Dreary meadows... empty halls...



I soak myself in candle light...



I wash away my form of wax..



In your tears i find comfort...





Bathing in your mind.. makes me relax...



Ravenously devouring your memories....





I am the creeping dark around the corner...



A future distorted, a past discorded...



your present state in turmoil....



Tumbling further into depravity...



A shadowy fragment of what once was you...



Dripping, gaping maws. Elongated fangs laid bare...



Rend sinew and tissue....



Gnawing violently your rotting tongue....



Venom seeps out of every orifice...



As you transpire myself from you



and dress your misery in flesh and blood...



While your sight evaporates...



I roll my eyes out of sheer boredom



Your frail waxen form.. melting in the heat of my hands...



Dripping in dead puddles of discomfort...



Your sorrow festers like mould on corpses....





And on that faithful day you gave birth to me...



You gave me my name.....



When you look in the mirror you will always see...



You will whisper my name...



Melancholy..

Sing me your street light lullabies.
The discorded harmonies
Of light that speaks unease.
Wipe the concrete ash from your hands
Fill your pockets full of posies
Of cricket song and tree creaking in lament
Intone the notes that pass my lips
And taste them with yours.
There is an intimacy in this distance
A space filled with questions
Tangled over each other
Unanswered.

And for that second when your genes mashed up, that boy was blank
A clean canvas, a selfless portrait, a plane with no industry, who he was for eternity.
Revolutions from within me burst like a bipolar hormonal abomination
Of catastrophic cacophony and discorded anguish, sunlit by the good times
And slightly obscured through tired, teary eyes...
All to be swallowed back into the abysmal sinful cesspool of simple
Cyclical cynical shriveled up and seemingly plentiful
EMPTINESS, where I'm inevitably spit.

Dreaming? Floating in sarcasm, feigning a figure
Shivering with the bonechill that is the outside world
Can't quite remember the last time I woke up or why
Everything is a bit too bright for me to focus correctly...
A bit jittery, a bit sluggish, all suspicious, subtly vicious
Listless and without bliss and sunkissed and unmissed
******* and ******, no goals, don't even have an interest
These troubling times are demonized, where's the exorcist?

Soft ripples in the air bless my ears with wet lips
The pulse setting hammers me into the ground in steaming silence
Some people go their whole lives without ever hearing the call
Hedonism and nihilism are more attractive to us all.
Dust devils spinning in an empty chest cavity
Throwing themselves over mountains in shame
Whisper in harmony to me to be nobody
Go through my life without playing the game...

Pick through these bones, you'll find grey hair and utility bills
Whether you live in South Central or Beverly Hills
You're beginning to see that we're all alone and desperate
Searching for that person we can stare in the eyes and say,
"I'm just like you. You are a part of me. I want to **** you. I want you to be me.
I love you, I need you, and if you dare go, I will bleed myself blue."
I want to shed every wall, I want to quit hiding behind words
Let the arrows rain and shadows lift to confine me in this verse.

the lean stammer of long balking ***
froths diligently on my lady's bones
and it plastics a largeness heading
southern sea to lake and fire perpendicular
unraveling senses. a mire of spitted
tongues or saliva all a laminating
her magic gaggle of crumbling...
***** and notch; twin ecstatic jumbled
notes in discorded unity of tentative
lips... mymy
mym
     y
my     my mymym

                                  y
my yoke, my egg, my scorpion. ***** me quickly venom

   i'll a                       sprung!

I am driving home under the melancholy grey sky that reminds you of the empty spaces in your chest. Sickly yellow street lamps are coming on, one by one, highlighting the potholes and cracks in the road. I can't help but picture what it might have looked like in the 60's. The still all American heartland town, when the rusted buildings were new and shining, when the once grand houses had fresh paint, well manicured yards, un-littered by fake deer and old tires. I remember old news papers from estate sale boxes, pictures of women in smart dresses with cinched waists, sitting prettily in the society section. They are probably dead now. Buried in the cemetery on a hill that overlooks the city, and down onto the tiny matchbox houses now boarded up or falling into disrepair. Still yet it seems maybe it was never new. There was always the dust, the smudge, the ghostly fog on old mirrors. I wonder how it will continue, or if it will at all, perpetually rise and fall, as all things do, or simply fall, the lifeblood of youth trickling out and down the freeway, or soaking into the already saturated ground.
     Hopeless seems so dark a word, but the truth was never pretty, was it? Perhaps, here, is the hardness of truth, in its grit, its blood. The pebbles that stick in your palms and skinned knees. They once said the depressed were the most realistic of us all, that it was the perpetual state of the human mind-- everyone else in optimistic denial. I was inclined to believe them. Our rose colored glasses taint the world cotton-candy pink while E-flat minor and discorded harmonies echo somewhere in the mountains, longing, hard, sad.
     What haunts you? I want to ask the old rail road tracks. Who died here? I say to the gaping cinder block house. Do you remember what laughter sounds like? I know you remember the bark of dogs, the screech of tires, gunshots or fireworks, who can tell. Dust the memories off the way we dusted sawdust and insulation from the boxes in the hoarder's attic-- find them suspended just the way you left them, open the room-- unchanged since the children left. The toys lie on the floor where they fell from small hands. The safest memories are the ones unremembered. The more they are recalled the more corrupted they become till we are painting our own picture all over again, and we are Van Gogh on a rainy night. Is that what happened? You remembered them all too often. You stared at the sun till you were blind and wondered why you could not see the stars. Yes, that must be it. You clutched those slips of laughter so greedily-- recalled them again and again until they faded, till now you hear nothing but the wind, and cough nothing but ashes.

do you follow rainbows to the end of the road
and pretend they end with a screech of the breaks
or perhaps you miss the train and convince yourself that
you were on the wrong platform or you were there just
waving someone goodbye
do you receive flowers from people you never loved
and your ‘thank you’ is the discorded key of a piano
in the middle of a concert
do you make someone cry and comforting them is a trembling hand
a surgeon never shows the world
do you etcetera your list of to do’s into a painted oblivion
and never ever want to admit
that your blues are not just a shade of angry skies
do you talk too much so you can never hear
the voice of your loneliness
bouncing of the walls of your room
in a ping pong motion
do you read tones of recommended books
to help you catch another day
while tomorrow comes and discards you into yesterday
without a word of apology
do you stumble across true love and wish you broke a leg
rather than a heart

do you think this poem is nothing to do with you

for muna

my dear one, I have learnt this;
that even hills crumble
and a path surfaces
where once there was no way;
it is called a miracle

do you know that life
is in two shades of paradoxes
every event carries a parallel lesson,
every shadow is cast by an adjacent light,
that these pains you feel
are a consequence of the advent of healing,

in the evenings when the setting sun casts silhouettes
upon our views,
it is the knowledge from within
that assures us of our intact wonders,
that we are more than we seem

we are lanterns
the light in us only needs the oil of belief to glow..

you are on a journey,
you may seem discorded,
everything may seem like an entropy,
you may seem to have lost your grip,
you may be lost,
everything may seem so dark now,
but remember your light,
the one that lives in you,
remember belief is the axe that breaks the dormancy of it,

darling,
breathe and believe
and let the seed of your light germinate
into the dawn of discoveries,
for nothing is hidden from the eyes of light,

for when you become light,
all that you seek shall come
rushing to you like nocturnals.

You've been discorded,

but you are no enemy of mine,

for we are one in this battle;

the violent dance of

harmony.

.                                         *
                                          ^
                                         /  \
                                        /    \
              IS THERE A SCHISM BETWEEN
              YOUR BIGOTRY BIAS AND ISM.
                 DON’T LECTURE ME AGAIN
            ABOUT ****** DISCRIMINATION
               ALIENATION OR SEPERATION
              CHAUVINISM EVEN RACIALISM.
        DETACH YOUR DISCORDED DISUNION
     YOUR PREJUDICED INTOLERANCE FROM
           PAIN THE RAIN THAT POURS FROM
                                  ISRAHELL
                                       ON
                                     GAZA.

Starting with the simple root,
Feeding nutrients out of my surrounding,
The sprout shot up
In its unorthodox ways.
Darkness choked out any light,
The faint rays peeking through
Only on occasion
So that sound became a primary sense,
Feeding my mentality with every discorded beat.
And the more I heard it,
And the farther I sank,
The more I understood
Until finally,
The broken tones
Became what used to be me -
Or what used to be living.