Soldata/Soldatum (16/11/1983)

We are preparing for

Armageddon-

Only weeks left

before

Orwell's hour

strikes

the time away. 

Get in your

practice while you

can. 

Too Late By Half

Went one day to

See an old flame. 

At her home I was

Told she'd burnt her

Brain out

Long ago. Been

Sent to another

Kind

Of home. 

Sent to be with

Others of her kind

Whose bodies live

Without their minds,

Cared for well in

Their living hell. 

I wish I'd known you

When you could've told

Me. What happened

Happened. Yes, I wish

I'd known you then. 

Your body aged but

Your mind you froze. 

You stare at me now with

Eyes so cold, eyes that

Will never grow old. 

I have to leave, I have

To go. This waste, this

Waste, it scares me so. 

Still, I saw some sparkle

In your icicle eye

That speaks of something

Long denied. 

Some dream of love you

Never had, a life lost

And never led, of which

Your soul was daily bled. 

So, you burned your brain

Out long ago, never to

See the sun arise, never

To return. You spurned

The world and now can't

Kiss away these

Flowing tears, a fear

That screams, Oh Holy Christ!

All I'm left with? A useless

Wish; if only... Had I

Really known you then

Would we have augured

This empty when?

Coming Over (lyrics w/o music)

Coming over

Across the sea

You're the epitome

Of hypocrisy

You want my gold

And you want my stuff

You will never

Have enough

If all I own

Becomes your's

You just wait

We'll even the score

'CAUSE YOU ARE GREEDY

YOU ARE NOT NEEDY

YOU JUST CAPTURE

WHAT YOU'RE AFTER

YOU DO NOT BUILD

YOU DO NOT GROW

YOU DO NOT WEEP

YOU DO NOT KNOW

THAT

YOU ARE GREEDY

FOR ALL THAT OWNING

YOUR SOUL YOU'RE LOANING

TO THE DEMONS

TO THE DEMONS

TO THE DEMANDS

BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS

NEVER WASH OFF

I WILL SEE TO IT

AND YOU WILL...

NOT LIVE THROUGH IT!

GREEDY

GREEDY

GREEEE-DY!!

A Social Killing

I launched an 

      aside broadside; 

reamed her square

in the brains

      let loose

   a flood

of lizards and lice

and slime and tripe

      hidden amidst her

temporal lobes. 

The rest at the reception

      never even noticed. 

Typical. 

Desensitisation: the modern pandemic.

Days Spent in the First World

Definite advantages

Are to be had

In

Inertia--

The hold of the

Armchair Man, 

Mainstay of

Us, now that

We've

Modernised. 

Slow Death

Life. 

It all starts with life. 

Let me tell you this: Birth. 

You were born. 

You, me, that guy in the

Corner in his designer $uit &

The cheap whore with him. 

For this you can blame your

Fecund folks. The moment

You were born, Death entered

With your first hue and cry. 

Claws in place. 

Patient. 

Lurking. 

You may be taught to believe

That you walk in sunshine, chin

Up, back straight, and anything's

Possible if you try. 

Lies. 

All lies. 

The whole world

Lies and chiefly to itself, 

Attempting to maintain

This illusion called

Life. 

Death's dread umbra covers you

Always, that invisible darkness is

The only truly living entity

Around. 

Just wait. 

And see. 

Meanwhile, Dad, idiot grin in

Place; Mom holds precious babe

Up to display their happy

Congress' product, not

Seeing that her arms uphold a

Casing of fetid flesh, worms, 

A cloud of bones and dust. 

Precious. 

Doomed. 

And the zombie parade dances on, 

Dancing and fucking, desperate

To beat off the hungry shadow by

Sheer force of numbers, 

Abetted by religion and 

Self-delusion. 

Yeah, right...

ObjectActivity

Waking. 

A room. 

I see things around me. 

Furniture seeming to wait,

Wondering if I understand the

Deeper meaning hiding

Under the wood, veneer or vinyl. 

Is purpose implicit or 

Explicit?

Is form really a clue

To function, or is that

A myth of our time?

Nothing is moving

Except my eyes. 

However, there is no

Denying the sense of

Imminence, expectation...

No surprise if I'm 

Consumed by my

Possessions, 

Disappear in spontaneous 

Combustion. 

No surprise at all. 

Ownership is a door

Which swings both ways. 

The Reign of Pigs

Here the pigs

Have no wings but

Being blessèd

Walk upright like the

Men they oppress

They watch with their

Piggy eyes, 

Gather in their piggy styes,

Stalk the bowed, cowedcrowd 

Which tries in vain to disappear

Every dirty whisper

Heard is filed away for future use

As bait for some failing soul 

Or as the knot upon the noose. 

Yes, the pigs have power now. 

Yet the day shall come

When men unite as one to fight, 

Throw the piggies into flight

And once hewn down, fry

Their bacon crisp and brown. 

Aura

Criticism cheapens

it's aim to defend.

Abstract eyes glimpse

limp patterns, grim

grey expanse of brain

rolled thin, 

draped; 

a cloudy shroud

fallen as a strange

new weather over

familiar

landscapes.

Satan’s Cheerleaders

The line is drawn in sand

Bridging insult, 

Eye-beams. 

Profound distemper

Is offered. 

A display to

Entertain

Me

And my divinely

Dark

Intent. 

Unpoem

Sadists understand clowns the best.

Think about it. 

Who knows more about laughing at pain?

A battered woman in a hospital bed. 

You visit with flowers. 

What made you choose Black-eyed Susans?

Morticians practice last aid. 

Which brings to mind: how long must doctors practice before they are declared competent?

Perhaps we should ask a mortician. 

Remember, "Hail to the Chief" is not a request for a change in the weather. 

Why is there no demand for

Chicken-leather boots? 

Lord knows, there are enough

Chicken skins in

The world to tan. 

Sweet Blackout

Oh, Dark Lady,

To kiss once more

Your gentle hand, hold tight and

Follow your lead to peace. 

One problem. 

The darkness of my night

Has not seen you of late. 

Any tiny shadow could

Hide you, any dim corner. 

Is it your scent I've lost or

My senses? You seem

Gone and no code I know

Will bring you back. 

Now, retreat or attack?

Fight or flight?

The primal urges;

I desire them not but 

To clasp you close one

Last time and

Breathe a final exhalation

Within your soothing grasp. 

Is that too much to ask?

To die by a loving hand?

Visionary Missionary

If only my cock were as long as

My desire is strong

No ocean's breadth would prove

A hindrance to intimacy

Treasured memories mix now

With dreams in psychotic symbiosis

In a possibly mythic past my

Lover crucified me to our bed

A modern Odin, my passion arose

And rose to cross o'er

Bifrost in frenzied descent to

The root of Yggdrasil 

Nine days and nights passed 'till

With triumphant cry I

Tore myself loose leaving blood

And flesh behind as I fell to

Seize the knowledge of love eternal

Sacrificed, myself to myself, purified

In orgasmic flames of pain

Naked I stood, howling

Thanks to the heavens

Naked, I danced in the freedom

Of selfless joy

My lover, my Norn, did bind

My wounds and as

Eye met eye

Silent understanding passed thereby

That, where there had been

Two sundered souls, one united

Being, indivisible, now championed

It's existence across the

Dimensions of Time and Space;

No more would solitude intrude

On our communion of spirits, this

Perfected amalgam which only

A benign multiverse can bestow

On those who risk the dare

That hard-won knowledge, those

Runes of the power of love, compel

Me to exhort to the faint of heart,

Those afraid to trust, to speak

Out, to shout about the dreams

Held within! Who is meant to

Hear will arrive, hearing their name

Whispered by messenger winds

Then together leap into the

Abyss, holding hands and hearts in

Trust, as the fall transforms into a

Soaring flight upwards to a

Consummation often rumoured and

Preached but seldom

Believed in

Lovers, I title thee Divine,

Transcending Time and despair to

Waltz among the stars between

Infinite holy incarnations

That Last Step’s A Killer

It seems I've plumbed a

true crevasse. 

Always one for caves, 

never avoiding the

iris below, seeing myself

growing 

             down 

                      by

                           degrees. 

By degrees the perspective veers,

climbing the zodiac, turning

Gemini to Cancer. 

So this latest striving fails. 

Having reached the

measured depth

I scramble unwilling

over

       the sudden

                         nether

       lip. 

Journeying Toward Zion

In the drought

you fade away

A torn transparency

projects a failed

mirage of green.

Looking opens the

last eyes

to blinding dust. 

With seven spare oxen

the not-dead few take up

the pilgrimage but, 

memory's a poor guide and

the despairing wind calls

their bones out. 

The mind knows no

outside and even extreme

measures are restricted by

the many fooling mirrors the

will cannot disbelieve

away. 

For lack of insight, 

not blinding light, 

all turns to

slow decay. 

In Quotation Form

"Many are the tangled

Moments when

Ice-hued physics

Trot off with

Our women

And frown."

Lumpy Throat Confession

My lord, how I love you!

      but, 

            ill-posed stars! 

            'tis but the love of

            the garden-variety

            Romantic: 

Deep & fathomless

Forever & eternal

Unrequited & doomed 

             in every way imaginable... 

Still, my heart beats for two. 

I dream for two, all the while

knowing

              that

                     it

                        is 

                           for

                                naught. 

So I celebrate the equation

of love and pain with

a shower of

                   unsalted tears. 

Expected, worshipped and 

quite 

         inevitable. 

Ghost, Ship, Siren

Tell me, tell me, tell me

True:

Do you hear me calling you?

Do I echo in your head?

Does my voice still

thrill with dread? 

Was married once, no, twice

to clouds, those mem'ries now

but fog, a shroud to

trail my shredded soul

that walks 'cross streets, by trees

insensate, no aim, no goal. 

Now, tell me, tell me, tell me

True: 

Did I once sense love from you?

Was love my water and my bread?

Was that I who held you

close and dear, or are

Those the mem'ries of one dead?

Am bidden by a nameless force

to wander aimless, without a course.

Was it ever like this,

or were you my anchor, harbour,

shelt'ring tree?

Is there a way back home again?

Does your love still wait

to tether me? 

If I held you close please tell. 

For if I did, in losing you I've

lost myself for good as well. 

Manifesto

The curved, insecure

surface cannot truly

distort. 

This weakness breaks it's

power to impose

falsehoods. 

I refuse to listen; 

the edge of will is

enough. 

No curiosity merits

reluctant truth. 

The meaning of lies is

buried in the fragments. 

It is enough to hear

and not obey. 

Advice For an Unborn Son

Rock the boat

Buck the tide

Give up on hope

Enjoy the ride

Keep your cool

Play the fool 

Stay in the shadows

Be no-one's footstool

Hate those who hate

Love what you can

Assume all's illusion

Be your own man

Don't look for a map

Conform to no rule

Chart your own course

Be nobody's tool

For in the end

You're your own best friend

Trust no-one else

For your heart they'll rend

On Becoming Soulless

Awake, in the

Midnight of the morning,

Chilled and shaking, conscious

Only of reflecting black,

Receding walls. 

Never before have I

Felt so small. 

If there was one of

Whom to ask, I'd set

Before them but one task:

To listen and

Internalise

This analogy: 

     "Before I woke I must've given

      birth, so explaining 'way my

      inner hollow. Yet of even more

      import: was that I bore truly

      mine own stillborn soul?"

Vampyr-like, I embrace the dark,

Mirror for an inhuman state but,

Mirrors I have learned to hate, that

Lie with images of a carapace. 

No hint there of cracks or gaps

Or the true state of being a

Dead

Man

Walking. 

My Elderly Guest

     He said, out of bed arising, "I feel like I just spent the night in a clothes drier with a dead dog," in a soft, slow, gravelly voice. All of his oral emissions ended with an "aargh," perhaps in an attempt to sound piratical or, maybe, simply to express how he felt in a very succinct manner. Verbal shorthand, if you will. Handy, actually, because you always knew whether he was in a good mood, or not. 

A note in credit.

"The Sperm & Eggs of Texture" is but one of several pieces which followed upon the creation of it's title by the incomparable Steve Morton-Toth (just plain old Toth, back in, oh, about 1979 which is from whence this poem dates). Much of what has become, not so much a style, but a method of composition was first worked out in lengthy, compulsive experiments with form. "Speed poetry," as it might be termed, was the result of attempting to harness inspiration in such a way that the finished product was as much of a surprise as was possible, to the author as it was to the first reader. It is in this surprise that I find the measure of the success of any given piece, if any. Collateral interest in consonance, assonance and imagery, over questions of rhyme or even substance, is the remainder of the equation that prompted this work. As a "formula," it has not changed in any substantial way over the intervening decades. I still deny any sense of "craft," preferring to be only a conduit for the content of my subconscious mind. Which allows me to conclude that I seriously doubt whether anyone reading my work could possibly enjoy it more than I did in the writing of it. 

I humbly thank you. 

Lawrence A. Ravenstock, esq.

The Sperm and Eggs of Texture

Before      the release

         some form 

         arduously maintained 

                               composed

                       this 

                               motion

                         of 

                                    cycles

          in straight lines. 

Manipulation, 

      token homage to true

      creation, kept outside the

      pale. 

And so, these rocks

      we've accepted & laid

      to both serve & harm

      join in mute congress 

      with willing flesh. 

And so, the birth of accidents

      Having marked the spot, I

      go to seek medications

      to stopper & salve

      my indentations. 

Mantra

Faith

A word so often heard

Faith

An empty sound that reverberates

Through caverns of thought

Faith

A concept so loud

A notion so proud it defies all

Attempts at comprehension more

Complex than mere definition

Faith

As I understand it is

Belief without knowledge, without

Evidence or foundation except

Faith

Have faith

Keep the faith, baby

Faith to move mountains...

A word so often heard

A word to calm the herd

Loud, loud, louder still

Until I won't think at all

I'll just "moo" and keep the

Faith

I believe in nothing but I'll

Keep the faith

Baby

Baby,

Yeah. 

That's me. 

Full circle. 

Faith. 

Phrases Heard in Passing

"Nah, it's not that. It's sugar. I don't believe in sugar; it's bad stuff, man."

"I need to destroy you one more time."

"The girl who does cartwheels does the vases." 

      The smell of effigies

      signals chaos, entropy

      Systems revolve,

      turn independent,

      turn unrestricted, 

      turn to confusion. 

      Order collapses

      in cosmic collisions and

      the truth is revealed

      amid random destruction. 

Q: "What are those little yellow pills called?"

A: "Speed." 

-: "( ! )"

Panacea

In this, life's torment

Love has a place. 

A small one, mind;

More counterpoint or

Contrast to

Magnify our sorrows. 

Weep your tears, save them

Up in a sacred vessel. 

Drink them down, so

Salty and so sweet, and in

So doing, sustain your

Heart through

One more

Day in Hell. 

And So It Goes...

Old bones grow colder,

Their souls 'neath the boulders,

Earth and landscaped lawns. 

Recollections linger

'Till they, too, begin to moulder. 

Time's soldiers knock off

The pawns. 

The living cling to the notion

That the mind contains some potion

To keep oblivion at bay. 

To stay as actors at eternal play. 

Such hubris! What vanity!

The forgotten hordes must laugh

At that pathetic inanity!

Roped

It seemed so simple. 

Sitting in that

Waiting room chair. 

Reading Smithsonian,

Bright lights and vague

Hospital odours. 

The table to my

Right

Separates

Me from the other, empty

Chair when I realise it

Is

No longer empty. 

Occupied now by

Another, waiting. 

A young woman, and I

Brainless, begin to babble

About old cartoons and

Supermarionation which she's

Probably too young to

Remember. 

Those eyes. 

It was her eyes. 

Sparkling as diamonds which

Left me with

Brainlock. 

Eyes,

Twin lassos. 

I never had a chance. 

Cat Swallow

Come on!

Exercise the cat swallow,

Reveal the wicked throat, fangs

With which to

Cleave and savage

My wet

Silence. 

I Watch the Ants

I watch the ants, marching

Inexorably from the dead

Bird's eye

Future memory: locusts gnaw

My bones as wild, black tears crawl

Down my lover's face. 

Wind, rain, falling leaves;

Is this new world any

Different

From the old? Still

We cry, still we die. 

Still can't fly, weighted by

Withered love. 

My darling, I never

Understood her;

I promised her moonshine

Not the moon, 

Toasted it a thousand

Times and still she

Calls me liar. 

Do you see why?

Perhaps but her blinded eyes

Never will. 

I opened mine just yesterday only

To see distinguished people play

Private parts in public places. 

What good is

It for her to

See again?

Breaking

Violent fear

Rebounds,

Rebuilds

Casts blunt fist,

Urges no reflection;

Reaction

Resists

The glance around

That would reveal

A self to

Itself, 

Deceived. 

Deep Machine Funk

The utility of electricity has

become questionable. 

Elvis knew this when he shot

his television. 

Composing verse on this 

"thinking machine" ignites

a raw nostalgia

for pen & parchment. 

The process was one of

control but, now it is with

controls that I battle. 

Strange, how the idea used to

be the hard part. 

Communing with one's private

muse. Modern times have

flipped

the creative universe. 

Thoughts still surface with

eerie rapidity, as in brain fever

or with bad speed. 

Fixing thought to page is

what now vexes. 

How a product can

humiliate is a conundrum

beyond

my ken. 

Belief Vies With Observation

A well-rounded individual

turns abruptly

aside. 

The lights are dimmed at

an appropriately coincidental

moment. 

The important satellite loses

touch

with synchronicity. 

Perhaps 

the dark is

a simulation. 

Defensive postures can

be

adequately disguised. 

Many things happen at

one time. 

Time is

a machine which

Is always fed. 

On Dreams

Backbrain

Primalarchival

Storied stories

Stored, 

Sleep restored

To a semblance

Of life. 

What horror

That the past

Lasts. 

Eye/Window/30 Seconds

beasts in the infinite

awake

into the prepared intersection

of some national purpose. 

      first light breaks

      the room into day

      quick investigation

      reveals no new signs

      safe to navigate

      the familiar terrain

the daydream continues

on a higher plane

bombs take time to fall

                  •••••••••••••••

                         (reprise)

The design inherent

in the selected view

entrances

the levitating

fakir

for a time

Vacationing in Hong Kong

deafening Chinese

footfalls; 

     interjections. 

all the high women

are polarised. 

approach slowly, 

from the left--

their arrogant

echoes are

your guides

still. 

Monetary Policy

upwind

they discuss

aspects

of Money. 

one, a foreigner,

swift

and glib. 

he baits

the naive all

the while chuckling

to himself. 

A Clown’s Affection For Beauty

He lived to smile

in the circle with

paint-raped face. 

Always falling while

only seeming out

of control. 

Creating funny patterns, 

vast, funny patterns. 

Everything is ordained. 

He dreams in the

silent afterdark of

Pinocchio 

laying under his

mother's skirts, hearing

only lies. 

Everything draws together

in his dream. Those

who watch, they just

laugh and laugh until

they scream. 

Building Meaning

Architecture both includes

And excludes

Space. 

Man's Euclidean attempt to

Impose order upon a

Fractal universe. 

Purpose made

Concrete, however

Futile. 

The Tower of Babel wasn't

Built in a day; pure

Construct of the will, of

Mind made manifest, in

Spiralling structures of

Stone, steel, glass. 

Utility secondary to the

Desire to control

Something. 

Anything. 

Anything to keep the

Worms at bay. 

Acquisition of Knowledge

You orbit my haven,

in which every

object is a sensor, my

vision a phosphor screen. 

Traces remain. 

I've drawn your face since. 

Afterimage superimposed,

multisensual, over the room's

contents. 

An image burned into

my third eye's retina,

impossible

to erase. 

Up the Butt of Theology

You know, 

Jesus should've pulled a

Prodigal, told His Dad

To fuck right off; these

Humans ain't worth it. 

All that suffering,

For nothing. 

Any change in the suffer-meter

Here on Terra Firma?

Hell, no!

And Hell, yes! 'cause that's

Right where we are, folks. 

The bigger the God, the

Bigger the joke. 

Think you're headed somewhere?

Damn straight you are. 

Straight to worm food. 

Amen and kiss your ass

Goodbye. 

One Among Illusions

Hope is just a word, 

A word that's often heard

Spoken

By the have's to the nots

Because those who gots

Believe it's 'cause they deserve

Their bounty. 

Random chance, more than works;

More the luck of birth than

Anything done to deserve what

Life chooses to serve up. 

Black, white, good, evil, be but

Concepts to cover over the

Reality of the common wisdom: 

Shit just happens. 

Tao’s Dark Side

Wake, feeling

Like a salesman

On rounds eternal. 

My apartment, these rooms, 

Some cheap motel...

View cluttered by

Familiar artefacts;

Suitcase of material

Memories chained to

My soul. 

Tired, I want to

Go home. 

Problem. 

The road's so long, 

Home's but a concept, 

Co-ordinates forgotten...

Adrift. 

Feeling....

Trite Question

If with Necessity, 

Invention's mother

And with the Devil

You do deal, 

Then who's the broker

And who's your brother

'Pon life's treach'rous 

Battlefield? 

An Aloof Exchange

white noise, 

clouds, 

some word seeds. 

the resultant random

electricity continues

it's fall into

the

mirrored room. 

stasis. 

infinite regression. 

entropy incarnate; no

progress. 

eye joins eye

on the bridge of rain. 

inflection is sense, 

observation a waste. 

minds in motion

grind time too fine. 

Before the Statements

(there  is  a

 break  here) 

A transition in

   consumption. 

•

Transportation is 

   triumphant 

      over time. 

•

An ego is as 

   an ego does. 

Untitled

A bedroom at

3:55 in the

morning. 

Why?

No sleep;

don't feel. Inclined. 

Dead space. 

In These Days

My apotheosis is the crow

which in it's sleek sweep stoops

to carcass-feed. 

To peck

at mouldering eyes, over

ripe flesh is 

the only art that matters

when

a pope rates as news

alongside nuclear

war's overkill and

royal bloatings, as

insipid adverts bend 

minds to purchase pointless 

products to swell

the landfill that is our

urban life. 

Let go! Fly and feed on

all the noxious things and by

so doing

end

their power to defile us. 

Thrive in revile; victory for

all who swallow 

all, even

their puke. 

Vindictive Sharing

my love is leaving

as the trees are freezing. 

cold, my heart radiates

ripples in ice, outward, 

burning brown the world, 

life sheathed in an unnatural

glaze 'neath my icicle gaze. 

love is leaving. 

gone the branches, 

lost, the matches. 

i thwart creation's purpose 

living on as entropy's engine. 

this loss of heat i feel 

shall be reflected, inflicted

unto all... 

An Urban Daydream / Sandra

Sweet waitress, 

     on another timeline. 

No lay; no way 

     but we'll still have

     a fine time. 

Play at long acquaintance 

     and promises of lust. 

Hearing the Call

I speak of Death

Of corpses clean with

No taint of sin, with 

Souls pristine.

I speak of Death, 

You say "metaphor." 

What would it take to

Make you see the Reaper's

Real, awake and waiting

Somewhere near? 

Give up pretence, hope

And prayer. All are

Illusion, wishful defence in

Collusion with your fear

That one day soon you

Won't be here.

Of Revolutions

I hate the quiet and the small, 

The gutless wonders of the world

Who rule in secret, silent

Cells of power, 

Praying 'gainst the justice hour

When streets will bleed

And cathedrals crash. 

The word from poor to poor

Will spread, a virus with

A voice of thunder, like

The brazen head of Magnus:

Let towns be ruined, 

The cities Hell!

Listen to the tolling bells

That strike the hours

To the coming doom

Which can but revive

This cursèd world that

Most do slave to serve. 

Mayhap all 'cept those up

In the tower, whose

Well-deserved fall shall

Mark the hour. 

Erosion of the Divine

The Hierophant in astral

Rhythm chants his mystic spell
To meld, through wedlock weld,  

Two souls discrete, unique. They he now
Unites in bold alchemic fusion,

Amalgam of essences in collusion.

Where once stood two, now wind and
Water, aether, fire, all of blessèd earth,
Work their weird of transmutation.

First there had stood a sundered pair,

But now a holy whole, enchanted 'neath, Between, betwixt,
Amidst their witnesses of sacred wood.

It steps stalwart forth, a creature new,

Replete with power, purpose; pure product of its occult birth.

Indeed, the eulogy of history has but Now begun
When these two were formed to one.

 
Once Fate heard that, She, loudly

Laughing, did
Decree that, "just the two would never Do,
So let us see, if can they bump it up 

At least to three."

At least that's how the story goes. 

But, given time, this world

Can breach most any wall.

Steel or majick, or even
Fabled adamant.

The most potent spell, 

Just as crystals in pure liquid form, 

Does through entropy decay, 

Leaving all its

Parts asunder, scattered far

Without the slightest clue 

To where they really are.

Alas, though still the pair do dwell

And interact,

No love is left

Within their holy

Pact; no, nothing but a frozen Hell

Where she has her's and

He has his,

And they've both relearned what

Lonely is. 

Devolution

I sit   in my circle

of lamplight fire, daring not

to look up as I feel the walls

recede, keeping

pace with my

devolution. 

Walls, black, empty, echo

the terror of the arboreal past, 

the frozen desert night, 

the Jurassic, lizard-ruled dark. 

Shrunken now, a pale-eyed

mammal, barely capable

of remembering those 

who didn't make it 

back

to this haven. 

I hunker, quiver and wait

for dawn. 

Of Honoured Mem’ry

A dozen short long years

Ago, from fairy skies 

Of slan'drous blue and 

Lying clouds like burial shrouds

Came brutal bolt, aimed 

As mistletoe, evil and true 

Through mind and heart, 

Through very soul it

Flew, news black as 

Devils' bile...  

Struck down, my

Brother, the other me 

And I too far to right

The wrong, sweet vengeance 

For to bring to that Shelob who 

Did the dire dart let fly. 

No mere death would ever 

Do, lest it contain eternities 

Of endless pain 

If in justice the world 

Does turn, then let all of 

Hell my fury guide, my

Sword to hone to cut 

Hardest bone and as 

Thanks to Hell, I'll 

Sacrifice the worthless life 

Of my foe who stole 

From Earth and I a man 

Whose piss be too noble 

To be let on

Her grave 

Dream lyrics/Two minutes

Did you call me up last night? 

Was that you at ten past two?

All I remember

Is being on a bender

And something to do

With a cow.

Or was that you?

Momentry #2

"...and, again, back to the car. Take out the key, open the door, listen for breathing, tip the seat forwards, lift the eyelid..."

Fragment

"...she cannot use

 the Time Machine to

 lose the weight that

 she never did not have..."

 

This Dull Age

This dull age, 

It seems to me to

Be in need of some remedy 

Some prose perhaps, or

Timely verse should

Not, methinks, make matters worse

And if a laugh or two ensue

A tear to dampen ruddy cheek

A sign of humour, anger, pain

To lift Emotion's flag again!

Volition: a commentary

Today's topic: Creating a greater sense of control over your own life. 

First, I will allow that "a sense of control" does not equate with complete control. No one owns that absolute. Besides, that would piss off the Norns; remember what happened to Macbeth. 

Still, not feeling like a log in the cataract of life is worth it. Another analogy could be to preprogrammed industrial machinery. Take your pick. 

To begin, try (real hard) to practice putting the word "should" in the place of "can" whenever it might turn up, in thought, self-reflection or speech. Syntactically, it will always fit so no worries about working around clumsy sentences. Practice doing this and take note of what happens. 

You may be surprised. If you take this exercise to heart, your view of the areas where you have a choice and where you really don't will change. I claim for the better. Better in this case meaning that your zone of conscious choice-making will expand. 

There is, shall we say, a sidebar to this increase in possible choices. That is the necessity of assuming responsibility over your expanding view of how you both affect and effect your future, as well as the present and future conditions of all with whom you interact. 

Follow these suggestions and reap the bittersweet harvest of freedom. Learn to live consciously. Point being that you CAN do most anything. But SHOULD you? That is something which most definitely requires a reason, apprehended through reason. 

Nulla Species Nova

nulla species nova. 

The root belief of Linnean thought. 

This is the glove for the hand of Creationism. Accepted gospel until the refreshing wind of the breath of Darwin blew some of the yellow fog from out the Victorian mind. 

Creation? Most obviously. 

"Creationism?" Now that's silly!

A Ponder

Been giving a think on all my deeds decidedly undone. 

I have never leapt off an Andean mountaintop. Never taken a walk on the ocean's floor. I have never discovered a vaccine against Death. Never built a better mousetrap. Never bred a fat-free strain of pig. I have  never run successfully for President on a platform of genocide. I have never owned a '56 Corvette or a neutron bomb. Never donated a kidney or other major organ to Bob Dylan. I have yet to mastermind a multi-million dollar coke deal from Bolivia to Fort Lauderdale. I have never dealt weapons of mass destruction to Eskimo's. I have neither prevented a war nor led Tatars on an invasion of Iceland. I wasn't Cher's first lover,  nor Lady Chatterley's. I had nothing to do with the foundation of Israel. I did not foresee aluminium. Have never bought a Teflon-coated dildo nor Lou Reed's mother's childhood home. I have never evolved into a telepath. I have never visited Baltimore. Never smoked three packs of cigarettes a day. Never made a documentary on the night-life of bees. I have never really seen what people call the "Man in the Moon." I have never noted the best-before date on the underside of a pyramid. I don't remember the colour of my ex-wife's eyes or the third Crusade. I have never dated a Catholic girl. Never had carnal knowledge of a greased polecat. Never mediated a standing dispute between empires. Never tasted any real difference between Pepsi and Coca-Cola. Never could afford an evening on cocaine. I have never had a school chum who became a millionaire. I have never owned a Freddy Fender record. I have never won a cent with any Lotto ticket. Never played chess against Big Blue. Have never attended any live sporting event. Never been at odds with myself. Have never seen "the" light. Never been up to my neck in the Pacific Ocean or crossed it in any manner. I have never failed a history test. I have never been in New York or "above it all." Never pushed an envelope or yanked anyone's chain. Never consulted a witch doctor or met any doctor who did more than practice. Never been any girl's boyfriend. Never been complimented on my looks. I have never dreamed of a prior life in France. Never handed a pencil to the Dalai Lama. Never comprehended the thinking behind a flat income tax. I have never become fluent in Russian. Never traded baseball cards with Samuel Coleridge. Never made a right-hand turn from the centre lane. Never caused a pandemic. I have never believed in the ghost story some call god. I will never live long enough to complete this list. 

So I do strive to filter out falsehoods sown among my sensory data and the resultant feedback-between-facing-mirrors autoconstructs. 

End of session.

Doubting Thomas

Doubting Thomas built him a boat

Never used it; didn't think it'd float

Good thing 'e wasn't Noah

'Cause you know what he 'ud done

Would've doubted to the moment 

When the rain it did'a come

Well, there'd be no overcrowding

No pollution and no war

And also no hyenas, no giraffes 

No nothin',  no more... 

Winter

Winter, 

Death's own door knocker, 

Announces the

Entrance of the multitudes. 

Generation upon generation

Passes it's death to the next 

And children forsake lamentation

In mute acceptance of

Their doom and choose still

To pass the play

To unwilling gamblers.