Walk on babe, the night will find you soon enough. But, do not give in so kindly- it seeks to play with you for 100 hours, or 100 years; perhaps 100 years and 100 hours, I don’t know…. my glasses fell off. The best way to say it: if the day is temporary, so are you, and the night will swallow everything, from common skin to rare hues.
Don’t pull your punches with nature! Don’t let that primeval smell defeat you or good God- get a kick out of you. Nature is the piece of furniture that you bought, not the other way ‘round. So, how do you feel? Icicle fingers, sap bearing veins, rebar arms, tenderloin body, washboard neck, prison gate mouth, airstrip nose, typhoon eyes, telephone ears, coniferous hair, freedom’s mind. You owe it to nature, she coddles you.
A funny thing, then: the lifetime of a dream. Where love, bliss, sorrow, *** are not unknown, but as uncanny as they can be. Old friends may sleep it off and give you a cheque and a kick out the front door, but don’t you know what you were in their beds for? It was something true, and if you were the only one to find it in that pile of quick/messy lovers, it is truer still. So walk on babe, the technicolour night has left you, but in its hazy laboured breath, it promised to return. It swore to explode all over you- what can you do in return?

Perhaps its best we cannot sleep
That eyes burn
That fingers weep

In the morning, should we still blink
The breath returns
The feeling sinks

Under the noon, where dreams are cold
The chest will collapse
As memory folds

Before the sea, where light is frail
The arms will creak and wrap
Around the shallow pale

When favour leaves the lame and young
They will speak in toothless tone
They will pay to use their tongue

As statues lead the morning choir
The children all wear shoes of stone
For fear of seeing any higher

The willow bursts and spring combusts
Onto the row of newborn nimbus
A sight beyond our awe or disgust

The angels lift us off the ground
To the gilded cliff of old Olympus
Where heaven was murdered by one last sound

The stale sound repeated, and pounded with sour trembling rasp
The sun was defeated, retreating a coward with the angel's gasps
As they too were shot, ****** dry by leech with pinioned skin
Now lay in their rot, plucked and beached on shores of sin

O, the sound of horrid noon
And every lasting ache
Came from the hidden moon
Begging me to wake

Who wants to fly down the roots of water lilies?
Or through the dunes of grave men?
It is on wooden creaks of floors and idle whistles of ****** that you find your measured path. You could take a ruler to it all the same, still come up short, impossible somehow and ruthless in design.... truth nonetheless. And a careless thing that is- acceptance. So maintain the stranglehold of hindsight and pray to the yes lord and the bad omens for they might give you something you didn’t see, something you didn’t beg for. Or the farewell “no”. Or nothing entirely; the greatest of all weights for skinned shoulders.  When looking back puts forth more ill will in your movement than trying forwards then maybe it’s the right thing to feel: the feeling of good gracious disgust. So spit at your feet and it too will follow you to age and bliss beyond that, for the time being. Be it as it may, you should laugh with the skill of a parrot and cry with the tightrope walker’s unease. And bless you bless you ‘till the very end. Might as well, for that makes a fine bookmark in the shape of all things ending.

Twice hardly could I believe mine eyes
As old sunset did arise
To and fro, the honeysuckle morn
That brought the nascent-sparkling dawn
So surely did I meet
The words so concrete
As grass and dew held sway
And all old scrolls had no delay
For beauty was the mare on which I rode
As the buck-toothed medallion began to corrode
Overlapping streams of great renown
All seeking the final ivory crown
In pillars of smoke, bellows of grass
The hastened steps of many a mass
Send their prayers to remorseful wind
For a useless chance to begin
The rhythms of Eunoia did spring
As the new decrepit moon was beginning

Such a crying shame
That my frail body
Could so concisely
Imitate my brain

I do not wish to join the school of the wise and impotent in later years. I do not wish to join anything but nature; something to make amends with as twilight nears.

So beset was I with the city’s ills that I had decided to make it muse and dog. It would be from there that I would attain character and breed disdain. It was the city’s beating sun that made my skin crawl with darkness, the streets’ sharp nights that would eviscerate my wiry gut. In the beating, repulsive core of it all: the architect of my passage into all loves unknown. In that quick breath, I am not made a cynic by my pocketed demeanour. The cynics are stiff to love and unmoved by devotion. I am more brutish than those tired men; younger and filled with lashing virility. Through peaks and troughs, by veins and alleys, I am made whole and aware by motion and truth. This truth, I know: that master will cede control to the mammal, that frivolity will make way for chaos. In the age of tired bliss and hopeful terror, I could fasten myself to the reins and decry with swept breath; a vain dust in the wind. Instead, I will run and in that moment, be given up to love. A love so supreme it may gnash and look hideous. It is ill enough to think, and such incisions are the armour of the valiant.

I will stare at impudent reflection, and he will riposte with words that will tear at my suppositions. He will make me absolute- by my doing, and mine alone. In the simple hour, I see that every small movement is a microcosm of my Self. The act of lighting a match is then diluted into the whimsy of sparking the torch with nuclear fission. To be ablaze, then, is good enough and will atone me of my heritage- a heritage of vanity and shallow delight. When all dreams converge upon me, my shackles will cut me and throw me into the loose embrace of freedom. It will be painted in the image of *****, and all peers may peer and gawk, but not me. I have spent the past gazing through stolen periscopes, and piecing that frame of entropy in such lost silence. When the hawk of summer is finally shot dead by the falconer, he will steal its skin and thrive as the griffin of cold bedlam- where nothing grows to be forgotten, and nothing thrives to be forsaken. I will keep one hand open and one eye hidden, to shield my intentions and maintain the prized mark. There, am I not made man and bright by such exodus? Am I still the furrowed animal with sunken brow, sleeping at the behest of the sunset? If salvation will not follow, then I will afford myself time to wait and simmer in the tender visions of tomorrow. Be assured, though, that I lie in wait like the two-legged beast- the same beasts that crawled through the dagger sands and drowned under careless seas. In plight, I retain my name and definition. My mane is left unkempt as it desecrates the horizon behind me- soon to be below. I lie, herdless and tamed by instincts of the Bedouin- a steep and supple corpse. The sun too, knows my name now and it wishes to dominate me. When the white light swallows the grass ahead, I will climb-never crawl- to my cellar and continue to toil at my ill-gotten gains, my unremarkable shape.

Many people spend their lives laying still in most abject- albeit veiled- horror, afraid to admit that they traded their personhood for a comfortable stance.

I forgot to learn your tongue
Before we sank into bed
I will learn your song well
By touching it instead

Make sure to light a cigarette with a previously lit one. I’m a smoker, yes, but that doesn’t give me the right to be a waster- butane is a fine commodity!

In one breath, now
Lucidity takes hold
As the night in all its restless soul
Awakens from wicked slumber
And I, privy to the noise of nothing
Where every muted moan reaches out
And leaves scars on the skin
I dream of the car screeches
Stopping, loading a magazine
Releasing itself unto me
A burst of harsh light
And the noise of bullets
That could so easily meet me
As I sit, on the porch
Breathing in- letting out smoke
With my pants suffocating the waist
Purple the *****
Stiff the finger
I hear that violent, quiet thing
Sounds like a ringing tingle
Reverberate so cold
From some placeless footstep
A new kind of constriction
In the night's endless fiction

Cibel, the soft child
In my hands; small, still, lifeless
My son, my sorrow

I will not take any paltry substitute for the life I wish to lead. Should I be engulfed in the flame of ire and filth, I will immerse myself in it and let it resound in my ill craft.

Through thought and folly, all of my being is true.
Within this year, my crimes will be of my own volition.
Of dire essence, I will serve and be filled by misfortune.

To trade inebriation for derangement.
Therein lies the answer.
Let “sensucht” envelop you.
No time for pity.
Allow oneself time to grow, but never stagnate.
Thus, time must be spent in constant motion.
Let hesitation- the cowardly sort- be minimal.
Know that regret will get you no further than those before you,
No closer than they were to eunoia.
Flow free from one action to the next,
Fully knowing that you are wholly enraptured by emotion and duty.
Remember:
Your mind envisions the goal,
Your heart serves it.

All the women in my life
They- I cannot deny-
Have shown me love unknown
To men who vainly roam

Their words of dew and sway
Bring rise to dawn and day
Their hymns and fabrics blown
From their sylvan loam

They bear me in their arms
Where sorrow breeds no harm
And turn my mouth to crow
Of harsh and fleeting home

In time and hastened feet
Approaching skin's defeat
I recollect and row
Through times of sky and foam

Sleeves worn by broken trees-
I repeat
As the world goes on in glee
Defeat
No less a somber fellow
Borrow now he borrows

And burrows into your cotton cave-
A man
With a fluid feeling he misunderstands
Dead land
Where pain is of no mention
Tension here there tension

Indentations and stipulations on the seed of a neutered soul-
We must
And you lose or have lost it as you taste the cavernous hole
Of trust
Ribald fellow your weather betrays you it hangs your skull
On a lacking cloud that paints your spindly skin so dull

Gather what you must in the pool of shallow loving and shame-
No spine
As eminence confounds you and status escapes your stolen name
You shine
With the charms of dead brothers and the cruelty of a mother
Should you seek the soil now know that none will be bothered

See the eyes, through jagged trees
Humbly calling out to thee
And the damp eagle plea
Downy arms falling free

As breath makes no qualms
With the levity of psalm
And the soot between palms
Lies still in fearful calm

Orion’s sprightly pace
Shrouds the cratered face
As pearls fall without trace
Miss the ocean’s embrace

Neon ghosts surround
The orphaned mobile sounds
As empty fertile ground
Now bitter and profound

Within malignance, the smell of stale night
As blue and then amber engulfs the sight

Epitaph of viscous fellow
Of whom I knew well without asking
And befriended while basking
In his whiskey nozzle chin
Milking his Acadian shin

Suffice it to say
How aroused was I!
To pet this neutered butterfly
His legs a stiff boulder
Caressed by petaled shoulders

Thick, incumbent man
Dream yourself a body
Where you are all but folly
And laugh at the notion
Of your ceaseless implosions

Remember: no pen will cure that shaky hand of yours, nor that uncomfortable disposition. Steel yourself on your own terms, hapless and rankless hoplite. Carry your tools with their appropriate weight. Be the stone child of many a previous dream. When the vain and physical body fails you, don't fret, for you have designed it to do so. Such a moment is a call to arms, to seek derangement in all else: the soul and the brain! Dream them electric! Follow them into their demise, and be ready to pull them from the womb!

Shall we defend each other’s right to defend ourselves from each other?

Cocoon, dreamer, larva, schemer
Seething with beauty
Leaking for eyes
Trained for doom
In skinless disguise
Particular boy, flailing
Punctured at the *****
Tethered to mother
Throbbing, gnarled, sumptuous, old
May this newborn insect never be sold

This is not honest work.
We must lie, deceive, embellish, thieve.
But are they not all the more enchanted by it?
Do not fool yourself with this sense of honesty.
Instead, trade that in for earnesty.

To seek the narrow scope
Of ancient tongue
And forlorn script
Wherein beauty held science
And love conquered skin
In spite of dismal truth
That senile surrender
Let the stars be swallowed
Whole by the sun
Let that awe surround
And in time, confound
The sons and daughters
Of logic unknown yet
For fear of forgetting
The marvellous, vacuous beauty
That encircled your eye

There, the caldera bevelled
In the spitting image of her bell
Looking shy above the shore
Was the essence of her smell
Liquids sharp, naked harp
A catamite in my succor
Graceless heave, tender sleeve
Pearly trailing tail

Entwine, surrender, entwine, surrender
Scintillating boy or throbbing girl

In new moments, waves collapsed
Ink lashed on our toothless gaps
A monkey washed, motions high
Pink shores creased, began to cry
Swelling up like a storm
Smells of Eden, the baby is warm
In the cool flame which sits down still
As it marvels at the hole that it filled
Overlapping with her blue commotion
Like two hills on a vicious plane
Eunoia sighs in consummated sky
They curled deep inside
The cavity of their hands

As vesper came, they awoke with no name
But there was something on their tongues

I miss the happiest things
From the worst of people
And there, suffering
From a terrible delight

Day, oh die
So idle, I
Live in stranger shoes
In another caboose

So soft, they are
Yet never feeble
I dream to lay
With the kindred people

I pulled my fingers out of the gutter
The Priestess turned her head to me
With her velvet pearls and trumpet stutter
"Do you belong to eternity?"
She twisted tight on my headlight
I widened her eye socket out of fright
I told her "honey, I like the look of your nose"
Which twisted up to the cosmos

Then she looked beyond
Like some small vagabond
Looking through a door
That wasn't there anymore
The black sea stretched across
She wielded my hand
Against the sleepless night

The town was crooked
People were empty
Tied to balloons and corpses of brides
The beds were shallow
The shore bred mountains
Yet there she was to taunt me
To envelop me
In her majesty's vice

Father
Glass eyes, brass tongue
He told me the truth
That I am
Sniveling
Unkind
Weak
Foolish
Frail
Callous
Complacent
Conceit­ed
Hideous
Inadequate
Useless

So, I
Laid him down
On the cherry floor
And proceeded to
Stomp his neck
Gouge his eyes
Gnaw his ear
Slam his head
Until both men were left
Very dead, dead, dead

One day
I'd like to become that brief flash in the image
A visage, so cloud-like
The fleeting document of motion
That unmistakeable force
Of pure devotion
Where my hair, lit ablaze
By the eyes of hazy light
Painted by hard trails
Of smoke within the night
The Macedonian head
That had the nerve
This uncompromising nerve
To step on the shoulders of others
While whittling his own
I will be a figure
That stands loud, not tall
And allows the pangs of life
To coil around his neck
And throw him far
Into the lawless salvation
Of the blank tomorrow

The shyness of the night
Laid still by fright
How lonely you must be
To crave that tired eternity
So impervious it is
That impermanence, bliss
Dots of haggard attitude
In place of solemn gratitude
Pray you are sick
For the hound’s wet lick
Will find you, haunt you
Until that emotion blue
Is uttered from your tooth
So rough, this youth
Which seeks beauty
In the light of shame
And vicarious fame
Through the network
Of many a hollow name
Engulfed in shallow flame

Will we meet again, like strangers?

As all things, dear: in time.

This dog of a sun
And how it remains
As it stains the hole
Of larklights in blue
Obstinate nuns in the hold
As they fold on forever

What a blessing, Sue
To see vicious sounds
In the halls of commotion
Now we surround
With our teeth, amber glow
As it sows a piece of forever

Fever, fever honey
You know what begets
The regret that you feel
Dance in the garret
Now, I hear in my fear
The hounds of forever

Think of what will never come
And it breaks the hollow sound
Of sweet repetition
Where pain is not mentioned
Hold your lover sweet
And you will fall, complete

See, hear, taste that sibilance eye
I shan't cry, nor state why
For freedom, despite its size
Will fail me in time

Wallace, come here
See the face I faithfully
Made in the image of you
I hope you find
The beauty that you
Have lost to old forever

Goddess, be soft
Know you're not known
By the people that hurt you
Stay in your loft
And let the lamp resound
The drums of forever

Don't fall to greed
By planning for fates
That are best left forgotten
Knowledge will wait
Unlike the sun or the moon
For they deny forever

Think of what will never come
And it breaks the hollow wound
Of sweet repetition
Where pain is not mentioned
Hold your lover sweet
And you will fall, complete

Strenuous, this malarkey eye
Waning clock in tentative sky
Do not take life for granted
Even when not wanted

Strong Héloise
Lay upon me
With your shackled aroma
Let it release
And scatter away
In your piercing gaze of forever

Héloise, come to me, see
That I haven't stopped
My attempts to capture you
On a damp canvas
Of trickling hues
That dare to uproot forever

I'll start with your nose
And give you a pose
That mimics your stature
Rock in your chair
As shadows deface
Your grace, lasting and tethered

Think of what will never come
And it breaks the hollow wound
A sophomore face
With sweet ******'s gaze
These gibbous hours cease
As the day finds peace

Your fur shambles so
Your fingers corrode
As the deluge below
Now blows us into forever

In every master, I see a slave to ambition.

There is a beauty, I must confess
In the roll of her eyes
She is an all-encompassing baroness
In ill disguise
There is something behind her charred lips
That I do wish to hold
But when she sharpens her lilac fingertips
I simply lose my soul

Sat still by the fire, she seemed to me
Sadly contrary to eternity
She speaks with words that one cannot teach
Her gaze beckoned me to reach

She walks to me on scalpels
I cannot deny her
She drowns my tongue
In the sound of lyres
Her name, Her name
Her name, Her name
Her name, Her name
Her name

Escapes my mouth
Through no fault of mine
She cannot be held
In the interest of time
Her age will never show too clear
When her hood falls down
The sun will kneel
There will be no sound
But her spinning heel
This conquest, so severe
Her teeth lash out like mirrors
I held her hand in fear

As she types away all of her rights
She keeps ******* tied
When she asked me to call her Eurydice
I politely declined
She threw a fleeting fit that died with a kiss
From me unto her hand
Then she said, “how could you throw away all this bliss?”
I couldn’t understand
She snapped her toes, the room bellowed
I quickly shrivelled in brilliant fright
Her nest of pearly hair swallowed me
Then she fell out of sight

The lady stood behind me
In a dress of pins
She smiled and swayed
I never saw her again
Her name, Her name
Her name, Her name
Her name, Her name
Her name

Escapes my mouth
Through no fault of mine
She cannot be held
In the interest of time
Her face will never show too clear
When her hood falls down
The sun will kneel
There will be no sound
Nor pain to feel
Her footsteps, so severe
As the pangs of her toes echo clear
I run, for I know she’s near

If your dreams bring you unrequited awe, do not cry.
For neither do they.

Be quick. Gagging on blood.
Quickly, before the flood.
Brain is winding up.

Overflow

Crowbar eyes prying
Concrete wings flying
I am a passerby
Unaware of it all
A mathematician crawls on dad
A Cockney is ***** and filled with sand
Liquid sound
An accountant sings
Like the world is caving in
It must be
I feel it in my toes
Two muted trumpeter swans
Feed on a lake of rice
And I need no anger
To notice such beauty
Nor pain
For I feel it all
In equal amounts, incessantly

O, Lola, where did you go?
What has time done to us?
Where did the lust find itself,
Be it our skull or vines
All this useless ambition
Suppose I am a simple fool
For you have escaped me
And yourself
All well and fast
Between our hollow hands
Cruelty remains
The abuse of such blessed love
And crooked ire
Now, sorry devotion
And ill fornication
Delouse our forgotten beds
In agonizing honey
As the finite pain
And debauchery befalls us
Could we die together
Slowly, once again?

I wish to stretch out eternity into a more tender, finite time.

If I am not made to do tremendous things, then let my greatest act be that of placing a bench at the very top of New Brighton hill, where the setting sun will spill over me until it grows shy, then do so again the next day.

When I am put beside my heroes, I wish not to be compared to them on the grounds of substance, but instead, the frequency of essence.

The distinction, simple and succinct enough.

As I peruse past words of great design, I feel as though I am writing them again, and what a feeling that is! To be imbued with the power felt ages ago, and to be made less sterile by it. That is how I will step forward in older age, and older age upon that, until oblivion.

The house of commerce commercializes my vignette of nostalgia through various panes. As I am lost to the neon coast of degradation, a forward conquistador berates me for my due impertinence. This migraine doesn’t match my previous excursions, as it is lethargic and fat in deep feeling. My raincoat is a bed that remains a typewriter, that which I reject. I hate it with precision. “This is not an observation, and you are a boisterous fool that rests on the laurels of institution!” But lo’, I am not that impish man! My pen is renewable, unlike my reserves of happiness. If the Quotidian Cycle remains so mundane, then who am I to adhere to the seers of ingenuity? Planets ingest the polygons that compose my mind to the sound of Igor Stravinsky. The definitions of words coalesce into a redundant gestalt, threatening to escape my clammy grasp. Brats and weasels complain of their jeans and fur, soaked in brandy and tar. I live like a dissident; this vagrant is cold to the sickening nods of animals. God, don’t let me remain an anthropomorphic beast. The suffering is daily, the void is lonesome and lays my spine on stone. Melatonin is a pensive friend, a foolhardy palliative to the disease within a footstep. I’ve no footsteps. Not any of note or worth.
Not a single thread to pride myself in. Conversations and dime trades happen around me at generous speeds while I remain a stranger. Christ, I despise my face. I’ve dug my heels into depravity, the exile from woman’s hold is a wrench in my innards. O, to even think is a crime! Who could love the mind deloused, the small and prudent mouse (but little did they know, he facilitates a disease between him and the universe). Intoxicated, my love knows no bounds, but my lust is rendered sterile and sullen. Who can hold me? Who can hold me? Who can hold me? God god god god could hold me. He is not strong, is he? Somebody hold me, now.
Oh, I know yes I need to indulge in the incessant whispers, for my status of a guileless ***** will have to suffice. A cigarette leaps out at my cursed visage, a container of maroon liquid coagulates in mine eyes. There, voices. Cyclic conversations, cyclic conversations, hep! Help! Take me! Take. Take. Take. Me! I belong in the boon, mister fowler. Take me! I don’t hold weight in this world! So take. Sedate me. Please, almighty, nullify me.

Rolling over encumbered waters and their peelings. I am deloused in the sanctum of brazen ladders that were manufactured in a tunnel in Somalia now that tunnel lies, sinking gradually by attoseconds. Africa is connected to Arabia via this passage “and how could I know?” I hear you ask. Well you don’t know, and you never will. But lo’, am I not making your mind nod? Stubborn as you may believe yourself to be, I remain an anvil and you are a blanket. So, there is no better reason to acquiesce. Beneficial, it will remain. So what say you, friend? Shall I continue? Well, here’s the second frame that has materialized within the half second: I’m writing vigorously, beholden to a contrived cosmic thing and erratically, I dream of a mauve *******- I reckon it’s an amphitheatre. The fiery rings of chairs are segregated according to the stature of the ***** that rest their heads on them. Briggyn Losyandr, a fisherman Thraex, assaults me with a Macedonian lance. Its blade is merely a tongue, and an oxidized one at that.
“Begone, man! I’ve got no role to play in your firetruck ambush.”
“Sir, this conflict isn’t for me, but I belong with you.”
The writer is supposed to be disconnected. That’s a constant, you hear? Dig? Up? Soil? Out. Out, now.

A Muslim hermit or monk.
- Also: a shrine marking the burial place of said Muslim hermit or monk.

How curious, to have your occupation and burial place share the same name. It provokes a sense of steadfast devotion to oneself and the One they serve. The painter’s grave, The Painter. You are your death, you are everything you touch. That is an idea to make amends with as the world loses its grip on the person; affirmation through reconciliation. Made by all that precedes you, all that succeeds you. There is no dread to be found on this note, realize that. your name will commemorate your life; your death will be given breath. A serendipitous thing. I would like to be a marabout to music, the world, all that can see me. To offer myself so that I may remember myself, and that they may be touched and inspired by me.

This man is a whirlwind, unwilling to be bent or crafted, instead shifting all by his vicious lonesome.

Carnal love
Take me now!
I am fit for duty
And purpose most high
To be made use of
In my virile hour
My glorious light
For I, useless otherwise
A trembling husk
Of unkempt desire

When staring at my skin
From your soft distance
Be sure to ask yourself this:
How much life do we have left between us?

Thin-blooded. Such is the nature of the dreams that offer you a sliver of paradise, only to be whisked aweigh at the slightest breeze of stale consciousness.

No need to say it when it has been expressed lucidly in thought and meditation. Now, take from that well of origin and turn it into something greater than parlance; allow it to earn its own breath and purpose.

Saffron, the pretender
Come to me in debauchery
Let me know not of this
But instead, vain camaraderie
Swiftly down the road
Forgive that violent tenderness
Of brass things
And parsimonious goodness
What teeth, critical states
Yellow signs coalesce
In this blood-drenched hour
I have lost my mind
And the light is dimmer
For this pious sinner
Listen to that gust
Two hundred and one stallions
Criticize my crystal eyes
I, the foreigner
A mistaken warrior
Dandelion child
Riding a ceaseless fountain
Holding a vase so ragged
And a sun so mild

Deprive oneself of common senses in favour of something beyond.