1
I don't know what this walk's for.
I'm always lost, but sometimes I find scenery
I haven't explored before.
Words aren't vague enough
So songs will do to mirror my soul's company.
Graffiti gropes, grasps, grips my eyes with a rough
Attention to detail. Never failing to see
Something imaginary, even when my eyes
Are closed as tight as the shops I pass.
I don't know what this walk's for.

2
Over a month the moon will streak across the sky
In a secluded, fading sphere. With the nights
To ******, briefly before the day.
The praying mantis of dawn
Camouflaged the dark to it's warmer tone
Moments and an hour before it strikes.
You see so many sirens if you stay up late enough.
Never prior the invention of the late nighter
Did I know constant crimes of urbanized life.
Caterpillar busses piling up horizontally like pills
In suicidal intestines.

3
I'm tired as the daddy issues of the church
Go out with the lights, but the dates too late
So Christmas crashes with babies and omnipresents
Of the night requires her and so she's too busy
To entertain that simultaneously
Occupied fixation with a fiction.
The paradoxes and boxes unravelling
To be replaced with a flirting, fleeting
Fixation with a hammer for Bob the Builder Junior.
It strange at a private school
More students arrive at 5:30 a.m. than 6:00.

4
Seated at the bus stop, waiting for anything but a bus.
Envying a long plane trip
Thinking it'll be less brainless than this,
Not caring for the destination.
Drooling at fantasised bliss,
Dreaming of inspired imagination.
Seeing a picture show.
Suspending disbelief for relief from pretending
You enjoy the anticipation for you ending.
When all your credits will roll up like a cigar
And burn away in no time at all.

5
"I wish I was cool like her.
She just doesn't give a ****."

I replied "But inside it's just boiling up
And as her dissolving sense of self crumbles
It slides between her goosebumped, quivering fingers.
Then as the voices mount in a crescendo
She can't let go through her own lips,
She hides away in her room for a month or two."

As she was standing next to us,
I then proceeded to receive a slap
I consider it a clap for my performance.

6
Listen to silence and think
What's the point of being up at one in the morning
If you're not going to be singing your heart out
Till you've got yourself a cardiovascular eviction.
Then make your decision,
To shy away or to find the way
To force a cringe from the tonedeaf night.
So what that so far the best days of your life
Were when you were a cry baby?
So what if you still are?
If you have to cry, cry out for us all to hear.

7
The Halloween theme of indifference till consequence.
I heard a scream from someone's house,
I hope they were watching a horror movie,
Because I sure as Sheol didn't stop.
Only the non-sticky outty bits of the comb
Are left standing and the spikes are stars.
Those aforementioned sirens and silence
Evoking more or less the same Viking entertainments.
Those aforementioned marvelous, gaseous, Goddesses
But dots in my sky,
Or at least they were before they were lost.

8
I saw my murderer walking straight towards me,
But luckily, he passed me by.
Believe you me, that cockroach had killer in his eyes.
An old buddy bumped into me
On a spider web and used me
As a fly swatter. He talked to me,
Fishing up a philosophy from me
I gave to him casually.
I tell him, the blackhole of a guitar releases me,
Strings strong enough to launch me from my web;
But I would only care about me,

9
All the strange two legged insects
On their way from hive to hive,
In some squabble and squawk
That should end at five
But continues long after labour's of the day.
Perhaps with the moving, cattle subway
Or a mind unmoved by the intense reality
Of what is and cannot be.
These flat ants and roaches writhing with repulsion,
Feasting on the invalid repugnance of reality tv.
Convinced these chemical trails hold some destiny.

10
Why go? Why take the slow road to know
You are all sinking in the same boat.
So why would a church bell chime
Change for better my little time.
The soul that goes without real purpose
Repulses the personal will with a rose,
Whose petals fall with each member of a community.
The trampoline of faith keeping fate
From ascending beyond its borders,
Crashing down with Satanic anchors.

11
It is good, to be not one but a fraction.
It being no matter of distraction
But of completion in another
For we are so rarely finished as the loner.
Despite a night of spite and recited criticisms
One must finish themself with an -ism
Or else be some incomplete word.
The faith and the works
The bolts, jolts and volts of lonely hours
The punishment of this selfishness of ours.
The irreversible spaisms of sanity.

Winter's waste was harsh as she commenced us
Withering, shivering shells of carcass
Made materials. But mayn't silence us.
Blue and purple the phrase meticulous.
So the golden queens of Iceland
Shall dissolve from flakes in brief sunlight's touch.
Gleaming streams of silver sewn on beach sands
By some moonlight, stretching over white dusts,
Grey silks, laid on sea's soft sapphire, flamed spots,
Placing those hands where the nebulous black
Goes not, save in glimmering rain drops.
Knowing nought but how chills race on my back,
I can now allow this sight to calm me,
As is done by no works or memory.

Colours comes from a char, thrown by fire
The way thunder's thrown from the broken sky.
The way a sound reflects the night air's veil
The photons, pages and plastic seductively
Remind of reality. I know they'll
Seem to dream of touch, tangibility
Among magic lanterns casting onto
Smoke who chokes, evokes and cloaks what we see,
Or at least wish to. So I'll drink Earth through
Neon siphons, LEDs, LSD
And possibly a vacation back home.
Leave hourglasses. Don't ***** clarity.
Then watching the sand slide through empty bones,
Knowing all tempos take form and forsake,
The time bends my mind till it breaks
And fragments must imagine consequence,
Before lashes rip them to the present.
Is that a shiver or a thrill going down my spine?
Rush the soul to chug the universe and getting it stuck
Run out too quickly for time.

Fermenting nature is already tasted.
Firmaments of Hell below are taken.
Every frivolous poem,
Superfluous word and superficial verb,
Every supernatural sound is said
And all the flavours of this tongue are tasted.

That is, if you underestimate those who wield our pens now.

If Shakespeare wrote all there is to write
Then I'll rise, I'll burn new stars into the sky.
I'll compose a new constellation
Of my name,
So every generation
Will know who's to blame,
And whose dead throne to bring praise to.

I whispered it when I left this morning.
"Tonight I will ask the question."
I’ll asked her to a film, I’ll say
“This week, we could see Yesterday?”
Although nerves melt me away
As though a burning silhouette.
"I swear my voice is always stern,"
I say, "What harm's another day?"
With my voice on a squeaking fret.

The haunted concretes creak without a sound
And trains rattle to shake the way of dying candlelight.
Avoidances dance, twirling round and round.
The haunted concretes creak without a sound.
Words gust heavy and unprofound
While I must be this wavering kite.
While trains rattle to shake the way of dying candlelight,
And the haunted concretes creak without a sound.

Here where they dissect creatures that once scuttled
And pull them limb from limb,
And pour wine beside, which swirls in the glass before it's settled.
The creature's gravestone a girl with a smile grim.
A dim expression that deflates with the next plate,
As she surrenders to digging in.



Nearby seniors' droning threatens to drown
My mind with inescapable numbness.
Again, I take a glass and swallow it down
Praying on a secret unseen finesse.
I say a joke that to her seems lost
As though its ghost just went past.
I butter my tongue with liquid as though toast;
Regret all I've said and call for a glass.
I tighten my tie tight around my neck
The tangled knot neatly risen up.
Joke as though throwing cards straight from a deck.
By dessert feel numbness on my tongue’s cusp.
Dreaming she would not be one to beguile,
She and I
Evacuate the chatter with a stretched smile.

Passing lanterns looming on a night walk,
I begin to her a conversation.
Yet only dare to make the smallest talk,
Not risking she leaves an awkward situation.
I haven't the courage to encourage
What may enrage nor leap near isolation.
What would the forefathers say?
A man wouldn't wait nor hesitate.
But I stutter before I can state
Whether I'm a hasty man
With fast unlasting thrills,
Or willing to wait
And understand.

Which question is it?
But why is it this?
Perhaps it's better I ask with lips,
And without words.
So let soft suckling be heard.
But why is that?
I can't possibly, probably.
But may I know facts exact?

Then dawn rose with the sun alone and untimely.
I whispered it when I left this morning,
When I was returning home suddenly,
"Tonight I will ask the question.”

Since she waits there for me.
A young tongue is spinning and spiralling.
Lips collapse into antique whispers.

I'm certain she waits there for me.
By delirium and thoughts lost.
By flowing fountains draped with moss.
She folds fingers round the thorn.
Th'evening lingers, for golden light has lit it.
Scolding any scorn that drops to forlorn.

She has gone now.
But she'll be back soon.

Sarah breathes with an extra word
One that isn’t said but is heard.
With a voluminous sigh
And eight seas reflecting starshine in her eye.
She wears fox fur raincoats and her french has an accent.
She has cursive articulations
And epistolic perfections,
And to you she’s been sent.
As she break lips, to release her take,
One can’t help but feel enchanted,
With that joke of hers dissolving like smoke.
In fact with every word she ever said,
One can’t help but feel enchanted.
With a quick quip, her tongue cut till men bled
As to make even the smoothest choke.
Yet, one can’t help but feel enchanted,
With that joke of hers dissolving like smoke.
If breaking free’s almost a revolution,
Crawling back to her is its completion.
Crawling even closer, ever closer,
There's a higher symphony in her hair,
Playing with strands and strings
And scents of hyacinths.
So one must care
For you've always heard,
She has an impolite abra cadabra
Yet instead the magic word
Must be Sarah.

I see wet mirrors on the floor
As though skies pooled into puddles.
The reflection shimmers some more
As though sights shown, shone and wobbled.
Water covered tar's ignited
By streetlights' illumination.
Flickers of fire, flame and brightened
Colours of electrocution
Serenely, surreally, softly  
At peace.

As I lie in bed,
Light falls like a stranger’s memory
On the walls of palest grey,
And tonight, of love, money and dignity,  
I have nothing to say.
I have known every name and noun.
Vow and verb, vowel and word
And finally find nothing to say.
I suppose that’s what must be done,
If the floor lies in blatant disarray.
I suppose that’s what must be done.
There’s a pattern of bricks and torches
That are on a screen and are nothing more
But the firing of neurons and the burning of my eyes.
I would walk out into the night
Were it true that I could find my shoes.
For I cannot dare have bare feet bear the ground
And be mauled by such an unnatural place for them.
Laptop lit up
Like electric candlelights
With candid candescence,
Why would I dare into the fray of night,
Or daylight’s thriftless touch
Which would age and burn me
Like a vampire on a pile of wooden stakes
That kindled, burnt, dwindled and burnt out.
Ladies and Queens of the night,
Gathering in a circular court
And being veiled behind that smoke
And the strokes of grey paint
That were here before anyone.
She crescendos and sharpens into a crescent blade
That glints and glistens by sunshine in the night.
Like his scythe, which cut through the light
And drew nothing but the dew and due payments.
I wonder if he would bother come by
And thereby transport me but not my body.
For why would he come try
And change my position
When no other conviction
Has succeeded.
Without and within the voices they sing
Don't dare.
Care without the face that does.
Share without the side that shows.
Despair and depreciate without the face
Of sorrows and woes.
It's all rolling along and I’ve done nothing wrong.
Made no mistake.
Made no call to heartache.
This is all.
This is the hall of the humbled king,
Who still bears his solitude
But reduced like Vesuvius
Has no longer his magnitude,
Only that he was destroyed flameless.
Without and within the voices they sing.
For he was born and has borne
Nothing of importance since, but innocence.
It is, I suppose. It must, I suppose, be done.
It is, I suppose, of no great importance.

I wander this valley verging on black
And exhausted, I lap the ***** lack.
The question whether I'd be fast or slow.

Often my flesh begs and beckons for flesh,
The same way entrails desire to digest.
Furthermore, even and ever more so
The eye sees a feminine collage and wishes
To take and forget a thousand faces.

But flesh makes no remarks that it wants a heart.
For I do not need love, nor regret, nor
Shattered shards that implore to call for more.
Although sometimes I aspire the pride of two parts,
Since the single must play and pay alone,
A debt of dates not buried like bones.
For I often feel I must play the scriptless part.
So sometimes I wish to play the jester,
And for a soft face to grow lighter.

Yet…
Why reenact what was?
Why phlebotomize my pen?
The call has been made and rejected
With the mentors and the Goddess I have met.
Afterall, the sky was already blue before she left
And now shades have only darkened.
For women excite and ignite the cauldron,
Only to boil the broth, summoning smoke
And conjuring cuneiform from words I thought I knew.
Within darkness previously mentioned
Leviathans slither by lips which whisper.

To fall and collapse
For jokes at her feet.
My pen pressed.
Unable to clear the hourglass sand that dirties
The wind sweeps across the beach.
My pen pressured to leak.

No one told that man, how hard it would be
To let unfurling sapphires become passion. Yet
Everyone knew which way he ought to be in action.
They bought your innards with dinner, they took
The muscles by which morsel and mouthfuls travel
And took your mouth in debt that lasts till death.
While the rain fell like ink on the heartbroken stage,
As my pen wept upon the page.

I know lessons ought to be known with each mistake
But with this heartache, which mistake do I begin with.
Still my pen weeps upon the page.
He cries to speak,
Of a girl who spoke of vulnerability
And thought of Othello till the leaves yellowed
And funnily enough, pierced me.
A story she’d never write for me, for why would she bother?

I now care only for the alarm
And howling, hollering sirens
Of diversions and perversions
And I’m scared only by the harm
That wouldn’t bleed but would imply
My lacerated pen leaks upon the page.  

As a thousand poets pens have bled.
For heroes have fled into stories of old
And all stories told from youth
Say let lingering souls lay low.
Don't dare resurrect this meek creature.
Hasn't he suffered enough?
Don't dare twist via alveolar to say "Hello."
Don't you dare continue this.
For why would we let tongues lick our innards and hollow us.

Yet…
Sometimes on tired nights as I stare above,
Lapping the lonely lack. The void stares back,
As we lock eyes and despise one another.
I wish I could turn my face and see her
Who at least to me, is a precious beauty,
For only a moment sometimes.
I could close my eyes and hold on tightly,
As she folds within these thin arms of mine,
From somnolent nights, till the end of time.

I don't think of her like a desire.
I think of her as an option.
Thinking time and time again
I guess...

The Duende ought to visit me tonight.
That pixie ought bring me something fresh,
Words cut from fresh wounds and bright,
Burning embers from embraces of flesh
No longer felt. I have written it before
But, I have nothing more for me to say.
I feel no real motion but the cold floor
Of a world that revolves without a sway.
I’m tired of all my words, my old theories,
Like ghosts that always haunt the same ways.
They slid through walls, lifted invisibly
And flew from lips without a fall. A phrase
Of enchantment, now looms, stiffly stirring
And reminding me of dead things.

They began on soft hills, hairy with grass.
Their hooved soles greeted by soils, brown and green
That were interwoven in the world past,
Before man, with his hideous machines.
But now they tread between the decayed trunks
Of skyscrapers that scatter their own dust
Over waves of tumid wind. Air whimpers
On its way through the streets of rust.
The voice of ghosts echoes into whispers.
The city is gone. The older, colder days
Before man, stir up slowly from rubble.
The wolves beginning to creep through the grey,
Silhouettes projected through smoke, crumble.
Man is now replaced and where he once stood
Wolves now watch on from, the city like woods.

I liked her. I guess. beep there's two problems.
First, beep speaks little English. beep would like
To think I beep quite big English. ehem
"Would you like two for one?" "No thanks. One's fine."
I mean we've spoken beep Spanish at least.
I beep that I speak un poquito beep Español.
The beep I seek's unknown to beep.
"Thank you! Have a nice day." Maybe I'm cold,
Desperate for a body to warm me.
There is a stiff breeze in this dark carpark.
Secondly, she's religious. I believe
She'll wait for marriage. So a dates the start
Of some far greater commitment. I mean
My Spanish is Okay, but not ready for eternity.

Leopard, lion, lepper, lime, linger on.
Sounds. Silence. Seduction. ***. Super serum.
Dilly dally, dissolve dandelion.
Boil, bobble, brim, burst, babble on hobo, ***.
Sonidos sin dirección.
A purple puff pronounced 'poem.'

Spring arrives, tipsy with delight.
Fairies aloft a flower bud lift off.
They tickle nostrils, they sing 'Sweet fragrance…"
With such soft whispers. A soprano cough
During a shuffling swing and low tempo dance,
Escapes lips, foreshadowing wet winter.
They float fairly, as all the flowers fall.
Tremors of terror interrupt chatter
Among them. Above, trees, no matter how tall
Shake as though poppies under thunderstorms.
Then it is calm again. Without winds' arms
Jostling and jarring their world. Cold now warm.
Souls simply resolved. Harm is now disarmed.
The fragrance, so sweet and so fleeting.
So impossibly soft. Some real feeling.

Then a soprano cough.

My brother and I
Sit in our uniforms.
A cloud sniffs whiffs of the house,
Shifts and moves on.
My bare feet fricatives
Sound as though a warm afternoon.

She was there
Beneath the
Forlorn thing
Festering
With a cold
Enchantment.

He came along the foreign path
And beneath the forest passed
The pregnable puddle of blood, flesh and bone.
He was tired by experience and exploration.
Beside the new night and beneath the looming sky
He knew
The horrendous days when women would befriend or end us.

It was irreversible once he begun.
Both were broken once he was done
And his hollow soul felt no completion.
His act leaving only a cavity.

There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile;
He bought a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse.

Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Begin stirring machines,
Burn eyes of mine.
زندہ زندہ زندہ چلا گیا۔
We are coughs
On the cusp of dust.
زندہ زندہ زندہ چلا گیا۔
Awake then asleep again
Sing and dance since the songs going to just
زندہ زندہ زندہ چلا گیا۔
ნუ იდარდებ მოკვდავს, ეს მთავრდება.
زندہ زندہ زندہ چلا گیا۔
Nothing's delicate like a moment,
It's precious like a piano note
Precisely, perfectly preserved
But I can't keep the vital signs long.
زندہ زندہ زندہ چلا گیا۔
ደስ ይበላችሁ ፣ አያስፈልግህም ፡፡
زندہ زندہ زندہ چلا گیا۔
We don't deserve forever
Necesitamos más.
But we don't deserve the shards
Of broken time
In our soft eyes,
Or when it's pulverized
Like dust in our lungs.
زندہ زندہ زندہ چلا گیا۔
แต่ออกมาเขาเป็นเพียงหนึ่งชั่วโมงของฉัน
ตอนนี้เมฆหมอกปกคลุมเข­าจากฉันแล้ว
زندہ زندہ زندہ چلا گیا۔
However,
We don't deserve forever together
And we don't deserve to never suffer,
But I'm not sure where in between
I think is just.
Like dust in our lungs,
We're dust mites, dust like
Specks of spectres.

ఫ్యూజ్ బర్న్స్
I asked an immortal
ఇసుక వస్తుంది
What he thought
ఫ్యూజ్ బర్న్స్
He taught us
"Don't worry mortal, this ends."
Pero queremos más.

I am terrorised for I am my flaws
And I fear I'll never be more.
My mirror melts like words of Eleanor.
My ears bleed, leak by metaphors,
Like an overused *****,
To hear such decor
Of air carved and reformed.
I have, without remorse
Been to words as criminals of war
To the Jews and the poor.
I am mortified that I fear not failure, nor
To be impossibly less nor to be never more.
At least, they can't drain the life from a corpse.

As planet Earth slid into December
It must have collided with a thick net
Of Christmas lights, I really remember,
Along with a dense cloud of snow and wet
Sugars that titilate with briefest taste
And precipitate on the planet's face.
The night's gloom glowing with rainbows to waste.
Green and red greeting with a warm embrace.
Brothers and mothers and friends I can't count.
Stories of Jesus and things I enjoy.
Laughter, flattery, songs and Christmas sounds.
Tears of joy, from girls or maybe a boy.
The filling of stomachs, feelings of home,
And firm hugs from mum, so no one's alone.

Dilly dally, dilly dally, the dandelion desintegrations.
These country town thoughts appear just as though
A dolly pulled back and shrunk creation
Till dust dots in morning light. The shadow
Of infinity sharing silence done
Within my mind. String theory confirmed hereby
An avian feathery cosmos made
In colours, shapes and shades, flowing to fly
Gilded and gliding. Powers to persuade
Not existent in words or praise. A phrase
Unable to capture what eyes cascade
Upon me. Despite this, a make believe face
Consumes my will and not for memory
I would recreate, nor an open path,
But simply a fantasy I can see
With glee through my mind. A fancy, wet scarf
I drape on me at dawn and under black.
So do I dream of dreams or girls I lack?
So would valkyries convey me to Avalon?
So would avian visions
Fly me off and away.

I saw your lost chocolate fattener,
I remember him like a suspect on the wall.
Ears ate words from mouths from one another.
He had your hat on his head where he wore
Your halo last week. You two upside down
On each other's head, under each other's
Heels. While before, during and after's drowned
In this blur of… He had a jacket. Verbs
Begin to be proverbs prompting old thoughts
From the better time only two weeks ago,
Or so he tells me. He said, "Cobwebs caught
Something, still sticky but just drying slow."
I said "You know she said she regrets thee."
He said, "Better that than she forgets me."

I haven’t lost them,
I just don’t want to play
With them anymore.
I know it’s sad to surrender.
The dinners they bought me.
The debts I’ll never repay.
But I don’t want to play
With them anymore.
It’s hard to make believe,
When the toys have beliefs of their own.
So I guess I’ll leave.

God damns the fertile,
The futile rituals to grow a child.

I have my acne medication
With chocolate milk
For balance like Budhism.
I have a niche,
I go to an Adventist church to practise my Spanish.
But I'm not Christian.
I'm interest in Arabic and Turkish
So I might become a temporary Muslim.
Unfortunately however,
All these religions have the same ending
With me dead and anywhere but Heaven.

I sit in the heart of some mason's guitar
As defined by echoes as by design.
Books and scampering eyes are scanned like stars
From telescope glasses in silent time.
I see crystal girls sit across from me
With their obsidian hair, silver oars
Of light sinking like oblivion keys
Through tremulous tartarus. Strands force
My eyes like gravity, yet can't compel
Me enough to pull questions from these lips.
Do eyelids talk, to tell more than words tell?
I feel them, as the moon feels tides and rips.
But I do as usual…

Later I batter my head against a lamppost
To expel fearful demons from this host.

Gasoline wraps itself around the flesh
And a rainbow flash ignites and incites
Chants from demons, simmering licks and a mesh
Of flames fuming dance and phosphorous lights.
An ancient skeleton, given green life
By rain, now flickers, flares red and yellow
And disintegrates to ash. Caring wife,
Who holds the river on his path below
Off seaward where oars find direction,
Is as shapeless as his watery substance.
While we share in hollow conversation
Death burns with vibrations and vibrance.
But I sit a world away, awaiting
The toxic touch that this death will bring.

I won't rest tonight, nor will the tempest.
Sound found far off cracking and crumbling Where skies split, like locomotives rumbling.
Unearthly bodies foreboding and foreshadowing
Something that draws near,
Like a tsunami
Careening across the atmosphere,
Polluted completely and impenetrably
By octopus ink and oil
Over vacuum and void.
Stars concealed behind congealing clouds,
With white leaping free in streaking thunderstrikes.
The shroud of night clouds
Over void and vacuum.
I hear further in the distance
Beyond my room.
I hear the thunder echo within me
Down where space is free.

And my window glows the brightest in my room.
Jumbles of jagged jazz jut in through odd nights
To dredge up the New Year with fireworks
Fine December's lunge upon the kind.
Shattered pieces break wine divinely inwards
In memory and boredom
Of sorbent, drenched days.
Where are you?
What's the time?
Old, sore, bent, quenched greys
In fantasies that brought fun.
Scattered leeches ******* insidely innards
I remember once upon a time.
Two dead husks end blue ears with wire ferns
Crumbled into dead glass, cut sinews of time.
Despite shadows, show the finest of my gloom
And my window glows the brightest in my room.
Humbled are the dead God's, shut off to old rites
Few with enough truth to hear conspired words.
Humbled are the dead God's, shut off to old rites

Wine and ember's pop up in this mind
Flatters her thesis. Asks for pieces
With crumbling questions
For a crumbling response

So I know
Canines inspire sheep in herds
To let them flee, a poor one
So sore, went the wrong way.
Where are you?

Putting it in a metaphor doesn't
Make it true Confucius. Philosopher
Kings of academia collapse, sent
Away like the rest. All the inventors
Say science isn't a religion and yet
The facts don't work without faith in some test.
So we'll see it go around at sunset
No matter what beautiful book you've read.
Yet even Hume and Nietsche must accept
Beliefs must be kept. So we must interpret
Our universe with faith in our friends' witness
When they attest or confess. Disproving
One fallacy or falsehood an evening.

As our chapter ends, the page crescendos,
It's shadow so long as to loom over
And cover us. The last words, no one knows.
Paper between us and sunset. Brothers
Composed of light, wait on the horizon,
Unknown and unseen. The last words unsaid.
Weaves of dreams sweeping over and upon
Us, volts against the current. Yet when red
Signals dusk, it dawns over foreign seas,
Like life in the water or blood in the womb.
This chrysalis, these images, fantasies,
And uncertainty's fierce shade, are no tomb.
Friends' voices dwindle into the distance,
Yet I'll never surrender remembrance.

I saw three black towers' silhouettes
Against a white light
Deep into the night.
We knew these were the bones of brick giants
From ages passed.
Before the steel spiders killed them all.
Before the steal spiders dragged their hulking bodies
To flattened the roads
And weft shattered glass, silver webs
Over and in every hole of flesh
In the old brick giants' remnants.
I lay a paw down and listened for a whistle
And knowing it wasn't to come, listened
To hear a stray cat's story teller tell the end.
Yet, great sprays of illumination
Splashed up on our secret meeting
And scattered us to the night.

That’s the way the light echoes
The moonlight stretching out in a lounging shawl
Like waves whose cusps fold and foam to kiss the sea,
As they roll away and the way to shore,
In the broad arms of the breeze
And their faint disturbance of surface romance.

The men at the front of the boat, cruising along.
The women singing a song that was famous long ago.
The sound of the song growing.
The sound filling with wind and interwoven ocean strings.
Telling tales which were living long ago.

One man thought.
‘Of my life tell only a few stories
Burning brightly with my virtues and vice
For lights are only passionate flurries
Those last lights before the eyes
Of he who sinks beneath the ice.
Telling tales which were living long ago.
That’s the way the light echoes.’

So, today wept on tomorrow's shoulder
Because yesterday couldn't stay longer.

Slowly, the Sun secreted days
That solidified into months.
Recall what the moons says,
That time takes no time off.

Despite that nothing's light like light
It still takes years to reach out eyes
From deep in depths of night
Where stars like to rest before they rise.

Although,
As stars recede, we will cease.
As all stars fade, we pass away.
So before final peace
Finds you
Find a new way
Not trodden yet.
So the future cannot forget.

Knowing only our words and dancing lips,
But not her thoughts, I pierced black with blunders.
Arrogant to assume our bright abyss
Between was traversed. As vein bells thundered.
Vaunting my vice and confidence as those
Weft waves vaunt of their temporality.
Great velocity bringing long shadows,
Charges, a Rhamesses' dream of history
Set surely towards shores of broken sand.
From an alien surface I see rings,
Like a silver tiara in her strands,
Divide black of night. My mind in foreign
Lands, where lust is lost among moondust streets,
Where I waltz alone. Memory's a wreath.
Sheets of Saturn, of silk upon the heat,
She was a white clothe upon our own teeth.
Flames of her furnace, her firmament crown
Hearth of my heart, I have forever found
To be somewhere between eternity and me.

Goodbye, old friend.
I'll remember you,
And if the years allow you to,
Come back and spend
An hour with me, just one or two.

The blank black of vacuity stretches East
With white streaks, with flaming meteor showers
To combine the sublime with a burning wreath.
This unbreakable spine, this cosmic flower
With physics' patterns in her form, shade and shape,
The thorns upon the multidimensional strings
Of this vast vessel who observe her own way.
The mass mediocrity of creation thinks
Herself so specifically defined by arbitrations
It can't know how well it knows or if it knows
At all. Construction. Destruction and function
Drawn with chalk on a blackboard, stars on shadows,
Those wisps of moonlight in silver song's pieces.
I only know the lonely God, when I know
This universe's fundamental forces.

I am at such a point of unemployed and undesired,
That I am turned on at the same time as a lightsaber
And I care more for a Skywalker
Than for ***, money or any other transfer
Between one body and another.
In fact,
The only bodies I plan to explore
Are planets far beyond my ragged claws.

Even at eighty three and eighty four,
They still hold hands, walk with conversations,
Or simply sit the way they always did before.
They're content with silence, their objections
Only that they have to go home for tea.
Walkers by, hear them bicker and banter,
Memories spilling from mouths happily.
They like the cafes and polite chatter.
But they love the park, the trees and brown bark.
But this pretense of present tense is wrong.
Even at eighty five, she still goes out.
Every day, she is glad to walk along.
Her memories are fainter now
The smell of hot coffee in the Summer
And someone's soft words to warm the Winters.

Stop thinking I only think
About *** and how to be ****,
I don't like the accuracy.
Stop thinking I only think
About *** and how to be ****,
Sometimes I actually attempt to be.

The hour hand swings around to twelve,
Like an executioner's axe
Or perhaps a guillotine
Towards the head of the snake
That feeds upon itself.
The Earth's orbit, allegedly complete.

Flickers of images, she dances
Round and round the embers.

Since this morn, a monarchy fell. To say
"All the king's horses and all the king's men
Toppling wood carvings, piled up like greyed hay."
All the landscapes and shapes of paint, blackened
By an incredulous shadow. "Lights out!"
Cried the wicker man, as the blaze burnt down
The last efforts and thoughts effigies
Can muster. His energies
Exhausted and run out,
Like children's feet over the ashes,
Like the last scampering echoes he heard.

"Burn the embassy.
Shower the embers
Over the Sea.
Recall the sounds of November.
Save for them, no mercy."

Oh! But isn't it a delight,
All flamenco shaped flames
Lifting throughout the night?
All the jokes, japes and games.
Flickers of images, she dances
Round and round the embers.
The Peruvians are bustling,
Stirring up some smoke.
The populous is burning
Tires to make them choke.

Since this morn, a monarchy fell.
Thorns in his hair, ablaze with red,
Burns In the air, unresurrected,
Fumes, firm pillared, piled firmaments
Not faintly reminiscent of Hell.

September is somnolent in northern Autumn.
When it’s forgotten and forgivable
To drink shadows of *** and swallow delirium.
But not forgiven nor forgettable.
When one can’t sleep for a throbbing dream and the hearts heavy drum.
For September is slumberless in northern Autumn.

Smell the collapsing splashes of our sea.
Through the night air hear the rip which whispers “Come...”
Sound out to spell a joke in memory.
To no one say, ‘I lost my way but once…”
For no one to hear but our waning moon.

Now know the lullaby of falling leaves
Slowly shows a song of things in decay.
Silently the scythe, she cleaves and bereaves.
While with things in adequate disarray
The moon forever falling towards us
Who never touches nor brushes the surface
Will drift away.

Cry for that pain.
To drink the shadows of *** and know shallow delirium.
To think that things are and can’t be undone.

Yes antique ones,
My future lies in the dust
Among the lazy and the dead.
Upon the ink pegasus
I careened across the sky,
Streams followed,
Old God's intervened,
With my rebellion, fed to old dogs,
Incapable of new tricks.

Grey is the ash.
Green is the blood.
Gilded is each dusk.
Grey is each speck of dust.

The sons of Ragnarok
Chase the moon, race after the sun,
The stones and rocks,
Tradition and a foreign notion,
Chase me around the fire
Chanting "Don't throw away your future."
And "It doesn't matter."
Simultaneously.

Grey is the horizon.
Growing is the shadow.
Shrinking is the sun,
Under the apathetic flow
Of raindrops evaporated
From dry eyes.
Grey is the day.
Grey is the gay flag
From grey eyes.

How easy it would be to dive deep.
How easy it would be to sleep.
How easy it would be to dive in shallow water.
Chanting "Don't throw away your future."
And "It doesn't matter."
Simultaneously.

At the source of these cancerous
Grey twirls that unfurl
There is a golden

But
I was not born for this.
I was not born to die, nor born to cry,
Although each black dot has its sentence
And each dawn it's dusk.
I was born the golden Prince
Of life, of my mistakes, of my victories.
So bring me my inheritance,
With all the weight and all the golden glories.

I saw a silver dime.
She reflected my face.
She echoed my voice.
She said something sensitive.
Her every word's set in steel.

Shrapnel pillow lying in the gutter,
How about Heads or tails?
I admit, I've heard tales
Proposing you're a risk.
Both in your bed to rest.
And you're the bed for rust
And dust.

Shrunken moonshine lying in the gutter,
If I plucked you up and picked you
Like a poppy from among midnight dew
Aloft flowers, reflecting your much bolder brother.

Silver fascade, if you're devotion fades
If you discard me, if you turn away
So I may only see your tail.
No, you're right, what a rude question.
If I pick you, like flesh from the skeleton
Will you remain?

Opinions splatter across my mind
Like graffiti on a sign
That gets harder and harder to conceive
But all the more interesting to see.

My mornings begin with smoke.
The tea leaks with a vaporous lather
And nebulous swirls grey has smote,
As tar dancers unfurl from my cigarette in mixed layers.

But by this ember’s embrace warmer my night grows.
To the side shadows curl and on the wall uncurl,
And for a moment one feels the fire burn away the smoke.
There’s a lingering of fingers and swirling flows
And as trembling sapphires unravel, a semblance glows.

There are remarks and reservations
And promises and expectations
To mingle in the cooling air of Autumn,
And hold things warmer till Summer is again.
The superfluous, frivolous, glorious things
All glitter in the beading sweat,
Yet are vapour in the morning.

Incredulous city's lights, and loud sounds
Crescendo and billow to blow my mind
As though those Marco Valdo's mushroom clouds
Pouring, bursting from vehicles' behinds.
Blue light on the chapel's crown,
Do these images cross Christ
As dances on disintegrated bones?
Fool, ask the blue light, "What's right?"
Neon siphon's psyche, soul or sorrow,
What is left like a Hiroshima shadow
On the ***** white wrapping of his corpse?
My views a metaphor's meteor shower,
A star high rubix cube kept from collapse
In a glass skyscraper, flowers
Like perfume in vials labelled colon
Or a thousand shattered, scattered shards
From photos of photon lanterns with golden thrones.
I must embrace shimmering facades,
As if more glimmering mirages
Would water this soul with images.

Lad with a mouth, loud lauts gotta shout,
But there's nought profound to be found
In the sound spilling out.

A flicker and a flutter of his platter;
A splitter, a splatter,
Spraying splashing spit dispenser.
Twister, tengo, tempo, soft tongue dancer
Doing the worm to wiggle words into form.
Peter changes with an interpreter
After a translators had their way,
If they so choose.
Define a sign to find value
Not in it's use or what it can do.
So build a statue of Zeus
And put a deus into it like glue.
He misses her kisses, finds lips to replace her
Calls them a name they say on an early date.
They say so much.
Read between the lines to find white
And nothing but.

Volts of boredom course through me.
Jolts of energy strike like flies
So I click, click, click my pen quickly,
Then meet with eyes which despise my sight.
What compels them to work?
Scattered, shattered tatters faint
Seeing innards inwards were
Grey and drenched in drying paint.
What force keeps them to this course?
Holding my pen and pain of knowing
The examiners offer no remorse
With that cow's eyes narrowing.
I should rise and rally some revolution
But I won't, I'll just click, click, click my pen.

Steal slides silently
To lacerate the tender
Arteries and attack
Bones with a blatant stab.

There was a light in the clouds.
We all felt it as it came
And forgot it as its sound
Faded, along with the rain.
The smoke cleared its throat and then
Dragon fire precisely struck
All the world at once.