Love, seeing me with greying beard, flies past; I feel the draught of his gold-gleaming wings

A certain flaxed-haired, blue-eyed maiden has my heart. Her thoughts dwell secretly on God and openly on Hobbes and cake, mine on portals into a heavenly dimension.

Nor am I even-tempered
or nice to my fellow men.

I would harp-accompanied lay with her for centuries, splotchy-pale and honeysweet, Eros inviting us falsely to live forever on sesame and wine. The Cyprian herself could not compare with my dancer elegant as air, weighty as woman and philosopher, pink and purple and petrified wood.

Alexis the Bald is a-wooing again.

I was not made to bear the shield or the staff, but to pour over books and stain my robe with ink and sauce; it's only fair that I should share life with her grace, put down the pen and deck her with wreaths of flowers, talk of Nietzsche, of Plato, of God's grandeur and the snow.

Takes off her tunic like a Dorian lass.

Don't intertwine forever with some sturdy, immovable beam, its planes too broad and rough to detect your subtle innovations! A branch-- older, thicker, more inclined-- whose crags and nooks can reconnoiter and rebound your airy tendrils and tender darts is better suited to your dream.

Once more I'm in love and not in love,
once more insane and not insane.

let thine ears be attentive to the sound of my degredation

Oh, you are female, your cheeks vibrant and your eyes possessing a fecund light. You are male, and your body is sculpted from stone, your projection powerful. Oh how we are virtuous-- tower people, all.

Shot through with shame, there is no melodious lilt to my morning. But what? A thought that might suffice: where owls lay, frowning, could be my pack and my place. Flighty spirits draw from them only watchful hunting.

Dare ye to deceive and deconstruct the strength of the virtuous, ye highly perched ones? They are called to save the world, and ye to discover how it was saved. They built the tower, but ye live in it.
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The nightingale that brings news of spring with lovely voice

I return to strain your brain with uncalled-for alliteration, in anticipation of material for expression, but still in its absence, like late March hail-and-lightning in no way prefiguring the heat of summer, but somehow, preparing its way.

Hibernation, scales, and dull waiting, a soft unfreezing can be unpleasant. Hardy liquors and potent herbs are the quiet dropsy, and I am the sluggish dullard whose eyes shine in forgetting.

Who can know, without knowing, what is light and heavy, dark and clean? What is an act of love, and what, mere oblivion? I forget, once again. I am simple, stupid-- still. Still surprised by love and hate, lust and anger. I am the tactless, immature, blunt, and improper. I am Apollodorus, who related the story that was to be kept private, if only because he was a child, and did not understand.
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it's just the pathology of the drug

Giddy and twisted, the pain of words, the suffering of understanding, shared experience, each step on shards of deep-cutting meaning... implications, imagined sense, magnification: "drop the false ego, the something of body and mind," haunting words echoing from the deep, matching sounds from months, years, decades back, teetering on the blood red edge of despair, and then plop! back on the pillow, rested, comfortable, for now, anticipating the next thing, like a kitten fascinated, curious, anxious, worried.

It's just the pathology of the drug, "ready to die," the fear drug, the drug of divination, the Delphic dropsy, the magnification of shame, the purposeless fear, the extent of every emotion- elation, depression, masterful love and powerless punctuation.  The opposite of wine, the lack of liquor, not shamelessness but every moment full of shame, awareness, not invincibility but manifest mortality.  Not to forget but to know, the knowledge that comes with suffering, the suffering that comes with spiritual pourousness, open to experience, bodily meekness and the humility of the mind.

To know is to be flayed, to be whipped, not playfully, not perversely, nor maliciously, nor malevolently, nor sadistically.  To be chained and beaten by life itself, the pain of being, cuts and stings of correction- a torpedo fish, Socrates- the fly that bites the lazy cow, a dozen flies, a hundred, a million flies, scorpions, ants, spiders, snakes and sewer rats.

To experience for a few hours the life of a saint, so full of life and prayer that he cries, he weeps for mankind.  Pierced with a spear, the spear of complete self-awareness, the self as other, the other as self, in complete ecstatic relation.



  "Yea, I'll take that one. The really crappy one I would never otherwise pay for."

   The Onion can be spot on sometimes. I think lots of people think this, but about different of their works. Ultimately, The Onion betrays the shallow world-view it purports to mock. That is the trap into which all but the most stalwart of Zeitgest-monitors will inevitably fall. It is why I cannot desire what the media-trix wants me to desire. I cannot love with the ephemera that is the news, the journals. I will not mourn when they tell me to mourn. For many, many reasons.

But this is pretty funny. And this is somehow a beautiful sentence/poem:

Tracking all citizens,
thereby creating a draconian hellscape
to protect Resident Evil: Extinction
from profitless consumption

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    roady named "bart"
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rebel against this

From Christos Yannaras' The Freedom of Morality, Chapter 11: The Historical and Social Dimensions of the Church’s Ethos:

When truth becomes “objective,” this leads to the “infallibility” of its representatives and interpreters, of the bureaucratic structures which ensure its “objective” implementation. It is thus justifiable even to subjugate by force people who disagree with the visible authority of dogma. The institution of the Holy Inquisition and torture as a method of interrogation in the trials of heretics, the concentration camps, the psychiatric hospitals for “reforming” dissidents, the emasculation of conscience by the party line, one-dimensional trade unionism and the organized brain-washing of the masses— all these are consequences which come inevitably with every use of rationalism in the service of religious, political or any other “sacred” ends— with every demand for the objectification of the truth. It was the Christian theology of the West which first taught the “objectivity” of truth, so that without reference to Thomas Aquinas and Calvin it is impossible to interpret the totalitarian manner in which even advertizing works today: we remain unaware of the foundation of the West’s cultural and historical life, which is the objective proof and imposition of the usefulness of God, or Capital, or the Proletariat, or the Revolution.

Adopt the cunning of the octopus

who takes the aspect of the rock at which he loiters.

Vain philosophers, be like poets, who know the character of each man, and do not speak to me of the bang, or the atmosphere, or the why of the universe, unless you speak of men's hearts, which know of God. Citizens, be more like harlots, who take their life from the streets, and do not read the newspapers. Harlots, be more like beggars, who seek their meat from God. Beggars, be like children, who love those who feed them. Poets, be inspired by the sprig of the fig tree, which lowers its fruit from heaven.

Do not tell me of famous lovers whose love is ordinary. Do not tell me of distant sufferers, when great suffering is before my own eyes. Oh pride, that insists the world is small, forgiveness weak, and God a concept! Oh world, why so many false images, why so many lies and counterfeit heavens?

Persephone, who brings oblivion and impairs men's consciousness

The blackness of forgetfulness assumes its position inside of me so quickly and nimbly; the fog of ignorance, the blank of the bourgeoisie, the tempestuous silliness of the day, the sun beating itself into the mud, hardening it into its constant form-- these are the associates of oblivion. Experiences flow over the human consciousness like water over rock, slowly smoothing, dulling and making amorphous life's jagged sufferings.

We fear being swept away in a tide of quiet endurance, and so we rage and thrust and smash against this threat of droll and insipid living. We deftly avoid all ritual, convention and tradition, perhaps so that we can avoid the mistakes of our ancestors, who undoubtedly died blindly and are lost to us and to time.

How, we ask, do we really live life, mete up the passing of time into periodic and ever-fulfilled pleasures aptly valued and applied? How not just to be another one of those creepy creatures that creeps upon the earth? How to live happy and not to die screaming and raging against the dying of the light?

But inevitably our love for comfort and our hatred of suffering, which we find needless, lead us into a dreadful routine, where we think less and less each day, until we find need to justify our lives to ourselves and our friends, to our parents though we find their standards of goodness lacking, and ultimately to the eminently metaphysical measures we find lurking in our hearts.

once death's dark cloud's enfolded him and he has gone into the shadowed country of the dead and passed the gates of blackness that shut in the souls of the deceased, for all that they protest