A blaze of fire rimmed rain
falls gently to the ground

Small stalks of grass catch light
one beside the next
till a ring of little fire is created.


Wavering rainbow surge
the wind picks up particles
of person and places them
carefully one atop the next
till I am here
ringed in light
in plain sight


To all
For all

From me

Merry Christmas

Take very good care of you and yours

from me and mine

I will be back in the New Year

Untitled

She blends
with polished boards
runs with the grain
weaves in and out
of color
a hardwood
sanded smooth
softened by lacquer

I'm superimposed
on the weeping vine

Shirtless
definition
of bone
muscle
winds within the green shadows

Dappled
by her laced fingers

as they track
along branch
and leaf

Untitled

Claw fingers
into angel wings

fly away
seeking

My belly aches
writhes
coiled demon agitation

Grim tidings
write themselves
across flesh
runic script
scrawled omens.


The story unfolds
in torn days
to healing night

My light is strong
as it dies

Still Dying

A flock of consternation

we descend upon Shell
all flying feathers
and white splotches of guano

Turn the house upside down
spin it around
rearranged
and deranged.

Rick waves a paint brush
a maestro directing us
with extravagant swirls

The color changes
over the course of the day
from soft pinks Shell
selected years ago
to white upon white

She sits outside
the walking frame
parked neatly next to her

reading calmly.

In between taping up
and cutting in
I dodge outside for a moment

smile tentatively

Its coming along well
I offer
scraping paint spots
off my knuckles


Shell's eyes are vast echoing
auditoriums of empty
the sound of my voice
bouncing around and refusing to fade
no soft surfaces to deaden the echo's

Colors are changing
but
I'm still dying

For 6 year old Cizanye of Burundi

What is death?

It is the endless waters

the great lakes
sweeping in all directions

The long grass
warm against my legs

The red dust beneath
my feet

The hushed clatter
of a knife
bumping against a rifle butt

The sound of men


What color is death?


White

As the bone
of a cow rib
poking from the ground

As the luminous glow

of my mothers pagnes

As the bed of rice
beneath the kidney beans


As my skin
which brings

men in the night

Snippets

Selected snippets of poems
that never became
for one reason
or another

1.

This is not a poem,

for there is no poetry

in burgeoning absentia

2.

We descended, through strata,

layers of earth,
each step
taking us closer
and farther away
than ever we had dreamed.

3.

I don't know what I preferred

the days when you
could see the sun
right through me

or the way
your eyes
slide off my skin
unable to find purchase
on the surface.

4.

There is a child crying outside
the wail
rises
knocking finches
from the dying branches of the
old elm in our yard.

5.

Confrontation
makes us feel
makes our blood move

6.

Fill my eyes
with razors
how vision
clears
through a haze
of blood

7.

Expectation sweat

smells sweet

8.

There was no flourish
when you went

just the change
from presence to absence

a shift in the air

a removal of near

And when you came
there was jasmine
and spices
there was exotic music

hovering

9.

You always said

there was something pure about hate

The way it would arc

and spark between us

a tesla coil writhing

in blue witch-fire agitations

10.

You have wound
a reminder of loss
around my finger

Input

An old friend on a bad line from Wodonga
is asking me if the Recession
is hurting yet
but I cannot answer
because news.com
has a photo of a pool of blood
where a suicide bomber had
been standing
when she went seeking Allah.


We will be ok
I offer down the crackling thread between us
although I don't actually know that for sure
but I figure
no one wants to hear your heading for trouble
wolves baring teeth
and scratching at the door


I'm comparing economic down-turns with
13 year old girls
strapping C4
to their thin bellies


All the peeps are complaining
about how graphic the photo is
typing their righteous indignation
to news.com in vocal print

But it is just blood

no flesh
no bone
or bits of black habit
or whatever the fuck it is
Muslim girls wear from head to toe

A splash of crimson

you could be mistaken
for thinking someone dropped a can
of red paint on the concrete
and it burst apart
spraying out in all directions

Do you find God
do you think?

when you disassemble so completely

when your body is given to the air and the earth

solidity

exchanged for fluidity

She became elemental
I would imagine
for just a moment
submitting to belief and physics
with equal grace

her wholeness
replaced with altered existence

I wonder
if I would become air and water
and find God waiting to wrap
his arms around me
if I killed as many innocents
as I could mingle with
in a market square
shouldering myself into the thickest crowd

showering them in death
and metamorphoses


Who sends 13 year old girls
into battle armed only with
faith and flesh?

The phone dies out
my old friend
lost somewhere on
the highway


leaving me with
a splash of red
and dead air.

Not Idle

There is a fable
caught in the web between my fingers
the story
unfolding
one digit at a time.

The traffic on Main
wends in serpent coils
undulating with sinuous motion
the sun
warm on its back
filling the scales
with heat
blood moving faster
as the lights change

I am in front
the fang poised

My foot
judders against the accelerator
tapping in time to a song
who's title I do not know
by an artist I never knew.

Music
my drug of choice

The green light sprays
blazing out
deep emerald rays
striking each of us in turn

The rush forward
curved sharp

striking
with gleeful hunger

in unison
we lunge

Lets mix CSI and inferred Sex

It wasn't only the thirst

Rasp
parched arid tongues
lick a sweeping vista
to taste
baked clay


Walk for miles
a crooked branch clutched
in sweating palm

The sun boiling softly
supine on the horizon
a spinning blaze
of accusation

You brought Evian
in plastic

and latent prints
for Grissom to find

when our bones had bleached to
Autumn

No breath
to release rage
we argue
in heated whispers

Ungentle kisses
of torn aspect
leave impressions on the clay

Faces
embossed for eternity
to be found
a thousand centuries hence

Offering the serenity
of cautious demise

to be discussed
dissected
our bones
mingled and mixed

coupling finally
completely

for it wasn't only

the thirst.

Yes but then in the end, no.

On these days
of Grey insolence

I taste
the pailing
of humanity

We bleach into white washed walls
a sirens wail
strident against
the duff duff throb
of rap as it splatters against
the weave of your skirt

A pulse of sound
rippling with the breeze
to ruffle your hair

I dream of resurrection
as you buy the coffee

My sleek form
buried beneath worn
jeans and T shirt
you bought for me in Paris
from a man the color of coffee beans
his shining skin
like polished obsidian
cast upon the earth
a billion years ago.


The polystyrene cups
are too big for your hands
as you struggle to hold onto us


I am flying
shedding today
a serpents scaled skin
falling in tangles behind me

I know the secrets
how
Release is
when God comes
white clouds surging
as he fucks the sky
how
Agony
is love without surcease
a self perpetuation
scribing itself
on every thing we do

I utter farewell
in the language of birds
and you catch each sound
as it falls
my vessel
that never fills.

Press warmth into my hand
and I will
still accept

Play me

I was
carried to you
on the wavering discord of a guitar string

thrumming distorted harmonies
settle in the blood
and pulse with a heated beat
as it thrusts life
through limbs
urging us to move

together



Our bones have wept
wailed
the sound
gathering
to collide
implode
drawing you to me
in the throbbing
collection of discarded notes
as they fall from the song


A bass beat
the fuck
we finally found
waiting at the end of
the dance

Move into
and through me

your fingers strum
veins
and sinew
drawing harmony
from urgent flesh

The chorus
a counterpoint of
submission
licking resistance

into want

Untitled

Its 2.00am
my teenage daughter
is eating ice cream in the lounge
eyes glued to America's next top dancing modeling singing
weight losing freak show zombies

Its 2.15am
and you toss turn
mumbling consternation
into the warmth of the blankets

The vague curve of your spine
a masters carefully sketched
precursor to the painting
you are.

I would touch you
but you are beyond
me

I am
the furrow in your brow
tension in your neck
knotted muscles of your shoulder blades

I am never quite the answer
often the question
an unknown element in any situation

the random factor that cannot be relied upon
to play my part.


But if you ask us over a glass of wine
we will chime in time
a harmony of affirmation
that ours is the perfect union

The one poets write of
the one dreamers strive for

Its 2.20am
and I am wondering if I can
ever really resolve all the
sharp edged failings I have
accrued like interest on a loan

I examine shame
disillusion
and their clammering minions
from all sides

flipping my Rubik's cube of self
till the colors align

Here
the vertical red of rage

there
the shaded contemplation of blue


Its 3.00am
and the dog eats itself
in ravenous grunted self destruction

You have calmed
the nights
rapid eye dance
over

I listen as America releases
my child from its media thrall
and she trundles off to bed
a shadow

a Grey wraith

another color
on my cube.

Past and Present

She came to him

bare feet gliding over
her own reflection

as he flowed around her

a gentle constancy.


Soft silver
caressing her
from before and after

he glided past.

She would kneel within
his
cool embrace

dip her hand
to
caress the vibrancy

as he splayed her fingers apart.


He
became the rush

and she
forgot herself


Summer brought her to
shadowed bends
where long willow fronds
hung low over long grass banks
edged in morning glory and mist flower.


She would curl her legs beneath her
and listen
as he spoke

the shame of moss

how it never grew
where the sun would
find it

how it hugged the shadows
seeking only to cling
and
never stand alone.


He told her
how pebbles
loved to laugh
and beckoned her closer
till she could hear
the chuckling

as he moved amongst them.

Sometimes
he allowed her
to dive into him


when the morning air
clung
to her

and sweat molded her
white blouse
to the curve of breast
the arch of back
the small round of belly.

He embraced her naked
chilling skin
till she was covered in goose flesh
shivering in the early days heat.


She would submerge
sinking ever deeper
to seek him

but always
come up gasping
her grasping fingers

never quite reaching.


When she asked him
if she would ever stand within him

he turned colder

rushed past her
his surface
flecked and swirled
in foaming Grey disarray

He rose then
higher
and higher
till she was forced to cling to the shore
holding her head above him
imploring.

He relented
and fell away
a flash flood come and gone
scattered debris
his only comment


She ran
droplets spraying from her
to fall and nurture parched earth.


Later
days to
weeks to years

she returned
found him

frozen over
a hard shell
keeping secrets
beneath.

Tentative
she stepped
onto him
knelt
and tried to see his face

Ice
reflected her wavering image

and nothing else


Authors Note. I have tried to combine elements of my writing from years ago with the
skill set I have now as a poet. Initially, I feel it went quite well, this combination, but in the end, I was left dissatisfied with the result, please feel free to give me your opinion on it as I am keen to resolve what went wrong.



Either that or I suck and therefore, should immediately explode and allow the small rodents of this world to pick over my bones, perhaps they will figure it out

Spring

In spite of me
or perhaps
because of
I am mindlessly enthused by
tomorrow
and how the shape of it can bend into
unusual design

I once saw a day
break away from the pack
and sprint towards the future
the rest
howling fowl
and waving their fists
do days have fists?
I know they have legs
because some of them can run forever

Tomorrow is a careful plan
thrown out the window
caught on a gust of wind
and spun around
till it loses perspective
becoming more receptive
to the thought
that all things are random
including you and I.

There is a gleam in my eye
but if you point it out
I will lie about it
avert and convert the idea
into a discussion about
your skin and how it brings
songs to the lips of children
a sub sound
felt rather than heard
you cannot pick out any particular word
more a sensation
than an explanation.


And here comes tomorrow
as promised
as foretold in the bottom of
a cup of tea
the leaves curling into a rune
with no interest in style or considerations

Your call

we can wait here for it

or hold hands and move into
its
embrace

Your fingers
so cool
against my palm.

Decay

Sky and I arrive early at the cafe
sit with our backs to the
panorama windows
so we don't see them walking in.

Rick is holding Shell's hand
his fingers
clouds
upon which she floats gently
above the morning drizzle
catching the soft glow of sunrise
in her teeth
and swallowing deeply.

Michelle kisses my cheek
her hand
grasps mine
the cold
so pervasive
I see the faint blue veins
in my wrist freeze
and solidify
the surge of warmth
merely memory
for my skin
to long for.

When she speaks,
the muscles in her throat
stretch taut
and the battle to articulate begins.

The fibers are failing,
pathways become overgrown
and dotted with weeds,
the roads, unclear beneath
a tangled maze of decay.

Words are formed
forced past rusted gates
pushed forth till they break through
a wall of thorns
the empty castle's silent halls
the still figures of frozen denizens
beyond the clutch
of
Sleeping Beauty's nightmares.

Rick says he hasn't gotten past
denial yet
and laughs
but the glow of humor
never reaches his eyes.

We talk of kids pageants
and parties
of late night pickups

I lean back against the elephant
just momentarily
and spy a wheel chair
lurking outside
all shining chrome wheels
and heavy leather arm rests
Michelle's name
etched in runes on the soft seat
glowing in the mornings feeble light.

Time requires no Cronus for her

She measures days
in the progression of decay
the girl/woman/child
peels away slowly
layers falling in dead drifts
at her feet

She recalls vibrancy

the joy of fluid motion
shifting in the sinuous
dance of life

a light faintly
flickering as it disappears
down deep recesses
caverns of grim aspect
swallowing her whole.

We leave first
so we don't watch her
struggle to stand

following closely

the etiquette of dying

My life as a train

Of course I'm late

running behind
chasing down the required
and desired with equal amounts of futility.


I am at the control
I can admit to that much
although it is slick in my hands
and has a tendency to spin free

like the helm of a clipper ship
as it plows onto rocks
the huge spoked circle
comes alive
and throws me hence
in its final death throws

I'm watching the track
feed beneath
the steel struts
devoured by my
ceaseless life's insatiable
need to continue forward

The curve
comes as no surprise
a slight tilting to one side
leaning into me
a rocking of no comfort
just a disquieting jarred
passage
till I straighten out again.


And the stops along the way
I never notice
just blurred faces
indistinct places
rushing by
as I eat track
and rush to the end of the line.

Advice

What should I tell you my boy

my sun chosen one

my dream still to come?


I will tell you this

as a people
we fear everything

As a man

fear no one.

Thought for the day

The day I am too afraid

to face my enemies

they have
already

defeated me.

Was has been or might have been.

Ancient Indian Aircraft Technology

Source: The Anti-Gravity Handbook (Lost Science)
by D. Hatcher Childress

Many researchers into the UFO enigma tend to overlook a very important fact. While it assumed that most flying saucers are of alien, or perhaps Governmental Military origin, another possible origin of UFOs is ancient India and Atlantis.

What we know about ancient Indian flying vehicles comes from ancient Indian sources; written texts that have come down to us through the centuries. There is no doubt that most of these texts are authentic; many are the well known ancient Indian Epics themselves, and there are literally hundreds of them. Most of them have not even been translated into English yet from the old Sanskrit.

The Indian Emperor Ashoka started a "Secret Society of the Nine Unknown Men": great Indian scientists who were supposed to catalogue the many sciences. Ashoka kept their work secret because he was afraid that the advanced science catalogued by these men, culled from ancient Indian sources, would be used for the evil purpose of war, which Ashoka was strongly against, having been converted to Buddhism after defeating a rival army in a bloody battle.

The "Nine Unknown Men" wrote a total of nine books, presumably one each. Book number was "The Secrets of Gravitation!" This book, known to historians, but not actually seen by them dealt chiefly with "gravity control." It is presumably still around somewhere, kept in a secret library in India, Tibet or elsewhere (perhaps even in North America somewhere). One can certainly understand Ashoka's reasoning for wanting to keep such knowledge a secret, assuming it exists. if the Nazis had such weapons at their disposal during World War Ii. Ashoka was also aware devastating wars using such advanced vehicles and other "futuristic weapons" that had destroyed the ancient Indian "Rama Empire" several thousand years before.

Only a few years ago, the Chinese discovered some Sanskrit documents in Lhasa, Tibet and sent them to the University of Chandrigarh to be translated. Dr. Ruth Reyna of the University said recently that the documents contain directions for building interstellar spaceships!

Their method of propulsion, she said, was "anti-gravitational" and was based upon a system analogous to that of "laghima," the unknown power of the ego existing in man's physiological makeup, "a centrifugal force strong enough to counteract all gravitational pull." According to Hindu Yogis, it is this "laghima" which enables a person to levitate.

Dr. Reyna said that on board these machines, which were called "Astras" by the text, the ancient Indians could have sent a detachment of men onto any planet, according to the document, which is thought to be thousands of years old. The manuscripts were also said to reveal the secret of "antima"; "the cap of invisibility" and "garima"; "how to become as heavy as a mountain of lead."

Naturally, Indian scientists did not take the texts very seriously, but then became more positive about the value of them when the Chinese announced that they were including certain parts of the data for study in their space program! This was one of the first instances of a government admitting to be researching anti-gravity.

The manuscripts did not say definitely that interplanetary travel was ever made but did mention, of all things, a planned trip to the Moon, though it is not clear whether this trip was actually carried out. However, one of the great Indian epics, the Ramayana, does have a highly detailed story in it of a trip to the moon in a Vimana (or "Astra"), and in fact details a battle on the moon with an "Asvin" (or Atlantean" airship.

This is but a small bit of recent evidence of anti-gravity and aerospace technology used by Indians. To really understand the technology, we must go much further back in time.

The so-called "Rama Empire" of Northern India and Pakistan developed at least fifteen thousand years ago on the Indian sub-continent and was a nation of many large, sophisticated cities, many of which are still to be found in the deserts of Pakistan, northern, and western India. Rama existed, apparently, parallel to the Atlantean civilization in the mid-Atlantic Ocean, and was ruled by "enlightened Priest-Kings" who governed the cities, The seven greatest capital cities of Rama were known in classical Hindu texts as "The Seven Rishi Cities."

According to ancient Indian texts, the people had flying machines which were called "Vimanas." The ancient Indian epic describes a Vimana as a double-deck, circular aircraft with portholes and a dome, much as we would imagine a flying saucer.

It flew with the "speed of the wind" and gave forth a "melodious sound." There were at least four different types of Vimanas; some saucer shaped, others like long cylinders ("cigar shaped airships"). The ancient Indian texts on Vimanas are so numerous, it would take volumes to relate what they had to say. The ancient Indians, who manufactured these ships themselves, wrote entire flight manuals on the control of the various types of Vimanas, many of which are still in existence, and some have even been translated into English.

The Samara Sutradhara is a scientific treatise dealing with every possible angle of air travel in a Vimana. There are 230 stanzas dealing with the construction, take-off, cruising for thousand of miles, normal and forced landings, and even possible collisions with birds. In 1875, the Vaimanika Sastra, a fourth century B.C. text written by Bharadvajy the Wise, using even older texts as his source, was rediscovered in a temple in India. It dealt with the operation of Vimanas and included information on the steering, precautions for long flights, protection of the airships from storms and lightening and how to switch the drive to "solar energy" from a free energy source which sounds like "anti-gravity."

The Vaimanika Sastra (or Vymaanika-Shaastra) has eight chapters with diagrams, describing three types of aircraft, including apparatuses that could neither catch on fire nor break. It also mentions 31 essential parts of these vehicles and 16 materials from which they are constructed, which absorb light and heat; for which reason they were considered suitable for the construction of Vimanas. This document has been translated into English and is available by writing the publisher: VYMAANIDASHAASTRA AERONAUTICS by Maharishi Bharadwaaja, translated into English and edited, printed and published by Mr. G. R. Josyer, Mysore, India, 1979 (sorry, no street address). Mr. Josyer is the director of the International Academy of Sanskrit Investigation located in Mysore.

Click on the picture to visit A Tribute to Hinduism - Vimanas

There seems to be no doubt that Vimanas were powered by some sort of "anti-gravity." Vimanas took off vertically, and were capable of hovering in the sky, like a modern helicopter or dirigible. Bharadvajy the Wise refers to no less than 70 authorities and 10 experts of air travel in antiquity. These sources are now lost.

Vimanas were kept in a Vimana Griha, a kind of hanger, and were sometimes said to be propelled by a yellowish-white liquid, and sometimes by some sort of mercury compound, though writers seem confused in this matter. It is most likely that the later writers on Vimanas, wrote as observers and from earlier texts, and were understandably confused on the principle of their propulsion. The "yellowish-white liquid" sounds suspiciously like gasoline, and perhaps Vimanas had a number of different propulsion sources, including combustion engines and even "pulse-jet" engines. It is interesting to note, that the Nazis developed the first practical pulse-jet engines for their V-8 rocket "buzz bombs." Hitler and the Nazi staff were exceptionally interested in ancient India and Tibet and sent expeditions to both these places yearly, starting in the 30's, in order to gather esoteric evidence that they did so, and perhaps it was from these people that the Nazis gained some of their scientific information!

According to the Dronaparva, part of the Mahabarata, and the Ramayana, one Vimana described was shaped like a sphere and born along at great speed on a mighty wind generated by mercury. It moved like a UFO, going up, down, backwards and forewards as the pilot desired. In another Indian source, the Samar, Vimanas were "iron machines, well-knit and smooth, with a charge of mercury that shot out of the back in the form of a roaring flame." Another work called the Samaranganasutradhara describes how the vehicles were constructed. It is possible that mercury did have something to do with the propulsion, or more possibly, with the guidance system. Curiously, Soviet scientists have discovered what they call "age-old instruments used in navigating cosmic vehicles" in caves in Turkestan and the Gobi Desert. The "devices" are hemispherical objects of glass or porcelain, ending in a cone with a drop of mercury inside.

It is evident that ancient Indians flew around in these vehicles, all over Asia, to Atlantis presumably; and even, apparently, to South America. Writing found at Mohenjodaro in Pakistan (presumed to be one of the "Seven Rishi Cities of the Rama Empire") and still undeciphered, has also been found in one other place in the world: Easter Island! Writing on Easter Island, called Rongo-Rongo writing, is also undeciphered, and is uncannily similar to the Mohenjodaro script. Was Easter Island an air base for the Rama Empire's Vimana route? (At the Mohenjo-Daro Vimana-drome, as the passenger walks down the concourse, he hears the sweet, melodic sound of the announcer over the loudspeaker,

"Rama Airways flight number seven for Bali, Easter Island, Nazca, and Atlantis is now ready for boarding. Passengers please proceed to gate number..") in Tibet, no small distance, and speaks of the "fiery chariot" thusly: "Bhima flew along in his car, resplendent as the sun and loud as thunder... The flying chariot shone like a flame in the night sky of summer ... it swept by like a comet... It was as if two suns were shining. Then the chariot rose up and all the heaven brightened."

In the Mahavira of Bhavabhuti, a Jain text of the eighth century culled from older texts and traditions, we read:

"An aerial chariot, the Pushpaka, conveys many people to the capital of Ayodhya. The sky is full of stupendous flying-machines, dark as night, but picked out by lights with a yellowish glare"

The Vedas, ancient Hindu poems, thought to be the oldest of all the Indian texts, describe Vimanas of various shapes and sizes: the "ahnihotra-vimana" with two engines, the "elephant-vimana" with more engines, and other types named after the kingfisher, ibis and other animals.

Unfortunately, Vimanas, like most scientific discoveries, were ultimately used for war. Atlanteans used their flying machines, "Vailixi," a similar type of aircraft, to literally try and subjugate the world, it would seem, if Indian texts are to be believed. The Atlanteans, known as "Asvins" in the Indian writings, were apparently even more advanced technologically than the Indians, and certainly of a more war-like temperment. Although no ancient texts on Atlantean Vailixi are known to exist, some information has come down through esoteric, "occult" sources which describe their flying machines. Similar, if not identical to Vimanas, Vailixi were generally "cigar shaped" and had the capability of maneuvering underwater as well as in the atmosphere or even outer space. Other vehicles, like Vimanas, were saucer shaped, and could apparently also be submerged.

According to Eklal Kueshana, author of "The Ultimate Frontier," in an article he wrote in 1966, Vailixi were first developed in Atlantis 20,000 years ago, and the most common ones are "saucer-shaped of generally trapezoidal cross-section with three hemispherical engine pods on the underside." "They use a mechanical antigravity device driven by engines developing approximately 80,000 horse power."

The Ramayana, Mahabarata and other texts speak of the hideous war that took place, some ten or twelve thousand years ago between Atlantis and Rama using weapons of destruction that could not be imagined by readers until the second half of this century.

The ancient Mahabharata, one of the sources on Vimanas, goes on to tell the awesome destructiveness of the war:

"...(the weapon was) a single projectile
charged with all the power of the Universe.
An incandescent column of smoke and flame
As bright as the thousand suns rose in all its splendor...

An iron thunderbolt,
A gigantic messenger of death,
Which reduced to ashes
The entire race of the Vrishnis
And the Andhakas.

... the corpses were so burned
As to be unrecognizable.
The hair and nails fell out;
Pottery broke without apparent cause,
And the birds turned white.

... After a few hours
All foodstuffs were infected...
... to escape from this fire
The soldiers threw themselves in streams
To wash themselves and their equipment..."

It would seem that the Mahabharata is describing an atomic war! References like this one are not isolated; but battles, using a fantastic array of weapons and aerial vehicles are common in all the epic Indian books. One even describes a Vimana-Vailix battle on the Moon! The above section very accurately describes what an atomic explosion would look like and the effects of the radioactivity on the population. Jumping into water is the only respite.

When the Rishi City of Mohenjodaro was excavated by archeologists in the last century, they found skeletons just lying in the streets, some of them holding hands, as if some great doom had suddenly overtaken them. These skeletons are among the most radioactive ever found, on a par with those found at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Ancient cities whose brick and stone walls have literally been vitrified, that is-fused together, can be found in India, Ireland, Scotland, France, Turkey and other places. There is no logical explanation for the vitrification of stone forts and cities, except from an atomic blast. Furthermore, at Mohenjo-Daro, a well planned city laid on a grid, with a plumbing system superior to those used in Pakistan and India today, the streets were littered with "black lumps of glass." These globs of glass were discovered to be clay pots that had melted under intense heat!

With the cataclysmic sinking of Atlantis and the wiping out of Rama with atomic weapons, the world collapsed into a "stone age" of sorts, and modern history picks up a few thousand years later. Yet, it would seem that not all the Vimanas and Vailixi of Rama and Atlantis were gone. Built to last for thousands of of years, many of them would still be in use, as evidenced by Ashoka's "Nine Unknown Men" and the Lhasa manuscript.

That secret societies or "Brotherhoods" of exceptional, "enlightened" human beings would have preserved these inventions and the knowledge of science, history, etc., does not seem surprising. Many well known historical personages including Jesus, Buddha, Lao Tzu, Confucius, Krishna, Zoroaster, Mahavira, Quetzalcoatl, Akhenaton, Moses, and more recent inventors and of course many other people who will probably remain anonymous, were probably members of such a secret organization.

It is interesting to note that when Alexander the Great invaded India more than two thousand years ago, his historians chronicled that at one point they were attacked by "flying, fiery shields" that dove at his army and frightened the cavalry. These "flying saucers" did not use any atomic bombs or beam weapons on Alexander's army however, perhaps out of benevolence, and Alexander went on to conquer India.

It has been suggested by many writers that these "Brotherhoods" keep some of their Vimanas and Vailixi in secret caverns in Tibet or some other place is Central Asia, and the Lop Nor Desert in western China is known to be the center of a great UFO mystery. Perhaps it is here that many of the airships are still kept, in underground bases much as the Americans, British and Soviets have built around the world in the past few decades.

Still, not all UFO activity can be accounted for by old Vimanas making trips to the Moon for some reason. Undoubtedly, some are from the Military Governments of the world, and possibly even from other planets. Of course, many UFO sightings are "swamp, gas, clouds, hoaxes, and hallucinations, while there is considerable evidence that many UFO sightings, especially "kidnappings" and the like, are the result of what is generally called "telepathic hypnosis." One common thread that often runs between "Alien kidnappings," "sex with aliens," and other "close encounters of a third kind" is a buzzing in the ears just before the encounter. According to many well informed people, this is a sure sign of telepathic hypnosis."

Untitled

On this day

Give me a sea
emeralds and agates
glimmer skim
as we skip shining semi precious moments
across the surface of the sky.

For the sake of it.

Rain
smears the day into
water-color Monet shades.

The blur of a hyacinth kiss
how your lips
leave pastel impressions
to decorate and enhance.

Hand me a wine
to fill my boisterous ravings
with a mulled sensibility

the underlying
rising to spill over

Untitled

On those bone chilling afternoons

where cloud heads nodded
in unison to the sound
of wave walls collapsing
on dark wet rock isthmuses

she would bring a steaming cup
to her lips
and sip soft silent prayers

A cat
curled in a sailors knot on her lap
the throbbing purr
sending signals to the sky
of contentment and a sense of right
in world where right and wrong
are blurred waterlogged pages
in a diary dropped accidentally
into a puddle.

The cold is a reminder
of days alone
of nights naked with herself
where the touch of death
was a lovers caress

She can see the horizon
from where she sits
the colonial window bars
breaking the edges of sky
and sea
into four corners
of separation.

And if she looks closely
the silhouette of herself
stepping into the breakers

Your eyes are a fucking hologram


I look straight in
through glass
the ice
the curve of sol
as she rises upon a stilled sea

And you are a billion miles hence

not even seeing me.

Explorations of self.

Drab
seeps into bones
a grey blood infusion
giving the street scape the illusion
of grainy black on white depth

Life becomes
a dog-eared photograph
pinched smile
and rumpled disposition
faces blurring
slurred days.

Every direction
stretches away into mumbled contrition's
a complex series of retreats
littering pathways with
slow burning wreckage of
smoldering oily black disappointment

Our mantra of self empowerment

Take hold
a grip of steely resolve
clenching tight around refusal

Submission
is staring at the roof at 3.00am
the sound of sleep
washing over you
but leaving you
cold wet and drowning.

We writhe
to the pulse of us
a spastic dance
to the strains of a single
rhythmic beat
articulating improbabilities
in teeth clenched terrors

Curl fetal
around the nut hardened kernel
of self

A stripped bare sun
cinders and ashen faced

Yin and Yang
the unity of opposites
rests uneasy within
the warmth of seeking flesh

An orb of understanding
pressed close
beyond reach

We have seen
the truth
how it hooks into flesh
and tears apart carefully
layered opalescent nacre

A shell of self
wrapped around wounds
we tried to hide.

Together

we watch the threads unravel


Long streamers of dreams
undulating in the shadow days

And when the speed of dark
is fast enough

We blur
and dissolve

a thought almost competed
then released
as too hard to find.

Thought for the Day

What is the speed of dark?

Song

You were the burgeoning song
of a sea dream
barely seen
a silk screen
firing mystery and insistence
like a laser beam

I was chance
a romance
dancing just out of reach
lost in the blurred recollection
of a backward glance


Too bad
we were undone
a matter unresolved
a story finished
before it begun
a song
clearly heard
but
not yet sung

No rain
but the fog clings like
uncomfortable memories


Vague
the shape of my life
looming from threaded white on white


You cannot see me,
I know,
disengaged
as I am
a figurine
left unattended in a wild
garden
lichen and creeper
slick upon my marbled skin


Tread lightly
when you come to plant and
weed
lest I am forgotton
beneath
renewal.

Anchored

The barbed ends
embedded into the soft
surface of your mind.


The great links
of chain
feed out beneath me
in a silent clatter

as I swim away.

A moment of perceived connection

We are all careless Maestro's

Weaving word baton's
an enchanters wand
leaving sparkle trails
in semi circle swirls
on the air.

United in deed and intent
we bend the vagaries of human endeavor
into manageable bites

small morsels of frailty

swallowed carefully
by a tentative throats contraction

We watch
as the earth is flayed
her raw wounds
seeping and exposed

and write of her demise

followed inevitably
by our own


We watch
as the city
eats another child
the crunch of bone
shudders through streets
across the paint peeling fences
deep into boxy lounge rooms
where plasma tv's
rage upon the wall
the blare
unable to drown out the sound

You have shown me the clouds
the poverty of isolation
through the clarity of resolve
and what it is to be free.


I have shown you failings and fantasy

glorious and tawdry

and how beneath the missteps

there is the light tread of song still

tapping out its untarnished shine.


And together

we watch.

Isolation

Liquid glitters
and winks
with diamond light
jock-o-lanterns
waving and urging
us on.

Black water call

deep in bones
where marrow
sucks and flows
the ache
beyond inadequate descriptives
of cold and frozen

Shed outer garments crisp
with frost
self conscious murmurs
echo from the too sharp
colour of a grassy bank.

Skin dimples
and retracts
stretching tight
on bone framed
shock

We dive
the disruption
a perfect symmetry

stroking together
alone.

Un

Reed thin the Asian chick behind the counter always offers a smile.
Not required for the price of a coffee, she gives it guilelessly
an accented "Have a nice day" flutes through my bleary eyes,
maybe bringing a hint of humanity, or maybe its the coffee.

But my blood thrums finally instead of oozing like a syrup and I
can lift my head high enough to take in surroundings.

Never look closely at the foot path, it does not fair well beneath
the constant repression of feet, blood and semen has seeped into
the cracks between pavers, mingling with discarded paper and plastic
wrappings, till my feet glide over pulped disappointments.

Its early, obviously, and the traffic is belching a miasma of mixed
petrol and gas emissions, a grey cloud unlike the fogs I once feared,
how they would not part no matter how hard I begged.

Fog is Gods assassin, all creatures within its depths have many teeth
and they always sought my flesh. The taste is metallic, alien entities
striding just out of vision, probing cattle and thousands of humans for
endless years, although what did the Simpsons episode say?, you can only learn so much
from anal probing.

Horns blare, first one , then several as merry travelers join in the song, the subtle
refrain just beneath the surface " i hate you, your making me late" echoed with
"No, I hate you more, you are blaming me for not moving quickly enough but I found out
this morning Helen miscarried again, thats three in a row, and she is weeping while she sleeps,
the bank will not give me more time to catch up on the mortgage, and fuck knows when or
if Helen will be able to work again soon, Ricky needs braces and thats five grand I don't have,
to be honest, I have never had, and it all seems to crush the sides of my skull, just that constant push against the bone"

They move along finally, horns becoming more strident, car horns bleat violence in sound.

My face is a raft, adrift on my head, becalmed by time, it does not billow or fill with wind for now,
how is it between 35 and 55 we do not change? Our bodies, our faces, our skin, all enters a time warp, fixed in one design, we can walk 20 years with no improvement, or disintegration, just stasis.

If you asked, do I like the city? I would have to say no, I was always one for trees and dreams and river and rock, but truthfully, the city wants and needs the likes of me, to track its path, to note its history, to see the beauty in all its horror, to see evil and how it balances a smile with your coffee


Morning walks slower than the rest, its feet are heavier, leaden, trying to shrug away the pall of grey light and allow brighter things to come. Morning tastes different, it is toast and juice and muesli flakes, it is wet air and freshly washed hair, it is hurried conversations, sorting details in moments, planning days in seconds.

Morning offers another chance, sometimes.

Untitled

Rich slurps as he
extols the virtues of
Neruda around
a sharp Merlot tang
breathing pavlova
and too many reds
down the plunge
of your gown


I make watching
a virtue

replacing
apparent indifference

small smile
vague nod
along a wire thin
throb of conversation

Catching your eye
placing it
on the table before me

trying to stare you down

We dance in and out
amongst
the dirty plates
and smeared glasses
a chicken bone
of contention
lies greasy
on the pristine table cloth

The music
too loud's
across us

an up swell of sound
drawing you
a charcoal impression
onto my napkin

Later
I will bring you
crinkled
out of my pocket
to
kiss your black lips

your smudged eyes.

Tears for Rain

I remember when Rain came

Imbued with clarity
Rain fell
a spatter of unexpected

to widen eyes
and
blink away yesterday.

Rain has

diluted me

leaving
a hint of color
in an otherwise
pristine pool

Rain has forsaken
me

a profusion of days
washing away
exposing obscurity
forcing me
to look hard
at who and what
I have become.

Rain offers no respite
no light at the end of the tunnel
no warmth to wrap around

Only the sound
of small feet
dancing across the roof tiles

the dripping
resonance
as a leaf is struck

the driving impetus
of sheeting water
pounding the earth
feeding the soil.

Rain caressed
the upturned faces
each in turn
and left her mark
upon us all

Within the flux
without the flow
I found her
lost her
let her go.



She brought
the shadow storms

or mornings soft refrain

and here
beneath the weeping elm

I waste no
tears for Rain.

No Title

Her hands

weighted steal
hanging
limp and pendulous.

She would swing them at
ghosts
watching the wraiths dissipate
in the passage of her arms.

Oft times
in bed
she could lay them on her breast
allowing the weight
to push her down
through the weave
of mothers
hand woven coverlet
into the cool sheets
and through to the sprung matress
beneath

The coils biting skin
hooking and holding
as she passed

Upon the worn floor boards
the ridged timber surface
scarred and creased
she would come to rest
under the bed
where ghosts
did not wander
or watch her

their pale accusations
their spectral fingers pointed
their screams of soundless blame

Her hands

butterflies
winging above her eyes
the soft rustle
a comfort
a calling


a sense of falling away

The floor boards
refused to support
any longer
and she hoped

the butterflies
could hold her.

No,

not sleeping,

dying.

A shade of blue

deeper than violent.

I don't do gasping

pallid beached fish

flopping on the carpet.

The biggest loser flickers

wobbling bulging

wanna be’s

sweating across

the big screen

above me.

My stretched O mouth

mistaken for an extended yawn

post orgasmic languid

or post porn.

My hands

splayed just so

going for a

righteous Christ

TV hand control

a rusting nail

driven through my palm.

I’ve fallen on the abcrunch

enhance-your-sex

abdominal-crushing

you know your girl

will be blushing

stomach tightening

$21.95 a month

plus postage

slick chrome and black

mechanical torture device

has pierced my side

nicely

neatly

bleeding sweetly

staining the worn weave

of our history.

And when you arise

in a russet morning

stab of light

bring

resurrection

stained into your

seamless skin

a tattooed oath

of timeless gospel

raving

salvation

while you lullaby

my sex

with deft fingers

stroking

mouth evoking life

from flesh gone cold.

No

not sleeping

dying…

Question

If I am going nowhere

why is it taking so long

to get there?

Fuck a world that continues to take a tax of humanity

Even though

or perhaps

because

all the pieces were falling into place

I still jigsawed across the table top
a scattering

of disjoint

Grey smoke vines
coil from nostrils flared
as the bite of cold coming air
takes hold
and curls the thin threads
around my skull in an aura

a miasma

a warning


Jen is dying

I
found out yesterday
somehow
the way you say it
makes it matter of fact

Like the tap is leaking

Jen is dying
kinda rolls off the tongue
and drools across the floor
to plop against my bare toes

If I step forward
her demise will be a warm wet
feeling beneath me
and I know

my feet will never dry


Fuck a world that continues to take a tax of humanity
from me
its not as if
I have hoards of people
secreted in banks
internet or otherwise
I pay and pay
and still
there is a bill there at the end of each quarter.




Jen wasn't

goddamn past tense

isn't
my favorite person
hardly the point

She is/was
however
a point of reference

if you read the road map of me
you will clearly see her
marked in red on the way
a place of interest
a rest stop
a motel with three star meals

She will pass within a limited time now
like a cream container
clearly marked with use-by indifference
and if you sniff too closely
the cloying scent of
too late
fills you

fills your eyes
tears you up
takes your breath so you hitch a little
seeking air clear
of deaths otherness


Jen was
something concrete
I stood upon
till now

without getting my feet wet.

Untitled.

Memories

Come sliding through the glass doors
at midnight

a mist of complexities
weaving wraiths and ghosts

Pale against heavy drapes
a lightless parade
figures haloed with scent
and sound.

I rise to greet an unborn child
his wild unformed fingers
reaching for an embrace
left behind on a wet August night
twelve years ago.

I hug air
whisper kiss his never brow
and tell him how I loved him

love him still

Fierce and strong my hold
on his imagined weight
the new born smell
I know so well
fills senses

He is real

as real as his sister

that never was

She waits her turn
large eyes
bright pin points of promise
blending into the glow of standby lights
on computer towers.

Together they question time
why it never allowed them to join the flow

why they are caught as a moment
come and gone

I try to explain
loss
and how it wakes their mother
brings tears
a silver glisten
in the moons pale revelations

They are mine tonight
to seek

to speak to

Their mother
rests peaceful
on the bed where they were made
her rise fall released breath
enveloping them

They leave me

as they left me so long ago

go to her

seep into her

to become tears
a silver glisten
in the moons pale revelations.

Untitled.

The piano will play us

one key at a time


Black white contrasting notes
of impossibility
drifting out across open
second story
untold stories.

I have given
very little
so many times

The distant winter song
of snow deep isolations
and how your foot prints
are erased each night beneath
the numbing blanket of tomorrow’s
fresh fall.

I'm checking the bathroom mirror
for signs of your breath

I'm checking my skin
for signs of your caress

how you mark me

indelible

but ultimately
invisible


The piano plays you

a concerto rising on the escaping
heat of today
bleeding into the welcoming embrace
of another crisp empty

Hearing you
is not the same as contact
but I will reach beyond
the length of my bare arms
past the stretch of fingertips

seeking without sight
touch without skin

Till
we become
a remembered chord
of a forgotten strain
running together
to hum and harmonise.

Untitled

There is

nowhere to run

Each direction seeks blood sacrifice
dipped in
atonement for sins
real and imagined


My sec tells me
she has never seen me staring at nothing
before
but she has just never noticed
how unfocused I have become
my eyes roam from the white painted blocks
to the grey of everything else.

The paperwork
gathers
a neatly typed storm
shot through with gloom
and rain laden portents
the pages heavy with distinct requirements

I'm writing poetry
to stave off the ghosts and ghouls
for here
within the bright womb of words
the clammering is made still
and I can just barely
hear me in the distance
calling like Heathcliffe
a voice
lost on the moors

You cannot reach me
my Catherine
frock billowing in
the buffeting wind
which swirls around us

I know you try
but the patterns are already
at a stage where
to change design
would destroy the whole
and it just cannot be undone
as we might wish

I do see you
but as an inanimate object
another beautiful item
to grace this tired world

As your imploring
sails past my becalmed
impassive resignation
I wave
because we were so glorious
carving the ocean
a blade of perfect narrow
perception
honed to gleam beneath the sun

I took heart from this

Peter Pan syndrome" is not listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, and is not recognized by the American Psychiatric Association as a mental disorder.


Alas, it then went on to say this

The Peter-Pan psychological type is one characterized by immaturity or certain sorts of psychological, social, and sexual problems. The type of personality in question, usually male, is immature and narcissistic. More completely, according to Kiley, the characteristics of a "Peter-Pan" include such attributes as irresponsibility, rebelliousness, pottering about, anger, narcissism, dependency, manipulativeness, and the belief that he is beyond society's laws and norms.

*sighs*


lol

Untitled

You burnish under a distant sun
coppering till the gleam of your skin
blazes beyond the reckoning of men.


I am lost in the sheen of
your flesh
as it creates
cool overhangs of smooth stone
to hide beneath

The way your heat emanates
pushing against denial
suffocating carefully controlled
distance till there is only
you

and waves
of us

And I quote

All matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration,

we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively,

there is no such thing as death, life is only a dream, and we are

the imagination of ourselves.

Bill Hicks circa 1993

Well, there was this one?

A series of connected moments

The hand on cheek

speaking volumes

with no sound.

A flash of recognition

my eyes

bright

against your cry.

The weave of your kiss

caught on the edge of my jacket

a thread

to follow.

Awareness only

found in continuance

if you are naked

so am I.

A Wisteria in my mouth

you

magenta

ripening

shedding seeds

on fertile ground.

Time winding down

in the curl of our spines.

Turn to sepia

Parchment skin

hides the beat within.

Your precious gifts are dying.

Remember?

If you are naked

so am I......

Holding back death

decay

with interlocked memories

winding through gnarled fingers.

A series of connected moments

breaking.

For we were naked once.