I am overwhelmed

it puzzles me: in poetry,does one good **** really deserve another?fifty years ago – fifty, for ****’s sake –when I was an army cadetsome squaddies used it every other word-and since we were in Signals,it ****ing delayed ****ing battle-orders ****ing long enoughto ****ing mow down a ****ing platoon…and longer in ****ing Morse… – – -…and…

as a museumit was easier than clearing itbut asHealth and Safety officialswere not happy, only oneat a time, perhaps two together,were admittedby appointment onlythere were photos of courseand framed copiesof the better-known poemssome ageing better than othersa scratchy recordinga rather musty smella few years after I diedI went back to lookbut the house andits predominantly…

why, it’s none other than Kabir!reading a book entitled The Poems of Kabir;he’s smiling, laughing, waving his hands –how can he be enjoying himself so much?The manuscript doesn’t tell you this;only Kabir can tell you, in that other place..of all the poems, he only recognises twoas poems that he wrote himself..but here’s Kabir’s delight today:many…

but I’m starting to think thateveryone’s pretty much a mess.We go through break-upsin order to give ustime to breathe andrecover enough to deal withanother person’s bucket of shit.”*[unashamedly stolen from a blog..]

unless the knowledge wants to sing?why waste timeon searching rhymeunless the joy can’t help but dance?why waste timeon searching rhymeunless the mind is full of sound?then rhyme with timeand sing and danceand lose your heartto happenstance.

and that proved itselfto be indeed itselfwhat the dictionary saidhaunted; seemed inadequate;haunted againhe smelled his life, as onesmells Spring in the airof a freezing January dayevery one of his thoughtsbegan and finishedwith the word unsoundedthen his actions too grewout of it, returned to ithis friends, his wife, his family:some heard it, some did notyears passed;…