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.

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.

I love it when the sun is yellow
And over a crescent hill
It doesn’t hurt much, you see
It has no eyes to fill

But my driver cannot stand it
On this part of the highway
She says she cannot see
She rejects the light of day

But the sun smiles so wildly
And the roads are so hostile
That I could never stand to be
Something sullen and senile

Drive with your head open
Burn love into your eyes
Drive with your head open
And let the day suffice

I’d hate to die on beaten grass because of the glare
And make the news on Marda Pass, breeding despair

In every master, I see a slave to ambition.

Melanie of the morning
Sailed by my parapet
She says, “there’s no use in mourning
When the world is your puppet”

Won’t you come through my window?
For my legs feel frail
She says, “just moan like a minnow
And I’ll be in your mail”

And what a lovely day it is
Flowers taped onto a sign
When the sky is an orange wisp
I’ll be by your side

Oh, I long for her
Searing, fading hair
Still-flowing, spotlight fur
Delouse my glare

I spun around in my chair
Until the white walls caved
I’m ready for her stare
To hold me inside a grave

Soon, the bottom of my ship
Will hold gilded fleece
To keep her warm for a trip
Can a sailor only love the sea?

Melanie, Melanie will come to me

It’s a miserable truth
To know everything is borne
On the mind’s river
Inert pictures, sterile frames
Loveless leaves, idle mountains
The beauty is the eye
And if the eye holds no lustre
The soul will wither
In place of the mind
Which birthed it all the same
In a one-sided frame

I slept rather roughly in the coldest fall
Then I heard a raven starkly call
“You thought of her as you went to bed
But its merely minutes before she’s fled”

Amidst electric tongues and serpent eyes
I perused the room for alibis
Good friends and company, I do not stir
The reflections remain as one of her

Drunken rooms and worn-out talks
Dew of dawn brazenly knocks
I did not try to catch her eye
So there’s no harm in saying goodbye

I remember the friends that I made in a blur
But if that is returned, I’m not sure
I have not had enough to stall my mind
There is a happy dance I wish to find

The tastes of love and camaraderie
Fall like a cold blanket upon me
Seek solutions like stars under purple nights
And wish for our bed below to give us flight

As familiarity escapes
Every itch will take its shape
Into a conversation, you can smile and lie
So there’s no harm in saying goodbye

What’s done is past, but who’s to say it’ll wait
To turn itself into harmless fate?
I’ll imagine times where I knew them before
And lose myself so I can know them more

The scents of youth often try to bloom
And yet she stands softly in the room
Past rambled gawks, uttered, muttered slurs
She will not know that I dream to be hers

As faces race behind the door
There is no one here anymore
She has no memory of me tonight
So there’s no harm in saying goodbye

I will ask tomorrow’s vices to wait
And stay at the porch of morning’s gate
Oh, to sleep with an arm inside the pocket of your mind
Oh, I refuse and confess I fear to find

What’s left of my painting as night’s drawl drones
The image shown is of the travel home
The foolish thoughts lay on the floor in knots
I never asked for what I never brought

The sun is duly calling me
I beckon at her waving sea
October is not far from July
So there’s no use in saying goodbye

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.

In stepwise manners, the decision is made just as the cyan sun pierces through the overcast. The cavalcade of mercurial leaves pass under the handle of my plastic chin. They are borne on the temporal gust of youth which had made its yearly return. My little heart is astounded, immersed in love’s vicarious changes without ever feeling or seeing the flesh. I listen for the chimes that bellow deeply and conspicuously through the plateau shifts. Now, towers are houses and the world is a golf ball; just as meaningful as one, too. Rest, the flakes will not stop cutting into your shoelaced skin. If there is protest in the air, perhaps you are its pilot. Believe in the haze that separates you from those you wish to touch. Crowley’s charms, planetary rings, lamplight halos make a bed that screams “float” eternally. Perplexed and flying through my own inquisitions. Within these past odd minutes, I am intimate with the world’s vein yet again.

Thunder shattered lightning o’er the moor
The hoarse women spoke of what’s to come
Beneath the set of sun, they adjure
The fated, bloodied fool of the kingdom

Written here is an early epitaph
Of the golden well and its fall
The order’s domain, once in paragraphs
Stained, slain and cursed by its thrall

The Captain of the ministry of peace
His bloodied steel, speaking of some rage
The fires hung, the creases on their knees
The pawn, the hero, of a noble gauge

Major Mylland and General Barnow
Emptied their guns and scarred their bones
A rebel slain, the traitor thane in tow
Mylland rested on a stolen throne

They stumbled on the old women of fate
Who knelt and spoke of riches yet to come
For them and their own kin, a golden gate
They fled with a quick tongue of costly sums

These men, taken aback by many a dream
Mylland’s fate, it seemed to serve him well
The sinister truths have given him royal seams
How close to hell must one want themselves?

King Dunwell heard of Cornell’s dead
Cried out freely, by his silvered son
The thane confessed, now less a man by the head
With the fall of boys, came ****** won

Mylland and Barnow were revered
With carpets of sand and diamond busts
It was heir Mnaleer, the son he feared
Shall Mylland be a king, return him to dust?

The silhouette of the once-great gestalt
And its walkways of emerald tongue
In thickened, wary blood it found its halt
And rides in the pocket of fate’s lung

Lady Mylland received a letter
From her love, who did not take the reins
Unsexed herself as the cosmic order’s debtor
Duly indulged in some gain from pain

Dunwell arrived on the palest day
Praised the charms of the seething Myllands
In this jovial banquet, he sways
And greets the ravaged likes of ****** hands

Mylland caught himself and his drink
And sought to render prophecies untrue
But his wide did not fall for meek links
And spat on Mylland’s wishes to rue

He happened upon Barnow, who would tell
Of cursed thoughts and nightmares neighbouring
His pillow, Mylland shrugged and claimed all’s well
And set a later time for his flings

Mylland happened upon a floating blade
The blood stained air beside a shaken mind
With reflections, his cowardice fades
Promptly adheres to his calling’s binds

The blow to shake the sun, committed then
Perpetual stains that water can’t wipe
Murdered was the sleep of the kin
The loyal, now chained to the void’s gripe

A drunken porter named Bazeleu
Mocked the visitors outside his door
Drank and whispered of a distilled dew
Droopily continued his chore

Mygdla, a righteous fighting man, walked in
And greeted his hollow heart, a vicious sight
The blood of kings that dwelled within
He called an echo of the kingdom’s blight

Sons of the king, Mnaleer and Delireey
Sought to flee from miming as a home
With sharpened smiles and daggers, merrily
They escaped from corruption's shattered dome

Mylland, granted a crown by all and none
Broke the stationary cosmic hierarchy
It brought eyeless nights and blood-red suns
Oh, to find oneself in fleeting patriarchy

But he grew weary of the women’s words
Anxious of Barnow and his kingly son
Should they rule, or be ash under his sword?
Now Barnow rots, his child meekly runs

On the finest feast of the night
Mylland’s sins appeared in tattered rags
The dead Barnow, a ghost, a visage, a blood-addled sight!
The guests fled with his sanity in bags

In his rage and royal dissatisfaction
He duly had Mygdla’s family maimed
The truest, newest colour of his deluded faction
Of one man, shall comeuppance be his bane?

Mygdla, in righteous fury and despair
Sought revenge and gathered men of war
And found Mnaleer in hopes to repair
Their lost purpose, ****** be Mylland’s scar

Lady Mylland talked into her pillows
Asleep of the dreaming, newfound dread
Of her guilt of fate, she would bellow
Dead is the heart of the pierced head

Mygdla’s forces came in forceful stride
The sweeping vanguard of the vengeful eyes
They walked as trees to the kingdom sides
Sharpened their resolve for due demise

Mylland pondered on a hollow throne
A fruitless crown and a plastic sceptre
Relied on fate’s dubious loans
And found his wife’s visage, now a still spectre

Tomorrow, tomorrow is to never come
For life is foolish, with its voices and vice
He steeled himself for his solitary kingdom
His shield, a shining rut of chance’s dice

The smoke and fire, war rages true
Screams followed by screams of vain quarrel
With Mygdla’s entrance, vengeance shall ensue
And hereby comes the full fool’s final peril

Mylland and Mygdla clashed with rage
Mylland fell to his vaulting ambition
Mylland’s head, severed by the closing page
Mylland’s final breath of his mind’s attrition

Mnaleer became king
The people, overjoyed
Merrily sing
Of the ceasing void

This was the story of the Whirligig Well
The beaming gestalt, the golden land
The dew of morning, drank after hell
A sempiternal bond to fate’s twisted hand

Take heed, take heed!
These are malleable times
Purposeful places
Stringed pages

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

That wasn't as painful as I thought it'd be
It all came quite easily
Nice to lie here
On the cusp of oblivion
Simplicity
This doesn't hurt
I don't believe it
Liberation
I feel young and naive again
If only, if only
I'll relapse, surely
I'll feel this again
I'll hurt someone new
Bound to, bound to
But currently, there is no pain
What a shame

He walked into the bar, a buzz in the corner
With fists upon each other
A self-appeaser, a demonizer
With a picture of Christ in the corner

A ****** posing as a mannequin
For the lost kids from the suburbs
A rockstar singing testimonies 
To its significant others

Careful, they might criticize your point of view

Its just the neons and gutters
The mundane-marveled life
The signs only omit what you realize
Its how we deal with each other
Its how we share our beds
With the promise that we're stars, no less
Its not a sign

Radio beats on null-head streets
And monotonous synchronizing
People pummel oil drums
Emphasize on heavy flooding

The local drug store is the place
For sanity verification
Latex gloves deem what we'll find
In the underbelly of this nation

Careful, they might criticize your point of view

Its just the neons and gutters
The written, free life
We see it all, but thats not realized
Why do we act as fodder?
Its how we share our beds
With the promise that we'll come back to a caress
Its not a sign

I'm not you, you're not me
I've no clue, maybe that's alright
I love peace, you hate war
We clash heads, maybe that's alright
I'm getting paid, you're a star
I don't bother, maybe that's alright
I've got kids, you're alone
We're all doomed, maybe that's alright

We'll be fine
We're divine
We've no crimes
We save our dimes
We keep time
We'll be fine

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.

Translucent, red traffic light
Belongs so comfortably
No one made a fuss over its colour
Just an instinct for the shade
The perfect pigment
No hustle, no alarm
Being the man who ponders this
Am I not allowed the breeze or the brevity?
Are we blessed to fidget the cigarette?
Cursed to be tense
I imagine a mellow, white man
Prancing on a set of traffic lights
Naturally pristine and silky
He plays in an explorative band
Rock and roll on scalpels
So smooth, that breathing
Not a single itch
I’m going to achieve such a feat
One day
I’ll be a queen *****

Orange lights in District Naught
The blues and browns sigh a shot
Runner reds and timid towns
Are weeping

Shame over what was sown
To exist in all unknowns
A self-given name
To hop over mountains

Dreaming in Burgundy
Must now be somebody
Oh!

Fleeting, Fleeting
Fleeting, Teeming

Limbic lights follow sheets
Of cruising clowns on the street
Nomad beds and vivid crowns
Are sweeping

Stand over District Joy
Join the sun convoy
This drifter came
From mountains for love’s fountain

Fleet-footed Carnaby
Must now be entropy
Oh!

Breathing, Breathing
Breathing, Feeling

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.

Here, behold me
What say you?
Here, you fold me
Teared and true

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

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

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

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

In the event of me writing
And that fool’s subsequent passing
There will be word, tied tight like a rope
Exhumed slightly, the “oscilloscope”

It is a fleeting word that I grapple with
Clumsily, with pink convulsions as accompaniment
I know not what brought it, what it ever did
But it hardens in my brain like like nostalgic cement

The sentiment is where I strain it through
The dream that conquers my starving brain
The word that stirs a visceral brew
The dance of the neurons, and their thinker, estranged

It is under a glass ceiling, this electric swing
Where the Oscilloscope Orchestra comes to play
Their transparent tools and conceptual strings
(Through and) In the oscilloscope, for their incessant days
The masked marionette cuts the air into pie
Wave wielders gape through their saccharin sighs
The stringists and streamists play the Forever Sky
Wave-waked comics turn the egg of the eye

Its proper definition eludes my intuition
The time of its birth, closely distant to mind
It may be a device, or a conception of my vision
Or the gestaltic train of my cyclical grind

An oscilloscope sees the passage of time
Through electric currents of a lost frequency
I’m glad and amazed that
I rhymed with the finger of a poet
And could show it through the arms of a mime
Without the immaculate depravity to know it
These conclusions are married to time

I’ll aspire to thank my thought-crime
For my ignorance can unveil the sea

Farewell!
We’ve tried all we can
Now, it’s time to go
The sky is grainy
The clouds
Impenetrable
Don’t worry
We can’t be stopped
On this hill
Until we tumble down
Again and again
Like boulders
Small kings
Restless queens
May we be redeemed
Amen

On a snow-laden path
An ice-caked mat
Innocence will make way for you
Just wait for a smile
Paint bathroom tiles
Dye coffee in vibrant hues

Time may be cold
But sure is his hold
He'll cherish what I never could
Watch your T.V.
In suburban heat
And I will remain in the woods

She smells of the ink that broke grounds anew
His skin, like the paper, passed from me to you
They spoke of that era, intimately gone
The children waited for their dance in the sun

Their biggest statues were products of their times
Five years of longing, and two of moonlight
They speak of a tongue under deep scrutiny
They wither to write and that simply can’t be

These Paperbound Heroes surrendered their souls
So that which they speak can never be controlled
Each one lingers about in a leaping house
Their structure of thymes, their words of coals

Do not forsake them for long

A dreamer bedridden to some old device
His mind of electricity kept out the lice
They’ll take your deep pockets and show you your heart
What “folly’, what “fool” will bring about a start?

The capes and the crosses, and their simple times
Where one could live free without begging a dime
They can’t save us from the books where they’re bound
But it is enough that these stories resound

These Paperbound Heroes sacrificed their souls
To fill what’s within, the new century’s hole
Each leaps about like a larking mouse
Their stature of crime, their works of tolls

They won’t follow for long

Where are the beat-down, the colleagues with crowns?
The always around, knowing what’s going down
The knowledge-filled lungs in the smoke-filled rooms
An idle guitar, the ideas to groom

The poets and dead-beats that you spit upon
Welded our worlds, those vast vagabonds
Vain as they are, rough as they come
The smallest of pawns are still parts of the sum

These Paperbound Heroes, they silvered their souls
In pure desperation to decry the poll
They lark about in the loneliest house
Their stolen rhymes, their worn-out goals

They are forever strong

The boy in the bed, well he wrote for a while
He was transfixed by the drawn, timeless smiles
So who’ll be the one that will get in his way?
And trivialize every word he will say

The girl with the gun chose to lay her arms down
She chose to cease with such visceral sound
I believe they’re happily married today
It is bittersweet to throw oneself away

These Paperbound Heroes are weary and sold
Their grasps so that they may simply grow old
But if you fret that they belong in their house
In due time, the kids will grow into their soles

Move forward with your song

Peace is ready for you, if you want it

Peace belongs to you, if you want it
Peace will carry you, if you want it
Peace will reign for you, if you want it
Peace will give to you, if you want it
Peace is ready for you, if you want it

Peace belongs to her, if she wants it
Peace will embrace her, if she wants it
Peace will protect her, if she wants it
Peace will love her, if she wants it
Peace is ready for her, if she wants it

Peace belongs to him, if he wants it
Peace will stand for him, if he wants it
Peace will dance for him, if he wants it
Peace will reach for him, if he wants it
Peace is ready for him, if he wants it

Peace belongs to us, if we want it
Peace will stay for us, if we want it
Peace will speak for us, if we want it
Peace will fight for us, if we want it
Peace is ready for us, if we want it

The plaques have realized
That degrees aren’t built for learning
They’re pleased to be earning
There’s no point in yearning
If your mind’s quickly burning

Govern me, Lily
Covet me slowly
I have nothing to uphold
Just my own soles

It’s better to never believe
In improvidence
I sit on the cusp of eternity
And lost parlance

Here comes Jacques
On the pavement
Screaming at the sediment
Of conditional skin
People calling out, “a hack!”

When’s the next race
And when’s the next attack?
Who’ll be under the tracks?
Soul’s got no control
No more, ‘till the look is late

They seem catatonic
Stuck in the soul of fate
It is a gene state
Someone ought to stalk the hawk
His language is sardonic

See through the bottleneck?
Reliance on sonics
To repress every chronic
Malfunction of compunction
Here’s the future, bloodlet

We may not see what we deserve
Someone birthed us to forget
The role of a conscious pet
What’s within the ship’s fins?
The well-fed wield a coat of fur

Scream into the water well
It might throw something up to sell

Deprive oneself of common senses in favour of something beyond.

Breathe again
We want you to breathe again
Acquiesce into our please for life
Your life

Never regress
Into the sick and standard mind
Breathe again
We want you to see again

Breathe again
Spark your mind on dopamine sticks
Just look and taste the eye
And rest to find the sky

Do not be sure
Of the temporal gust of life
Touch your brow
And withdraw from your grievances

Cry again
Learn to be human for a time
Love again
We just want you to function

Lead our way
Ignore your birthing days

The sky shifted out of excitement, malforming into the menacing child of blue and indigo. It inspired the apex of one’s thoughts, yet promised stoic impotence; a blasé response. Besides a burning Nissan, I was perplexed. Something taught me that I should be emoting, and the glove should be reading into my vortex of encumbrance. If no one acknowledges that I must be freed, shall I retain the visage of a captive? I am but a stifled, trembling man.

If it comes from nowhere in particular, let that be good enough.

My thoughts have become excruciatingly apparent, achingly transparent. The soil-scanned pores are presented in all their vainglory. To my eyes, I am left stifled and cruel, undeserving of the fruits of my godless labour.

Don’t have a laugh now, ******. This is no entry of any sort, nor am I looking for divine affirmation in the ink that I lay down. My umbilical cord to the heavens is severe  and grotesque, buried under the soot of history’s accords (abandoned scripts, all they are).

This room is cold but I am not, you see? I used to be the stoic; the unabashed abuser of generosity. My shoulder used to hold seven reigns by its lonesome. I should do so well to be fragile, much like I am now. Is it not easier to love this way? Parsimonious as my kindness may be, is it not so pure at the moment? I believe I love, greater than I ever have before.

I should. I shall not sacrifice the gilded mechanisms inside my head for love, no. Perhaps I will love, though superficially. However facetious my care is, is that not what love is portrayed to be? A lover is soon made a loser, for their misfortune or complacence. Stay my hand, dear. Do not let me morph into that lover for you. We do not deserve such a prognosis, not even the thought of one.

Will we meet again, like strangers?

As all things, dear: in time.

Before the thaw, my feet will be rooted
Into this nation’s primordial freeze
My muscles and bones will be acquainted with malaise
The sun’s altruism will be refuted

Before the thaw, I will struggle to find consciousness
The frost will leak through the bedroom window
And don the facade of a blanket
The door will prove to be bottomless

Possibilities will seem unachievable
The brain will itch for what it can not have
Buses will limp through congestion
And the blizzards may feast on the feeble

You may want to write of your misery
But your automation will halt in cataclysm
Because someone held a door open
For the gust that billows bitterly

Gastric emissions will become tangible
As smouldering wastes contrast against the sky with rancour
The wispy whites, marginalized into *****
And the world remains infallible

I will lack the tools of incision
To enact my life’s revisions
I will weep for my unguided millions
While I saunter into oblivion

After the thaw, I will smile
My expatriate soul will run in the whimsical wind
Of the morning dayspring that will march unto me
I will stand over a kingdom of honey-filled tiles

After the thaw, the arks will converge
Into the straits of the Bermudian Sea and the
Elusive Caspian Forest, where I will learn to love again
While bidding farewell to winter’s dirge

In the waking world, I will ***** a limestone castle
Where entropy will rule and the mind’s domain
Is left susceptible to perennial reverence
The sea, coloured true, nesting a fairgrounds vessel

In this Great Revision, gargantuan skyways
Will show the world how exiguous we are
That we must not wait for exodus to come
Should we fear to waste away
Into icebergs

Rattle on
And do so backwards
In the insular hole
Strangle lo’
To and fro, in herds
Build for me a pole

Wail along
And do so sweetly
In my crooked glyphs
Sail strong
To lands discreetly
A flintlock at your hip

Walk across
And do so sideways
In a tiled oasis
Count the cost,
To hands that play
Deal out epistasis

Swim away
And do so upwards
In a veiled monsoon
Drown the day
In Carinae
Seek its vagrant moon

I float out of mind, or the visages of time
Born from the gusts of a star’s mighty stillness
I fly to a sphere of lovers and mimes
Still, no one can bear to notice my dress

Dear- she is silent, yet stands so close
The eyes pierce my body, smiling fro
The human gaze is one of repose
Is there something the cosmos did not show?

I'm an actor! The Guile! Kaleidoscopic motion!
In the midst of monotony, the lumbering locomotives
I laugh on stained tiles, I'm a star of devotion!
Know me, fools! My essence is votive!

O vile and veiled stage, which I perform under!
Is my passion redundant, and my words so tasteless?
This is my dream, that fate struck asunder
I can't feed myself at my worst or my best

I think I will go back to star Sirius' caress.

Years- the passing of time
Insurmountable to my looping eye
Not so much as a dent in their grime
The vice of the purpose, unhinged by a sigh

What can one choose to bear
When ******* the clasp of cosmic hands
When all one sees are fleeting stares
And their last teacher is time’s command

Not a single ear hears
Not a single voice cheers
No hands, free to jeer
For I am not here

The joke is as old as the star that birthed me
As careless as a rampant sea

I've fallen so badly
In the loveliest way
She is youth and hope
Peace incarnate

She will lead me astray
To the strangest of lands
I climb up her rope
To life's golden sands

Should I give myself fully
She would do me no harm
She lifts the whole sky
No earthly alarms

To the void's long keep
We'll breathe with the angels
In softened sighs
To the top of old Babel

Amidst harrowing storms
Jagged, veiny towers
The zenith of brevity
The brassen bellows

On top of this sap-laden tree
Where the stars finally contort
And intercept the grass itself
We will rest in a cedarn cove

As I fly amongst all monsters and men
With the former being the common kind
I find my sanctum inside an oak tree
Quite tall to see a world, not too blind

In nations across, a nation below
Wars are waged, men are hung
As sinful a woman would wait and sow
For their husband in pieces, because I have sung

"What song do you speak?" asks the eager fool
Fair and serene, as my song's painted grey
Not black, nor white, nor prejudiced tool
I trickle innocence, fall asleep towards May

I don't move as leaves fall, dead bark will suffice
As a cold, bitter home, though not quite as your hearts
That would feel content when it treats one as mice
For now they are small, and thus chewed apart

For their colour? Their kin? Their wellness? Their faith?
I've flown above beauty in some diverse place
For naivety or luck, I cannot quite fathom
Why this nation of pastures should spit on one race

A race, so beautiful but starving
For food and water, in a time not so kind
But the poor in the pockets are so rich in the heart
To beg for acceptance, but justice is blind

Blind justice, you say, is blind to colour
Blind justice, I say, is blind to a heart
Of a land of the "free", of one democracy
But in which fair acceptance will indeed, never start

I flew in a town of monsters and men
I bother only with the former kind
The good men were hung, under soil or cement
My innocence, shot by metal led blind


Nature doesn't change, pastures stay green
Nature doesn't change, humans stay green

Fly, youth, Fly
Cry, innocence, Cry
Die, bird, Die

The boy was driving out
Before he forgot himself
“What did I believe”, he cried out,
“On the bookshelf?”

But it was awful chilly, it was
For an afternoon
So he turned to friends, but spoke none 'cause
A mouth don’t fit on a loon

Biding time with a droopy eye
And changed his name again
Goes by a fool with a cool catch
To earn his name on cement

He is the son of summer
Winter at his feet
Doesn't remember forgetting his innocence
No matter who he meets

Yes, ma'am, thats's a dual voice you hear
He seeks high fidelity
Fully faithful, a sun-fearing queer
The caricature to be

On the stage, the things that he wrote
Those memories bygone
Come crashing down on him and he can't emote
The clown's not having fun

Finding time with a droopy eye
And changed his name yet again
Goes by a fool with a cool catch
To earn his name on cement

He is the son of summer
Winter at his feet
Doesn't remember forgetting his innocence
No matter who he meets

Praise be to cherry pie
And all the faces that made me feel that I
Could settle on "by and by"

Praise be to anyone
That put me under the blistering sun
I'll get back there, its true

I just got more to do

It’s all very good
To not be happening
To be pedestrian
In the eye of the skin

What are you giving
To the fee of propriety?
Or maybe you’re taking
No loans for your own belief

You’re not looking
If you’re already there
Standing crooked
On decadent hardware

Tapeworms and toe shoes
Comments on twitches
Raking a living
On dollar-long pitches

Sustainable notebooks
Planning uncertainty
A humble room
For an affirmed reality

You’re not looking
If you’re already there
Standing crooked
Begging for a chair

Your mind is pretty
As a cog of the city
It may lark starkly
In a house that ages a-
-Loans to live up-
-Tunics promise the sky-
Domain disappoints you

Periodic shifts,
Assured to swallow you in splendour
Nothing engineered
Is best left well-explained

Standing for a chair
                         Standing for a chair
                                                  Standing for a chair
                                                           ­                 Standing for a chair
    Standing for a chair
                              Standing for a chair
                                                       Standing for a chair
                                                           ­                     Standing for a chair
         Standing for a chair
                                  Standing for a chair
                                                           Standing for a chair
                                                           ­                       Standing for a chair

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.

Through our gritted teeth
I subject myself to strife
I cannot steal a pair of jeans
From a call to life

Stay safe for me
Stay sound for me
Stay warm for me
Stay rested for me

I couldn’t stand to see your tears
I could hide you away from fear
I couldn’t watch you saunter alone
I could walk you home

I know I am too eager
I know my smile is meagre
I know I can do better, when due
I know that I love you

Stay safe for me
Stay grounded for me
Stay home for me
Stay happy for me

This isn’t me
This is not life, flee
We are not meant to be
Not happily

Stay safe for me
Stay bound for me
Stay swarmed for me
Stay vested for me

Stay for me, won’t you?
You won’t, will you?
It is not healthy
Simply

You must yield
I am not your shield
Stay in your bed
I have lost my head

I will continue to long
For you
Believe me, you do not belong
To me

But I love you
I do
And I couldn’t stand
To see your tears

Stay safe for me
Stay safe for me
Stray from me
Stay away from me

But first and foremost,
Be safe

My shadow is as authentic as my flesh. Under the deep cover of the day, it comes out to play, mimicking me in such a ragged manner. At times, it is ahead of me, as if its automation is one premeditated dance. Other times, I feel as if it has given me the reigns, through no request of my own. It is so faithful to my identity that it may as well be independent. Why shouldn't it be? Detractors would call me foolhardy with my whims. They would say, "Oh, but where does it go at night? Little child, where has your friend gone?"
What villains these people are. Of course, the shadow must rest from the pains of this earth; from the sight of mongrels like them. Every shadow has the right to fear the aged and the gnarled; their eyes domineering over every present pebble beneath their feet. It is as if they spit on their homes. I would burn the world twice over to protect my shadow. His own realm must be something of a sanctuary, or a holy womb. It ought to be my duty to protect the last vestiges of nascent, naïve innocence.

One more knock to the head and it’s over
One less dreadfully said and I bend over
Say it loud from this sundry town
And I’ll keel, sober

One less lesion to bed and I’m healthy
One more lesson in lead for my safety
Say it loud in your sundry gown
Dare to take me

On the end of the road is a playground
We’ll be safe and not make a sound
Can we swing until we’re found?
No one’s around in the canopy
Envelop me

I’ll write as if life is shy
I’ll mime as if it has something to hide
I’ve a deal with the sky
Which made my hand temporary
In our canopy