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.

The train hit me
With the ocean's blues.
Blows from sad songs, deep
As an ocean tune
Pouring through shells.
Deep as empty wells.

The key was patience
But now it's courage
I left on the bench
In the last carriage.

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.

I am disgusted by illness
Of yellow **** and festered skin.
Fierce gusts may leave me motionless
But the lotions form an ocean
To fail curing oily excess.
Thus this venom sinks into skin.
The blackheads of the king cobra
Rear up in ambushes, bushes
And murky water. Cadavas'
Rot appearing on fresh faces.
For my face, I don't care
But with women it affects how I fair.
The skin is beyond my control.
Though it's only surface deep
It pains me to my soul.

My skull is empty on set.
A studio light casts shadows
In through windows.
Burning an iris as I pirouoette.

Do I want to play this game?

My thoughts have descended
I dread to confess,
Down to drown my heart
To dwindle stars before they start.

Do I want to play this game?

Blame circumstance.
Dance! Dance! In circles dance.
Cram yourself against every puzzle piece
You like to look at.
Crash with foreign bodies
Then regret, you reckless idiot.

Too long I linger, since I woke from sleep.
Defading day's delay does make me say
Some sweet, soft dream I've seen in scenes of sheen
Silver. Flutters, flickers of her fiery way
With phrases, persuading to stay in sheets
Under her ghostly form. So I can say
Dreams to me in the lazy morning heat.
With inavian feathery wings, to Avalon away.

A fly dots the paper white wall.
So close to real, he might even fall.
The paint of that splot
All but taking off.

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

Here I will take part, for I have before
If or since my path includes to suffer me.
I, through air's hue, weave invisibly
Something I said, jagged and jaded
Spiked and broken, woven with my things
Angered and sad. Fermented by grievance, demented
Thoughts and motions meant to be said
And instead are in this,
My collection of pink demons' chants.
A fool's flaccid stabbing into darkness,
Who tickles ears and who fakes consciousness.

All this my air. Fair evenings
With my mornings of no meaning.
My indeterminate verse that does
Flourish into the key of our sea.
A pretty sentence circling around my neck
Threatens to tighten with each re-edit.

This town has marijuana on her breath
And neon light's on the face of the deep.
Nicotine Nietsches discuss surface death,
Too tired of missing out to go to sleep.
His paranoia's poised to annoy her.
He guesses what she wants to discuss.
She refuses, confuses views and viewers
Via her hair and vain vaunts. Invictus
To explain how she hurts herself. Scandalous,
Scared, scarred, scampering. Incisions to bleed
And promises to read a meticulous
String of pages, as known as it's envied.
A pierced vein and a question. A ******
Whose esteem's sacrificed for little laughs.
Her humility and his humiliation,
His hubris, how high he gets of her calf.
Images, a thousand evidences
Of life in photoshop philosophers.
To them Nietzsche is a name
And Derrida a deconstruction
And a vague book they read long ago
But there is nothing in between
These thoughts and each memory.

Like flesh on bones
My home's covered with smoke.

I smell undwindled fire.
Staring at the window,
Afraid to see further.
Cold is shade and shadow.

Lashes of flame
Collapse the homes
And the cold pains
Seem pale and lame.

This weave of dreams
Unravel in
The fires outside
And the hopes dim
As this rose grows to ****.

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.

In one of those nights where your eyes are useless
But to feel wetness, pooling, cooling your skin,
There's a song of images that won't progress.
There are thoughts paper thin and all is dim,
Yourself included.

There's a cool beach.  
There's someone to share the deep.
There's a tender reach.
There's the ocean
Pooling, cooling your skin.

Pulling back the curtains
Stops the performance,
And all is dark,
As though cold tar.

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.

The weeds weren't feeble, clinging on to stone
And ripping up soil as they were torn out.
But now that they are gone, sit down alone,
Among soft sounds of wind, water and ground.
The leaves clash with colours and two flowers
Bravely bloom with perfumes of late winter,
Early foreshadowings of warmer hours.
The shadows of sunlight stretching further
Close your eyes, with smells of hard work and scents
Of flora. Of fauna, a single bird sings.
Australia's face still, her voice silent,
The night comes to comfort her with ceilings
Of starlight and you smile to see the glinting cross,
Instantaneously feel slowness.

It makes you think doesn't it?
Who whistled Christmas lights in their weave?
How have I tasted the drops of sunshine
As though those shadowless snow covered leaves
I once saw in Autumn. Dark is the time
Between those bodies, dancing about splots
Of celestial paint drops of stardust,
So wet with supernovas' heat. A shroud
Kissing the tips of trees. Planet's of rust,
Dazed as they wander and scatter through lint,
Faded through grey from daylight to black smoke.
A raisin. A raven. A soot nothing.
I lay there and fell through a gliding cloak.
The obsidian oblivion bares
In my opinion, blue, blonde hair.
Maybe it's less of a thought
Than a song idea
For a guitar
Without any strings
Or something whispering

I will look out on those mountain crowns of my ancestors.
As I feel the wind's fingertips on my face
And as it leaves, with it's embrace,
I will go with it and I will fade.

The rabbits gathered on the shore
Like small, restless pebbles.
She was so unsure.
Were we to tremble?

The sea, she welcomes me.
She is so sure.
But she is so very elderly.
Perhaps she only appears to be so sure.

If only I owned this wide life.
With all its tides and strides and strife.
The dust swindled in the wind.
I should be so living. I should be so alive.

I should be sewn into this tapestry.
I should be so very calm.
The current in the water
Unaffected by the waves.

Cold is the dawn that rises to raze.
Old the worn and woven waves,
Sure of their destination
To damnation against the barren stone.

I watched skyscrapers
Batter the clouds which drifted lower
In elegantly soft head butts.
They appear, like the utterings of a mut
That puff into frost.
A paradise lost
As the only city in the sky
Are towers, built up high,
And higher they build
And higher they build
Up and up like Babylon,
Reminding of what was undone
In ages gone.

I carry my ukele to the toilet after midnight
So if monsters attack
I can threaten them with a beating
And if they aren't scared by that
I can play it.

You are my bow
That with finest finesse
Fills ears with floating notes
And echoes with vibrations and vibrance.

Yet you are also your own bow
That stretches back
With the stern arrow
And sends me low
With arrow blows
As you straighten to throw
With conviction and vicious intent
And echoes with vibrations.

I wake, I break my toast into pieces.
Timid smells of stirring streets cloud about me.
The coffee swirls and swells. Images
And hesitant senses wait in the breeze.
I wake, I break my toast into pieces.
I hate toast. I eat ghosts of bread, dead wheat.
Channels tune into place as vision meets focus.
I eat. I attempt a thought and retreat to eat.

One Monday morning
After a midnight when malaise escalates
To trauma gone in the morning.
I simmer to life with the sun low,
As though the glow
Were still preparing to leap.
I put some bacon down to sizzle
I sit happy for a second, I sleep.
The deep slumber that disappears in moments
And half an hour.
The day reanimates with burning.
The bacon now a black thing.
I see waste.
I am late.
The next morning
I wake, I break my toast into pieces.
I wake, I break my toast into pieces.
I wake, I break my toast into pieces.

Whatever it was
That my breaths came from,
You've change it.
You'll break it.
You'll make it again,
And I don't know
What's beating so fast
In my deepest parts
Since you've stolen my heart.

We're not gay, but I have to something say
You fill the hole in me in a pure way.
Believe you me, when the sun goes away
Or we have our bluest skies together
With splashes of sunshine and wisps of haze
As some entree for the starlight flavour,
Even when one of us fades off the Earth
And decays like old memories, you'll say
Something stupid and I'll have to traverse
Across the universe to call you gay.

Is it set in stone? Or does that matter?
There's what I've known, the vices and virtues,
The truths I believe and the vast scattered
Universe that hardens the path into
Certainty and leaves few beliefs behind.
For all those who seek all certainties,
Unwilling for flawed faults to fully fill,
Let limited knowledge in vacancies.
Recall that none know all and fools fully fill
The world from rim to rim. From each corner
Of the Earth they spill over vale and hill,
And giving freely to the coroner.
Accept that you may be an idiot
And always learn from every regret.

After antique whispers and thoughts, we are
Children of the Silver Millennium.
Slithers of light reflect on peaks out far,
From waves of a rising tide or Autumn.
The alchemy of notions, the cold ocean
Encircling, on our electric windows.
All our memories born in some fiction,
Projected out from within screens. But those
Glinting pearls of the ocean out beyond,
Shall defy gravity, yet we won’t dare
Go there, where we would be beyond our bond
To this mortal coil and this planet fair.
Lest this planet won’t always sustain us
We must cease to release black winds thunderous.

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."

Please, pardon my prayer,
Leaking from lips like grease from hair,
May Apollo ride along,
May muses fill me with song,
May Zeus strike me with the creative spark,
May Cupid strike my heart,
Till my shin, legs and shredded head
Lie in decomposing composition,
Yet let my tongue live longest
To taste that inspiration.

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.

This locomotive motion is so slow
I can't tell if it's moving anymore.
But just sitting here crushes all the roots below
And the captain of this soul won't explore.
So impenetrable that a pyramid eclipse
Would turn this tomb to dust with nought but rays.
So quick to flee into freedom, collapse
And liberty became different ways
To say the same thing. Liminal levels
Between devils and visions of heaven
Pollute me with poignant points and stories I tell
Procrastinate about integration
Unravelling to disintegrate to late
Lights which illuminate no fate.

I look to the stars above who tremble,
Like ashes scattered over nocturne oceans,
The gaseous masses, afire and immeasurable,
And beneath the vast weight of oblivion
My mind all but crumbles.

Shining through the city's broken crystals
Beneath rusting lights,
There is one dwindling carnival
That delivers prizes to lucky fools.
That presents us images of bait and night.
That offers the floss we entangled with our teeth and pulls.
I'll bring to all men's attention
That when the dances and performances pass
After the tar dancers have paraded through,
After they have cascaded over and faded away,
There will be a final puff.
Yet once as I slept and could not close my eyes
I dreamt of a movie
Where our hero passed the shadows of doubt
And out of the woods would join with joy to a ruckus circus
Of bright unfolding colour, glamour and levitating decor,
And dreamt when I was so tired
That I thought it could be true.
But I know in the day, the carnival will convey itself away,
Leaving only land for toil and broken soils.



I see a man, his hair a circling smoke
That reflects light in a twisted silver lining,
And with September I almost awoke.

I will hear the charming tolls of a celesta
Muffled through a cellar door,
Taste tar like cigarettes regretted on deathbeds
Know the colour of noire decor,
That comes after the final door.

Afterall, we are a gilded horizon,
No more than the dawn of all our days,
And dusk of all the shadows sent away,
Those seldom remembered then forever forgotten.
A lily lurches across the sky towards us.
The void’s pulse continuous
Tick tock… tick tock…
              
Turn the hour glass and walk towards the shade.
Shuffling off with the feet of the reaper.
As though children who slide beneath black waves
Sift sand and shift, sink ever deeper.

They all fall to the bottom of the glass.
The sunken sun sets, soon she shall pass.
The gold must go, and all colour with it.
              Tick tock… tick tock…

A spider hinders me
As I am
Camouflaged with cement
Caught up in cobwebs,
And wrapped in ruins
From a moss covered,
Undiscovered lost commune.

The octopus latches on.
It attaches.
Entangling tendrils and tentacles
Tickle with a greasy menacle.
The black advancing oil
Appears as though the void.

With blood and love in his veins,
With power for the helpless and the hopeless,
The vain hero saves the same lives as the selfless.
Yet at a dinner these women
Sense something in his smell
As though he went off
On one of his adventures
Like milk left alone too long.

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.

Let me say 'farewell', old friend.
As though you could hear so far.
Let my gentle wish to see you again
Not be shun upon by the real's dark part,
That part between us. Let me draw the rust
Into something sentimental.
Do not stir within my dreams so hushed.
Do not leave me so ill.

The entire night sky.
The deepest of the sea.
A sheet of leaves.
All could be the distance
Between you to me.

I will not waste this wish of farewell
On you.
I will sprinkle it on myself
Like a honey dew
To sweeten and glue
These broken pieces.
Sing a lullaby. Bring him by.
In my dreams at night.
So that I may rest.

Don't dare waste your time rushing into things.
Don't dare leave venture's door without at least
A knock.
The valley of death comes inevitably,
But happiness doesn't.

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.

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.

My wings are unburdened
But I fly not.

I see no seashore.
Just water, no more.
Swimmers among the shimmers
Murmur about the glimmer
Glittering above a drop.
I know what I'll do.
I'll build a tower of water up high,
Above the waves and weave of turbulence.
A reflection behind my closed eyes
Always flowing to this current moment.

Forget the question. Please, please, please. Don't think.
Build your tower before you sink.
But alas I think. I think and I sink.

Sometimes I stop to be swallowed below,
To fall to forgotten, forever nights.
The deeper you go, the better you know
How dark our sea is and how brief the light.
Both fast past and fleeting future shrivel
Shrink, sink, fuse together with tomorrow.
Shimmers on the sea and this revival
Are but surface echoes, not heard below.
We're just splashing around before the sharks
Slither from bottomless shadows of dark.

Why?
My wings are unburdened
But I sea nowhere to fly
But towards the end.

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 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.

I've heard, someone criticise her, yet
I see the green and gold in a sunset
Through a eucalyptus curtain beside
A river, rippling and glimmering, wet
Light dancing till the cusp of night swept tides.
Twin winds headed West, windless pirouettes
Of a gentle warmth, who sleeps in the air,
Curled up beside me when I feel free to care
So much less. Even when the tears cascade
And stars fade, she, like a wave to the shore
Inevitably throws me this and that way
With foam and a thousand visitors more
From places they left not so long before.
Though I know an aeroplane goes sweetly,
I have Australia and she has me,
Sure she's not perfect, but neither are we.

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.

Finally, after her futile trembling
Over grumbling,
She walks the waltz of wobbling candles' flame,
Or light shimmering, bending through red wine.
She's free to escape the shadows of shame
Or invisibly growing veins of time,
Flowing through every wave, pirouette
Or dying fall of muscular movements.
A romance of ghosts with widows' spirits
Finally finding one another in a moment,
After years of searching the afterlife.
The dance, the violins' conversation
Lets this story unfold through her, the wife
To melodies, to memory's ocean.
Her body finally fitting the song,
Shaped surreally and softly to her soul.

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.

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 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.

Don't take this the wrong way
But since I have nothing else to say,
It doesn't do any harm
But you see a girl who hasn't shaved her arm
And you just think "that's hair,
That shouldn't be there."
It's not a problem,
This isn't an accusation
Or a criticism
Or a part of any -ism,
Just a part of my experience
Of women with hairy limbs.

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.