




 august 1993  volume 1, number 4 ͻ
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                       
                                   
                                                    
                                                    
                                       
                                       
                                                    
                                                    
                                 
                     
                                                                            
                                                                            
    
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
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                               Editor: KJ Gerken                            
                    Associate editors: Paul Lauda                           
                                       Igal Koshevoy                        
                  Contributing Editor: Evan Light                           
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
                                                                            
ͼ



  
  
   ķ ķ ķ         ķ      ķ ķ ķ ķ  ķ ķ ķ
                                                     
        Ķ Ķ                                       ķ
                                                       
          Ľ       Ľ        Ľ Ľ                Ľ
  
  

      EDITORIAL......................................Klaus Gerken

      Side Show......................................Andrew Blevins
      Strange Reality................................Klaus Gerken
      in hailance of a hindu god.....................Evan Light
      a jew's revelation.............................Evan Light
      juxtaposition..................................Evan Light
      the cypripedium................................Evan Light
      the great star.................................Evan Light
      blatantly life.................................Evan Light
      stone cold split-pea...........................Evan Light
      pheltz.........................................Paul Lauda
      pseudo-oblivion................................Paul Lauda
      i see a light..................................Paul Lauda
      Dancing........................................Jari Winter
      Green Dream....................................Jari Winter
      David..........................................Jari Winter
      Nowhere World..................................Terry Long
      Life Goes On...................................Terry Long
      Awake..........................................Gerald DeJong
      The Price of Glory.............................Klaus Gerken

      POST SCRIPTUM..................................Paul Lauda



                      
                                                
                                              
                                                
                             

  

      Having thought intense and long about this editorial, I can  think  of
  think  of  nothing  more  spectacular  to say, than, THIS IS POETRY!  This
  edition, the previous  editions,  the  work  produced  continuously be the
  poets on the many on-line poetry conferences.  Especially Andrew  Blevins'
  Poetry  Workshop  on FIDONet: the poetry produced there is second to none.
  But this is not to  take  away  the  accomplishment  of a new and upcoming
  Network called Centipede.  Centipede is  dedicated  to  bringing  together
  writers  and  poets into one huge international "family", some place Poets
  and  Writers  can  gather  and   exchange  information  and  their  latest
  creations.  But Centipede is more than that, it is a full fledged  Network
  catering  to many tastes and interests.  Besides gathering the work of new
  young and upcoming poets and writers,  it caters to many diverse interest;
  to humor, to history  (one  I  like  especially  is  entitled  Speculative
  History,  which  allows  us  to  freely speculate on what might have been,
  taking into  account  those  events  which  history  has  failed  to fully
  explain), there are also conferences  on  diverse  topics  as  Philosophy,
  History, Humor, and even one called Insanity.  It is a vital and explosive
  network  catering  to inventive and creative personalities.  At the end of
  this edition there will be an  advertisement, and a phone number for those
  interested to contact.  Next time you sign on to a local BBS, you may wish
  to ask your SYSOP to echo this challenging  and  ground-breaking  network.
  It will be both stimulating and worth the effort.

      The  poetry,  like  previous  editions is taken exclusively from these
  Poetry Conferences.  I hope  you  will,  explore  and  revel, and join the
  parade.  It's growing fast, and we at Ygdrasil and Centipede want and need
  your input,  not  just  to  enrich  our  thought,  but  to  challenge  and
  participate in the international community of Writers and Poets.


                                                          
                                        з           ַ ַ ַ / ַ ַ
                                             Ľ       Ľ      


  SIDE SHOW
  ~~~~~~~~~
  As he was frigid with drunk
  as she lie on the livingroom floor,
  there couldn't have been any better
  time for a crack in that window exit
  where the spirit could even feel the breeze.

  And as the magazine pages curled,
  the fern at the window bent down
  touching her hair as they cried
  out some silence to the lamplight
  whose cool yellow illumination desired
  caress like her calloused hands
  to his thin inebriated glaze.

  And they turned blue together
  in their twisted drunk cell they
  had sustained for their mundane day
  on this of their quiet dying hour,
  and while she'd reached for his red shoe
  he beside her had positioned himself
  like the cogs of a clock turning the
  date forward on the change of a millennium.

  And there could have been a mile
  of traffic for this slow motion scene
  but tonight there was only lifelessness
  in her brown eyes, jazz background,
  and the bottle tipped over and gurgled
  like a spilling clock weeping
  at them; their white ghosts floating
  at the end of ropes like helium balloons
  as through the ceiling they passed
  into the upstairs sleeping landscape
  vacant from the dead end city alleys
  to the starfield bizarre together.

  Separated from the floor joist
  they rode on liquid rooftops
  like a jitney jellyfish
  to their personal heaven pausing
  only for a moment in the rain
  to espy the jeweled city circus
  from far along the smoke stream
  smiling clouds and sad song storms.

  They rifted from day to day panic
  as their figurines in relaxed bends
  thinned and joined together
  into the final gasping residue
  of the star that they had become,
  spiraling northward they encompassed
  the thick atmosphere of aberration like clowns.

  And beyond this canvas and greasepaint
  they joined the parade they had come
  to lament but now attended and subscribed
  like the babies and soldiers they were,
  the velvet clouds and stars gave them
  a place between the elephant footed city
  and the trapeze cables hanging from the moon
  where he thought her name and she grinned.

  Now we see them like the comet
  of a passing comment in the clear
  amazement between the dead life
  and the living spirits released
  into the gathering, to the elysium
  of the beyond fractions of fires and glow.

  And between the acts of bears and lions
  and the tent that was folded down,
  their history book was appended
  to our lost souls library somewhere
  safe back in our troubled network labyrinth
  of heavenly calling cards and mysterious tomorrows.


                                            - Andrew Blevins






          STRANGE REALITY
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  The darkness descends like silence
  and a desiccating fog shifts the emphasis
  from mental flux to mental agony.
  There is a poison but no antidote.
  There is a wall with painted doors
  that look like doors a stranger might just enter,
  but the doors never open and the strangers
  all remain outside as strangers often do.
  We look at each other, you and I,
  and the yellow eyes and breath of charcoal
  and a rasping cough still tell us we're alive.
  It's amazing, though the curtain tightly drawn
  settles the dust and wastes the artificial light
  that flickers with the resolution of a pendulum.
  It's time ticking out it's argument. Each life
  a spark, but still the universe conspires to accept
  it's great expanse. There is no void, save the void
  that we envision in ourselves.
                                I look around.
  There is one chair at the kitchen table
  no one dares to sit. It is reserved for the reaper
  when he comes. It is the warmest place, near the oven.
  We wait in silence. We say nothing. Time ticks slowly,
  awkwardly in monotone. I know it's dark outside.
  It must be. There cannot be another universe
  outside what we have experienced. You get up
  and put the kettle on. The floor boards creak
  beneath your tired feet. How many miles beneath them?
  How many roads, how many dead? You sit down across from me.
  I can feel your breathing clasp the air with so much
  sigh. A sigh of resignation. We are waiting for a guest,
  and when he comes he will no longer be a stranger,
  but a welcome friend.
                      Many days ago you gave me hope
  that shadows might appear, and really mean the things
  we thought they must have stood for in our youth. Shadows
  cannot be our enemies. Shadows are the mystery of life.
  Shadows are what we become when understanding melts
  into the atmosphere. The kettle softly whistles steam
  and you lovingly perform the rite of public offering,
  bringing our minds together with the meaning of the rules.
  It is not here, but somewhere deeper than we as mortals
  could have known. It is sacred, and prepared
  and passed on like an oracle: like a dream weaves
  a passion for a night, raises its own dust
  and dissipates, so is this a fleeting argument. But change
  is as a river flowing and change becomes the only permanence.
  We have seen that, once and ill begotten,
  we can never have a permanence save death. Come. you say,
  drink your tea, it will warm you and prepare you
  for the coming forth by day.

                                I place my hand in yours.
  There is comfort in this offering. I can feel there is a
  storm outside. An evil brooding darkness clouds the mind.
  It is closer now then ever. I can feel it in the stillness.
  The wind rattles the windows. There are gasping faces
  plastered to the walls. They are all the faces of my past.
  They deliver me a message, but I have no will
  to greet them now. I look at you and you are hushed.
  You have not seen this, and I am glad. For soon these faces
  will attempt to drag me through the walls. Some already wail.
  I wonder if they wail for life or wail for death?
  I know what they are doing here. All of them are consciences.
  All of them have something buried from my past to offer me.
  I refuse to listen. I will not be goaded into listening.
  Like the wind, they howl. A thousand voices like a bloody
  battlefield. Have I always been their enemy? Once I thought
  they were my friends. Why has this transpired? What has
  intervened to make our lives so difficult? Was it war?
  Was it peace? Was it our own ignorance of how we
  function in society? or is it just a madness
  claiming what last vestige of a sanity we have?
  I don't know. And yet this weariness absorbs my every
  tissue. My marrow crumbles in the dryness of the waste.
  And I have no resolve to find a meaning. The tea tastes
  bitter on the tongue. There is a poison that will seep
  slowly through our veins, until our insides will dissolve
  in a slow disintegration of all time and space.
                                               The clock
  strikes ten. I had almost forgotten that the clock
  makes lives significant. But what is this significance?
  Is it measuring our days? or measuring the value of our
  lives? It seems to me the less time that you have
  the more significant your life becomes. Each moment
  thus becomes a year, until the last measured moment
  breaks eternity. It is hardly bearable.
                                          But then
  the voices return with a vengeance. I try not to look.
  I cover my ears. You notice nothing, rightly so, your blink
  has taken its eternity. But the voices persist. They scream
  'Eternity' as if it were the very bounds of hell.
  'Eternity'! I know that comfort well. The wind picks up,
  the fire chokes. I move the logs around, and cinders spark
  into my face. The heat melts my own mask, and my skin
  is torn to shreds in my black hands. I want to scream, but
  have no voice. There is a silent angular incertitude.
  I repeat 'the shadows are my friends. The shadows are
  my friends'. And between reality and fiction, truth and lies,
  I falter, stumble. You are suddenly not with me anymore.
  Where are you? What have you become if not another voice
  within these walls?
                      Suddenly I am alone again. I stare
  around the empty room. The fire has gone out. The window
  is open and a pelting hail assaults the floor. I rush
  to close it. In the distance the city lights explore
  the argument of all humanity. What are we? where
  are we going? why are we here? and I return to steady
  the light and light a candle for the ones who have departed
  this strange world of what must be a very strange
  reality to someone who has not passed this way before.


                                            - Klaus Gerken; January 3, 1993






                         in hailance of a hindu god
                         ~~ ~~~~~~~~ ~~ ~ ~~~~~ ~~~

                     ceilingfooted fundlebunnyfaced man
                    waddles into traffic and whimpers in
                                happiness
                           as the unforgiving
                        mechanical monsters bare
                              down on his
                             fragile frame
                    delivering glorious second life
                             as an insect
                          an ant on the blade
                             of deep green
                                grass
                        where the black stork
                            brings third
                        Lord's deliverance
                    in spinning sharp madness
                            on wheels
               shredded green covers the ground and
                             nirvana
                           is reached.


                                            - Evan Light




                           a jew's revelation
                           ~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~
  i wonder
  as the innocent carolina roadside
  floats by

  i wonder how christ was born to a virgin

                                    but there is no christ

                                           right?

  no my son
                                 he is gone and never was


                                            - Evan Light



                               juxtaposition
                               ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

          in death
  he is mine
  he is yours

  my mentor
  your college
  our lover as one

                          my how the roadside blurs
                            as reality floats by

          as in life
  invincible

                          the little prince has been silenced

                                          as in limbo

  uncertain
  unsurely that life will yet last

  rooming in the rowhouse
  between
                                  found
                                   and
                                  lost
                                   life

  residing in my mind
  between my sanity and mentality
  cleaning my earwax from the inside so he can hear smell life
  peering at time through my ciliated nostrils
  tapping all my senses to again become one with the world

                          i am eternal infernal


                                            - Evan Light




  the cypripedium is in bloom in doom my friend
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
  who art thou to speaketh my tongue
  and devour my gracious soul?

  who are you to sanctify my cleanliness
  to right my wrongs
  and criticize my myriad philosophies?

  you are nothing

  you are the shit piss coming forth from my mind wetting the bed
  cot of worn green and motheaten holes in the corner of
  the room with rubber walls and floor and ceiling so when you have
  a nervous breakdown you can't crack your head open on the wall
  and make a big mess for bruno the tirade orderly to clean up with
  his handy dandy mop and glo his mustache waxed so perfectly so
  sinister raping the man in the rubber room next to yours at night
  and in the morning everyday the screams drive you mad to the edge
  of reality you feel the pain in your own asshole innocent looking
  chick walking down the hollow hallway to hell
  's angles waiting outside your rubber room beating their drums
  their rhythm entrances the night so polite it's dark outside my
  mind is racing through my reality check one two one two can you
  tell me how to get to sesame street little boy will you
  fuck me in the ass my name is ed savitz i'll give you money and candy
  for your shit and dirty underwear lying on the floor with an old
  doberman sleeping atop the ancient cupboard next door the
  neighbor calls out and shoots himself in the foot sucks his toe
  and spits his hemoglobin in your face dies a loner an eight
  grade graduate and damn proud of it pumping gas for spare change
  the pizzaman is in town honey i wanna get drunk man i wanna
  get a pretzel man take care now big electric base ecletic in the
  window electric draws me in it moans and waits more demanding my
  power to come 4th from my        i        y
                                    n      t
                                     s    i
                                      a  n   to meet you on a
  saigon bridge with my napalm hair and scorched toenails and fuck
  you in the fire my desire roams rampant wild uncontrolled desire
  eats me from the inside out as i eat you in the barnyard my
  friend the cow crows and the horse castrates his master with a
  mayan knife gun shot in the darkness is bright now infrared
  sights on my eyeballs black dead rolled back in my corpse head
  comatose mother child lying in bed with husband son nearby the
  firebells ring and the engine runs over a sweet old lady wearing
  nothing but an old kerchief an a worn pair of clogs from romania
  squished flat under a fireengine dragged on a joint bowl to the
  street corner bloodfilled gutter empties into innocent sewer


                                            - Evan Light



                the great star sets on my sorrowful soul
                     internally combusting my mind
                   thoughts and memories seep from my
                         ears and nose and mouth

                     my big toes swell to the size of
                    rusty skeletons of old schoolbuses
                            lying in a ditch
                           near a mountainside
                              in the country

                           i remember her eyes
                               her tongue
                                her feet
           the leather laces dragging on the cold, dead ground
                        collecting mud on the sides
                changing their color to a deep dirty brown

                        the odor of blood) and sex
                corrupting the cool sea air( on the beach
                        plugging up my nostrils
                                my lungs
                                my heart
               giving me an asthma attack in my moment of glory

                i see her angelic figure in a scallop shell
                        clothed in perfumed seaweed
                     and the Sibyl wants to die today


                                            - Evan Light




                                blatantly life
                                ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~
                the world is seeping through my pores
                    and evaporating from my mouth
               the sensuously sticky tongue of the nation
                     is drying up my mantel palette
                    giant volcanoes xplode on my ass
                   or are they just bed sores or zits

                   my feet are cold  my hands are hot
                    everything else is just damn fine
                                thank you

                where in the world has the goodness gone
                        the oversoul of society
                            modern philosophy
                            prenatan marxism

                are they dead like the ants under my bed
                    my grandmother in her cold grave
                                complaining
                              for she can now
                                     see
                                  eternity
                                 through the
                                      6
                        feet of grimy dirt we have
                          shoveled upon her face
                               view my death
                             and my cold grave
                     and my own wretched complaining
                          filling my open mouth
                        with that shovelful of
                                   dirt

                              but i am deaf
                                       dumb
                                       blind
                            a tommy to mankind
                        playing pinball with myself
                        in the middle of the night
                        with tissues and vaseline

                             it is late
                           and i hate all
                               of you
                          that are asleep
                          because i wish
                                i was

                           just because



                  because the night is still young
                    and my mind is yet ancient
                        in its adolescental
                                shell
                whored out by my psychiatric pimp
                 i have a migraine in the morning
                          with just cause
                      and a nosebleed around
                                 2
                          and so it goes


                                            - Evan Light




                           stone cold split-pea fog
                            rolls in from the west
                            clothing my naked body
                    covering my soul in the sarcastic night

                      she lies in the dew-topped grass
                the pent up odor of alcohol overwhelms the air
                  blood trickles from the corner of her mouth
                         pooling in her lifeless dimples
                              wavy blond hair is now
                                  dead  black
                        swimming in the midnight water
                        the Sibyl is no longer bottled


                                            - Evan Light






  Pheltz
  ~~~~~~

       Right now I sit upon my bed, and gaze at my keyboard while
  typing.  I first say the word in my head, then voice the word out
  loud then type the word on the key board then I see what I have
  just typed then I look upon the screen to see this one whole
  sentence.  Ahh.  <Sigh>
       Punctuation means naught to me now and yet I sigh a deep one
  again.  I think of Chucky Cheeses and the pizza which filled my
  tummy.  I think of the money I so quickly gave up to the kids, they
  had their fun, and me, well, I just walked around, played some air
  hockey, tried a helicopter game, and shot some hoops.  Argh... Then
  the ride back home, the noise, the slaughter of streaking voices
  in the back of the car with the music on high and the darkness
  seeping over the land and the cars I whiz by and the lanes turning
  this way then another way.  Ughh...
       The familiarity of old route one, coming in from Pennsylvania
  over the Delaware River in to the Capital of New Jersey, back home.
  Mmm... <cackle> the smell of the city.  Smoke galore, and pollution
  and waste and whatever else smells bad enough to make me puke. But
  then again, I guess that is why I bought a new air freshener for
  the car, a granny apple smelling tree hooked onto an elastic band,
  which I placed on a hook in my car.  Yes, the mixture of apples and
  raw sewage.  Am I lucky or what I dream to myself as Elton John has
  an hour devoted to him over the radio.
         Elton's nice cozy songs to fill my heart with beautiful
  scents, even though the environs did not.  And yes, my girl friend
  relaxed on the shotgun seat with her eyes closed and the
  unforgettable noise of the children right in the back seat of my
  car.  Hmm... I dream, does this seem okay?
         Well, <deep sigh>, I must say that I did have fun, although
  again, I say the words in my mind then follow the line all the way
  to looking at the screen at the end of my ritual.  Indeed.  Fresh
  moose is on the way.  Want to have an eye or a leg?
         So the sun is now most definitely asleep, and her sister is
  watching my back for me now, since all are in their beds with their
  covers over their heads, and I tear my big toe nail off with my
  left hand's fingers.  Smoosh. And to think that I would be home
  before ten in the evening.  What a treat, let me tell you.


                                            - P .



  Pseudo-Oblivion
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  There comes a time when I think everything is going to go well.
  I smile and throw a wiggle here and there at an old friend or pal
  of mine, but I think things will be well...  Even though I try or
  think I try, I end up finding out that I only destroyed someone's
  character or created vengeful hate towards my self.  In my mind,
  at times, like I am falling out of the sky, I think I know it all,
  in my brain, I see everything like it all is just so simple and
  nothing is hard and impossible...  However, I find out, and I know
  in my heart through guidance and sometimes coercion, that I am not
  only dead wrong, but I am the devil dead wrong himself...
     I wake up inside a dream, and there is a mini mansion, with dark
  clouds silhouetting the exterior of the home.  The windows are
  blackened, yet in some fashion, I sense and see white eyes,   gazing
  in my direction...  I stand on the grass and in a winse, I am
  inside, I am inside...  There, withing the mansion, I see what had
  caught my eyes from the outside, and those faces and forms which
  bore those eyes, were hideous and cruel and demented...  I see
  myself within a little pentagram, and within that pentagram, I am
  all there is and ever will be, but if I step without, I am consumed
  by this wretched horde, this deamon saga, which I know was sprouted
  from my mind...  I faced this, this horrible picture I drew, and
  within this pseudo picture, I saw a girl, dressed in a white
  gown...  Against the gown, her black hair fell voluptuously,
  yearning for me to step outside my little domain of self.  I
  struggled and fought, and saw the henchmen of henchmen himself, yet
  something held me back...  Something constrained me from leaving
  my safe hole...  Something in which I still, to this day, cannot
  and probably for yet some time to come, will not know what that
  something was, which kept me back... Something in which I must
  find, or I will lose myself--for good.
     So I look upon my self now, with a little help from a friend of
  mine, and I see that I have done many things incorrectly...  Not
  so much as being wrong per the government, but being morally
  evil...  I am not sure if there is any other way I can pronounce
  such a judgement upon my self, but I say I must fix the self same
  thing in which I erred.  And that thing which must be fixed, is the
  same thing in which kept me back from leaving that pentagram, and
  only in this I now find, is my self...  One gigantic bubble of
  organelles, massed together in confusion, and sometimes mistrust
  and disgust and hypertensions.
     So look fool, and open up my eyes, and see what the world really
  is.  It is not what I have created, it is what God has thought up.
  It is not what Clinton, nor Bush, nor Hitler, nor anyone else, like
  my self, has ever thought it to be...
     The only thing I know, is that my thoughts are actually listened
  to when they are written down in front of my own eyes...  And when
  I see what I think, I realize that I am dumb.  In what sense?
  Hmm...  In a way that I am a child amongst children, only that I
  still have on diapers, and a little baby rash...  But with a little
  concentration and discipline, I know that that rash can dissolve
  away and that I can take my diapers off and fling them into the
  trash can, and buy a pair of underwear and take pride in that I can
  clean my self, and knowing I cannot hurt anyone by doing so...
                    Take pride in what you have, and tell
                    your only and best love of your life...
                    Tell your Mother with respect, you love Her...


                                            - Paul Lauda



  I see a light
  Which is behind
  A cloud in the
  Sky so high
  Above.  And I
  Take a deep long
  Breath and wish
  I were a Falcon.
  To fly so high
  In that there sky
  With the Sun's rays
  Behind my wings
  Warming my body.
  And I take a look
  And that light up
  There shines down
  Upon the ground
  And I dive and take
  A sharp look and see
  That which is covered
  By the light up so
  High.  And that which
  The light so heavily
  Drenched, turned out
  To be a Puppet.  And
  This Puppet I have
  Named Nature.  So
  I made some strings
  With my beak and
  Decided to take
  Nature with me on
  A little ride, in
  The sky so high,
  Towards the light
  Which showered down
  Upon my Puppet.  And
  My Puppet was velvety
  Against my feathers and
  I flew towards the light
  And made my Puppet
  Dance in the sky and
  For some reason,
  Nature smiled and
  Became alive.  The
  Strings which were
  Held within my beak
  Became fantastically
  Energetic and the
  Strings just left my
  Beak and Nature fell
  To the ground and then
  I knew that Nature
  Was a Puppet not
  To be taken anywhere.
  So I flew alone to
  That strange light in
  The sky so far away,
  And noticed that I knew
  Something, and I was
  Made Incarnate.


                                            - Paul Lauda; April 26, 1993









  Dancing
  ~~~~~~~

  like wide spread wings
  of a butterfly
  made of  perfect blue sky
  the dream sings

  earth bound
  fear of shattering
  gentle touch not mattering
  butterfly sky sound

  Where boldness
  is needed
  too much caution is heeded
  the result is shaking coldness.

  Excuses bind
  with loving kindness
  preventing due duress
  mediocrity the soul does grind

  To be the butterfly
  like the baby sparrow
  though it burn or chill the marrow
  needs wind in the wings to try


                                            - Jari Winter



  Green Dreams
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Of  the hollow
  hills I dream
  Of lacy mists I follow
  not of halls with concrete beams.

  Fields run wild
  riotous flowers
  to be nature's child
  among living oaken towers

  To be of Elfin heart
  in tame'n corrupting times
  is not so very smart
  feel greed's foulest crimes.

  My lady is corseted
  in barbed wire
  laced and debted
  in chain link fire

  Dreams of the old
  free and green
  make Elfin stories told
  grass and sky as were seen

  Blessed are those
  who hear the trees sing
  who know the wind as it blows
  who stand in her ring.

  Blessed be
  Blessed be


                                            - Jari Winter



  David
  ~~~~~

  When I was a child
  Maybe six
     Maybe seven
  Just define defiled.

  I don't remember much
  Maybe it's okay
     Maybe its good
  Too much more than touch

  There's incest and there's rape
  I've had the one
     The other too
  His robe was woolen grape

  His hands on my shoulder
  I wasn't hurt
     an evil daughter
  m'girl's heart isn't colder

  My heart  isn't cold
  Isn't evil
     Isn't whole
  Horror needs told

  Dark by torch light
  Smoke
     Heat
  Little boy's fright

  Heavy command
  Do it
     Do it
  My legs can hardly stand

  There's a knife
  Stone
     Cold
  It's cold ache to survive

  Knife makes my elbow
  Hurt
     Shiver
  Blade is sharp, I know

  Boy on the stone
  Table
     Altar
  People, shadows drone

  His eyes are blue
  Hair blond
     Frightened eyes
  This memory can't be true

  I'm just a kid
  Not here
     Never here
  It's not what I did

  Memories so unclear
  Don't  see
     It's true
  It's all that I fear

  Being raped
  Is nothing
     To this
  With blood I'm draped

  The man behind
  Me, he's
     So strong
  Parent, fake kind

  I want to scream
  But I
        Don't, I
  Can't hear this dream

  Knife on flesh
  So soft,
     Lungs
  Like balloons of fragile mesh

  In my left hand
  It's cold
     Searing cold
  Blood's hot; free of life's command

  That moment's forever
  Never free
     Always there
  Sanity's easier to sever

  To survive
  Survive
     As who?
  She or he? Who's still alive!


                                            - Jari Winter






  Nowhere World
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  A multicolored dimension of people,
  On the ground a darker shadow is cast.
  Don't ever forget the stories about me,
  I have become known as the past.

  Every different life that is being played,
  All the heartfelt words that were said.
  People coming to their own conclusions,
  Left with images and thoughts in my head.

  So many perceived versions of the same thing,
  Not sure which way I'm to turn to anymore.
  Seem to keep running into this same wall,
  Wished one day I could just find a door.

  The so many people telling me I'm wrong,
  When I am right all along the whole time.
  Can't see through their own notions of wisdom,
  Another image is cast, another bell to chime.

  Simple things have become so confused,
  Sometimes I feel just like giving up.
  Peace has become just another word,
  Is there no more kindness left in the cup?

  Kind of funny how life is made to be,
  Always seems to be a struggle and fight.
  Sometimes wonder are we being told the truth,
  Have to figure for ourselves who is right.

  Wished this world could be a better place,
  Probably will never see the day come to pass.
  I'm left with only dreams and poems,
  Other trying to reach that ring of brass.


                                            - Terry Long




  Life Goes On
  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Mindless ploys that pit man against death,
  Regal candour of those who are in power.
  A beacon light of hope that seems to dim.
  No shadows are cast upon this darken tower.

  Different aspects of truth that ring hollow,
  The sacred vow of one's last rites.
  Want to go but no place left to run,
  Visions in a dream see different sights.

  Caught in a place with no escape,
  At the mercy of the powers that be.
  Go to sleep, up wake to the same place,
  Hope we all slip these chains and go free.

  Would be easy to change the world,
  Except for those with a corrupt mind.
  Can't change what is based on deceit,
  Another front approaches, wonder what kind.

  Prisms sending rainbows through the air,
  Crumpled grass from bodies on the ground.
  No common meaning for peace in the world,
  Can't have what is never been found.

  Shining arrows that pierce the sky,
  Misty eyed lover searching for love.
  Different cerebral lives that coexist,
  I gaze upon a stormy sea from above.

  As the next page of life slowly turns,
  Is it a life that begins or coming to an end.
  A glow of a candle in the night,
  Many different views that people defend.

  The blowing shadows in the wind,
  No one knows where it will all end.
  Only I know where I have been,
  Past and present visions slowly blend.


                                            - Terry Long





           AWAKE

     in the last part of the dream
     when the walls are dripping daylight through the seams
     your big black shadow disappears
     and you know every atom is an eye to see you here

     this is bright white awake
     when you link with the thought of a union that might break
     you better give energy to make it clear
     cos you know it's a matter of mind to create fear


                                            )gdj(5.93
                                            Gerald DeJong






          THE PRICE OF GLORY
          ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Two opposing armies were massing
  On opposite sides of the Autobahn
  There was an ethnic dissolution
  And neither knew the other wanted to do the other harm
  They were both in bed with "false-alarm"
  When Hitler pushed a train between them
  Both went straight on board
  And both burned in the ovens
  And both graves were adorned with thorns
  And as History would tell us
  The Germans were at fault
  But my mother was a German
  And never hurt no-one
  We are born then torn
     From Mothers' breasts
  Fuck to reproduce
     Argue with the kids
  And die
  Broken cold and lonely
  Like a shattered stone...

  Two families were standing
  On the border between south and between north
  There was hatred and the clash of weapons
  Then one side needed slaves to do their bidding
  The other needed cheap labour for their mills
  By freeing slaves cheap labour was produced
  And the southern crop would yield a better profit
  For the barons of the north
  So brother fought his brother
     And both died side by side
  In trenches filled with blood and water
     Blood and water mixed with pride
  No one knew the other side
  Both thought: "good or evil"
  But neither was "the right"
  Commerce aimed the gun.

  Two great golden popes were facing
  The alter of their "lord"
  Both were brandishing an iron blood stained sword
  And both believed they had the "word"
  "It is I" the one said breaking wind
  "Not you but I" the other crowned himself
  The world was split between the two
  And both excommunicated the followers of the other
  So both's "gods" thought: "None of these are blessed"
  "Send down the plague" "Kill them all"
  And both great men were satisfied
  None had subjects to confess
  But both had a million subjects to address...

  A woman and a man
  Both believed their duty
  Was to suffer for their child
  So their child grew up never wanting
  But this child grew up alone
  The child grew up to hate his parents
  He never learned to interact
  With any person in the world...
  He suffered to himself in silence
  He abused whoever tried to help
  Till one day he couldn't go on any longer
  And jumped off a tenth floor balcony
  So who was there to blame
  His parents loved him
  They raised him right.


                                            - Klaus Gerken





   ͸ ͸ ͸ ͸        ͸ ͸ ͸  ͸ ͸    ͸
   ;    ͸             ͸     Ѿ    ;           
       ; ;             ; ;             ;   
  

       For a long while, I had dreams.  Dreams of beauty, dreams of
   passion, of construction, of deformation, and of heaven.  But more
   than not, I had a single dream, one in which repeated itself once
   in a short while for a decade.
       I was outside, facing a decrepid house, the sky was grey, and
   I did not feel any emotions.  I took a closer look at the windows
   which this house had, and I saw eyes, glowing eyes...but eyes with
   dark thoughts.  Then I would wake up.  This dream felt like a great
   weight, that lasted forever.
       Then one night, about a year ago, the dream had visited me again,
   only this time, when I saw the glowing eyes, the dream instantly
   shifted, and I found myself standing in a little space, inside the
   house.  I was dumb for a couple seconds, but then saw all those eyes,
   and I saw the inside of a building and I saw those windows.  Then I
   knew, I was inside.  The dream took me inside the house.
       I saw many faces, faces of all kinds, but they were all demons.
   Except for one particular soul or body, the dream allows me to recall
   a woman in white, with her black hair...however I cannot recall her
   face.  She beckoned unto me, and then I realized all the other demons
   did too.  I was frightened, I could not move.  I felt as if the whole
   of the universe were within me, but I could not move.  And so, I
   awakened, and I dreamed no more.
       Until just now, for over a year, I could not dream, or in respect
   to science, I could not recall my dreams.  Until now.  I had a dream
   and I remembered it and something hit me.  Something a friend once
   told me over the phone...  While in that dream with the house and the
   lady, I had found myself unable to move, and not knowing what to do,
   was found perplexed in the waking world.  As my mind tried to unravel
   the story of the dream, so did ability to recall any other dreams
   vanish.  Until my friend told me what the dream meant about a week and
   a half ago, I did not know the dream.  But now I do, and the dreaming
   has rebegun, and I smile.


                                            - Paul Laudanski; May 12, 1993





                        (tm)
                                              
            Cent                         
             Net                               
                               

              A Professional Mailing NetWork 

                            - Introduction -
                               05.12.1993

      Welcome  to  Centipede, a Professional Mailing Network.  Centipede may
  also be referred to as CentNet.  The NetHost (Paul Lauda), may be referred
  to as the CentHost.   All  other  nodes  may  be referred to as CentNodes.
  CentNet was established for intellectual and responsible writing.
      This Network lives to help users communicate among each other, and  it
  is  here  for  System  Operator  who  are serious about the NetMail World.
  CentNet offers a brilliant new  experience about conferencing; it provides
  free  speech  to  users  and  entertains   intellectual   and   meaningful
  discussions.   Unlike  many  networks  that have strict guidelines with no
  sense of democracy, this  Network  caters  to  Sysops needs and helps them
  with  their  problems.   Centipede  is  looking   for   professional   and
  responsible  Sysops  who  not  only  care about the Network, but also care
  about its Users.  It is Centipede's number one priority to help our Sysops
  with their needs.
     Centipede calls every node periodically  to  ensure that they are alive
  and online, this way, our nodelist file is always  current  and  accurate.
  If  by  any chance there is a mistake in the nodelist, or deletion, please
  inform the CentHost via voice  phone,  or  the CentHelp conference to Paul
  Lauda.
     Our NetWork offers a special program for Sysops and Users in case there
  may be questions or problems.  A 24 hour Voice Support Line  is  here  for
  your  questions:  (609)  895-0858.  If per chance there is no one there to
  answer your call, please leave your  name  and voice phone number, and the
  best possible time to contact you (Eastern  Standard  Time),  and  someone
  will get back to you as soon as possible.  We are here to help you, please
  feel free to call, even if it is just to say "Hello".
      And  what does Centipede stand for?  The body of the Centipede is made
  up of the Sysops who carry CentNet.  Without the Sysops, CentNet would not
  be able to flourish properly.  The  legs  are the Users, without the users
  the Sysops could not move anywhere.  Without the body, the Users could not
  interact with one another.

  
  NOTE: Conference moderators  will  be  monitoring  each  conference.   The
        purpose  of  a  conference  moderator  is  to  maintain  an 'active'
        conference, it is  their  responsibility  to  have their conferences
        alive with mail transfers.  There is no  censoring  of  messages  in
        Centipede.   However,  if  someone  continually  flames  or degrades
        another person,  then  the  conference  moderator  shall  censor the
        message and shall reprimand the person who wrote  the  message.   If
        that  user  continues  to  flame  or  degrade another user, then the
        conference moderator shall make a note  to the user's Sysop that the
        user's access to Centipede shall be suspended,  first  offense.   If
        after  the  suspension  is  over, and the user continues to flame or
        verbally abuse another,  the  conference  moderator shall inform the
        Sysop to terminate the user's account on Centipede.







                  
                      
                   
                          
                                       
                             
               
                   
              
      

  
            THE AFFLICTED, a poem by KJ Gerken
            THE CONFERENCE ANTHOLOGY edited by KJ Gerken
            FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER, poems by KJ Gerken
            THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken
            DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken
            FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken
            KILLING FIELDS (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken
            ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken
            FURTHER SONGS 1986, songs by KJ Gerken
            THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken
            POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken
            POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn
  

    All books are on disk and cost $10.00 each, and may be ordered from:

             Ŀ
               YGDRASIL PRESS         
               1001-257 LISGAR ST.       
               OTTAWA, ONTARIO           
               CANADA, K2P 0C7           
             

  YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from  the  same  address:  $2.50  an
  issue (To cover disk and mailing costs), specify computer type (IBM or Mac),
  operating  system and version, disk size and density and allow 2 weeks for
  delivery.

  Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Revision Systems
  BBS (1-609-896-3256).


  
                 Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ    Ŀ      Ŀ
                         Ĵ      ڿ Ĵ   
                                 
            ķ  Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ Ŀ  Ŀ ķ 
                           Ĵ              
                                   
  


  All poems copyrighted by their respective authors.   Any  reproduction  of
  these  poems,  without  the  express written permission of the authors, is
  prohibited.

  YGDRASIL A Journal of the Poetic Arts: Copyright (c) 1993 by KJ Gerken

  The official version of this magazine is posted on Revision Systems BBS:
  No other version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from
  there.

  Information requests, subscriptions, suggestions, comments, submissions or
  anything else  appropriate  should  be  addressed,  with  a self addressed
  stamped envelope, to:

             Ŀ
               YGDRASIL PRESS         
               1001-257 LISGAR ST.       
               OTTAWA, ONTARIO           
               CANADA, K2P 0C7           
             

  All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS




