I. Song of the Beggars
"O for doors to be open and an invite with gilded edges
To dine with Lord Lobcock and Count Asthma on the platinum benches
With somersaults and fireworks, the roast and the smacking kisses"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And Garbo's and Cleopatra's wits to go astraying,
In a feather ocean with me to go fishing and playing,
Still jolly when the **** has burst himself with crowing"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And to stand on green turf among the craning yellow faces
Dependent on the chestnut, the sable, the Arabian horses,
And me with a magic crystal to foresee their places"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And this square to be a deck and these pigeons canvas to rig,
And to follow the delicious breeze like a tantony pig
To the shaded feverless islands where the melons are big"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And these shops to be turned to tulips in a garden bed,
And me with my crutch to thrash each merchant dead
As he pokes from a flower his bald and wicked head"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.
"And a hole in the bottom of heaven, and Peter and Paul
And each smug surprised saint like parachutes to fall,
And every one-legged beggar to have no legs at all"

Cried the cripples to the silent statue,
The six beggared cripples.

Spring 1935

II.
O lurcher-loving collier, black as night,
Follow your love across the smokeless hill;
Your lamp is out, the cages are all still;
Course for heart and do not miss,
For Sunday soon is past and, Kate, fly not so fast,
For Monday comes when none may kiss:
Be marble to his soot, and to his black be white.

June 1935

III.
Let a florid music praise,
The flute and the trumpet,
Beauty's conquest of your face:
In that land of flesh and bone,
Where from citadels on high
Her imperial standards fly,
Let the hot sun
Shine on, shine on.

O but the unloved have had power,
The weeping and striking,
Always: time will bring their hour;
Their secretive children walk
Through your vigilance of breath
To unpardonable Death,
And my vows break
Before his look.

February 1936

IV.
Dear, though the night is gone,
Its dream still haunts today,
That brought us to a room
Cavernous, lofty as
A railway terminus,
And crowded in that gloom
Were beds, and we in one
In a far corner lay.

Our whisper woke no clocks,
We kissed and I was glad
At everything you did,
Indifferent to those
Who sat with hostile eyes
In pairs on every bed,
Arms round each other's necks
Inert and vaguely sad.

What hidden worm of guilt
Or what malignant doubt
Am I the victim of,
That you then, unabashed,
Did what I never wished,
Confessed another love;
And I, submissive, felt
Unwanted and went out.

March 1936

V.
Fish in the unruffled lakes
Their swarming colors wear,
Swans in the winter air
A white perfection have,
And the great lion walks
Through his innocent grove;
Lion, fish and swan
Act, and are gone
Upon Time's toppling wave.

We, till shadowed days are done,
We must weep and sing
Duty's conscious wrong,
The Devil in the clock,
The goodness carefully worn
For atonement or for luck;
We must lose our loves,
On each beast and bird that moves
Turn an envious look.

Sighs for folly done and said
Twist our narrow days,
But I must bless, I must praise
That you, my swan, who have
All the gifts that to the swan
Impulsive Nature gave,
The majesty and pride,
Last night should add
Your voluntary love.

March 1936

VI. Autumn Song
Now the leaves are falling fast,
Nurse's flowers will not last,
Nurses to their graves are gone,
But the prams go rolling on.

Whispering neighbors left and right
Daunt us from our true delight,
Able hands are forced to freeze
Derelict on lonely knees.

Close behind us on our track,
Dead in hundreds cry Alack,
Arms raised stiffly to reprove
In false attitudes of love.

Scrawny through a plundered wood,
Trolls run scolding for their food,
Owl and nightingale are dumb,
And the angel will not come.

Clear, unscalable, ahead
Rise the Mountains of Instead,
From whose cold, cascading streams
None may drink except in dreams.

March 1936

VII.
Underneath an abject willow,
Lover, sulk no more:
Act from thought should quickly follow.
What is thinking for?
Your unique and moping station
Proves you cold;
Stand up and fold
Your map of desolation.

Bells that toll across the meadows
From the sombre spire
Toll for these unloving shadows
Love does not require.
All that lives may love; why longer
Bow to loss
With arms across?
Strike and you shall conquer.

Geese in flocks above you flying.
Their direction know,
Icy brooks beneath you flowing,
To their ocean go.
Dark and dull is your distraction:
Walk then, come,
No longer numb
Into your satisfaction.

March 1936

VIII.
At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end,
The delicious story is ripe to tell the intimate friend;
Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire;
Still waters run deep, my friend, there's never smoke without fire.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links,
Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks,
Under the look of fatigue, the attack of the migraine and the sigh
There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.

For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up in the convent wall,
The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall,
The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.

April 1936

IX.
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

April 1936

X.
O the valley in the summer where I and my John
Beside the deep river would walk on and on
While the flowers at our feet and the birds up above
Argued so sweetly on reciprocal love,
And I leaned on his shoulder; "O Johnny, let's play":
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O that Friday near Christmas as I well recall
When we went to the Matinee Charity Ball,
The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud
And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud;
"Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let's dance till it's day":
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera
When music poured out of each wonderful star?
Diamonds and pearls they hung dazzling down
Over each silver or golden silk gown;
"O John I'm in heaven," I whispered to say:
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O but he was fair as a garden in flower,
As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower,
When the waltz throbbed out on the long promenade
O his eyes and his smile they went straight to my heart;
"O marry me, Johnny, I'll love and obey":
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.

O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover,
You'd the sun on one arm and the moon on the other,
The sea it was blue and the grass it was green,
Every star rattled a round tambourine;
Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay:
But you frowned like thunder and you went away.

April 1937

XI. Roman Wall Blues
Over the heather the wet wind blows,
I've lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose.

The rain comes pattering out of the sky,
I'm a Wall soldier, I don't know why.

The mist creeps over the hard grey stone,
My girl's in Tungria; I sleep alone.

Aulus goes hanging around her place,
I don't like his manners, I don't like his face.

Piso's a Christian, he worships a fish;
There'd be no kissing if he had his wish.

She gave me a ring but I diced it away;
I want my girl and I want my pay.

When I'm a veteran with only one eye
I shall do nothing but look at the sky.

October 1937

XII.
Some say that love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world round,
And some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway-guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like classical stuff?
Does it stop when one wants to quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't ever there:
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn' in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
Or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories ****** but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on the door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

January 1938

You are difficult to love. Not only because I am not good at loving but also because you are quite unlovable.

Unloving thou is but Sisyphean,
Like scoria craves mixing with sea salt.
Thus akin to night and day we're but twins
Whose burning candle is never to halt.
But ever brighter than snow veiled mountains,
And perpetual as the golden Amaranth,
Yet as pure as heavens silver fountains,
Thrice fairer than the Moon of the May month
Or the sea's mighty glow against the moonlight.
Always in full spate if she be a stream,
To draw us in a realm of sheer delight
Where daylight to fade shall be but a dream.

So true love is a gem precious than gold
Both young and old in their palm crave to hold.


©Kikodinho Alexandros
Jumeira, Dubai
       22 October 2016

unloving begins
with the setting of the sun,
with the falling of the tides.

I realized how accustomed
I had grown to the feeling;
of wind on my skin,
of hailstones falling.

Alphabetized, my many names.
A blurred face
in a hallway of mirrors.

my heart left long before
my body did,
long before my legs
had the strength for escape

unloving begins
with your heart feeling cold.
I thought I should stay a while,
just to be
sure.

******.
A symbol of denial, congeniality, and assurance of love;
the fate of maternity, motherhood, that is witnessed
and cherished from afar.
From a sacred little haven;
from a struggle of motherly defense.

O ******!
Temptations are to you never a bother,
in the tempests of lush dreams,
the draining of purity,
and veritable sensations.
Steadiness is your notion;
it barely leaves your mind
you may be deeply hurt
but never hurt,
you may be a stranger
but your grace is your power.

Truth that is unpardonable,
veraciousness at my simplest words,
clarity that is gleaming in your eye,
a token of pleasure but indestructible affection;
adorable as you are,
serenity is beyond question;
dreams are but inseparable from your docile life.
O ******, the sweetness and gentleness of thy eyes
are my irreplaceable silence,
my appraised soul,
and my most resolute
and irrepressible invocation.

O ******, one that is so rare a rose
Many as in the May-day dance are tainted;
marks of annoyance, omens of indulgence.
With hunger for nothing but moans;
unsober groans, and quickening breaths in paces of outward satisfaction;
intoxicated desires but unloving movements;
on the grounds for endless dancing;
there is the thirst for grips, the grossest of stateliness!
Voluptuous romance, perfidious touches, and
false-hearted toys!
In the wakeful dreams of which
I long for you, a handful of thy chastest kisses!
I pray for your hands, so delicate
as mine, how they shall fit into each other!
I long for your lips, your spotless, uncorrupted cheeks,
My demand is for your hands;
for sanity, and sincerest cordiality
Despite of my guilt and former unconsciousness
I shall amend my grief for you,
for you only,
for oureth perfect, unconquerable happiness,
and the union of our souls
in a day of holy matrimony.

Eyes. Heartbreak is her sunlit memory barely held by a wooden clothespin. It hangs and glares before your eyes, mocking as it fades into an empty filmstrip. Heartbreak is a lost soul left to perish in her ghost-town, and warmer sunsets are lifetimes away. A wonderwall left standing, pinned polaroids, desperate scratches. You had fought hard and long, for this, but homes are made for breaking and crumbling and leaving, especially in the losing side.

Mouth. Heartbreak is a paper-tag of a goodbye caught in her lips. It is a metaphor that melts at the soft space under your tongue, a certain bittersweet taste made for drowning with a cold lager, a stranger’s whispers, and the perils of his unfiltered cigarette kiss. Heartbreak is taming a manic scream into a delicate, defeated sigh, out of sync with the way she breathed. But then sighing still hurts, and breathing still hurts because you’re alive – you’re so ******* alive for this unbuffered pain.

Chest. Heartbreak is begging your chest not to break amid a listzomaniac rush. Heartbreak is a prosaic throbbing, a treacherous ***** stuck in your ribs, begging to be held like it doesn’t hurt. Heartbreak is a site of buried lavender lithiums, asking for a eulogy; but silence is equally as oppressive. It is your body betraying you, like a city undone by its smokes. It is a quiet word – not a poem, because poems are beautiful despite the pain, and this isn’t. This isn’t.

Hands. Heartbreak is your shaky hand flipping through the last three pages of a tragedy — a heroine dies, a stray star falls, a maiden leaves on a horse-drawn carriage. There is no changing of the ending. Heartbreak is reaching for the empty space in bed, leaving your fingers in technicolored bruises. How can emptiness break one’s bones? Heartbreak is scrubbing your skin dry, raw, and untouchable where she once laid her kisses. Heartbreak is your nails digging through her letters in utter despair — for invisible ink, a promise in the postscript, an estranged lover in familiar flesh, only to find torn sheets, spilled wine, and finality.

Legs. Heartbreak is coming home to ***** laundry all over these cold, wistful floors. Heartbreak is walking in hushed tiptoes only to trip and fall down a memory lane – a kaleidoscope of all the wounds that can possibly hurt. It is catching an empty train to somewhere unloving her is possible – doable. Heartbreak is teaching your legs to run away from the chaos of her naked skin, and not to fall at her feet. But still, you fall and you fall and you break what’s left of your bones chasing after something that’s already gone – long before it has said goodbye. So turn your back and hold your heart — it breaks harder, louder, and worse before it settles down and sits as quiet aching: a forgotten filmstrip, a soundless breath, a calm poem, a serene night.

LOVE, HATE, WISDOM, FEAR, WEALTH… KEYS MANY ARE TO LIFE IT’S SAID
NONE IN BIRTH IS AFRAID,WISE,HATEFUL,GREEDY,NONE SHALL BE SO IN DEATH.
LIFE! ITS A NOW,A PRESENT CONTINUOUS,DIES HERE THE PAST,A FUTURE BORN
NOW,A SUM TOTAL OF PAST,FUTURE AN EQUATION INEXORABLE FROM HEREON.
FUTILE IS FUTURE MIRRORING PAST, AWARENESS MY PRIMER FOR A CHANGE FAST.  
WHEN ALIVE ARE HEARTS PUMPING,WHY ARE MINDS AND SOULS DEAD BARREN?
ISN'T HEART THE GOOD EARTH ALWAYS AND MIND THE TREE WISE OF BANYAN?
I RID THE DISCONNECT, BY GRACE, HAVE A MINDFUL HEART, A HEARTFELT MIND!
LIVING THE STAID REALITY OF LIFE, LOVING, HATING, THINKING, BEING WISE,FOOLISH
KILLING, FORGIVING, PHILOSOPHICAL IN A CRUELLY KIND WORLD OF PARADOX.
IS THERE A REALITY DEVOID, OF LIFE AND DEATH, LOVE AND HATE, GOD AND RELIGION,
OR TRUTHS,LIES, TIME-SPACE,SOUNDS AND SILENCE,EQUANIMOUS PEACE AT WAR?
IS IT JUST A PLAY, OF THE MIND AND HEART, DESIRE AND POWER,******* UNREAL?
GOOD VERSUS EVIL?
I LIVE BY THE HEART,IT DOES STOP AND THE MIND,OH DOES IT ROT!
UNFEELING HEARTS AND UNTHINKING MINDS, THESE BARRIERS SLOWLY I CROSS,
BEYOND IS THE BEING, THE EXISTING, INCAPABLE OF THE UNREAL, DIVINELY AFAR,
A VOID SURREAL,UNFEELING YET KIND SOMEHOW, UNLOVING YET CARING SOMEHOW
UNSAD, UNJOYOUS, UNAFRAID, UNWORLDLY...ATTRIBUTES NONE AT ALL! UNBEING??
I KNOW NOT IF IT’S GOOD OR EVIL, IS JUST UNBEING,UNAFFECTED BETTER SOMEHOW?
IS THE FREE UNBEING THERE,JUST TOTALLY BEING HERE?! BACK TO A REALITY RELATIVE!
GREYS ARE MANY, IF DARK BE HATE AND BE LIGHT LOVE, MID-GREY IS THE WORLD, HOPE CAN MOVE!
FROM THE MOUNTAINS DOWN I CLIMB, JUST, WITH PRECIOUS BAGGAGE, UNPACKED TO MAKE SENSE,
OF THE REAL IN THE UNREAL,THIS ONE WORLD IN INFINITY, WITH  ITS ANGELS AND DEMONS,
I CHOOSE TO LIVE WITH REALITY; AND UNRAVEL JUSTLY; ELSE IT COMES LIVES WITH ME ANYWAYS!
OR IS IT ALL JUST INEVITABLY INEXORABLE, JUST A HERMITS DESTINY?!

Gotta find a new way
To scribble the pencil on paper
To draw letters and words
Sentences and paragraphs
Chapters and books
Because there's just too much going on
In my mind
It's like a cement mixer filled with rock and mud
Turning 'round and 'round
Mixing that **** into concrete
You can put your hands on the spread product
And the imprint will dry in the block
Forever for to contrast the size of your hand today
With the size of your hand in 25 years
(Barring a catastrophe that demolishes the concrete)

Always hoped my mind would be a deep well into which could be thrown a cavalcade of essentials,
Knowledge, wisdom
Intellect
I've kept my mind open for them
And yet they weigh me down
They make me feel awful, like being squeezed across the chest by the not particularly strong arms of an aging circus  sideshow barker

Take what you will
Lighten my load
For Gods sake take the fear
Of being happy without feeling this ominous depression

This is the point where I rail against how unfair it is that in Colorado and a few other enlightened states marijuana is given due credit for it's medicinal propensities while 10 hours away in Oklahoma you can still be thrown in jail for possessing even a small amount.

People, scoff if you will
I need medicinal marijuana
I know that nothing else is going to bring me a modicum of joy such as it has for so many years

And I know it's wrong to be more excited about hooking up than in communing with God, meditating and contemplating on His Holy Name.
It's wrong
It's got to be a sin, obsessing about ***
While my desire for God wanes and
Flutters like a flag at a losing race
I'm sorry I feel this way
But I do
O Jesus I trust total honesty
Means a lot more to you
Than puttin' on the show
Pasting phony smiles
and lying, making out like their love for Someone they've never seen is consuming them with the same passion had it been a new boyfriend or a special girlfriend with flesh and blood and sinew and tendon and breathing heart and beating lung
Speaking words
Emitting odors
Skin to pinch
Glorious laughter in your ears
Guffawing at your stupid jokes, she likes you!
Mikey liked you, dear, I know that means a lot
Maybe ask them if they want to go see God with you
But if they don't you'll be disappointed
And if you're as depressed as I am
You'll stay home and hope they'll decide to hang with you

Because there's too much information
There are too many idiots walking the terra of this country
Too much misunderstanding
Too much pressure
Too much unloving intolerance
Too many headaches
Too much wringing of the hands.
Mister, you wouldn't recognize Jesus on the street if He personally placed your hand in His side
You don't want to know him, do you?
The Truth is a terrifying concept
Don't get too close to it, get burned by the light
You can't handle the truth, afraid you'll see it in the mirror
So you hoist the beam from both your eyes
Because someone said if you did that you could judge rightfully
But you didn't get that the beam wasn't a literal object , that it in fact could not be removed
None but the Christ Ever had the right to judge you
He judges from love, always seeing the value in the man, long past forgiven all sins
But they'll run from Him
I think he'll giggle, knowing they'll eventually come around
Maybe he'll have to show them
But for right now I don't see Him
My faith may be weak
But I need some ******* relief
I have a feeling He wouldn't mind
If nothing else He'd be pleased that it made me feel like living again

Scuse me while I load a bowl
Let me get a few tokes
Then you come back
And I guarantee you'll notice
A much friendlier, social man

Why am I so frightened
To say I'm me
And publicly acknowledge
My small mastery?
Waiting for sixty years
Till the people take out the horses
And draw me to the theatre
With triumphant voices?
I know this won't happen
Until it's too late
And the deed done (or not done)
So I prevaricate, Egging
them on and keeping
Roads open (just in case)
Go on! Go on and do it
In my place!
Giving love to get it
(The only way to behave).
But hated and naked
Could I stand up and say
*******! or, Be my slave!
To be in a very unfeminine
Very unloving state
Is the desperate need
Of anyone trying to write.

An impoverished heart lacks Love
Contemplating, how to hurt
Heart is dry as a desert
Hostile conditions, for Love to blossom
Eventually the heart shrinks
Burying all the emotions under sand dunes
Remembered only as a mirage

Mommy why, i was just barely opening my heart to  you
Mommy you see me through the screen beating my life to you
120 beats per second ,faster than your heart mommy.
Mommy, I feel your smile broaden
Mommy I will love you conditionally
Moommyy what is this clamp mommy ,
please don't it hurts it hurts please mommy
Seven Weeks , Three Days Pregnant

I lost you my precious , Words will never define the darkness I feel in my heart . The darkness of how unloving my heart became, How heartless humanity was around me like infectious leech. Letting you go was the consequences of the bite. Please forgive me,  I made the biggest mistake in my life. The one mistake, where you won't grow up to learn from. What was left of my heart became stone cold , I let go my true shot of happiness, but I couldn't bring you into a world of brokenness and despair. You deserve better, but better than you will ever receive from me. One day I hope you understand. I promise you , my love lies deep in my veins.  I love you ,Heaven needed you back and I regret not standing like warrior and fighting for you. I never will wash dirt on my back,I can never stop apologizing for the vicious attacks you endured by me . Every sunrise and sunset I will forever mourn the death of my own humanity against you.
*One last breath,Mommy, I love you Forever
I'll float down the river ,patiently waiting for ocean to wash me into abyss , humming to the lullaby,I would have sang to you my precious gift.

I am ready
to ring your rib

around my wrist
in triumph—

the faintest of relics    
enliven me. My lips

still layered
as in the night you lost them.

I hope to hammer  
your heart

& stuff its soil
in the sutures

of your skull;
I want to call that

the shadow to
kintsugi;

I want our memories never
to seep; to set

them up for decryption.
Unloving is a study—

consider an archaeologist’s
tentative hands

demystifying an artifact
once treasured for its secret

& leaving no spots
behind.

Unloved I live an
Unlovely life, treated
Unloving by people I'm
Unable to love
Unlovable I am treating people
Unlovingly myself

Unlovable in the literal sense:
the impossibility of being loved

It is everywhere
On the radio
In my friends' eyes
Right in front of me

It is part of life
The happy ending to every book
Part of life’s plan
What makes us human

It is a milestone
The progression of dating
Then marriage
And children

It is society’s solution
The one for sadness
For mental illness
To keep going when the world falls apart

It is why I am different
Unable to relate to the subplots in movies
To my friends' love lives
And will not ever have the option to

It is what the world will not understand
Why it calls me heartless
Unloving
And vile

It is inescapable
In the name of who I am
The name of my community
Aromantic

It is the reason I feel alienated
Because love is love
But I cannot love
At least not in the way the world wants me too

I open the blinds and see the world - in return, what
does the world see? It sees me, and all my splendid, split
personalities, living these amazing times, of amazing
pleasures, in which we tweet tweets, and post posts re
ego-trips and copyrighted links, videos and things; and,
as stray dogs, we ramble randomly, and all the time,  
living in our infinite worlds, of infinite lanes, till infinity;
yet we suffer so much pain.

Our Shih Tzus take us on extended walks, firmly leashed
to our Koss plugs, as we drone cool tunes on multihued
iPods, iPhones buzzing ringtones of tittering babies,
stolid kings and hyperactive frogs, which would all make
my eighty-six year old dad want to gag; we fly
ultralight megaplanes at the sonic sound of speed,
through virtual and real space, connecting dots at low-
cost prices, while we belt-up, gear-up, gulp Gaga and
gorge heat-inducted meals of deer, horse and over-
promoted crap; and then, wow surprisingly, we are all
so unsatisfied.

We consciously all move-in together, and **** on end,
like statistical sheep, pre-married, unloving, and broken
up, and justify it all, to ourselves, with our fully
stretched spandex morality, over low-carb brunches
@Starbucks, two 14” screens of separation; we paint
pornographic images of virgins, all called Mary, in the
name of art, and, white-clad, **** babes and alter-boys,
and penetrate each other, first with our fingers, deeply,
then superficially, without even wondering, for a
zeptosecond, why we can’t stand one another any
longer.

We crank-up dependencies, like high street mainliners,
shamming and slaughtering for neurotoxic fixes of
smileys and Crystal on billion-dollar Kogo yachts, while
we all just pedal on, dispassionately, down and over
interior canals, to the core of our hocked, abbrev lives,
chronically connected and severely distracted, in
aromatic polymer bubbles, heedlessly cruising through
comic-strip farms of mock vegetables, surely to nowhere
and towards no one; and quite frankly, the world laughs
at all this, and sobs, and so do I.

All my pretense falls away
when I see you.
I forget the promise I made to myself
that I won't let you tug at my heart anymore.

All my resolution crumbles
when I see you
You still consume me
even without trying the slightest.

Perhaps, unloving you is a test
I am bound to fail
over and over again.

i hold you in my arms
knowing it to be the last time
must this hug goodbye ever end
why do i feel this way for you
you who comfort me now as a friend

goodbye mixed messages
hello disconsolate heart
i would rather be here
in your unloving arms
in your unloving arms
than be home

this park i know well
its seasonal rise and fall
blows that warm december breeze
your mouth, your hair
my tears as you ride away

I was born into this world by a scared and tired mother, who'd been through every one of life worst pains.
Broken by every hitting and slashed up by every knife I could ever imagine.

A father who was naive and young, and didn't know much other than the fact that anyone and everyone different were to be hated.
A boy who was scared of complicated words and complicated people,
and only liked life behind the cover of dark glasses, until the day his voice was filled with so many voices I had to leave him for my mother who was blinded with pain.

I was suppose to be born into this world with a mother whose words were poetry, who would give me life lessons, who would sing to me in a harsh voice and give me tea on hard mornings.

I was supposed to be born into this world with a father who loved everyone, whose ex-lover was a man who had fought in a world war for his own country, betraying my father, for my father was of the enemy's blood. My father was supposed to be quiet. Only words he ever spoke, was reading out old literature to me on days were the moon was out.


Why did I have to be born with a mother who has had enough, and a father who doesn't know how to love me?

If I could have had the parents I was suppose to, I would be a woman of great knowledge,
who's beauty was strong in every word she spoke, who would've loved herself through every storm.

Yet here I am, knowing nothing except the things I've figured out for myself, or from my friends' mothers, even though my mother would have had stronger lessons to teach than any of theirs.

Here I am, shaking in every word I preach. Dumb sentences that comes out all the time, because I was taught that silence is unpleasant, and I should break it, with words of things I know, (which isn't much, and shall be repeated.)

Here I am, as weak as a young girl can possibly be at this time of night, hating myself as much as I must believe my mother hates herself.
Oscar Wilde once said that all men will be different from their fathers, and all women shall be like their mothers for that is our curse.
I repeat to myself not to be like her, to be a better woman, to be a better mother when I grow older, but how can I?

When she showed me to hate myself, and my dad showed me to hate everyone who isn't like him?

Yet here I am, loving everyone.
Rebelling everything my father told me, for he did not look out for me the slightest.
I still can't rebel against my mother, loving everyone but myself, looking at myself only as the monster in me, and not the other parts.
The parts that somehow still believe that there is a reason I am alive, and that there is a reason these people made me.

There is love, there is hope, there is faith and all these parts are behind this monster- this dragon.

This dragon that I though for so long could only be slayed by pretty boys with nice eyes. But I realize now that I am not a damsel in distress, and that i shall slay it myself. Slay all the self-hatred, all the ugliness and all evil.

A dragon I would not have had, had I have had the poetic mother and the quiet father.

I realize that no matter how much my parents had taught me,
no matter how great my parents had been,
no matter how many lessons and how many old books,
I still wouldn't have been a woman of great knowledge.

I wouldn't have had that knowledge, had I'd not been fighting for all these years, and many years more to come, because of my broken mother and my unloving father.

I think the only way to get to know as much as possible is to slay the dragon, every day, slay it until it bleeds and screams out in pain.
And to remember that the pretty boys won't hurt the dragon and make it disappear as much as you can.
And to remember that you can't always trust the pretty boys to not speak dragons tongue.
And live everyday
fighting it
until
the battle is won.

Which I believe
(deep down)
will happen one day.

A little passion-- A loss
A little belief-- An unbelief
A little love-- Unloving
A little slack-- left
and unstaying

Alone, no small amount alone
Alone, outrun, outrun, outrun, ALONE
and I jump into the depth without meaning
and opinion
                  and a little belief
resulted in nothing, and nowhere
                   Found I meaning
and nowhere found I
                   Hope
and nowhere found I despair

I lost loss
Loved unloving
Believed hopelessness
Read, left
Alone

I am torn between loving and unloving you;
Burning bridges and closing doors
Or jumping into the void
And perhaps;
Learn how to fly.

What are you scared of?
Me, I'm scared of roaches
and height
but above all
I'm scared of you
unloving me

unheard happiness
unwanted anger
underestimated intimidation
unloving lies
undermining images
unfaithful source
unalterable devastation

Tell me
How long until
My hands unfeel
Yours in mine
How long until
My eyes unsee
Your blue eyes
How long until
My ears unhear
the sound of your voice
How long until
My heart unloves
A relentless love?

Shattered glass on marble sand,
I feel heat spread on my palm.
Like tiger stripes to the beat of a,
Foreboding distant death psalm.
Enforcement of an oblivious executioner,
Unloving of a careful dawn.
My heart, my soul, my love isn't for me,
It's for something I can't act upon.

Worn leaves in the shade of orange, yellow and red
Swaying in the warm autumn breeze
Dancing
Living
Laughing
At their misery.
The season was about to end,
and so were their rich colors.
The light streamed through the lush canopies,
painting an eerie scene
As the golden streaks
Of lovely bright lights
Were cast upon the hulking dark shadows
That held countless memories lost.
The shadows stood gloomy and calm
Not saying a single word
Yet holding a thousand words of another.
They let birds rest on them
Leaves blow past them
And the wind caress them.
They stood unloving
Solemn and dull.
A small innocent shadow
wearing a red candy coat
skipped to the edge
Of the large wrought-iron gate
and drew it open with a creak that echoed through the courtyard
As she took a small step forward
and hurried towards a stone.
Out of her leather satchel
she drew
Roses.
Of the purest color
A fair shade
That had a single drop of red
Cracking the beautiful glass
that was the clear smooth white
Her pale slender hands
Gave the fair flowers
To the stone
As if to say
'I am wistful.
I am filled with innocent pain.
I shouldn't be here now
At this minute and at this hour,
So let's keep this a secret.'
She stood and ran away
With a single cross
Watching her leave through the gate.

Love would be disappointed

to have such an unloving act performed in his name I

guess there was more fish present than I stated

and I was selling them

So afraid to hurt her that I hurt her

A secret turned flame of truth

because that’s what fire does

Two wrongs don’t make a right

just a broken heart

shattered

and we blamed it on love

it is true, what they say, you know
you are disgusting
cellulite rippling under sun scarred scales
gluttony clear as day
in your silhouette
so unkind and unclean
that hundreds will take precedence
you drive away the clean
from everything you know

unlovable, unloving
you do not deserve the sun
you do not deserve the light
you do not deserve love

you do not deserve
what the world knows
you are not worthy of

sincerely, yourself

Blood.
Rich, dark blood,
flowing through her shimmering fair hair
Coloring fair blonde strands
With a scarlet hue
Coloring pale pink lips
With red drops that trickled down her porcelain skin.
Face upturned
Hands clasping her beating heart
She let her eyelids drop closed
Into an endless void of darkness
As she stayed silent
Unloving
And dead in her own way.
He lay before her
Covered in malicious crystals
That grinned
As they ****** his life out of him
Killing the already dying light
Gripping him.
His eyes were unfocused
His lips trembling
His hands freezing
With the Grim Reaper's gaze
trained upon him.
Yet she shut off all thoughts
and simply looked to the light
And let the crystals
take him away from her.
She was hoping for something else
Something more
But in the end,
All she got
Was furious green eyes
looking into her own
As the glint of a freshly made sword
with its elegantly shaped metal
and brilliantly crafted spirit
Flitted across her vision
Tearing her blonde strands
Ripping her fair skin
Slicing her fair lips
Slitting her slender throat
As she was colored with new blood
In a brighter shade.
Before the blood that dripped over her didn't belong to her.
But this time,
It Did.

How sad it is to create a world of fantasies
that you know **** well wouldn't happen in real life
But somehow along building that dreamlike catastrophe
you see yourself slowly wandering in a world of bliss
in a world where you are the lead character
and every trees and every clouds are smiling at you
And you know **** well you'd never cry the way you do
no thoughts of quitting
unloving
hating
leaving
pain
it's all a loophole of sunrise
almost ending with a gorgeous sunset
and with you
hand in hand
is someone you badly wish
to be madly in love with you

What a shame it is
that we spend most
of our time these days
committed to standing
on unloving
ground.

Instead of loving
our neighbor as
ourselves,

we seek unfettered
validation,
no matter our
own candid transgressions.

Our minds are full of stolen
ideas,
like eggs from the nests of eagles.

We spend our nights measuring wolves.


*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

Do we ever learn to unlove??
Or the process of unloving even exist!??
Isn't it the core truth that we tend to love over and over again and again...
From one "and" another, "and" there after!
Love just takes birth,
It never rests in peace but in pieces..
A divine form of energy that holds on it's persistent existence!
Isn't it the eternal truth that our love can't hurt anyone outside our own body!..
Isn't it the fact that this fire soothes everything outside the owner's soul!

Hey kid..

Vulnerability is your access in to what is real,
though  as you know..
not always is it safe to do or be,  in this world..
in fact, there are those who will,  or have..
shown you over and over again,  
that vulnerability of heart with them
will get your sweet little *** slapped down into the dirt..
over and over again..
(as if you did not already know, firsthand).

There are many reasons those people behave that way,
and every single one of them  deal with hurt..  
and hope (when they still had it),  being unfairly
and unkindly stifled back inside of them.  
In hating  and then stomping all over your vulnerability,
they are in truth, hating their own..  
and rightfully so, for what they had to endure..

but until they want to see and change,
they will be the death of you..  
   or at least the death of your awakening heart.


But there are those who thrive on vulnerability
because they have learned to believe  once again..
in the word, Hope..  and when vulnerability  of another
comes towards them,  they cannot help but celebrate it
from the place inside of them  that is overwhelmingly grateful
     that it still exists.

.. When you open up that way, I want to kiss you deeply.

In truth, all vulnerability and authenticity at that level
should always be met with the deepest of kisses.
You have the right idea..  but sometimes with the wrong people.
You've been nearly trampled to death in the process--
starting at such a tremendously tender, young age.

It makes a person edgy..
(and if  extremely brilliant,  in that gorgeous brain of yours..)..  
ya, kid.. sarcastic AF.

That's where you get hurt.
That is where you hurt yourself.
At times when the emotional **** hits the fan,
and everything starts feeling like its all going wrong..
that gorgeous brain separates itself  from that beautiful heart..
making it feel as if it has gone dark..
and then that brain..  thinking that it has been left to its own
survival resources,   turns 'mean' ..
in its own perceived abandonment by the heart.

At those moments, you feel  the horrendously-black
and empty, loss of self..

That is when it all starts compounding, quantitatively
No one understands, and so when you  actually
are needing it the most,
Grace  through understanding, in an instant  gives way
to judgment and ridicule by others..  causing you by necessity,
to retreat further back into yourself..
relying on more and more  of the one time, necessary (when little)
but now so relationally-damaging,  survival skills.

Beautiful girl with beautiful heart  and amazing mind,  
becomes fragmented..   compounded by her own  
now nearly out of control,  age-old tactics and behaviors...

And those that do not understand,  stand back and paint
(and allow to have painted) a view of you..  that in truth,
truly is not you..

but is only self-protection/survival-mode,
but on steroids--

Beautiful heart,  implodes..  
within the loss of its much-needed,  beautiful self.
Brilliant mind goes into hyper-drive,
now left alone to its own, survival-resources--
Hacking it out in the ******-up wilderness,  without  
its much trusted and needed,  Compadre..
     that Beautiful, beautiful heart.

You are not that person, Babe.
You are the owner and possessor of two extremely-gifted organs--
both placed into you  to be in full relationship with each other.
That is who you are.

When they are fragmented  and torn from one-another,
that is not truly the true, you.  But since they are both yours,
you are in the strongest essence, accountable.
Somewhere within all of that,  
guilt and self-condemnation kick in..
and literally beat the living **** out of you.
That brain of yours, Babe..  it is beautifully-brilliant
and also quite the *******.  
You are not "mean".
You are not "unkind"   or "unloving"
(though, in essence-- at those times, you are)

No..

..You are temporarily detached..   fragmented--
separated from what it is that you so desperately
need the most---    y  o  u.
.. But your own guilt and self-judgment
slap the **** out of yourself
almost as hard (sometimes harder)
than the one who is now pointing their finger at you..

                                                       in all of their hurt.

All you need, is Understanding.
Love cares enough to want to give you that.
Love cares enough to want to take care of its own story

so it can better see and understand
how to help you with yours.


     That is what you need. That is what you deserve.
     That is the kind of love you are worthy of.


You are everything beautiful that I have been saying that you are.
Within your at times,  own Great Divide..
the blackness between the two parts of you  that you need most,
completely blocks out  your own, much-needed view of you.

I see the picture, my Beautiful..
I have a right to speak to you this way.
You took my breath away, right from the get-go.

       The only way I could get even
       was by looking directly at you.

It is your talking and opening up that did it.
What you so often and so rightfully need to run from,
is the very thing that is actually,  most saving you.
To be "seen" is to be understood..
if the one doing the looking
    is doing it for all the right reasons.

       No one has ever understood.
       That is where you get hurt.

And  in the aloneness within it all,
is where you hurt yourself the most.


       Mm.
       This party is far from over, Babe..
       Far from it, beautiful girl.
       ..And so it is with Magic.


       You are beautiful, beyond words.
       ❤️️