Originally published:

In the wake of the Friday the 13th terrorist attacks in Paris by Jihadist Muslims, the details of which are still emerging, I want to avoid writing another “I told you so” response, swathed in sentimental solidarity with the French victims, or deal with obvious “fall out” talking points, like Mossad’s possible involvement, the question of restricting civil liberties or allowing citizens to carry guns, possible military responses in the Middle East, the effect on French Jews considering aliyah (emigration to Israel), the effect on the electoral fortunes of the Front National, and so on.

Instead I want to reflect on what the city means as a symbol, and consider how some very ‘Parisian’ currents of thought have led innocents directly to this slaughterhouse.

Now, a bit about the title of this essay. In French “Bad Faith” is mauvaise foi, an expression which is more than capable of serving as a double or even triple entendre. It refers to both the “bad faiths” of Islam, the primary religion of French immigrants, and of Liberalism, the poisonous secular faith of France and the West in general. But mauvaise foi also has an additional existentialist sense, the one employed by Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir to describe a situation in which societal pressures cause a person or state to act ‘inauthentically.’ This idea of us ‘acting inauthentically’ was recently expressed by Richard Spencer in his adeptly titled NPI conference speech, “Becoming Who We Are.”

Panic attack: the boulevard of broken dreams.

For us, the whole of the post-WWII world is about instilling inauthentic patterns of communication between peoples and groups. Political correctness is one outward manifestation of such a system of control, which produces inward censuring of speech and action. Non-European immigration and integration, that is, the pushing together of divergent races, is a physical aspect of inauthenticity as it produces inorganic communities.

As Alain de Benoit writes:

“Ancient democracy was based on the idea of organic community; modern democracy, as an heir to Christianity and the philosophy of the Enlightenment, on the individual. The meaning of the words ‘city,’ ‘people,’ ‘nation,’ and ‘liberty’ radically changes from one model to another.”
Benoist, The Problem of Democracy, p.28.

De Benoist is not entirely correct in his overarching assessment of Christianity. Protestantism is individualistically inclined, not Catholicism. The Enlightenment and the Liberalism that derived from Protestantism represented a break with Catholic social and political organization. Another point of reference for the opposing universalisms of Liberalism and Islam is Samuel Huntington’s Clash of Civilizations thesis, which will no doubt become an increasingly used tool of semi-superficial analysis of the recent happenings.

Napoleon’s exotic mameluke bodyguard.

For the English, the presence of heterodox elements within their social order has always been justified in utilitarian terms: e.g. the Jews were beneficial to economic growth, Blacks from the Caribbean were needed for labour. For the French, however, the justification for “the Other” has long been a moralizing one: i.e. Jews and Muslims may become Frenchmen and adopt the universal Enlightenment values of liberty, equality and fraternity.

It is this moralizing tendency – “neither Jew nor Gentile, all are one in égalité” – by which the French attempted, via a moral crusade, to turn “the Other” into an image of themselves, without realizing that in the exchange they themselves would be changed by groups who rejected their open society principles – praise be to Allah!

 France and “the Other”

Existentialism was extremely concerned with the notion of “the Other.” This stemmed from Enlightenment thinking, which proceeded from the individual to those beyond the self, rather than conceptualizing the subject as part of a collective. In Liberalism there was “self” and “other,” and mutual interests, which could be facilitated through the market, with nothing more existing outside this rationalized exchange of common interest, except épater la bourgeoisie or épater.

Sartre criticized the modern mass of “alienated humanity” with his concept of seriality:

“the series is a gathering of men in which every man is alone because he is interchangeable with every other man.”[1]

Another way he viewed it was as a “unity based upon separation,” not just separation from each other, but an internal separation in which one is alienated from one’s own being. Alain Badiou, the Marxist philosopher, used this concept in for his formulation aimed at promoting class consciousness:

“How can men who have been passively brought together in their impotence and separation by large social collectives suddenly call into being an active unity in which they recognize one another? It is worth noting that Sartre borrowing an expression from Andre Malraux, calls this event an apocalypse. The apocalypse means that the series dissolves into a fused group.”

Actually Malraux’s “apocalypse” is rooted in real historical revolution, coming from his lyric poem L’Espoir (Hope), about the Spanish Civil War, where he celebrated the men who fought to “organize the apocalypse” on the left-wing or Republican side.

This apocalyptic inference from the Left was brought into French intellectual discourse by the expat Spanish novelist, Juan Goytisolo, a critic of Franco, through his novel Landscapes after the Battle and his essay Paris, Capital of the Twenty-first Century? The Situationist Guy Debord, drew on Goytisolo for his own apocalyptic left-wing vision:

“the destruction of the European city, at least in symbolic terms, is a necessary prelude to the creation of a new society. This is why and how the prevailing atmosphere of Landscapes after the Battle moves from something like a comic apocalypse to something like the atmosphere after a terrorist attack…. Goytisolo has consistently described his primary literary motif as that of ‘betrayal’… which applies to his political convictions as well as his aesthetic method.” [2]

In this passage we see the bacillus of Europe – its BETRAYAL! Not the betrayal by the Jihadists, who have not betrayed our trust so much as taken advantage of our complacency and the Left’s need for an agent for their own treachery. Nor do we see a betrayal by the Jews, who are simply loyal to their own particularism and their strategies for maintaining their privileged positions. No, instead what we see here is the betrayal of Europe to these groups by Europeans!

In his book The Flaneur: A Stroll Through the Paradoxes of Paris, Edmund White an American expat homosexual details this destructive process:

“Goytisolo wrote of the slow de-Europeanization of the capital…He goes on to assert that the only way France can continue to function as a beacon of civilization, as anything more than a custodian of its great heritage, is by embracing the international, hybridized culture that is already thriving within the city limits.” (p.54)

White explained that at the time he was writing about, the 1980s, Paris had “become a cultural backwater” and that some gay friends he was staying with in May 1981 in the Arab quarter, had chosen that locale because “it was affordable but also because the location appealed to their progressive politics.” This helps to explain Michel Foucault and Jean Genet’s campaigning for the “rights” of Arab immigrants in 1971.

One-way love for Arabs, Michel Foucault.

From this it becomes clear that France, in its effete homosexual decadence, and dominated by the rise of the New Left with it obscurantist leanings and Jacobin politics of apocalypse and betrayal, has been the essential agent of its own atrocities.

Betrayal runs through French history, like a motif in a bad novel. In 1962 Charles de Gaulle betrayed the French people and the electorate by pulling out of Algeria in the face of international pressure and the stresses of an entirely winnable war. Over a million pied-noir colonists, left for France, and thousands were left stranded and slaughtered as a result.

At about the same time, a few million Arabs were allowed to immigrate into France. When an economic downturn occurred and Le Pen’s Front National ran on a platform of “France for the French” and only gained 15% of the national vote, this revealed the new terms of the arrangement – ethno-nationalism for “the Other,” but multiculturalism and ethno-masochism for us.

Is there any wonder why we see such a phenomenon as European youths joining ISIS, when all Western Civilization offers them is the hollow shell of the “open society” – the castrated shopping mall of consumer identity?

It was the French Revolutionary Third Estate that decided Sephardic Jews could become full citizens, but not Ashkenazi – they were included two years later. Following the Revolution, Paris henceforth became a bastion of “liberty, equality, and fraternity,” a place in which “justice reigns,” in which both innocent ‘Dreyfus’ Jews and guilty ‘Schwartzbard’ Jews could hope for preference under the law.

Aussie Jihadist

Napoleon went through Europe, acknowledged as the modern Cyrus, smashing the ghetto walls to bits and calling forth a Grand Sanhedrin with twelve questions for the Jewish elders in order to bring them into line with the Enlightenment values of individualism, anti-tribalism, and the Christian value of anti-usury.

The position of most post-Enlightenment thinkers, including Karl Marx, fifty years later, was that Jews could assimilate only by renouncing their Judaism. Of course, we know this did not happen, we know that the universalism of the revolutionary values was not heeded by this particularistic people, nor were the conditions against usury.

We know that after their ‘liberation,’ Jews came to dominate France economically: The Rothschilds, the Meniers, the Cernuschis, the Camondos, the Pereires, the Foulds, the Cahen d’Anvers, the Dreyfusard. All these maintained close business and financial ties, intermarrying and becoming the new Aristocracy of the Bourgeoisie Revolution, floating loans to the French government for its lost wars against the English and the Prussians.

We know that today there are countless Jewish organizations in France and that Jewish solidarity and ethnic networking has never dissipated. 40% of French Jews are officially affiliated to a synagogue or to a Jewish organization – so much for universalism swallowed by the rest of France!

False France

This is the France that defends the tasteless antagonizing of Charlie Hebdo as “humorous” and “an expression of free speech,” while censoring a real comedian Dieudonne because the target of his comedy is Jews, rather than Muslims.

This is the France that ignored Dominique Venner, a true patriot, who killed himself in Notre Dame in protest against this wave of massive non-European immigration that would create jihad on the streets of Paris! (Vindicated!) The sordid media, of course, distorted his suicide as a protest against gay marriage.

This France is the place, where nearly 40% of the people and all the intellectuals voted Communist in the 1960s, the scene of Situationist student revolts, with chants of “Marx, Mao, Marcuse” that thankfully dissolved into the politics of intellectual obscurantism and the intellectualist drivelings of Lacan, Derrida and Baudrillard.

1968, before France insourced its anarchy from the Third World.

The same “Liberal,” “tolerant” France that rolls out the red carpet to terrorists is the same creature that butchered not only members of the defeated Vichy Government, the so-called ‘collaborators,’ but also right-wing intellectuals such as Robert Braillach.

As Rémi Tremblay pointed out in these very pages:

“Thousands of French (estimates greatly vary; de Gaulle talks about 11,000 French Canadian historian Robert Rumilly 80,000, Robert Aron between 30,000 and 40,000) were murdered and executed while many were imprisoned in concentration camps in a purge similar to the one that followed the French Revolution of 1789.”

In response to women’s participation during la Résistance, de Gaulle, granted them the right to vote,. According to Wayne Northcutt and Jeffra Flaitz’s Women, Politics and the French Socialist Government, this led to an electoral shift towards the Left:

“Since their formal enfranchisement in 1944, the female electorate of France approximately 53 per cent of the voting population – has manifested a gradual shift to the left.”

It was also French women who had been the first white women to cross the colour bar with African Americans during and after WWI and French ‘colour-blindness’ that helped fill the American Negro’s head with ideas that aspired outside his station, and which he then brought back to America.

Quite simply, it was the French Revolution and the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Citizen that set the modern tone for blind toleration and ethno-masochism, and which fired the ardour of the mutinous Haitians who sang La Marseillaise, as if it were one of their own chants to the Napoleonic troops sent to quell their race-based rebellion.

Paris’s darling: Josephine Baker

The France that suffered the outrage of November the 13th is also the abode of extreme capitalism and l’air du temps, with its fixation on “the Other.” It was in Paris that the fetishization of the Negro first began to hold sway, with le jazz hot and Josephine Baker, amongst many others, bringing, in the words of Edmund White, “a whiff of jungle air and an elemental strength and beauty to the tired showplace of Western Civilization.”

This is the France that has prosecuted Robert Faurisson for questioning aspects of the Holocaust and made intellectual inquiry into an historical event a criminal offense.

This is the France which was the first country to elect a Jewish head of State, Leon Blum in 1936. Blum also happened to be a “non-Zionist” member of the World Zionist Organization.

Count Stanislaus de Clermont-Tonnerre wisely argued:

“We must refuse everything to the Jews as a nation and accord everything to Jews as individuals… they should not be allowed to form in the state either a political body or an order. They must be citizens individually.”

But neither Jews nor Muslims operate in this “enlightened” way, and nor should we!

The problem is, of course, that France is experiencing a crisis of confidence in itself; its identity has been rocked by Revolutionary ideals from over two hundred years ago, leaving it with petty universalisms and moral platitudes. In times like these one should remember the Vichy government’s endorsement of Jean Giono’s “retour a la terre” (return to the soil), by which he hoped that France would rediscover “its pure and true face.”[3] Let’s hope the apocalypse that is to come leaves enough of France for this vision to be realized.


[1] Badiou, Alain. Pocket Pantheon: Figures of Postwar Philosophy. London New York: Verso, 2009. Page 21.
[2] Hussey, Andrew. Paris Underground: Juan Goytisolo and the ‘Situationist’ City. Urban Space and Cityscapes: Perspectives from Modern and Contemporary Culture, Ed. Christoph Lindner. Routledge, New York, 2006, p. 86.
[3] Golsan, Richard J. Myths of Apocalypse and Renewal: Jean Giono and “Literary” Collaboration Vol. 27, No. 3, Issue 87: Special Issue: The Occupation pp. 17-35 Published by: University of Wisconsin Press, 1998. 26.

Canto IV – Mars Concerto

Canto IV – Mars Concerto


Intense \disorder, disarray

The Fog of War everywhere but no bullets

A silent war – A cultural war, A demographic war, A war of representation and replication

Softness, Collusion, Peace

Faggots,  Jews, Niggers


“A man with no fortune, but with a name to come.”
Selva oscura

The Will brutalized into fatalistic tendencies

The old spinner spins without regard to goodness or wickedness

A mere functionary at a Job

“So that the high may become low and the low may become high.”

But not always, sometimes the low remains low and the high remains high

Metempsychosis sometimes to the seventh generation

Supine and Karmic the Myth of Er

Confucius say…

But the Will rises, cuts through, destroys, bestial remnant

Ascension, divination, retention, strangulation

A guiding principle

A compass within dark woods

Lost without our myths

Without our Gods

Without our Glory

Inclemency and wine

They will ask “Is poetry a war crime?”

Deluded liberals

Radovan’s “deaf amphorous dough”

Prating about covenants

Smug and self-satisfied

Purchases and pointless chatter

There can be no covenants between warrior-poets and the bourgeois

Only hand Grenades in the morning

And slit throats in the afternoon

Mai Tai’s and the silver spoon

Reclining into the newfangled unthinking existentialism of Positive affirmation

The lesser demons compel the condemned to smile and leisurely masturbate whilst in limbo

Bishop Danilo, brooding on the evils of Islam

Tsar Lazar

The Serbians knew

“Balkanization” inevitable

They sang to the girls while shooting their fathers:

“Beautiful Turkish daughter,/Our Monks will baptize you.”

Plato knew:

“Give me the making of a nation’s songs, and let who will make their laws.”

The Fat Jew:
Give me control of a nation’s money and I care not who makes it’s laws”

The new Colossus, a gaping hole to be filled, a void, an asshole – Promiscuous Women – “Tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free, / The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.” – Relativity…

The old Colossus, an Ideal, a warning, a robust fullness, Occidental assertion of boundaries – Righteous Men– “Saviour of cities, harnessed in bronze, strong of arm, unwearying, mighty with the spear” – Clarity of Vision.

The Thin Jew, inviting the world, slipping inside – lukewarm – eels, centipedes, vermin, slimy amorphousness

They let the Moors into Visigoth Spain


Moral dis-Order

Weimar Whores reclining in windswept palaces full of casting shadows

Bread and circuses retain the name of the footprint alone

Fleecing chivalrous conventions of bygone eras for the last of the last men

Morons! Everywhere mass retardation!

Hang the moralists! Crucify the Lord!

Gadget nerds and gay marriages, usury, sitcoms and sodomy!

Cleanse this House!

Papiols, Papiols, to the music!

Mar’s instruments – Volcanic Eruptions!

The Clarion Call, the Cornu Wail, the Standards Raised!

It beckons to all patriots –

“Death to all traitors, life everlasting to our Brethren!”

Hail Europa and despair!

Leoncio Harmr

Suggested musical accompaniment: National Anthem of Roman Empire (Instrumental)

On Poets and Poetry: Conceits and Revelations – (Essay followed by first three Cantos)

The Soviet futurist Vladimir Mayakovsky once wrote, “I’m a poet. That’s what makes me interesting. That is what I write about.” This egotistic statement of the self-regarding poet is in line with Mayakovsky’s iconoclastic and self-aggrandizing style – “to his own beloved self,” but does it not tell us something about the nature of poets generally, namely, their conceit? After all why should anyone care about the scribbling that a solitary consciousness produces; very often abstrusely or even esoterically, as Eliot wrote, “We expect to have to defend a poet against the charge of obscurity.”[i] But the poet does not just compose verse willy-nilly, and does not just scribble, as in Horace’s phrase, “a book whose different features are made up at random like a sick man’s dreams.” There is method and form and rhythm to this madness. As the critic Northrop Frye tells us “There is no private symbolism,”[ii] and everything he composes is parcel: his dreams, his illusions, his visions, his fantasies, his impressions, his memories, his thoughts, his knowledge, his politics, his loves, his joys, his fears, his delusions and his creativity; he wishes to share.

“the next person at the door

will be a poet.

this one teaches

and that one lives with his mother

and that one is writing the story of

Ezra Pound.

oh, brothers, we are the sickest and the

lowest of the breed.”[iii]

Perhaps, for Bukowski, in his bottommost core, his poems were a kind of therapy – one pictures a madman searching for his “little gems,” divine moments of inspiration in intoxication, even in there, even in Ginsberg, to whatever weird and degenerate gods they summoned between them, there was something of the spark. But then, the factotum dipsomaniac gave perhaps the best defense of poetry ever devised when he wrote simply that “non-poetry is ugliness.”[iv]

While Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, perhaps justly, grew weary of the poets condemning them, “A little lust and a little boredom: that has so far been their best reflection.”[v] As I have read my Bukowski and have read my Rumi and my Nietzsche, who had much of the Dionysian dithyramb in him,[vi] and each of them I loved and each of them I absorbed and outgrew. I discovered Pound and Eliot and Yeats and Keats and Coleridge and Ovid and Dante and the Troubadours and the French Symbolists and the Decadents and the English Romantics and so on. I have always returned to the poets and always found and sought new ones. Why?

Frye once referred to the poet in the modern age as a kind of savage; that is as a remnant of both a literary and indeed a pre-literary time. In an age ruled by utility and a mass cultural apparatus facilitating la société du spectacle, the epic and the comedic forms have long since transcended their original medium, who could care about the individual’s subjectivity – if that indeed is the sum of it – but even if not – what can a poem say that prose or science or the gesamtkunstwerk of film cannot? His scribbling may as well be cave-markings after all. Poets are at once the most useless and anachronistic, contemptible and tatterdemalion of creatures, without purpose or place, existing as it were in some half-forgotten realm between sentiment and learning, impression and form, and because of this, their purpose is also as the most necessary of creatures; because of the nature of their art, the part he shares of his consciousness, both requires and subterfuges the tyranny of reason in a manner entirely its own. For to “wander lonely as a cloud,” in trousers or otherwise, such phraseology produces a connection between the inner experience of poet and the that of the reader, whose internal voice reads the words within the confines of his own consciousness, the reader may not be aware that they too ‘wander lonely’ as that selfsame ‘cloud.’ Within the image and the feeling produced there is something of the mystery of revelation. For Wordsworth, “the poet is ‘a man speaking to men’, and all men have within them the capacity for poetry, or at least for the brightness and unity of perception which may be called the poetic vision.”[vii]

For Bataille this shared inner experience of poetry, “the dark radiance of poetry” is linked to forms of expenditure or excess, it is that which is beyond the law and nature, “it conceals the known within the unknown…. Poetry’s escape, its excess, follows an Icarian path: it drives upwards in a transgressive trajectory only to reach its limits and fall.”[viii]

For almost as long as there has been poetry, there has also existed the defense of poetry, as though the dainty and utility-less ‘excessive thing’ always needed its advocates. In the Ion dialogue, Socrates compares poetry to Euripides’ magnet, the Heraclean stone, that “attracts iron rings inducing in the rings the power to do the same themselves in turn-namely attract other rings, so that sometimes a long chain of iron rings is formed, suspended from one another, all having the force derived from the stone… the spectator is the last of the rings… You – the rhapsode or the actor – are the middle link, and the poet himself is the first.”[ix] Thus, the poet is closer to the Muses and divine nature – “I’m a poet. That’s what makes me interesting,” the Russian futurist is not far removed from the classical understanding of the social role of the poet. “The spectator being the last of the rings” – within the confines of a traditionalist hierarchy of being, the furthest rung is both the most numerous and least individuated; the uninteresting masses. The inartistic, untouched by the muses, catches merely the fleeting secondhand catharsis of the poet’s connection with the divine, if he is lucky. What aristocratic conceits these poets have!

For my own conceits, not merely prolonged metaphors and contrived revelations; as Plath writes, “Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.”[x] My Cantos is well inspired by that of Pound’s corpus and gods and the style is somewhere closer to that of Eliot in places, and its subject matter tends towards Yeats and Mallarme; for certain it is thoroughly modern verse. And for certain Pound and I worship at the same temple of Western Civilization, longing for its palingenesis – after all, if only in mock jest, “Every woman adores a Fascist.” Contrasting from Bukowski’s sickest and lowest pedigree who is “writing the story of Pound,” my cantos are not merely a retelling of Pound or of an attempt to replicate his style; rather, it is my own, as I am my own. As Pound utilized the conventions, themes, motifs and images of the Canon to relay his own trials; the Ariadne thread runs through mine as well.

[i] Eliot, T. S. Essays on poetry and poets. London Boston: Faber and Faber, 1957. Print. 229.

[ii] Frye, Northrop. The critical path : an essay on the social context of literary criticism. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1971. Print.

[iii] Bukowski, Charles. Love is a dog from hell : poems, 1974-1977. Santa Barbara, Calif: Black Sparrow Press, 1977. Print. 240.

[iv] Bukowski, Charles. Notes of a dirty old man. San Francisco: City Lights Books, 1973. Print.

[v] Nietzsche, Friedrich W., and Graham Parkes. Thus spoke Zarathustra : a book for everyone and no one. Oxford New York: Oxford University Press, 2008. Print. 111.


[vii] Snukal, Robert. High talk : the philosophical poetry of W.B. Yeats. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010. Print. 91.

[viii] Bataille, Georges, Fred Botting, and Scott Wilson. The Bataille reader. Oxford, UK Malden, MA: Blackwell, 1997. Print. 9.

[ix] Russell, D. A., and Michael Winterbottom. Classical literary criticism. Oxford England New York: Oxford University Press, 2008. Print. 7.

[x] Geddes, Gary. 20th-century poetry & poetics. Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1985. Print. 443.


Canto I: Hortus Conclusus

I invited all the freaks

To a tea party in my garden

And all the world showed up today

So many eccentricities

Spilling into the flowers

Creating new varieties

And through it all

There is you, and there is me

Entwined ever faithfully

In these rosebushes

Mindfully, we move

Careful of the thorns

Impulsive movements

Leaving us

All bloody and torn

Love lost and woman scorn

There is a man with a face forlorn

With The desire to be bathed in the sun

And to die

And be reborn

When his time has come


And these roses, do they emerge from Pierian springs

Where the muses bathed

Is there a song to sing?

Of the love of a good woman who saves

A beast in a jungle

A Minotaur in a maze

A dead god’s corpse instructs:

‘A little love is a dangerous thing’

Drink deep, or taste not Beatrice’s spiral spring


Mechanistic clocks bleeding grains of sand

Such commotion outside, such arrears

To be paid, to be made, moneychangers

In temples without images – bland

They call it business, they herald its triumph

Over Tradition, above Pound, vulgarities abound

And the pleasures, herein my dear, mingling, are of two sorts:

Either too sterile to matter

Or too germ-ridden to be impressed upon the breast

But we, in here

A hortus conclusus – us


Outside the knackeries, your social niceties

Beyond the apothecaries, and between the abattoirs

There lies a perennial truth beating inside the womb

The birthing of a stillborn, Unicorn

And the paradox drags Truth down through the aestheticized mud

While an Old Ovid writes the Fasti

And Wrether travels to the Eternal City

And the Cantos connects all things to Dante’s metaphysics and Homer’s dactylics

And, and, and, never-ending…

Perhaps there is yet a cliff

On the horizon

With a burning Sun

Given something bitter-sweet

My dear, to come undone

In the company of those who forget by candlelight that love is præy

Ravaged on cliffs of abandon by demons of desire

Pulled along a winding pebbled road by a charioteer

Strumming her golden harp

Then drawn and quartered apart

On each limb – two sets – twin stallions

Two black and two white

Too dark and too light

The Skeptics on the feet

And Utopians on the other

And we non-Manicheans somewhere asunder

Caroused in the dream of the spleen

Caught between

Plato and ‘The Philosopher’

Captured by Raffaello in the vesica pisces swimming in the cloth folds of the masters

Or as consciousness tortured on a crucifix, between a redemptive sinner and one who persists

A whirling dervish, and thunder, a flash of lightening, a cloud bursting into rain and naivety and necessity and madness and a banquet of undulation – the sensory world of transient things, passing through the intestines – golden egg of shit – birthing into ignorant armies clashing –

in the din of the pitch there arises a moment of clarity, of brevity, of epiphany – and one of heroism and one of cowardice and one of deceit and one of interpretation’s cutting distortion and so on and so forth… A lasso, a thread, a throughway

Wherein the reaper makes his rounds

An hourglass without a sound

The field of battle now full of wailing banshees and dark eyed ravens with wolves waiting in the wings

Mournful elegies pouring from her lips

Into her eyes

Blindfolded cupid’s aim

Far away

And now she has been carried away

By an Zephyrus wind

And I have been

Brought to function

Under false suns

My compulsion

Is to run

Into a gaping subterranean hole

Her skirt from which the flora flows

There is death inside the rose

A slumbering dream of repose

A sheltering bosom to uphold

The suckling lips of a youth turned old

And In the room the women come and go

Speaking of things debased and low

What greater glory than to sow

The seeds of discord, the uninvited party guest

Without whom harmony would be subjected to a tyranny of monotony, a garden of earthly delights

Better to reign, than serve

A day; a stalking breast of prey

Than a cento grazing in the meadows

Mere Choices in the Agora of Hesperos

And the meek elongation of shadows

Drawing out the growing awareness

The pair caught in a serpentine bewilderment

Naked and cloven-foot

Tiptoeing around panopticonic surveillance

Wiretapped and pigeonholed

Villages disassembled and we all go

Shuffling under the common roof

His ancestors owned two-fifths of the watermill East of Eden

Drawing liquid-mercury through lukewarm waterways

Pouring it into crystal glasses for the enfranchised masses


Placid and spellbound as Hylas in Waterhouse

Bewitching gazes longing for

That magic hour

Between her reign and that of Apollo’s

When the dissimilar similarities

Strike us with stupefying profundities

The Lord awoke, reeling with wine

“The overloaded measurelessness of all goods in the one who is their cause.”

The cornucopia everywhere blooming and rotting

Wastrels and beggars

Heroes and kings

The trees of the forest nearst the clearing

Droop and wither

The temperature fallth

And sandy dunes appear

Where once luscious hills shone

In verdant splendor

Has the hour come?

When all things are confused

In their compositions, dimensions and limitations

The binding together of things-strange

In anticipation of her reign


Her time come at last

She, holy to the lost and the dead

They too arose, joining a procession

Shuffled earth and withered rose

She, granting oblivion and holy drunkenness

From the gallows of histories hollows

Luminaries, no nobody’s

Ethereal bodies


A night vigil and procession

Panther skins, dithyramb limbs

The wild wind sweeps unwelcome’d trespasses,

Whisperings extinguish solitary candles in windswept temples along pathways leading towards a precipice requiring a leap of forgotten naivety

A reshuffling of the deck and few are fallen

There are no roads that lead here now

Laughing madly in her blind alley

Contingencies upon contingencies, upon a throw of the dice

A delicate balancing act, Empress of the world, an acrobat upon her globe, imprisoning between her teeth a cruel absent rose, now departed, now come, now go

She spinning wildly

Into the great unknown, endless coastlines, star-dotted skies

Cythera; summoning the ghosts of milkmaids – piously affecting a way to dictate the terms of his own fate – squatting in squalor, squeezing the royal-purple out of the snails who sunbathe by the light of the moon

hortus-conclusus-roman de la rose


Canto IIArchipelagos

A cult of beauty blooms
Venuses on the shells of former selves
Airy and light, whimsical delight
An intonation wilting, too soon

Too soon,

Respighi perfectly captured the essence

Speaking low


The sea arches in images

As many shapes as Proteus

Winged youth and drowning Pegasus

Vessels upon her unstable aqua-heath

Periplum’d voyagers

Ithaca in liquid modernity

Genoese for hire

Nowhere, somewhere, everywhere

A brave new world

Hovels in New York, Moscow, Bangladesh

Similitudes of “insecticide refineries”

“Chicago Semite Viennese”

Negro Siamese Canadian

Misanthrope – in a small boat

Great industries of coiled seaweed

Passing mirages, flickering gills, selfish shellfish

The solitary angler, the waterbeds he comes to know, casting out

Still the great plethora lost in the shadows of working waifs – driftwood and time’s immortal wages

Octopi, barnacles –swampage – city dwellers

Never waves – just hello’d goodbyes

Journeyed wide-eyed tourism

Cultic purism

He stops to sip

Spellbound prick

Peering into the exquisiteness of his own tortured midnight, not eyes, not mirrors, both and neither

Solid, buried marble – the tide reveals

The sculptor, who drowned in love

With forms held above

From his own hand, fashioned

What he could not withstand, a passion’d

Beauty; the frailty of being

She, an appendage of the shell

Bivalvia, Sally sells

The shore is distant now,

And he recalls dimly

A garden abounding with pleasure

A rose snatched from the bush,

But still the new day is bright

And the water rumbles

Coughing up from her recesses

Upon powerful horses, a chariot and a trident,

A great flowing beard, upon a great knowing air

What say Poseidon, Lord of the hour, who has dethroned his brother and the Other upon a grey murderous sea?

He made the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof were still

And a great valley of time separated the words uttered as though each carried the weight of ages

“Herein, the waters coalesce, some flow towards the Northern and some towards the Southern Gate, but all who pass, whether in ascent or descent, drink of oblivion…”

With that the sun darkened

The roaring wave, towered, glassy skyscrapers, tumbling

A dizzying tempest washed him far-flung ashore

The salt water; putrid and inebriating

Heady spins, myriad colors – puke

Nineteen Sixties lotus eaters – Egyptian nymphs – desert sacraments

Fumigations, one-eye-blind, sails set against the wind, piglets, priapic wand-erings, curses, invocations, black magic, temptress, enchantress, forgetfulness, Dreams




Canto IIIWestern Skies

Under the Bodhi tree, awakening towards the East

Passive nihilism, illusion, maya, laissez-faire, nothingness

No reason to get worked up, go to work



Koan, Koran, Kalm

Sand, Oriental, Monsoon

Citadel Rising


Awakening towards the West

Meadow lands – God’s bounty – Monad

Kipling and the Saxon

Bloody sacraments

Man; alt-colossus

The sneaking serpent Ove­­­­rthrown,

Masters of our own House

No mere mild humility

Giants upon the Earth

Made in the Image

Approaching now

Towards the Eternal Flame

Marbled balustrade and patient travail

The sinew, the muscle, the fortitude


Prodigious toil

Cursings and blessings upon thee

Our hour has not yet approached the nihil

We are not yet soft cushioned bed-rested geriatrics

We are still men of the West

And we ascend the immortal steps

Resurrected Gods

In dialogue with Hades’ snakes and Olympus’ ladders

Never a child’s game grew so severe

As yet, the fateful hour draws near

“Thou art a dreaming thing”

Pythia, in the House of Snakes

Mandarins teaching half-learned things,

Pharisees, Sciolism; litterae nihil sanantes

We have no place in this place

No room in these rooms

Dusty recesses of the mind’s visions

Borne old too soon

Hyperion rising

In the Evening Land

Pillar of fire, cleaving the azure of the Western skies

No chiaroscuro, everything illuminated in the glow of sheer fanaticism,