The Trek

Elena made that trek from Vegas to New York City

An enterprise running from Wisdom to Comfort

A hieroglyph running & hidden

Just like water treasured within arid geography
Oh that journey of hers, I consider,

Looking out from the grey and green gardens of the Palace,

Surveying the turquoise Agean,

Those serene, wild, mad and connective supremums of waves’ form …

Where story and metaphor permit something real Real, like her soul’s arrival
Becoming beyond: all of ecstacy’s experience, all of life’s wicked enterprise.

Thus her sign breaks the circuit, from the Father of human Code, to the Daughter of divine arrival,

Unbinding and so names it a sea, so names it a stellar assembly.

Elena, you’re this sea, you’re this constellation, and man is an island, and man is the darkness between your stellar assembly.
Positioned here, recalling the waves of your body: which is kind of a tango, not to play upon your lineage

But okay, I’m going to play with your lineage a little: a tango Abrahamic, from here to here, running like water treasured within our arid geography.

Sonnet 5

The star of prophecy, how severe your Winter crystalline chord, how temperate the summer of your stasis,
Before the beginning, beloved, there was nothing but you, your smile, and so lips, and so kiss, and so male and female,
And so stars, and so earths, and so oceans, and skies, and days.
And so parallel narratives of love, twinned sometimes, fused sometimes, and so secret and sacred spaces,
Spaces we cannot read, we cannot see, whereof we cannot utter, but only sense, and vaguely recollect,
Like earliest memories of our lives, like a mother’s lullaby which comes back to us in the seance of dream.
Then lands of milk, and honey and water, and wine: your radiance shines upon all these places, one star across the infinity of lives we have led and will lead.
From light there is shadow, and the fallacy of my shadow, whose lips fail to whisper even a word, dumbstruck as it always was, not an illusion as much as action’s cessation corollary.
And so two books, one book and its shadow, but their leaves are intermingled, light and shadow, within the breast of man,
Walked with God across a garden of black roses,
Gliding like a spectre, the Goddess within the garden of gold,
And so down, and down, and down. We meet here, after this: we part here, before that.
I saw you as I see you, knew you as I know you:
Truly, completely, from above to below, yours is of a billion years, divine days, stern words, the clouds and clouds’ parting, and the first and last breath of our origin and evolution … and in these ways I rejoice in mythopoetic musing.

Sonnet 2.4

From the card of victory to that of prayer, the throne somehow, incorporeal rendered human experience
Illuminated, vanquished by love’s rising and setting,
ὁμοούσιος, forethought emanation, crosses the Caesar’s clerical cares, his Babylon bases are broken,
And how his history is a humour, his soul a shameful shadow, a tattoo terrific and terrible,
Rendered now effortlessly edified, by Your sweet silence, the Divine vacuum of truth to void such vocalized vehemence, 
And as androids, we are but actions on autopilot, departing now, taking off, soaring now into the azure aether, above clouds, above that old city,
Which veers into vagary, dreaming of thrones, and kings and queens.
And in angelic arrival of his art, yes, path of pilgrimage west to east, north to south,
ὁμοιούσιος care, the kindness kisses, the cosmos calms
This illusion of time, fading our symbols into the truth behind it all:
The supernal verses, all at once, and all is even. 
Remembrance, actions now stilled, passion refined to peace, tautology tames, and I, what’s left of me … what is left of me? God only knows.

Sonnet 2.2

I sit, close my eyes, and the chatter of the crowd slowly builds like some Debussy impression,
The babble of humanity’s brook, symphonically sweet and soothing.
Hu, I think I’m listening to you. Hearing Hu’s hushed mantra, here in Jubilee park. 
Summer wind like Divine kisses, against my cheek, against trees, against these towers of steel and glass. It’s harmony:
The father’s kiss authorises an electric ramadan cessation,
Once more, imbibe, once more that cosmic obliteration pill.
I find myself a Sumerian Enkidu in reverse, or, closer still, the debased king Nebuchadnezzar:
So many words within the Caliph’s dictionary, but monarchy’s wit is now rendered a dog,
By the radar of humanity’s ongoing conversation. The beast fades into a blonde nirvana.
Know, oh prophet, the holy spirit is alight in the children’s games, the PMs review of their half say, the directors who fret over partnership promotion, and you, oh poet, those lives behind and before you, immersed within this subtle summer sonumbulance, gentle music grace you and those you love.
The creator wills no wrong. Creation is cheer, after all,
And love, love, and love.
Love for all men and women, to proceed on, in the name of Her smile.
Her ways, I would praise, I would enumerate, but they existed prior to number, so how could I enact such a thing?
Mathematics is Her depth, processing us all, producing us all. But today, I sit on the mound beside the bank, under the sun, smiling little ego: how their babble, and His and Her kiss … will be the holy ruin of us all!

Sonnet 2.1

Now I lay my ego down, ragged and tattered and, yeah, kissed and loved,
Slowed in soul shivasana sexless and soaring, alternatively awake and stoic to time.
Chance’s ebb and flow raise me up again into faith.
There are no clouds above my home, how blue the sky is! And I am like a baby, gurgling and laughing, wide eyed at this heaven,
A containment of human happiness. It’s always azure here, and supremely serene too, an eternal and endless comfort blanket.
And Heaven is warmth, it warms the earth upon which I walked and now disappear, willingly now, I fall down and submit, once more,
This sun of the earth, this earth of the sun: they are rather presumptuous in their transcendent interface, do you not agree?
Reflecting that, travelling generations, moving from house to house, we abide within light’s passage and the earth’s cycles,
And the still summer evening air echos the laughter of the commuters before and behind me.
Within these rays of light, humanity.
Across the crimes of clay, light, the voice aberration.
I’m going to abandon my suit and tie, sartorially challenged as I am
And run that old Zen routine, to effect mad ambitions’ departure
Emptying my heart of both despair and joy, then revived once more with the Presence of Love it so gnostically attempted to mirror those times.

Sonnet 45 (a tafsir of Fabian Derange)

The body engages in gameplay, ranging across the spectrum of virtual heroics
It feels intermittently desirous and numb, and hurt and numb, to the lady who resides inside his lost psyche
The body is found here, friendless, foiled and forlorn
It’s not as if the body has a mind, intellect, or soul: the body was created as a clay vessel, perhaps to contain wine, but it contains no wine.
I dreampt I was the body, last night, along with some other figure who always somehow evaded my field of vision,
I wondered if it were better to be shattered, that at least then it wouldn’t be so ironic in form’s implied function:
A vessel fashioned to contain, to hold, to possess wine, or honey perhaps.
A fear of my irony. Finally I’ve travelled far enough, to this land, created by myself and out of myself, this irony, and this fear. 
Asking myself again in the midst of this see-saw of selfish stupidity
Asking myself again, while passing time once again in the cell of my Satanic show:
Why do I render ugly that which is beautiful
With such a force of intent, convincing myself that I have honourable conviction to the axioms I penned ages ago … when now … now, in truth, I have emptied myself of truth.
Oh darkness, my fractures, my fissures, my sad archeology, they belong in the British Museum, an antique vessel’s vagary, vain and vague,
Let these exhausted projects become figments of my cruelty’s curation. And in their place, fresh clay to hold next season’s pressing. A form no longer ironic in its confident utility.


A tafsir of the following.
Fabien Derange watches Xbox walkthroughs on youtube and subscribes to Dr Who monthly.
He jerks off to asian anal sluts and milfhunter in between calls when he’s WFH
And loves to hang at Forbidden Planet during his weekends, and plans cautious \& friendless expeditions to Comicon to perv on the anime cosplay.
Fabien Derange is an utter jerk who the world doesn’t need but somehow vomited up after a particularly rough bender.
I dreampt he died the other day, along with some other figure who was always somehow out of sight,
I wondered if he represents an aspect of myself, within the theatre of my unconscious.
I wondered, if that is true, then what might he represent?
A fear of what middle age looks like? A fear of failure? He’s certainly a loser at work, though appears content with his pathetically impotent private life.
Asking myself again in the midst of this see-saw of stupidity I create for myself here,
Asking myself again, while passing time once again in the cell of my Satanic show:
Why do I render ugly that which is beautiful
With such a force of intent, convincing myself that I have honourable conviction to the axioms I penned ages ago … when now … now, in truth, I’m becoming more and more like Fabien, I fear.
Becoming more like Fabien Derange? Becoming more. More? Or less. Shame upon me. And guilt too. 

And failed projects all around me: aborted poetry, aborted software projects, circular attempts, cycles of failure. Failures I’m not going to blame myself for: I think I’ll blame Derange, as he’s weaker than me and a fucking arsehole.