Honestly, I'm a Liar, & Other Balances & Imbalances

October 17, 2020

Short Prose – 250 Words – “Leaving Her Heart on the Road” – Romance – 10/17/2020 — Modern Romanticism

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 12:16 pm

To be the victim, or to create victims, in a world where tears cannot let go without running far. I held her hand to still her pace from the shore. I held her waist, to continue on the dance through life. I twisted my face, so that pain would be mimicked. I bled my mind […]

Short Prose – 250 Words – “Leaving Her Heart on the Road” – Romance – 10/17/2020 — Modern Romanticism

July 25, 2020


Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 9:44 am



recently investigating an interesting Greek poet from the turn of the last century

by C.P. CAVAFY.          this piece spoke to me some.



It must have been the spirits that I drank last night,

it must have been that I was drowsing, I’d been tired all day long.

The black wooden column vanished before me.

with the ancient head, and the dining-room door,

and the armchair, the red one; and the little settee.

In their place came a street in Marseilles.

And freed now, brazenly, my soul

appeared there once again and moved about,

along with the form of a sensitive, pleasure-bent youth–

the dissolute youth: that, too, must be said.

It must have been the spirits that I drank last night,

it must have been that I was drowsing, I’d been tired all day long.

My soul was released; the poor thing, it’s

always constrained by the weight of the years.

My soul was released and it showed me

a sympathique   street in Marseilles,

with the form of a happy, dissolute youth

who never felt ashamed, not he, certainly.


C. P. Cavafy

July 4, 2020


Filed under: Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , — namelessneed @ 12:26 pm




June 30, 2020


Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 10:04 am

I nominate my every art


I do art, so I exist,
Alone, my ego is my home,
Grown, I need no war-societies;
I’m no more a homo-primitive-sapiens:

Holding swords and tribes’ declamations,
Writing nice words with bloody hands,
Washing them with victories;
Oh, I’m not a caveman:

My cave is still only mine,
Though, my brain is my only cave,
No material can make true patriarch;
I’m not the apeman that once used to be:

Getting a tree through ruling and fooling,
Through bloodthirst and wolf appetite,
Making the world burn firelessly;
I’m not an animal:

Flying as mercenary eagles,
Dancing among hideous grizzlies,
Idolizing snow-white ravenous tigers;
I will never be any reptile like all of these:

Still, life is daily dumbfoundingly changing,
The one who doesn’t ahead, goes astern,
Like a runner bean in a fired forest;
I’m avoiding to be a part of those:

Living on others,
Like purposeless parasites,
Like sourceless…

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June 23, 2020

AMORGEN’S SONG (from the Gaelic)

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 6:04 pm


gaelic poem - Google Search


a very old pagan poem

April 25, 2020

Mercury Preachers

Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 3:10 pm

a damn fine read

jimmi campkin


We sit down together, scraping our chairs over the decking and looking below to the granite river glittering like a malnourished catwalk model.  You brush a lock of hair over one ear but I know this isn’t flirtation.  The wind is kicking around us and your eyes struggle to focus on mine as they are whipped by strands.  Mother Nature is mischief today.

Last night I spent in the Old City, where my faded young ghost still bounces on his heels over well worn paths, my feet disappearing slowly as the roads are resurfaced and the original level consumed.  I walk through boarded up doors and create chills between courting couples sitting on benches who squeeze together for warmth.  I leech from the energy, looking for the faint echoes.  I drift past iconic places but the long rope of time is fraying badly.  I know these places are meaningful, and…

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April 22, 2020


Filed under: Uncategorized — namelessneed @ 8:51 am


April 10, 2020

For Being Somewhere Else

Filed under: poetry, prose, Uncategorized — Tags: , , , , , , — namelessneed @ 8:07 pm

Blackened breezes rustle
Sacred/ olive trees, skies muscled thick.
I took a sight that set me more lost
More sour than seasick.
I see him, knees bloodied,
Face drawn/ down
to earth.
I was being/ once/
Just a man also.
I spied/ by my back down
To my murk/
I cried/ by my own shadow,
But did not cry out,
To interrupt all that too intimate.




When I was a young/ more willful man,
I fasted/ from dawn Friday
Until the last of Easter/ Today
I’m past that/ I would if I could take the families
To the best Italian place,
For sacrificial lamb & blood red wine
& all before that, maybe Grace



photo- Alex Whitehouse-Hayward

March 31, 2020

Octavio Paz, , born this day in 1914

Filed under: poetry, surreal, Uncategorized — Tags: , — namelessneed @ 8:53 am


by Octavio Paz

persistent, flowing through fallen shadows,
excavating tunnels, drilling silences,
insisting, running under my pillow,
brushing past my temples, covering my eyelids
with another, intangible skin made of air,
its wandering nations, its drowsy tribes
migrate through the provinces of my body,
it crosses, re-crosses under the bridges of my bones,
slips into my left ear, spills out from my right,
climbs the nape of my neck,
turns and turns in my skull,
wanders across the terrace of my forehead,
conjures visions, scatters them,
erases my thoughts one by one
with hands of unwetting water,
it evaporates them,
black surge, tide of pulse-beats,
murmur of water groping forward
repeating the same meaningless syllable,
I hear its sleepwalking delirium
losing itself in serpentine galleries of echoes,
it comes back, drifts off, comes back,
endlessly flings itself
off the edges of my cliffs,
and I don’t stop falling
and I fall
endlessly in its falling,
I fall without moving,
I fall
with a murmur of falling water,
I fall through myself without touching myself.
I fall through my center,
far from me, far off,
I am here and I don’t know where here is,
what day is today?
today is today,
it is always today and I am a date
lost between before and after.
yes and no, never and always,
this very moment and its flute solo
at the edge of the void,
suspended in a timeless space,
cubes, pyramids, spheres, cones
and the other toys of sleepless reason.
shapes made of crystal, light, air:
in the abstract sky of the mind,
fixed constellations,
neither living nor dead,
spider threads and crystalline drivel,
woven by insomnia, unwoven at dawn,
river of thoughts I don’t think, that think me,
river, itinerant music, delta of silence,
soundless cataracts, tide at my eardrums,
desire and its eyes that touch,
its hands that see,
its bedroom that is a drop of dew,
its bed made from a single shaft of light,
obelisk tattooed by death,
rage in its house of knives,
doubt with its triangular head,
remorse with its scalpel and lens,
the two sisters, fatigue and restlessness,
that battle tonight for my soul,
all of them, one after the other,
fling themselves over,
hushed mumble of downcast eyes,
blurred murmur of water talking to itself,
no, k is not he murmur of water
but of blood,
it comes and goes incessantly through my veins,
I am its prison, and it my jailer,
no, it is not blood,
it is the days and years,
the dead hours and this instant
that is still alive,
time falling
endlessly in itself,
I hear my breathing, falling, hurling down,
I am stretched out alongside myself.
far off, far,
I am stretched out there, far off,
where is my left side, my right,
which way is north?
unmoving, rocked by the wave with no body,
I am a heartbeat, a blink of an eye
in a crease of time,
the moment opens and closes,
a hazy clarity shoots across,
is it coming or going?
does it return or drift off?
echoes of footsteps, procession of shadows
in the theater of closed eyes,
torrent of heartbeats,
drumroll of syllables
in the cave of my chest,
chorus of psalms
in the temple of vertebrae and veins,
is it death arriving?
is it day,
the inflexible every day?
today is no longer today,
a black river drags me along
and I am that river
what time is it,
cruel clock, clock with no hours?


March 30, 2020


Filed under: poetry, STORM — Tags: , , , , , , , — namelessneed @ 2:15 pm

“To see in the day or in the year a symbol

Of the days of man and of his years,

To transmute the outrage of the years

Into a music, a murmur of voices, and a symbol,

To see in death sleep, and in the sunset

A sad gold—such is poetry,

Which is immortal and poor.

Poetry returns like the dawn and the sunset.”

-from “Ars Poetica”, Borges

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