know that you wish at the barrenness of time,

you could be something else,

knowing that the previous encroachment of Winter,

over a number of too many years,

you've recalled the wish yesteryear that you be

something different,

and I console you and for your misguidance,

inferring a meaning in, too many years -

The idea that there is something else for you to be,

and in no more than too many years, to become.

 

You've been dreaming,

I recall how you recall the previous year’s wishing,

that the next year be different, that this year be different,

the now that you are recalling, the wish of the previous

however, many years.

 

I know that you wish to know something in order to

possess a different wish,

that would make you feel life is worth something,

different from what you know,

recalling the wishes that you consider haven't been

worth something valuable,

for little has changed and little has been worth

working for, unlike the caption of your bleeding heart,

I regard -

 

For I am a smarmy bastard,

the nugget gold intervening in your spindles,

I am cavorting with your reflection,

the victim’s blurb of your sullen eyes gazing adoringly,

boring pits of pity; you are the jewel of mine, you,

glinting and begging the sculptor’s hands to drag a dagger,

across the belly of your garbled youth and vexing age -

 

I am the rustling trap of your fornicating philosophies,

spindling your senses romantic and dumb.

Your anger furious and fettering,

I provide you with a sword, a gun, ammunition.

Having raised your fury,

join the species blight,

anointing the bony solace with the fat cat of the ages;

Myself and I -

The beaten drum of the ranging skyline,

sparring your investigations,

body fainting in the saloon of the finite,

I jest you with my God,

professing veracity.

 

 

Ask a Psychologist, for recompense?

 

Out from the dogged crimes past, came an ambulance

Siren. Noise, that prevails into the ear.

Next came the flood. Seems blacker than black,

from out of the night -

Imaginings of the deep gulf, pervading the mind.

What of your phantom; those fears that disturb?

Whispers darting, shadows prove to absorb.

Unreality seems permanent but for the Valley.

If to perish is to be this, what measure do I take?

To mind the theft, and the resonance of ambulance sirens?

Caging the undreamed yet failing body?

What gestures might expiate, age fast, and are undistinguished?

There, falling fruit. Rotting to a finality of form,

Absorbed at the gate of the unknown; the unbecoming.

Reckoning tides and whispers crept fast, tracking, the mine-

The, yours. The waters deep, unfurling loss and expediency.

And strikes the ‘unharmed’, the jest, that allows a thud to my,

heart and hearth. Deep sorrow makes a thud in the dark.

Pencil skirt; what does it matter if quickening thuds, mind,

Rather, the other draft, at the doorway?

Outside, are the lights and the forests of bliss, and,

Beyond, the reckoning thanks I give.

For, blessed are these wails, none else’s calling.

For, they’re my sirens. My plaintive calling, in the dark.

Only embers of bigger crimes, stood to lessen the thud.

What could come in, but ample dark, sickening thee as I'm

dressed the part? A sea between, bate, and the mine, still?

Still I lay awakened to deadened legs. Still, no anger can come out,

To reckon with the silence left. All blackness and light furrows.

 

 

Plague.

 

Meet the doorway, footstep fools.

See the waves of perpetual motion, against a composed,

interstellar haven. Of the supposed delight, fortuitous.

Whisper back to the resounding speckle of you,

on restoration street. Glide for the night and day.

Imaginations are made at the front of the battlefield.

Yet Society, absorbs, for your entire distraction.

Of October rust, entertained orifice and the fester of,

Water sloshing against metal.

What must arrive? What, must pay?

From this ruddy face, what chills, cries the night?

Whom plaintive sees, yet resides in ones fight for screaming rights?

See the filth for the scorn against ones preying wake,

As one defines this – an everybody else’s ‘is’, is so defined.

Whose siren call might not notion one’s guilt,

And yet still keep intact an actualised grace?

Rather as a loop, see to the carousel play; of, in fair time, be.

Cast a spell, see the fight, for the calls, to prey -

One’s domain, terrestrial? No further!

Wrought with blood, play the Lion for the clown,

See the fright of another’s lost children.

I'd rather rid myself of the shallow guilt, dearest.

See more, the fright of being penetrated so hard, for

being so tight. Whilst anguish, irrepressible,

is a call to life?

 

 

The Unseen.

 

Running through the raining cloud cover,

I find the February Suns broken light;

From here, seeming to bruise,

the decaying fruit of the common, wild apple trees.  

As if symbiotic, for my nearness meets the ground.

And I take the tree’s flesh into my hand.

The downwards tread of what’s left, now for the

Downturn, of disappearing. Suggestive, for the

Fissures of willing, the fissures of the unseen.

Yet most movement goes so silently into,

What appears as the deletion of perspective –

Peculiar tides, barren landscape, ashen cries.

What thundery heights are those that may sing,

But for the City's ever evoked wake of greed?

What may loosen such fate, from the irrepressible,

scene? To thicken one’s armour more, or to hide and seek,

of an extinguished Culture? In waves, gesture, posture!

Call down the Hells, more, and rupture a fate, so placid.

Yet keen and so able, the flight of the indifferent.

In her, the pathway of that motion, that goes to the back door;

To see the calm of the fall. Another has, the call to fury;

Of whom, levels truth for the call, reckoning a thud of plenty.

Those known, for eroding quickly into the soil.

Of deaths steed, there, awaits the unknown, call to the street.

Down to the dimensions of a curling cell.

What can there await, to the fore of existence?

What sickening grief awaits thou more, when scars lay down,

knowledge thus to keep? Omnipotence keen,

yet why, when truth should parcel such agony.

 

 

Ditch Rally.

 

In the ethereal measure, bright,

of the pre-emptive, tight fissures,

there, a nub of desire, insipid.

Tested virtues crawl at the floor.

A motioning comes up off of the ground,

Flying screams. And, comes in, her tears.

And her graven face, dripping, of plight,

All the same, duplicitous.

Fashioned by the tight air of her

Composure, of thorns, of grace’s

dalliance. Her preying Mantis’s head,

beseeched of an inscribed time, behoves,

a sight of reticence at the fall;

That her peace grants, as her health,

subtracts away.

 

From without the site of her

Enclosed, garden gate,

She harvests her eggs, and stands,

at the helm of subjugation.

Crawling upon the site

more, are sounds of his, in the cool shade.

Though to the fore, she supposes,

First, deposits her thorns,

The active grace of her measure;

The hidden carcass bodes.

Still, what's more, her beckoned call.

 

In the fissure of his found lake,

presumed dead, plenty offspring,

came to marvel the flood upon the grave -

In wartime, rallied the cross, and,

Now, the bare militant, has a cost?

What tests still, upon the march,

of a Spring Hare?

Might, still more, plight, bid desire?

Measure more, and succour, for

Another death, washing meaning bare;

what a dare!

Upon the reckoning flight for still more,

Gain, came the flooding of guts,

washing away stood crimes.

What wishes to bare, ample,

shod hair, burning thigh, pleasures sent.

Surely, for the blessed desire, to know thou God,

the supposed Science of the few.

 

 

 

Thin Blue Sheets – Why ask?

 

Under tight lip I supposed,

To resurrect myself,

only to fall into yet more, poverty.

And the Soul dips into a May fall.

Sundress over my hips, and rips my sides.

Why don't you take a full sip,

into the dignity of my grace?

Yes, despite whole tipping joints, and,

A staple sip into the abject misery only

Some could, try to escape,

Into another fall, into another sip!

 

Into the fullness of recovery,

why don't you swell my pride?

Apple-shine my thighs,

they're so shy already.

Tip me up against the bed,

why don't you see inside?

Whilst unimpressed, needle me,

on blue sheets. Undress me, more.

Don't believe the objections made,

against my sighs of dead legs,

frozen, silenced by a simple command.

 

 

Base.

 

Of times body, estuaries are made.

Too small, and departed, to glimpse,

of the many eyes, in the shade.

What if, enters, the enigmatic,

Upon the adjacent wall.

In the light, rests my skull,

The tortured mind prevaricating -

How to make a pilgrimage of this chasm?

Oh, dearest, see to it, that made, body of time,

Mightn’t yet more frequently bend beyond the line.

One’s military base, is the emblem of one’s life-

composure. Why not, charge the wound with a spear?

And see to it dear, who should walk the blade.

What’s more is asked, dear, that soldier’s

May only keep; that others,

appoint the spear, in self-defence.

If I could ask you, should I not,      

ask too, of the platitudes of the weakened?

For that passage, only the ruddy fright, of a spear less!

Should I rest upon the belly of the shine,

of the tear, amidst the light, of the pyre, bright?

What murderous intent mightn’t one commit,

Spread-eagled into the notion, of, mine?

A fine eyed stare, to treasures not?

One’s eye shone a curfew, since for the motioned,

wretched, shadows pass. And what, dear larks are these,

that rest at the helm -

Those other spears, that I may lay down upon?

 

 

Hungry Prey.

 

The extinguishes of the Soul suffers the flesh.

The movement of a tear acts as antithesis to the void of being.

Transposed utterances leaving one bereft of all dignity.

One, feeling, the futile trade of desire and destitution.

Betrayal rains on a futile, God's back -

As if raining force might be grasped in its full capacity,

to terrorize one of any flesh deemed restrained.

Ones wanton prison, that's geometry, doesn't shade fear from;

a hanging besides the window frame, of an impotent longing,

for perturbation besides animality -

Flesh corpse, and hungry prey; the docile flesh of the animal preying,

for fear, disgust and hatred, finite and wanton.

What seeks here, but from a finite longing?

And oh how, ingratiating, the eternal!

Yet more, the sublimation into another’s flesh,

as if crawling head into the spear, longing for a destination.

Bloodletting, despite the birth of every suffering and delusion of

Joy - One’s strewn from isolation, into the poverty of the Soul.

The poverty of the dress, one might only martyr,

 and heroically display as other than, whilst betrayal reigns.

 

 

Guts to Emptiness.

 

The destination of fantasy, torpor stains.

Inside, are the residual decay of finitudes.

A, dying, gaping, cry. A resolute, scream,

That shook the gut, for time to laugh,

into a spewing emptiness there.

From the belly, laugh out the decay.

And find what? The idea; scum, fuck’s!

For the murderous passage, a keep?

Into destined joy, only tides thicken,

with laughs of desecration and dissolution.

What ties, binds one, to the intrepid

victimhood of being and nothing.

And further ones supposed, asked -

Make a choice! Despite the betrayal.

Of a, wanted prisons keep, is the ask!

What gloomy tides, thickens this fate?

How, to reside imprisoned, to no heroism,

no unison, no promise?

Yet, a residual plague reckons the second coming -

We're doomed. The inverted dictator,

conqueror, has a second coming.

In the form of whom? The mentally ill,

patient, perhaps - he'd sooner be dead,

else decrepit for that claim. Surely?

Disabled to, finitudes of despair;

the tides of the unfair, curling one’s lip

around, embodied parcels of time and space.

Belting out, where's the chapel door?

Where's my Sainthood and Crown?

What scurries forth, quickens forth more!

 

 

Somnolence With The Past.

 

Idolatry has the semblance of holding past,

suspensions of fear. For so prehensile,

are a demeaned servile mass’s, delusions,

one may project, horror, back. And one,

does not quite see it. And so, recurs, the jewelled,

and “honourable” Queen -

An acknowledgment of one’s destitution.

Further the “heroic” casts, of her shaded mass,

Of dark-psyche, and prevarication, upon the checker board.

For without recourse, and instinctually,

Inclinable, she passes the gauntlet from her firm thigh;

Baring the coy smile of knowing the “grace”,

in her departure; an all reckoning knowledge,

staring her wide eyed into the abyss.

Sure, her verbiage cracking with a whip,

Yet the nothingness there, destitute, sharp-

Tonged, and glassy eyed, foretelling the threat,

against her, “the fortuitous”; that she may otherwise,

lay down with the poor, the mad,

the wicked, the codified, “condemned”.

The, all the same, destitute; prohibited of any notion of grace.

There, only game theory, chewing at the cud of the

gateways of the monstrous deity God – Nature -

Assuming one has understood one’s nature.

One’s most unlike Syphus…

Emanating many monstrous guiles of having

one head, a core identity, one might sharpen

an axe with, to foretell some fortune with.

Only to disappear into the mirage of anything

other than; the eternal return, of the inanity of the

human race – Rectitude, with no Sins!

Make sure, another’s destitute, with enough grievances.

Further, with sighs of understanding, ones most,

comprehensible knowledge!

Now the spiritual is viewed decaying and decadent,

view the march to the future, flooding at its

doorway, where no Chapel bell might sound, aside

hearing some bell, of proposed harmony's denouncement;

reckoning death come, and one’s fate -

Oh, the servile, hooded glory!

 

 

Oh, Fair Hand, going into ‘I’.

 

A woman stresses her hand upon an empty shadow.

Cast into the future, temptresses pass.

Staying on the wire in shadow and deep regret,

Sailing upon a tear of thanklessness.

Her shadow imparts a sail to dangers keep.

With regret staying, thanklessness falls upon the pass,

Into the depth of a darkness had.

What impressed her so given the dark?

What peaceful vest shadows her till dark arrives?

In whole, sharp puncturing aims at her ravaged heart.

The pain searing like a bite that won’t loosen.

Upon her fate did darken the loss of her shadow even.

Residual decay her foresight gift,

She knew when to drop without a kiss.

To see the reckoning tides comes in off the shore,

Darkness awaiting her grimace of thankless pain still.

When should she walk out into the prophetic?

The pointed blade always greeting someone’s shadow;

Hanging from a tree, whispering gage of the unseen.

What haunts the passage that she might reach out for more -

Thanks to her deal of a glassy eye shone through, fair?

If I could haunt and bare let her go,

Might I shadow her walk and take myself there too?

For, into the darkness, no tread daren’t I make,

Into the summons of all too fair.

What darkness thickens there, pulling undone

The thoughtless “I care”?

 

Out the thoroughfare, darkness, and sickness reach.

Into the furrows of a trench, a grave, reaches out -

At the calling of man, the barrows stare outwardly.

Out of helms reach, threading me so bare.

If I could reach still more, and gift you with a call,

I’d see to it there the reckoning tide more -

A simple gift, a simple kiss,

Into the grave of stillness reached.

If you could taunt me more, with ample yearning,

And reach me there,

What simple care told you untold there?

Into the gage of a thoroughbred stare,

You grave, and I care, reached more.

See to it there,

that tides gift and that you still stare.

For, deep pools of blackness you dare.

Into the leaden state of no girth, and no size.

And no care, you dare.

And I bare the shame of more regret,

Still into the passages keep, of the same old stare.

So, the deadened eyes, and the stink you gave.

That lingers and haunts, I - 

So, the tides reckoned fair,

Spoke at the gate, of the tongue you shared.

Thus, spoke the tides reckoning fair,

That I should dead eyed stare, backwardly.

 

 

Reign.

 

Haunted, vestiges impose upon one. Woken from a nightmare

Of vivid blue eyes. A long grey mane. And pushing a forehead into thy sight

Weights are placed upon one’s eyelids

Kings and Queens. One is dying, one is a corpse.

Hidden by the still mortal with pebbles, stones and rocks

Ones eyes are closed. You, me, put to bed

We lay down upon one grave, one’s bed

We who have been ready to die from the beginning

For such a time as the very beginning of the longest time

Ones death is an imposition. Preparation of life

How the body will fall and the body will fail

Men, women, are marching. Stop

Bodies are lain flat against the ground of forest

A forest, a forested clearing. Stop

See one’s body there, lay one’s animal hide out, to dry in the Sun

One raises oneself off the forest floor, then

One raises oneself out of books of historic texts, ancestry

One walks out of the school room

And one goes shopping for, animal hides

Bleached and clean and changed from one

Now in this land of another animal drying in the Sun

I will eat now. I will eat with rocks placed upon each shut eye

I will eat whilst I sleep

An apparition of one’s functionality is another ritual, a diffident ritual

It is only I, the Human being, and I did not ask to know of us, of I am this

So, one observes an animal grazing

One observes a predator, and one observes her prey

One records data points

One makes a survey, a report, a policy, one instates, a Law

One makes a revision

Rain is beginning to fall into the open cloudless sky once again

One is walking to that animal sheltered from indivisibility

One is being sodden by the weather among animals, amidst habitats

One walks with it as one once made, many uses out of skyhooks

In a past time, before History happened. The History of being about another

A leather coat hangs off another one back, just a happenstance of feeling cold

The hide of just one animal, lines a dusty concrete floor

The inside of a factory empty parts and people, one structure, a system, an object

You head, and you child, will rest, sleep down upon, and awaken upon this one

Only one principle architecture

Do not doubt this, one

No. 1, hides, the same leather hides

No. 1, books scale Library walls

One is taught about blankets, of bodies, forest clearing, the symbology of War

The mythology of peacetimes

A blanket sky is about one, of interspersed actions

The beat of the drum, without warning bursting repression

Tales of having had once warned

One is found amid a clearing. Baring one, the bones of a relic ship, an animal hide.

 

 

Anti-Natalist.

 

Spine like an alligator

Brash bosom blossoms

Nipples an insult

Wit insinuates “wonderful”

Soft folds of flesh fluent consent

 

Whine – flounder – deplete

Whip her soft peachy immense illusion

Wipe away the decent

Smother her cemetery

Censor her learned institution

Appoint your ambition

Lurk and insist on your own prostitution

 

Hers is a Holy wound

Yours is a rudder – horde your Hell

Helplessness perils in the pink blot of unfolded cloth

Conceitedness the X-Ray birth

Oppressive pro-natal Culture the curse.

 

 

 

Psychosis.

 

I don’t think I can write.

I don’t think I can describe how I feel.

I don’t have any poetic form to tell or say of you,

and it be known or knowing.

Maybe I am an accountant with some graph of equation.

That prescription may just hope to mark,

that something has happened.

And as I think of you.

Though my life appears at times a circular nightmare,

that makes no distinction of day and night.

Are you a secret besides?