Monday, January 19, 2009

This is an eight minute review of Bush's eight years, by Karl Olbermann on msnbc, whose name may be Keith, I am reliably informed by three potato four potato, a valued contributer to world peace around these here parts of nowwheresville, where I am currently vacating for the benifit to myself and those around the blogosphere conspiring to bring me down, right down baby like a record right round baby right round like a record baby round round. That was Phil Lynott who sung that yiz naw!

Sunday, January 04, 2009


A supernatural sky sheathing stone
beneath time gods grant
within those of grace

embeds a sign in the spiritual
language of spoken love
and the electrical expressway

of an obedient divinity, to become
inspired and find the Muse

who knew wisdom hidden
from mortals, comes by divination,

water moving
cold and fast.

At the beginning
the home exact
the epithet illegible

Zenophan said you stopped
the whipping of a puppy

because you recognised the soul
of a friend in metempsychosis

is not a self-proclaimed wise man
but one who pursues wisdom

through friendship. A philosopher
with knowledge of Egyptian

Chaldean and Magi secrets

your constitution in the city
of Sybaris, taught the immortal

mystery and understood souls
return continuously

until harmonious peace is all
they construct. That art won number

is the universal law and unity
the law of God.


Hidden and heard, still between
a tick tocking eye unfurled

outside our ken

each blade, leaf, stalk, stem
and endless ratio pours into being

your template mirror subdued
in cerelium render of the Temple Bar

palm trees one instrument creates
and calibrates, to air in a square

reality marking time back and forth
parading people between

ornate hand-painted pale greens
and aqua-marines in the spectrum

of Cafe Bearg, pizza and ice cream,
hot dogs and coffee on southern quays,

where your world turns between gods
and the good, as a primal source mind

of existence in stock bill hand flyers
and sign-standing arrows that lick

flourescent light on black backings
painted on faces pointing to fortune

tellers and watchers in Crown Alley.

Your spiritual proof, home of the five
white beech in pale gold leaf, branches

ranging 30 feet, their boles
in cylindrical bar sheaths,

is the current of musicality in language
defining speech, something textured

with sumptuous heart - a warm book,
curling by the fire, the look of night

becomingly long, automatically warning
in the reach above a trickle of tourists,

rent boys and scangers scaveging
a Santa Claus cap wilting flaccid

on the head of an accordian player
asking, perhaps - for change,

for a hostel - utterly ignored
by his cilentelle wishing him away

comfortable with dog eared blankets,
and pressed between the leaves,

a happy ending