Le Temps Revient...

Poetry, Music, Art & Ideas for the Archaic Recurrence...

martes, 29 de marzo de 2011

The Genuine.

I never learnt their secret code,
I'm the gun they forgot to load,
Worthless beat or so I'm told,
Not as pretty but not as cold.

All your hatred is so apple pie,
The latest trend do as you'd die,
I spent my life asking why...

Stand aside you're not true to the mold,
Be yourself but do as you're told,
Stand in line until you're old, 
Carry their weight until you fold.

In love one can live
But without love their is no world 
which will not poison itself.

Your specialized 
21st century diseased minds
Uniquely combine 
Ignorance with arrogance.

Acting merely as you know,
In blissful ignorance of long ago,
A label to define him as one of the walking dead.

Mental frame works,
Familiarity for sanities sake,
Go along through the motions all you know,
In blissful ignorance of long ago.

sábado, 26 de marzo de 2011

A Venetian Vision.

Or a strange little tale on the aftermath of fortune.

Casting off from the bridge of sighs he descended through the thick foggy air finding himself in unimpeded free fall. As he hit the obscure water's surface he sank even quicker though the salty deep, with his body as motionless as the calm of the tide. Going further below into those depths, the city of the Sereníssima seemed to sink with him. Down into her darker regions he went submerged in eerie caverns of crumbling brick. Venice became a nightmare city and the view from St. Mark's across the waves was still palpably visible to the curious eye. Yet no longer did its light glint or sparkle, rather a heavy haze of grey pressed down upon it from above. All was still as death, as though that long ago romanticized moment known as the death of Venice had at long last now passed. A moment of bliss and exuberant ecstasy exploded as Venice uttered her final beautifully fatal cry in the throes of an insanely prolonged fit of self destruction.

However he had arrived too late to witness this highlight of the ages and was only able to pass through Venice's canals which now formed a labyrinthine river Styx within the boundaries of a new worldly Hades. He too was but moribund to this life and found himself unable to incline himself to aught besides plunging ever on downwards into his self perceived profligate misfortunes. He finally came across a cavern that seemed to produce an ethereal glow. The Adriatic sea was rushing up from below and an impeccably self contained fountain gave free flow to waters that ascended ever on upwards into the obscurity of those in transient airs. He listened to the joyous song of Hades' children who being caught there in the fountain's tides passed by many an hour in self reflexive harmony. They captured his attention in its totality, so rapturously was he bound unto their thrall. Yet he could not bear to penetrate into those crystalline waters nor let a single drop of that hell spawned water be misdirected from its relentless upward surge. He had none but the faintest inkling as to how many an hour he had been shuddering by that torrential fountain which remained overwhelming in its desire to bequeath him of its deep blissful secrets.

So in finding no respite thereabouts, onward he stumbled, now to find a way out of that unsightly subterranean wilderness. He glimpsed a far away ray of light through the dim recesses of that blackest flameless inferno. The light grew as he followed his fancy towards its all too mesmerizing clarity. It seemed to be coming from beyond an arched tunnel through which he then intended to make his way. Yet even in death Venice's paved ways continued to follow a habit of letting seep through to her surface all manner of hideous bile from her nether regions. These Styx like canals flooded over all traversable routes, yet he proceeded onwards towards the brightness incessantly. Though try as he might that viscose material made passage far beyond a slippery ordeal and to hold ones footing under such conditions became an effort far above the station of a mere accident prone individual such as himself. Sooner or later one foot or the other must give way and into that fermenting froth he would have had to have sunk.

In reluctant angst he retraced his steps backwards in pursuit of he knew not what. Then thereabouts he came across a winding stairway leading back into the heights. It did but resemble that famous spiral staircase which in Venice is well renowned, but even if it had ever been such a grand rear entranceway in its lifetime, death had done aught but respect its self sustaining grandure. In like said fashion the stairway wound its way above him and seemed to offer safe release from the burdens that were assailing him in those infested chasms. Yet to the contrary there always seems a blight to render an ill-timed blow to one's will, keeping one in suspense, frustrating any notions of making good one's escape. The stairway need it be said, was far too narrow for anyone even of his own thinly built disposition to attempt ascent and he then began to give in to lassitude, muttering vengeful laments, towards he knew not who, as to his present misfortunes. After but a brief moment of indulgent resignation, he gathered his faltering spirits and came to see that he would perhaps be able to sliver his way up, albeit like a snake twisting its body to fit the curvature of what was more of a tube than a staircase. In like manner, he weaved his way up, delicately tiptoeing the tiny steps as he managed to force his way slowly but reassuringly upwards. His backpack he held aloft above his abyss wary head as there was little room for it elsewhere nor any arm space along by his sides. From above he suddenly felt a tugging motion forcibly attempting to deprive him of his belongings. It quickly came to his stark attention the realization that herein did still reside many an inhabitant of what had once been the cosmopolitan pearl of human ideality. These retched denizens of an already decayed homeland would prey upon any other who tried to raise themselves from the uncanny depths. Any such unfortunates, being forced to resort to such futile measures to flee those realms, would then find themselves at the mercy of these deviously ambitious fellows. Having little recourse but to take his possessions for granted as lost, he eventually found his way out of that deep wasteland and back up into the remnants of Venice's past glory. He wandered about her streets aimlessly without sense nor direction, not knowing where these crooked back alleys would take him, neither taking into consideration any care nor guarding any interest for his further well being.

He eventually came across a group of welcoming Venetians huddled up cozily by a blazing fire, who offered him solace in the hope that he would be able to rest his tortured bones within their humble abode for the forthcoming night. He thanked them full heartedly for their altruistic offer of kindness and took them up on it. There upon he was presented with a large rusty key, which seemed to signify the type of thing which keys usually do in dreams of this sort. 

There were no more grand palaces left in Venice, nor houses of ancestral majesty. All that remained were ramshackle dens of vice and pitifully dark corners, which however even in their sadly decayed state, it must be admitted, gave off a fragrance so sweet that they would still have put the spring time blossoming of any other earthly place to shame. Nature had finally reclaimed Venice and never more would the hand of man intrude or disturb the fragile balance of her full bodied serenity. As the song of Hades' children, from that watery cavern, came back to him all of a sudden, at last he was able to find the inner peace for which he had longingly been in desperate search of. However that sense of desperation was now over as he found himself able to lie down amidst the ruins of a place that had formerly boasted such pomp and ostentation. Never again would Venice catch the world's eye and cause it to sigh with regret at its own ineptitude. For the last time had Venice shocked the globe through her extravagant means of enthralling the great and reducing egoism to naught but bemoaning its newly perceived sense of impotence. She who made all else seem but an ugly blemish had finally met her demise as the poets had always said she would. It had been a sublime death befitting such a beauty as she (would that he had arrived there in time to have witnessed it!) Yet is it not perhaps better to move on to lesser things, rather than lingering too long over precious though chard remains?

miércoles, 16 de marzo de 2011


Oh Venezia! Venezia!
Ti amo di più nella tua decadenza!
Oh my Adriatic Ariadne,
I leave your shores far too sadly!
Un respiro che non porta aria,
Mai più nemmeno la belleza lo sembrerà,
I sogni non bastano nemmeno a mostrare,
Che cosa ha veduto in mezzo al mare!
However life does fix cruel heartache,
And by a Gondola's soft passage take,
Away the breath of anyone,
Who thought feelings but dead and gone!
Qui continuano a aumentare le acque amare,
Eppure scende la terra per niente sazia,
Ma mentre vive la Serenissima,
Le anime trascineranno i corpi fino all'infinita!
Yet life does go on wherever it belongs,
And finds no time to sing such songs!
If in Venice's waters he could now drown,
A perfect end! Not buried below ground!
Feels he similar to poor Saint Mark's lion,
Who's free to fly where his wings would take him,
Yet wings can't carry a head so heavy,
A lion's strength lost to times too merry!

martes, 8 de marzo de 2011


A didactic poem written in the stanza of Spencer.
Osiris Ani, triumphant, saith:
“My place of hiding is opened, my place of hiding is revealed. The Khus have fallen into the darkness, but the Eye of Horus hath made me mighty and the god Ap-uat hath nursed me like a babe. I have hidden myself with you, O ye stars that never diminish! My brow is like unto that of Ra; my face is open; my heart is upon its throne; I have power over the speech of my mouth; I have knowledge; in very truth I am Ra himself. I am not held to be a person of no account; and violence shall not be done unto me. Thy father liveth for thee, O son of Nut; I am thy son, O Great One, and I have seen the hidden things which belong unto thee. I am crowned king of the gods, I shall not die a second time in the underworld.”
-The Book of the Dead, Chapter XLIV: Of Not Dying a Second Time in the Underworld.
From the Papyrus of Ani (British Museum No.10,470, sheet 16).

   A people cannot be liberated, 
When still deep down inside the mind’s eye
Are seen vast visions of Pharaoh’s hatred
Against whom rebellion we aught but try,
Let long simmering animosity fly, 
Sparks of resent built up over the years,
Leaders never leave when foreign powers pry
Upon what’s not their business, augmenting fears, 
   Tyranny quashes those who wonder, hopes turned to tears.
   Ozymandias ruled out a lifespan, 
Never questioned despite a shaky start,
Amateur interventions oft’ but can
Lead onto lucky escapes as the smart
Knowing defenders brace themselves at heart
To resist futile pursuits of glory,
O king you grew old, remembered thou art,
As thy hard granite tells a tall story,
   Yet of subjection? All is erased, forgotten surely!
   High Ozymandias finally fell,
To aught typical of mortals -Disease,
On his death bed pangs of an aching yell,
Deeply anxious tension, nobody sees
A path further forward used to the ease
Of following another’s whim today,
Deciding all, the populace agrees,
Finding here the courage to stand and say
   That no longer shalt they kneel to cruelty nor obey.
   The Book of the Dead, an item once sold
To those few wealthy enough to afford
The purchase of salvation in days of old, 
On to Elysian fields like our Lord,
Or an idealic Nile delta secured
By priests and gods who all recline therein,
Escaping the dark Underworld abroad,
As capricious a life as any sin,
   Coinage pays off the rich who always win.
   Far out in those desolate, heat-soaked sands, 
Where nights pilgrim rarely does choose to roam,
The silent yearning to flee such harsh lands, 
Finds solace in naught closer by to home, 
Searching through wastelands for a ransacked tomb,
Mistakenly thought to hold the secret
Of all held dear, now desperately alone, 
Looking for the same answers without regret,
   Yet new questions are found, thereabouts met.
   In distant valleys of sweltering climes,
Otherwise found in one’s very own mind,
The inner sanctuary of forgotten times,
Rekindles a flame that centuries did blind,
Revealed a symbol once left behind, 
Whose meaning was yet left to us to choose,
The desert’s grainy abyss is lined
With statues which hardly ever could lose,
   Their constant presence towering high above stark dunes.
   A life filled with crimes of every sort, 
Never goes punished for the proper reason, 
Scribes, lawyers, bankers are easily bought, 
The only ones ever accused of treason,
Who counter these motions in due season, 
Those principled outsiders have no place
In a city state other than prison,
Easily corrupted! Our entire race
   Of men are still learning to stand with a sense of grace!

    Any man can lord it over his fellows,
If he is willing to go all the way,
Avoiding no depravity, wind blows
Wherever he demands or bankrollers say,
Despite the general will, kept at bay
The needs of the many, their ignored pleas, 
History’s onward march to a better day
Hijacked by greed’s jealousy and foul hate,
   While keeping closely guarded fortune’s iron clad gate.
   The most perilous time for a revolt
Is not that before its tough attainment,
Yet that which follows, calls it to a halt,
Furthering no more its vast achievement,
Misdirecting opinion, overseas sent,
Twisted deceptive words sowing confusion,
Giving a chance to those always hell bent
On usurping a cause in seclusion,
   For its own agenda through media delusion.
    The Ptolemies once took such advantage
Of civil strife in the lands of the Pharaohs, 
Petty rulers too short-sighted to gage
The impact of foreign rule, everyone knows
Ruin is brought to a people when wealth goes
Abroad to satisfy decadent cravings, 
On lavish banquets a king oft’ blows
The multitude’s fortunes, belittled savings,
   A lifetime’s labour lost to greed and such fickle things!
   Ptolemy that most subtle general
Of Alexander’s army had the foresight
To hide behind a visage bilateral,
Partly as Pharaoh with divine right,
Otherwise a Greek king, ruling by might,
A plain trick to legitimize his hold
On an eastern land, provoking to flight
All opposition, a new dynasty bold,
   Which despised native peoples, into slavery sold.

   Who now rules over the land of the ancients?
Pyramids hold mysteries no less guarded,
Ruling by proxy with best kept secrets,
Local insurrection little rewarded
Humble basic needs casually discarded
By foreign interests’ misuse and distortion,
Their own agenda being extended,
The one way to derail revolution,
   Further military rule the compromised solution.
   Sons of Egypt! Now this is your moment! 
To set history flowing, gushing forth,
Your lifelong hated, vanquished opponent
Now lies fallen, his support from the north
Broken, withdrawn, no place here on our Earth
Will longer put up with such villainy,
What fine example exposing selfish dearth,
Osiris! your sons’ awoken destiny!
   Isis! Your daughters driven to such noble mutiny!

sábado, 5 de marzo de 2011

Hispania Citerior Canto XI: Epilogue.

Perhaps 'twould’ve been better kept to a dialogue smooth,
'Lest my public flee all terribly confus'd!
Yet first attempts be but trial, ye soon I'll amuse,
Of other countries too, whose comforts I abus'd!

Onward I go with my modest Canción,
Yet it seemeth to me rather a bit too long!
Fret thee not for 'tis fast approaching its end,
Of Hispania I'll tell no more, for words twist and bend!

Worry ye not these words of mine,
But look elsewhere onto aught more sublime,
And if it caus'd thee naught but pain,
'Twas but in earnest we jok’d of gain!

Here hope I 'twas an interesting yawn,
That tested not thy patience -thinly drawn!
And if the subject herein tackl'd,
Picketh thy taste or loosen aught shackl’d...

Then seek me out in these distant climes,
Be they not that far 'cept in metaphors mine,
And hold me not too harshly to account,
For odd irregularities which herein dost flout!

¡Dioses mios! Seemeth here written a ton!
A long epic didst I not intend to hath spun!
Canst thou not end what 'twas once begun?
Or leave it unfinish'd! Horribly shunn'd!

viernes, 4 de marzo de 2011

Hispania Citerior Canto X: Collserola.

Although a little conceited, 'tis a funny fine thing,
To understand a language without the sting,
Of having studied and learnt in parts,
Following the grammar from end to start.

Yet the latin spreadeth tongues distinct,
So similar words they may still be link'd,
And if ye knoweth enough of the Italian,
The Spanish comes easily, as doth the Catalan.

Knowing a language be but fine,
Yet how to use it? Without crossing the line!
Social norms be whate'er they may,
Don't translate! Word for word does aught but say!

To use a language fluently,
Forget thy norms else shoddily,
Understood perhaps thou shalt be,
Albeit unto a simpleton seemest thee!

Here amongst these Mediterranean realms,
'Tis easy to find plenty of pearls,
From around The Middle Sea doth they roam,
In search of diversion far from home.

Of Castilian ladies I know but little,
Loud in speech and rather fickle,
By anyone's terms be they fun to play with,
Games be fine for a while, take or give!

Of Greeks plenty have I already said,
An amiable people not easily lead,
Astray as others, as seen much hath they,
Of life still invoking Venus to play.

When I sayeth Venus rather Aphrodite I meant,
'Tis a habit to Romanize here and there instead,
Of using the fully embodied forms,
Those voluptuous Greek Goddesses! Far from the norm!

Howe'er we consider the Greek past her prime,
The Roman Gods be naught but pale copies or rhymes,
With feelings of Pagan rites old in glory,
Parnassus, unlike Vesuvius, ne'er vented her fury!

Yet far from the woes of her native land,
A Barcelonese lass found aught more grand,
And out of wedlock gave o'er to he,
A heart and soul bleeding that none other couldst see.

The Catalan tongue doth sing unto ye songs,
Alike to Castilian rights and wrongs,
They be fellow lovers of the Middle seas,
Where Olde English passions hardly couldst appease!

Grasp'd in an embrace, oh so tight!
Maintain thy freedom! Falling far from sight!
A Sunday afternoon following the harmony of night,
Rest thee well in amorous laze, a predictable plight!

¡Extranjeros! Better the two!
Foreigners find one another far from blue!
Southern passions doth barely contain,
Exhaust thy inner feelings 'till naught remains!

Romance be a thing pointless to speak of,
Knoweth we all of obsessions below and above,
In poetry 'tis common I grant thee that,
Yet to other devices, oft' crude words be spat!

To this I shalt not herein resort,
Don't be modest now! I hear ye retort!
But deny the tragedy its poignant end,
And from inner suffering life doth mend!