A refuge, is not the shadow, but the light. The one, who seeks to be hidden, is already in fear...of that, which can only see, in darkness.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Wednesday, August 31, 2016
Barely Born
A liar believes, himself, to be in the train of his shadow...but he is only a boy, barely born...bearing, in the midst of illumination...denial.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
The Candle
If your candle is 'shorter' than another's, it is still a light in the world...equal to all.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Truly Love
If you 'truly' love, as you pretend, and profess...you will turn to he, who has no pretense, but offends thee.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Completely
If, you know yourself, thoroughly...you will know others, completely.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Consummate
The person, who is capable of 'love', is capable, of appreciating everything, more deeply...even hatred.
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico
Often Shy
Everyone, wants to scream...what a 'genius' they are, but real genius, is very humble...often shy.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Conundrum's
The most fundamental 'truth's', are usually...too difficult to grasp, by a complex mind.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Silence And Denial
It's amazing how much 'use' one can make, of utter 'silence' and denial. Oh, and as, I said before...'omission'.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Denying It's Wet
In spite of the 'deluge', of incoming enrichment, I systematically, dump on your 'ignorance'...you continue to post 'love love love' 'peace peace peace' and 'muah muah muah', which means you are ALL, standing under the 'downpour', denying...it's wet.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: Jim Carrey, 'Bruce Almighty'
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: Jim Carrey, 'Bruce Almighty'
By Guile And Flattery
If I were, the Rabbi of lies...I would have hidden your fears, and fed you honey, sweetening your failure...for a man , is not uplifted, by guile and flattery...but by truth.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Hither And Disdain
There is no cloak, that will hide disgrace, nor blindness veil jealousy. Ignorance, is incapable of acquiring the ground, where honesty stands...that, all it may do is look hither and disdain.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Two Things
There are two things, more stealthy, than a 'ninja', or an 'aircraft'...a 'stinker', and a 'joker', and they are equally formidable...to the air and the ego.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Whom You Meet
If the 'hump' on your back, is smaller, than that of he, whom you meet...veil not, arrogance with pity...for you both have a hump. Rather, be joyous, with gratitude...for you have found a brother.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
He Who Hath
The only one, who can save a soul...is a soul. For, he who hath not a soul...cannot even save himself.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
The Dark Side
The 'dark side', of a one who loves, is more richly dark, and therefore, more brilliantly...capable of light.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Love Anyway
It doesn't matter, if you're not loved. Love anyway, to spite them. It's good for a soul to love.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Appearances
Why should one 'stealth aircraft' cost more than the entire budget, for the school lunch program? After all, it's nothing more, than a Cessna with a 'condom' on.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming New Mexico
Population Density
Ignorance, is an excellent indicator of ...population density.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
The Gap
There seems to be a considerable gap, between ordinary people, and 'science is the new God', people. I'm sure 'genius's', will narrow that gap.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Moss Agate
Perfect diamonds, are perfectly...predictable. I would rather be moss and agate, than any other...that I roll, in a man's hand...with 'interest'.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: Moss Agate Palm Stone, google art
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: Moss Agate Palm Stone, google art
Self Interest
People mistake, their personal 'self interest', for other people's ego's, when, in fact...it is their own, they should consider.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
That Terrible Certainty
The ability to laugh at one's self, indicates...one has traversed that chasm of 'terrible certainty', unscathed, of shame and embarrassment...to become a more complete, if humble...person.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Comedy
Comedy. We laugh, but it's no joke.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: Buster Keaton, google pic
Six Tequila's
I think people misinterpret ego. Ego is the moderator, between conscious and unconscious mind. In order to arrive at the 'great' unconscious...one must slip by the moderator, to enter the unknown, or drink, like...six tequila's.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
To Be Revealed
Well, they're...'short', but as all things, relative to Oedipus, are...they also catch the eye...barely.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: google art
The Other Head
The brain, may actually, be located in the 'other head', which is extraordinary, if you just happen to have a spare...Which I do. Where did I put that? Oh, God! Found it...
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: Gene Wilder, from 'Young Frankenstein'
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
His Mad Majesty
It is not a human duty, to defend the honor...the integrity, of a greater...but to uplift, support and protect the lesser, for we are not in this world, to take air's onto ourselves, but to learn to be shepherds of our flock.
For, men become monster's, in the causes of gods and kings and prelate's...without, barest understanding of their purposes or needs, and in supposing...cause grievous harm, to many.
Where your prophet's are circumspect, and your leader's are bought, and their ears burn with the whisper's of devils, it is time to reflect on the path you have chosen, perhaps...turning round.
When your kings, and your generals...remain behind, preaching their ideals, securely safe in their citadels of grief, as better men fail...who took the lead, it is time to let the tower's fall.
When your clerics, robed and hidden...call, for you to stand, for a 'damned thing'...you know, as your conscience cries, that you should not go, but at all cost's, save the innocent from mortal loss.
These are the duties of a mortal man, and no higher...for you are lead round, by agencies of error, holding first, their own, in mind...and you, for cannon fodder.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Merlin, of The Wood,artist unknown, google art
Monday, August 29, 2016
The Barkeep
This world hath, here, no truth, of fame, but one to come...without a shame, where garment used to cover up, be only from the driving rain. Yet, truth here, is not hidden 'way, but underground...as shameful thing...while witches ride the broomstick's of, their office mates, and boss's hump's...and cackle over coffee cups, and laugh at other people's pain.
Where every backroom 'price fix', is a matrix for a day of doom, and all the pretty girls, lean, allow you witness of the jewels, of daddy's little 'princesses'...when 'after hour's party's, hold the keys to sweet success, and never leave the room, to be shared with all the rest. For, if, twas known...the whole lie 'round, would fall...for, light would 'luminate the screw.
It is an empty place, an empty race...with fewer souls, than you might guess. They suck them out, like marrow bones, with too high rent and little pay, with agony of toil each day, illicit rendezvous at night, and pictures that would kill the mate...whose, stuffing solace up her nose, of little tracks on dinner plates...and has her own clandestine date, where 'husband's boss, is shagging her.
That is the world, this world at least. The sum of it, a total waste...where all are offered some respite, if only, they will desecrate, their honor, father, motherhood, their virtue, all, to join...some pseudo brotherhood or sisterhood...of secret haze, the likes of which, might make you late, as candidate...for sainthood. Delta this or kappa that, by daddy's little beans...you got to where you're at., as mama winked, and shook her ass.
You wouldn't trade it for a paradise...I'm glad. You got a very private thing. You want to keep it to yourself. I understand. Just don't come crying home, the day...you realize, it's cheap shellac. It's bourbon...in a can, better yet...a plastic bag, now, you've drunk the whole damn thing.
You could vomit for a year, and not come clean...excuse, you call it 'purge', as if...that means a lot. Oh. Yes. I see. 'Cathartic sense, absolving one of...everything'. Like guilt? No wonder barkeep's keep so quiet.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: ronhicks.fineartworld, google art
Where every backroom 'price fix', is a matrix for a day of doom, and all the pretty girls, lean, allow you witness of the jewels, of daddy's little 'princesses'...when 'after hour's party's, hold the keys to sweet success, and never leave the room, to be shared with all the rest. For, if, twas known...the whole lie 'round, would fall...for, light would 'luminate the screw.
It is an empty place, an empty race...with fewer souls, than you might guess. They suck them out, like marrow bones, with too high rent and little pay, with agony of toil each day, illicit rendezvous at night, and pictures that would kill the mate...whose, stuffing solace up her nose, of little tracks on dinner plates...and has her own clandestine date, where 'husband's boss, is shagging her.
That is the world, this world at least. The sum of it, a total waste...where all are offered some respite, if only, they will desecrate, their honor, father, motherhood, their virtue, all, to join...some pseudo brotherhood or sisterhood...of secret haze, the likes of which, might make you late, as candidate...for sainthood. Delta this or kappa that, by daddy's little beans...you got to where you're at., as mama winked, and shook her ass.
You wouldn't trade it for a paradise...I'm glad. You got a very private thing. You want to keep it to yourself. I understand. Just don't come crying home, the day...you realize, it's cheap shellac. It's bourbon...in a can, better yet...a plastic bag, now, you've drunk the whole damn thing.
You could vomit for a year, and not come clean...excuse, you call it 'purge', as if...that means a lot. Oh. Yes. I see. 'Cathartic sense, absolving one of...everything'. Like guilt? No wonder barkeep's keep so quiet.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: ronhicks.fineartworld, google art
Reducible Truths
'Myopia', lack of imagination, foresight, or intellectual insight. This is the precise definition of 'nearsightedness', and yet, we allow those, without a credential of 'correction', to drive through our minds, to do 'wheelie's' upon our emotion, and 'drag race', across our quiet consideration.
They rule our world. They write our laws. They run our schools. They shove shite down our throat's , from every historical and philosophical direction...and of opinion? They are rife. Perspective? They are want. They are stewards of every institution. Of madness, and distortion. Extortion? They are preeminent.
Is this all we've got? Have we no King's? Have we no God? What has become of that...sublime? Of intervention, off the tongue's of truth's bards? When had the rhetoric of twist and slick and spin, become condoned? Had truth retired? Or, had she been condemned, as whore, and stoned...that, your...'reducible truth's'...could make their inception?
I am dumbfounded, that I see no lurk but lies, all camouflaged in cloak; where even wisdom cannot seem, but canned...as if...'just writ'...nor lineage of feeling 'gold', but brass. All voices, trained, as though, 'deep bass profundo', make the truth a thing, as if 'the news',its anchor heads divine, indeed... and all, a shameful thing.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Putto, representing the presence of the divine, by Gustav Klimpt
They rule our world. They write our laws. They run our schools. They shove shite down our throat's , from every historical and philosophical direction...and of opinion? They are rife. Perspective? They are want. They are stewards of every institution. Of madness, and distortion. Extortion? They are preeminent.
Is this all we've got? Have we no King's? Have we no God? What has become of that...sublime? Of intervention, off the tongue's of truth's bards? When had the rhetoric of twist and slick and spin, become condoned? Had truth retired? Or, had she been condemned, as whore, and stoned...that, your...'reducible truth's'...could make their inception?
I am dumbfounded, that I see no lurk but lies, all camouflaged in cloak; where even wisdom cannot seem, but canned...as if...'just writ'...nor lineage of feeling 'gold', but brass. All voices, trained, as though, 'deep bass profundo', make the truth a thing, as if 'the news',its anchor heads divine, indeed... and all, a shameful thing.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Putto, representing the presence of the divine, by Gustav Klimpt
Strange Fumes
Pausanius paused, ruminating...then kicked that ancient and honored, piss pot, out over the crowd; one last Pythian prophesy, in amber and odd brown tord's. He would miss that oracle. Save, at last...it had been useful, speaking truth, and freely...for once.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: The Oracle of Delphi and the Strange Fumes, google art
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: The Oracle of Delphi and the Strange Fumes, google art
Sunday, August 28, 2016
The Herm
Art: google art, artist presently unknown
Shepherds and their flock. See behind, a herm, statue of Pan or Hermes, indicating a boundary line on a path or road. Herm's were also considered 'protective' symbolism, and a place of offering, or a sanctified place, such as a grove...where shepherds and traveler's could camp and rest.
'Among the groves, and on the roads of ancient Greece and Rome...there were these stones set up, to tell, all shepherds, where to rest. A herm to Pan, half goat, half man, whose ithyphallic staff..stood tall, a greet to all...who called this fertile wilderness, their home. For, in these woods, these ancient woods, and meadows by the way...the children of 'the shepherd God', could surely find their own.
His music play, while mortals lay amid his groves, inviting Pan to come. Within the hearts of shepherd boys and girls and men, a thing would stir...the magic of that ancient faun. His music could intoxicate, as if some 'heady' wine, they'd supped, and all would dash their garments off and dance, for each...were nature's loving watch.
And, they would squirrel amid his stones, upon his herm, upon his horn, and one another's horn's, as well...where they would cast their cares away, and all the while the Pan pipes play, the flock, would jump and sport for joy, as shepherd's, chosen dancing pair's, for God himself, made love upon the spot. No harm, no foul...no judge to cast them into hell...but resting in each other's arms, asleep...in dreams.
Where every boy, his dream...his hand upon his herm, did play, each girl, her dream, each boy's display...where they would fondly feel, the night away, about the fire. Nor evidence of harm, the shepherd's progeny were taught...to only play the parts by tongue or hand or finger's rubbing heart's desire.'
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Pan is famous for his sexual powers, and is often depicted with a phallus. Diogenes of Sinope, speaking in jest, related a myth of Pan learning masturbation from his father, Hermes, and teaching the habit to shepherds. Source: Wikipedia
In Greek religion and mythology, Pan (/ˈpæn/; Ancient Greek: Πάν, Pan) is the god of the wild, shepherds and flocks, nature of mountain wilds and rustic music, and companion of the nymphs. His name originates within the Ancient Greek language, from the word paein (πάειν), meaning "to pasture"; the modern word "panic" is derived from the name. He has the hindquarters, legs, and horns of a goat, in the same manner as a faun or satyr. With his homeland in rustic Arcadia, he is also recognized as the god of fields, groves, and wooded glens; because of this, Pan is connected to fertility and the season of spring. The ancient Greeks also considered Pan to be the god of theatrical criticism. Source: Wikipedia
In the late 18th century, interest in Pan revived among liberal scholars. Richard Payne Knight discussed Pan in his Discourse on the Worship of Priapus (1786) as a symbol of creation expressed through sexuality. "Pan is represented pouring water upon the organ of generation; that is, invigorating the active creative power by the prolific element." Source: Wikipedia
A herma (Ancient Greek: ἑρμῆς, pl. ἑρμαῖ hermai), commonly in English herm, is a sculpture with a head, and perhaps a torso, above a plain, usually squared lower section, on which male genitals may also be carved at the appropriate height. The form originated in Ancient Greece, and was adopted by the Romans, and revived at the Renaissance in the form of term figures and Atlantes. Source: Wikipedia
Shepherds and their flock. See behind, a herm, statue of Pan or Hermes, indicating a boundary line on a path or road. Herm's were also considered 'protective' symbolism, and a place of offering, or a sanctified place, such as a grove...where shepherds and traveler's could camp and rest.
'Among the groves, and on the roads of ancient Greece and Rome...there were these stones set up, to tell, all shepherds, where to rest. A herm to Pan, half goat, half man, whose ithyphallic staff..stood tall, a greet to all...who called this fertile wilderness, their home. For, in these woods, these ancient woods, and meadows by the way...the children of 'the shepherd God', could surely find their own.
His music play, while mortals lay amid his groves, inviting Pan to come. Within the hearts of shepherd boys and girls and men, a thing would stir...the magic of that ancient faun. His music could intoxicate, as if some 'heady' wine, they'd supped, and all would dash their garments off and dance, for each...were nature's loving watch.
And, they would squirrel amid his stones, upon his herm, upon his horn, and one another's horn's, as well...where they would cast their cares away, and all the while the Pan pipes play, the flock, would jump and sport for joy, as shepherd's, chosen dancing pair's, for God himself, made love upon the spot. No harm, no foul...no judge to cast them into hell...but resting in each other's arms, asleep...in dreams.
Where every boy, his dream...his hand upon his herm, did play, each girl, her dream, each boy's display...where they would fondly feel, the night away, about the fire. Nor evidence of harm, the shepherd's progeny were taught...to only play the parts by tongue or hand or finger's rubbing heart's desire.'
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
In Greek religion and mythology, Pan (/ˈpæn/; Ancient Greek: Πάν, Pan) is the god of the wild, shepherds and flocks, nature of mountain wilds and rustic music, and companion of the nymphs. His name originates within the Ancient Greek language, from the word paein (πάειν), meaning "to pasture"; the modern word "panic" is derived from the name. He has the hindquarters, legs, and horns of a goat, in the same manner as a faun or satyr. With his homeland in rustic Arcadia, he is also recognized as the god of fields, groves, and wooded glens; because of this, Pan is connected to fertility and the season of spring. The ancient Greeks also considered Pan to be the god of theatrical criticism. Source: Wikipedia
In the late 18th century, interest in Pan revived among liberal scholars. Richard Payne Knight discussed Pan in his Discourse on the Worship of Priapus (1786) as a symbol of creation expressed through sexuality. "Pan is represented pouring water upon the organ of generation; that is, invigorating the active creative power by the prolific element." Source: Wikipedia
Hermes is considered a god of transitions and boundaries. He is described as quick and cunning, moving freely between the worlds of the mortal and divine. He is also portrayed as an emissary and messenger of the gods; an intercessor between mortals and the divine, and conductor of souls into the afterlife. He has been viewed as the protector and patron of herdsmen, thieves, oratory and wit, literature and poetry, athletics and sports, invention and trade, roads, boundaries and travelers.
In some myths, he is a trickster and outwits other gods for his own satisfaction or for the sake of humankind. His attributes and symbols include the herma, the rooster, the tortoise, purse or pouch, winged sandals, and winged cap. His main symbol is the Greek kerykeion or Latin caduceus, which appears in a form of two snakes wrapped around a winged staff. Source: Wikipedia
A herma (Ancient Greek: ἑρμῆς, pl. ἑρμαῖ hermai), commonly in English herm, is a sculpture with a head, and perhaps a torso, above a plain, usually squared lower section, on which male genitals may also be carved at the appropriate height. The form originated in Ancient Greece, and was adopted by the Romans, and revived at the Renaissance in the form of term figures and Atlantes. Source: Wikipedia
Till Spring
The charm of love laid well, shall never pass, let every lass a lad, and lad a lass; that they might know, the limbs of spring anew...where leaves are green on every bough.
Thou, youth, t'were meant to taste of tender things. Oh, youth, to wantonly, desire. Otherwise, why were we bent, at birth...to be so naked and afire?
It is not loss, to be an aged one, if still, our eyes are clear to gaze. Perchance a youth will come who needs the spice, of hand and kind advice. For, I was once like you.
Now, fall and winter come, where hearth's a treasured thing. A plan without a trap...where times are lean, young man...a blanket we might share...till spring.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Illustration by Robert Anning Bell, 1908, Pan and boy
Thou, youth, t'were meant to taste of tender things. Oh, youth, to wantonly, desire. Otherwise, why were we bent, at birth...to be so naked and afire?
It is not loss, to be an aged one, if still, our eyes are clear to gaze. Perchance a youth will come who needs the spice, of hand and kind advice. For, I was once like you.
Now, fall and winter come, where hearth's a treasured thing. A plan without a trap...where times are lean, young man...a blanket we might share...till spring.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Illustration by Robert Anning Bell, 1908, Pan and boy
Woodland Wine
In drunken love, on woodland wine...a satyr god and maiden roll upon the flower strewn ground. Laughter peel's among the trees, sun dappled leaves, all cares and decorum forgot...for joyous lust's, have taken them.
Yet, these are not of spirits, turned, but yearnings ripe, indeed divine, upon the leaves lay'd down for them, beneath the boughs, upon their bellies, wet with life. Shared passion's spent, burrowed, beat...furrow flogged, ploughing pant...breathing's leap, to rhythm of an ancient thing.
As, "oh...my God!", such, grasping, gushing, giving, sate of everything...in one rush, "oh...oh yes! yes! yes!" So...lay a moment more, thus. Rest...as time forgot, returns, to dear relief...until, strong arms shade fair lips, supple'y suckl'ing their nest, where all desire is born.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Antoine Calbet, satyr and maiden
The Shepherd Girl and Boy
Where Daphnis and where Chloe play, among the hills...she follow him, her shepherd boy, two lovers meant. Though they were flung apart, for errant knowledge thought...one day a satyr heard their cry and found them out.
You are not near, that near'r, you cannot be...as you are only chaste, because of fear. Dear Daphnis, she is not your sister. You were two babe's, taken at your birth, from harm, to be raised of...a kind and noble family.
You may lay, one twain...of sympathy, tangled in each others limbs, for you were lover's born. Now, kiss...for is no harm, to be as thou were meant to be. And, thus they did...where all the flock's in forest peeped, smiling for their shepherd girl and boy.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Daphnis and Chloe, google art
You are not near, that near'r, you cannot be...as you are only chaste, because of fear. Dear Daphnis, she is not your sister. You were two babe's, taken at your birth, from harm, to be raised of...a kind and noble family.
You may lay, one twain...of sympathy, tangled in each others limbs, for you were lover's born. Now, kiss...for is no harm, to be as thou were meant to be. And, thus they did...where all the flock's in forest peeped, smiling for their shepherd girl and boy.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Daphnis and Chloe, google art
The Flautist
The flute...the flute, the boy could play. My God! The boy could play the flute! Such gentle hand, such nimble limb'd ability, on Pan's sweet air's, that faun's and satyr's stood in cues to watch the thing.
He'd play. The boy would play, where, all the audience around, aroused...had never known such play.
He is a brightly gifted boy, confessed...the flautist's impresario. His lips so soft upon the horn, as if, unto the god's...were born.
His song, continued on, until the day, consumed, and all whom he had played upon...lay too, to dream the dreams that only lover's know, as fainly tangled 'mong each other's twigs...the satyr's swain dream'pt too.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: A satyr and a boy with flute, google art
He'd play. The boy would play, where, all the audience around, aroused...had never known such play.
He is a brightly gifted boy, confessed...the flautist's impresario. His lips so soft upon the horn, as if, unto the god's...were born.
His song, continued on, until the day, consumed, and all whom he had played upon...lay too, to dream the dreams that only lover's know, as fainly tangled 'mong each other's twigs...the satyr's swain dream'pt too.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: A satyr and a boy with flute, google art
Saturday, August 27, 2016
Greenmantle
For any who have an inclination toward a world hidden, a generous gaurdian, who watches for his own...I recommend Charles de Lint, Greenmantle. As it says on the cover of this book, he is a master of the modern urban folk tale. I have read this and other of his books, and something of it 'touches' a part of me that yearns. deLint's style of writing appeals to reader's, I would say...who are young at heart, and perhaps of mind.
There is 'something' beyond the urban reaches of, so called, civilization. that calls to some of us. I hope you hear it too. A song, a sweet song...piping out there, from the woods and meadows and mountains...at the very edge of hearing. Here is a 'start' for you.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: author Charles de Lint, Greenmantle
There is 'something' beyond the urban reaches of, so called, civilization. that calls to some of us. I hope you hear it too. A song, a sweet song...piping out there, from the woods and meadows and mountains...at the very edge of hearing. Here is a 'start' for you.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: author Charles de Lint, Greenmantle
Fallen Feather's
I found out how to fly without your wings. I found out how to live, without your strength. I found out how to give without your care...to love, without your hand...to share without you there.
It comes, a great relief. I wont even miss your face, for it is nowhere in my mind. It has been erased, replaced by something kind. Here. Take, and keep the key. I wont knock upon your door.
I don't need to anymore. Your approval has no worth. Where I walk is mine. What I see, need not be shared. Who I love or why, is privately adored...in our own way.
I don't need minder's there, or blinder's on, nor lies or endless heaps of cash...to give me clout, or hippocritic sanctimony, telling me in two lines, what the worlds about. You didn't make the god damn thing.
You just wasted it, as if to say...there's plenty more, where this came from...and smile the fool's on, with that shit eating grin on your cretinous face...you slippery thing.
I found out, how to love myself and hold myself, and cry alone...to fill the oceans of this fickle world, with salt, while you kick back...flick'n buggers, thinking no one knows...playing with your twat.
I learned, how to be at home with my own soul, to do my own thing...with no hope, zero dope, laughing at myself, rolling on the floor with the only friend I've got, reading and re-reading what I wrote.
God know's...not bad for a duck plucker.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: google art
It comes, a great relief. I wont even miss your face, for it is nowhere in my mind. It has been erased, replaced by something kind. Here. Take, and keep the key. I wont knock upon your door.
I don't need to anymore. Your approval has no worth. Where I walk is mine. What I see, need not be shared. Who I love or why, is privately adored...in our own way.
I don't need minder's there, or blinder's on, nor lies or endless heaps of cash...to give me clout, or hippocritic sanctimony, telling me in two lines, what the worlds about. You didn't make the god damn thing.
You just wasted it, as if to say...there's plenty more, where this came from...and smile the fool's on, with that shit eating grin on your cretinous face...you slippery thing.
I found out, how to love myself and hold myself, and cry alone...to fill the oceans of this fickle world, with salt, while you kick back...flick'n buggers, thinking no one knows...playing with your twat.
I learned, how to be at home with my own soul, to do my own thing...with no hope, zero dope, laughing at myself, rolling on the floor with the only friend I've got, reading and re-reading what I wrote.
God know's...not bad for a duck plucker.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: google art
Friday, August 26, 2016
The Ascetic
'Rationalization' is like a woman that told me, she finally found her church. She said, the preacher there, told her "money's good!". I told her, she was looking for an excuse. She never spoke to me again, after that. I'm a bit ascetic, for most.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Tintoretto's ascetic, St. Jerome
Salamander
If love wont come to you, stick a sock on it and go on about life. Love, real love, is a lot like a Salamander, in a puddle of water. You're down there, slurping a drink, and when your eyes finally adjust, and you realize...you jump back and holler...Jesus! That's the first REALization, you've had... It gets better from there.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, NewMexico
Art: google art, Phoenix
The Bass Player
I knew a kid. He could stand on second base, and catch the ball...without looking at it. I've had my eye on the ball all my life, and it refuses to come anywhere near me.. Is it my deodorant? No. It's my good fortune.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: google pic
Soloman's Silence
I feel like 'Solo Man'. I have a thousand wives, and none of them will speak to me.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Tissot, 'Queen of Sheba visits Soloman
Mud Pies
Wisdom is not gleaned of 'clean living', but of effort spent, at cleaning yourself up...
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming,New Mexico
Art: muddy boys, pinterest
Just Suppose
When it all goes to shit, a bomb shelter is like a 'suppository', that, instead of sticking it up your ass...you stick your ass in it.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: google pic
No Rolls
You neither spin my wheels, nor toil with my work...yet, you expect a ride...for nothing.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Google pic
The Humanitarian
Those who are needy are not given. Those who need not, are given to. Those who are greedy, are praised. Those who are giving, are ridiculed.Those who eat vegi's are 'vegetarians'. Those who eat human's are...Well, you get the idea.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Pan, google art
Tiny Little You Know What's
Some people breeze through life, and never leave 'a ripple'. But the amazing ones, can have their head up their ass, and still invent something for humanity, like...tiny little 'paychecks'.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Photo Bucket
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Photo Bucket
Keeping Clam
Ego's are like clams with pearls, but they are bubbles, easily pricked...there is nothing there. So like bubbles, they rise for a while...to disappear.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: google pic
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: google pic
Something Funny
If you have no humor, you stand no chance...where, something 'funny' is going on.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Marty Feldman, Young Frankenstein
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Marty Feldman, Young Frankenstein
Good For Nothing
Shit and two make eight. Oh, wait...that's 'common core'. I tell you, schools have lost a lot of good teacher's since the inception of those 'bullshit artist's'. Actually...it makes no sense to me, that parents even send their kids to school. They spend as much time in 'lock down' as in class, and there's the good of liberal practices...good for nothing.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Google pic
Gas Light
Brace yourself, I'm having a thought...oh, no, it was just gas.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Google pic
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: Google pic
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