'I want to eat you,' he said with his eyes closed.
'Why?' Still, even though she was afraid-unfathomably afraid, she was infatuated with him; this creature so terrifyingly comely that she was sometimes scared of it-she could not then help peering into his bright face; its exquisite whiteness was dauntingly mysterious, but again full of indecipherable words-just like a dangerously emotionless sea; which could but turn tempestuous in the course of just one shadowy second.
'You're simply too tempting to me,' he replied after what seemingly very careful thinking; this time with his lips coming nearer to hers, until his breath she could see emanate in bold wreaths of white, pearly bits; bits of ice-lifeless, and tender whilst in handfuls, but at times heartless with their cold souls.
She reflected on the answer for a while, then slowly formed a thoughtful smile around her lips. 'Then where would I be, if you ate me?'
'Within my soul, my blood, and all the length, mirth, and the very crown of my heart,' he uttered the last two words confidently, before further lurching straightly forward to bestow a playful kiss on her trembling lips.
'Ah, but still it won't be the same, my love,' she cupped his cheeks with her cold hands and whispered to him quietly, when they finally pulled away. 'I would no longer be here by your side. And as you have but stated before, you surely like having me here alive better than dead, don't you?' She let out a deep breath, and showed a flirtatious grin so captivating that he wanted to kiss her once more. And possibly mesmerize her. Startle her. Eat her. Partake of her. Consume her. Conquer her. Possess her. Tear her. Tear her apart. Tear all her senses apart. Break her up. Break her body up. Break it up into nothingness. Until she was nothing. Entirely nothing. No more of anything of herself but what he had. Nothing but what he owned. And secretly desired. And had always longed for. Nothing but he possessed; and treasured within his very body; and its very own capricious cells. But still eventually, be her everything; or simply, be everything to her. Be everything she ever wanted. Everything she desired. Everything she wished. Everything she, with all her human weaknesses, ever eagerly wanted him to be. Or to do.
'Don't worry, still it will be the same,' he caressed her hair with his free right hand and kissed it. And when she became puzzled by this tauntingly obscure remark, he explained, 'It will still indeed be the same, and will forever be the same, because you will dwell within me, and thus within my heart will be carved your name. So that you're the sole torch that keeps my flame. And the mere lamp that lights my soul. The medicine that heals my wounds. The very deeds of my desires. All the merriment of my days. And the very light that is thrown onto my ways.' He stopped and sighed for a while, before continuing, 'Thus, on top of all that, you will still own the same brand of addiction-to which my entire being is addicted to. Really addicted to. Incurably addicted to-as I will never be able to continue to live without it. I will prefer death, and cherishing a gruesome life among the dead, to having you not within my being-just like I will be if I ever consume you not. So within me,' he took her hand and pressed it against his chest, 'there shall be nothing but satisfaction,'-he stepped closer into where she was standing, 'with having you within me; so your soul shall blend, and merge but perfectly into mine, querida. And such is an occurrence I shall never regret; even if I eventually have to eat you.' Having proposed these last two words, he closed his eyes again; before launching his body right onto hers, and this time missing not planting his fangs onto her shoulder.

Birds in cages are immortalized in poetry,
in wordy melancholy and round top cages beside
windows tauntingly open to the mountains, the
earthy smell of wheat and the breezy ocean air.
Hundreds of perturbed human eyes press close against brass,
mooning with open mouths and dry lips
cooing baby-talk bird-calls in hope of a
crying return, like a blessing,
or a soft forgiveness.

Outside,
Lovebirds are doves and songbirds.
They commune with owls and storks
and perch on branches, all the better to coo
and cry to the loving, glowing moon.

Anger, jealousy, and fright are all stones. They are heavy
and they have no place in the bellies of skybirds.
Caged birds have jealousy and clipped wings,
brass bars bent into tiny atmospheres, but canaries
carry bile in their beaks, beady black eyes watching
changing seasons with singing spite.

I am and have always been a swallow,
all creamy white belly and a thousand
creeping kinds of brown.
I wish to stay up, up for a thousand hours
in the realm of thought. In your thoughts,
I wish to be the voice whispering stories to you
from inside your precious head, curved
lovingly above me like an unending sky.
I am wings and feathers and I am full of things
that I desire much much more than air.

staying up late just thinking of all the could-beens and should-beens that could and should have been us.

what if we'd tried a little harder? persisted a little longer? held on to each other as tightly as we should have?
would you be by my side then, instead of the empty void staring tauntingly back at me?
would our hands be clasped together, interwoven,
your eyes that once bored right back into the back of mind haunting me wherever i would go,
your touch tattooed into the skin of my palms as they once were?

what if i hadn't let go?
what if i'd learnt fate's cruel lesson that
possessing the trait of fickleness never awarded anything but everything slipping past, earlier?
would you be willing to stay with me then, and forgive me for all the wrongdoings that i would inevitably cause?
would we have ever evolved into more than just an idealized dream drawn from a fragmented memory,
the idea of an irrevocable love that despite having been mulled over for what would've seemed like an eternity,
has never seen the light of reality before?

then again, everything does appear only better when it's all in your head.
when i can still pretend that you are who i expect you to be,
and i may be accepted for who i am truly,
excess baggage of unneeded insecurities and imperfections weighing me down and all.

is it better to be cleanly rejected or to be
torn down bit by bit,
night by night,
spent just staring at a blank screen and waiting,
hovering over imperishably,
pure naive hope fuelling the drive to continue delaying the inexorable?
foolishly believing that crossed fingers and
any lingering feelings that hadn't yet been sieved away by the
jaded culture we exist and drown in today
would perhaps, even if accidentally,
as if out of a fairytale that i starkly don't belong to,
send me a text back?

As you sit to look at your calendar,
Something once overflowing,
Is now becoming more and more
Tauntingly blank.

In a place between the end of something
And the start of the next thing
Stuck in what feels like a hiatus

As you sit to look at your calendar,
Something once overflowing,
Is now becoming more and more
Tauntingly blank.

In a place between the end of something
And the start of the next thing
Stuck in what feels like a hiatus

Bit by bit,
Your calendar starts to fill again
This time it fills with things for you
You and only you

Your calendar,
It has more white than before
But now the white looks like snow
Instead of the ice from before.

It was not really thee
bards of the ages
who inspired me
but of your wages
I shall purloin lithe lines
to add to the meager confines
of my tailored tale

nineteen
green
inside and out
not knowing when I would be ripe
cramming all the ammo clips I could find
into my fresh jungle fatigues
he
the sage of 2nd platoon
told me of the frightful night
when
in the midst of a hellish firefight
he reached for more clips
and found only the remnants of chips
tasty morsels when first consumed
but then a sign he was doomed
“NO MORE AMMO—****”
he sunk even lower into the carpet of night
but to his ironic delight
“the **** that was shooting at me ran out of ammo too”
after exchanging an infinite stare
both fled into the ebony air
the moral of his twice told fable
grab all the ammo clips you are able

and the sage from 1st platoon said,
one night when our brains were brimming with beer
that a full bladder was also something to fear
for being distracted by the urge to ****
could perhaps be the reason we would miss
“some **** slithering through the black grass,
and that, my friends, could mean your ***”

so their caveats did not fall on deaf ears
although
they were filtered by my too few reckless years
yet, I snatched all the clips I could carry
on my 140 pounds of nineteen
and took not one sip from my canteen

others words bounced around my crowded skull
some were from rapier wit and others were dull
but the ones to which I would listen
were the ones that gave me hope for
another day of light
after the perpetual blind night
in the land of the ******

I had learned to walk without sound
all on my own
and find a place to crouch
where not even the dead
could see me, I would briefly imagine
but they were there
permeating the dank air
with silent dirges to their demise
and me waiting with cracked open eyes
for one to come alive
and yank my young *** into some dark hole

we have always seen things in the dark
while hiding from the devil our sisters said would come
under our blankets with one eye closed and the other agape
he was coming, she would say, to get you
for being….born
sometimes, the chosen, the blessed souls,
would forget he was there
and breath calm air
and walk into the life of nineteen
with a full canteen but
not worried about a full bladder
and missing Jacob’s ladder

but those of us who came to this wicked place
could not blithely put our demons to rest
and they continued their animated fest
in the darkness our eyes could not penetrate
and our spirits could not relegate
to the silent land of the past

there could have been a dozen, live ones,
snaking their way through the grass
close enough to smell my sweat
or perhaps only one
crouched in his own woeful world
miles away through the ****** jungle
but it did not matter
for in my wordless chatter
they were all around
maybe the same ones in my childhood room
coming to thicken the gloom
with another tormented soul
who at nineteen
was afraid to drink from his canteen

I would stop seeing them
at some point
but only for a shallow breath or two
then they would be there again
and I would hear nothing
except the other sages
from those ancient pages
where my eyes followed my fingers in curious delight
far from this lethal foaming night

"Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me
the carriage held just ourselves and immortality"
"Death be not proud, though some have called thee so"
“I looked in vain for another path for my feet
but they were all too small
except the one labeled ‘Death Street’”

and other less ominous verse would take the chance
to make its way into my riddled trance,
“Nature’s first green is gold,
her hardest hue to hold
her early leaf’s a flower,
but only so an hour
then leaf subsides to leaf
so Eden sank to grief
so dawn goes down to day
nothing gold can stay”

nothing gold, nor green I would recall
and when I would lose the light lull of the verse
I would again begin to traverse
into the blind black depths in front of my eyes
and the devils would tauntingly reappear
and I would again hear
the nothingness we all share
there
in the land of the ******
with a full canteen
and an M-16
at nineteen

“CAAAAMON-CAAAMON-CAAMON-CAMON. *******. *******, YOU STUPID *******!!!!”  I slam on the brakes as the traffic light turns red, the front end of my car now parked in the middle of the intersection.  

A bunch of headlights begin to move towards me, and I rev the engine, slamming the car into reverse.   Now behind the white line, I lean back and take a few breaths.  I sound like my old man.  That nasty, fat ***** was always screaming at those useless racehorses as his soggy, limp cigar would bounce from his lips, spit landing all over the paid-in-full fakies of whatever blonde ***** was cuddled up next to him for the afternoon.  Having lost everything by the end of the day, he would always plod home and deposit his soiled, checkered pants on the laundry room floor and crawl into bed to make love to my mom.  

Ugh. I need to stop thinking about him.  I already wish I could be one of those old horses who gets shot in the head.  Today was my five-year work anniversary, and on behalf of the entire department, volcano-face Emily bestowed upon me a massive dog bone, which now sits tauntingly on my passenger seat.  As she suppressed that nasty giggle of hers and handed me the bone, the room erupted with laughter, someone shouting from the back corner, “Hey, Ed! Get it?!  You’re always like a dog with a bone!”  Maybe I should go back to work and make that ***** play fetch.

No. I’ll save that for later.  Right now I am going to go get that Philly Cheese Steak sandwich that’s been on my mind all afternoon.  That is if this light ever turns green again.  But ******* is my mouth salivating just thinking about that sandwich.  

What the hell is that?

A Ford Bronco is blazing towards the intersection, directly into oncoming traffic.  It swerves onto the shoulder, speeding past the rows of stopped cars and blasting through the red light.  The driver is leaning out the window, swinging around a sword.  He notices me staring and looks straight into my eyes, solidifying his unspoken threat by pointing his medieval weapon straight at my heart.  

Fine.  If that ******* wants a duel, I would hardly be a gentleman if I did not oblige.  I reach behind the passenger seat and grab the antique cop light that’s been gathering dust on the floor ever since I purchased it at the neighborhood thrift store.  I slap the thing on the top of my car and punch through the red light, cranking the steering wheel to make a quick u-ey.  As I gain some distance, I can just barely make out the license plate.

DR PEPR

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Dr. Pepper ignores the fact that I am only 20 feet behind him and turns up his stereo, blasting a Renaissance dance tune from hell.

I’m going to end this, and I’m going to end it by sticking that sword up that Shakespeare *******’s ***.  

Dr. Pepper slams on his brakes, the sudden jolt causing him to drop his sword.  The passengers in the back of the cab burst into a slow-motion uproar, and I take the opportunity to cut off their escape route.  Now stopped, I pull out my mocha-flavored e-cig from my front pocket and look over at my dog bone as the vapor fills the car.  I snag the bone and step outside, feeling the weight of the rawhide in my hand as I approach the truck. Not stopping to bother with the driver, I head towards the back, kicking the forgotten sword into traffic.  My clothes are bathed in red from the brake lights, and the coked-out frenzy of the Renaissance men reaches a ****** as I stand before them, looking like the devil himself.

Adrenaline is surging through me.  As I take a drag of mocha, I scan the faces of the annoying pukes in the back of the truck and locate the nastiest in the bunch sitting in the middle of his troupe, completely stiff with fear.  I look deep into his eyes and slowly exhale.  I pull one more drag as I raise the massive bone and bring it crashing down, making full contact with the left brake light.  The red shards explode into the sky, and I do not hesitate to follow up with the other break light.  Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I can’t help but swing even harder.  

Wow - what a beautiful explosion.  

“Unsheathe thy sword!  UNSHEATHE THY SWORD!”

Dr. Pepper searches frantically for his sword as I casually approach his door. “Dr. Pepper,” I say calmly. He continues to desperately ***** around the truck, so I lean forward, “DR. PEPPER.” He turns begrudgingly to look at me.  Wanting to bid farewell to my defeated adversary, I raise my right hand into a 90 degree angle and wiggle my fingers “bye-bye” in his direction. His blood-shot, brown eyes widen, and it’s clear that he is terrified that his face will be the source of my next fireworks display.  Lucky for him my stomach growls, reminding me that my quest for a Philly Cheese Steak sandwich remains unfulfilled.

I walk away, the cherry light still flashing on top my car, so I take my bone and take a hard swing, unleashing the last set of fireworks in my perfectly-directed scene.  I get in the car, and as I start the engine, the oldies station is blaring Clarence the Frogman Henry’s song, “Ain’t Got No Home”.  It’s the best part of the song, and without hesitation I begin to tap out the rhythms on my steering wheel and sing along with Clarence in that high-pitched voice of his:

“I ain’t got no sister,
I ain’t got a brother,
I ain’t got a father,
not even a mother,
I’m a lonely boy,
I ain’t got a home.
Whoo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo!
Whoo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-­woo-woo!”

some winter mornings
last through the spring,
sweeping in between wind chimes
and dusting over windowsills,
until our bodies are numb
and our minds are racing
i don't feel pain in the winter time,
pain feels me,
all curled up in the fetal position
with fuzzy socks
and war paint
at the edge of my sheets
december never stings,
it burns.
a softer,
quieter,
gentler
kind of agony
that whispers tauntingly
through the shower curtains
at 5 am and says
"why did you bother getting out of bed?"
oh and how that cold, cutting voice
gets stuck inside your head...
at least until spring takes
it's last cool breath

it lurks in a whisper
in the biting of cold breeze
it is tauntingly hollow
and fills me with unease

creeping, crawling, undetected
because of it's sly nature
sometimes i can make it go,
but it only comes back later

voices screaming in my head
"you're nothing" and it's true...
you'll never ever understand
because it hasn't happened to you

it will not be much longer
i soon will be at ease
but the stinging pain will persevere
in the biting of cold breeze.

I have very little memory of my childhood,
But I do remember grade 3
And a boy who’s name I cannot recall
The class’ clown; making the other children laugh with utter fear,
He was big and stood over me with his shaved head,
You’re a ******* idiot     He whispered tauntingly
You are the dirt on my sneakers
I never really responded to his cutting humor
Except for that cold white after noon
When that eary bell rang with urgency,
And from the corner of my eye I watched
The flocks of children running for the school
Slipping and trampling over each other
Squeezing through the doors,
While janitors buttered the doorway.
We didn’t move.
He slouched over me with his thumbs sticking out of his pockets
His scalp was raw, and cherry red.
I’m going to **** you.
I said it making sure there was enough phlegm in my throat
His face lit up with a ridiculous smile
I am going to ******* **** you
He roared with laughter, and took me by the hair
Then spat in my eye.
And if it wasn’t for my instinct to live, I would’ve stuck him
With the plastic pen I’ve been sharpening for 2 weeks
Instead I tasted the strawberry jam wedged in the crook of my mouth
Along with blood that slowly seeped through the cracks in my lips

Little does he know, I have been plagued with madness
And I will **** him
…Eventually

"c'mon! i dare you," i repeat more tauntingly than the last
and pull the trigger, he did.
the gasp i let out echoed.
he couldn't have intended on killing me, right?
that was just to make me suffer a little..
he knew how many bullets there were, right?
"right. there. i just made you suffer a little."
no biggie

The rusty car door creaks open.
Kicked it closed, but now we're trapped.
Up above, rain tauntingly quenches us;
Down below, a cliff brings sweet demise.

Two days since our food expired.
Our voices and bodies stretched thin
Tied to deflated clouds by silver lining.

The whirs of doubt tempt us to jump
And for a moment we invited death's warm embrace.
But a low growl, from stomachs and throats, and back we go.

Down our aimless journey
Frail as needles, we pierce every haystack,
Hoping above hope that we shall dine again.

Song


Intro


Your bedroom leaves you behind,

Remembering a blurry background.

You’re not in your world anymore.

Look up, look down.

Blue sky, and a green floor.

Look in between and another color

Strikes you like a knife,

And then another color, and another.

You've been stabbed by a tree.




First Verse


You're vision is the clearest it's ever been,

Each individual crease on every leaf.

The trunk is a clear brown, the browniest brown

That brings back blips of brainwork that believe to be begotten.

Crystal-like yellow leaves,

As if someone took the image

And manually added the color.

But you know it's a physical object,

You can walk around it and see the back of it,

And soon

You gain

The confidence

To touch it.


Second Verse


A pulse deep in the tree as you run your fingers across it.

As you recline yourself,

The knife turns gray

And the once eye-catching yellow

Silver leaves dance tauntingly towards another color,

A slow-moving car that tapped you on the back.

A hill overlooking a hill,

With a forest of grey trees.

You notice one is lit up,

A carbon replica of the previous chromatic timber,

And is begging for attention.







Chorus


You almost fly down the hill,

Isaac’s first helping you descend.

You alight beside the single resplendent floral,

Its chromaticity illuminating its ashen brothers.

Brush its rigid shell,

The lights fade in its core,

But analogously,

Its closest neighbor is afire,

You now understand,

You are following a circuit in the wilderness.







Third Verse


You start to gain impatience now,

You flow through the achromic forest

Touching every blush of color you see,

Following the maze of crayoned woods,

Journeying, immersing, submerging deeper

Into a blank woodland.

You soon come across something,

Hidden in the bright green grass.

A mirror, a flat, square plank

Of cooled and melted obsidian rock.

A light ray reflects off it.

You pick it up, the ray

bouncing back and forth,

And store it in your pocket.


Fourth Verse


You almost loose hope,

Not to mention interest,

About your current predicament,

But something, something about the atmosphere-

You stop.

You know to stop, just for a second,

An epiphany.

You look once, twice, three

Quick turnarounds until it glimmers in your eye.

A barely gleaming church door.

And you realize.






Chorus


You realize so intensely,

You almost can’t perform the action.

You pull out the mirror with glee,

Catch a small ray through its skin,

Aim the ray towards the door,

And you spray

The sunshine

Onto the

Door.







Second Chorus


Your mouth agape as the perfect light

Reflects onto the invisible passageway,

Causing it to enamel the door with a beautiful shade

Of orange.

You spray the door planks with your infinite atomizer,

Covering the small blotches you missed

Until you drop the mirror, turn around,

Say goodbye to the gloomy forest,

But discover an luminous explosion of color.

Each tree has awakened for your departing.

You smile, and turn around,

Pull the doors open and walk into the white.


Outro


Blurry background.

You recognize it as if you never left.

Because you didn’t really leave,

You see yourself asleep on your bed.

It’s everything you remember but just a hint

Of chromaticity is left behind the walls.

Not wanting the feeling to end,

Waiting until just the right time

To finally elope from your now distant memory

And regenerate to another adventure

In which you hope will have meaning.

In the darkest of our valleys
    By dark angels demented,
‘Twas once a regal temple -
    Serene spring - tauntingly tormented.
A Queen in her Domain,
    It stood there!
Under Lock and Chain;
    A maiden so fair!


Lavender curtains laden;
    On this Temple may flow
Along the Times of this Maiden -
    In the ****** snow.
And every gentle air in that field,
    Of Doomsday,
From the Black Rose’s shield -
    Their aroma passed away.


Witnessing this Ominous blolly;
    Through luminous windows -
Spirits sing in melancholy,
    In the malicious meadows.
Upon this throne I bore;
    A tintinnabulation of air -
Befitting glory’s chore,
    Of this realm’s affair.


With many a jewel gleaming,
    Against the Temple door -
The River’s light came beaming,
    Sparkling for evermore.
A troop of Angels; on their duty,
    At my doorbell, sing -
For the Silent beauty,
    Who burdens the King.


Then, the Reaper came,
    Along the Temple’s River -
For the distressed dame;
    And the sorrows within her quiver.
Above this temple of glory,
    Sagacious scenes bloomed -
Of the maiden’s story,
    The clergy that loomed.


Now; Within that valley -
    Through the reddened windows see,
Figures dancing delicately;
    To her disbanded melody.
The river - now a pale white,
    Is her decor,
Night’s sweetest silent fright -
    And flows - Nevermore.

Anchored at the berth
For centuries
attempting
to gracefully
Slip the mooring
A distant yesterday's whisper
Evanesced
now steadfast
As if bewitched by the galaxy
Unaware of the
contiguous
Land and liberation
Tauntingly so
rooted
Refusing to be liberated
Time and time
Unnoticed
invictus
again it slips from moon to sun
And time has stood still for so long
It has become
Interchangeable

Tick Tick Tick as the time goes by. At one point I would have believed to finally discovered how to deal with the feelings inside, to come to realization and to have come to understanding. Hiding the feelings of one’s love and tucking it to a box deep within ones heart. Becoming a mere figment of a ghost than anything to resemble what once was or might have been. Hoping only that during the next twelve months to come my judgment will have been correct. I sit now no longer on a soap box preaching right from wrong. I have been named the ******* not by choice but by status of coincidence. Trying to piece together life as it is, as I want it to be, and what it will be. We have no idea in life how things will appear before us on the path. We know only that we have each other and God above us. Yet more than once we have seen that not to be enough. As I sit in staring at the ****** knuckles of a defeated broken man only slightly realizing that man is myself. The bottle of Southern Comfort standing tauntingly on the countertop promising a relief or assurance and freedom from pain. The guilty pleasure to be had is but tempting to sin against yourself….myself. To find pleasure in solitude knowing that it will never truly make me whole. Solitude has become the hell I have wished, hoped, begged and prayed for to end. Our characters are all that we know. We will be judged equally at the end not by the words we have spoken but by our actions and deeds. I have tried so hard to move through life with ease and always failing horribly. None of the days to pass in the next few months will be easy. I am so far gone down this same road that the only thing I can do to make anything in life seem new or to bring change is to change lanes, having passed the turn- around point long ago. As much as we all look back in life and wish we could push the REDO button and relive a part of our lives to change the outcomes of life. Sometimes we don’t see how certain things are meant to be. So we try and change everything without ever letting anything play out. Hell most people would change the cereal they ate in the morning from Coco Puffs to Lucky Charms if they truly believed those delicious *** little marshmallows could have made their day better. I don’t yet know if I am included in this sentiment. All I know for sure is that every day that passes I feel a little more in the dark. I know now who the light is in my life and the only thing that makes sense to me anymore. I am unbecoming of myself to see the end of something that never fully launched. But stuck in a stalemate of temptation, happiness, guilt, and misunderstanding. Like an incurable virus are my feelings. A constant sledgehammer pounding on the walls of my heart trying to crack into what would seem an unbreakable resounding dream. What weakens me the most is not the fear or the wall to come crumbling down, nor the pain of that sledgehammer as it slams me down with truth, but simply the realization that from the light the most simplest soft spoken word is enough to turn the walls into powder blowing away as the winds of breathe that escape the lips. Frustration bleeds into my soul as I see what others have any it burns inside me. It is not jealousy towards the lost souls searching for their own way but frustration that sometimes other people have everything that others want but never seem to have and what is always out of reach. I see it everyday. I pass into the void which becomes our existence. When we throw ourselves into busting our *** at work. Others not understanding our motivation at work thinking but undeniably knowing that we must be outgoing and hard worker. Far from the truth we cry in our hearts. Where we break our bodies working out. Running so far and long the miles a blur into one long journey of escape. Hoping without hope there is a *** of gold at the end of our rainbow. I know that when the winds in the desert blow the strongest and the dust blots out the sun I will always carry a light with me. When the bullets are as thick as bees and the bombs erupting with sounds from the depths of Hell itself I will carry with me my light. I will carry my cross. I no longer care what happens in the next year of my life. But because I don’t care doesn’t mean that I don’t have my dreams and prayers. It is the very essence of these dreams that keeps me going. That fuels my soul. And one day maybe if it is the will of God, or the luck of the hand we are dealt I will come home. I don’t want any flag waving or cheering, no tears, all I want is the hug of reality. I want to come home and pick up where everything left off a year before. The sad reality is that I do not have the fortitude nor the strength inside my soul to break it into my mind and accept that everything will change. That everything has changed and continues to do so with increasing speed. I know all too well the role I am to play. The person I have to be. A man apart the world will make me…has made me. I will always remain the loving guardian no matter what the world brings down my road. Nothing but God himself could stop me. Not that as that I wouldn’t put up a fight against him as well. Some would say that blasphemous to say. I don’t see it that way. He made me what I am. I will never change. But a man apart I live. I see a day when I will become unrecognizable. When the world will call for a warrior and all I can say is God have mercy on their souls because I will not. I am tired of seeing those too naïve or too innocent to weak to stand on their own two feet against that which brings evil. Evil has no bounds. And a time will come when evil will realize that a man apart has none either. A man apart has only the love for his light. The will left only to protect it always. To bring the full terror of God down on those who would wish to dim that light. Those foolish enough to think they might try and blow out that light. God would never have let me find my way down without giving me the love that keeps me going, the hate that makes me fear nothing other than losing my light. And that no matter what happens which each passing day that I will remain a man apart able to separate war from love. And to keep that light always aflame seeking only for the betterment of what was…what might have been….what could be….what is….for a man apart.

Waking in darkness to brainstorming moments
Warm under covers on this freezing morn,
Recalling the instants of yesterday’s sequences,
How they developed and how they were born……

“Moving with grace in a form fitting garment,
Curves in the shadow light tauntingly near,
Beautiful lines in a moment of weakness
Titillate senses erotically clear.”

“Watching the mouth of the bigoted warbler,
Watching him spout his idolatry spiels,
Rhetoric of mind bending, **** licking garbage
Image of self is the place that he kneels.”

“Urgency now with insurances deadline
Making provision for payments now due,
Juggle the baksheesh for paying the piper
Or the cruelty of bankers will cauterise you!”

“Laughter arouses the happiest moments
Merriment opens the faces so well,
Emotively gracious the giving of laughter
Contagiously, wonderfully ringing the bell.”

"Uncomfortably caught in the midst of an untruth
Unconscionably really, can’t call it a lie,
Got caught in momentum of tale in the telling
Upsetting me now to the point where I cry.”

"Can’t recall why, but I know there’s a matter,
Ripping my britches to try to recall….
Something importantly, now to be dealt with
Frustratingly lost in the fog of it all.”

"Harmonies rise like a mist in the temple
Delicate cadences rise and they fall,
I wonder why God allows this unbeliever
To sing with the Angels in his Holy hall?”

“Running my fingertips over her curvature
Feeling the ***** line plummet to fall
Knowing the thrill of elicit collusion
Anticipate promise of wanting it all.”

Sudden alarm in the midst of a waking
Urgency calls at the dawn of the day,
Heaving my soul into frost waiting fingers
Leaving my dreams in the warmth where they lay.

Marshalg
“Pukehana Paradise”
Auckland NZ.
22 June 2013

in the tauntingly quiet
florescent hospital hum
waiting for a hospice bed
people floated in and out
along with the scents of disinfectant and Salisbury steak
all spoke, in muted tones, words moving
through the liquid silver air of the night
they would squeeze your hand, gently
maybe casting a glance my way
before they walked into the dead vinyl tile halls
to the white squeaking sounds of faceless nurses’ shoes
where the obligated visitors would
breathe a proverbial sigh of relief
for they did not want to be there
at the moment
at the horizon between the slits in your eyes
imagining the ones behind the walls
and across the hills you would never again see
I would be there,
recalling horizons we had seen together
perhaps with you in my arms
before words built walls between us
and years were soaked up like desert rain
after seasons of doubt and drought
I wondered if you would ask me again
or if I would say yes this time
and if that would be enough
to release you
surely, I gave you life
another father and I both did, I suppose
could I take it as well
if you asked me again,
to increase the drowsing drip
of modern Morpheus’ elixir?

This truest love, triumphantly
   is a bird of prey
marauding 'twain these grayest skies and tenured gain
dine with blessed distinction,
feathered queen!
And any mice caught in between-
   For does my love in summer's rain
prey on the solace of my nightly dreams

Do gauge my love as span of wings
   the distance 'tween each finger
Her wings are spread and through the sky
she soars in arcs and swirls
Each and every blissless night,
   she passes coyly o'erhead,
The curtain in my blood unfurls
and this presence ever lingers-

Perched aloof and tauntingly in a bending oak
she says: "These stars that hover
             above the sky I disbelieve-
           Their palaver, quaint and lasting,
             I disbelieve-
They grip and guide my flutters as an ever-tightn'ng yoke."
Each hand I place o'er the other,
'til each branch is a rung, ladder to the moon.
Said: "And coldly does this horrib' moon smile,
        she laughs 'til my tail is the dust
        each stroke of hours and minutes speak to me
        this cunning moon pours in our hearts this lust-
           How could these shambles any trust?"
This sky, though blacken'd,
cannot rend apart what's happened,
and all it sees with terrible eyes
can prevent not this love fore'er mend-

She glode politely out o' reach,
To soar delightly by me-
Said: "I see the jilted morning glory
           bowing to the moon.
       Each stalk twines traitoriously
           a capsulating swoon-
       Each fruit it bears bequeathes 'nto me
       callous forms of elliptic bracts,
       eats as nothing more than flax-"

For every morning glory's betray'l
I'll harvest ten thousand Orchids from the meadow's fringe,
plucked from the margins of the bog-
This love is not a passing arc
that follows does that jealous moon-
I'll trek the acid, foy an' dinge,
and, if those mice do not erstwhile dine on this orchid's seeds,
that which lays dormant, 'neath the leaves
will send up freshly blooming stalks.

I walked along Fraser against the wind.
At 32nd there was a “for sale” sign
zip ties around the top and one side to keep it still.
I wondered what would happen first,
the L shaped sign post falling down
or the sign itself flying away.

The memory resurfaced, gasping,
the dull ache of an old cut
hurting only if you think about it for too long.
It was a sunny day,  
though it couldn't have been summertime,
we moved in May.

I bet it was a Tuesday
perhaps a Wednesday.
I remember that everything seemed rather bright,
the leaves on the bushes were jade,
the evergreens hiding tiny flowers.
The walk way,
a twisted tongue,
ran from the porch stairs to the decrepit sidewalk.

It must have been a little bit windy
making the sign sway and dance tauntingly,
because my dad took the “for sale” sign as a personal offense,
the contempt swinging gently from the wooden stake.
It had been up for days, or weeks, or months,
I don't remember anymore.
I don't know if he directed anything ****** or hostile to the inanimate object,
but he attacked it as it hung lazily over the lawn.

I do know that it came down,
bringing up clumps of dirt as it fell.
It stayed down until all our boxes
and toys
and beds
and shelves
were long gone from the rooms
in the spackled  white bungalow
where I learned to ride my bike and dance in the rain.

It could still be seen through the front windows,
it stayed on the dandelion covered grass.
I'm not sure how my dad took it down
but it stayed there and laughed at us.

I don't know why I remembered that,
but it kind of hurt and I had to write about it.

I am counting off my hands
the men I cannot love,
but hold forever in gold plated frames.

My sirens call an unheard song,
that puts these men to sleep at dawn;
they dream in colors of the fall.

Before each night,
I count their eyes to see with vivid light
a woman cursed with sight.

But Love is blind,
for we cannot know exactly what we're living for
or who it is we're dieing for.

And Love is a bird
with black, dusty wings that tauntingly rap my window;
Poe's raven calling "Never more."

dear wife of former marriage will you be
entrenched forever in your hidden spite,
against your former husband tauntingly
in flaunting other men who are more right,

when each succeeding man, like one before,
has failed as per his character so wrong,
who rush so passionately through your door,
and exit likewise at your final gong,

while all the while the husband whom you left,
so steadfast here remains the best of them,
yet suffers silently of wife bereft,
a prince among a crowd of pauper men,

open your eyes and see what you once knew,
i hold the only heart that loved you true

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

I hear the shadow of a song
Lilting faintly in half light,
Just beyond my reach it lays
Tauntingly, as lust's delight.
It tiptoes, teasing, through my ear
Tantilizing recollection sought,
Bringing images to mind
Of indelible delight unbought.

I hear the shadow of a song
Which sweeps me to dimension new,
Sweeps me to a nicer place
To memories of long, lost you.*

Marshalg
24 August 2013

I can't sleep without you tucked up against me,
By my side.
But if you were to ask me how I'm,
I'd tell you I'm getting by,
I'm getting by.

And it's like walking through a door,
Just to find another
It's like watching you look for me,
Through my window,
In a house, with no door.

I can't seem to be able to watch you mourn me.
I want to tell you,
You can't be both the killer and the ambulance,
But you're.
And it's just not fair,
It's just not fair.

And It's like I'm the bullet you want to dodge,
But you can't go far without the adrenaline.
It's like how every flower will wilt for you,
If you love it hard enough,
And boy, did we love

I can't seem to be able to make use of this leftover me,
So in case you're looking for an empty, secluded place to rest from your inconsistencies,
Use my heart,
But you can't, you won't
A heart so tamed is no fun,
My heart is no fun, anymore.

And it's like the whole world is spinning,
Tauntingly, obliviously,
But I can't move,
Unless it's to write,
Somewhere along the line,
Expression was the only time
I was away from self destruction
And it's sad, but kind of funny, don't you agree?
It's sad, but kind of funny.

I can't seem to tuck out the disappointments,
Hiding in the wrinkles of my skin,
Or be a disappointment dressed up in
This messed up body,
But if you were to pass me by, I'd compile all the burnt out suns inside of my heart,
To give you one last warm smile,
Anything to convince you

That I'm getting by,
I'm getting by.

Dark brown eyes
the color of freshly made dark chocolate
Perfectly sized lips
puckering to perfections
no trying necessary
Mocha skin
tauntingly smooth
soft even
craving for more
A smile so handsome
it can light up a world of darkness
A laugh
only to be made by an angel
A scent
sweet
of love, lost, lust
Leaving means aching
Staying means heart throbbing
No medium
No win
No lose
Just there
Something about him
mysterious
constantly wanting more
needing to know more
wanting his everything
no ties or games
different
There's just something about him

The morning air freezes in my lungs,
My chest tightens
My hands are too weak
To hold the panic down,
It rises up from the ground
And wraps itself around my ribcage

The cold has me exhausted
And it's only November

I need to stay focused now

More pain is coming

I take the frost on my windsheild
Like a glaring warning:

"Breathe now.
This is the calm
Before the storm"

I feel like the mountains are laughing,
They see what's coming before it
Reaches us
And they know how ill prepared
We'll always be

They think it's pretty funny,
The heats up all the way
But it's only circulating
Bitter air
In a tauntingly rhythmic
Motion

I am staring into blank space,
Snow blind
And shaking

You are where the pavement is warm
All year long,
And no one ever asks
You to feel their blue hand
On your pale cheek bone
So how do you know what
Sorrow tastes like?

Yeah, I've cried in the warm sun
But it's a unique depression
When it feels exactly like
the whole coast is crying with you

I let every call go to voicemail,
I need more bad news like
A hole in the throat

This is when the overdoses
Start to pile up

My friends are broken
I'm glad I never got there

The cigarette in my hand
Is shivering
While I hold it out
Into the elements,
Unprotected
It fights the stillness,
The thickness,
The grayness
Of Almost-Winter
With its small bit
Of raging fire
But it stands no chance
And as soon as the center
Gets damp,
It starts to taste like cancer
So I drop it over ice...
Watch it try to follow my car,
Watch it fail
And extinguish
Into the ground

That reminds me
I should really call you back
But I'm so tired baby

And sometimes
Maintaining anything
Feels pretty pointless

The earth inhales,
Kinda wheezes,
It sounds too much
like the last three gasps
Of a dying man

Do you know what it's like
To be as tired as the day you're in?

Days are never tired in the south

You'll never know darkness like a northerner

We can smell the bruises forming

I am just a bleeding heart
a red fist left fence less in your outpost
I am a secret fire
that hoarsely rages on

I am a farmer
a worker
heading home at dusk
down dusty dirt roads
blindly walking forward
with hazed eyes
sweated brows
soiled hands

I am not a coward

but my will is weak

I am a wounded heart
that wails underneath the heavy iron gates
left deeply locked
in the echo-less chamber of my soul.

And you are just a vein less key
with the magic dialling
that tauntingly turns my iron gates
but never full opens me

You are a cage keeper
and I'm just a bird in love
waiting to be free

my ****** heart
and how it pleads in chirps
to show you it's worth
but time is needed for rebirth
and right now I am just a shell of what I once was
and have yet to become

Freedom exists within

they now say

(perhaps to keep revolutionary thoughts at bay)

Anyway,

I'll close my eyes harder
endure what I can

and try

with all my might

to make these
skyline pleasant dreams

of you

wither away.