Occidendos Esse: I - Clix

By White Elephant Snow

The nights a trifle chilly, and the stars are very bright
A heavy dew is falling, but the tent is rigged alright

You may rest your bones till morning,
Then if you chance to wake,

Give me a call about the time that daylight starts to break

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Oct 18, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453509302

Book preview

Copyright © 2010 by Mitchell Booth.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2010929383

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4535-0929-6

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4535-0928-9

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4535-0930-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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      1.   The night’s a trifle chilly, and the stars are very bright

            A heavy dew is falling, but the tent is rigged alright

            You may rest your bones till morning,

            Then if you chance to wake,

            Give me a call about the time that daylight starts to break

   1.1.   The Reflective glass of an unfinished fence, a corner block,

            a block of dirt to play

            Field of grass by a white house, I gaze out in wonder,

            like a blurred still.

            A camera shot burning in a flash.  A brave instant.

            Come on lets play . . .  I look for a man, a substitute,

            for I once had none.

            Toughen me up you brute, make me hard.

            For as I have done never was, never should be.

            Go on and make me brave, or leave me alone.

            Help me some, like a son, like I’m a child forgiven.

            All is done

            I remain.

     2.   The girl with short socks, fair, no attention to thee

            with mousy locks, she staunchly plays.

            I think she could be a stunning gardener, or a fretting mother,

            as she kicks the bottle cap along the ground.

            Oh what fine roses she has, I can see her future

            as bright as the sun

            she plays sprightly like an old lady kept tightly

            she kicks the bottle cap along the concrete

            she plays almost a woman, though a blue uniform keeps her away

            Men gone astray could stray away from her. Will men ever learn,

            time is busily ticking?

            Let hearts embrace one another.

            Would I remember her future when I’m old?

            Perhaps when she is no longer fine . . . ?

            will someone remember mine?

     3.   Children are stars, how they shine, how beautiful they are

            All of us have a child inside. All of us have children.

            Through the ether, flying as we are.

            Behind the sun, or nearer to the clouds

            Like comets every hundred or so years, our children may appear

            They may be blind, they may be passionate,

            they may not even materialise . . . burnt from their shell

            How at birth do we change? What is left behind us?

            Purity, newness, fulfilment. Descry . . . wipe the slate clean.

            The journey unfolded into mothers arms, pain, unrest,

            a bundle of joy

            newly transformed light, perfection, love. Chemistry, biology,

            unplanned.

            For whatever purpose, the sequence is fulfilled.

            The ethos of shouts echoes through the hall.

            Countless generations clash. Receptors are keen,

            though teased by transciences.

            The controls put forward. The choice is up to the bearer of

            consciousness.

     4.   My statue’s pale face always stays the same.

            I make fun she is worth keeping

            Her hat is the same; her hair, her locket . . .

            my fake flowers adorn her

            I adore her, and make fun . . . sometimes I tell her things.

            My piano she keeps, once she played the raindrop prelude . . .

            what a grand notion!

            What grand buildings, objects we have.

            Still, witnessing my progress.

            Still, I am to learn her song. In time, I will learn.

            In time, she will outlive me.

            Classical Woman, all I need. What rebellion . . .

            I suck on her breast! I kiss her.

            Perhaps I will give her a soul, perhaps I will sell her.

            Perhaps she is my wife, . . . perhaps from another life.

     5.   The Dogs are in trouble . . . quickly they run and hide.

            The pound officer standing at the gate.

            The untidy inhabitant, roused, wildly waving her triceps.

            Later that night, brushes of nails on the silent bitumen.

     6.   I sit in my station alone as I am.

            I think of past lovers, tho very briefly

            I await beside the broth, and pour into a simple cup,

            sophisticated wine. My sophisticated heart!

            There is yearning beneath my breast.

            I see a young girl as simple as a lawn of grass.

            Why her eyes are penetrating me, like the cleverest harmony in a

            wonderful song. At this very moment I adore her.

            I know this old symphony weary and balding

            And this bloom of youth must be a mother young!

            Beckoning is she, Beautiful flame! Goddess!

            The sleekest indescribable impetus ever beheld!

      7.   It is when time has run out that things change.

            Time has run out for things, and I may not notice.

            Suddenly, I reflect, and notice; a period of my life has gone.

            Here, learned, I await the next course.

            I attained the brilliance I was after, by degrees . . .

            I finished, I have an Answer.

            The wind has spoken, and sets me drifting.

            Questions raise like waves . . . they continue to carry me.

            They sway the craft, they disappear.

            There is no end or beginning, just continuous, slow moving waves.

            If calm, you cannot see them.

            If calm, reflect with purpose or indignation.

            How small I am! How helpless! How restful,

            How blessed. Helpless. Drifter.

            I used to fear losing control, solicitly under control . . .

            Calm down and realise you are shaped by what’s around you

            Listening to others is not a bore beneath your lofty schemes

            I need to knowingly look in your eyes and smile

            I need to comfort you, If that’s what is needed

            Share in the night our own follies and wastefulness