The Archeology of Her Smile

The Archeology Of Her Smile Poem

” I love you “

These words that he said

A thousand lifetimes ago.

A thousand women weeping

A thousand flowers burned.

The poem,

Just written for someone, somewhere



A wife

A daughter

A love.

About the archeology of her smile,

About her hidden voice,

The joyful noise of her child

Or just the way she laughed,

Poised, in the mirror

Or running thru the grass

Or thru the fields

Of forever.

For these words

Were said, were written

 A thousand lifetimes ago,

A thousand women weeping

A thousand flowers burned.

The poem,

Just written for someone, somewhere


About the archeology of her smile,

About the way she loved

About the life she lived with you

About the world she touched

For this is her true story

Written in the voices of each life.

Civilization, man or woman

And of their rise or fall.

For without her or her

Beauty, her eyes, or her smile?

Why there would be

No “his-story” ever written

At all.


R.M. Engelhardt 2012

The Visionary …

All men should possess a ‘visionary faculty’. Men do not, because they live wrongly. They live too tensely, under too much strain, ‘getting and spending’. But this loss of the visionary faculty is not entirely man’s fault, it is partly the fault of the world he lives in, that demands that men should spend a certain amount of their time ‘getting and spending’ to stay alive. …The visionary faculty comes naturally to all men. When they are relaxed enough, every leaf of every tree in the world, every speck of dust, is a separate world capable of producing infinite pleasure. If these fail to do so, it is man’s own fault for wasting his time and energy on trivialities. The ideal is the contemplative poet, the ‘sage’, who cares about having only enough money and food to keep him alive, and never takes thought for the morrow.”

~  From The Outsider by Colin Wilson





This poem, ain’t about you.

And this poem ain’t about a raging heart
Or a saving grace.

This poem has nothing to do with the blues,
Robert Johnson, the devil or even
All the saints.

And this poem has nothing to do with the paranormal,
Demons or the neon electric lights of
Near death, deadly dead cosmic experiences,
Jesus Christ or his brother
Fred, candy, the shadow government,

Or “You”


This poem is a song
This poem is not a song

This poem
Is a riddle
This Poem is a revelation
For the false.

That has nothing to do with you,
Or your limited level of reality, non reality,
War, baseball or boxing, peace summits
Criticism Or the never ending war of

Good … Versus Evil.

That you are truly, afraid to fight.

No. Nope.

This poem ain’t about you,
not about you at all.

Because this here poem
Is all about “Soul”

An extinct & isolated species that’s
Connected, Interconnected & Intertwined
And Living Complete & Inside and Amongst the Cosmology
Of a Hundred Thousand Billion Stars.

And something that “You” Will Never Get,
Or ever understand.

Because this poem
Is not all about “You”

This poem
Is about “Soul”

That thing that you can never have
Or get which just like imagination
Escapes you just like honesty
Fame or the verses

That fall onto the page, like love.

Because you see it’s
That song inside your deepest depths
The heart that keeps you going, fighting

And truly “Alive”

Each & everyday

And that something
Which you must earn.

So this poem
Sure as hell
Ain’t about “You”

This poem
Is all about the parade of souls

That just keeps on passing you by
Without notice.

All the souls

Smart enough,

Not to follow



R.M. Engelhardt

Poems In Retort Magazine

I Was Once Dead Too  R.M. Engelhardt


In a famous painting
of Christ nailed to
and crucified upon the cross
I am the watching 
leper on the right.
And with my one good eye
I watch as Jesus dies
and screams up into
darkening sky asking
his father for a reason


And then, suddenly 
as the clouds open up
and the rain begins
the Romans scatter like mice,
the water, burning off their
flesh like corrosive acid.
As I feel the wetness upon my
skin like the warmth of a beautiful woman 
touching my face, I raise my
hands outward, and I am healed.
When a voice comes
which tells me I am now
the angel of death, and the
watcher in the eternity
that is time, wandering 
the earth.

The screams of both Jesus,
and his murderers the Romans
now a distant sound & memory
in a world without messiahs
or miracles to amaze us.
Only questions
which remain unanswered.


You reach inside

Your guts and you

Pull out

A fuzzy bunny.

You reach inside

You’re soul and worse

Yet you pull out

A teletubbie.

The image

In your mind appears,

the voices speak.

You’re probably insane.

And you wonder;

Has this ever happened

To Whitman? Dickinson

Or Frost?

Probably not.

But then again,

They didn’t have


As good

As ours.

More …

Literature  R.M. Engelhardt

Poems In Retort Magazine

OCCUPY THE WORD… Poetry At The UAG On 01.16.2012

Poetry At The UAG!

On Monday, JANUARY 16th the Saint Poem Reading Series will be holding a special event for all those who have poems they would like to share concerning politics, wall street and the current state of the world and America! Poets & Musicians Welcome!

What do you have to say? 


7.30PM Sign Up, 8PM Start. Hosted By R.M. Engelhardt.

$4.00 Donation Requested To Support The Guild.


Outside The Box : Article~Poems 2009

R.M. Engelhardt Albany, NY

The World According To Poetry

September 3, 2009


If poetry can represent something meaningful, it is in the way it presents us shared and divergent perceptions of life and the world around us. In “The World according to Poetry” I will present you every fortnight a specific poet who can sway your body and soul, bring you to the depths of knowledge and perception and raise you to the heights of pure beauty and recognition. Where minds can meet as one, where souls can be touched, where bodies can utter emotion and where the spirit can long at last. I present you …

R.M. Engelhardt: the angel from below.

One poet, a world of visions. Dark from above, brilliant from below, haunting yet hopeful … Ten poems from the bottom of the heart and mind … let his poetry speak to you, it will tell you more than I can say.




In the bar
The doors are closing
It’s time to leave.

It’s cold outside,
The bright red eyes & wasted lines,
Wasted lyrics.

And the sight of daylight,
The empty streets
That remind us & annihilate
We, the subjects of loneliness
Lost in zero-land.

The night before
Seeking warm machines
With engines & hearts unseen,
That something to believe in
Or dream about

Beyond all these places.

Like a movie in the 1980′s
Where boy meets girl
Girl chooses boy
Over the vast amount of
Jocks and pretend beings.

You, now far away
From zero-land
The only kid left
With a soul.

Thinking about fate & destination,
Thinking about that one

That only one, that kissed you

And got away.

Like a movie in the 1980′s.

Lost in zero-land
The scent of her perfume still

20 Years later.



In constant touch. Constant motion constant sleep. In constant contact constantly,
our worlds all separate and yet all connected at once, for … and against. Love that’s not love, friends who are not friends, souls that are not souls. All of these, our lives unauthentic and those which devour the human heart incessant. NOTE: This communication is now dead, mechanical … DO NOT RESURRECT OR RESUSCITATE. Days long past long ago when humans could once speak, words mattered FEEL . What words would you say? Sorry? Goodbye? This is a simulation and not a dress rehearsal for pain meaning “FUCK YOU ! FUCK OFF! . You don’t hear ANYTHING very well now do you ?”,Received by mail delivery system network information I love you I hate you I need you I want you FUCK OFF! You don’t hear ANYTHING very well DID YOU THINK I WAS FUCKING KIDDING???? You obviously don’t fucking know ME very well now DO YOU. YOU now only a simulation and not a dress rehearsal for pain. “I am in struggle with responding to you as I have been from the first contact you made recently”. “Feelings I’d not allowed myself or had with anyone other than two others in my lifetime”. we can not talk, we should talk. I can not handle it. I wish it were different, I want to see you. The Tower card suggests that your relationship may be in crisis, and this is your wake-up call. You can’t go on fooling yourself any longer, and if you don’t break up, you will. “You don’t hear ANYTHING very well now do you”?

Frozen in time, unwanted & untrue. Sender unknown.


I’ll be happy being my responsible self doing the things I love, taking care of myself, and my responsibilities and not having to worry about anyone else in my life and I can be whole again. it is freeing to me to know that I can just be without expectation of myself or anyone else.

It is freeing to me to know that I can just be without expectation of myself or anyone else.

I’ll be happy being my responsible self doing the things I love
it is freeing to me to know that I can just be without expectation of myself or anyone else.

I’ll be happy being my responsible self doing the things I love
it is freeing to me to know that I can just be without expectation of myself or anyone else.

It is freeing …



In thy breaking heart, obscured,
Silent whereas no one
Gives a “shit.”

Whereas a single voice or one still moment in
its measure linger,
This message, “unreceived.”

Where no amount of time, wine-roses or memories can heal.
As human falls, fails broken, out of reason.
Long letters written, months recorded days, photographs and longings,

And unrelenting dreams.

The cold earth, this cold world
Which still compels,
The embodiment or abandonment, of spirit.

Where all of your magnificent angels have flown, and have now fallen below,

To the pavement.

Love, no longer a poem but only a word,
Too slow to process.

Poet, out of time place and season.
Century… Here.

In thy soul, thy breaking heart obscured, silent.
Whereas no one gives a “shit.”

Etc Etc.Etc.

This message “unreceived.”



Within you
The celestial bodies


And the eye opens
What the heart conceals.

Travel by thought,
Destination unknown.

Beyond all gravity

The Surface.

Is this just
All a dream?

A vision?


Catharsis: In 4 Parts :


She is waiting.

You dream in syllabus, questions. And see the lines that others cannot.
And you waltz across the dance floor of the world with verses…and wit. For this moment
Is honest, simple. But does not truly exist, or last




Words, meanings leave & return. Like a dream that you cannot fully comprehend, or
Remember…”touch” . For she is loyal to no one. No man or woman. And always comes and goes as she pleases. Take’s what’s there, and takes what she wants. Or even, what’s just left inside. Alone in an empty room at 2am, you light up another cigarette and merely wait… for her to return.

Like a lover, like a ghost who you’ve never really known. She loves you; she loves you not, but just might care. And when the light of the next morning comes up, and shines thru your windows, you open up your eyes to find her standing there, over you. Waking you gently and with a smile she says “Hey baby… I missed you” And then she tells you more of her beautiful lies. Lines … as always from the start. And even if you leave her she will always find you again. Look for you in a crowded bar or passing you on the street as you walk to work, or even… in your sleep.


Dear Reader;

So let me tell you a story, write you another poem. Because this is what I do, do well and do best. Give me another day, another reason. Give you another reason to smile, or laugh, or just make it through again. Just one more moment. So that you don’t lose hope. Inter-connected as we are no longer mere strangers. Lives, experience & hearts. Because this is what I do, and do best. And there is nothing else worth doing, save this.


So am I the only one who sees her?

There she is.

She’s beautiful and sitting in the back at the show or at the poetry open mic.
Smiling at you from one of the seats. And after you read she has something more to tell you. She wants to take you aside and “Whisper” those words in your ear.

And even after you try as you may to ignore her. She just stands there, one hand upon her hip, looks at you and says;

“This isn’t over darling” “Not by a long-shot”

“You’ll come back to me, you’ll see”

Because you need me.

I know … You need me.


And now alas yet another poem from my destructions,

You, witness to and here in new flesh and new skin.

The skin of hero, the skin of snake, the skin of monster, the skin of saint all

Gradually and eventually shedding piece by piece living and dying and

Reinventing the world. Poems, photographs, enemies and the catastrophes

Which perish into the void. Paper, undigested words, mute horses and mad

Nostalgic whores, all reality deficient and nocturnally deaf to the unpure beating heart of man and muse. Reason-religion-idealism-theory …and shit.

The perfect and critical butt-flight of monkeys and the cacophony of idle

Crows who sit upon the fences of eternity passing judgment upon our souls

Until we give in…to emptiness.

But let them all know this;
That Jesus came unabridged with two fish and a loaf of bread, more a poet

Than a precise carpenter and he fed multitudes…

“With hope”


Poet & writer R.M. Engelhardt has published several books over the last decade including Nod~Logos~Alchemy~The Last Cigarette: The Collected Poems of R.M. Engelhardt & others. His current experimental book of poetry & prose is called “Versus”. His work has also been published by many journals both in print including Retort, Verve, Industrial Nation, Sure! The Charles Bukowski Newsletter, Copious Amounts, Thunder Sandwich, The Angry Poet, Zygote In My Coffee, Full of Crow & many others. R.M. currently lives in Albany, NY

(C) R.M. Engelhardt

Outside The Box : Article~Poems 2009

Shakespeare, The Debate Continues …

Shakespeare Debate

It is a great comfort, to my way of thinking,” Charles Dickens wrote in 1847, “that so little is known concerning the poet. The life of Shakespeare is a fine mystery and I tremble every day lest something should turn up.”

“Is it not strange,” wrote Ralph Waldo Emerson in his journals, “that the transcendent men, Homer, Plato, Shakespeare, confessedly unrivalled, should have questions of identity and of genuineness raised respecting their writings?”

Strange, indeed. And not everyone has taken comfort, as Dickens did, from the paucity of information about the life and literary career of William Shakespeare of Stratford-upon-Avon, considered by many the greatest writer in the English, or any, language. Henry James, the great American novelist, confessed, “I’m haunted by the conviction that the divine William is the biggest and most successful fraud ever practised on a patient world.”

In “Much Ado About Something,” Australian filmmaker and veteran FRONTLINE producer Michael Rubbo plunges gamely into the longrunning debate over the authorship of Shakespeare’s plays, picking up the trail of Christopher Marlowe — the 16th-century English playwright, poet, and spy who some believe was the author. Born in 1564, the same year as Shakespeare, Marlowe was at the height of his literary career in 1593 — having authored such plays as TamburlaineDoctor Faustus, and The Jew of Malta — when he was apparently killed in a “brawl” over a tavern bill. But Marlowe’s death, on closer examination, is cloaked in mystery, and some “Marlovians” insist that the playwright lived to write another day — under the name of Shakespeare.

Rubbo takes viewers across England and to Italy, the setting of some of Shakespeare’s greatest plays, in his quest to unravel the puzzle. Along the way he seeks out some of Britain’s most respected Shakespearean scholars — including Prof. Jonathan Bate, author of The Genius of Shakespeare (1997); Prof. Andrew Gurr, director of research at Shakespeare’s Globe theater in London; and Prof. Stanley Wells, general editor of the Oxford edition of Shakespeare — and talks to a number of prominent Marlovians, including the late Dolly Walker-Wraight (who died in March 2002, shortly after the film’s completion) and various amateur scholars who have built a case for Kit (as Marlowe was also known).

Rubbo, intrigued by the mystery and the arguments for Marlowe, ultimately finds that there is insufficient evidence, on either side, to support a conclusive answer to this tantalizing authorship question. As the actor Mark Rylance, artistic director of Shakespeare’s Globe theater, tells Rubbo, “The only rational response at the moment is to say that it has to be an open question, at least. It really has to be an open question, on the evidence.” What we’re left with, as in so many historical mysteries, is speculation. And yet, admits Rylance, “Whoever it is … it would take a lot to convince me now that it was the Stratford man by himself.”

· · Related Features:

· Quiz: Are Thou Learned?
Ten true-or-false questions to test your knowledge of the Shakespeare authorship debate.

· Debating Points
Michael Rubbo responds to six commonly asked questions about the Stratford man’s claim to authorship.

· Marlowe: What (Little) We Know
A brief look at what’s known about the life of Christopher Marlowe, and the competing theories of how, why — or whether — Marlowe died in 1593.

· The Reckoning Revisited
Michael Rubbo responds to Charles Nicholl’s revised edition of The Reckoning: The Murder of Christopher Marlowe.

· The Authorship Question

Christopher Marlowe, of course, is not the first candidate to be put forward as the “true author” of Shakespeare’s works. The “Authorship Question,” as it has come to be known, dates at least as far back as 1857, when Delia Bacon, an American woman, published a book arguing that Sir Francis Bacon, the great Elizabethan philosopher, was the author. (Delia was no relation to Sir Francis, although it seems she became confused on that matter late in her life and was committed to an asylum near Stratford after trying to open Shakespeare’s tomb.)

Mark Twain was another, perhaps saner, proponent of Bacon, and his book Is Shakespeare Dead? may be one of the most entertaining, if not the most convincing, of contributions on the subject. (The full text of the book is available online here.) Like other Baconians, Twain felt that literature of such great learning and wisdom could not possibly have been written by a two-bit actor with a provincial grammar school education at best, about whose life almost nothing has come down to us. The plays are full of philosophy and reveal considerable knowledge of the law; Bacon was not only a philosopher but the greatest legal mind of the age. Twain concludes that he cannot say for certain who wrote the plays, but says that he is “quite composedly and contentedly sure that Shakespeare didn’t,” and “strongly suspects that Bacon did.”

Thus is a pattern established, whereby the Stratford man’s qualifications to be the author are questioned — and found sorely lacking by the so-called “unorthodox” or “anti-Stratfordians” — and the case for an alternative author is made. John Michell, in his book Who Wrote Shakespeare?, has surveyed the field of candidates and their advocates. “It’s a great mystery,” he tells Rubbo at the outset of “Much Ado About Something,” standing in front of an entire bookcase on the subject in his London flat. “It’s a delightful mystery, too, because it takes you into very beautiful territory, the 16th-century mind.”

Michell is quick to add that there are still plenty of people, known as Stratfordians, who cannot accept any author but William Shakespeare of Stratford. “They’re believers, too,” Michell stresses. “Because of all the candidates, possibly Shakespeare, the man from Stratford, is the weakest.”

How can that be? Consider the questions anti-Stratfordians ask, and which Stratfordians cannot seem to answer to everyone’s satisfaction. Aside from the question of his iffy education, why is there so little concrete evidence that the Stratford man was even a writer? We have no manuscripts, no letters, not even a record that he was ever paid to write. Why did his death go virtually unremarked, when it was typical for the famous writers of the day to be publicly mourned and eulogized? How could a country lad, who never travelled (that we know) outside of England, have written so vividly of Italian cities and life? These are just a few of the questions raised by anti-Stratfordians. (See Michael Rubbo’s responses to standard Stratfordian answers to some of these puzzling questions.)

The most popular candidate in our own time is undoubtedly Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford. In 1989, FRONTLINE’s “The Shakespeare Mystery” examined the case made by de Vere’s devotees, known as Oxfordians. The thrust of the Oxford case is that the plays of Shakespeare reveal an aristocratic sensibility, an intimate familiarity with the life and manners of the court, and a level of education and worldly experience that would seem beyond a barely educated commoner. Oxford was a poet and playwright himself, but as an aristocrat he could not sully his name by writing for the public stage, and so wrote under a pseudonym, the theory goes, allowing the actor from Stratford to play the part of author. (FRONTLINE’s website for “The Shakespeare Mystery” contains a collection of readings on the Stratford-Oxford debate.)

The fact that Oxford died in 1604, before such masterpieces as MacBethAntony and Cleopatra, and The Tempest are generally accepted to have been written, has never been conclusively explained by Oxfordians. But a recent doctoral dissertation, successfully defended at the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, examining uncanny correspondences between de Vere’s copy of the Geneva Bible and Biblical references in Shakespeare’s plays, has added new fuel to the Oxfordian fire.

· The Case for Marlowe

So what got Michael Rubbo interested in the case for Christopher Marlowe? As he tells the actor Mark Rylance, “I read Calvin Hoffman’s book and I was shocked. Profoundly shocked.” Rylance, sitting on the stage of the Globe as Rubbo interviews him, nods knowingly.

Calvin Hoffman’s book, a kind of underground classic, is The Murder of the Man Who Was “Shakespeare,” published in the United States in 1955 and now long out of print. (Read Hoffman’s introduction to the book.) Hoffman — a Broadway press agent, amateur historian, and sometime writer who died in the late 1980s — spent 30 years trying to prove that Marlowe was in fact the author of Shakespeare’s works.

Hoffman’s theory, which is credited with launching the modern case for Marlowe, rests on his belief that Marlowe — known by historians to have been a spy in Elizabeth I’s secret service — did not die in 1593 in Deptford, on the banks of the Thames, but faked his own death and fled England to escape the notorious Star Chamber, Protestant England’s equivalent of the Inquisition. (Marlowe was said to espouse “atheistic” views, a serious charge in those days.) Hoffman believed Marlowe fled to Italy, where his artistic development accelerated amidst the late Italian Renaissance. Indeed, it was in Italy, some Marlovians say, that Marlowe wrote his masterpieces, which he then sent back to his patron in England, Sir Thomas Walsingham, cousin of Sir Francis Walsingham, Elizabeth’s spy master. After having the works recopied in another hand, Walsingham then passed the plays on to a convenient front man — the actor William Shakespeare — who brought them to the stage. In 1984 he obtained permission to open the Walsingham tomb in a small church in Kent, hoping to find a box of play scripts that would prove his case. He found nothing, but continued to defend his theory.

As Hoffman relates at the outset of his book, he first began to suspect that Marlowe was the author when he noticed striking similarities between Marlowe’s works and those attributed to Shakespeare. After comparing Shakespeare’s and Marlowe’s works, Hoffman claimed to have uncovered hundreds of “parallelisms”: lines and passages from Marlowe’s plays and poems that are echoed, if not quoted verbatim, in Shakespeare’s.

For example, Marlowe’s play Tamburlaine contains the lines, “Holla, ye pampered jades of Asia./ What, can ye draw but twenty miles a day?” Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part II has it thus: “And hollow pampered jades of Asia,/ which cannot go but thirty miles a day.” Hoffman painstakingly compiled 30 pages of such parallelisms (Watch a video excerpt from “Much Ado About Something,” in which two actors trade lines of Marlowe and Shakespeare.)

Shakespeare’s supporters, however, dismiss such similarities as proof only that the Bard borrowed rather liberally from his contemporaries. As Jonathan Bate tells Rubbo, “What Hoffman noticed is that there are lots of phrases and ideas in Shakespeare’s plays that are derived from Marlowe. But I think we now see that Shakespeare was snapping up lines and ideas from all sorts of different sources, and it’s not remotely surprising that he should have borrowed a lot, stolen, indeed, from the greatest dramatist of his youth.”

Stratfordians also point out differences in the two playwrights’ styles. “Marlowe is more conspicuous as an innovator,” says Prof. Andrew Gurr. “He was really radical. Shakespeare was much more slow moving in terms of his innovation.” And Bate contends that Marlowe was deficient in some aspects of playwriting in which Shakespeare excelled. “[Marlowe] wasn’t able to write for women, and he wasn’t able to write comedy,” he says. “Shakespeare did those things consummately.”

Marlovians, however, attribute these differences to the natural maturation that would have occurred in Marlowe’s writing had he fled England and continued his career in Italy. “Think of Picasso — think of his Blue Period and what he painted before [that],” says Marlovian Dolly Walker-Wraight. “You would not think it was the same painter, would you?”

In the documentary, Michael Rubbo offers this variation on the Marlowe theory: “Imagine that we hear two voices in the plays. One’s the high voice; this is Marlowe. The other voice, the lower voice, that’s Shakespeare. So they become writing partners, with Marlowe providing the learning and the great themes. And Shakespeare [providing] the heart and soul of Merry England.”

What Marlovians are missing, Shakespeare supporters say, is solid proof that Marlowe lived beyond that day in Deptford in 1593. “There is no evidence whatsoever that Marlowe wasn’t murdered,” says Charles Nicholl, author of The Reckoning: The Murder of Christopher Marlowe. “And there’s a lot of evidence that he was killed.” Nicholl’s account of how and why Marlowe died has recently been revised. In a newly published edition of The Reckoning, he abandons his theory that Marlowe was caught in a factional fight between the powerful Earl of Essex and Sir Walter Ralegh, now favoring an explanation in which Thomas Drury, another figure of the Elizabethan spy world, set Marlowe up. (Michael Rubbo reacts to Nicholl’s new theory here on FRONTLINE’s website. For another take on Marlowe’s death, see “The Killing of Christopher Marlowe,” by Prof. David Riggs of Stanford University.)

· Myth and Mother’s Milk

“The English take in Shakespeare with their mother’s milk,” says Susan Hunt, the Stratfordian wife of Canterbury bookseller John Hunt, a Marlovian interviewed by Rubbo. “We love him.” But is it the man they love, or the immortal words of the plays and poems?

The late Walker-Wraight had no reservations about knocking the Stratford man off his literary pedestal. “Our culture thrives on myths,” Wraight concluded in her book, The Story that the Sonnets Tell. “It is entirely appropriate that the man we have revered for 400 years … should have been, in essence, a myth.” But to Walker-Wraight, it was all-important that the myth be dispelled, and that the true author, Christopher Marlowe, be given his rightful and long-overdue recognition.

Still, there is yet another way of looking at the question. As Harvard University’s Marjorie Garber suggests, in a Web-exclusive FRONTLINE forum on what’s at stake in the authorship question, if we learn too much about who “Shakespeare” really was, we risk losing something central to our culture. “In order to keep the ideal of Shakespeare,” Garber says, “as the playwright beyond play writing — the author beyond authorship, the poet who knows us all — we need, in a way, not to know him.”

Like Dickens, it seems, there are those who prefer the mystery, whether they tremble or not.

Read more:

Shakespeare, The Debate Continues …

In The Church Of Coffee & Smokes …

coffee smokes R.M. Engelhardt


“And now,

Let us all pray”


Does anybody
Have a cigarette?

Let’s all talk about your day,
Light up simultaneously.

Oh Lord,
I need more sugar
In my coffee

And not that artificial 


One on one,
Let’s all talk about
All of your sins,


No hail Mary’s, no regrets
For our God only demands
More cigarettes.

And that you light up 
And get happily caffeinated
So that all, will be “forgiven”

Does anybody have another cigarette?

He hears your prayers
So pray, to Saint Marlboro
And they shall all be answered

More coffee?

More taxes?

More bullshit from the masses?

This religion, is getting damn expensive




In The Church Of Coffee & Smokes …