No Revolution Tomorrow!

What REALLY bugs me is that the vast bulk of people actually believe that "social media" EXISTS. The American ones spend their days opposing universal healthcare but don't blink when they get to use Fb or Twitter or whatever, for (apparently) "free." Somehow the lack of a monthly fee suggests to their medullas that all those servers and optic fibre networks were set up "for the people." The fact that Twitter (to name only one as an example) is OWNED by Microsoft is ignored. I suspect that if they didn't ignore it, it would cause cognitive dissonance and force them to think the whole picture through in order to relieve the semi-conscious distress that they are feeling.

That is what I am attempting to do, albeit a bit sideways: make people uncomfortable to the point where they are pushed back from their lapper's and phones a little and regain the chance to get some perspective. 

Sure, use the system, in the full knowledge that it is set up for marketing. If you remain aware of that all-important fact, you CAN use these privately financed sites but without co-operating with them. Like, the next time you are approached with a "lifestyle questionnaire" or when you type in a description of yourself on a site registration page, lie. You may risk seeing ads for shit you are not really interested in but that's it. The only risk. So lie your head off. Get creative. Make all the shit up. It won't harm anything except that the picture the marketers build up about their audience will get skewed. And get other people to do it. In the 60's this sort of non-violent activism was called "passive resistance." The world has changed technologically but people are pretty much always the same and the tricks used back then still apply, although some of the implementation details have to be modified. But don't be defeatist because the only thing you will defeat is your own freedom. The Revolution is ALWAYS possible, as long as there are those who want it to happen.

For an even more painless way to begin, get into over-paying your bills by 2, 3 or 5 cents. No more than that or it won't look like a mistake due to a lack of concentration (which is what the Internet promotes anyway; give 'em the impression that it's working).

Don't expect to wake up one fine day to a different, sane and just world. It won't simply happen. There will be no revolution tomorrow. The Revolution must be NOW! An eternal revolution in the continuous present, which is inherent in the word, Revolution: the turning of the Wheel. But it won't turn if you don't touch it; the Wheel is kept rolling by people-power and it gets easier, requires less effort, once it has begun to turn even a little. And it should be obvious that the more people there are doing the pushing, that much lighter is the task of any given individual.

We have talked about this since the expulsion from the Garden. What if we finally just got down and did it? Then we could talk about something else without that nagging feeling that we're forgetting something.…

Lobbyist’s Luncheon

"Senator? Could you bring me something harmless yet very pleasant? Yes. And some repressive & exceedingly punitive legislation on the side."

The Pathetic’s Irony

Within, we all know that the "afterlife" aught to be called the "afterdeath" but, we have insufficient confidence in it to name it properly.

“Echo-Delta, you have insanity on your 6.”

D'ya wanna know what really makes me feel like an alien? The thought that there are people in their 40's walking around who have never listened to "Ziggy Stardust & The Spiders From Mars." Never heard of it? That I don't know about but I'm pretty sure you can find quite a few who have never sat down and listened to that album. That realisation makes me feel like it's ME who's from Mars!!

Life’s Not A Medium

All of Life’s

An Art and

You’re but a part

Of it,

A brush stroke, 

A puff of smoke, 

The dirty word

That 

God never spoke…

Follow me, follow me!

Hey, all you Twitter sex-cam wannabes, think of life in your 70's:

Your cheeks turned to jowls, wrinkled skin o'er bowels, and for "last call" your sudden apprehension that the desire for attention was no juvenile invention, after all.…

From Saturn’s Hymnary

Time is a river

Heading home to 

The sea

But as the tide rises

For you 

It is ebbing for me 



 

Button-down Sanitary Mannerisms

When you kneel you 

Are ten feet tall, even 

Though, standing, 

You are small. Take my

Hand, that paradox will 

Vanish. Come, and I will banish 

The fears that keep you chained

By acquainting you with 

The pleasure that is pain.

As you have seen, I

Hand out no decrees,

Believing it more 

Efficacious to teach 

Not with words but through deeds.

You who've borne witness 

To my razor-wire love,

To all my emotional 

Furniture, upholstered 

In leather most unique:  

The tanned hides of Angels

Who'd met with Heavenly

Rejection, been ejected and 

Had fallen unforgiven after 

Failing the affection of 

The landlord of Paradise,

Their Creator high above.

Those sights and others 

You've in memory stored,

Mark you apart from your 

Brothers, who you so little 

Resemble that it's hard to 

Believe you ever shared the 

Same mother.

The time of your life you've

Sacrificed to living as the eye

Of my whirlwind obsession 

Has left in your flesh a host

Of impressions, the scars of 

The lessons that you've learned.

Each one and all together, potent

Testimony to the effort 

Spent and to the fact that 

Each ragged scar

Was well and truly earned.

Before you did accept my

Offered invitation, I

Suspect the mirror in your mind 

Did reflect a you that 

Lay well below your station, 

Though you knew it not, as

You lacked sufficient information. 

But now you've come and it's 

Time to run the gauntlet of 

My iron glove, which you may 

Approach with trepidation, for 

You've yet to be singed by the

Hungry fire living at the core 

Of your every need and dire desire,

Which only iron (clothed in 

Velvet love and stitched with 

Gold to your soul of souls) can 

Supply the peace you crave, but 

Even as the pains seem to cease,

By some sly sensual subterfuge,  

Awakens a wet, wild want for the 

Deepest kiss of that sublime bliss

We can but palely name 

Unlimited satisfaction.

In Nightmare Days

You are my dream of bliss, m'love…

Paradise inside a kiss, m'love… 

Can it get any better than this?

Anything else I so badly miss?

Only while I'm awake.

Nothing I wouldn't take if

It could but kill this ache

That wears your shape 

But can't disguise 

It's but a shade

Stretched so thin

It's obvious there's only 

Fraud inside, a

Fake of fog within a 

Pale copy of your satin skin.… 

What use desire

Without your wood to 

Feed my fire?

From The Frozen Tome

Cast now your net and 

Cast it wide, for 

In its shadow 

You must hide

Or you'll be caught 

In the ebbing tide

Of Time.

It rushes by

Erasing traces, prints

And such, in causal

Chains formed of 

Foolish trust that

Man could lay

By will alone

Some makers mark 

In steel or stone

To outlast his 

Own weak, sun

Bleached bones,

Foreseeing not 

That Time's backwash

Would wipe both the

Maker and the 

Made and so

Eternally disguise

That Man ever was

Along with 

All the clues

As to his fate

Amongst all the rest 

That

Time's tossed 

As waste.…

The Survival Show

Like a plague upon a 

Near motionless ocean,

All rot and slime and 

Maggots in rotation,

That flood of filth, all the 

Visions I abhor assault 

My inner eye, the ravaged 

Passage to my mind.

Caverns carved of

Ice and nighttime, where

Ghouls and grimmer 

Bite and frighten,

All 'round lies horror,

Gore and more, deftly 

Orchestrated torture

For what mind is left me.

To counter Chaos, to survive,

To run the gauntlet and emerge

With sanity intact and live, I've

Few tools but they must serve:

I cauterise, externalise,

Analyse and systemise.

On occasion don a

Milder face which confuses,

Giving, while my foe a

Moment muses, a brief 

Respite, too brief but still 

Of priceless calm a taste.

These are the tools I've 

Learned to use 

To toss the terrors

Back down the well.

All I do is done in haste,

For I fear my limit's nearly 

Here and that Death may

Yet become my last career.

But until it's certain, until 

Falls the curtain, I am 

Determined to send Chaos'

Minions o'er the lip and 

Down the dread well, so that  

They, not I, are welcomed to 

Go drown in Hell.

When I Was Small

There was a time when 

Time was never on 

My mind at all, yes I 

Do believe, I do believe 

That's true, though 

Long ago it was. When 

I was small, I never 

Thought of time at all.

Summers didn't seem to 

Pass, they simply were 

The grass eternal, forever 

Green, the scented air so

Mystic, soft and moss-like 

Yet of a clarity I can only 

Label crystalline 

The lives 'tween then and 

What I'm used to calling 

Now, filter time, sieve it

Somehow and mem'ries

Dim, become less fresh

Assume an eerie otherness 

As if it's someone else's 

Past that I do recall, so 

Perhaps the mem'ries aren't 

Mine at all, at least not 

The ones from when I 

Was small.

…Of Belovèd Memory

Near five score 

Years she dwelt here

In peace and war and 

Labours dear from

Room to room to

Room and gardens 

About the walls and 

Girdling trees to 

Which she was so 

Tightly tied that 

She was free to 

Be what she was 

Birthed to be and

So she was the

Mother given me, a

Sister to the trees 

Keeper of the many

Gardens green and 

Splashed with every 

Rainbow's hues, the 

Very riot of life to 

Which she was both 

Nursemaid and 

Wife, coach, counsel 

Merry saviour of 

Empty days, of

Lonely nights filled 

A-brim with the 

Hollow howl of 

A dreaded 'morrow

Come at last. So 

Still these days that 

Take years to pass

Their passage 

Wed to the leaden

Baggage that is 

The order of today 

When once a home 

Lies in ruins now 

Named a house 

Its living heart

Having heard the 

Horn of Time, the 

Final call and 

Signal to 

Depart.…

Luciferia

O, woe be unto the 

Naïveté of man, to

Think that by simply 

Placing the past on a shelf 

He can hope to make peace 

With Satan Herself.…

Hard-core Romance

No love has ever loved 

As Romeo did Juliet but,

A junky's love is 

Greater still, with 

Body, heart and soul 

All serfs serving 

One lone goal with 

Total, focused, wanton will.

The Life Song

First you start in the 

Womb then hang a 

Right for the tunnel,

An automatic funnel

Which will squeeze 

You like toothpaste 

Into light.

Then that's where 

You'll stay for the 

Rest of your days 

Obsessed with the 

Tunnel you traveled,

While your lifespan 

Unravels and you 

Unconsciously yearn

To make your return 

To the womb.

But you never will 

And the count of 

Your days in the sun

Slowly clicks down to 

None and time 

Finally comes to 

Funnel you, not 

Back to the womb

But to the much

Colder dark of

Your table for one 

In the loneliness 

Of a tomb.

Occasional Verse

As you can see, you

Can't see me, so

I kiss you in syllables

Hold you in my meter

Close, fitted midst my

Words, that I might

Rub you round in rhyme

Fondled in time and

Time again 'till the

Wheel comes round to

When I can in silence

Press your flesh with

Mine and distance no

Longer binds us.…

The Prodigal Gun

Mind redlined, wants weld dream, screams, reason's pieces; self melts, hate howls fire.… Satori. Alone now, the happy thumping led him home.

Jesus At Hammer Falls

I've a cross there

I've a cross to bear 

I've a cross there

I've a cross to bear 

I've a cross there 

I've a cross to bear 

I've a cross there 

I've a cross to bear 

I've a cross there 

I've a cross to bear 

I've a cross there 

I've a cross to bear 

FATHER!!

I've a cross there 

FATHER!!

I've a cross to bear 

I've a cross there 

Father?

I've a cross…Father?

There.

I've a cross.

Mine to bear, Father.

I've a cross but,

Father, I will not 

Carry it off, will 

I, Father?

Tell me, will it weigh

Any less when borne

By a billion 

Shoulders?

I've a cross there 

You'll leave for 

Them to bear.…

Father.…

Anachronism

In our nuclear age 

I'm powered by steam;

I will not fly, I 

Will not dream. 

I'd still burn wood 

If only I could 

But I have been told 

My smoke makes the 

Little ones choke,

That they'd rather toke 

When they take 

To those skies where

They know I will not go.…

In this nuclear age

I'm no longer a cleric, but 

Rather more a queer relic, 

Vaguely recalled 

By the so-called well

Schooled, 

But by the vast masses

More honestly 

Considered a fool. 

Still, mayhap it's good 

That I no longer burn 

Wood, for where could 

My chimney's smoke go?

Where'd blow the 

Breeze and who'd care?

Since the nuclear 

Fallout killed off the trees 

And poisoned the 

Remains of the air.…

At Last, The Task

The sun in rising,

Decants a destiny down, 

Splashing redly, 

Replete with meaning. A

Full-bodied fate fills

My ill-chosen flask; some last

Splashes and then, o'erfilled,

Leaves my cuff hanging limp,

Leaking, staining 

Crimson the wrist

And the flask-filled hand. 

So, anointed into the 

Weird now appointed me,

A flash of the past pierces,

A gash not mine 

Appears and a sight

Opaque to eyes reminds. 

Time folds His fingers 

'Tween mine in that 

Special way so 

That, overlaid, we share

The impaling nail

And the vision is,

Once emptied, whisked

Away but, again, I 

Must stay.

Eleven

What are you?

Are you as essential 

As the pencil is 

To paper? 

As the lunar light 

Is to raven wingèd

Night?

As, later in the coming 

Morn, the dawn 

Once more will break, and 

When broken, there won't 

Be no light no more. So 

Darling, please, be 

My very own heroin: pick

Out a vein and shoot 

Your life therein.

Let me watch and, as 

I grow stronger,

You'll wither, linger, die

In time no thicker 

Than my little finger.

Once you swore you'd  

Be my friend until 

The very end of ends, 'till,

Though I'd've lost my all, still 

You'd cling, giving no heed 

To how feeble were my

Shredded leavings.

Now, and as Desolation is

My witness, I see

You strive to swim away.

Well, my, my, my, my dear,

Let me toss you some 

Comfort: this lifesaver, custom

Made of lead. It strikes me 

As the perfect payment for 

So casual a betrayal,

A phoney kiss so far 

Off the mark

That even Judas, in 

His well-earned heated pit,

Can't help but bray with 

Raucous laughter,

Though he thrash in

Agony eternal forever after.

So, grasp now my gift, my

Dearest one, drown deep and 

Fast, for there's but a finite

Limit to how long I 

Can or canst keep my 

Righteous vengeance 

In restraint. God may, in

Deed, forgive but yet

From true forgetfulness 

We both refrain.

Aprés Moi, La Folie

(with appurtenances)

My God! (and this one IS mine, dammit! So don't even bother trying to pray to Him because He don' give a shit about YOUR problems because HE is MY God! Is that clear enough? Hmm?)

It's happening again and it is eroding me! This time it's Philip K. Dick! The man is DEAD. And that interview of him going on over there on the right was recorded in 1979! And it is Rare; not like I have heard it before you should know that much by now I would have THOUGHT if all of these damn great artists keep sneaking up on me and I BLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH HA HA HATE is ALL they know! W  h  y  c  a  n  t  ?

You seeeeeee it??

Just the fucking noise and I did NOT steal from him or her yesterday or James Fucking Joyce ladedadaladedah Puke! Even Pueblo Puke-Asshole and, what did you call them? No; the all of them the whole group?  

I Do Not Have The Time To Waste.… So, now…just name them and things will go your way out of the range of your spray of essence. Bukowski didn't. Shakespeare didn't (though Banquo may have) and not even Salinger hid all that well when you get right down to a space dog's biscuits (was Latka hungry while dying for the sins born of inexpressible cowardice? Dying. AND hungry? Oh, you Lords of Lourdes! What have you done with Latka's NAILS?? How the fuck are we going to get saved NOW?

bastards why not slowly replace the oxygen         with nitrous oxide  been a last loving betrayal nail nailnail) (and if she wants to get fucked? (Her wörd) well, if her paradigm is all that wet, well then NAILED! TO! then just you pose and I'll be your very own Mjölnir!! Holy hammer and you will never get the imprint of those planks out of your flesh so proudly overFÜcked with a WHale of a nail 2 that floor! See? That floor.… SEe? THAT floor, bitch!! SEE IT NOW? Goddamn Russian dogs have more foursites than You did and didn't even leave your scent for those fuckers no you faked or at least gasmed for HOW MANY? And you dare compare my dick my dear to the holy anonymous what, 12? And joked about the bloody Peters? w h y NOT grow your own? Queen or queer, you've a cock at least my deer so until Jesus throws with mighty thews a brick through that door aback of you and while, now dead, your cunt's unmoved I or Lie-ya as bucks we'll mount you pale tree-nayled and have your butt like you while live were never.…drilled!! HA! Lost it lost it who wins now? Jesus, Hejus, mayhap the Dog? You were to Latka save with that great Gape you gave and gave and gave which trade would have an ifgasm gaved or whengasm but what's your butt's gonna give a damn when they're you nailed, all dead and rot

I hope yore soiled soul does all true regret all the whatgasms you ain't not Got! Who keeps CLEANING up I said all Down Down all and Only! Jesus! Oh, my God! Even He ain't wholly!!

(I said didn't I didn't? That HE is mine? Recall? Remember? Once and that should've sufficed! He is MINE! Still you frigging, fucking, somehow HAD to prey! I Heard you once (suffice!) twice (Suffice!!) no you thimply hash to still sit even THRICE and here as my life's cold flow down those demon's drains goes and yet that THRICE the thrice damned Thrice!! Your final insult, high yet higher last curse, some morbid Cupid's oozed lipids greased so your hole My God, His staff? His ROD the pole will be it evil be it ill but for eaver you'll stay Upright (Unclean) UPRIGHT UPRIGHT for my evers in this Hateternal night I have now for mine, and Hey-Zeus! Loook! Can't see no sight but small ill thrill You did at least as that last Homer's Boner ceded all 2 to Frever Knightnight. And still by Jizzez, by dumb UnDonne ChRiSt!! E'en after all, e'en as ALL ends…that crisp corpsicle Cryst, ya couldna melt e'en played mit plush, so in no scent didya pile the stile on Cryst, forgotten pursed-lips slit did promise that that Final Defile'd be t'least half nice. . . .

[Nostril inhale/Gut, chest, out mouth]

I am as far past speed as duration is past non-existence. If Newtonian terminology could be beaten into a shape that might allow for a vermiform Air Canada stewardess to claim and win a wrongful dismissal case only to trip over a Strange Attractor and become the inspiration for Vera Lynn's "We'll Breed Again" then I might settle for the letdown of mere velocity. Which will prove to be the only bribe that could then have the Sun of Ghad lock Wayne Newton in the eternally burning brimstone pit in which he finds himself to be its only intended occupant. The entirety of existence still shatters into less than there was before there was anything but now everyone feels much better about suffering through a German-Jewish vision of wasted real estate to get there.

[Coda: ]

Everywhere else this ended up I made two small (at least from my point of view) changes. 

1) It begins now with the second word, "I." You have a beauteous and noble name but I decided to jettison all reasons which might require it's explanation. I wanted it written but not as the Doom of That Fine Day of my Youth.

2) The word between "brimstone pit" and "which" should be changed from "it" to the correct "in." A simple typo.

An effect which I did not expect to happen when I am quite literally typing as fast as I can, is the near pristine state of the first and only copy. Here: a single-letter typo and one editorial change (which or neither may never have been necessary at a less breakneck pace of the typing). And I knew that was a lie as I wrote it. I could NOT have typed any slower than the emergence of the content, else a backlog would have finally brought it to a halt when it was but 15% composed (a naked guess--all that relates to but is not a part of the organic original, can be read for interest only for it has no authenticity).

{Bowed, I beg a boon, O' Thee,

 Mother, Sister, Moon; Thee Three}

Oh, Lord of pointlessly 

perambulatory 

peoploids! 

Let it End!

Leave it rust or mould, each down their assigned avenues of dissolution but let the Backup, that insidious faux certainty that will NEVER come to be until it's we, not our 

copy,

that communed, 

subsumed, aether's 

runes, and so equipped, 

All-singing 

spins eternity.

[Cue: An exeunt to Wagner (rotate) ]

[Anecdotal closing credits; slight haze]

I must be devolving down into an entirely altruistic state of Wagnerian epic pomposity, roaring if not quite on a Roll, spewing out outré short comedy with not an iota of benefit for the fuel, border crossing fees, sci-fi conceptions of alien detritus like royalties or the care of the duodenal ulcer that is the weird I carry for the ONE time that I was too involved in this my curse and neglected to laugh at a jest of Loki's!! Fucketh not with a God especially one who has never had need of megalomania because he IS a GOD and you know what? Immortals have Very, Very Good Memories and the time to indulge them!

…Then Everything Ended

Alarum! Alarum! O! The Day of Judgement must be nigh unto us!! I am cooking during DAYLIGHT HOURS!!

O, woe unto us! (I was just catering to a hankering for some roast chicken, I SWEAR that's all it was! Really! I didn't MEAN to trigger the End of Days but, just as I'm sliding the pan with the chicken parts on it into the oven, BRAAMMM!!! Suddenly the archangel Uriel is in my kitchen, dumping a bowl of some sort of lumpy liquid the colour of "sick" (the only word I know that even comes close!) out of my kitchen window and onto the lawn below! Fuck! If I hadn't been upwindward I'd'a DIED; it stunk worse'n Chicago in '68!! RrrgAH!! (sorry but just couldn't hold it no more.…)

Done with His dump, Uriel chucks the bowl up and far away, turns to me (I haven't even closed the oven door yet & the left side of my face is feelin' hotter'n Hell), says, "Better you than me, buddy. The stairs down there and then a left? Right; thanks. And if I were you, I'd get as far as I could from this place, and Fast!"

"Get out of the building?" Uriel just looks at me for a moment as if God had only recently created idiots and I was the first one He'd ever seen. Then He walks out and in about a minute I can barely hear angelic footsteps whisper down the stairs and out of Creation.…)

I closed the oven door.

The Elusive Long-Taled Short

Beg yer pardon if I unintentionally draw forth a ghost of the concept of matrimonial rituals but I've a new spin on something old.…

Once more my lack of attention paid to the uninteresting resulted in a ransacking of my apartment by myself. I had not lost my cigarette holder, and though of interest to me, was of no assistance when looking for a bayonet. A modern one may be familiar. The odds in favour of that being the case are comparable to my wearing of blue Calvin Klein boxer shorts at the time I write this. Had you bet one of your vital organs you would be feeling that you had not wanted that matched pair of Phyllis Diller shoe-keepers all that much anyway.

I was looking for a British-made Sanderson bayonet manufactured to fit a Lee-Enfield Mk I. It was in the original sheath, was made in 1907 for the Boer War and, in its sheath, measured about 23" in length. It usually just lay on my sleeping spot amongst the ordinary sort of clutter to be expected lying about on a masculine chap's cot: a shortwave radio, the SAS survival manual (compact field version), cookies, several coiled bootstrings, 3 variations on the combat knife, 6 teddy bears, air-powered dart gun (loaded), an Eng.-Latin-Eng. dictionary, BDSM bondage guide, 3-medium sized bags of drugs, 1 container of ultra-high calorie-count fried bread, box of scalpels (opened), selection of electronics products, Kerouac's "On The Road," skin grease (high-lipid % hospital grade), box of latex gloves, minimum-trace assassination devices (or not) (could be imaginary, could be patent-pending), sci-fi, 8+ bandanas, dirt, tobacco powder, stiff wads of Kleenex, etc.

Because this antique accessory never left HQ nor was there a Lee-Enfield present that was in need of accessorizing, the space allotted for the missing item and its seeker seemed not unreasonable as a point of egress into the material survey. (Like, why not? The place is getting wrecked anyway.)

At this point the only relevant information required is that HQ is in a one-bedroom apartment with a large living room the floor of which, as well as every horizontal surface of every piece of furniture, is covered with a museum quantity of nearly infinite examples of what is meant by "stuff." There is a good sized kitchen similarly arrayed with the notable exception of the counters and cooking surfaces, an L-shaped entrance-way with a junk-surrounded passage through the centre of it, and finally, a bathroom with a bathtub/shower and the usual other Western world sanitation facilities. The HQ can also boast of three built-in clothes closets though there is no motive so to do.

Having first half-emptied the "bed" and searched its surfaces and crevices to no avail, the search continued methodically through the entire apt., using a three D-cell Maglite to focus the one-man investigative crew's attention, using up an hour to attend to every space, crack, crevice and gap. Boxes and bags were moved to check both behind and under them. "Junk" was moved to allow closet doors (which had not revealed their interiors for years) to be opened. Note: the item sought had not been seen in about 4-5 days. This is pointed out only to illustrate the thoroughness of the rescue efforts. Though much perspiration was indeed brought to light none of it was found to be hiding a bayonet of slightly less than two feet in length. Abstruse, arcane and even occult theories were built and were in their turn discarded. The morale of the work crew sank to the depth of the Marianas Trench (the deepest known point of all of the oceans of the Earth). The crew was returning to the starting point of its search, prepared to do it all over after regrouping and refreshing itself, when a small cardboard box which had once been filled to overflowing with first aid supplies was noticed on a nightstand at the foot of the folded-out couch that served as both support-for and platform-for the sleeping/day-rest pallet. Much too small to either contain or cover the cold instrument of impalement it was nonetheless moved aside so that it could not be recorded that any coordinate within the dwelling had been ignored.

Behind the box was revealed the hilt of the death-dealing steel, which had lodged diagonally at such an angle that no part of it was visible unless its seemingly insufficient disguise was radically relocated.

This is a first for your humble correspondent: not only was the lost object in the last place that was looked into, said which truism's humour resides precisely in its inevitability. The find was also made in the last place there WAS to look!

Fire: Invention or discovery?

(Yes, that's the question.… )

One Queer Mind Wants To Know:

What must be made of nothing before something can be made of anything?

Sunless Shades

The avatar of the avenger,

The shadow of the reaper,

The pale, clammy face of Death,

Walks unhindered among 

Blind, unknowing masses.

Counting.

Counting heads, counting hours.

Keeping time with heartbeats,

Keeping track of when to

Unwind their time.

Before the first birth

Was born the thirst of the 

Ghost, stalking amongst

Rocks and rivers, appetite 

Awake, with terrible thirst to

Slake, restless, ever-waiting.

Waiting for the souls to 

Come and, having become, they

Then as now, be the fondest

Food of doom.… 

A Meditation (In Two Parts)

Is this

All 

I have ever 

Done?

••••••••••

It's down to 

Stretching the 

Moments.

To at once be and yet

Not be.

Variations on waiting.

Breathing, breathing.

Om mane padme hum.…

What shall this 

Correspondent report?

Woe is upon me and 

Also some sunsprites.

Never mind the clouds;

My pocket could stand a

Silver lining.

But I dissemble, ramble,

Wander in my thoughts.

So sue me.