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Scraps of paper found with these on;

'The ideal demographic is a transsexual,
chuckle complacent comedians with mirth'
me, a few month ago, found on scrap of paper
-possibly half a response to one of Frank Turners songs




'a peacock and a lioness may never lie alone together,
walking streets as strangers on the roam,
resounding pleasure lost in a moment
from the past forgot.
Embrace the turning seasons and ride the crested breast,
perhaps you will not feel left behind, pacing the den.'
me, a few months ago, also found on scrap of paper.

unsure what spurred this, but I like parts of it

if i were born of earlier days, i would lust after you this way

The finger tips on your hands arouse ice cold rivulets in my thighs.
You tell me it is because you traveled far to release my flesh.
So where is your warmth and lust of life that I saw aboard your ride?
You turn away and back to rip my bosom from its sheath of cloth.
All my vulnerability is open and taut standing attentive to you.
You have hidden your essence deep beneath Siberian caves, it can only be so.
Hindsight shows you for the fallacious beast, the arctic fox without a den.
Yes I still aim my body towards yours, throw my heart out so it bleeds.
The chill from your extremities excites my veins through to their core
An ice broken, shattered storm, fallen from the highest heights, I know mine.
The purest thing is to bend and mend and heal that craving from within.
Rape my body and throw it to the side and leave me lusting for more.

don't fear the darkness - revised

Threading through the forest of memory
the thickest of the branches clouded ways that would
otherwise be the fuel for the fire in your heart.
The hunters way is dampened, but the hunted
he makes a light of integrity and justice.
If only the call of knowledge was easy to decipher
for between the fore fathers and what they didn't know,
to our parents, and their children’s children,
who stare at the new generation: Civility a thing of fantasy.
Blame is thrust around upon majestic sticks of glory,
in metallic and frivolous pink armies storming the streets.
For the sake of nothing. Nothing is the brightest star
the one with lesser than the least of the evils
to understand is to wander through the darkest forest
even if you can not ride upon the lusty horse.
Shout as you want to shout and scream as you want to scream.
The tree's will hear you, divinity would be broken when uttered
so childhood deceives you in the memory of a darker time.

'No Sparklers?'

No sparklers in the field within the fence
what a fright, for fear we may all turn to the feral,
burn ourselves, each other and our children.
Your offensive gang nam style plays on a screen in front of the fire I came for.
No quintet to keep me company, Cardiff, what are you on about?
And. No Sparklers!

Guy would have burnt your house down too
Tied a string through all the houses
Told you all to watch the barrels roll.
He was the original terrorist for the people

Ok Catholic they were, but he fought for a voice
Isn’t that why we all go out, mix with our neighbour
But no don’t use those sparklers people

Oh and stay at least 10 meters from the fire
Just in case Guy rises from the embers
and slaps you with your pitiful match.
Have you burnt down the houses yet?

If I could sit and talk with Voltaire

You are urbane. I feel sublime.
Veneration offers little cure for you and I.
All around I see your presence in block
Upon block of people, who never saw the sea.
Subservient in your request, you asked for reason
To bind our minds together, just as the wind
Binds sea to the shore.
Yet I am polemic, radiating, stronger than sol,
more self assured than Prometheus.
Theirs may not have been rational.
But waters constant rising, begs me to ask you.

Voltaire do you see my flair? Posthumously.

You deism is forgotten, lost amongst the wild wood.
Beyond these concrete cities a prisoner, a humanitarian!
Just as we drown amongst the government born of
‘New Money’.

Where are your followers?
Why do they live in subterfuge at the bottom of the glass?
What happened with conversation and debate, how did we take this controlled path?

Hung out to dry

Hung out to dry – Iva fiction


Tension in our little town started when the fisherman missed their caviar harvest. Giannis had been in the fields but returned before the men. We knew something was wrong then I suppose. Harvesting caviar is illegal, in terms of the law, but it had been our way for years. The river always produced and we respected her, until recently. The tourists stopped making the journey up the hill and the smaller cafes closed down last summer. Piles of rubbish are left rotting and attract the dogs at night, not to mention the mosquitoes and their incessant buzzing. Young girls no longer walk the coast laden with fabrics and shells searching for an easy meal. Farmers still pass though, bringing us the news of crime as it spreads over the mountains.
The roads are narrow in this town, not like in the big city, the dog’s whines ricochet up the buildings throughout the night. Our wooden shutters do nothing to blanket the foul noises and our festering bodies draw the mosquitoes out above the town, through our shutters and into our beds. Only a few businesses remain open and their tenders are owed more in favours than they can earn from the residents. The Lambros restaurant remains strong though. I saw big black cars arrive there, once, not long after Giannis had gone last summer.

In the early evening the sun is hottest where it seizes beneath the oriental planes that don’t fully enclose the square. The buildings seem to slow down and settle in the heat beaten to a standstill, white like the coals of a long burnt fire. A group of young men used to fool about down in the square with their music and smoking, taking every opportunity to woo girls as they passed. They plotted out their stake on the corner furthest from my building. I used to watch them from our kitchen window. Their riotous behaviour amused my daughter, Isaura, she said they were like cockerels when a lady walked by. I wondered when my boy would grow out of cigarettes and wolf whistles. There has been talk of riots in the capital for longer than I care to remember. Our news is delivered by the farmers, there are few telephones in the town and the Lambros family have the only internet connection. The farmers go to the city for market, I meet them by the well on the east side of town. The tourist groups provide us with old magazines sometimes. They have distorted our views of the clothes that are in fashion in the cities, at least I can not make sense of the way my daughter wears her trousers these days. We were naïve in our oasis, cooler than the city, we thought our natural balance and sustainable humour was enough to see us through. Now we are wounded.

The young who had a chance have packed up. Perhaps it is not right to revel in our town’s decline how we used too, but I long to hear the ramblings from the square. Housewives would gossip about who was the worst off in tight times, mock one another for their bad parenting of wayward teenage boys and slap the insolence out of girls who were older than their days. I didn’t think I might need their chatter one day. I consoled myself with reasoning, I needed to mourn and it was cheaper to do my washing at home away from prying tongues. I remember marching through the slumbering square one afternoon, about a month after the shooting, staring in, with wide eyes. I relished in their shock as I passed.

Some of the Lambros boys used to do a spot of labour in the farms near by. My boy used to join them for the harvest. From the age of seven he would walk towards the sunrise for two weeks solid. They would clamour past the square, golden boys to the rescue, carrying their gallantry to the fields. Satisfied that their mothers would be home, their stomachs would be full and their fathers would be proud. I would stay back with Mrs Lambros and the other women. The younger girls would plait the small children’s hair while we washed up. I remember howling with laughter, as loud as the largest woman in the town. I know the farmers are suffering and can only help their own, but this empty square stares at me now, weighing down any chance of healing. Our harbour’s mouth has been sealed, there will be no flow of joy through our streets this summer. Its youth leave, before they break their twenties, in packs. Herded to the city like a cackle of hyenas, scavengers wound up by stories of politics they don’t understand. The old have stopped moaning about their children and the mothers have nothing to share. Each one of us yearns for a piece of justice, a voice and even politics to show our government who we are. I sit now in the square, longing for a bird to settle the day with me, but nothing stirs.
Giannis used to stomp up our stairs swinging round the banisters, clearing three steps at a time. In that moment he regressed beautifully to a child ascending the stairs as he did when he was four. In our stairwell he was free to be careless. No pressure, just the rush and satisfaction of his legs carrying him up above the heat of our town. We could hear him coming, our little flat animated, his father would order the food to be prepared and Isaura would help me in the kitchenette. Giannis and his father would huff at each other and then we would settle for our meal. I feel a glimmer and my face feels tight, a smile tries to attach on my drooping mouth. I can see Giannis. I hear his footsteps and see his face at our door. My small humble family shattered when he left us. His sister keeps his t shirt under her pillow, I haven’t washed it. She doesn’t know I found it. I saw it there a few nights after he was gone. In a cleaning frenzy I overturned all the beds our small home. I remember feeling him following me around then too. I could smell the wax from his hair and the lingering smell of tobacco from the cigarettes he smoked. The only trace now is to be found under my daughter’s pillow on a faded old top.

He left us so suddenly. I had been blind to the trouble he was in. Sorrow crept into our stairwell long before the town started to fray. Most young men become anxious like teenage girls at some point, it was part of growing up. The Lambros boys stopped calling round, but I had thought that a blessing, it didn’t occur to me that a break in their alliance was cause for alarm. I convinced myself now that I had been second guessing my instincts. That I had been too tired to take on what was around me. He had been different; Giannis had become listless and vacant. It couldn’t be drugs, I’d heard they had all dried up like the caviar. He brewed and scowled. I had been so sure that it was a phase.

He arrived later and later then. One night I looked out and his friends were there, but my little boy was not. He came in, late again, footsteps dragging up the tiled stairway. I scold myself now. Looking back how could I not see that he had been ostracised. No words were uttered around the table when Giannis arrived that last night, his cloud settled above the table, seizing us beneath it. I had heard that the youngest Lambros boy had been arrested; they were talking about it in the square. Poor Mrs Lambros was beside herself with not knowing what he got involved in. I tried to ask Giannis if he had heard anything. He cursed and smashed his plate across the room claiming we didn’t understand him. His father showed him the belt and sent him to his room. Those last few weeks melt into one long evening around that table. As though our life was balanced on its spindly legs and she couldn’t take any more weight.
Isaura came to our bed and got me up the next night. Giannis was not home. She was tearful and frantic. She shook me.
‘It wasn’t Giannis’s fault, the police are all crooks, his friends will kill him’ she wailed. I soothed her and told her it was ok, that we get angry sometimes and fall out with our friends as we grow up. She told me I was blind and that all the kids spoke of thievery as though Robin Hood had moved across waters to inspire us all. She was not a child, the world was cruel and I, as her mother, needed to open my eyes. I recoiled from her, she was alien to me in that moment. She spoke of burglaries, guns and trips to the city. Isaura was only thirteen years old then. Giannis would never have spoken to me like that in his childhood.
‘Who else is going to help us?’ She pleaded with me to hear her. Through her sobbing and wailing I felt as though I were the child. There was no just sense in any of what she said. She stared at me for the longest time, boring her eyes into me. I clawed at the edges of sense, still waking and seeing it darkness outside the window I almost convinced myself I was dreaming. My daughter did not need soothing, not like they both used to as children. My motherly words were of no use and still she held her eyes on me. I floundered, looking for an answer that might calm her. Eventually I agreed to speak with Giannis. I preyed he would help me find sense in these past few weeks.
‘We can’t let them persecute Giannis.’ She was so defiant. But the shot was deafening. Silence exploded. My insides fell to the floor seized. My humble bedroom hung motionless around me, I tried to make sense of what I was hearing. Perhaps I did close my eyes. My daughter was no longer sat in front of me when I came back to the room, sitting up in bed and my husband was no longer next to me either. The square sighs, enveloping me within her.

The funeral was small, we walked the coffin up the track out of the town. The priest, my daughter and my husband, we all carried Giannis to the ground. I looked back towards the square before we said our prayers, but the square was empty. I bought a slot not far from my fathers, along the river bank by the olive trees. Close friends stopped by after, with their excuses, as if any other funeral could ever be ignored. I caught the twitters in the market, hushed tones and hands waved in my direction. I smiled to the man who packed the peppers and onions for me; he busied himself with some paper bags.
‘It wasn’t him you blind fools.’ It was more of a screech than the voice of reason. My chest tightened and I shuffled out of the market, dejected.
Now the only person who lurks on that corner is a crumpled soul. I bring flowers down and have a smoke, just as my son did. He tried to stand up for himself, now I stand and stare at that restaurant. My little girl screams in her sleep. Her father was unable to protect her from her dreams and left long ago. He cursed as he descended the stairs.
‘Giannis is gone and we are the ones persecuted. Who will hire me here now?’ as if asking our stairwell to answer. I didn’t have the strength to ask him to stay.
There was no trial. The Lambros boy came home before it started. The trial was cancelled not long after due to ‘falsified statements’. Their family is richer than ours. The riots continue and I sit with drying flowers on the corner where the stain of my son’s blood used to lie. I spit on the pavement and scuttle towards my stairwell. I notice a towel hanging from our window, not billowing in the breeze, but stiff from the sun. Hung out to dry.

it is all just childs play

Said the thief

The secret life of life (working title)

You hate thieves and spit at their feet.
But I have swum in the bay of Bengal.
I am not seen when I walk down the street.
Though I will be the only one who helps your mother when she falls.

Disgusted faces will be worn by your friends,
when I clear the table of your cold money.
You can't know me because you are not me.
You have learned to read words, not people.

Lightness of foot carries me on and off trains
We are both at the top of our game.
Yet still you try to pity me, so I steal
from your deep and stupid pocket

Because you too are too ignorant to
recognise that I have lived
and seen far more of the world than you.

‘An unexamined life is not worth living' - Socrates

Ares

The fast paced youth drove on the black town
painting his lusty masterpiece of trust
still proud as the cock of crows.

He did preach to protégé
‘see the townsmen, stiff as the walls surround’
He fancied a different fate, why draft?
Who could guide him and thrive, no longer hide?

Beasts rave on, scratched, red up his back.
Family lapsed bearing cross his tree snapped.
The pendulum would not make him throw down.
On hand, specious, far from depressed.

Born in arms he had been caressed.
A task attained in happiness found
a cool concrete core. He crashed car and kid.
Affinity wound up smashed in spare parts.

The burnt soul walked free, to turn of age,
to drink and smoke his mothers heart thirsty.
The river blood burst, but his eyes were closed.
‘From what source did you loose your eyes’ she cried.

‘Hark’ he cursed mocking his mothers tears.
‘Preach of self worth, but you too are broken
the black spider spins her web strong and
you are not the fly who flew from Mars.’

The public house would no longer take him.
The curbs and foxgloves whispered through dusk hours.
‘I didn’t want this solvent rodent path’
The city coughed accepting concession.

He could not drink to drive her away.
A slug found his shell, a new black spider
spun the next web and hands lifted pave stones.

Two children he fathered in a haze
arrived though arms open the guts beheld.
Raised eyebrows softened with kneading down.
Tea became lunch became summers day,
he realised that cardboard was ok.

Gasoline ran his clock, zero was his hour.
Soul and body failed to catch the hand.
Daughters now found white wall for their heads.
Fantasy told them he knew they were there.
Grieving for justice to grow them a branch.

second sonnet - a bit of fun to grease the wheels

As evening strikes on Saint Mary's Street
lustful men seek to be persuasive,
prowling their worth and being adaptive.
Satisfaction will always complete
a mission held in the hand of liquor.
Money roles, stiletto pins raise the fuss.
Testosterone makes Saint Mary quiver.
Certainly no Welsh man you can mistrust
though wary we begin our mouth will slip
and your stomach will fall for the round trip.

My First Sonnet (shakespearian style)

2nd Version; almost the same, but it makes a bit more sense now and I have punctuated it - 24/02/12

The lake freezes over fragility,
as innocence dies, water has no shade.
The old elm sheds leaves from reality
little time in which a dryad can fade.
The seasonal anger is clock work true.
Though no one knew she was going to bloom.
The icicles appeared leaving all blue
will Apollo help break into her tomb?
A tight little place between roots and shore.
Dear elm, why did you wait so long this year?
A princess must be a queen to the core
day break sparkle brings us the face of fear.
Our fragile spirit knows not our time
Even though the frost strikes, committing crime.


1st version (as of 23/02/12)

The lake freezes over fragility.
As innocence dies water has no shade.
The old elm sheds leaves from reality.
There is little time in which it can fade.
The seasonal anger is clock work true.
Though no one knew she was going to bloom.
The icicles appeared leaving all blue.
Will Apollo help break into her tomb?
A tight little place between roots and shore.
Dear elm, why did you wait so long this year?
A princess must be a queen to the core.
Day break sparkle brings us the face of fear.
Our fragile tree adheres to our time not
Even when the lake strikes to take her lot.

Re - the old Renault Poem

This started out as a freewrite from an exercise. I was writing about driving from Edinburgh to Norwich, a journey I did a lot when I was younger.

In writing I realised that one particular journey stood out in my mind and it was travelling past Norwich to London. It also started out as a happy memory, but in further drafts I found I split my lines to make them seem a little more sinister... not sure this is the right word, perhaps because they raise questions for the reader.

'He was not my father he said'


I became confused when I was splitting the free write up. I think because I was trying to put it into the form of a poem I thought I needed to use metre and rhyme. I had made a rhyme well with 'Norwich' as my central word and I still used the Norwich/Norway rhyme line to add more of a beat and beef up the stanzas. As this is a free verse poem do I need to comment on this if I used something simillar in my TMA?

I have shyed away from using a particular scheme. I think I might go and try my hand at a sonnet though. I have written on and off for such a long time that I felt I wrote farily intuitively . What I have never done before is share my work. I am trying very hard to follow the BRB and learn the 'habit' along with the exercises. I think when I come to write something within the TMA outline I find it hard to put my process into words that fit within the language we use at the OU. I can only put this down to the fact that I don't fully understand the process which causes me to write what I do.

When I read this poem aloud I know why I want to change words, but I do not know if it is because of their position in metre, if they rhyme and with what word. SO I end up feeling like i have clutched at straws rather than sculpted a poem by means a poet should or would.

Thank you for your time this is really helping to place my thoughts.

Bop - descriptions and back story - all copyright remains with Isobel Harris aka Jezabel

It ran deep and cold beneathe the surface of Brixton. No longer able to mark its way gracefully over the meadows, but orced beneath and between tunnels before reaching the Thames. Only a moment quick enough for Bop to see offers an exit way above. He hops out of the leaf just before it is swilled left and away, gone, out of sight.

His climb is rough, but his hands are rougher. The walls are slick with more than 200 years of grime. But Bop uses this to slick his hair back. His pores too small to absorb any of the hell washed down from Crystal Palace. He looks down sorrowfully at the water, the Effras spirit caught tight in this chasm. He allows his thoughts to flee for a moment to the surface, where the water used to run with him aboard ready to take on the day. Youth, what a whimsical time. Bop smiles at the irony in his thought, showing his teeth slightly s his ears wobble.

Brockwell Park sits amongst three very different areas of South London. Boasting of once grand gardens that John Blades Esq had wandered in when she was still a part of leafy surrey. Now her land is hemmed in by Brixton, Tulse Hil and Herne Hill. All very much a part of Londons digestive system. The humans recreate and exercise in the park, they dance and make money in the park, the cook themselves and fornicate in the park. They bleed and piss on her grass after consuming rage and other bizzare chemicals far from unknown to Bop. The edges have crept into each other faster than Bops 18th birthday. Urban sprawl out weighing natures battle each time. Bop of course does not live in a way that adheres to our calendar. His 18 years make him more like 3549 years old. Thats right older than jesus. But he is small and he is tendered by mother earth to work the surrounding areas of the Effra river. The very same river that once ran down from Crystal Palace, along Effra Eoad across Brixton and out to the Thames.

Bops daily life has changed much since his parents time. Though his father still works hard in what is now the Reigate area.

At this juncture I should explain that Bop is a Pixie, the Brixton Pixie (I have introduced him before in a poem).

At this moment I am unsure just how involved with Londons darker side I intend to be. Bop may be more suited to a younger generation of reader.

However. He has a lot of work to do. A pixie must help keep a certain amount of love, hope and natural energy in an area. Of course humans have made their job considerably harder and Bop being a young pixie is more innovative that his elders. He has opened communication with domesticated animals in a bid to get help keeping the young humans happy so that thy dont do as much damage as their predecessors.

The thief and the trickster - reviesed

Spit on a thieves
feet to show
them how you care
little for the fare.

Play cards, deal,
teach a boy
a lesson.
You do not
know he is a thief.

A thief is he
who shares his spares
and cares.
His winning hand
disgusted. Tight.

Clothe yourself
and he, for he
can take all
straight from
your hand.

Stay up straight
feel the liquor burn.
Do not have haste,
thriving little teeth.

One, two, three,
no four, keep up he
says you'll never
learn if you don't take your turn.

The smile seems wry
and taught, limpness
eyes drag you down.
Hoist your chin, lest

Lest you see,
you shall and now you
have missed it, pay up
the trickster has won.

Old Hope - an idea from a conversation

2. Richmond Dryad

As the sun still rode
amongst the bark in the hollow
deep inside her truck
sat with the shaman. Shaman?
In a dead tree. No,
She was not dead, she grew leaves.
And we sat inside her, in the hole.

He chanted his verse all to hear
He was loud and we followed.
We asked and we laughed
willing her spirit to give us faith,
then I slept immersed within her folds.

Our lust for greatness
came thrust upon us from the city.
A moment in touch with old selves
elusive and just, we were in control.
Please dear dryad, help us be vast?

Departed and gone, I did
return years later she was there.
Still strong and I shallow, both burnt to the core.
We cackled long into the night.
A tree is a tree, alive
and not dead, but she cant change
what goes on in the beyond.




1.
I sat in a hollow tree with a shaman
if that is what he was.
To ask the dead tree for help
she wasn't totally dead, true
she had leaves.
But there was a hole big enough to sit in.

He chanted his verse all to hear
He was loud and we followed.
We asked and we laughed
willing her spirit to give us faith
Then I slept within her folds.

Departed and gone, I did
return years later she was there.
Still strong and hollow and I
cackled long into the night.
A tree is a tree, alive
and not dead, but she cant change
what goes on beyond.

re-write 3 of Magpie poem - editing is key

Magpie I beseech thee!



A quick salute

suspicious, you see.

The magpie swoops

above the roof.



Where is your

partner, dear magpie?

Remove your sorrow,

leave my world.



The washing is hung.

The children gone.

Why make me clear

all this away?



You think my litter

will keep your mate.

Materialism,

I know my fate.



Chiseled coins,

chincy wrappers

seen in your eye.

Please, be at bay!



Where is your

partner, dear magpie?

Cackle less, you

might hear her cry.



Try to mock me

from in my yew tree.

I’ll have my

treasure back.



See this there and

that. They are mine!

Where is your

partner, dear magpie?



Is it not ample

to dance on my roof?

That you must grill

me when I’m calm?



Look! We may part

For there, aloft

upon the roof is she;

your blue and white mate.

This is beautiful - discovered via BRB from OU

Eidolons
by Walt Whitman
(1819-1892)

I met a seer,
Passing the hues and objects of the world,
The fields of art and learning, pleasure, sense,
To glean eidolons.
Put in thy chants said he,
No more the puzzling hour nor day, nor segments, parts, put in,
Put first before the rest as light for all and entrance-song of all,
That of eidolons.

Ever the dim beginning,
Ever the growth, the rounding of the circle,
Ever the summit and the merge at last, (to surely start again,)
Eidolons! eidolons!

Ever the mutable,
Ever materials, changing, crumbling, re-cohering,
Ever the ateliers, the factories divine,
Issuing eidolons.

Lo, I or you,
Or woman, man, or state, known or unknown,
We seeming solid wealth, strength, beauty build,
But really build eidolons.

The ostent evanescent,
The substance of an artist's mood or savan's studies long,
Or warrior's, martyr's, hero's toils,
To fashion his eidolon.

Of every human life,
(The units gather'd, posted, not a thought, emotion, deed, left out,)
The whole or large or small summ'd, added up,
In its eidolon.

The old, old urge,
Based on the ancient pinnacles, lo, newer, higher pinnacles,
From science and the modern still impell'd,
The old, old urge, eidolons.

The present now and here,
America's busy, teeming, intricate whirl,
Of aggregate and segregate for only thence releasing,
To-day's eidolons.

These with the past,
Of vanish'd lands, of all the reigns of kings across the sea,
Old conquerors, old campaigns, old sailors' voyages,
Joining eidolons.

Densities, growth, facades,
Strata of mountains, soils, rocks, giant trees,
Far-born, far-dying, living long, to leave,
Eidolons everlasting.

Exalte, rapt, ecstatic,
The visible but their womb of birth,
Of orbic tendencies to shape and shape and shape,
The mighty earth-eidolon.

All space, all time,
(The stars, the terrible perturbations of the suns,
Swelling, collapsing, ending, serving their longer, shorter use,)
Fill'd with eidolons only.

The noiseless myriads,
The infinite oceans where the rivers empty,
The separate countless free identities, like eyesight,
The true realities, eidolons.

Not this the world,
Nor these the universes, they the universes,
Purport and end, ever the permanent life of life,
Eidolons, eidolons.

Beyond thy lectures learn'd professor,
Beyond thy telescope or spectroscope observer keen, beyond all mathematics,
Beyond the doctor's surgery, anatomy, beyond the chemist with his chemistry,
The entities of entities, eidolons.

Unfix'd yet fix'd,
Ever shall be, ever have been and are,
Sweeping the present to the infinite future,
Eidolons, eidolons, eidolons.

The prophet and the bard,
Shall yet maintain themselves, in higher stages yet,
Shall mediate to the Modern, to Democracy, interpret yet to them,
God and eidolons.

And thee my soul,
Joys, ceaseless exercises, exaltations,
Thy yearning amply fed at last, prepared to meet,
Thy mates, eidolons.

Thy body permanent,
The body lurking there within thy body,
The only purport of the form thou art, the real I myself,
An image, an eidolon.

Thy very songs not in thy songs,
No special strains to sing, none for itself,
But from the whole resulting, rising at last and floating,
A round full-orb'd eidolon.

Vanity

'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity saith the preacher' Eceles 1:2

Preachers scream at passers by.
Young girls steal lipstick in their purse.
Lads stroll together blowing smoke

Vain is as vain does
when he prances own the street.
Vain is as vain does
the girls tighten their coats.

Children scream for more
Fathers hide in the apple mac store
Whilst grandmother slips a shirt
in her purse.

Vain is as vain does from
from birth to death
through and through
and round next door!

The thief and the trickster

Spit on a thieves
feet to show
them how you care
little for the fare.

Play cards
teach a boy
a lesson.
You do not
know he is a thief.

A thief is he
who shares
and cares.
His winning
hand disgusted.

Clothe yourself
and he, for he
can take all
straight from
your hand.

Throwing oneself over the edge...

Innocence