Weŕe born into a  culture, is there choice?
Ridiculous  to imagine a blank slate
We learn to speak from  a parental voice

We could not be conceived as was Jesus
When by some magic,Mary took the bait
Weŕe born into a  culture without choice

Who  can live with all the unmeant noise?
What to hear and what eradicate?
We learn to speak from   a beloved voice

Freely  once the Bedouin  camels grazed
Their black tents  in the desert now erased
We´ŕe born into new  cultures, whose the choice?

Once each hamlet had its different ways
Now multinationals  thrust on us  bad taste
We learn to speak  but whose is this new voice?

Grey fog freezes, noone knows the way
Looking round for God, we feel  dismay
We´ŕe born into a  culture of  whose choice?
We learn to speak   by mimicking   and grace

In an information culture,
evocation is more important than ;
explicit saying  counts against us.
People need to be well
into believing
being educated is more
than information:
 the incoherencies
 what they’re saying,
the musicality
 of people’s voices
and intonations;
would get more
from them.
Effectively, psychoanalysis is
something other, not the coherences;
 it listens for words
that are saying more
It’s got something to do with  being;
it’s a form of listening,
not distracted by incoherence
but evoked by it.
Because it hears what’s underneath
Within or hiding.
Wanting to be found
But unable to get the words

There was an old lady from Chester.

Who did not allow wounds to fester

When stung by a bee.

She charged it a fee.

So now all the insects detest her

This lady was said to be bright. 

So we used to meet up in the night 

She was no use to me 

For I could not see. 

So I gave her away for a light .

Although I had tried to be free 

She had a deep tie just to me 

I tried to back out 

I was right, have no doubt

But she tormented me with trained fleas

I suppose it is guilt that destroys

Without any sign or much noise.

We lose our own souls

We’re no longer whole

This makes me feel ultra annoyed .

Kindness is not always best

The world is designed as a test .

God will mark it at night

To our mind’s  great delight

When do we get a right rest?

Eternal the rest may not be.

I always long to be free

Eternity’s  short

That’s not what we’re taught

From lessons and lectures I flee 

When we get to the end of the road 

The fountain will have overflowed. The road will be wet.

Goodbye etiquette

Poor poetry is always a goad