Poetry is a Way of Life not just an expression of the Soi-Meme_this poetry of the future of what are becomings

Poetry as a Way of Life not just an expression of the Soi-Meme_this poetry of the future of what are becomings-to-be exists nowPoetry as a Way of Life not just an expression of the Soi-Meme_this poetry of the future of what are becomings-to-be exists now and yet exists on a virtual plane and is a process of definit'in and fiction criss cross frontiers mix melodies perform verse machines magics boundaries as usual A Recalltopoetryisawayof life and so many others et tant d'autres et tant d'autre_tant d'autres et tant d'autre_

Sight restored

What is in your eyes, your

bright, sparkling eyes?

Save me from myself, give

me the vision of happiness and love, yes

to love, real love.

Fill my every corner with your

light, what gifts you

offer, what promises

to believe, only to

have faith

in myself.

for pete

don't die you bastard
i love you
i imagine the oscillating apparatus that keeps you alive
your breath rasping out of the machine
heal and live and love

when the nail haemorrhaged out of your brain, perhaps the darkness bled out too.

Stay and love us.


.

Campanile 1+ Comment + 1, 2.

A poetry ground on which [the] figure sags soled by sight
terracotta campanile lies which tender the golden book
`the golden' `book in your teeth yes, lover one by
' alphabets and books" was "the" surging sowfarrow the spy the sow eaten by its "farrow"
againIsoldespyherloverespionagebabyrocked by her cradle I went looking for your today
however but you were not be seen I looked up
and low high and down turning my head around again too

Is that why I slip into a black-hole, a bad body-without- organs,like some question slippery slope that does not end ...
Is that some sort of idiotic epileptic sexseizure?
My body is a sexsexure if not writing every each – day,
so it thunders seeked you in the thee of its every
which way –







Mozart replies with a line in his teeth the teeters of the sun, and the balance of death, its cemeteries and gasps, the voice parked in some lane, close no, clocked the dare of death, some widow spanning the window ledge. widow lend her frame to the olden tablets of the peaked ridge of Achille's hat. Enuff of the dead, she says wording the phoneme "down" to its out and round.



Breath







.

___________
__
____

A poetry ground on which [the] figure sags soled by sight
terracotta campanile lies which tender the golden book
`the golden' `book in your teeth yes, lover one by
' alphabets and books its was the surging sow
farrow the spy the sow eaten by its "farrow"
again isolde spy her lover espionage baby
rocked by her cradle I went looking for your today
however but you were not be seen I looked up
and low high and down turning my head around again too

Is that why I slip into a black-hole, a bad body-without- organs?
like some question slippery slope that does not end?
Is that some sort of idiotic epileptic sexseizure?
My body is a sexsexure if not writing every each – day,

so it thunders seeked you in the thee of its every
which way –

Now then, an accidental rhyme is that not like the accidents in the sacrament that Catholics speak of? The accidents of the matter that don’t affect the substance.

 (but now then , what is the substance of a poem or a text if it's always on the run, like water getting away from it's owner... but who's the owner of water and wood?_________________

Later Clifford was left with the line of escpae that had hung out of his mouth speaking to God and Tristan Tzara . 

 _________________

Tragic Lover

Lonely love,
where are you now?

Only love,
in darkness you hide.

Lost love,
I can hear you cry.

Last love,
we will never be again.

Poison For The Day

If the devil came down tomorrow, from where'st he is perched,
and and asks you, "What will it be? What will be your poison today?"
How would you respond?
Would you? Could you?

Me? I have only one reply to him, it's quite simple,
Give me food and wine.
Make it a nice bottle of white, my friend.

Who on earth thought of making me a glutten?
"No one did, Darling. It was my brother upstairs.

Cheers, and pass me the cheese, please."

Thoughts to Die For

hello again mister bleeding
i am stranded in the hall of mirrors
a thousand doors cremated
a million thoughts remain
silence shines the razor
haiti plummets foul
my ny spit grows stronger
raw acidic nerve crash
upon the plains in stonehenge wake
tame a comet with my anger
2005 is a pig's dream
shallow guttural septic
hate gnats crashes into my guts
junkies weave narcotic dreams
there's red in the stars
love filtering out
memory will guide you home
mad poets discovered
when the world was young and giddy

Billy Jno Hope
www.seedsofamadnessflower

The skirt in Barcelona

Skirts in Barcelona, I like to walk with my camera and feel people legs :)

"Borgsorg"

"Borgsorg"

cymophanous pygarg smarts
following
spiral shadow bank
anchor collapsing fulcrum is aptly myopic
iguana parking cranch against asking small
falling brisk attack assiduous
affirm foundling sloom
sly loudly swamp Xibalba

You are the night bird

outside
On the lawn
I cut stars out of paper
To go with the moon that I hung on a string

I am a puzzle
a wandering face
that is lost in the crowd

Lightning bugs
Circle my head like a crown

You are the night bird
That follows me home