Nomenclature

no·men·cla·ture (nō’mən-klā’chər, nō-měn’klə-) Pronunciation Key
n. ~ A system of names used in an art or science.

Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, 1594:

JULIET:
‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,
And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all myself.

That which we call ourselves:
The name by which we call our nature:
Wouldst thouest call thyself
Lover?
Friend?
Enemy?
Oh, Lost Soul: blank slate of naivety

Thouest wouldst portend thyself:
Cast thy runes
Show the cards

Read the fortune for this human’s art
Clap thy hands – signify – whilst the echo departs…
Divinity: call beings by their nature
But oh, fine human, how art thou sure?
That by naming, thou hast claimed the spirit?
Would the fleeting glimpse permit…

Thy innermost heart to show?
No..
My friend
This quest goes on,
Without end
And has traversed the ages

By speaking out loud
Proud
What you claim as self, truthfully
Does this mean what we see
Is all there is to be?

In naming what we perceive, we limit:
In the clumsy grasp of understanding’s remit:
In the desire to hold, we close
Our hands around the fragile wings
The flitting moth
Dust shatters – shedding
And as it falls, dissipates
The spirit breaks
free
these brutal bounds

And…
soundless
without word
without name
moves on:

In naming; I limit
In hoping; I blind
In needing; I await
In knowing; in mind
In loving, then,
There is no division
No limit, nor blindness
Nor ache, nor emptiness

Full is the knowledge,
Without definition,
Of my hearts happiness.

Noble savage

Keep a lid on it
they say:
stiff upper lip
whilst you quip
philosophical platitudes
about acceptance
and satisfaction with what you got
I forgot…
Are we supposed to be happy with our lot
in life?

Eloquent and serene
whilst you lean towards
insanity
with a white, tight lipped smile
all the while
saying: ‘I got it
under control’

Oh, so, droll
I’d laugh
if I wasn’t crying
at you dying -
trying
to be the soul
and party
of the scene
so serene
with the ‘I got it’
cover-all smooth talk
all slow shimmy walk

But you know something?
I can see through you
like Super-girl
x-ray vision
With laser sharp incision

And I know
That as you slow-mo
show, the world
how you got it all
done and dusted
bought and sold

the truth is cold

you want warm
undemanding
unquestioning
comfort zone
somewhere that feels like..
home

on the bosom of her heart
but it’s all you can do
to part your lips
and say:

I want you.

Fear, my dear,
is the petty mind
and heart killer.

Irony is this:
I’ll never place words in your mouth
And you are too scared
to fly south
to warmer climes.

starlight express

Goodnight drifty tired world, the night unfurls like a black midnight flying carpet, slip on board & swept, up, towards the moon, soon: sleep

Laissez faire

Didn’t we already do this?
She asked, to no-one in particular
Didn’t I already dismiss
The possibility you’d reappear?

Habitual
Tap on the shoulder
and a half smile
implicit while
you
moved a hand over my hip
did it just happen to slip
there?

Just so casual
laissez faire
boredom’s
alternative:
no care
just dare
because hey -
it’s there:

Attraction
on automatic
no emotion
just sexual static

A little release
pretty
kiss me
please
tease

indulge
my insincerity
part your lips
your legs
you’ll see
it’s good for our mutual
libidinal
voracity

Except this is repeat play
of a song turned cliché

so instead I’ll get up
and gently say:
I should go

lips fondly
impart
a parting
goodbye
no

espresso joe

Suave mexican: dark, alluring, hot: best served, freshly stirred… straight out of the pot. .. What? I’m talking coffee! Naughty thought.

cinnamon girl

cinnamon swirl. dark roast coffee. 9 to 10 waking girl. working girl 10 to 5.30. sugared, caffeine fuel. typing, writing, internet url. uh oh

vicariously

Little fingers, grasping, wanting, demanding. Tips touch, desiring just that much, more, than I can give. Can’t live; know, for another. Let go.

bright shadow

Sun dapple, dancing shadow, golden lightly, brightly, spritely bounces off walls like a wild child high on happy. Sleek glinting hide & seek

small is beautiful

I know that my posts tend to be irregular. But that is only because I don’t believe in posting something up if it is pointless, or sub-standard. I do not blog to create an endless stream of chatter or to join the merry bandwagon of SEOs.

This is simply a creative vent. But that means sometimes, this blog will lie silent for over a month.

I am going to try something that will provide interludes. Little pieces of me, the things I see: the flow of words may tumble and fall, but rather than loose and free… it will be bound by a number. 140.

I’ve recently been micro-blogging  (…ssshhhh.. t-w-i-t-t-e-r)

Every so often I’ll write the Wired version of a Haiku.  Bound by 140 characters. I’ll post them here too. It may wipe away the cobwebs draped decorously over my last words.

Small can be sweet, and replete, too.

interlude

Rain has gone, leaves are dew dripped and the sun slipped out a cloud in lacy silver and gold. Hush rush of cold, Aeolian lyre stroked trees…