Practicing to be dead

Practicing to be dead 

I lay in my coffin 

hands on my chest 

I lay practicing to be dead 

 I will soon be in heaven 

Six feet under

fight club

Worker bees can leave 

Even drones can fly away 

The queen is their slave

Go all the way - Charles Bukowski

Sea Fever

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over. 

By John Masefield

time is the fire

"Time is the school in which we learn, 


Time is the fire in which we burn."


Delmore Schwartz

mooncake

put this on my tombstone

Remember friends as you pass by 

As you are now so once was I 

As I am now so you must be 

Prepare for death and follow me

The Death of Freedom

You move to the left seeking what's right
Then light the candle to guide your sight
You think you are a free man in a world of fools
But freemen are nothing but slaves, but tools
The Empire crashed in forty-five but the dream
survived, Imperialism's alive.

They work thirty six hours to make you shoes
Corporates uinterested in their views of
What is just, of what is fair so long as the dollar
increases its share. As long as it does what do you care?
The flags still fluttering, the nations still there.

The Union Jack is red, white and blue
The Stars and Stripes of similar hue
You'd have thought the New World
Would learn from the old but no you've
Made it bigger, your hearts just as cold.

Its a chill calculus where Corporations rule
In America, In Britain and in the EU
The third world exists in a debt of our creation
All subject to the dictate of one single nation
Raise your filled glasses up high to the sun
Democracy has died State Capitalism has won

poe the raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Fragrant Recall

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I lay my pulse

on the soft swell

of your belly.

Your taste drips from my tongue.

I watch your spine

bend like the horizon.

Orchid lips open

petal sweet in pink flush.

I rise upon your heady fragrance.

<><><>

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Artful Youth

This is the slate roof,

Me beneath its flat depression.

I sigh into silent relapse

My mind on tilt.

Here is the corner exit,
The world lies adrift in terror.

See all the people.

There's the church, there's the steeple

Groans heave them blighted

Like shivering rabbits all.

Watch that pendulum fall,

Watch the Trumpeter trump as all.

Confound the tight circle,

Rigid in its claustrophobia,

A dispatch from the high house
High on High Hill.

Like Maud and Mable,

Drones to the killer Queen,
The truth takes a nasty turn
As it comes out perverted.

I spit on the greasy palm

Cool fingered, steel fingers
That binds no promise for it's

Deaf to reason, blind to treason

Like stillborn babies

Each rivals to the other,

Twins in comic combat,

We are that awful truth.

Who is the artful youth?

Where is the artful youth?

The Last Flower

Aftermath by Siegfried Sassoon

Have you forgotten yet?...
For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days,
Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways:
And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow
Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go,
Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.
But the past is just the same--and War's a bloody game...
Have you forgotten yet?...
Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget.

Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz--
The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?
Do you remember the rats; and the stench
Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench--
And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?
Do you ever stop and ask, 'Is it all going to happen again?'

Do you remember that hour of din before the attack--
And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then
As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?
Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back
With dying eyes and lolling heads--those ashen-grey
Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?

Have you forgotten yet?...
Look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you'll never forget.

Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal

 Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font.
The firefly wakens; waken thou with me.

Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake.
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.


By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
 

to love and say goodbye

"We the mortals touch the metals,

the wind, the ocean shores, the stones,

knowing they will go on, inert or burning,
  
and I was discovering, naming all these things:

it was my destiny to love and say goodbye."

Pablo Neruda

a mad collective dream

Beware the Jabberwock

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

.....Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll.....

We Are Not in Control

Wandering

Tiny Little Spiders

Tiny little spiders

coming into view

tiny little spiders

coming down on you.

t e r r o r i s t ! ! !

Just a Word

'Terrorist' is just a word, one I wish I'd never heard

When it's used to vilify, without the need to question why

Only fools would swift condemn, that which has not befallen them

Until you know what lies behind, the actions of a tortured mind

Thank your God for sparing you, the suffering others have lived through

Where are the cries of just demand, for Arabs driven from their land?

Blame the victim, turn the cheek, praise the bully, kick the weak!

Mock the man who truth does speak

Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy, greed, corruption, torture, lies!

Blair invasion, sly persuasion, annihilation, massacred nation

Keep on running, karma's coming!

Money talks, truth walks, oil spills, greed kills

Tide is turning, London's burning!

Bombs will fall and blood will flow, as sure as my own name I know

Until corrupt dictators go, brutal, rotten, to the core

Their day has come, they rule no more

Show me the man who will not fight, to save his child, his home, his right!

You can call him what you like, you're not in his sorry plight

Cowards stay and Martyrs go, I know not where, but this I know

Speak your truth and stand your ground, fight your corner

When all around, point the finger, purse the lips, pin the label, 'Terrorist'!

Just a word, but one that sticks, even when the cap don't fit

But for the grace of God go I, remember that, before you cry

False accusation, names of shame, at those who may not be to blame,

Their crime, refused to play the game, of meek acceptance, dumbing down,

Your life, your choice; Warrior / Clown

Occupation 101