“No…As long as I’M not thrashed ’til I bleed and no body parts are removed, I’m not afraid.”


(A) Not usually, but there have been times…

As I’ve been at the university of HARD KNOCKS,

I find my writing gets more coarse— to state the obvious. The rougher things get, the more I turn to comedy


  As I see society changing

not so slowly into a matriarchy… in which women will


And who can put on on their big boy pants and are allowed to travel,those who have permission to go to the bathroom without asking.


        To a certain point – every time I feel arousal, I feel like I’m going to be punished… This  arousal/punishment complex is quite common, as I’ve discovered through my (quite extensive)


        If one is associated with the other: punishment brings arousal – arousal brings punishment… We know where this can lead…

Into full-fledged S&M.

This  doesn’t bother me so long as no one is thrashed until he bleeds and no body parts are  removed in the room next to me.















              Let’s see – when I was one, barely conscious, my grandmother or the Victorian maid

burned the tip of my dick with something

hot, whenever I got an erection in the bassinet. Which was often.


          My mother ran hot and cold. She was either

warm and cuddly, or she was the hateful ice queen from the void of space.So that was sorta scary at times.

      There was a sister of mine who used to get loaded  and call the cops on me. I’d get a message on my machine with her voice saying:



Now this caused a little consternation in my psyche regarding the intentions and general sanity of women — at least the women I knew

 had me jailed on several different occasions.  I was drinking too much in those days and I was an easy target. The psycho bitch!

Locked up for sixty days to ninety days each time…. Once I was jailed for four months

in the summertime.

                 So I get a little resentful… and there’s also a terror from beyond the stars that hits me every time I have intense sexual thoughts…

Here comes the hot poker again, I dream in my sleep. And this time I’m going to get it right between the balls before I’m awake… a burning coal right in the nuts… a real early morning surprise… Makes a fella nervous. Hell of a way to wake up.

Yeah, I’m afraid of women sometimes and  I’d be insane not to be. The horrible experiences I’ve survived (not so long ago),  the uncertainty of just when the attack will take place…the uncertainties the mad mood swings and shifts of the female mind. It’s hard to relax when  a naked woman is in the room – especially if she’s armed.


Here’s a little ditty that might help explain my

sometimes psychotic fear of the “weaker sex”.




My first wife  used a club on me,
My second wife she tried a dagger;
My third wife is working with attrition:
I think I’d better bag her;

I’ll keep her in the basement,
Make her work real hard,
I’ll let her see the sunlight,
When she’s done her chores.



On the curb, he considers his options,
Which way to go into the day?
Following the courses of the city tides,
It is almost evening.

Neon lights are the moon
Of these streets,knowing no season,
The city will not  change its face;
It will continue in its grind and pace,
Consuming us.

He admits it.
He follows Lady through the trafficways:

“If not for her many faces I would
be wise to her.But she loses me always
I see her disappearing in her yellow dress
At Bay and Dundas. She smiles and waves at me.
She is the Goddess from eternal seas;

In the hips of every lady of the street,
I see Her breathe.  I need
Her pulse and breath. I need her ,
Though she gives so little to me;
I pursue her like’s she’s the holy

grail on high heels.








I crawl up out of what the Rat Poet calls
“the foxhole.” I`m not goin to sweat it.  I think
my pants lost their crease when I left Toronto.
And I`ve gone about ten thousand miles since then,
if you count bush plane,  cattle-car and canoe.
And there are moments of beauty… some of that
little prick`s lines are showing promise…
But anything we have worked on in the past two
weeks has disappeared.
        Instead I find this: 

“I know this isn`t normal:
It doesn`t matter much to me
 `Bout normal or abnormal, deviant or deranged.
I`ve got ingrown toenails and moral turpitude,
And I can`t reach my toenails anymore”

Editor:         It`s brain-numbingly bad.  Before there was
a lot of shit, but at least we were working on
“literature”…  One thing  for sure about this: its not
literature…. It`s doggeril for sure. Like shit from a
dog… I was about to make a note in the verse and
But it was!  It was most definitely the place for a colon…
with  that dogshit dogeril! (sp?)
         I`ve heard the rhythm before….
 I`m trying to identify the source…

         Fuck it… I need a coffee. And I better
pour a little shine into it… “The Mad Poet of Rat River.”
I know how he got that name — if I stay here
much longer, I`m going to be nuts myself.  I wonder
how many braincells I lose every time I take a drink of
this stuff.   Look, it`s effervescing as I pour it…
And I`m damned if i CAN SPELL effervescing!
Ten years at the University and I can`t spell!
       That fucking mayor, or janitor, or whatever
he was… He looks like I feel… He looks like a mad
idiot…. A moron and on the low end of the intelligence
scale for morons.
       I`m starting to understand those screens tho.
I`ve been bitten 30 times since I sat down to
read whatever horse`s ass dogeril this is.
       And I`m sitting inside the house!

“Suffering from no vitamins, no vegetables too –
spend too long in the toilet seeing
 What I have consumed ;          (OUCH!  NO!  HELP ME!)
I`ve never seen an apple
I`m malnourished at the root
And I don`t go out the front door anymore.
                                                       (WHEW! NO MORE!)
“I avoid the whole world; 
The world is strange to me:
The rug  is a jungle that the cops
      can`t even see!                             (NO!)
And the ceiling keeps on waving
Like breakers in the sea;
And we can see Arcturus
But there isn`t any “we”                      (!!!!!!!)                  
And I don`t go out the front door

I sit in perfect balance
Getting lighter all the time;
Swell up like a blowfish
Float past  maidens on the Rhine.
And I know I`m getting somewhere
Because I`m going blind;
And I don`t go out the front door

Angels in the kitchen want money
From me, too;
And Frankie blows the tuba
To the cat between his shoes.
And Artie`s watching Daisy`s ass,
She lifts the  washing on the line
The mice jump to the tuba sounds.
Go running cross the boards;
And I don`t go out the front door

The smoke  keeps pouring out
The foxhole and the door;
I don`t have no fire alarm
There`re no firemen anymore;
And the giant river
Flows as sweet and smooth as silk
 As silent church bells
Ring inside my mind;

I`d go to the wedding
But there`s no women here to wed
I saw my blankets moving
There`s a weasel in my bed;
I let the insects bite me
It`s the only sex I get
I don`t go out my
Front door

Oh God! Lord. HELP ME!   And I really mean it
this time:
            IT`S THE ONLY SEX I GET!

           Help me!  What the FUCK have I gotten
  myself into!

I`m 3000 miles from anywhere
And  I haven`t seen a ship.  
The planes won`t even land here
 we`re not  a radar blip.
And the wolverines are laughing
And Matilda`s laughing, too
If I don`t find some conveyance
I`l drink all this overproof
 And next I`ll put my heard right 
Through this board…               

            NOW I`M DOING IT………!         
                       I`M GOING TO SHOOT MYSELF!
          Where`s the fucking gun?  For that matter,
where`s the stupid fucking poet… He`s not here.
He`s not in the foxhole!
           Has he gone to town without me?
            Ha! Ha”  Oh yeah, I forgot. There IS NO TOWN!

             Editor666…. looks out the scruffy
pane of glasses that passes for a window
looking out over the scruffy yard…. It`s quite quaint
actually…  YEAH, RIGHT!  There are some old wooden
kitchen chairs standing at all angles in the yard….
Is that a man  sitting in that chair?
       There he is! He`s got a toque on and his 
boots… HOLY SHIT!  His pants are down!
And… oh fuck!  He`s not moving!
            The editor runs outside (me, I run outside) I find the
mad poet is unconscious. He`s passed out with his pants
down. His groin is crawling with flies… Everything looks
unnaturally red and swollen… I guess so!
           If you can`t leave your horse outside for an hour – you sure as hell shouldn`t be sitting outside bare-assed! You gotta know that`s a bad idea. And MadPo of Rat River has been living here for years!
         There are about ten mosquitoes on the guy`s dick! At least five actively sucking blood from the  head.  Now that`s a fetish! INSECT LOVE!
           I run inside and grab a towel  and start swatting the 
flies away…. His balls are protruding in an unnatural
way… They`re teed up, literally, like a golf ball on a T. How
the hell did that happen? I`m whacking at him with a towel.  Even this doesn`t wake him up.
          I didn`t sign on for this!
         He`s got a rope looped around his balls about
ten times. No wonder they`re sticking out.  I
pick him up and throw him over my shoulder. I kick open
the double-screened door. I walk past the wood stove
carrying the guy. He`s not light. He`s got big
shoulders… probably from all the paddling he does
each time he tries to escape this place.
         I toss him on his bed, which looks like a big
stack of clothes and pillows and furs.  I make sure
he`s not face down so he can breathe.
         I make sure there`s no large insects crawling on
him.  I check for 100 pound weasels. Anything could
be in that bed. I give the furs a kick. And that`s
as good a friend as I intend to be.
         He can take the ropes off his testicles

          I go past the wood stove to the food table.
I make sure the sceen doors are latched tight.
I pour myself a long tall drink -moonshine and water
and berries squeezed in. (I almost said. “buries”!)
          Another few hours out there and there wouldn`t
have been much left of him. And I`m just talking
about the insects.
          If a wolverine had ever shown up…goodbye
Martha!  That would have been a real weasel picnic
right there!
          The big weasels have a certain fondness
for  testicles.  That`s why the bears run away from
them!  They go right for the balls, and they don`t
miss often. They`re low to the ground and
they run hunched over and they have those 
long pointy noses and, I suspect,  
really vicious sharp teeth.
         A big weasel will chase a 2000 pound bear right away from a carcass.  And the bear`ll right like mad for
the hills, the wolverine running right  after
him for about fifty feet, trying to nab his danglers
from behind.
        You don`t believe me?  Ask the experts.
Who are the experts?  I`m half an expert… I`ve
only been here a month, but I`ve seen this
        I guess if you want a real expert you`d
have to ask that mad fool idiot janitor-mayor
of Wait-A-Bit
          And that`s about as much about weasels
as I want to know.  You probably feel
the same way, too.

        I take a drink. It`s too weak… too much water.
I set it aside.  I`m sure I can find a use for it.
        I grab a second tin cup, fill it about a third
full of the pure stuff…watch it effervesce  (sp?)
Take a straight shot…. Jesus! I`m seeing stars!
I feel it burning like turpentine all the way doen into
my stomache.
       A shot glass of this stuff will burn on fire
 for half an hour. O.K. No straight shots… My ears are burning and my eyes are burning, 
but I`m feeling better.
       What the hell am I doing here?   People pay me to
edit their work.  At least they did in New York City,
Toronto and London.
      And I get talked into “a two month paid vacation”
 (He offered me cash – five grand down, five
at the end of my contract.. and god knows I needed
a vacation!).   Talked into this…
by that mentally-challenged moron janitor-mayor
80 miles to the West on the Mackenzie… the big river!
Ha!  I`m not even on the Big River.. I`m on the small
river… Rat River… swatting the flies off the genitals
of Ratty here…. That`s not exactly editing now, is it?
Although there are certain parallels…
       With the shit that this guy`s writing now! Swatting
the flies off something is kind of a cute metaphor.

       Better look at another verse.
       In a minute.

      This booze is pretty good… when you get past
the initial burn and the Varsol taste.
        I have another slug… Now I`m laughing about
nothing in particular… Better watch it.  Pretty soon
I`ll be out there trying to fuck the flies myself…
Didn`t someone`s uncle die that way recently?
        Yeah, I know I didn`t make that one up myself.
And I sure as fuck hope I didn`t dream it!
        He was related to the mayor with the beekeeper`s
hat…which he never takes off.  His uncle… Running off
into the woods with a hard-on – wearing nothing
but a Sony Walkman listening to “I believe in miracles!….
Where you been, you sexy thing?”
         And he was never seen again.  All they
found was his Walkman… That`s how they know
which song…
          Maybe this sex with the insects thing is catching.
And if it`s catching, maybe I can get workman`s

          Ho! Ho!  That`s “one toke over the line” thinking. It`s important to stop yourself when you start thinking in a truly abberant fashion.
         INSECT SEX, indeed! That`s why they call me Editor 666. I spot stuff like this. That`s why they pay me the big
bucks… I spot aberrant thinking, Damn right!
And I`m, seeing plenty of it around here!
         I`m ruthless, that`s what they say. They`re right
I`m going to ruthlessly pour a drink
      I pour a half cup of straight  white lightning. … I pour some ketchup into the overproof and mix it… just to cut the
edge a little.  Don`t want to lose that `burn` completely. Add a few ounces of water – not nearly as much as before…

       (((   Aw, fuck! It`s been about an hour! I can`t leave
him in there much longer. That rope around his ballocks
looked like bungie cord! And his testicles were an unhealthy coulour of purple even back then.))
         I walk back past the wood stove, stagger a few
steps to the right. I have that first drink in my hand. It`s
about one quarter alcohol. A strong drink, a brisk drink. Nothing too heavy… you can`t quite light it on fire, but
you almost can. 
        His  testicles are deep purple now. I throw my drinkl
right on his balls.  What a surprise. Not a sound.
 At least this should disinfect the situation. I`m doing
him a favour,
        I go back into the kitchen

         I hit the empty tin cup with a pencil. it makes
a pleasing sound. I fetch three more tin cups and pour
a different amount of moonshine in each one. I hit all of
the cups, playing different percussive notes and chanting
playfully along

I hear gasping sounds from the back of the
room… Like a large animal stumbling around
in the woodshed having discovered something horrific
in the corner.
        The gasps turn to low surprised grunts
and fast howls of astonishment. Then the bellowing
         The mad poet of Rat River is understanding
the dark side of Insect Love.
         People are in pain all the time. But rarely in a person`s
life does he experience the full flowering of agony.
The Mad Poet is experiencing that rare moment now
and I have to think he`l be a better poet for knowing
this profound truth  buried deep in the nature of
        Life is pain, otherwise we`d all fall asleep.
        He will be fully awake to the twenty-first century
and he will understand the meaning of New Age Editing.
         In about forty minutes his screaming will stop and
 I`m sure he`ll feel the whole experience has been worthwhile.

       And what it means to be rescued by Editor 666

It`s a howl that would bring cops cars from three
precincts, if we were in the cities.   But we`re not in the
cities.Howling and screaming and, in fact, torture of all kinds are perfectly legal up here in the Territories.
        This is like the Old West.  No, this is better than the
Old West. In the Old West, you howl and scream like this,
someone would likely hear you and run to your aid.
        Up here, you can scream like this all day and howl
like an agonized wild dog under a fat full moon – no one will do a thing. No one will even notice.
        I`d help but, as you know, I`ve already helped him.
I`ve done all I feel I can in good conscience do. I imagine when he gets that bungie cord untied, and blood starts rushing back to the situation and the nerve endings in his scrotum truly awaken, he`ll know what it means to be fully
alive and sentient in the twenty-first century.
       He`ll  also know what New Age Editing means.

(C) 2013-2016 by W.G. Milne








WHICH SEEKS FULFILMENT IN ACTIONThe flood is one such archetype
which we are aware of…out of our
collective pasts. We are aware of the flood
through creation myths, so the image rests
in our shared psyche as a past remnant.
The flood archetype does not contain an
imperative because it is past.

The mother, the child,  trickster
the wise old man, are other such
archetypes, fundamental images.The flood is one such symbol from the past,
past image from a creation myth, commonly shared
by most cultures.But…. the apocalypse archetype….battle of  Armageddon…..

IN ACTIONThis is an unconscious image we all share, especially
      IN   ACTIONI was sitting in a quad at the University. It was
five A.M. I had taken to walking around and seeing
the sites of the old buildings during the night.
I didn’t sleep so well anymore, so I wanted
to settle certain things in my own mind. I had gotten
to the bottom of a number of issues, mysteries that could be solved, and discussed them and solved them in various articles and essays.
But there are other mysteries… And now I was getting to the point that if I didn’t understand something, well,
I had come to know that some mysteries remain
There was no point in digging more
deeply at certain aspects of reality, because
there are existences in this world that
will never give up their secrets.I have been looking at the mystery
of Archetypes.
           Symbols and archetype.
Once again I was confronted with
something that could not be expressed
rationally. Rational explanations
will never work when you are dealing
with symbols.  Symbols are used to
express matters that are too deep for reason,
matters that are true at the core of humanity,
patterns that exist beyond birth-and-death,
universal archaic patterns and images that
derive from the collective unconscious…
(The flood pattern is one such archetype
that, I suppose, we can say has been actualized
because it has been related repeatedly as part of a
creation myth….)autonomous and hidden forms… universal archaic
patterns, images that derive from the collective

I was having fun writing this article, cracking some jokes…. tho I knew I didn’t have it quite right.
So I looked at some old notes and saw this
next passage:  *********************************
   original patterns =  arche -type 
psychic equivalent of instinct (actions done unconsciously)
 FROM Collective Unconsciousness  
unconscious imperatives  that exist from beyond the grave.
Archetypes are unconscious imperatives
that seek fulfilment in action… For example marriage,
the mother, the flood… AND THE APOCALYPSE
                          BATTLE OF ARMAGEDDON
army from the north
army from the south
army in Israel               
and what was concerning me that night
was that “the apocalypse” might be one such unconscious
archetype…  which was seeking fulfilment in action….
(doesn’t it seem to you that we are unconsciously
fulfilling the conditions of the world’s end
as expressed by revelations…. leading towards the
battle of Armageddon….. does in not seem
that we are fulfilling the conditions
of this unconscious archetype of war
Once again the fool archetype came
to mind, the Fool as expressed in the
Major Arcana of the Tarot… Wait a minute,
the Fool is expressed as happily stepping
forward off a cliff!

I was in a good mood and I was
writing a lighthearted article as follows:
Archetypes, how to elucidate that which
cannot be explained?
For example, think of Circe. She’s
the goddess who turned Odysseus’s men
into pigs.
I’ve known women who can do that, too!
But to be fair – a lot of these men didn’t have
far to go… Some of these men were pigs
to begin with! She’s an archetype.
There is also the woman with
snakes in her hair. Her names is Medusa.
One look from her and she’d turn you
to stone. She is a deep semi-conscious
image that has it’s terrifying aspects.
I mention Circe and Medusa, because
these ladies are not just symbols. These women
embody  archetypes. I intend this article is just the beginning
of several articles on symbol and archetype.
Think of an archetype as being a
transcendent human entity that exists in the midst of a
circle of symbols. Symbols we only half know
the meaning of…

Other archetypes can be said to be
the Hanged Man and the Fool, cards which exist
in the Major Arcana of the Tarot. These are symbols which represent transcendent  aspects of human life.

We live in a world of symbols,
symbols that speak to us beneath the
rational level of thought.  Who was it
who wrote the book, “Psyche and Symbol”?
That’s a good place to start. Oh, yes,
it was Carl Jung.
Carl Jung was a psychiatrist.
He studied with Dr. Freud for years.
This is a gross oversimplification,
but in Freud’s experience, most psychological
matters could be traced back to early
childhood fears and desires. Most things
can be traced back to how the young
person experienced or repressed
sexual matters.

This is how the lighthearted article was
going to go:                  see below
” Now Freud and Jung lived in a time
when cocaine was legal. And Freud used
cocaine quite a lot in his analysis of patient’s
problems. No point in beating around the bush,
ho! ho!
Freud examined many psychological
matters and many patients…He analyzed many
patients when his understanding was fueled
by cocaine.
If you take enough cocaine, your mind
starts to be obsessed with certain aspects
of sexuality. I have written many, many pages of erotica,
fueled by cocaine. Trust me
when I say that cocaine eventually causes
you to become sexually obsessed.
I think we’re lucky that Freud took
so much cocaine. He lived in the Victorian
era, when nobody wanted to confront sex.
In people’s living rooms, often the ankles
of tables and chairs were covered by cloth.
Scarves were wrapped around the ankles of
chairs  because ankles were seen to be too
sexual to be shown in polite society.
S&M really blossomed in the Victorian
era,also, as sex was so repressed  canes and whips
had to be used in brothels – to help people
get in touch with their feelings.

So no doubt Freud needed drugs
to confront the sexual realities that are the
core of many neuroses. In those days, especially
in Britain, people did not want to slip their
arms into a snake barrel, all the way to the
armpit, and feel what was moving
at the  bottom of the  barrel.
Even in North America, in the present day,
no one really wants to put his/her arm deeply
into the snake barrel of sexual issues. But
sex or the repression of sex fuels much of human
motivation, whether we want to believe it
or not. There is no point in avoiding this fact.
Freud was absolutely correct in much of his
heroic work.

It is said, in North America, “The sexual
revolution took place in the sixties.” Well, yes,
this is true to some extent. It would be more fair to
say this: “In the sixties  many taboos were shaken
loose” And also to say: “The sexual revolution
began in the sixties… It is still just beginning.”

The sixties scratched the surface of many sexual issues. And those people who jumped right in and delved
more deeply into sex – I think it’s fair to say, these people
were not taking notes.
     Then I started reading one of my  older notebooks, in which I was discussing Carl Jung’s view of archetypes…

Carl Jung split with Freud, because he
wanted to explore the unconscious mind. He had
noticed that certain symbols kept recurring
in analysis. Not just in analysis, but all over the
world, certain symbols kept recurring in thought
and in politics.
The works of Frazer, his “The Golden Bough”
helped inform Jung back in those days when
he was assembling his notion of the Collective Unconscious.

Note: For our present information, see also Joseph Campbell’s books on mythology.
(“Primitive Mythology”  “Occidental Mythology”)
Also, it is worth consulting the work of Otto Rank.

Carl Jung   got his hands on
one entire Codex from the Nag Hammadi Library
It is now called, “The Jung Codex.” The lucky
bastard!  Right time, right place, right mind!
Once he got his mind into the early Christian
gnostic gospels, those gospels that had been
excluded from the Bible….Jung’s psychological thought and
theory of the “collective unconscious”, his thinking grew.
His thought in general  quickly matured after
reading the Gnostic materials from the Nag Hammadi.
Carl Jung’s Psychology thinking was entering
the realm of the mystics, being conditioned by those in search of Gnosis. Jung was headed that way all along,
but upon reading the Gospel of Thomas, growth took place
in Jung’s mind.
It was a criticism by other psychiatrists
that Jung was engaged in “mystical” thinking.
They said that as if it was a bad thing!

When I re-read Jung’s theory
on Archetypes in my notebook, this ‘fun’
article took a downward turn into the
dark places of the unconscious…places I would
just as soon avoid.
             The phrases I quoted in large print
at the top of this article, come directly from
Carl Jung’s theory of the Archetype and
the Collective Unconscious.
             Once you read Jung’s thinking
about the archetype and you apply it
to the mostly unconscious apocalypse archetype…
you will see, as I did, that the Christian
Armageddon Archetype can be a very dangerous
form of “thinking making it so.”
              The whole notion of creative visualization
can apply here. We can make Armageddon happen
with the mostly unconscious power of our
own Archetypal Thinking.
              Are you with me in this? This is scary
stuff and a serious matter indeed. Think of the
words Jung uses to describe archetype, which I have quoted above.



Now apply these words to


           You’ll see why this silly, fun article took a
dark and serious turn.
           Towards the end of his life Carl Jung
had a series of nightmares about the end of the world. This was just before the Second World War.
           The same archetype seems to apply today.
            It’s something to think carefully about, no?

Carl Jung, “Psyche and Symbol” and later works
Fritz Pearls, “Gestalt Therapy Verbatim”
Sigmund Freud’s writings on the causes of neurosis.
Elaine Pagels, “The Gnostic Gospels”
Edited by  Robinson,  “The Nag Hammadi Library”
Robert Graves, “The Greek Gods”  especially the endnotes
Also, see “The Major Arcana” of the Tarot re: archetypes



 one sonnet and various lines



O never say that I was false of heart

Though absence seemed my flame to qualify



Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediment. Love is not love which alters

Which alters when it alteration finds

Or bends with the remover to remove


O no, it is an ever-fixed mark

   That looks on  tempests and is never shaken

It is the star to every wand’ring bark

Whose worth’s unknown although his height be taken


Love’s not Time’s fool , though rosy lips and cheeks,   Within his bending cycle’s compass comes


Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks

But bears it out to the edge of doom

 If this be error and upon me proved

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

                                                       William Shakespeare

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Ozymandias – Poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveler from an ancient land

`Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear —

“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.’   SHELLEY


I met a woman from an ancient land

She  dusted off her clothes and then reclined;

“You look as if you’ve traveled far,” I said,

“Have a cold drink and then some peace of mind”

  •                                                                                  ME




Pleasure and action make the hours seem short



The stroke of death is like a lover’s pinch

Which hurts and is desired


Brevity is the soul of wit


Men’s vows are women’s traitors


The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief


“Touch me once more, she smiled and said to me:

“Touch once more my tits,” she said to the man,

“I’ll give you a pair of   acres.”

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are

Of imagination all compact


What’s done is done and cannot be undone


False face must hide what the false heart does know


In time we hate that which we often fear


The devil can cite scripture for his purpose

There is nothing good or bad but thinking makes it so

Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind

Women may fall when there’s no strength in men

Forgiven thieves may be strong time in time

False face must hide what the false heart does know

Though all his loves go rushing down the Rhine   (whoops!)

In time we hate what we always feared

At the Temple finding time out of time






    on a stormy night


I’m sitting here alone, a storm outside,

As flesh and bone all disappear to dust,

I think of  the unholy things I tried;

And wonder near the end now what will last.


I loved a woman who eluded me

Amid the dust, noise, frantic in the rain,

Around each corner of the Paris streets

I watched her disappearing by the Seine.


She’s not a lover of earthly climes,

This gorgeous apparition of my dreams;

My love of her exists now beyond time:

She’s what is true, while all the world just seems.

Through hours and weeks as sorrows come again,

Unknowing Her I’d never lift a pen.

                              (C)2016 by William Milne



“A hundred Keyboards you may play
Always, always, every day,
But I say, a bird sounds good,
That sings in the untouched wood!”

from a poem by Mari Muthu




William Milne's profile photoMari Muthu's profile photo

William Milne

Sep 23, 2016

Great stuff! Good going…. perhaps an edit.


2015-12-22 01.38.15 (2).jpg NIGHTSCAPE AT THE CLIFF

Our loves, desires, thoughts of who we could be,

Thoughts of the muddy earth all turning red;

Dreams of a silver moon as full as spring,

All this shining path is lost by grasping.

Sounds of the trees at night in the forest,

The whisper of the pines when no wind stirs;

Bird songs before the dawn in this magic hour,

 A voice comes in the dark and calls you home.

Youth is born and bright and celebrates you

With sunlight dancing on the ocean, too,

Splendour in the grass, the completion hour,

Kneel with open arms in the morning dew.

Once it was that life moved beneath my hand

And I could breath the starshine as evening came,

The twilight  air is everything I need;       

Amidst this cosmic dance I call your name.

                               (C)2016 by William Milne
                        3:00 A.M. September in North Bay





I passed through a mystical experience
at 4:30 A.M. today… and it carried me a step towards my goal of unifying the split
in the psyche between the spirit and the flesh.
       Make no mistake, the spiritual and the
erotic both partake of the infinite atoms
and energies of the same universe. There
is nothing, not even E.S.P., not even union
with God, nothing that is not corporeal.
       Atoms and energies take part in both experiences, in fact in all events that happen
through the medium of the human brain…

       So why do we revere the spiritual
and denigrate the physical? (Same old
question on this site.)

        I had a transcendent experience
this morning. I felt Aphrodite smile
within me. I felt Her smile with mercy
within my heart…I felt Her tender
         What had I been doing before
this? I had been obsessing with
sexual desire focusing on psychological
fetish. I had been focusing for hours
on various aspects of the beauty
of women, the beauty of womanhood,
feeling passion and devotion.
         It was then I felt the transcendent
presence of Aphrodite within me.

         The sense I got was that the energies
of the Father God, God of Abraham, God  who
opens the clouds,Lord of the meeting rivers;
the God of Christ and the prophets…that the chaste communion with the one who is creating us
could meld and merge into the love of Aphrodite – that the two divinities
were one in the same, especially
through the prism and the
mirror of FORGIVENESS.

            I felt this. I sensed this: that the
two energies partake of one divinity –
that He and She are of the Same.
            “I am he who is of the Same.”
Christ said this in the Gospel of Thomas.
And Christ forgave Mary Magdalene.
She was His beloved companion, so much
so that some of the other disciples were
jealous that He  spent so much time
 with her.  (see The Gospel of Philip)

           Mystical experiences are not
experiences that can be explained 
           I attempted to express
the feeling I had in the presence of
Aphrodite with the following poem.
I’m pretty sure the poem needs more
 work, more detail. But so far,
this is the attempt. 




I believe in spiritual love        

               the love of the one         

              whom we keep                      


                     denying the existence


                    of the one  we 




             I believe in sexual love

             the cruelties and the

              mercy of the Goddess



             I am not sure which is higher


              or sexual love

              and I don’t care which

              is higher


              She has taken

              every part of me

                my sex and

                 soul and heart


                 I have given you

                  all my songs


                  I am left standing

                   on the shore of the beautiful

                   River Lethe

                    watching the shades

                      race past


                    chasing what?

                    the corruptible?

                    feeding on what’s left
                    of the flesh?


                    I have nothing more to say

                    about higher or

                     lower love…

                     there is divinity

                     at every turn










                     blindly in the dark

                     I feel my way

                     towards you



                    the warmth

                    of your embrace


                     moving blindly

                     feeling my way

                      in darkness

                       guided by your warmth

                       within me.









              rubies are hanging

              from the trees.




I don’t pretend to have all the answers
re: the unifying of sexual communion and spiritual communion.
               It’s an expression  T.S.Eliot recorded:

         Toward the end of our lives, if mercy is

shown to us,  we  begin to understand the meaning of forgiveness.

                                       (C) 2014 by W.G.Milne




I have built up quite a traffic jam of unfinished drafts. This is the first of a series of short articles, called 


The Mechanics of Shame:

Yes, it`s a strange world…strange and mysterious.
And odd things happen, too.

      This is so basic and simple, that it`s hard
to understand. Nobody sees the obvious.
When we get too close to a subject, we get
blinded to what is going on.

       Despite being a necessary act, sex and discussing sex is still  kind of taboo…   BUT it is the centre of our existence,  centre of our bodies, too, and the tree at the centre of the garden.
         And it`s  “bad” if we talk about it too openly.
I`m amazed that after all we`ve been through, this is
still the case.
        Yet the PLEASURE INCENTIVE  is how Nature
organizes and directs the things we do.

       We feed ourselves because it feels good to eat….
the Pleasure Incentive runs almost every aspect of our

        Even single-celled organisms follow  pleasure
as they  hunt down food and devour it.
 it feels good to eat food and to have a full stomach.
         Necessary activities, like sex, would be a chore
if there was not pleasure involved
          We are engineered internally so as to do the
activities that ensure the survival of our  species.
         Eating and procreating – two activities that we feel
pleasure doing:  two activities essential to our survival.

         The basic question – is this: how can we
feel guilt for something that is at the core of
our being, something essential to the species,
an activity that nature gives us the
         Feeling guilty for having sex is
like feeling guilty for eating, or feeling shame
because you need to take another
        We might as well say,


        And we do apologize

But this, exactly, is the SCAM:

     “We`ll absolve you of your guilt, we`ll wipe
your slate and your soul clean. But you must 
pay us for forgiveness.”
       We`re supposed to pay for forgiveness
to exactly the same people who convinced us
sex is evil.
          An analogy is this: a person shoves a 
grenade up your ass . And now the same
person is making you pay to
get it out.
          Does this sound reasonable to you?

           It`s like the protection racket,
only worse.

          Since you`ll always have to have sex,
you`ll always have to pay to be cleansed.
         The clerics have had an unending source 
of income – from the beginning, the dawn of man.
          With this sort of cash rolling in, you can
build things. Basilicas can be built.
          Basilicas and bank accounts.

                                                                                    (C)2013 by William G. Milne

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