Always the best man, never the.....

To pass in passing the night on traversing harbor.


Silence, the greatest of, like draped leaves on a whipping tree shining in the wind,
surrounded for want of champion, draped in the drops of fallen hopes. Standing amidst
the violent, before those professing to be of great proport, against that which would be the
grass of sweet pasture for the soothing of the soul.

So to pass in passing the night on traversing harbor, and this is best the man, a flower
plucked is best planted again, this is the best. To pass in passing the night on traversing
harbour is, when such a flower plucked and planted, as passing a red black rose
growing, and not moved, passed in passing the night bright then as at wedding place, best man helping
grow keep sake kept safe. This is the best of men and gardens groundsman.

In concrete grown the rose, yet in not so choice a place, those passing soon,
might destroy, for to whom in this, that if grown there would cherish,
so this is best that, in keeping, that traversing seeing, to water,
to keep sake, to cherish till, even the most, surely piggish might,
on lately seeing the rose bloom. That soon eventually cherish also.
A kiss from a rose in a terrible place, sweetest than, on a hill planted well,
surrounded by fools of weeds thinking themselves daffodils.

To pass in passing the night on traversing harbor stopping only
ever the best man, seeing that this rose in the crags and cracks of
hellish growing, that such a flower, not knowing any better, charm the devil himself,
with a kiss, without fear, charm the serpent, and woo a tyrant, and steal the
hearts of saintly born.

So this is best of best mans deed, that roses found in crags and cracks of
hellish suit. That even devils spawn should play best man. Saints have no foot in such a place,
neither do they have such graces in heavenly abodes, to steal a kiss of the rose
that grows and blooms in dark of night, in the fissures of the hard, hellish places.
An accident of birth, saints have bliss, we have, all that leads to the deep dark dungeon and then traversed
rapport of that flower, that once enraptured to the heavenlies, to spit in the eye
of proposed saintly kings, and make them bow down, lest they should dare,
there is no Queen of Heaven, yet even God Himself, might scourge the fool,
who would dare shirk the kiss, of the Queen of Hell.

It is a sin to pass in passing traversing harbor and not pay homage to that rose,
and this is to never leave, that each petal upon it not counted for grace and healing boon.

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, the deadly curse of not proclaiming the Queen of Roses,
grown in suffering, blooming once in a blue moon, on the darkest night of devils black,
that her rapport might lead fools, to the heavenly garden where she may yet never see, and look upon the face of God,
and see her form, on His chest, as a tattoo upon it. And watch the lines of tears upon His face and the face of
all saintly men that waters her, for that is how they reached Heavenly places and passed her by,
not thinking to take her with them.

for Lisa Dickerson.  :this is how I will always think of you.

Three

She said

I do not want to
live this life,
yet your life
is your own,
and there is no recourse
or action that
is not yours,
then I do not
want to
live this life,
there is no way,
but your way,
and so,
live the life,
you want to live,
and not the life
you know,
what that is
is only yours to say.

Tenth of ten and before lately done

There is very little about men that he can say for himself, much less that he can
boast, speaking and boasting is just what speaks less for him. I did not the
good done by me, I aided none when not asked an given too, there was naught
I gave when given spent and forgotten past lent for nothing gained or denial of repayment
whether of heaven lent.

How much more then spoken is that unsaid, unsung, unremembered only for a trail
of unkown sadness that never was lived.

And if sometimes blessed by what was not spoken, not boasted, not done, unaided,
hardly given, all passed for nothing. Then all unexpected, all at once given back,
and spoken, boasted, lauded, shouted what was done in secret openly and with pride,
not forgetting the detail of the, what never was.

Then this tenth of ten before and lately done. Those praises did come too late for grace.

When the pot is boiled.
And the buttermilk is stirred,
then the drink,
and the food can
be eaten,
made,
more than the body,
yet not less than
the passtime,
we do not quit as well
we will,
so,
we then let,
pass to moments,
never forgetting that spare
place the enjoyer sits,
in all,
all in all,
so that we may have,
joy,
and life in abundance of
it,
and when the drink
and the food is
eaten,
say,
joy to it,
the body too,
for in it the
enjoyer sits,
in delight of life,
even while,
surrounded by the misery,
longing free.

Then

When that bright day, spotted with color and the only shades are colors of dark
against the shining. Just bringing contrasts of what we chose best, shades of good,
better, best, together with all happy and joyous making things.

When this day, may I not hold back in fear at such pristine beautiful bounteous day, only
to reach for the hand and speak word that now we fly, this perfect day endless to outrun,
outstretch and unremembered all dark things in an embrace of longings fulfilled.

When failing that, to hold the embrace in the warmth of who is there and even if,
the stars no longer sing and that sunshine day not be yet, then only breaking heart
and fools braying soul of anguish, and serenade the moon that is sway full and know
that now is and the next day, be like the dawn, beautiful times two and then and again until delight
inexpressible inexpressibly made, in you and me and that shining day glorious.

I am a patient man, seeing this day, little by little promised in every now, in a smile,
and embrace, a kiss or lightly fingered touch, that is this present shady and yet still
worthy moments. Then, and now. Bright to bright, if moments like these, not lost
in time.

The Soul

Many people through my life have asked me to say something profound to them, some token that anything I might say of myself is true. I often leave them wanting and for this reason, so if I had anything new to add this, I might tell you in simple terms what is the Soul?

What the soul is is very simple to understand.

The soul is just a byproduct. Humans are mortal, Spirit is not, we are flesh and blood, Spirit is not. Simply put we are, a mixture of mind, will reason and motion, that is, the movement of our bodies, by mind will and reason and circumstance. The Spirit is Eternal. This mixture of, mind, will, reason and body of circumstance in focus, is called heart.

This is where the soul resides.

The soul is that point at which the mind, will, reason and body of circumstance touches the Eternal, The Spirit. That, is, the soul. And since the soul, touches on the Eternal Spirit, though the soul is not the Spirit, it has a quality of Spirit, that it is indestructible, though unlike Spirit, it is changeable, mutable and relational. The Spirit also has a Soul, otherwise it would not be able to commune with the changeable, it would be too, potent, you the Spirit Soul is Eternal and immutable like the Spirit, though to relate to the soul, it is indivisible different in relationship to the changeable soul. A car my run on petrol, liquid petrol, gaseous petrol, methane, or any other such. A truck runs better on Diesel. Yet power is the fuel.

In times past and in varying way's God spoke to us.
None has seen God, yet some have spoken to Him face to face, and Him revealing Himself in many ways.

Humans Have no Spirit, we are mutable, we must, by action of the heart and soul, touch on the Eternal, and our soul in endowed with the Person and Character of the Eternal, and, finding our soul like the Eternal Soul and His Spirit, we become One and like Him.

A group of humans is said to have Spirit, yet this means, a common soulish goal. School spirit. Yet schools, teams and goals of man are not always eternal.

Animals have the same.

So, touching on the Eternal is no slap dash, haphazard thing. It must be heart driven, purposeful and done in a way that the Eternal will recognise as like Itself. When we reach the Eternal, we do not lose self, we become a better self.

Change in a cup is only spit, unless the heart is in it. One penny might weigh in the Eternal greater than a million dollars, it is all heart. A dark deed, may even, in the light of Eternity, path the way more than a thousand good intentions. Yet it is the Eternal who will say, "It is all good." We can add nothing to this.

And if we are, in the image of the Eternal One, then, what does it mean that it is not good for man to be alone, and if God spoke to some face to face, and in differing ways. Does He like to be alone? Yet who is the equal of God, or at least, who would please Him so, that she would be with Him always in Joy?

Food for though.

The soul, is the mind, will, reason and body of circumstance all channeled called heart. The soul is eternal, the Eternal seeks that which He can share, He is no miser.

This is true religion.
War, is the devilish group spirit that tries to, reach eternal status by removing the competition, a warring spirit, will destroy even itself when there in no other to rise above.
There must be greater than the soul, this is pure reason, I have not, in this, told you who to believe in.

The Cantor of a dissertative life

A beggining of sorts
And so begins,
not in a time and place,
some is past,
this cantor of the dissertative life,
though now,
some not,
contemplative,
reactive,
kinetic,
for where is an beggining,
there is no end,
so few under bright day,
stary night,
ever night,
till long day endless sunshine,
that was,
is,
was and will be again,
till long day forever more,
ending of twilight to twilight,
till long day endless joy,
what is not the cantor
of the dissertative life,
which is best to say,
than what it is not of,
then we would know,
for to prune,
remove and trim,
like a ship in the breeze,
on the gale,
on the storm,
to loose and lessen what is not needed,
and to sail upon
the turbulent oceans,
laden also,
or cast off to the depths down
to the locker,
and glib too for,
list and roll,
yar.

yar.

yar.

At One Started Ending:

In angulat momentum, listed to port for the churned definition that was the sweeping and rarification of where to be? There, a whale of it, a tail, brightness through the gossimar sheen coming through again, to show the slope, the curve, the precipise like strip underneath the dress finely sculpted all and giving all, revealing less of more so well and finely the burning in the blood. We men, like sunlight was in our flesh prompting the urge, the head listing this and that, fore and aft, and I seeing such trim, such an yar of streemline shape, head to port and confessing on that day one and four of that day, that day that all men confess, boldly so confess of all angelic patrons and in the inner self of romace and love.

Given to much, given to much and then longed, then so often not. Only not so, too trim, too yar and never no! Never the cowards what if! So, outside and front, then confessions done. If then, to the reader I speak as the vessel seen. If the, such a yaght so sleek, ther, in front of me, not sought or to seek but out upon the wind and water, yet still given this, given but not so for the faint of heart. also, on such an hot day, of all hearts valentine, beneath the waters of the pool called sent, and visions seen first, under dark, under siloam. Under dar and beneath the covers, nights sweet delight the vow!

and such did was this that day. she had then promises made before that this so were off, jilted, where thinking then that all said to be done that day sweet and well now forfieture. Yet on such a day there is no brotherhood for the dogspittle that left her, to be in a bank, waiting with her own money, of what she may now not spend, waiting to be jited, spurned, and such a trin and yar vessel to sail upon was she. Though, I did have an previous engagement, with a little deal and a rolled green finger of sloth, with mates givent o playing games and she did come with, not of the bent for such things, or silly little lights of games in a box. And so she thinks, to be jilted by another, then only to be saved to sit and what high times in front of a little screen, and this was no day with IT in the air, for sloth.

Only not so. We left off and then yes. This trim vessel was so bristol fashion, under the T, given to more triangular shape that some other had already given hearts murmur yet not shown there, and finding me banking also, followed outside there by me thinking to myself “if she be outside and alone let me, this valentines day” and blunt of air now very of the smitten mind think all over because of sweet smelling smoke that makes one to give in in to much ease. But done to be done we were, and for such a form as this, ready from loss already given to me, one loss ones gain. Mine the gain of more, mine the more.

So she was this vessel, glistening so greatly well, that like a yellow scented candle, like, wax running down, wax, yet not some thin formless length, but of contour lines and sculpture that memory cannot cast off, the pernicious clinging of memory, like a clean crisp clipper of imagery that weathers all since, cutting through the still made clean clear pond that such meniscus stillness hid nothing of her angular momentum as she kicked forward, stroking under silken skin invisible to the color of her skin unfathomably well against those triangle pieces, revealing little, yet giving so much of nothing.

To recall on that day where all men confess, she one less of twenty and I say to the reader that was one more so then one and one between us.

Fine a times.

So after swimmingly a time, at the local pool we were want to frequent. And knowing her appreciation that her Day was not to a loss, then this then, I purchased a piece of sunshine on a stem a well flower for a well flower., not many, not less, one perfect sunflower, as long and sleek but never so fine or well formed as this siren. Though I do not recall the celluloid vision of that day, we saw, any flickering tail of actors would have done, for for it was the company of the day that was the setting and the show was just a place to be together and show of the tow flowers as if to portray better and best. It was hearts day and flower and shimmering dark and tongues and lips and hands and then home.

Left aside, stood up, a day redeemed. Sun-shining through a sarong to reveal the bikini ready, so I took her with sweet words, my home so close and me unprepared yet for money. This then my friends, we smoked a while and in altitude she thought more promises broken. Though we walked the hundred yards to the local swimming pool, and to see her swim beneath such a moment, her sleek small form, making such long stokes of her limbs that it was well then all stops to weigh anchor and birth for the night.

Then yet, nothing, nothing each but beneath the same silken skin.

For to lose on that day for a girl is too much, and not done in gratitude but, well in romance.

Of beneath those silken sheets nothing said only one word the vessel.

Yar.

first thoughts

Here there are mundane things,
my hell is freezing over,
but in the stories of old,
and the comic books,
heroes come from another place,
haphazard thrown together
with we mere mortal men,
an accident,
of placement or circumstance,
elevating one
or sending a great one to us,
and deliverance come,
so before this cold mundane hell
clouds my first minds moments,
that early morning time
where my soul is still remembering
another place,
I tell your master this
is how I think of you
and you and you,
and especially you,
though it is cold in this pocket,
of mundane hellishness,
in the place that is
heavens little corner,
you are a golden child
ruddy underneath at times,
but you are worn of gold
and golden to the core,
you are super-girl in torn faded jeans,
a siren of good omen
and the string upon men's heart for graceful though and longing,
you are an accident of stardust
that is beyond the minds
understanding in magnificence
cept in half remembered dreams,
and in the might of splendor do
you repose,
and all that you do
is touched with the weight of
eternal boons and glory,
like pixie dust upon your fingers,
so I left a few tokens,
as a remember of what you really are,
and not me,
super golden ruddy fantastic peacock pretty special,
slice of heaven at 8 am,
but you don't talk to me?

The Cantor of the Dissertave Life

Distemper of Distractive influence

There is much to be said for distractions, little to be had by them possibly, yet, the peculiar slope of the back, the quick lift and divide. The almost ecstatic recurved, all so much so like the retort of the bowed warrior, all so ready to fire upon. A peach, a pomegranate, a nectarine, the most choice sweetened, ripe and delectable of apples. The golden delicious.
To pour even any such upon, to mar the delicacy of, well, God He may be, yet, did He instigate by inspiration. The delights to be decanted out over His creation. The honey, the maple they are delectable stuff, yet even cream and chocolate, the icing upon it or caramel. Surely this, this is enough for any man, do we better the form of the pear with coating, not so, only, said, the icing upon what cannot be added too.
To watch and wait. Ready to make a meal, even to put your hand and to sample the delights of, and add insult to injury? What is best?

To each theirs.

This!

It is the peach! The nectarine, the pear, The golden delicious. All this, the curvature of form. What algebra has His hand. What arithmetic. Ask the stars!
To paint and draw. How long in endless distemper of distraction do all these things, these shapes, thrown so haphazard about sometimes like a lazy scribe, and all where we do see.

And, in all moments of passion and in all things in the epiphany of the throws. What is the mind of man and what can he add. This is the best of it too add.

Nothing!

Of the angles, the perfect relationship of the hypotenuse. The nobility of the electron cloud of Helium, the orbit of the heavenly bodies. All this, you vanity of vanities, yes. You, man.

In all the intricacies of the snowflake.
And for what.
Here and humble.

All to sit amongst the myriad of the stars endlessly, circling the void, and, to watch the flake of ice upon the hair and brush it off with careless nothings, to draw out the ear from a lock and wipe a tear, that has crystallised there on the cheek, and see what glories of the Heavenly Hand does lie beneath and pen vanities to impress that which all the host of eternity has needed none of yours but to lay a kiss and lose the mind, all this is just His Mighty hand for. To sit and, to lose the mind upon a kiss.

We are of such a temperament that too prone to the distemper of distraction that the curve of the neck is not enough, leading to the rise and fall of the chest and heaving of the breast, in all this o man, do we need anything to know, if there is the ended hair, a bead of sweat, falling like a bright star out of nowhere into brightness. That if all there was to watch them pass by such, if all the Angelic host were to trump! We mere men? What moment would have been missed but the chance for that bead of moisture to fall later to the belly like finding a pot of gold at the end of colours and that the Angles did play trickery on you so that, you might know yourself to be a fool! That we should so utterly fail to distractions that the angels we there to delight to see and witness loves first loss of all that we might add in nakedness having not such joys but to accompany with song and we did fail. And that foolishly you or she did try to add to it without the flow that water has down the breast.

Nothing.
Nothing.

All a string, a cotton, a liquid to list down the valley that would be better suited by the tongue not to speak but to taste.

Nothing is best!
And?
No, nothing IS best.

And this is where the reader meets the participant in this little story. Of background and asides why speak to you my reader. All I would have is tales and half-truths, lies and infamies and allegations or that way of maliciousness that the incorrigible send about like an ill wind on a summers day. This this too is where we meet.

Here then.

Aside and outwardly was this man of some dumb courage and flawed with a digestive and restless mind constantly prone to distempers of distraction. And plagued by oafs.

Where is this, for back story or addition other than always now for, the sad writer. Don't think that all you might add to this is better than nothing, what riches of cursing and vile temperament and lack of character will you have for me? All that is just forever now.

This is a compliment to the chef. That we taste and see and then maybe, to the peculiar predilection of the pallet. What then would you add to the angle of the hypotenuse to the mount of Venus mons. If only goodness then good, all good, calculate the ratio of Pi by 6 or 7 or 8 or more all good. But if you have no good add nothing! Add nothing to the circumference of the circle! Only good to it and then.

How much more so then to take breath a piece and bask in the glory of nothing but the darkness in, and nothing more besides. To devour with gusto, this is what is done when given from the Divine Culinary, and all is all is all, the hand and the eye and the proportions given to us in no use other than.

So here we are reader, as always now, what if can add nothing then nothing, other then it is not all good, if nothing good can be added and I will do the same, of you tens and hundreds and thousands to one, add nothing in the droves. Reader and participant maybe fated to, knowing not, yet I do know, and your additions, if I have any form is nothing to me in you inabilities other than the vile addition of man or woman to this if you might have as a worthless writ.

An sometimes also maybe. Just the particular graces of sences and body that is given us. Better add no of anything than, to crack the small for want of nothing better than.

For I will have the divine hand or nothing, in, of, in Truth, or in the truth written by him in some, or nothing, and all I find is nothing is best, would that there was a good additive.

For what is a kismet, if it is a bad omen better left undone in your droves?

Nothing but good is a better met, and if it be nothing, then no begging ever by the ever present now. Add to the divine hand of you maker gracelessness upon. Now?

And I start again at the beginning.

For I will have all or nothing.

And if all you my reader have in what I have given you is nothing now, let it be evermore in truth.

For aside and outwardly some distraction are better left, nothing.

For such a heavenly bow, that you should fire devils dart and not cupids lot.

Let me close my mouth and block my ear and know I have been distracted by nothing again. A wisp of ill intent better left to a passing mirage on my way to a better place, however long and crooked the journey be.

And throw a dollar in the cup as I be a nothing beggar and even though I am not.

But for I would have a better day.

The Cantor of the dissertative life

Aside and outwardly

aside and outwardly motion to extravagance of nature though not drawn or frail the excessive of the contradictions to the daily to daily and sometimes sublime, sometimes basic and sometimes base, yet, not always less refined. Ventured towards, no, not of zealous distraction, nor foul, vile vainglorious, but to the reader, if no one else, secretly so not embarrassingly either even to you my readers. Yes. So. Aside and outwardly, penned and not out loud. Of foolish and unfortunately moved towards a life of sometimes unwanted and stupid acts of courage, to wonder why this man was not dead yet would not be any superfluous questioning. Benvolio was shot. And mad enough to pen the man’s morbid taste the extinguishing of Lights.

Even then, aside and outwardly, and speak not over wearily, or then, why plague the man like a Scotsman? He did not always or even mostly with any real intention, turn out to be at the wrong place at the right time often, and this was his most unfortunate , some might even say redeemable quality, for he did have that particular affliction, and want for the sense, and damn it, common decency, to think and do nothing, a quick tongue and wit, and all too ready, as if a puppetry marionette like quality.

enough to say, when there is trouble started, and finished, an Australian was there.

An accursed race. Known through history for it.

With a flawed even sometimes sublime, penchant for the sublime and the ridiculous, and the ability sit back and enjoy the joke that is the human condition, especially the next condition over the the left a bit, and excuse me your spoiling my view. Even to make thus so, because frames and big heads are bad for the health of the character Mr Deville.

Such unfortunate juxtapositions for one race let alone one man.

Suffice it to say, Australians are all bastards, rat bags, and prone to be all of the above, and so aside and outwardly, there is nothing really special about that.