✍🏻 Seven’s heaven

Well if six is six, seven is heaven (and this monkey’s been buried by ten tonnes of his own venom).

Deepest Regret

  Janus-faced, I’d been to her
  Antithesis of what’s fair
  You, for you, I’ll endeavour.

  Journeys can be forever
  And we, we can yet get there
  You, for you, I’ll go further.

  Just let’s never say “never.”

Come, come fly with me; come, come be with me…

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
Only now do I understand that what I’d held in my hand was a flawless diamond.

✍🏻 Sun, Sand &

“Searing saudade”

Six is 6 and 6 means sex
6ting is short for “sexting”
But 6 is also for sin and the
Devil is 666, or so they do say.

He asked, “but for what purpose was the earth formed?” “To drive us mad,” she replied.

Numbers. Numerical patterns are key to all the ridged poetic forms.

e.g.,

  1. Dactylic hexameter
  2. Ghazal
  3. Ottava Rima
  4. Petrarchan sonnet
  5. Rubai
  6. Shakespearean sonnet

But forms such as “Free Verse” ain’t restrained by such straight jackets. And let’s just say poetry that’s raw emotion, that’s gone off timbre, is potentially more profound, meaningful and therapeutic than that that conforms religiously to rigid line and length conventions (ain’t the latter somehow more to do with demonstrating one’s linguistic abilities e.g., versatility with vocabulary?). But you reply (or “dear reader” as you would write it J), if you don’t conform, the ‘poem’ becomes prose. Well—mon amie—you’ve got me there; you’ve got me there.

You can rightly be impressed by a wordsmith and their rhyming and rhetorical skills &c. but what degree of meaning would one really want to sacrifice in the name of syllable count or in deference to a given meter, if a certain combination of nonconformist words far more closely expresses one’s heartfelt sentiments? Would we really wanna forsake the perfect articulation of description just to adhere to archaic convention?

But we humans are compelled it seems to seek numerical patterns and paste these onto everything around us. Numerology it’s called. We’ve created time, we’ve created numbers for every aspect within each field of the sciences, for commerce, communication and everything else too. Numbers are abstract but we ultimately are just numbers (strings of zeros and ones) we are nothing but statistics to 99.999999 per cent of all others who are alive today.

666 was a Biblical reference to the Roman ruler Emperor Nero, or possibly the Roman Empire itself. Many under Rome’s rule didn’t exactly like the way Rome ruled so, the author of the Bible’s chapter, Book of Revelations, 13:16-18, compared Nero to a beast (cryptically by way of numeric innuendo) and this beast, over the following centuries morphed into Satan (a.k.a., Lucifer the Devil 😈). We just love to demonise don’t we, we love to roast, we love to vilify, we love to scapegoat and we just love playing the ‘blame game’ do we not? And, lest we forget, Adam and Eve were created on the sixth day (Genesis 1:31).

  There’s a thing more than sex
  It’s nothing too complex
  It’s at nature’s apex
  It’s a natural reflex
  It’s nothing to perplex
  It’s love: love’s above sex


p.s.
The “4 S’s” – sun, sea, sand, and sex – is a familiar catch-phrase from the colorful world of tourism studies. See, e.g., The Economist (1997, May). “Sun, sea, sand and ?” Retrieved from, economist.com/1997/

p.p.s.
Sin
noun
An immoral act that transgresses ‘divine’ law.

Titillation
noun
The arousal of interest or excitement, (especially, but not exclusively, through sexually suggestive images or words).

✍🏻 4 Squares

i.e., ⬛️ ⬛️ ⬛️ ⬛️

Not an hour passes,

Nor even a minute,

Without thinking of you.


  I run now with my youngest son
  For fun him, for me, to get numb
  I run to escape from my brain
  God knows the futile endless strain
  Herculean I’ll be ’til slain
  There’s lung n rib pain all in vain.

  I yearn in the depths of turmoil
  For being without you is hell
  I yearn for you to want me still
  God knows I’ll strain my every will
  Herculean I’ll be until,
  The final act brings a standstill.

  I do beg you long to respond
  For you to only acknowledge
  I am begging you to react
  God knows I desire your counter
  Herculean ’til your return
  The pain is mine for your answer.

  I crave more than life a reply
  For you the stars, just to comply
  I felt guilt for what I here imply
  God knows I want this thing simply
  Herculean? Weeping deeply
  There’s ache waiting for your reply.

  For all this adversity
  Only the moon
  Relies on
  You



I am trying to find some semblance of solace from reading and this, I found interesting:

From, The Art of Caring Less
Extract from, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck.

This need to be adored is a fundamental weakness.


The Guardian was one of my and your browser homepage tabs, you loved flowers, really you did. I think now of the fragrance by Victoria’s Secrets, “English Rose.”

🌹 🥀

The TLS, The Times Literary Supplement, is all about books; I was, you are (no doubt you’ve the biggest intelligent collection in your whole village/town; no doubt at all). New Scientist, how we did discuss evolution and the circadian clock e t c , e t c (see and see). The Spectator, oh Brexit, we did that (see) and we did do politics too (see and see).


I’ll Be a Monkey’s Uncle

To be surprised, amazed or in utter disbelief (about someone or something).

In the 19th c., Charles Darwin shared his theory of evolution from apes and, to say the least, many people did not agree with him. As a consequence, the phrase “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle” began to be used in a sarcastic way by both believers and non-believers.


And then, there’s that sand, the nights on the Arabian peninsula (Pink Panther and a red blanket), my heart shatters, bare feet on the cooling late evening sand, white sandals in hand. Mr Smokey… where in heaven or hell are you now? You were a harbinger a precursor in fact to all the world’s pleasures and all the world’s pains.

👻👅👻
👅👻👅
👻👅👻

End Game?

again, history repeats.

Some have at first for wits, then poets pass’d.  // Turn’d critics next, and proved plain fools at last.

DESIDERIUM

    A longing I felt
    for far too long.
    One that had my
    soul dream of
    comforting it’s
    blistering frost,
    with no more
    than wrapping
    itself around
    your warm body.

— Mustafa Tatan