O'Connell's Bookshop, 19 Bank Street,

Adelaide SA 5000 - this was the address.

I went to this bookshop

and the bookshop devoured me;

there was an amicable fight -

ink was spilt and words were written.

I enclose those words here below,

addressed to you, dear reader,

within this frame:

After the last book has been burnt,

We will turn to insanity for comfort

After the last page goes up in flames,

We will warm ourselves by lightless fires

(And darkness will be our only light)

After the last word has been written and read,

We will cease to read each other

And then I will wonder at my ignorance,

In this age of perceived omniscience

Knowledge is power, but data is paralysis

Invisible terminators already choke my throat 

(Hark! hear me gasp)

Frankensteins we have so carefully designed,

Rise against us, reach for our minds

(And how the life of my mind is now waning)

Re-remember the temperature, they whisper sweetly, stuttering,

remember, re-remember! 451 in the Fahrenheit scale!

You will not have my attention,

Ubiquitous mirror, mirror on every wall

(Words are fairest of them all)

I choose life over death and words over emptiness

The last gasp of the mind

(The last twist of the knife)

Dead poet, you haunt my poems

(But I haunt my own poems too hahaha

Oh you snob of a poet, you meta-allusionist,

to quote yourself)

incoh

    eren

ce

something eats at my mind

    something

something eats

I cannot think

    think

cannot think

fear gnaws

    only love scares it away

        shakes me out of my mind.

obs

    curi

ty

And "ICTHUS meaning fish,

the word transcendence written in every"

poem:

Et clamor meus ad te veniat

So, then, teach me all the rules of poetry,

So that I may break them.

And teach me all the rules of God,

That I may keep them

Behold my incoherence. I call it poetry

I apologise for the incomprehensible,

I do not blame you,

You would have to read all my poems

To understand this

            one.

I write like a lover to his beloved,

only she gets the joke haha lol

fragm

    entat

ion

here I hide, behind the curtain,

furtively writing poetry.

don't notice me, just look at the words.

switch off the spotlight.

yet you ask:

and why again the wasteland as your backdrop?

because in the land of the dead, life is the resistance

and when darkness falls, light is appreciated

these are my word experiments in the 21st century

where everything goes wrong

because I'm all mixed up

bef

    ore the

des

        cent o

f intol

    erable reg

ret

You modern mirrors will not

    have my attention

I am the bookseller

    of the last million books

I am the reader

    of the last million words

I

    am

the

    resistance

Thus ends the frame. That narrator isn't me okay.

I only spilt the ink.

written by th omas mele th

in the year of my fragmentation,

written for those who would care to read my broken verse.

References / bibliography: Mr. Eliot & myself & the Tridentine Mass

The last gasp of the mind.

I, earth

Do not call me death, I am no murderer

I only claim what was first mine

I, the earth upon which you trudge,

am only an observer. 

From my dust your body first came

and to me your dust will return.

I am layered with time

I do not have myths or legends or memories within me,

But am layered with history, reality, and the lives of many men.

Layered within me are the bodies of all mankind,

Except four, and how could I contain

That fourth one, how could I contain my maker?

How could I, ever changing one, contain the unmoved mover?

How I miss that last one,

How I miss your voice.

Sometimes I hear the chirping of the birds

And wonder if it is you whispering.

I have heard it whispered among mortals

That he remains here still, in another form,

Disguised and veiled.

Oh that I had mortal eyes to see him again!

It has been centuries since I heard his voice.

Back then I could feel him and hear him,

and he was not like the others, he was different -

He cared for me.

I miss him

Is that the chirping of the birds

or is that you whispering?

I miss you

the best thing that happened to me

Amidst the flames of agony and despair,

When all the world burned and all I had was you,

I saw you with me in the flames - 

Oh you did stand by me in the flames -

when I had nothing,

you became everything to me,

and so may it always be

And you, Christ, the best thing that happened to me,

Whispered to me, piercéd heart to broken heart:

"Keep

    your eyes

        on Me,

and I will be enough."

your words not mine

you, God, source of all light,

enlighten this dark whirlwind

of scatteredness that I am,

with your radiant wings, 

shelter me with your truth

enlighten me to divest myself

of all worldly desire,

and engage in the spiritual act 

of composing the written word,

to do the work and leave it unto you,

in the rich tradition 

of Christ the roaring lion of truth and beauty

O Christ, write through me,

and let me care not for money,

fame, publication,

but only for what word you want me 

to write next -

your will not mine

your words not mine

I tried to 

scale Everest,

find treasures,

write epics,

run marathons,

build monuments,

serve kings,

be the best,

but all I was looking for

was a little bit of love

remember me

Give me a list of all the people

who will remember you 

once you are dead and gone,

and I will go through it

and strike out the names one by one

Only God will remember you 

and constantly think of you.

Live for God, not for them

In the evening of my life came Christ the lion

you, my God,

like a blessed flash of lightning,

evade my gaze,

as if blushing, blushing, blushing

for love of me

you my sublimity,

my epiphany,

you shine now, disappear then,

like a fleeting sparkle of the sun 

poured into my blinded eyes,

you the life with which I live,

you the love with which I love,

you the joy with which I rejoice,

you, the love I have searched for 

all my life, though I knew you not,

Jesus -

and thus in the evening of my life

came Christ the lion, 

searching for me who ran from Him,

roaring, roaring, roaring,

in rage against my enemies.

find me, Christ, and let me find you,

for you will not abandon me

***

The phrase 'Christ the lion' is inspired by the poem of T.S. Eliot which says, In the juvescence of my youth came Christ the tiger.