Will-o-the-wisps

A good song is its own reward,

as is death, a poem…,

a wild night out,

when the eagles, the owls,

shadows in the mist,

misleading whisps,

they a-leading a traveller,

through the lonely,

the idle ignes fatui,

where are you going?

a sweet solemn,

we the Father, the Mother,

now we a boating,

bloating, boasting,

for you…,

your attention,

fast…, cry,

act now,

for your time is short,

no time true,

a ladle on a swollen…,

bucket of…,

we the Great 

Underminer…,

all the old,

newer too,

soo. (Estonian),

the few…,

becomes the many,

what evil emanation?,

never evil,

it is functio,

a similitude,

Naue Tempera,

to be reassured,

of rescue…,

and he filed,

the fangs of longitude,

Middlemarch,

provincial la Boheme,

a subtle node of indiscretion,

it didn’t mean it…,

of a lake, a river,

pond of Pontius,

a quiet epitath,

whisper of words,

uttered in completion,

never completed…,

so never uttered at all,

this is a song…,

the Opposite

They said life was supposed to be fun

and an easy ride…,

yet to you it isn’t,

violent acts of your imminent Nature,

seeds from the Underbelly of Kraken,

that unconscious part of Society,

Here we Be,

Here I laid,

Here I’ll …,

as the thorns of Rose,

killing the sight with tremors,

She, as a plaque of colors,

humming the tune of your…,

pre-determined exit, (Existence)

to a Heavenly sphere,

a knifes edge,

dull profanity,

something not working,

as quite…,

an horrific-prolific prophylactic,

soon to rise for the occasion,

like that ancient tomb,

from sand and Dune,

to meet the Hollow Men,

the stuffed men,

filled with straw, (Eliot)

Oh how I wish to see you win,

not just…,

but win big,

go home and be born again,

instigate the new Order,

out of the Chaos of your doing,

…, or the Opposite.

Aspidistra Flying

“Sometimes I think we’re all corpses.

Just rotting upright.”

- George Orwell, Keep the Aspidistra Flying

Through the silence of broken things,

a quiet listener…,

his thumping heartbeats,

the flow of bright red blood,

a vein pulsating like a magistral

in the middle of a big city,

there we sat like Buddha,

rusty souls titillating 

with excitement,

Who comes with 

this kind of disdain?…,

filled and filed,

overboard and simple-minded,

a rake with too small an amount of leaves,

too much noise, too much noise,

he was a flower ready to grow,

a drunkard of ease,

through and through,

many a moons they wrestled 

beneath the orthodox lamp,

a violent rush of blood to the head,

other body parts and regions too,

if to be precise…,

they called it love,

or some other earthly beast,

without face or any kind of passport,

a stranger in a strange land,

an empty orchestra,

a pointless poem,

lifeless eyes floating against the window,

searching for a way out…,

I would guess,

but no, oh no, no, no,

they were aliens of plant life,

monsters of infinity,

eternal recorrection (recurrence) of some sorts,

an evil machination,

comes from Niccolo Machiavelli,

I bet you,

How much?…,

then a soldiers kiss landed,

a seldom wanted sound of foom,

mastery in cheese-making,

and of the return home,

relational diagrams show,

fight or flight is a sudden death

of all those adventurers,

souls adamant for recalibration,

through external values

or internal spiritual practices,

darkest of nights,

a walk in a forest filled with witches,

Sorrow found me when I was young,

and to Hell with you,

creepy lover-boys,

soft and steady wrinkles 

turned to gold,

in a cold winter afternoon,

or was it morning,

when you touched me,

pancakes and coffee,

other tasty treats,

and now my infinite Space,

the valleys and streams,

fountains of pure water,

a solemn fisherman on Lake Como,

regulated through years and…,

other curious tastes,

we follow no form,

no needle in a haystack,

or only the bodies of goddesses,

their beauty is unrecognizable,

Antiquity Mild…,

that’s how I’d name them,

on this beautiful day.

Unsolemn

Soon it will lose its very touch,

a silently flowing stream of consciousness,

and of love and of life and of happiness,

all suffering and other self-promoting assholes,

the cult of human-reality…,

finally done for,

this is the creed of the little people,

lizards walk on sand…,

hot and steamy memories,

boys naked near the beach,

girls quietly watching, exhuming,

something dreamy creating a visible cloud,

wet and moist, slimy thrust of pubic bone,

home alone, home together…,

sun was its own worst enemy,

too hot to hug, too far to reach,

past of this cosmic melody…,

relativity unsolemn and a waking,

a waking…, a waking…,

up too slow,

then down again,

branches of a fig tree, fruit so sexy,

a tasty and succulent oral s*x,

natures hegemony over orgasms,

Creation in its vilest…,

we created what others feared,

it was a field day, okra, wheat, corn

on a strangers cob,

lubed tenderness,

and of all the unsolicited advice,

we received none…,

as young age tends to act on,

tends to use crayons on asphalt,

melting toffee on bellies,

strawberries and chocolate,

hot butter, yellow as the bus,

burning the lobsters red,

while the growing gets rough,

when the going gets tough,

through the vine,

and of cotton and blues,

and the skies left for me and you.

Ambrosia dumosa

Who, in their right mind…,

would follow the Hummingbird,

a fast swift of Heaven,

a lovers handshake,

and then sing…,

songs of Autumn and Life,

all the new Endings,

new Beginnings,

thrust through the Meadow,

newlyweds laughing…,

soon it will…,

be vanquished,

be everlasting,

the presence of - 

a Cosmic Power,

a red day…,

a Dawn of Merrow,

protecting the alone

and Lost…,

who, in their right mind

would shake and stir,

the shape of water,

the falling leaf,

its trajectory,

who would disrupt,

the oncesoeverlasting

Beauty of a woman,

tinnitus saying more-

thanitsfairshare,

and the lost got loud,

Journeys are seldom the same,

a fine print on a skin…,

whiter than snow,

a muddy pool…,

of indiscretion,

few of us sounded so,

Wise and Merry,

bearded getting-

toletyouknow,

and then tolerate it,

sleep with it…,

taste it,

through the Burrobush,

so slick, so tender,

it dances in the wild

and desert Wind,

lonelyastheycome,

and we followed them,

Moses in the dark,

fire-brushed face…,

tumultuous roar,

near the cave

where you slept

and all your animals,

who in their right mind…,

would disturb a well-

ofgrandandglorious,

ideas…,

and so it goes,

the Summer of (f)lies,

the Winter of truth,

a great being-

finallywholeagain.

Multo magis

There is something out there,

a wind of the external,

smooth feeling, le corps,

then it stopped…,

amped up again and again,

and again,

till the morning dropped

its heavy load of rain,

petrichor stinging the nostrils,

touching the part of my brain

where I put you,

the Memory,

consciously undetected,

by the Wild and Misleading,

your Lovecraftian horror,

my cosmic friend,

soul of my soul,

being of my being,

a Lovers day…,

well of subdue,

then nothing else,

a Space - trivial,

without any meaning,

child learning to write,

to read lips,

to touch, to kiss them,

and finally acknowledge,

so much more,

that’s who we Be.