Personality engulfed by a new world.



Elizabeth Barret Browning with her eleven-points-poem.



How can I elevate my poetry-prose?



The paper stares point-blank at me.



The bullets are missing the skull.



I love thee, more than myself.



Share a wisdom uncovered by gun-powder, by share of joy and care of the barrel pointed at the moon.



Old wisdom:' The fingers point at the moon in the reflection of moonlight in a pond'



Which indicates wich?



Today encompassed in the wallpaper. Locomotive motives of unrelinquinshed thirst.



Steam engines pilled up with the pressure of the room.



The scent of wood blasted to coal and pieces of ashes , treated like pulp of cranberrie juice, sliced up for consumption.



Fighting spirit in tomahawk coal mines of grisant peace in the valley.



Common thirst for unreliquinshed wanting of earhtly things.



How can I decorate my surrounding in gourmet Los Angeles smog?



The sea I can't reach like in a Russian painting.



Where am I? Stuck to the wall flat as a tyre. I can stare at you, while you don't even see me.



Gurdjeffian landscapes in pianossimo of Arabian Caucasian ladder with mystical content in two dimensions.



You walk passed me in 3d into the planes of the Sahara. A mirage upon the altitude of my vision upon the a wall of dimensions unreal in glass sand and cement portrayed inbetween the jointure aired in the damp moist room off the wall.



Almost Apalache tracks in Apache rhyme for the immigrants who layed the tracks for me. Smoke of burned visions and unrivalled rivalry as the well of my consciousness mirrors upon the screen stuck to the wall in front of me. I can't dislcose my location. I can't differ with you. I can't but know that you have the skill that strikes me through patient moments of lack of furniture and comfort on tornado week-ends in oaklahoma at the end of the week almost.



A crime, a being, an am, conception, pre-conception, the future.



A typewriter, an unfinished poem.



Syndicates of words.



What is the order that thou has conceived?



Yes, I can write to you Great Being Spirit of the Western hemisphere as smoke morse for your burning passion of well being in vacant state through the midst of the dessert I can't find. Are you there? are you anywhere? Find me and bring back the peace to my mind.



Ah it is late and I am in coma.





http://www.poetseers.org/the_great_poets/female_poets/elizabeth_browning_poetry/2/

Another day has passed.



Seems like everything, people as if in sign language.



Railroads high through colored lenses.



The dark lenses don't fit.



A xylophone tune of old songs. Brushes are but indication of your mood as is the qwerty keyboard sometimes a peacekeeper sometimes a hammer. Twinkle star it is late already ten.



Caleidoscope vision. Old stuff. New stuff. Junk garbage. Periscope high above noon.



Creation and green colors like trees in the horizon. Pink sky purple crossroads under grey horizon among the wedge of the carved nightscape.



Chissels of real creation in random winds and runover leftovers of the weather.



Of whom to write but strange nightingales, swans, peacocks, ducks in the bassin of my memory(?). The mystery of language and computers. They don't equate.



A typewriter to remember.

Radio on! I wish Gainsbourg were still alive! and Edith Piaff, Barbara then I would go to their concert en français et Allemand - Triangle fm. I am lost while living abroad, sunken deep into shit at the moment. I am in some lost place called Heillo. So far so good. The route description I cannot give you. Even in your wildest dreams you wouldn't even come close to saving me from more predeliction! I love complaining and pain and misery such it is known. Fuck grammar, sentences, adverbials. I love universal grammar. Poetic license one hundred percent. Are you the blogger reading my fringing from yesterday, namasté! O.K. I love poetry so let's start. everyday a rhyme to southe your soul dear readers.

This morning I awoke in a rush while the rain outside pouring... A film I was remembered of. 'Underground' by Emir Kusturica. The day Balkan style. That's what brought me to this place first time. Food was served just like machine guns were fed to me. The Germans marching into Zagreb cheered by the locals. The trip continues. I am one feet above the ground. The months pass and still my freedom is grim, grey and dust at the moment. Getting a little better adjourned the summer is lost, so I must endure on own energy. I am kept in the dark fed with good intentions that make me lazy. By midday I was burnt out. I relinquish my memories of youth when I used to play in monsoon catching froggs and total freedom. Horseback on Elephants. The West is a grim place. Westerners are grey people. So am I.

Toulouse I was most happy. Great climate, friendly people. Once I was almost run over by a bus. I haven't seen home for more than eight months. At the moment Amsterdam. I miss my place. My own brainwash crap routine pain staking routine rat race run rush computer music balcony bed and all ustensiles of my kitchen cooking workbench neighbors. Dear neighbors.

Logics missing when the night has crept into the window
cramp. craving for more you.

The chair starts turning in whirl.

huricane dog. Ships around. Metal pscho institution.

Je manque.

Je sais que je t'aime. Qui ça? Elle sait. Ce n'est pas que des hormones.

Je suis un animal, un homme et viens de loin alors aurevoir et a demain.


A day has passed as birds sing a song
Has thou worshiped like them and theirs anthem
has thou let yourself guide just as them
And waken up thy highness the glorious Sun
With thy Morning Walk the river along
That before day break follows the stream
That thou has chosen.

Or be it Thou has slept the morning come
and be it nighted in a soul asleep.

Thy torch must be timely to the sun
And then will she be lit on day's break
And be it day in a soul awake.


http://www.trianglefm.net/

Wow! beforehand. Glimpse of distorted visions and unequivalent vanitude. Still great but cream crocodiles and peaches.

How to think when your mind is full of unknown options but the day is long and freedom scarce and pain is felt all through the body but the mind continues to grind and still I am happy 'cos I am gonna sleep well tonight when the stars shine and the moon fall asleep with tender loneliness all above the sky with want of unknown company and wine and dessert and strawberries and mountains and other succulents when the day ends after seven and half months of penitence and pain and distortion and all I want to be is a writer with no knowledge of self and ability beyond unknown dimensions that I seem not to find in unforgiving explosions of the grim clouds above the blues and sharp tone of the next generation of robots to come. Even a Haiku would remember my name!

ALL BRIGHT IN THE COLD,
I GLIMPSE SNOW LEAVES IN THE MIST.
GRRR! THE MOON HAS DIMMED.

http://www.in-vacua.com/cgi-bin/haiku.pl