Shameless, Enthusiastic Promotion!

I have been recently introduced to what is, in my experience, one of the most esoteric of graphic novels, "The Poet and the Flea: An Ode to William Blake." My introduction was courtesy of its author, G.E. Gallas (who can be found at http://gegallaswriterillustrator.wordpress.com/ ). Being most impressed by both the text and illustrations, I feel obliged to recommend the work to all and sundry  who may read this. To add some substance to my earnest suggestion that the work is well worth checking out, here is a link to it:  https://t.co/zfxTaQRurG

To the best of my recollection, the last time that William Blake was the subject of a modern treatment was back in 1995, when he figured large in Jim Jarmusch's film, "Dead Man." Now, twenty years later and in a different medium, the 18th century genius is once more brought before the communal public eye. My fervent wish is that the public opens its eye wide to Ms. Gallas and her work.

Should anyone reading this be a Twitter user, the author of "The Poet and the Flea" can be found on that platform as @gegallas; check her out and be informed, entertained and hardly alone.

HELL: The Musical (1st draft libretto excerpts)

To cut and 

paste in this tiny 

place calls for fingers sharp and 

long. I'd say that is

Perfect for this Hell; 

I'd say they 

Belong.

And now, so too

do little you, so don't 

fret; what we have you will get and having had you'll

Get & get & get…

No matter the number,  

high or much

humbler, I ain't seen

an end coming yet…. 

You swore to one 

God. Well, He is 

Here, complete with rod!

(at times it's a prod)

And as far as I know 

The old rules still 

Hold. So, as long as 

There's God,

He's all you need to while away  

Eternity, a-twitch to 

Please His Lordly 

Likes and His 

Somewhat more

Diabolically deviant variations  

On "play."

So,

While you sleep, stare or read I churn out fresh text for you to see a mad mind in mid-dream 'tween two hexes, midst

damned duplexes stuffed

mit dimensional 

multiplexes.… Should you 

ever feel you're beginning 

to get it, lose that thought 

or you'll regret it!

Okay:

What we

Appear to have here 

Is a set for a Hell.

It is still in need of some 

Hellish sounds,

The foulest of smells; 

Only the beastliest best!!

We are here building a

Truly heavenly Hell…

Don't worry the cost;

Most we order from 

Heaven and they write it

off as a loss.

It is, after all,

Mystification 

And we have all the 

Room that we'll need,

Meaning for every

Vocation, and any of those in any

location. See, I call, "Run

the numbers!" A few 

second's of 

thunder and "Poof"

We drown in accountants! After

all it's Hell's doing 

Earth is pestered by

numbers. All those 

digit crunchers would 

be jobless without us and so, given it's 

Hell, still, number 

crunchers do reasonably well, but 

that's a perk all in 

fun. What the fuck! I hate math myself (I can't count 

and you'd better not 

tell--as I said this IS

Hell…) Well we'll chat 

sometime later; I got me a hobby. I really hate fake French headwaiters

so I skin 'em alive

when I find 'em, then put 'em on the 

Moon to dig those big 

craters! Dumb science blames 

asteroids! Ha, ha, ha! Asteroids, my

ass!! Be better to blame fucking bad

adenoids, worse French and, of course the dumb rule

that calls for craters. Hey! It's Hell,

The Spiritual Home of Bureaucracy but 

I'd be willing to bet 

that even in Heaven 

nobody really likes those 

pointy-headed dicks so even 

there a bureaucrat is kept in a cell. Upside they do reasonably 

well. For now. I put a billion accountants to combing files for a 

legend. Some say there's somewhere a loophole, others sneer, "fools gold".

All be cool, I got time (so do you, by

the way. Can you believe it? Some don't conceive it!! Makes my head spin! You're already in Hell. What did you think? You already died. Not many die twice. I could rear-end you. Put a thousand frogs and you in a blender. It'd feel like a supernova up your butt but it ain't gonna kill you. So what to worry?) We ain't gonna kill ya. You ain't gettin out. You're here forever: a fucking long time!! Do the math. "Crunch the numbers." You're here for all time! Anyway I eye it, you fucks are all mine! So suck it up for the long run! Hey! (Who's got the time? Ha, ha, got you!)

Eat me! What you expect? This is Hell 'n' Hell ain't  

S'posed to be funny! Yeah, we got weather but it just ain't getting sunny. One thing about Hell: it stings like fuck and believe me, if it didn't, you'd go bugfuck from boredom. Don't know if you had your afternoon filled but now you're with ME. What I say, I mean & I most always do, unless I don't (stay on your toes!). Hey! What say we blow off some steam and kill us some time? This time we'll go crazy, work up to wild and then off on a spree of truly hienous and fine, deadly, diabolical crime!!!

It's meant to be funny!! Black humour of course. Should be as obvious as a whale's dick

on a donkey. And you'll never guess: got a million on order, a quarter are here. We're gonna get the rest of the donkeys and about 9 zillion beers and on the way back, we try out the whale-equipped donkeys and terrorize queers!!

       ••••••••••••••••••••••••••

What? Is it "safe?" I don't see any real danger; you don't do much. Don't fuck. Don't sleep. Don't eat. Don't walk. Smoke cigarettes, drink cheap beer. Nobody calls. Nobody plays. Imagination's dead (all that is 'cept mine.) So, listen up kids, here's how it works--you care for you and me care for me--everybody is cared for--we are all free! There is still the fact that we are all in Hell--but it IS what we ordered so...what the…Hell? (Hehehehee! You fit like an onion does its skin. Now, where to begin?)

Some Enchanted Dysentery >

Ooh! Look what I found 

'Neath the dust of the ground:

I believe it's the sound 

Of Time grinding down…. 

If it's not then it's worse

And I hope that your purse

Can handle the hire

Of a celestial hearse!

(As)

Phoebus-Apollo, he rides,

Cloak a-flame, with blazing eyes,

Racing RA 'cross the skies, their

Tandem chariots full laden 

With sparks pyrotechnic.

(So)

Now, to ignite the horizon they

Release the snake-dancing 

Flame to writhe on the pyre

Of all the pure and unholy

Who'd attracted the ire

Of the eye of the sire

Of all gods and all men

Of water, earth, air and fire.

(Yea)

All dross beneath heaven,

Judged and found wanting, 

Now piled, stacked and waiting: 

For true transformation> 

For ion exchanges> 

For some explanation> 

For a fission of sages.>>>>>

Too learnèd by half and 

Soon to be humbled, the mortal

Mettle cast to be tested,

Twice blessed by the fiery

Promethean gift, clad in

Cloth-of-gold irony.

(But)

This just conflagration 

Compromising Night's station

Will later be balanced 

By the extended entrance

Of all that is dark, still and

Meet for the cooling of

The post-purification. 

Night's ice offers soothing.

A frigid libation 'pon the 

Still glowing embers of the 

Charred Terran sacrifice.

(And) 

Note, this near-total destruction 

Was not due to friction 'twixt 

Ideologic constructions.

But instead did result from 

Deities dear, dabbling at dice.

New Teeth For And Old Saw

(One note or tone or homophone, all on its own, requiring neither rock nor stone, is all one needs to splinter, crack and shatter the of-glass built shacks and mansions which your passage passes. Pretty, fragile, crystalline, standing mute and useless with used-up time. 'Tis said toss not that rock while you're within but if you truly do in glass reside, then spin on heal and briskly stride quick-time until you're on such structure's outer and much saner side. To prevent repeat imprisonment inside of such a suicidal jail that but awaits some passing hail to aid what Pride remains to wash what witless wonders were beguiled to stay inside and die beneath a flail of hail, then a mass slash of slivers 'till at last the screams subside and naught but the thrum of rain a river raises, stained briefly with life's last remains, a flood to which some few fools lend their final gasps then die as liars, having pilfered one moment’s faux-heroic incarnadine.)

You Ask After Beauty?

In forests and the foundry, 

Downtown and in 

The grotto 

Have I seen it and 

It glows, shines 

With a ruby light. 

I see the beauty and I

See it through the eyes

Of the last Mayan, watching

His hometown burn. It

Is the beauty of the

Carrier pigeon and of

The dodo. Of 

Weed in the park and 

Wild music chasing my 

Thoughts down the street

As the Band of Man makes

Its last appearance  

On the stage of Time.

A beauty the child

Cries for by the side 

Of her slain mother. 

Now there's no other to 

Take our hand as a 

Feeble night enfolds 

Our stone cold bones.

You ask of beauty, but 

What can your stone 

Eyes see? Except, mayhap,

The dim memory of a once 

Never to be seen again? 

An Occasional Poem

Well, so once again at mum's am I,

taking in the naked trees. 

The grass in turn goes brown and dry, 

underneath a wint'ry sky. 

I sit and try to not think a thing, 

like the fact I may not see 

the coming spring.

The Steps Can Be So Long….

I just came back from shopping;

I invested in more life. 

Bought beer and smoke for puffing, 

Now if I could just find a wife.

Then there'd be two to do the waiting 

And together we'd the water tread

As above the stars go whirling 

Through this night that never ends

Ever hoping as we're treading 

For Paradise our way to wend.

In Honour of Flogging Molly!!

When I first encountered this band, I was simply astounded. Though the evidence played, sang and in every way ENTERTAINED in front of me, I still found it incredible that so much LIFE could be packaged in human form!! I received so much that I must express my thanks in some, hopefully appropriate, manner. I therefore humbly (and I trust with no stench of the staid) present a castoff chorus, from no song that anyone has ever sung or heard:

We've a culture built on sorrow

We've a culture that survives

Ev'ry day lasts 'til tomorrow 

Let's hope we make it there alive 

(Nulla laus est nimis.)

Aeolian Failure

Blow, ye breezes

All meadow-fresh;

Blow and bring mine ear

Ev'ry word and deed isolate of 

That heavenly She 'gainst whom

E'en thy spring-filled wind can

But too poorly compare, not 

Half as sweet as 

Her slightest sigh 

Or whispered breath of love.

The Button Issue

I have outgrown 1977 and, as a result, I need more pin-on buttons now than we used then (4). Like, for: "Kinky Sex, Hard Drugs, Perverse Rock (and) Load Your Own Ammo." (10 buttons in 2015.)

Clones

Clones? They're just seedless people. 

It's hardly rocket science.

Unrolling The Scroll

In youth we once

Walked as one, sly 

Moonlight leaving silver

Dollars where day had hung.

But leaves,

Hand in hand in hand,

Closer than any mystery,

Our mingled spirits trod

Familiar ways to our

Tryst amidst the trees.

Needs revealed and

Nightly satisfied, sated in

That dappled glade;

Flesh was freed and of 

Our lust a love was made.

And made to last 'til

Next our steps, 

Of their own accord, 

Brought us back to 

Once more ford

No stream of dream but

That moonlit flow that

Lover's hearts do not

Need to see to know.

Pawn ‘Til Dawn

A morn' too short 

To hold my dream of 

A blissless trek, a

Mad tramp through 

Trash-strewn gaps in 

The Dreamtime, alleys 

Littered lots, trails on 

No map that I know, yet

Some instinct both 

Old and cold took 

Hold, my hand was held 

Was pulled and I 

Impelled to follow 

No bird so hard had

Ever fled for home, never 

Knowing why or what it

Was that led, which no 

Knowledge fed, but still 

No hesitation in 

My tread, no trepidation 

In my head all hollow, thoughtless,

Wilful while all bereft of will

And inside no "I" to guide 

Or fight against 

My headlong flight 

That must've lasted all the night

'Til mornings laser did ignite

Both eye and mind with 

Sunlight bright 

And to what did I awake?

My bed a shambles, all

Covers thrown, body aching to 

The bone, my martyred muscles 

Full afire, the purest pain from 

Pore to core and plainly plastered

Over all, one burning question:

Whatever for?

Loving Violence

Liebchen, sit, please take a chair 

I'll truss you tightly there

Perhaps I'll pull your hair 

Then beat you with a cane

Until you go insane 

Or maybe I'll use a switch 

You naughty little bitch

It will slap and hurt and such 

But you won't bleed as much 

Alchemy

Men are fire,

Women, ice.

This race of alchemists, 

Compelled to mixing 

Opposites.

But does it end in 

Happiness?

Nope; no dice.

Heaven’s Heights

Rise, rise up

Dear heart, wake and 

Whirl now with my will, join in

Life's most thrill-whipped waltz,

In fits and starts these rungs

To grasp, in this

Fleeting moment's heat

Begin our star-ward climb

And so emboldened up we'll rise 

Past scudding clouds we'll race

Ever upwards we shall rise

'Til the top we gain and with our pain

Erase the shame that stains 

Our common past: Jacob's

Failure to scale these same heights .

Let's stake the claim made 

His by right of might, that

Victory open and on display,

As lying low and 

Broken at his feet, Heaven's 

Angelic champion, whom he

Fairly beat, but which 

Defeat he did but waste, for

The victor's wine he failed to taste.

These holy heights he did not climb,

Nor did he dare 

God's awesome face, which 

With glory'd his eyes strike blind.

No; instead, as if from 

Dream awoken, hale and whole,

He turned and, in the turning,

He did spurn

His one hard-won chance 

To free the souls of men  

From Death's dire glance.

What, O! What 

Righteous need had he

To feed, with such an act

Of histrionic 

Humility?

A Life In Four Stanzas

Sweet bleeding sleep 

And dreams that weep;

The night, it seeps into

Ears that wait for the call of 

A victory that's not coming. 

I battled long for 

A love I knew was strong 

But unknownst to me 

My love she flew to 

Another she knew to be stronger. 

Long wasted days, nights ablaze

With song and drink, all to

Keep me from thinking. 

Drugs and sex and games complex

To bind this wounded attention,

'Til the body's bent, the monies

Spent and no hope of either

Returning. 

My dreams of old, those

Loves grown cold, now fit but

For my funeral pyre's burning.

A Body is Ballast

I slough my husk and broach the sky;

Through dewdrop sundered sun I 

     fly, ever higher those heights to spy,

With sprites conspire 

     to fracture Heaven's glassy dome, 

Leaving but a Night I'd cross alone

And with tortured mem'ry, search for 

      home….