I indulge the evening.
I indulge the evening
with a savory cup of tea,
percolated evergreen whistling
the sensual cup of tea.
For one could easily cast
their gaze and jilt off
into busy streets,
but you warm my heart,
my hairy toes
and pour into me
rivers of rumination.

Seeds of life and sweaty bees,
a ***** fingernail's eastern breeze,
Nile River hands and feet of Euphrates,
the born creators of our cities.
Of Light! Of Cheer!
Many faces here.

***** hands that toil away
to catch the lightning of the day;
and i do so in a way
for we all love a good tease.

Primordial forces sing in May
to bring the sun to all who play;
and I do so in a way,
for burning eyes study in pairs.

Children of the rice field run away
to chase the dragons of dismay;
and i do so in a way,
for flaming sunsets draw near.

Winds of travel and salty seas,
a distant wanderers expertise
Mt. Fuji's sight, the sound of Ganges,
within one sip I arrive with ease.
In Light! In Cheer!
I am it! I am here!

I indulge the evening.
I indulge the evening
and watch the flickers
of the chocolate sky,
Sweet and smoldering,
the coming febrile sky;
as the night dims low  
she sneaks through the window.
Shamelessly in standing ovation,
I greet the moon
still tasting of Earth
and her endless overtones.

I spoke to a girl with questions.
Silky black hair up like a pine tree,
cappuccino skin studying me
perusing thoughts like vinyl sleeves.
Petite and slouched against the wall
I did not catch her name,
cozy aimless no-name.
New star, squinting glances,
eyes rolling around like owls.
My beard was brustling
like a wildfire up my cheeks.
Maple eyes, oaky eyes,
ebony eyes, rosewood eyes,
burning the dead wood within me.

Heed not the mask they wear
nor the color of skin and hair,
to hide and scare is the tactic of shadows.
The invisible hands that cling
to all the words that shout and sing,
like a virus to a cell it feeds.
Though in virtue it appeals
far intentions conceal;
see through eyes that are taken.
Fierce souls once tried in vain,
now shackled, the mind of Cain,
they shall see no other.
It is quite a site to see
the stricken children, bourgeoisie,
the loop, it pulls ever tighter.
The leash of will
soon the noose that kills,
the birds in the trees all scatter.
But to hang in the gallows
is all very shallow,
for the just retain no hospitality.

The text is buzzing
my eyes new and fuzzy,
in my hands the last breath
of ten thousand winners.
The inkwell is half empty
candles flickering gently,
the moon rests her head
and pours a lavishing smile.
The pages glowing fiercely
yet my intent sincerely,
through snowy fingers she snickers
I've stolen her eye shadow once more.
By dawn we are full of intrigue
for we choose to bear this fatigue;
my dear we haven't slept in weeks.

The trees outside are jivin'
and I'm in here beside 'em
askin' what's going on tonight.

"The party's at eleven,
they'll be playin' Bill Evans,
why don't you bring yourself over?"

"Wigglin' roots all night
bare feet should suffice,"
under the violet sky smilin'.

The pines seem alright,
archaic, a lil blight,
this room is getting stuffy.

So I slip out the back
followin' scents of cognac,
there be a fete in the greenbelt tonight.

Creakin' the wooden gate
I am called upon my fate,
I, am of the roots now.

And all the foliage rejoice
each their own peculiar voice
for I'm just in time, so are we.

As the clock strikes eleven
stridin' down from heaven
he takes his seat once more.

When you flick the lever does it strain you? Does it stave you?
So agonizingly close to the truth?
Cynical is the nature.
Mame to ****,
fool not fill,
mind over will.
To quarter intrinsically,
Stutter intellectually,
Engrosse enternally.
Oh untimely vapire!
Vibrent like the moon
how you steal from the heavens,
iluminating the path of shadows!
You! Sending mankind to the gallows!
Oh promises you gave were shallow!
Every like
every follow,
will this only end in sorrow?

Hook of emotion,
line suspended thoughtfully,
sinker feels the thought.

Muse of yonder laid me rapt,
faded in her nape 'twas the golden sun.
"Pull back the drapes and weave your path,
may thy wisdom reach you now and then."
Wet with sound, cosmic hum, we mapped
the rosy hills blooming from the storm.
With honeydew eyes I awoke and laughed,
dawn shineth through a window open.
                                      
                                    - Dylan Whisman

Midst a forest of harps,
the primordial bard rouses the chords
which woke the first of man,
curling my beard with warm enchanted fingers.

Fingers that plucked the light of Lyra,
conducted campfires of
olden drifters and seers,
lifted autumn's leaves into
the annual dusky blush .
The evening caress scatters
Sahara sand and sea salt
within the fiery blooming brush.

A crackling twist sparks
a synapse in the shadows,
a terrestrial muse speaks softly,
and leaves the world humming.

Calm, beneath lilly pad lay,
breathes a flower array,
on hillsides grey.
Cloud, drips above,
through sky of May,
so they can love,
within their day.

Lyrics, Lyrics, Lyrics send me to the either,
weightless shifting there i'll be sitting here to meet ya,
inhale your sweet sensation oh lying here to greet ya,
come whisper colors in my eyes, lemme find what's underneath ya.

May it be love or may it be spite
on this deep n' purple flight,
you gotta shake some sense in me
rock me through the night.
Let us be on clouds of smoke
ain't this life just but a joke?
We can go on and on and on and on
Lemme find what's underneath ya.

Shout embrace I can feel my face
My my I have changed,
Electric veins jet full of grace
My my I have changed.
Sprint through me and hit the gong yeah?

Yes, my you we have only just begun
to know that we are all and all is one,
let's not leave we have just begun
to find out what's underneath ya.

To you, you and we, I write this elegy.
Though none shall see from blinding screens,
flashing colors and unfulfilled dreams,
I stand perishing with the few and the many,
peeking at the dark storm brewing,
while the rest sleep soundly in the rain.

In crowded crowds on sanctioned sidewalks,
we the masses sleepwalk with strings under our shirts;
Amnesic of our history,
speeches and words now smeared and silent
and all of that and who was great before us forgotten between pages;
Absent of the present,
blindsided by the amaurosis of propaganda,
selfishly trapped in selfies, we are left with no knowledge of the self;
Unaware of the future,
so chemically fixed, so wrapped in wool,
so unknowing of our enemies, even the Fathers
have rolled over in their graves.

We've been born and built into a machine vast and complex,
an ever progressing apparatus of countless lies
and watching eyes; and we are nothing more but the cogs,
spinning, ignorant of the system we so helplessly preserve,
afraid to stop our beast in its tracks.

We've all sang "My Country Tis of Thee",
but your country tis no more yours, twas never yours or mine.
It is of a gross abomination of a civilization's country
who currently and physically rapes this world of its soul, it's life force,
while we dream in our spinning slumber.

To those awakened and vigilant, I praise thee.
To those still unforgiving and unforgettable, I cheer to we,
the few, who see both the invisible hand,
and the dagger gripped in its vice.
For when election becomes subversion,
when free choice becomes intimidation,
when controversy becomes secrecy,
and information becomes entertainment,
we remain patient and pungent, a steady corrosion
cog by cog, bolt by bolt,
we wave the smelling salts of truth over the
dormant minds of our sleeping society.

I lament for you, for we,
the masses with out glasses
who let their fears plug their ears;
may your silent stupor be quick and numb,
for if ignorance is our bliss,
may our existence be a arduous rebellion.

Staring into the crimson trance
with faces of friends distant and far,
revealing presence within our moments peaceful.

Rugged body to watch the earth's teeth
crumble glowing in gold to ashen clay valleys.
Crackling sparks of rhythms carry the soul to gardens high above.

To a force that gives and takes,
smile most gratefully glowing,
a kaleidoscope world warming the face
of the one who pokes the universe.

Instead of paper, here you are.
Rather than dust, here you are,
removing the world of its
human fingerprints.

Like a flicker of the sun,
a shaving of light, you soar
across the trembling flowers,
calming them with your weightless touch.

Dancing on air,
you suspend in the space,
spreading an earthly joy
into the wind, into the silent sound.
The breeze, your raja, the sun your mantra,
and I, your beholder.

Beneath these wondering eyes
there is a storm that rages,
and in the eye of
the storm there is a small island;
there, a small cabin sits with its light on.
The candle flickers like a whip as it
illuminates an old bookshelf filled with
tattered dusty textbooks and novels,
loose papers with words scribbled
knick knacks wooded and rusted,
all damp and strewn about.
It's here I am stricken, trying to make
sense of wrinkled papers
filled with ideas of an almost human nature.
As the eye blinks once more,
and the winds begin to howl
I step out into the sand,
books held against my chest,
screaming scribbled thoughts into
the swirling sky.

A fist used to pound and smack
to smash and wack, to grind the
white flavorless dough from
fields of broken gravel,
crumbled by the passing of time,
flooded by hopeless tears as it
shoves it's seed into stone.

Clenching tightly white-knuckled,
as if to hold desperately to kindness
long left, or never given.
A ****** callused and raw fist,
scared sick and confused, proceeds
to knock the wind from the earth.

Never will the fist be opened
to caress the face of it's mother,
to halt it's careless helpless tantrum
of being, to quit the flogging and be selfless.
A fist so ****** will only end
in a flailing fury of bewilderment,
into the golden flash of it all.

Long ago,
before the first chin hair,
before the first pimple,
before all the stress.
Sitting in artificial sand,
I thought about the future,
reaching a glimpse
of brightness into a fantastic future.
For Christ sake I wanted to be a trash truck driver.
I sat and dreamt about the life beyond my years.
Now that sand pit is a stone curb
were I pan the gutter for specks of
humanity.

I shouldn't have to think in my
years of youth and wonder:
Wether I should leave this world to die,
Or perish with it all.

Inside these quick April showers
lurks a silent melancholy,
a short buzzing of dysphoria.
The human is much like the earth,
for it is these short spells of sadness
that prime the soul for the sunshine
of happiness.

Thy heads be kept higher,
Ye forgotten vagabonds,
thou not be drowning in
paper flowing through the air,
for thy eyes see no green
but in the grass stains on thy jeans.

Thy minds be kept cleaner,
Ye forgotten vagabonds,
thou not mind thy own stench,
Nye, ye only smell the toxic crowds
of rapacious men who step on thy feet
throwing cold copper hail stones pressed with a dead man's pompous glare.
All ye common folk, thou not hear our fife hiss and whistle?
Let its melody awaken you from thy ignorant trance.

Keep marching along,
Ye forgotten vagabonds,
let thy tune clear the ears of our cracked streets,
our broken nations,
our dying world,
to the piercing pitch of thy people.

I stroll apon the suburban sidewalks
of my town hearing the trees whisper
in the freezing biting winter wind.
Do they sigh or shiver in this icy chill?
What do they whisper?
The groans of fatigue echo
heavy ocean swells into the black midnight sky.

Deep thoughts flow through these ancient giants;
thoughts of weather in spring,
epiphanies of baby birds chirping for mothers worm.
The soaring pine, massively ascending into the sky,
dreaming of a childhood passed away in its shade.
The Birch relentlessly taps the window,
the old eyes of the faded house,
trying to awaken the boy once more.

"We will never forget,"
they say.
"We will always remember,"
they cry.
"Will we ever learn?"
I say.

"Death to his heart!"
shouted the world.
"Death to his mind,
his words and reasoning,
to his imagination,
his love,
his hopes and spirit!"
The Big bad ***** is playing
hard to get again.

Birds sing through a February shower,
and we be spectators of that grand choir.
For flowers now bloom
in the winter gloom.
Tears dripping from the green earth's eye .

Oak trees toss and sway their hair,
conducting a symphony of grey sound.
It's the music I like to hear,
when the good earth gives it's cheer,
Birds sing through a February shower.

Show me something that isn't false,
something that isn't tucked away,
for years,
for years, can't you?

a conversation real as flesh,
a smile with no code to crack.
friendship not cast in a play,
not an actor filling
a human role.

a love not scared of killing
hopes of mornings smothered
heavenly in harmonious being,
plastered with life worth living.
a love not afraid of fatal words.

May death be spurious,
standing bare without a scythe?
Might conscious be counterfeit,
scanned copies of life seen through ones before
they sought that of life?

Life is but a masquerade.
Every guest a facade of chosen character,
oblivious and eager to soak in the
fictitious nature of hope around them,
while the owners of the great party
check them off the list.

Thus be my curse or thus be my gift,
Itching and scratching yet never relaxing
through my brain thy sift.
A radar of such
with a thousand blips
searches an infinite falling sky
for clouds of dragons fierce and ghosts
preposterous in vapid moments
between a green eye flashing.

In the center of static mind spins
a lighthouse splattered in graffiti
paint from wicked galaxies,
illuminating ships already docked,
While others scrape the jagged thoughts
pincher piercing, sinking in magnetic soot,
later to be rubber-banded around the maelstrom
In a chasm that ***** the world dry
and vomits the taste that is too bitter.

Oh god the embarrassing flick on
flick off, hey look at the birds,
how they fly formations
like ripples in the pond to feed the
Little ones in a tree.
screeching in glee through mushy
worms of moist earth;
oh their I go again.

Today I bathe with her, the blue maiden,
she greats me the same way, shining brilliantly
With silver armour in her waves and
Blinding sinatra blue eyes.
walking along her sandy cheekbones
******* me in with each step,
spitting crystals in my face.
she licks the hair on my legs with a frozen
Tongue as I stand before her.
as slow stride?
No, jogging.
No, running!
I sprint into her,
and she hugs me with each wave
foaming at the mouth.
I dive in and she grooms my hair,
and I sit cradled like a child in the womb.
I break the surface with sunlight blinding me.
I am reborn once again.

Luna,
I see you though my window,
I feel your fingers graze through my hair,
aye how sonorous your presence is.
the hair on my arms thicken,
then my chest and legs.
hands melt and freeze into black hooves,
gently my face stretches outward,
atop my head aches with the growing of antlers,
they are small and young,
still fuzzy with youth.
In this moment I am the Elk,
ears switching
as hot breath swirls around
the room flooded in moonlight.
my call punctures the emptiness,
guttural and majestic.
I am the Elk of your black night.

something has a choke hold on my heart,
is it my past?
is the future?
mabye something supernatural?
whatever it is, it better show itself,
or just hurry up and **** me **** it!
I got **** to do, and I can't continue short of breath.

a new year,
another year of spontaneity,
of death and life,
of **** ups and downs,
of happy gatherings out in the night,
or in the fire lit room,
or on the curb,
or in the rubble of a bombed city block.
once you purge the truth it's hard to look away,
in an age of information at the fingertips of humanity,
it's insulting not to know anything,
is that why everyone's so angry?
greedy?
hopefully the new year is a another year for
mankind,
and not just man.
for humankind,
and not just humans.

If only my words could pierce and
descend opon the lovely ones,
the humans with caramel eyes
and voices that cradle the soul.
ones who can sail through the surging
ocean that is my mind.
ones that slaughter demons,
and waltz with angels.

This world she is pubescent,
she is insecure,
she is wild a beautiful
she is wonderful
and she knows it.
yet many of mankind choose to be a zit
on their mothers face,
and so few a twinkle in her eye.

A Cherry Blossom tree blooms in the bleak of winter,
out of place,
irresponsible and
gorgeous.
in the midst of dead winter
nature is drawn to this tree,
or maybe it's nature,
holding on
for dear life in a freezing planet.
but as the snow begins to fall,
the flowers fly away
with the snowflakes
like a butterfly's mating dance.

A summer goddess she might be,
but warmly she waltzes with the snowflakes in
my head.

oh midnight how you kindle me
with your somber twilight,
bursting melancholy inspiration,
oh darkness you.
arousing the artist in lonely me,
you mysterious temptress you,
how your lovely murky mist
covers your opaque skin,
oh blackness you,
an icy caress with your
pitch dark breath
won't suffice me tonight.
i wish to ravage you,
oh nebulous you.
under blankets of shadow
we will be electric,
we shall make a dawn
the world will be jealous of.

silky moonlight glowing against the
***** window,
the dandy long leg tree
oh so familiar
and leaveless swaying
to the rhythm of the rain.
sharing the sky, orange candle
glimmers of cities far away,
coyote piercing the winter air
with howls of sorrow,
The hare must have gotten away.

many go with the flow,
easy and sloth.
fewer swim against it,
with fists that pierce the swelling tide.
but real free thinkers
step out of the current
to bend the river towards
a field worth growing,
for everyone.

People ask why they march,
is it because they're obstinate?
no, they want to represent veracity,
not cause havoc.
walking valiantly into the melee of police and riot,
not to make you feel contrite,
but to make you think,
to expose the affluent,
and stand up for the unlucky ones.
they're a garrulous bunch,
listening does not harm,
it only allows you to learn.

crows caw and fly south with the wind,
titanic clouds swollen with rain crawl over the mountain pass,
they turn the dirt to mud,
pampering the leaves of their hard day in the gusty sky.
the scenery is darker from my window,
but the earth is so alive.
that damp smell of a wet world,
words won't ever suffice
how cozy it makes me feel.

Wake up!
I've been shaking you
for a while now,
but you sleep soundly without care.
Wake up!
and when you do finally wake up,
don't yell at me for disturbing you,
or for the window I broke,
just smell the smoke of the flames below you,
take my hand,
and thank me later.

I listen to the songs they sing,
about the peace and the love,
about unity and compassion.
I stop,
and I hear nothing.
Why do you think they're always in my ears?
I keep them near to me.
artists are truly born somewhere other than earth,
they pass by on shooting stars
belting out their messages so sincere.
but does it actually hit earth,
or does it just turn to dust in the sky?

Deep and dark dirt,
worms of mother earth feed on
another young soul, soft,
smelling the lilacs.
They taste thy taste of love,
a fire now buried in sand, once
to light a thousand torches.
They taste thy taste of sorrow,
that vile bog of sadness that rips at
the curtains of sanity.
They taste thy taste of deceit,
of rotten completion in her roots,
a sour taste in the soil of Denmark
worms doth hastily spit out this flower.

I want to work my soul into madness,
i want the chance to study the scrolls
in those big brick castles with
all the nerds throughout the world,
to spend hours into the night
scanning philosophy and history,
pondering for answers.

even if I have to sleep on my textbooks,
on curbs,
in alleyways,
with filthy faced friends dimly lit
over a trash fueled fire,
I will still ponder for answers.

the temptation is there.
i could run away from this world,
i could run away into the woods,
with pine in my nose
letting the noises of nature echo around me.
i could do it
i would do it.
but I would forever live
with the shadowy guilt
of letting our world go to hell.

I know who I know,
but thy mind not know itself,
a violet in a field of millions knows better.
a burnt oak amongst miles of earth,
thirsty, no fruit to bear.
words cower in fear from lips that wish to speak,
blanketed by the ambiance of uncertainty.
this thick fog is pointless and empty.
to slice through it seems impossible,
Balance and peace,
but only if there's something there.

What do the stars whisper to each other?
little cosmic thoughts,
what does Luna think,
is she annoyed,
interested,
concerned,
what secrets do they all hold?

or am I just a silly man wondering
if stars actually have mouths
or thoughts to speak.

Religion this,
Politics that,
ISIS,
Death,
Emigrants,
Law.

Why can't I just sip my coffee
in my little shop,
without the world being picked apart around me.

A scholar to change the human view
to make sense of twas, thou and than.
either shouting in the street through a mask
or preaching through the screen to those still ignorant.

Maybe a congressman to strike at the heart,
to burst from within scattered in gore and gold.
or just one more journalist,
one more stab at the sour core.

the flag bearer will fall time and time again
Brown,
Snowden,
Hammond.

they are not martyrs, they are victors,
the idea will never die with you
carry your flag through the hail of arrogance and evil,
through the fog of the ignorance and hate,
till you pearce the blackened heart,
and the last thing they'll see is your rosy cheeks.

the world is a painting,
naked, hung out for everyone to see.
don't be the ones who arrogantly
spatter mud as they run by
busy in their own heads,
stop and bleed your colors
through bare hands and soft fingers,
give say in humanity.
admire the painting, remove the mud,
dare to change the world.
But tis a crooked painting,
no adjustment will deny the world it's imperfection.

Some people just know how to speak
such a way it entices your whole being.

Most converse with ignorant eyes
speaking royally with velvet tongues
about themselves while they spit mud apon the world.
Then there's you few, that speak your own words with the depth of an ocean.
with warm eyes that hug your face and
tongues stained with the blood of emotions,
kissing peace about your soul.

If people saw uniqueness as a turn on,
the loneliness of the world would starve.

a hideous beast wakes in the
depths of my heart.
crawling from the shallow grave I buried him,
silent and dark, tip toes on guitar strings.
he shoots through my brainstem like ******,
intoxicating my dreams, gnawing his teeth.
I thought you were dead!?
why are you here!?

©Dylan Whisman